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FROM 1111'. WASHING ION HI.HAI.D.
Oli! ’tis, 1 Ween, a beauteous sight
That meets the eye at morn,
When spring has spread her mantle
bright,
Wide o'er the smiling lawn ;
Her mantle webbed of every hue,
Os purple, green, and dun,
Enamelled o’er witii glittering dew,
And sparkling to the sun.
And beauteous too, when o’er the deep
The waves are hushed to rest,
To see the silver moonbeams sleep
Upon its tranquil breast:
Or when the wanton billows play,
Fanned by the zephyr’s light,
Among the waves, to watch the ray
Dancing and Hashing bright.
And when a shower sweeps swiftly by,
On some soft vernal day,
How fair the bow that spans the sky,
And drives the clouds away !
How sweet to breathe the southing air,
\\ ith fragrant odors tilled,
From many a ilower and blossom fair,
By nature’s art distilled.
Hut fairer sight than every tree—
Than landscape in its pride—
Than moonbeam resting on the sea—
Or rainbow arching wide—
Two hearts, whose kindred graces
prove
Them but for one design’d,
Allied by ties of mutual love,
And sympathy of mind.
HANS* LETTER TO NOTCIIIE.
Mine God ! vat wosedoes Hans se feel,
Vile lufly Notchie is away ;
Vat is de matter, vat de deel,
Does make you zo vorever stay.
I sleep none in de day or nite,
Mit such impashuns l doze burn;
Zo when the shell-drake vings her
flight, [turn.
Poor Frow, she mourns vor his re-
Zo owls mill hoot and cats mill mew,
Und dogs mill howl und liorshes
neigh;
Und shall I not more anguis show,
Vile lufly Notchie is away.
A shacket 1 has lately hot,
Und broken breeks so soft as silk ;
Striped as your under peticote,
Und write as any bootermilk.
Make base mine deer and quickly cum,
Mine fader’s goin to di you zee ;
Und Yacup’s got his fiddle hoim,
Und we shall have a daring bee.
I fear zum Yankee, vul of art,
More cunnin as do very deel;
ViH getaway yourn little hart,
/o as da mill our horshes steal.
If any wun yourn hart sliool plunder,
Mine horshes I'll to vaggon yoke,
Und chase him cjuickiy by mine dun
der,
I fly so swif as any spook.
Ven Voiik Vattooson my good frend,
Shall cum to /.ee you vareyou be;
Pose scarlet garters 1 shall send ;
Oh die deni on und dink on me.
_ was imaAinr
AI.U N DKIIMOI.
A TATE OF THE REVOLUTION.
u These limbs are strengthen'd with a
soldier's toil,
Mr has this cheek been ever blanch'd
with star S’
On the banks of the Schuylkill, stood
the neat dwelling of Allen Dcrniot.—
M ere one to judge from the appearan
ces of the condition in which its tenant
then existed, lie would not suppose
that his life could present an enter
taining history. The course of an ho
nest private citizen is seldom render
ed conspicuous by the occurrence of
any of those events which, are calcula
ted to excite the attention of the curi
ous, or attract the notice of every pas
sing traveller. To escape a shower
which had just commenced falling, I
entered the hou-e at the invitation of
its master, while lie recited an ac
count of his departed ancestors. “ I
live, sir, said he, upon this very soil,
and in ihisyory habitation, which gave
me bull), aud now has fallen to me, as
my own inheritance, My father was
.1 native of Ireland, and had left his
country at a very early period of life,
to set k his fortune in the growing west,
ham.td m the bosom of the then lirit
ish Colonies, luspecuniary circumstan
ces were attended with'success, and
by economy and persevering industry
he amassed a sufficiency to enable him*
to marry. II is selection of a wife 1
evinced the cast of his character. He
united himself to the daughter of an
honest farmer. In Kllcn Dunlittle he
found a combination of virtues, and he
praised the hour that had made her
his. About this time the dissensions
bi tween the mother country and he:
colonies arose. The appellation of
Whig and Tory had now become a
common distinction, and it was neces
sary for the interest of every individu
al to avail himself of the one title or
the other accoidingly, as lie advocated
the cause for which this country con
tended, or sided with the party beyond
the Atlantic. My grandfather was
one of those sturdy republicans, who,
while he cleft the forest’s oak with his
axe, yet lie knew the sweets of inde
pendence ; and his heart, while he
would sow his little farm, beat alive to
every patriotic emotion. Ihe sound
of war now echoed upon every side. —
Hie eye piercing eagle was displayed
upon every banner. The peasant ex
changed the ploughshare for the sword,
and identified his fortune, with that
of his country. Numbers from all
sides flocked to the ranks, and one
party of these vas seen hastening to
the line, headed by Dunlittle with a
Serjeant’s commission, and bearing on
his hat, an inscription of his politics
and his name. In this band too, mar
ched Allen Dcrmot, my father- —slow,
pensive, and sail. His ai’- evinced
that his spirits were depressed. W Idle
others marched briskly onward, keep
ing time with their feet to the national!
