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sra-c:ixA&srr SELECTED rOR THE MESSENGER. SONG. O ! pure is the wind, As it blows o’er the mountain ; And clear is the wave As it Hows from the fountain; And sweet are the flowers In the green meadow blooming ; And gay are the bowel's, When the soft air perfuming. O ! go, dearest, go To the heath, and the mountain, Where the blue violets blow On the brink of the fountain ; Where nothing, but death, Ouraflection can sever; And till life's latest breath Love shall bind us forever. 0 ! bright is the morn, When it breaks on the valley, And shrill is the horn When the wild huntsmen sally } And clear shines the dew, As the hounds hurry o'er it; And light blows the wind , As the sail flies before it. 0 go, dearest, go, &c. O ! soft is the mist, When it curls round the island ; And dark is the cloud, As it hangs on the highland ; And sweet chimes the rill, O’er the white pebble flowing} And quick glides the boat O’er the smooth rowing. 0 ! fleet is the deer Through the blue heather springing; And loud is the shout Through the wild valley ringing; And soft is the flute O’er the lake faintly sighing, AVhen the wide air is mute, And the night-wind is dying. O ! go, dearest, go To the heath and the mountain ; “Where the heart shall be pure. As the clear-flowing fountain ; Where the soul shall be free, As the winds that blow o’er us; Anil the sunset of life Smile in beauty before -us. [ The following epitaph on a black smith was handed to us as original, with directions to dictate it as we tiiougt proper—but not possessing any poetical genius, the writer must excuse us for giving it verbatim from the ma nuscript.] KPTAPII ON A BLACKSMITIIE. With the nearves of a samson this son of a sleiig By tl ic anvel his lively hood got And like true vulcan son lie was all ways in time To strik while the Iron was hot 2 By forgeng he livd yet he never was trid Nor condemd By the laws of the land Tho this is a truth which cant be dnied Hhc of ten was burnt in the hand He blew u y no coals of sedition but still llis bellows was allwais in blast And I will confes it de-niit wboo well But one vise and but one he posest With the sons of saint crexvpian Now kindred lie clamed with the last he had nothing to do He handeld now all but yet in his time lie maid mancy an exeelent shew Now actor was he nor concernd with the stage Now audeane to awe him appeal'd Yet oft in his shop as if in a Rage The nois of a liising was hiard In steeling of axes was part of his cears Tho in theavong he never was found And tho lie was constantley beating on bates No vesel he ere Run n ground A las and a lack w hat more Shall we say Os vulcans un farchanate son The pi east and the saxen have Borne him a way and the sound of his hammar is done from the Intelligencer. PLEASURES OF MEMORY. There are no pleasures so com pletely within our reach as the plea sures of memory. There is scarce ly a day or an hour ol our lives, in which we are compelled toacknow ledge the insufficiency ot all exter nal objects to afford a lengthened period of uninterrupted happiness ; and there are moments when the gayest mind will grow weary of its common pursuits, and shrink in dis gust from that which has often in spired it with pleasure and delight. In moments like these, the human mind hastens to that enjoy ment which is always to be lound in a calm rational communion with itself. The world and its common place pleasures, will grow dull and life less ; and are with eagerness exchan ged for the stillness and the quiet of some lonely retreat whose solitude has never been penetrated hr the sound of mirth, or the laugh of thoughtless levity. Here the soul, its cares ard its perplexities left behind, springs aloft and traverses on untiled wing throughout imagi nation’s world, nor stoops from her heavenly flight, until summoned by imperious necessity'. Here, too, the mind forgets its pains and its disappointments in the contempla tion of scenes of delight, that have long since passed away, and ol hap piness that, except in memory, can never he known again. It is sel dom that we find ourselves satisfied with our present condition. matter what may he the circumstan ces of our situation —no matter how delightful our occupations —vet u ho can boast an hour ol uninterrupted happiness ? Every joy brings along with it its regrets, and those very pleasures in which we most delight to indulge, are the most certain to leave a sting behind. And though we ma\ r have been disappointed a thousand times; though vve may have found by repeated experi ments that the gilded cup is noxious and poisonous within, still at every successive opportunity, do we seize it with increased avidity, and quafl the dangerous clraughtvvith renova ted eagerness. “ Dear is the memory of depart ed hoursand whatever may be our fate—however miserable or wretched our condition —there is a pleasure to be derived from trans porting ourselves back to those gol den scenes that once inspired de light, which neither envy, nor mal ice, nor treachery can destroy'.