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Been in the habit of speaking very favorably of l>ick Swift; and he made a point of passing close along side of him, and giving him a fillip— « Good day, Mr. Benton,” said Swift; “ any news at sea—are all well at Spurn Point ? “ I don’t know,” responded Benton, rather sulkily—“what’s the news in London, if you come to that ?” “ The news in London !” echoed Swift, “ I know of none, excepting that there were a great many anxious inquiries after you and the rest of the traders; but, however, you will now have an opportunity of getting to the Nore this evening, and to London sometime or ai.other, although a west wind is not alto, getlier the sort of thing to work up the I iiames. Sj gooJ bye to you, old triend —oad luck now, better another time.” Sb'saying, Swift brought Ins vessel *o the wind, chfi was soon out of sight. Captain Dixon made all possible haste to gut his ship cleared of her cargo, and made the necessary preparations for tiro accommo dation of his passengers, who were about to quit Hamburg. D.ck Swift had also discharg ed his cargo, and was waiting for freight to take hack to England, while the necessary re pairs were going forward on board ot his ship. It was about this period that Bonepaite had made rapid inroads into the Gerinau ter ritories, and the nonintercourse decree was passed. ] tick Swift and captain Dixon happened to be at the Bourse, when one of the merchants called them aside, and told them that he had private information that an order had arrived from the French authorities to seize upon all English shipping in the Elba. ‘■The devil they will,” exclaimed Swift, *« They must look sharp to catch me, then.” “What do you mean to do?’ inquired Dixon. “ What do I mean to do ?” echoed Swift. “ Why, cut and run, to be sure. It will soon got dark ; there is a night tide, and it shall take me out to sea, before any of the 1' reach mo unseers shall know my anchor is weighed.” « But how will you get to sea without your topmast, and with your trysail cut to ribbons?” said Dixon, ironically. “ Under such circumstance,” replied Swift, “ I’d go to sea with nothing but an old blanket for a trysail; and 1 don’t mind betting you a glass of g'og that 1 reach the Thames before you.” “Done,”said Dixon. “You have gener ally won your wagers when you betted on your speed, but 1 think I am sale foi winning this time.” “ That remains to be proved, ’ said Swift. “ 1 shall leave now and get on board, and see about putting a few stitches in my trysail, and I’ll be' boUnd we’ll lie able to rig something by way of a topmast.” “ And l must go down to the quay, and see about my passengers,” said Dixon, “ for if the French are going to get to windward of us, 1 must look out ahead, and get clear of the breaking waters.” “ Away with you then,” said Dick ; “ but don’t forget our wager.” They parted ; each taking his way to his ship. Swift was not idle a moment—he set nil hands at work, in order to repair the dam age sufficiently to enable them to set sail with the next tide. Night came, and Dixon, who had warped out quietly, got to sea unobserved. Dick Swift had greater difficulties to sur mount—he was obliged to have his work done quietly to prevent any appearance of bustle o.i board, lest it should create suspicion, for the French authorities were on the alert; but, seeing the tattered slate of Swift’s vessel did not imagine he had the most icmoleidea of going to sea that night. Swift was, however, keeping a shn.i'p lobk out, and the moment op portunity offered he cut his cable, and silently dropped down with the tide ; and as soon as he got clear cf the other shipping, up went every stitch of canvass ho could muster. A stiff breeze sprang up from the eastward —he was hailed by several vessels, but no answer being returned, a shot was fired at him ; but Swift’s good fortune stuck to him—lie dashed along, spite of all obstruction, and got out to sea. Tbe armed corvette which had fiicd at him, cut her cable, and went in pursuit; but Swift, who knew every inch of the coast, shaved every sand or shoal so close, that the corvette fell into the snare, and getting a little too much to the larbord of Swift’s track, stuck fust ashore, where he had the mortification of see ing Swift escape, us well as hearing three lusty cheers given in derision. Swift was now saloon the German ocean plenty of sea room, and a still’ breeze from the east; his trysail was rather the worse lor its late accident, and the bit of spar lie bad j igged out for a topmast cut a strange figure— but, notwithstanding all those disadvantages, lie contrived io make good way. When day light broke upon him he could see Dixon’s ship along way ahead of him, and he could not help