tune, he was at a distance behind, ad
vancing, but measuring his paces with |
a solemn walk, rhis unusual sadness
excited observation all around whisp
ered, “ There is a faint licai t among
us. Yon man bears a droopingsoul. — j
This looks not well.” Sergeant l)un-j
little heard these expressions,and left’
the head of his followers, who still
marched on while he held converse
with the husband of his daughter. —
“ Allen, Allen, where is your resolu
tion, did you not promise to leave thy
sadness at home ; we go to protect our I
land.’’ “ Our land, exclaimed my fa-1
tlier, in a lengthened tone. Would!
that Heaven in its kindness had made |
it mine. No ‘tis not our land. Hap
py you who can boast of it.” “ Tis
the only land you know, answered the
noble sergeant—you but a youth
when you came among us.” My fa-!
ther then sobbed out, “ I too was a
subject of my lawful King.” “ By!
birth, and birth only, answered the.
other. Did you not reap your fortune |
from our soil, and will you deny toi
protect that very soil, which nurtured
you. Why was l born here?—Wore!
our neighbours McW illiani, Daugher j
ty : and Clintock born here ? J'alk 1
not then of birth place. If you arc a!
lover of freedom follow nie.” These ‘
words had some effect upon my father ‘
—fora time he remained silent and!
then the serjeant exclaimed, “Man!
my people wait, 1 cannot tarry—now 1
hear the drum.—ls you choose to de
sert me, go to thy country—leave thy
Ellen to mourn.” “ f?pare mo that
pang” cried my parent. “ I’ll spare
thee nothing that can bring thee to
thyself. Recollect thy son ; (alluding
to me, sir,) he is nn American, and let
not his future years be reproached
with a father’s want of independence ,
let not my grandson be stigmatized
with your servility.”
“ JNo more, no more lest mv heart
burst from its dwelling. I’ll follow, I il
follow,” said my father. These last
expressions of (he serjeant had consi
derable effect upon the son. The men
tion of his wite, and child, excited
feelings in his bosom, which caused
him to pursue the example of his fath
er. On they swiftly moved, and soon
they reached the little corps. Dcrmot
took his stand among them with a
smiling countenance, and tliev jour
neyed forward to meet the regiment.
