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g|||gp/ 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.