exclaiming—“ I think my glass of grog will be lost this time.” A fog came gradually on, and obscured the Vessels from his view. Dick Swift, however, set his bells agoing, and disdaining to lay to as others had done, made the best of his way ; and in twenty-four hours, when the fog clear ed oft’, the English coast could be discerned like a black streak running athwart the ocean’s bosom. The wind had been pretty stiff, and Dick Swift hud nearly met with an awkward accident before the fog cleared off, as he got foul of a large ship, which carried away hits jih-boom. lie however reached the Thames without any further damage. As usual, he was tin; first in. A few'hours after, lie saw a vessel coming in ; a short glance convinced hi n it was Itixon. “ Hal o, Dixon!” said Swift, “ Where the deuce have you been loitering ? Why, _\ou were twenty miles ahead of me before the fug came on.” * \nd bow the deuce did you get in so soon?' said Dixon. *• And whore's your jib.hooiu ?” “ Why, as to that,” replied Swift, •• I can’t exactly say t there it is. All I know is, that it went overboard in a fog, and as 1 was in haste 1 couldn’t stop to look after it.” “ Ha, hu, ha," said Dixon laughing heartily. “ A pretty sailor, to Come into jiort without a jib-boom.” “I confess," said Swift,“ I confess I’velo.it •»»y idr-Wom—but I’ve teoft my grog." From the Ladies’ Companion. WOMEN OF GENIUS. BY ASS S. STEFHS.VS. “ What is genius but deep feeling. Wakening to glorious revealing ? And what is feeling but to be Alive to every misery ?”—L. E. L. “ 1 revere talent in any form,” said a young friend in conversation the other evening, “ but in selecting a wife, I should never think of choosing a woman of genius J” “ And why not,” I inquired, expecting to hear him advance the usual list of objections to literary women, their wants of domestic habits —eccentricities, carelessness of fashion and the thousand unjust charges urged against a class of women as little understood as any upon the face of the earth. My friend was a ! man of no inconsiderable talent, and from him tiie sentiment seemed strange and ungenerous. It was probably tbe first time that he had ever been called upon to think seriously upon the subject. He seemed puzzled how to make a fitting reply. “ Why,” he said, after a moment’shesitation, “ my beau idea/ is somewhat like that of By ron’s. My wife should have talent enough to be able to understand and value mine, but not sufficient to be able to shine herself. I could never love a woman who was entirely occu pied with literature. I want feeling, affection, devotion to myself—a domestic woman who would think my approbation sufficient for her happiness, and would have no desire for grea ter admiration. 1 could never be happy with an ambitious woman.” On my return home, the injustice of my friend’s speech haunted me. lie wanted feeling, affection, domestic qualities in a wife, and , therefore, would not seek one in a woman of genius. Byron’s lean ideal was as purely a creature of tiie imagination as his Huideeor Zuleika. lie seems to have forgotton that to understand and value talent, is one of the high est attributes of genius ; that no person ever thoroughly appreciated a ittuing or a property ol the intellect which she did not possess in a degros, at least. A less selfish man, instead of requiring a mediocrity and a worshipper in ; the place of a companion, would only have wished that the beautiful delicacy which nature has implanted in the female mind to chasten and refine her genius, should be preserved, and that in her pursuits and feelings, she should be womanly and true to her sex. i Pen and paper lay convenient, and in fancy I went on discoursing and putting questions, as if the culprit had been present in person. | Have you been thoroughly acquainted with a woman of undoubted genius—one who stands high hi any department of our literature? Have you been domesticated with one—seen her at ail seasons—entered into the sanctuary of her thoughts ; have you been the brother, i husband, father, or even friend of ose ? You say no, and yet without knowledge, decide that they are not fit objects of domestic affection; that because certain uncommon powers are granted to them by the Most High i for his own good purpose, tiie common attri butes which form the loveliness and beauty of j womanhood are withheld. You would hedge them round with respect and reveience, and j yet fear to give them the affection which is to none more precious, by none more thirsted for, or more keenly appreciated. You would isutler the spark which must kindle all that is worthy of lore io ke genius of woman. You would build to her an altar of marble, cold as tiie grave, and bow down your intellect before it in the homage which mind