At this period hostility between the
countries was-at its height. The re
giment to which Dunlittle was attach
ed, had been ordered to Philadelphia,
to winter it there. But chance of late
wrested that city from the hands of the
Americans, ami in ’77 the British for
ces seized possession. According to
the usuages of war, all who were taken
in arms, were considered as prisoners,
and ot course among these were to be
seen my father, and my grandfather.—
Events thus remained” for some time,
during which my mother made way
lrom this very dwelling, to the quar
ters wherein my relatives were confi
ned. 1 hro’ the friendly assistance of
a British centinel she procured an in
terview with them, and informed her
j Dermot ot the ill treatment she had
received lrom an English officer, and
in what manner she repulsed him.—
I liis roused, you may suppose, my fa
thers indignation and he stampt upon
the floor so loudly, that my grandfa
ther iiad but time inform her where
she could procure funds for her sup
port, and in what manner she could
best protect herself, when the centinel
entered and hurried her from the em
braces of her sire and husband. You
may be assured that my father was
‘now a real American in feeling, and
| lie swore from that time, to enter with
I more enthusiasm the ranks of his asso
ciates. In the summer of’7B Phila
delphia was evacuated. My father,
however, did not share the same fate as
his brother soldiers. It was discover
ed that lie was an Irishman by birth,
and it was determined he should be
forced into the British line. An op
portunity offered; he deserted and lied
to the army of General Sullivan, v. ho
then laid siege to the English forces
in Newport, Rhode Eland. I have
omitted to tell you, that my father was
promoted in military standing. He
had been advanced to the rank of an
Ensign, and displayed upon all occa
sions a firmness of character, marked
by all absence of personal fear, or de
sire of private emolument. As soon as
his desertion had become known, a
price was set upon his head, and uu
| fortunately for him, he was taken cap
j tive while on a foraging party, though
• lie and his little band fought bravely to
! the last. A court martial was sum
! moned; —but sir you know that in
i these “ trying times” trials of this sort
were merely mocicappearances. Jus
tice reigned not there. Envy and
hatred, governed every decision.—
My father was condemned to die.—
Spare iny tears, sir, for though lull
well I know, the happy termination of
I this event, yet the recollection of my
father’s danger, never fails to bring
back to my memory, the remembrance
of his virtues and noble qualities. That
detachment of die British army among
which Ensign Dermot (for by that title
lie w as then distinguished,)was retain
ed, received orders to inarch*to the as
sistance of Col. Campbell, who had
possession of Savannah. The day for |
my father’s death was named ; it was;
that upon which the army were to leave!
their present quarters, and fortunately I
for him, a small party of men only:
had been left to do the work of death, t
These were to follow and meet their!
comrades on the route, the morning!
sun arose in all its splendour, and u-li
ered in the day lor my father’s termi
nation. ‘The face of nature did not
accord with the act about to he com
mitted. And in that sum which God
had ordained to bless the earth, man
was advancing to redden it with the
blood of a virtuous bosom. The muf
fled drum sounded its solemn note—
the siov. approaching corps advanced
•—the coffin was h. rne spot—the
instruments of death were prepared—
my father’s hands were bound—the sol
diers took their stand—their guns were
pointed, when lushed forth a band of
Americans headed by sergeant Dermot
—a combat ensued—my countrymen
were victorious —my father was libera- i
ted by the venerable parent of his wife.
My feelings sir, will not suffer me to
proceed much longer—l must bring my
history to a dose. Among that parly
to which Ensign Dermot owed his
lift-, was one fair form upon which thej
garb of war did not set gracefully.—
This person uas my mother, who, un
der tne disguise of men’s apparrel,
bravely joined my grandfather, for the
rescue of her husband, whose fate sue
i had learned from that centinel of whom
: l iiavt before spoken. The troubles of*
lour family did not cease here. In this!
| engagement my mother, who fought for j
love and liberty,was badly wounded in <
. the forehead, was conveyed to j
the most convenient spot, and every!
| attention which conjugal affection
! could bestow, or parental duty per-
I form, was presented to her on the bed
!of sickness. Through skillful care,
land tiie unceasing watchfulness of
1 friends, she recovered, and once more
I blessed my father by the tenderness
Inf her love and her anxiety for his
I welfare. My father continued in the
army until the glorious peace, and then
returned with my grandfather to this
dwelling, to share the honors of a well
! earned reputation, and to teach me,
; his then little son, the blessings of
the country under whose auspices I
dwell ; and to impress upon me a
knowledge of the noble deeds of the
revolution—imagining with truth, that
I might gain a lesson of patriotism,and
be tiie better enabled to admire and de
fend the land of my nativity. Often
have 1 seen my father while the tear
glistened in his eye,kiss the scar upon
my mother’s forehead, which was the
tniest evidence of her hearth It affec
tion towards him. My grandfather did
not survive long—and I was the only
child that my parents left. I perform
ed the last offices of life for them—it
was my duty sir, they performed the
first for me. They were good people,
sir. I have inherited their property ;
and it would be the proudest pleasure
of my heart, were 1 fully persuaded,
that l had inherited all their virtues.”