— When we look back on our past lives every thing dark and gloomy van ishes from the sight, and the whole picture assumes a more exquisite softness and a more,delightful bril liancy. Hence, although we may be strangers to happiness —although hope itself may he no longer an in mate of our bosoms: still do we de light in drawing comfort and con solation from the recollection of the days of our boyhood, and by such contemplations to conjure up a kind of artificial pleasure, in which is icguiled the present dull, joyless lour. Never have I enjoyed more real pleasure from recollections of this iind, than in a visit which 1 lately made, after a long absence, to the dace of my nativity. That little spot for a time occupied every thought, and whilst the pleasing reverie lasted, bounded every wish. Every unforgetfulness—every pas sion was calmed and tranquilized .—even ambition itself seemed for a moment to have found a pillow on which to repose its weary head. It was about the first ot , and luxurious verdure bloomed upon the whole face of the country ; the green wheat on one side was wav ing like a wide expanse ot waters gently moved by the evening bree zes ; and on the other the rich glow ing clover fields loaded the air with a thousand perfumes. W'xvas eve ning as I approached, and the sun, as it glimmered from behind the trees, seemed to be bidding a re luctant adieu to the lovely scene.— It was here that I had been happy; and as my eye caught an eager view of each well remembered object, my- heart once more vibrated to those tender sensations which, years ago, that same scene had inspired, and which all the world beside could not equal—it was a pleasure almost too full, too replete for en joyment !—I imagined my self again a child —gay, innocent, thoughtless and happy —the cares the disap pointments and the thousand vicis situdes of my maturer life, were all forgotten; and on the wings ol “wrapt imagination,” I was trans ported from the dull gloomy pres ent, back to the past, where all was ■sunshine and brightness. Such were my feelings as 1 drew near to the spot that had witnessed my ear liest existence, and that still con tained the objects dearest to me, of all others on earth beside. Every thing appeared exactly as I had left —the same evidences of provident industry were to be seen in every direction—the same cheerfulness— the same glow of health, still bea med upon the face of every member of the family ; and those eyes that had wepf-nt mv departure were now lighteuup with smiles of joy to wel come artv return. But “ Noiseless falls the foot of time ’1 hat only treads on flowers.” The period which had been allot ted me to spend there was verv short |and had rolled avoftnd almost be fore I was aware of it. The hour for mv return had arrived, and 1 once more bid adieu to mv native place and its beloved inhabitants —the dream of enchantment has past away, and I am awake to more rational, but far less pleasurable avocations. NATIVE INDIAN FIELD SPORTS In ail interesting little volume on the above subject, published by- Mr. 1). Johnson, a medical officer, long resident in the interior parts of India, and especially of Bengal, vve iind rianv curious and interest ing narratives of the various modes in which the native Indians entrap or destroy the game, and destruc tive animals, with which those -countries abound. It may’ not he uninteresting to our readers (tew of whom perhaps have an opportunity of perusing the volume) to have a lew particulars laid before them ol these Oriental sports. There is a class of natives called Shecarrics , whose entire trade, from generation to generation, is to en trap game ; and it is surpri >ing with what dexterity and simplicity of means they effect their purpose. — To catch hares, for instance, they extend small nets, 15 feet long, and 18 inches high, along certain parts of the jungly resorts, and then drive, by their cries, the hares into their ambushes. But the following is the most curious circumstance at tending hare catching:— “ If,” says Mr. Johnson, “ they see a hare in its form, in a place where thev can run round it, and approach near enough to take it up, they commence running in a circle of about eight yards diameter, keep ing up an incessant shrill noise, dwelling as it were on the same note and lessening their circle gradually, while they keep their eyes stead astly fixed on the animal, whose eyes are fixed on them. The ani mal, in fact, becomes so fascinated as to allow itself to be taken upde iberately by the ears, when it com mences a disagreeable melancholy cry.” Mr. Johnson has repeatedly witnessed this species ot Fascina tion, and taken up the hares him self in order to turn them out after wards to shoot at while running. The author relates a great num ber of curious and interesting par ticulars relative to the natural his tory, habitudes, and ferocity of the Bengal tiger. The following lit tle history is dramatically affecting: Two Biparies (a kind of pedlars) were driving a string of loaded bul locks from Palamnovv to Chittrah. When they were within a few miles of the latter place, a tiger sprung on the man in the rear, and the ac cident was seen by a guallah (herds man) as he was watching his Buffa loes. The