renders to mind, without one thought that beneath her mental wealth are affections in proportionate strength, which gush up at the call of sympathy, and tinge the mind with hues of beauty, as the sun forms a rainbow by weaving its light among the water drops of a summer shower. Deep and sensitive feelings alone give that delicacy and pathos which will ever distinguish the creatures of a truly feminine author from those of men. The very word genius com prehends all the loveliness of’ woman. It signifies but the power to feel, deeply combined with an intellect capable of embodying feelings into language, and of conveying images of truth and beauty from the heart of the writer to the heart of the reader. Why then should you refuse to gather the mantle of domestic love about the woman of genius ? Ambitious, are they ? Else, why do they write—why publish? Why do they write? Why does the bird sing but that ils little heart is gushing over with melody ? Why does the flower blossom but that it has been drenched with dew, and kindled up by the sunshine, till its perfume bursts the petals and lavishes its sweetness on the air ? Why does the artist become restless with a yearning want as tiie creatures of his fancy spring to life beneath his pencil ? When his ideal has taken to itself a form of beauty, does he rest till some kindred eye has gazed with his upon the living canvass? His heart is full of a strange joy, and he would impart something of that joy to another. Is this vanity ? No, it is a beautiful desire for sym pathy. The feeling may partake of a lor eof praise, but it is one which would be degraded by the title of ambition. Ask any woman of genius why she writes, and she will tell you it is because she cannot help it ; that there are times when a power wlijch she can neither comprehend nor resist, impels her to the sweet exercise of her intellect; that at such moments, there is happiness in the very exertion—a thrilling excitement which makes the action of thought “ its own exceed ing reward ;” that her heart is crowded with feelings which pant for language and forsym pathy, and that ideas gush up from the mind unsought and uncalled for, as the waters leap from their fount when the earth is deluged with moisture. lam almost certain that the most beautiful things that enrich our literature, have sprung to life from the sweet, irresistable impulse for creation, which pervaded the heart of the author without motive and without aim. The motives which urge literary women to publish, are probably us various us those which lead persons to any other culling. Many may place themselves lie lore the world from a natural and strictly feminine tbiot Sr sympa thy ; Iron) the name feeling which prompts a generous hoy to call his companions about him when he has thuud a robin’s nest hid away among the blossoming Isoughs of an old apple TIIE SOUTHERN POST. trei, or a bed of ripe strawberries melting in their own ruby light through the grass, on a hill-side. The discovery would be almost valueless could he find none to gaze on the blue eggs exposed in tbe bottom of the nest, or to revel with him in the lucious treasure of the straw-bed; so the enjoyment of a mental dis covery is enhanced by companionship and appreciation. That women sometimes publish, from the impulses of vanity, it were useless to deny ; but, in such cases, the effort is usually worthy of the motive ; but, in such cases, the effort is usually worthy of the motive ; it touches no heart, because it emanates from none; it kindles no pure imagination—it excites no holy impulses—because the impulse from which it originated, is neither lofty nor worthy. It may be safely asserted, that no woman, who lias written or published, from the promptings of ambition or vanity, alone, was ever success ful, or ever will be. She may gain notoriety, but that is a consequence of authorship, which must be ever painful to a woman of true genius, unless is added to it that public respect and private affection, which can never be se cured by one who writes from a wish to shine, and from that wish alone. Literature is an honorable profession and, that women devote a portion of their time to it requires neither excuse nor palliation, so long as they preserve the delicacy and gentleness which are the attributes of their sex. It would 1)0 folly to assert that there is any thing in the nature of genius, which incapacitates its pos sessor for usefulness, or that a literary woman may not be, in the strictest sense of the word, a domestic one. That the distinguished woman of our coun try are remarkable for domestic qualities, ad mits of proof, front many brilliant examples. Most those who stand foremost in our world of letters, perform the duties of wives, mothers