Newspaper Page Text
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From the Augusta Chronicle.
“ There U a holy vengeance aiul lis doubly
just
\V heiie’t r it falls upon a murderer’* head.
dark si .till’d (la.; it streaming high
\ho\<- the Pirate's glaring eye,
Ami main, ,1 slioiil mid v. niton jeer
3, lmi ‘!r;trt vile UmultiTd there ;
t .it ere nnoiher sotting sun
J ‘till many a miscreant's course is run
1 Hul if at son, hail, ’twas thine t!ie deed,
Yml VLLEN’S spirit bade tliee speed,
Thy glorious vengeance thereto wreuK,
And many ti rufiinns dying shriek
Proclaim’d thy valor and thy aim
As each avenging bullet came.
’1 heir may petulant dv’d the wave,
Hurl'd o’er each ruthless murderer’s “rave.
Where inem’ry long shall mark fHe spot,
‘Tn as thine the I'riund, the avenger’s lot,
My ste.rious heaven unerring threw
Its dreadful vengeance flashing true
Jn thee and in thy gallant crew.
For angels there, with hallowed spell,
Mtall nerve each arm when- Allen fell,
And long the pirate * straining eye
LTiull fly tliat spot in day* gone by ;
And there the mariner's minstrelsy
Chilli float around the azure sea,
\nd bargemen's voice there oft shall ring
As round the dashing waters spring,
\\ Idle freedom's banner long shall wave,
Triumphant o’er her gallant brave.
M ELVINA.
Tilt following exquisite Song has been set to
it, uric by Mr Gilfcrt of New- York.
Take back, take back, tlierosy wreath,
And bind it on some gayer brow ;
The anxious eve that droops beneath
ould make it seem but mockery now.
Takc track thy roses, gay and lair,
‘I Ire chaplet is not inert for me ;
Tins pallid cheek, so bleach'd with care,
A sad, sad contrast offers thee.
‘t akc back thy gift—some lighter brow,
Way'prize thy wreath of blooming flowers;
To me they but a pang impart,
Recalling earlier, happier hours !
t uke back the dewy gem's again :
VV hile o er my brows I see them wave,
1* eems like decking victims slain,
•1-ike twining garlands o’er a grave !
I saw a falling leal ,0011 strew
the soil to which it owed its birth ;
1 saw a bright star falling too,
Ikit never reach the quiet earth.
Such is the lowly’s portion blest,
Shell is ambition's foil'd endeavour;
The tailing leaf is soon at rest,
W hile stars that fall, fall on forever!
jo? ©at&jL Asnr*
From the Saturday Evening East.
Till: WILD ROSE OF THE VALLEY.
The evening air blew chilling cold ;
—Dorothy threw her apron over her
shoulders, and went to the wood-house
for faggots. Ellen was left alone,her
eye fell on the stump of the withered
rose tree : “ That was Edward’s gift,”
said she, mournfully, “peace is resto
red, he will soon return, lie will think
I have neglected it: for alas! it has
withered, But no! Edward must
come no more to our cottage. ” Hear
ing the returning step of Dorothy, she
wiped away the starting tear, for well
she knew her good mothei wouldchide.
Dorothy entered trembling, “ .Mercy !
my child, come and listen, sure I
heard the church bell toll.” Ellen
pule—she listened with breathless
expectation; again the heavy bell
struck with aw ltd reverberations.—
“ Ob !” cried Ellen, clasping her hands
together, “ the news lias arrived that
Edward is killed.” Vainly now did
Dorothy -cal 1 up n the name of her
child, who lay senseless on the cold
earth. Ellen was the lovely, virtuous
child of honest parents; but she was
lomleily beloved by the son of the
wealthy Dr. Hamilton. In the rural j
sports of the green, in front of the
mansion house, Edward had often
gladly joined, often pressed the fair
hand of Ellen with rapture to his lips,
and breathed in her ear, accents of
unchangeable love—but paternal au
thority interposed ; Edward was or
dered to accepttiic hand of the rich,
the haughty Miss Lyndall. His heart
proudly revolted, yet to disobey a fa
ther, hitherto fond and tender, was
death, lie implored a respite : Dr.