Here the old man paused. Fearing
that 1 might open wounds, that had
long been healed, 1 refrained from ask
ii - his own story, and how it was that
he had neither wife nor child. Should
l pass lus house again, 1 shall certain
ly request the tale of his own times. I
bade him farewell,and to the history he
had just recited, 1 owe the knowledge
ol an useful lesson—that in every con
dition of life opportunities are afford
ed in which we may be virtuous, no
ble, and honorable. F. G. 11.
Dr. Franklin. —The late Dr.
Franklin had a peculiar and happv
wav ci doing is uch good.- T •
fallowing letter from him is one of
the numerous proofs that might be
adduced :— * I send you herewith :i
bill of ten Louis d’ors. I do not
pretend to give such a sum : I only
lend it to you. When you return
to your country, you cannot fail ol
getting into some business that will
in time, enable you to pay all your
debts. In that case, when you
meet with another honest man in
sin.iiar distress, you must pay me,
bv lending this sum to him, enjoin
ing him to discharge the debt by a
like operation when he shall be
able, and meet with such an oppor
tunity. I hope it may thus go
through many hands before it meets
with a knave to stop its progress.
This is a trick of mine for doing a
deal of good with little money. I
am not rich enough to afford much
in good works, so am obliged to be
cunning, and make the most of a
little.
Y V NT. It AI. S IN ITALY.
The following account of burials
in Italy describes one of the most
striking scenes presented to a stran
ger in an Italian city :
” The corpse is dressed according
to the wealth of the family, and one
would think that the day on which
a nun enters a convent, and that on
which a relative is busied, were dis
tinguished by the most marked
gaiety of dress. It is not uncom
mon to see the corpse of a grown
woman (and the age makes no
difference in the costume) dressed
in yellow shoes,white silk stockings,
purple silk robe, lace cap, white kid
gloves, besides ribbons and jewels,
and placed upon a herse ornamen
ted with the gayest colours, the face
uncovered, and generally rouged,
and at every unequal step of the
bearer the head turning slowly and
heavily from one side of the pillow
to the other. The funeral usually
takes place an hour after sunset,
a funeral later than that is a privi
lege granted by the police, only to
persons of consideration. In the
procession first come long files of
those fraternities of which there
are so many in Italy associated to
burv each other, dressed in white,
red, and grey dresses, the face
masked, and each bearing a lighted
torch, followed by rows of Francis
can and Capuchin monks in their
black and dark mantles, the head
uncovered, the cowl hanging down
upon the shoulders, and the naked
feet simply bound with a thick sole
of leather. As the procession, thus
made so striking and brilliant by the
variety of dresses and number of
lights, slowly and heavily moves
along, the mournful chaunt for the
dead—“ requiem, aternam dona e/s,
demine , ct lux perpet.ua l act a l m,”
faintly and irregularly passes
through its long files. The corpse
lies exposed twenty-four hours with
the feet towards the altar, and all
who enter the church during that
time are expected to pray for the
repose of the soul. The body is
then placed in a coarse coffin and
lowered into the tomb: which, how
ever, is not allowed to be near the
principal altar.”
IVhat is Truth The following
story may serve to show the depen
dence that is to be placed on. ac
counts of military events:
When the Duke of Wellington i
had his head quarters at ‘Forres Ve
dras, he was opposed by the French
under the command of Alassena,
who had his head quarters at San
tarem. The advanced posts of the
two armies were close to each oth
er. Hie English papers were full
ot accounts stating that the exces
sive distress of the French compel
led them to kill their artillery horses
for food. When M assena retreat-1
ed, and did not leave cither a gun,
a horse , or a man, behind him, the
same papers discovered, then, that
he was obliged to use his oxen to
draw his guns. Upon which Cob
bett dryly remarked, “ the French
may be an odd people, but we can
scarcely be made to believe them
so vet y odd, as to kill their artillery
horses to make soup, and keep their
oxen to draw their guns.”