and housekeepers, in connection with the pursuits of mind. It is a mistaken idea, that literature must engross the entire time or attention, even of those who make authorship a profession. It is to be doubted if the most in dustrious female writer among us spends mote hours out of the twenty four, at her desk, than the fashionable belle devotes to the adornment of her person. There are few American women, except those who labor for their daily bread, who, by a systemmatic arrangement of time, cannot command three or four hours out of each day, without encroaching on her household duties, the claims of society, or the little sea of domes tic enjoyment, when her household seeks companionship and relaxation at home. These hours devoted to authorship, at .a moderate computation, woul I produce four duodecimo volumes a year. Thus, by a judicious manage ment of time, she has produced a property more or less valuable, enriched and strengthen ed her own mind, carried the sunshine of thought to thousands, and all without necessari ly sacrificing one domestic duty without the least degree of personal publicity, which need shock the most fastidious delicacy. Cast not a shadow, even, of implied reproach on a class of women, who are quietly and steadily exerting a healthy influence in domes tic life ; rather let men of power—and, in this country, there is no power like that of intellect —extend to them such aid and encouragement, ns will best preserve the purity of female literature. So long as the dignity and di lieacv of sex is preserved, there can be no competi tion between men and women of genius. In literature, as in every thing else, the true wo man will fuel how much better it is to owe something to the protection, generosity, and forbearance of the stronger and sterner sox, than to enter into an unnatural strife in the broad arena which men claim for the trial of masculine intellect. Open the fountains of domestic love to her, and there is little danger that her genius will stray from the sunny nooks of literature, or that she will fbi sake the pure wells of affection, to leap into the high road of politics—to lose her identity in the smoke of a battle-field, or to gather up popular applause and unsatisfactory admiration, in place of tenderness, and all those home comforts which cling so naturally around the feminine heart. It has been beautifully said, that the heart is woman’s dominion. Cast her not forth, then, from the little kingdom which she may do so much to purify and embellish. Her gentle culture has kept many of those rugged passes green, where sterner laborers might have left them sterile and blossomless. If you would cultivate genius aright, cherish it among the most holy of your household gods. Make it a domestic plant. Let its roots strike deep in your home, nor care that its perfume floats to a thousand casements besides your own, so long as its greenness! and its blossoms are for you. Flowers of the sweetest breath give t'nei • perfume most lavishly to the breeze, and yet without ex hausting their own delicate urns. THE RESTING PLACE. BY J. N. MAFFIT. “ So man lietli dow i, and riseth not till the heavens be no more ; they shall not Wake ; nor be raised out of their sleep.” However dark anil disconsolate the path of life may seem to any man, there is an hour of deep and quiet repose at hand, w hen the body may sink into dieamlcss slumber. Let not the imagination be startled, if this resting place instead of the bed of down, shall be the bed of gravel, or the rocky pavement of the tomb. , No matter where the remains of wearied man may lie, the repose is deep and undisturbed— tbe sorrowful bosom heaves no more ; tbe | tears are dried up iti their fountains ; the ach ing heart is at rest, and the stormy waves of j earthly tribulation roll unheeded over the very j bosoms of the pale nations of the dead—not one of the sleepers heeds the spirit stirring strump or responds to the rending shouts of victory. How quiet these countless millions slumber in tiie arms of their mother earth ! The voice of the thunder shall not awaken them; the loud cry of the elements—the winds—the waves, nor even the giant tread of the earth quake, shall be able to cause an inquietude in the chambers of death. They shall rest and pass aw ay ! the last great battle shall be fought; and then a silver voice, at first just heard, shall rise to the tenqiest tone, and penetrate the voiceless grave. For the truiqiet slut!! sound and ilk' dead shall hear His voice. A BURIED CITY. The Captain of an American vessel named Ray, has lately discovered on the coast of Pe ru, in the environs of Tuscillo, an ancient buried city of considerable extent. Following the course of some excavations he had made, lie found