Hamilton granted his petition, and
the regiment, in which Edward ser
ved, was ordered to the lakes; yet his
departing words breathed fervent,
constant aiVcction to his Ellen, anti his
parting gift was the rose tree which
Ellen now bewailed. ‘ For Heaven's
sake my child,’ t-uid Dot nth v, ‘ be
1 oioposed, l wiil step to the gate and
ce it any one passes Iroot the mansion
house. Do now be comforted.’ Dor
othy stepped to the gale. ‘ Mess me !
as 1 live, hove comes a soldier down
the hill !’ The word revived Ellen ;
She Hew to her mother’s side. The
soldier desended the hill, he seemed
to walk feeble and leaned on the
shoulder of a boy. ‘ Sure,’ thought
Ellen, * that is Edward’s form hut
a* he approached nearer, conjecture
changed ; his dress was shabby and
tlisoidered, his hair uncombed ; and a
bandage passed across his eyes, mark-
eJ the Buffeting he endtaCd in the
dreadful scenes to which he had been
exposed :—for Edward it was, and
lirve soon revealed him to the wonder
struck Ellen. In a moment both of
his hands were seized by Dorothy and
her child, who forgetting in the joy at
first sight of him, the shocking change
of his appearance, led him in triumph
to the cottage ; but enuqiry soon sue
ceeded ; and while El fen fixed her
eyes upon her withered rose tree, in
anguish reclaiming, “ alas he. cannot
see it now,’ Edward began his reci
tal.
“ Whin 1 left you, mv dear friends
in compliance with a father’s com
mands, I marched with my regiment
to the Canadas. Our troops were ge
nerally successful in their operations.
I alone seemed doomed to feel the
pangs of disappointment and sorrow.
An enterprise in which I was engaged
required despatch and caution ; when
in a moment of general attack, my
dearest friend, and earliest compan
ion of my happy days, fell, covered
with wounds: Disobeying the orders
(if our commander, not to quit our
posts, I bore him in my arms from the
scene of horror ; for this I was broke
and discharged with ignominy.”—
Ellen wept; her heart was too full
for utterance ; the poor old woman
sobbed aloud. ‘ I returned,’ said
Edward, ‘ bv the first conveyance that
occurred, and returned but to see my
lather breathe his last.—Even he too
conspired against my happiness, for,
would you believe it Ellen, he. has
disinherited me.’ Hotv !’ exclaimed
Ellen, ‘ is it in nature to be so wicked !
A child lie ever loved so dearly !’.
* True,’ replied Edward, , but now
behold me in sickness and sorrow,
without a friend to comfort,or a house
to shelter me.’* Never my clear young
master,’ cried Dorothy, ‘ while the
sticks of this poor cottage hang to
gether.’ Ellen clasped his hands
closer between her’s but spoke not.
On a sudden some recollection dar
ted across her mind ; she let his hand
fall, and sighed deeply. ‘ What ails
my Ellen?’ asked Edward,'will she
not confirm the words of her mothe*- ?’
‘ Ah me !’ said Ellen, * I am thinking
how happy Miss Eyndal will be, to
have the power of restoring you to
wealth and comfort—she can do all
that your wishes dictatate.’ ‘ But
if my Ellen gives me her love,’ re
plied Edward, ‘ I will not seek the
favor of Miss Eyndal.’ And will
vou stay with us f Oh we shall be
happy enough in that case, and our 1
debt ofgratitnde be in part dischar-j
Brd : for to you Edward, we owe all. j
Your instructive care first raised my!
mind from ignorance, and if a virtu-j
ous sentiment animates my breast,!
from your it derived its source.’— j
‘ You are unjust to yourself, Ellen : J
instruction, it bestowed where there
is not innate virtue, is like the vain
attempt of cultivating a rocky soil.
But how, my love can you think of
supporting an idle intruder?—Your
means are but scant, though your
heart is ample.’ ‘ We will work the
harder,’said Dorothy we knit and
spin, and have a thousand ways of
getting a penny,’ and when you get
strong and healthy, vou shall*work.”
Edward work !’ exclaimed the in
dignant Ellen. ‘ And why not my
child ?’ rejoined Dorothy ; ‘ is there
any disgrace in honest industry ?
Edward is not proud ; and when, with
some juice of simples, which you, El
len, shall gather, we have bathed his
eyes, who knows but, by the favor of
heaven, his sight may be restored ?
Thus Ellen, he will assist our labours,
see our cheerful endeavors to make
him forget our past misfortunes ; and
u c shall be the happiest family in the
village.’—‘Excellent creature! cried
Edward, ‘ iny whole life shall pass in
active gratitude. But 1 must away,
on the brow of the hill I left a weary
traveller; I will bring him to taste “a
cup of your beer, and speed him on
his journey. Ellen was unwilling
that he should leave her so soorT,
though but for a few minutes—but
when Edward continued absent above
two hours, her terror was inexpressi
ble. The night closed in, and Ed
ward did not return. Ellen’s couch
was covered with tears, and morning
found her pale and sad. She waited
at the door with anxious expectation,
and with a scream ot jov exclaimed
In* is coining!’ He was supported by
an elderly man ; and Ellen hastened
forward to give her assistance also,
while Dorothy prepared their homely
breakfast.