herdsman ran boldly to the poor fellow’s assistance, and gave the tiger repeated cuts with his sword: upon which the tiger dropped the Rrparie and seized the herdsman. The buffaloes observ ing the rencounter, attacked the tiger in a swarm, and rescued the poor mau from instant destruction. Tliqy.then tossed the tiger about on their horns from one to another, and at length killed him. The Hi parie recovered of his wounds un der Mr. Johnson’s care, but the gallant herdsman, who first flew to the other’s assistance, died of the tiger’s bite. The following incident was still more melancholy : As an old Mahomedan Priest was travelling on horseback, at tnid‘dav within a few miles of Chit trah, accompanied by his son, an athletic voung man, they heard the roar of a tiger at no great distance ; the son urged the father to hasten the horse’s pace ; but the priest re fused, and began quitting up his prayers to the Almighty, in toe act of which he was knocked off his horse, by a blow from the tiger’s paw. and instantly snatched up in bis mouth. The son pursued the tiger, and gave him some severe cuts with his sword. The tiger ir ritated bv the interruption, drop ped the father, overpowered the son, seized him in his jaws, and de camped into the deep recesses ol the jungle, where he devoured him. The father was brought to Chit trah, and dievl the same day of his wounds. 1 ‘m+m A notorious miser, having heard a very eloquent charity sermon— “ This sermon,” said he, “so strongly proves the necessity ol alms, I have almost a mind to beg.” RUSTIC FELICITY. Many are the silent pleasures o! the honest peasant, who liws cheer fully to his labour. Look into his dwelling, where t ie scene ol even man’s happiness chiefly lies; hs has the same domestic endearments, as much jov and comfort ill hi’ children and as flattering hopes of their doing well, to enliven his hours and gladden his heart as you would conceive h> the most affluent station. And l make no doubt, in general, hut il the true account of Ins joys and sufferings were to he balan cd with those of !m belters, that the upshot would prove to be little more than this ; that the rich man had the most meat but the poor man the better stomach ; the one had more able physicians to attend and set him to riglits; the other more health anti soundness in his hones, and less occasion for their help ; that al ter these two articles betwixt them were balanced, in all others they stand upon a level ; that the sou shines as warm and the air blows as fresh, and the earth breathes as fragrant upon the one as the other; and they have an equal share in all the beauties atui real benefits of nature. [Sterne. From lllackwood's Magazine. A republic in Spain will seek its fellow in a republic in Italy. With Spain and Italy revolutionized,how long will France remain tranquil ? How long will Germany, already heaving, lie repining and murmur ing before it bursts into a resistless storm ; when these things come, what will be the fate of England ? Is there, even now, no secret transit for the revolutionary stream thro’ the heart of her soil ? We will pur sue this topic no further. Dens avertat. And it is beyond all denial, that the whole continent is at this hour in a state of internal convul sion ; that like the spirits of Pande monium, there is among the more powerful minds of Europe a sense of loss and defeat, a desperate loss of fierce hazards—a wild and fiery dream of rebel grandeur, to be won by force of arms. The Frenchman cast on the ground by the fortune of war, feels his hostility to thrones unextinguished ; the German, who fought for his rountry under the promise of a constitution, feels his hopes defeated ; the Italian, proud of his ancient memories and flung ten thousand fathoms deep from his late ideal independence, feels and groans; the Pole, loaded with the Russian fetter, leels and curses his degradation. Through the whole circuit of the continent there is but one preparation; great and terrible for a catastrophe, of which no man can calculate the horrors or the close. The field is sown with the serpent teeth of bitterness, ruined ambition and inveterate discord. Are we to see it send up its harvest of the spear ? The thrones of the continent st nd at this hour in a mighty cemetery. It is in the will of God whether the dead *>hall be added to the dead, and the nations melt away, or whether the trumpet shall sound, the graves be broken up, and all be terror, judgment and ruin. From Sturme’s Reflections. THEFKAR OF APPARI TIONS. During the long dark nights of winter many people are troubled with a ridic ulous Tear of apparitions. At the period when the natural imbecility of man was more a prev to superstition than it is in this moie enlightened age, such idle fears were less reprehensible, be cause they were imbibed in childhood. Rut that such notions should still dis grace au intellectual people is remark aide. It shows how ready the invention of man is to be employed in conjuring up monsters, and in tormenting himself as if there were not already enough of real evils to afllict him, lie creates ima ginary ones and becomes wretched because he thinks