the walls of the edifice still standing, and many of them in a complete state of preservation. He inferred from the number and extent of them, that the population of that city could not have been less than three thou sand sorfls. Great numbers of skeletons and mummies, in a perfect state of preservation, were found among the private and sacred edi- \ fices, and a great number of domestic utensils, articles of furniture, coin and curious antiqui ties. The earthquake by which it was en gulphed appears to have surprised the inhabi-! tants, like those of Pompeii, in the midst of their daily avocations, and many of them were found by Capt. Ray singularly preserved by the exclusion of the atmospheric air, in the precise situation of the moment when over whelmed. One man standing up as if in the act of escaping, was dressed in a light robe, in the folds of which coins were found, which have been sent to the scientific institutions at Lima for investigation. A female was also found sitting in a chair before a loom, which contained a piece of cotton stuff which she was in the act of weaving. The cotton stuffs, (which is of a gaudy pattern, but very neatly fabricated,) is about eighteen inches in diame ter, and appears to have been only half com pleted. A great number of antiquities and curiosities y,i (his American Herculaneum £Tave have been sent to the museum. FILES OF NEWSPAPERS. There are few who deem it worth while to keep a file of their newspapers. Those who subscribe for them most liberally, rarely pre serve them. This is wrong, lfa newspaper is worth taking, it is certainly worth pieserving. A complete file ol a newspaper is far more valueable at the end, of a year than the money it costs. Newspapers are transcripts of the | history of the times ; not always entirely faithful or accurate in all respects, yet even in their fictitious colorings and party attributes, they furnish matter of interest for future J speculation and reference. As years pass away, these flies will continually enhance in value. What would tlie oldest inhabitant of our city now give for a file of newspapers published 60 or 70 years ago? What more j interesting legacy can those living bequeath to | their children and grandchildren, than a file of j newspapers of the present time ? Admit that i much contained in newspapers is trash ; still that trash is u part of human life : deduct from existence its trifles and frivolity—how little, how very little is left. Every family ought to keep a file of their newspapers. As children grow up they will become interested in examin ing them ; and the fund of general information thus acquired will be by no means inconsidera ble. '1 he pains necessary to preserve them if attended to weekly, would be trifling. From tiie Memphis Enquirer. “LONG TIME AGO.” A friend lias placed in our hands a number of the *• Tennessee Gazette,” printed in Nash ville, by Benj. J. Bradford, and dated August I To, 1802. It is a curious specimen of typo graphy, compared with the broad sheets ol' th it godly city of the present day. It con tains in all sixteen short columns, four of which jure filled With the laws of the United States, “published by authority,” four with prose and j poetic miscellany, two with foreign and do mestic news, and the remaining six with sheriffs’ and other advertisements. The sub joined paragraph comprises the whole of the j editor’s lucubrations for the week, and pre sents a strong picture of the condition of our jeommonwealth some thirty-odd years ago : j “ During the last two weeks the Indians have j stolen horses three different times from the j inhabitants on the waters of Stone river ; in j the two first instances the horses have been recovered, but not in the last. Such depreda tions as these, it is not probable will he sub mitted to with impunity. They are supposed to be Creeks or Clierokees.” Among the selections under the head of “ Sacred to the Muses,” we find the following “Parody, by a newspaper printer.” It is none j the worse for being a little musty : “To dun—or not to dun ? that is the question : Whether ’tis better that the purse should suffer, (For lack of cash) by baneful emptiness: Or by a gentle dun to fill it up : To dun to get the money—and be enabled To live and pay our debts —’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To dun—to be denied— Denied with “call again”—aye, there’s the rub; For in that ‘ call again,’ what evils come— What disappointment sore—chargrin and woe— j What time is wasted—and what shoes are worn j In consequence—must give me pain. It is this That makes so many debts not worth collecting: ’Tis this that sickens business to despair, And keeps from honest labor its reward, We don’t forget our many, many friends, To them