Edward seemed breathless with fa
tigue and the stranger accounted for
the delay, by saving that he had wan
dered up the country, fearing his
companion had forgotten him. ‘You
are cold and wet,’ said Ellen. ‘No
my love ; you see 1 have a great coat,
1 found my'little parcel at the house
w here 1 rested last night.’ * And that
house, which was once vour cruel
lather’s, should now be yours,’ said
Kll*i\. ‘ But no, he was not cruel,
lor he has given you to us.’ ‘ Come,
come, this is line talking,’ cried Doro
thy, * while the poor youth is cbld
and hungry ; and see the tears how
they How down his cheeks.’ ‘Do
your eyes pain you, Edward r inquir
ed the'fair one ; Met me wash them
with spring water.’ * i hey do indeed,
said he. in the tenderest manner,she
removed the bandage;and his ex
pressive ha’/.le eye met her’s beaming
I joy and love. She’ receded w ith a
scream of joy and surprise. He threw
otl’his coat, and discovered his dress
decorated with every military honour.
‘ Forgive this deception, it was my
father’s stratagem ; and here he is, a
to witness you*.’ disinterested affection.
I am not dishonored, but promoted by
mv commander to a high military
rank.’ ‘lt is true indeed, said the
old gentleman ; ‘ 1 -suspected mv son
of an unworthy choice, and dictated
this stratagem as a means of confir
mation. Miss Lyndal disdained a
poor infirm soldier, and now my son
has to sue you for your acceptance of
him.’ Dumb gratitude seized the
agitated Ellen. She fell at the feet
of Dr. Hamilton, bathed his hands
with her tears, and tried in vain to
express the sensations oi her heart.
The rustic breakfast remained for
some time unregarded, till composure
was restored, and the generosity of
his intention, gave to the doctor an
increased relish for the repast. * Your
rose tree is withered,’ said Ellen,
’ indeed I could not preserve it.’ 1 Heed
it not,’ returned Edward; it was a
hot house plant, and could not endure
the pinching breeze of mischance.—
You are the blooming wild rose of the
valley, whose native sweetness is but
increased by the imperfect culture it
received.
—“ Let me transplant thee to n richer soil,
“ And of my garden be the pride and joy.”
Ellen with joy the most pure, gave
her hand to Edward, who that day
conveyed to the mansion-house, where
the rejoicing inhabitants ol the neigh
borhood came to make their sincere
congratulations; amt in the happiness
of the young pair, Dr. Hamilton found
his cure ; and the aged Dorothy sunk
into a peaceful grave, beloved and
revered by her dutiful daughter; and
to the arms of Dr. Hamilton is now
added wilh proud triumph, the bloom
ing wild rose of the valley.
ELEGANT EXTRACT.
From an Address to the Members of Solomon’s
Lodge, No. 6, of Poughkeepsie, on the an
niversary of St. John the Baptist. June 24,
A. L. 5823, by James G. Brooks, Esq.
It is now nearly three thosaml years
I since the foundation of Masonry ; as
yet it has resisted the destroying hand
of time* Kingdoms have arisen,
flourished, and fallen—the rock of
power, the adamant of genius, have
I crumbled—moral earthquakes have
dashed in ruin the strongest, the fair
jest fabrics of human enterprises and
of human wisdom : Masonry lias re
mained unbroken—it has not bent to
the storm, nor hath it died in the slug
gish calm. If we examine the nature
and progress of man's institutions,
we shall find them all partaking of
that mutability which characterises his
ow n strange, and fitful, and feverish
existence: perishable himself, how
can he confer eternity upon his works?
lie erects his statue of brass, the co
lossus of ages—triumphant time ! thou
hurlest it to the dust ! ‘t rue, he can
ascend the ever-during arch of Fame,
and inscribe there the letters of his
Immortality—he can kindle the fire
of his own renown which biases for
ages, a beacon to the universe ; but lie
cannot recall the last faint sigh of
existence, nor protect his trophies
against the scythe of destruction. Go,
and learn this truth from the inelan
ch oily picture of History! Go, and
moralize amidst the ruins of Thebes,
and ask where are her hundred gates,
her thousand of chariots, and her mill
ions of warriors!