he is so. How wretched is the. miser through his fear of thieves—the misanthrope, from his doubt and mistrust of all who surround him—and the discontented man, from dissatisfaction with his condition, amt anxiety for the future! Hence let us learn to guard against the illusions of the imagination, which not only during the night presents spectres to our view, blit also in the day time often deceives us by painting \ icf in alluring forms and attracting colours. Happy should we he if we were as eager to fly from the temptations to evil as we are from the imaginary terrors of an apparition. V* hence is it that some people, whose courage in real danger never shrinks, are violently affected by these chimeras? It is because their imagin ation clothes its objects in colours intHli more glowing than thev really posses®, and in this case being jx. r> I vern (1 belore r> a-o i cr.ii operat •, p, I ror has completely p ;.s-es-e:l th ■ mi-..p I \dim.thg the existence ot -|) ci, . 1 wiiy should the return of one fi I dead si* horribly shake our when we iive in t ic cei taiety of o h*, day transported into a worhi incorporeal bei *.gs? 1 hough we a r convinced that every moment us nearer to Hie presence of the o- ]■. rial God, we feel no fear from s'l-'ij conviction; yet were an apparitiin at midnight to interrupt our reji so and announce the decree that we mu-t soon follow i:. to an unknown country the boldest among us would fed emotion ot’ terror, ah l await the event with the utmost torture of suspense, Vet we regard not the voice of { u . .Most High which cries, *• I'repire t> meet tii\ God!” Let us not give up Oar minds to unnecessary alarms, bit rather fear tout Being at whose coinin’ the hearts of the bravest would b] appalled, an l the wicked shall call upon (he mountains to hide and tie lulls to cover them. Fear to do x tat which is contrary to the will of God, and you may banish every other fear, PEPPER. Black Pepper, is the dried berry of a climbing, or trailing plant, (Piper rigruin) which grows in the East Indies, and in most of th: id ands of the Indian sea. Its stem has numerous joints, and throws out roots at every joint. The leaves which are somewhat egg-shaped, and pointed, are of a dusky brown color, and have each seven very strong nerves. The flowers are small and white. It is customary in the pepper grounds, in India, io mark out the fields into squares of six feet each, which is the usual distance allowed for the plants; and as these have not sufficient strength to support themselves in an upright growth, they are gener ally placed near a thorny kind of shrub, among the branches of which they creep like ivv. When they have run to a considerable height, the twigs, on wliic ® the berries hang, bend down, and the fruit ap pears in long slender clusters ot from 20 to 50 grains, somewhat re sembling branches of currants, but with this difference, that every grain adheres immediately to the com mon stalk, which occasions the clusters to be more compact. Tho j berries arc green when young, but | turn to a bright red when ripe. As soon as they begin to redden, they arc considered in a fit state to be gathered. When gathered, they are spread on mats in the sun, where they are suffered to become dry, black, and shrivelled, as they come to market. In this state they have the name of black pepper. Minerva. MAHOMMF.DANISM. The Mahominedan religion is estabi lished in, or prevails throughout the turkish dominions in Europe, Asia, Africa, with the exception of some provinces : in the llarbary States: in interior Africa : on Madagascar, and the eastern coasts of Africa: in Arabia, in the Persian States: in some of the Russian States in Asia: in independent Tartary : in llindostan, among the higher classes: and in some of the eastern Islands. It has made many proselytes in China, and some other countries. Thus it appears there ure> at least three Mahominedan empires, those of Turkey, Persia, and Morocco. Rut nearly two-thirds of the popula tion of European Turkey are Chris tians. And in llindostan, the follow ers of tiie prophet are mingled with idolaters only ill the proportion ot about one to eight, So in most of the cither countries named, there are many people who do not believe the Koran. From their aversion to registers and enumerations of their people.it is peculiarly difficult to ascertain the number of the MahomineJans. They have been calculated at 140 millions. .Lord Bacon lias compared those v*'!j< move in the higher spheres, to those heavenly bodies in the firmament which have much admiration but little rest. Dr. S wrote a very small band ami crowded a great deal into his pages, lie did it to save the expense of paper., lie put one of his manuscripts into a friend’s hands to peruse ; he returned it to him with this compliment, “ If you reason as closely as you write you are invincible.” An Irishman having a gun in lus hand was ran at l>v a dog, and he very properly ran his lmyonet down the dog’s throat and killed him. Why did you not strike him with the hut end of your musket, said the enraged owner. So I would, answered the Irishman, il he tun* run cl ire t<[\!foremost.