a debt of gratitude we owe : Buoyed up by their kindness, still our bark shall sail, Enjoy the pleasing calm, nor dread the boist’rous gale.” WHEAT AND MARRIAGES. The Massachusetts Spy has gathered up the following as one of the modern discoveiies of the politicians of the day, that the high prices of agricultural productions diminishes the num ber of matrimonial contracts. The proof is sought in the statistics of England, and a ta ble was exhibited by Mr. Rantoul in one of his lectures, showing that love rose and fell with the market value of grain. The evidence is contained in the columns ®f figures below, expressing the price of wheat and the number ■ of marriages in the United Kingdoms of Great I Britain: Years. Price. Marriges. 1794 50s. Bd. 71,797 1795 725. lid. 68,8.39 1798 50s. 4d. 79,477 1799 665. lid. 77,557 1800 210s. sd. 69,851 1801 115s. lid. 67,288 1802 675. 9d. 90,396 1803 575. Id. 94,379 1815 03s. Bd. 99,444 1816 70s. 2d. 91,946 1817 945. o<l. 88,234 The average pi ice of wheat in each year above stated, is 755. of marriages, 81,791. THOUGHTS FOR THOSE WHO THINK. From a Manuscript volume of Laconics, by the Rev. W. Colton, U. 8 N. The vanity of those distinctions on which mankind pride themselves will be sufficiently apparent, if we consider the three places in which men must meet on the same level: at the foot of the cross, in the grave, and at the judgment bar. A politician who has no resources of his own, always connects himself with some great temporary excitement ; just as a hungry shark rushes along in the wake of a ship, to pick up the damaged provisions, amputated limbs, and even old shoes, that may be thrown overboard. The gloom of Cowper flowed from the maladies of his nature —that of Young from the maladies of his ambition. The former was a victim against his will, and sought to veil his sorrows even from the few; the latter threw himself cn the rack, and called on the world to witness his agony. Lawyers find their fees in the faults of our nature; just as wood-peckers get their worms out of the rotten parts of t rees. The pulpit has its amatures, and the fiddle also; and they both perform occasionally for the amusement of mankind. Th ere is no dissimulation so impenetrable as that which apparently leaves nothing to penetrate. It is art without artifice, conceal ment without disguise, and frankness without sincerity. He who can successfully practice these may escape exposure here, but must in evitably he detected in that day when the heart will be required to give up its secrets, and the grave surrender its dead. The crowning property of the soul is its im mortality ; without this, instinctive nature might almost sport with its pretensions, but with it an angel scarcely stoops to envy. Those habits which dignify or dishonor manhood obtain their shape and complexion during our earlier years. The fruits of sum mer and autumn vegetate in thespiing, and the harvest of old age germinates in youth. The patronizing air with which some men pipe to every great movement in the commu nity's often extremely ludicrous. The vast objects on which they bestow their gratuitous favors, so far from lifting them into their own element, and making them partakers of their sublimity and grandeur, only have the effect to dwarf them the more, to render their insig nificance still more palpable, and expose their vanity to the mirth of mankind. They re semble one who should fiddle, on the desert of Sahara, to the towering columns of sand, whirling in their sirocco waltz. The piety of the humble and secure is less imposing, but it is more vital, as it is more simple, than that which emanates from unap. proachable superiority. The mountain tor rent may dash downward magnificently to the plain, and roll on in splendor to the ocean ; but it is the little streamlet, winding around the valley, and revealing here and there the traces of its brightness and purity, that ferti lizes and refreshes the earth. The effect of mystery is much the same, however high or humble its source. Hence it is. that a soldier guarding a monarch, and a boy in charge 'of a baboon, are alike full of the parade and circumstance of office. A southern planter having frequently wit nessed the depredations committed on his on ion beds. Concluded that a young negro had stolen them for the purpose of supplying his neighbors. After vainly attempting to ex tract a confession from blacky, he gave him a sound thrashing, thinking, no doubt, if he was not the thief, he should serve as a proxy until the real depredator was found. On the fol lowing morning, the negro, seeing a strange animal lurking about the garden, succeeded in capturing him and took him in triumph to his master, who saluted him with, “ What do you bring that skunk here for?” “Me bring him heredat massa no more trash poor nigger;— him steals massa’s injun, jist smell he breff.” i. i*. & w. r. Cos. J* MEET at your Engine House, on Monday evening next, (July Ist,) at 8 o’clock. VfWj’l j Jr\ Every member who willing. \ ~ ’-*£(—m ly absents hintself on that , sf® 1 occasion may regret it here after, as a vote of the Com pany will he taken on a very important matter. Re member, one vote may turn the scale. MILLS, Secretary. June 29. 