“ All ! there in devolution cold
The desert serpent dwells nlone,
Where grass o’er grows each mould’ring
stone,
And stones themselves to ruin grown,
Are grey and death-like old.”
Go and learn wisdom from solitary
Tyre, and ask where are her golden
palaces and her numberless navies ?
Go and ask of Egypt where are her
twenty thousand cities, her temple
of the sun, her Oracle of Ammon, and
her sacred fountain ; there the sun now
shines on a bleak waste, the voice of
the oracle hath been silent forages,
and the wild weed hath long waved in
the bed of its fountain ! Let Macedon
produce the trophies of her conquer
ing son—let Persia show the diadem
of Cyrus and the spear of Cambyses;
they are enveloped by the oblivious
pall,and the mournful voice of History
tells only that they have been. So it
is with man, and with the works of
man—child of doubt and danger the
spectre of uncertainty bends over his
cradle slumber, darkens the warm
noon of his manhood, and extends his
dusky arm over the evening of his
decline—he walks forth in his majes
ty, the image of God, and the Lori of
creation-—lqs path is on the mighty
deep—his foot steps are on the loftv
mountain—-!ic stupids on his proud
eminence, aiul looks Howto on a sub
ject world. Look once again, and
where is he ? The mysterious fire of
his existence is extinguished—the
cold clod presses on his colder bosom
—the dull worm banquets on that
brow where once sparkled genius and
beauty —and the charnel slirowd
enwraps that form where once glowed
the star of honor and the purple ut
dominion !
Since, then, instability is inherent
in the very nature of man, and spreads
itself over all his works, we can best
judge of the value ot all institutions
by their longer or shorter resistance
to subduing Time. We arc sale in
the assertion, that no society can
compete with ours in duration —it hath
resisted every change and braved ev
ery tempest —it hath stood firm and
beheld the wide-spreading pine ot
Assyria strewing the earth with its
blanches, in a vast and gigantic ruin
—it hath seen the rising Hood ot
mighty hosts desolate imperial Baby
lon—it hath seen the starry throne ot
of the just Harouu broken dow n—it
hath seen the majestic eagle of the
Romans extending his dark form over
battle fields.
Where death’s brief pang w as quickest,
And (lie battle's wreck lay thickest,
Skew’d beneath the advancing banner
Os the eagle’s burning crest; ‘
There, w ith thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest,
Victory beaming from her breast?”
Ah, that w ing was arrested, and the
proud bird struck down, a prey to the
vultures of the northern forests. So it
bath been—the pomp, the pageantry,
the mightiness of nations have been
humbled ; the hand of obscurity had
spread its folds oyer palace, and tem
ple, and tower. The fierce storm of
war and the lazy moth of luxury have
united in this work of destruction ;
and the impetuous w ave of Time hath
ever been chequered by the fragments
of glory arftl the wrecks of magnifi
cence, floating along in fearful and me
lancholy ruui.
FORTY TEARS AGO—
Literature meant learning, and
was supported by common sense.
Refined nonsense had no advocates
and was pretty generally kicked out
of doors.
Forty years ago—men of proper
ty *could labor, and wear home
spun to church. Women could
spin and weave—make butter and
cheese, whose husbands were worth
thousands.
Forty years ago—there -were
but few merchants in the country —
few insolvent debtors and very
rarely imprisoned for debt.
Forty years ago—the young la
dies of the first respectability learn
ed music, but it was the humming
of the wheel, and learned the ne
cessary steps of dancing in follow
ing it. Their forte piano w r ?-s a
loom, their parasol a broom, and
-heir novels the Bible.
Forty years ago—the young gen
tlemen hoed corn, chopped wood at
the door, and went to school in the
winter to learn reading, writing and
arithmetic
Forty years ago—there was some
respect paid to old age, to the min
isters of the parish, and to Sunday.
Forty years ago—there were no
such things as balls in the summer,
and but few in the winter except
snow balls.
Forty years ago—if a mechanic
promised tb do your work, you
might depend on his word, the
thing would be done.
An old author has unfortunate
ly recorded the fact, that a man ap
parently in the best health, fell dead
as he was paying an old debt. This
serious affair has filled thousands
with fear of a like accident, and
consequently they never have and
never will pay their debts.
From a London paper.
An Irishwoman, named Katty
Creedon, came before Alderman
Cox, and charged her husband, ‘ for
having killed her on Saturday
night.”