A singular old gentleman was
waited upon with his surgeon’s bill,
ior the purpose of being paid.—Af
ter cogitating for some time over
its contents, he desired the young
man who called with it, to tell his
master, that the medicine he cer
tainly would pay for, hut as for the
visits which lie had charged, he
should return them, *
vunslure, was c!in\j C( j . •• .
wardens to give n(\. e ‘ c 'a r,
galiori that parson K lir , r ' IJ *’ ‘'.'i,
would preach there , y* un f
which Ve reai! thus— Aj k . -I •’ !
tin be u desired to 1A . 1 r
I parson It. and parson U,
here eternally. T ANARUS: --u,
An ignorant fellow Wing
to be married, resolv/d to in; ; t
himself perfect in the Responses (
the service, hut bv mistake got |,
heart the office of baptism for r'.,
years ; so when he was a died b
the church, “ Wilt thou have thi,
woman ?” &c. he answered/ 1 !
renounce them all,” The clergy;.:,
said “ I think you are’ a f 00l ?” t
which he replied, “ All this Ist .
lastly believe.”
“Excessive wealth is neither/ rr
nor happiness. The cold ami sonlb
wretch who thinks only of himself*.!,
who draws his head within his s p t ,j|
and never puts it out but for the pn
pose of lucre and ostentation— who
looks upon his fellow creatures not or
ly without sympathy, but with arro
gance ami insolence, as if they were
made to be his vassals, and lie was
made to be their lord—as if they
formed for no other purpose than to
pamper his avarice, or to contribute
for liis aggrandizement—such a maa
may be rich, but trust me that he nev
er can be happy, nor virtuous, nor
great. There is in fortune a golden
mean, which is the appropriate region
of virtue and intelligence. Be con
tent with that; and if the horn of plen
ty overflow, let its droppings fall upoa
your fellow men ; let them fall like
the droppings of honey in the wilder
ness to cheer the faint and way-worn
pilgrim. Look at the illustrious pa
triots, philosophers, and philanthro
pists, who in various ages have blessed
the world; was it their wealth that
made them greatr Where was the
wealth of Aristides, of Socrates, of
Plato, of Fabricus, of oi’
a countless host upon the rolls of fame?
Their wealth was in the mind and tiie
heart. ‘Those are the treasures bj
which they have been immortalized,
and such alone are worth a serious
struggle.”— Wirt.
BEGIN IN TIME.
Albert posessed at the death of
his father, a wide domain ; he plan
ned vast improvements : and intend
ed to meliorate the condition of his
tenants. He daily contemplated
this object, and resolved to set
about it quickly. lie thought about
it in the morning and in the even
ing : but the fellies and fashions of
the times engiossed him for the
remainder of the day ; still he would
do it; he was determined on it.
Thus he continued until he arrived
at the age of forty, when he set
about it in good earnest ; Hut ere
he could complete his project, he
died. He did not begin in time.
Clarissa was an enchanting girl;
handsome, but not accomplished.—
She wished to be pious and godly;
but she was so young, and had so
many admirers—and it would do
when she grew older. She fell sick;
death hovered about her ; she then
wanted religion , it was then *he
would begin ; it.was too late ; she>
died in a phrenzied state, —She did
not begin in time.
Tom Dashall had a habit of
swearing. He would fain mend it;
he resolved on doing it ; —and lie
would begin soon. Hej kept on,
however, till the age of fifty, and
was then a disgusting object oi
profanity, lie began to mend;
but the next year he departed this
world. He did not begin in
time.
Sam Thirsty was fond of strong
drink. His friensd told him if he
persisted, it would kill him. Sam
laughed, thinking he could leave it
oft’ when he pleased, lie grew
old and grew worthless.—Then he
strove against it; hut it was all in
vain.—He did not begin in time.
Timothy Giddy chose to be a law
yer. Tie would study hard, that he
would. He frolicked with the men
and coquetted with the gi.E. Yet
he would begin, he said to apply to
business closely, soon. He went
on in the old way frolicking, coquet
ting and resolving, till the time
came for him to appear at the ha -
He knew nothing of law ; he hail
every thing to learn: He V'-"’
laughed at and scorned. He di<
not begin in time.
So it is with fill things in hie.-’
Whatever you have to perfoiy
therefore,do it presently,leastyod
die, and the work he lclt unfinisht
Whether it he an improvement
the heart, of the miiul, or c i y ( ,i;
estate, begin in time.