36 ATTENTION 8188 CAVALRY. \PPEA R on your Parade Ground on Thursday, 4th July, in full uniform for parade, with six round of blank cartridges, at 9 o’clock. By order ot the Captain, GEO. P. WAGNON, Ist Sergeant. June 15 34 MACON VOLUNTEERS! VPPEAR on your parade ground on Thursday, the 4thof July, at 9 o'clock, A M. in full uniform for parade and inspection. By order. DANELLY, Ist Sergeant. June 29. 36 WANTED TO RENT. LaJL A HOUSE of four or more rooms, with a Gar den attached to the premises, in a central part of the city. Apply at this office. June 29 36 DR RANDOLPH, of this City, and HR. VV. C. FULLWOOD. late of the Army, have connected themselves in the practice of medicine, Ac. and prof fer their services to the citizens of Macon and vicinity. June 29. 36p INSURANCE. \I ARINE, Fire and Life Risks taken by the un ivl dersigned Agents of the Western Insurance &, Trust Company. E. A. A J. A. NIBBET. June 29 36c I %l TIO V \LI. J" r«ons indebted to the firm of CLARKE A SMITH, are forbid settling anv neeounta of aaid I firm without my consent. E. E BROWN i* my au thorized Agent during my ntwenee from the city. CHARLES L. SMITH. June 22 35 | ANALEKTA— No. 4. When we commenced this or whatever else you may please to term them S reader, it was not our intention to confine merely to slight extracts, or amusing reading f * dighter literature of the day; but we might have it in our power, to call th v * such works, of a less ephemeral character ~ afford thee a subject of sufficient interest to’attr.Tu nonce. This we have it in our power to do We have been favored with a copy of anew WOr)t vshich offers to our observation much that is. *** deeply interesting, touching the Mythology offfiJ A £ riginai Tribes, with a copious collection of their I j and traditionary tales : the whole published tide of by £ R^^ jsq., a gentleman, who, if we may judge from th„ ficial station which he has occupied for many years £ well qualified for the execution of the task which h has undertaken. An outline of his general S t gi\os us hfmsdf, in the commencement of the present •vork, in the following words • als exist for separate observations on their oral tats' poetry U *and ' ,heir , ffitd ansnL’ a • grammatical structure of their lan futte o>ffirir PnnC . lp eSOfc Sil ,bina,ion a "d the actual selected ” The (or,ller ">P ic has Cn tfmo I, ■ commencement of the series. At what nHJfn'uf r U n a |nl "K portions will appear will denend Os the degree of interest to he manifested by the public on this subject, we think there can he but little doubt; and most sincerely do we hope, that the author may possess the health and leisure necessary to the full and entire execution of his plan. The “ General considerations” prefixed to the body of the work, throw much new light on the subject; and we will endeavor to condense the which they contain, into narrower limits, in order that you may more clearly understand the terms and ex planations used throughout the volumes. The investigation of the Earlier History and ariti j quities of the aboriginal tribes which once inhabited | this vast continent, is a subject which has always had j charms for the curious and philosophic enqui.er and which has, of late, attracted much attention, and exci j tfi d a great deal of interest, in almost every section of the Union, as well as in Europe. We are anxious to know more than we do of their origin; we wish to irace them back to their earliest existence as a people, j to learn whence they sprang and whether they had or j had not any predecessors in these vast regions; and if so, who those predecessors were and whence-fAry ; sprang. These are points which it may seem, at first to be difficult, or even impossible to determine—but the | spirit of enquiry is abroad; conjecture is busy; disco ! veries are every day made which tend to throw some | little additional light upon the subject; and we are led I to believe, that we may reasonably hope to see, at no I vel T distant day, a satisfactory solution of all doubts pind difficulties. Indeed, it is only within late years I that tiny thing has been attempted, properly to further j this desirable object: as the author of the “ Research : cs” justly observes: j “ Hitherto our information has related rather to their