Katty said to Alderman Cox,
that her villain of a husband was in
the habit of ‘ maciating’ her and
‘ tearing her limb from limb,’ and
that he had often ‘ cut her to pieces,’
but in particular on Saturday, when
he quite kilt her, and she never
more expected to go about, she
felt so much destroyed in the in
side.
Alderman Cox, to whom this
sort of exaggeration was quite a
novelty, desired the poor woman to
describe her cruel husband’s con
duct more correctly, for badly as he
might have acted, the object of his
inhumanity was still in the land of
the living. *
Mrs. Creedon persisted in say
ing that her husband had killed
her, and she wondered how v
one could think othtiwi se y
heard her saythat he‘ maciated hi
Alderman Cox was at a loss 7
the exact meaning of the w or( ] ° r
ciate : but Mrs Creedon’s
explained it, by showing the
of nails upon his face, which ?
partner had scratched into c , “ s
panion with the Indian tattoo?.’
He said, his wife put him i n t y
condition, and that he never in k
life kilt her. hls
Mrs. Creedon—Oh p ac j c ] ,
how can you say that, whe nv ' ts ,
know you’re always murtheriiw^
Mr. Creedon—well! and hot
can I help it? Ar’nt you ah v J
murthering me ? ■
Mrs. Creedon—Never Paddy
never, hut when you desarves it i.
Your Worship, I know what li’ e ’ s
about, I keep him in victuals and
drink: instead of keeping me] L
wants to keep a woman.
Alderman Cox—Oh ! now I set
how it is : there’s a little jealousy
in the case.
Mr. Creedon declared there was
a great deal. His wife was a little
ould, and did’nt like to see him
look at a young woman. She had
but a few days ago thrown a pail 0 f
dirty* water over him as he lay in
bed : so I thought your Worship I
might give her a slash or two, and
I only touched her just promises
ous, and she hoppened to fall.
Alderman Cbx —Well! the best
thing I can do is to bind you both
over to keep the peace towards
each other.
Mrs. Creedon declared she didn’t
care what became of her, so that her
‘ thief of a husband was locked up:
and Mr. Creedon thought any state
happy from which his wife was ex
eluded.
They were then ordered to find
bail, which failing to procure, thev
were sent to the Comptor, and or
dered to be kept in separate apart
ments. Tfce wife went’away decla
ring that ‘ she would be master oi’
the fellow yet.
LAW. —BA 7 LORD SELWYN.
He that would go to Laxv must
have a good cause, a heavy purse, a
skillful attorney, an able advocate ,
good evidence, an intelligent Jurv
an upright and patient Judge, and
having all these, unless he has very
good luck, he will stand but a, small
chance, of succeeding in his suit
Curran, the Irish orator, vik
once asked what an Irish gentle
man, just arrived in England, could
mean by perpetually putting outhis
tongue. “ 1 suppose,” replied the
wit, u he’s trying to catch the £ir
glish accent .”
Love Letters. —ln a paper which
we have just taken up, there is a
curious anecdote of one who, if we
can trust his own account, must
have been one of the most gallaut
men in the world. Marshal de
Bassompiem , says in his memoirs,
“ being informed of cardinal Rich
elieu’s design to have me arrested,
I rose, Feb. 24, 1631, before day,
and burned more than six thousand
love letters, which I had formerly
received from different women, ap
prehending lest, if I were commit
ted to prison, and my house search
ed, something might be found to
the prejudice of some person—
these being the only papers that
could be injurious to any one.”
London papen.
From the Nantucket Inquirer.
Literary Curiosity —A friend lias
left with us a singular pamphlet which
he is desirous to have re-printed. It*
principal merit, perhaps, consists in
its age, and in the consideration that
its author was the father of Dr. Frank
lin’s mother. Its local allusions may
interest the inhabitants of this place,
and the quaintness of its style may al
so amuse many. It is entitled a
“ Looking Glass for the Times,” ect.
written'in verse about 150 years since#
and printed in 1763. The author'*
concluding lines will serve as a speci
men of his manner ;
11 tiiut you do dislike* the Verse,
I or its uncomely Dress,
I tell thee true, I never thought
that it would puss the Press.
If any at the Matter kick,
*t’ like lie’s gull'd at Heart,
And that's the reason why he kicks,
because he finds it smart.
1 am for Pence, and not for War,
and that’s the reason \\ liy
I write more plain than some men do,
that use to daub and lie.
But I shall ceHse and set my Name
to what 1 here insert,
Because to be n Libeller,
I hate it with my heart.
From . Slitrbru* Town, where now I
my name I do put here,
Without offence, your real Friend,
it is PETEK FOLGEK.
# Nantucket.