external customs and manners, their physical traits and historical peculiarities, than to what may be term ied the philosophy of (lie Indian mind. Such an exa i initiation required time and diligence.” | In order to prosecute his enquiries into the “ Philo j sophy of the Indian mind," he found it necessary that j language and its various firms and dialects should be j closely and accurately studied ; and he observes that “this branch of enquiry connected itself, in a manner which could not have been anticipated, with their iflode of conveying instruction, moral, mechanical and reli gious, to die young, through die intervention of tradi- I nonary fictitious tales and legends.” He was thus led j io form a collection, consisting of specimens from nu j merous tribes, “ embracing three genuine, storks of lan■ | gunge." It will be seen, that llie author traces the re lationship between the various tribes by a comparison of the roots and forms of the different languages used iby them; and the position thus assumed is a strong : one. “ The term Algic,” he informs us, is used “in a generic sense, for all that family of tribes who, about A. D. 1000, were found spread out, with local excep | dons, along the Atlantic, between Pamlico Sound and | the Gulf of St. Lawrence, extending northwest to the Missinipi of Hudson’s Bay, and west to the IMissisSip j pi.” This name “ Algic” is derived from Alleghany j and Atlantic , in reference to the race of Indians an ciently located in this geographical area. The local exceptions embrace the Yemassers and Catawbas on the coast, and the Tuscaroras, Iroquois, Wyandots, &c., in the interior; the three last named speak dia lects of a generic language, which the authoi denom inates the Ostic, from the Algic word Oshtrgu-on, the head, &c., and which appears to he wholly different in roots and formation from the true Algic. Similar observations lead to the conclusion that “four mother stocks occupied the entire area of North Ame rica, east of the Mississippi, from the Gulf of Mexi co to Hudson’s Bay.” The author supposes that it was into the limits of the Algics, that the Nortlmion pushed their daring voyages previous to the discovery of Columbus; and further, that the Pilgrim Fatheis first set foot on shore, amongst the same people, land ing near the very spot where, several centuries before, Thortvald Ericson had fallen a sacrifice to the spirit of Norwegian and Icelandic discovery. These hypothe ses, (for they are scarcely more) are at least plausible, and present most interesting points for future investi gation and philosophical enquiry ; and we hope that they will attract the attention of some of our learned antiquaries. Os the four mother stocks above alluded to, the prin | eipal appear to have been, the Algics and the Ostics. | These two leading races present some very strong j points of difference of character. They spoke, accord ing to our author, a language radically different, and va ried so much in their distinctive character and policy, that the one (the Algic) seems to be descended from a race of shepherds, or pastoral nomades, and the other from a line of adventurers, and warlike plunderers. But to continue this dissertation, at this moment, would detain you too long from the legends. Suffice it to say, that both the “ General considerations” and the “ Preliminary observations,” will be found to con tain matter of deep interest, which will well repay tho trouble of a perusal. To come to the “Tales” them selves—they are all more or less mythological, and for the most part, bear evidence of considerable antiquity. We arc surprised to see, amongst tho machinery used in their framework, witches, conjurers, ghosts, hobgob lins, demons, “good spirits and bad,” fairies, Ac — and in regard to the fable, we are struck with the analogous resemblance which many of their statements bear to events or personages handed down to us by Revela tion, or spoken of in the Mythology of other nations. We have an account of a general deluge, of an Indian Samson or Hercules, of a Proteus, of deities of the lakes and rivers, and of as many transformations a* are related in Ovid’s metnmorphoses. Take, for ex ample the following extract, and you cannot fad remark, how much it is in the manner of Ovid, M*- nabozho was engaged in battle with a Manito (spirit) who was invulnerable, save in one point, (an Indian Achilles); ibis point Manabozho was unacquaited with , and accordingly wasted his artows on his anisgonist without effect, until he Imd only three left. 11 At that moment a Inrge woodpecker flew past, and lit upon tree. * Manabozho,' he cried, ‘your adversary hast vul nerable point; shoot at the lock of hair on the cr, ’” n of hie head.'" Acting on this acasonable advice,