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l\T TFITOTO) ‘ D)W fP omJJ UII jmm JkLL JiMliJl U vuj‘.rA//ij ui li J ilio TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. Original |totrtj. For the Southern Literary Gazette. CLOUDS. Dark the night with clouds and rain, Beats the storm against the pane ; Gloom I .-eek to pierce in vain, On the city lying: Cheerless is the muddy street. Where few steps the pave greet, Tr u kid ere,while by Beauty’s feet, On Love's errands hyin<j. Whde the town is wrapped in gloom, Ci Id and silent as the toinb, I, within my lonely room, Muse on vanished pleasures. From their shelves my chosen books, All in their accustomed nooks, Greet me w,th familiar looks. Offering their treasures. But, alas! their boasted lore, To my heart cannot restore j ov9 evanished evermore, Like the dew of morning, Leaving me bereft and lone, All my golden visions flown, Hope’s de al blossoms round me strown Life no more adorning. Soon the storm will pass away, Kuril), ever young, again be gay ; Like a child will smile the Day, Which the sun hint- blesses, — But the clouds which round my soiti, [it such sombre masses roll, Yield unto no Bun’s control, And no Day’s caresses. )urlenlun, December , 1850. nf tlje luttniils. LOSB ASD GAIN; ( i;. Ii KARTS versus DIAMONDS. HV MISS MAIUA J. MACKINTOSH. [From “ Kvciiiii.'.'s ;tl Uouald'fm Manor,” just published by 11. Appleton X. Cos. New York. Winter had thrown its icy fetters over the Hudson, and stilled even the stormier waves of the East River, as ti:c inhabitants of New York designate that portion of the Harbour which lies between their city and Brooklyn. The city itself —its streets—its houses—all wore the livery of this “ruler of the in inverted year I—while 1 —while in many a gar ret and cellar of its crowded avenues, ragged children huddled together, seek ing to warm their frozen limbs beneath the scanty covering of their beds, or cowerin'; over the few ha ltd vino em hers, which they misnamed a tire. Yet the social affect ions w ere not chilled— rather did they seem to glow more warmly, as if rejoicing in their triumph over the mighty conqueror of the phy sical world. Christian charity went forth unchecked through the frosty air and over the snow-dad sfreets to shel ter the houseless, to clothe the naked, to w arm the freezing. Human sympa thies awoke to new life the dying hopes and failing energies of man, and the sleigh-bells ringing out their joyous peais through the day, and far, far into the night, told that the young and fair were abroad, braving all the severities of the season, in their eager search af ter pleasure, hi the neighbourhood of W averiy Place, especially on the even ing of the H;h of December, did this merry music “wake the silent air” to respond to the quick beatings of the gay young hearts anticipating the fete of fetes, the most brilliant party of the season, which was that evening to be g veu at the house of the ruler of fash i’ i —the elegant Airs. Burton. Instead of introducing our readers to t!a*ga\ assemblage ofthis lady’s guests, we w ill take them to the dressing-room “t the fairest among them, the beauti t !. the gay, the brilliant Caroline Dan- Ip. As tlie door ofthis inner temple of beauty opens at the touch of our magic wand, its inmate is seen stand ing before a mirror, and her eye beams, •ud her lip is smiling w ith anticipated triumph. Does there seem vanity in tlw gaze she fastens there ? Look on but; form of graceful symmetry, on Dose large black eves with their jetty binges, on tiie rich colouring of her rounded cheeks, and the dewy fresh ness of her red lip, and you will for get to censure. But see, the mirror re flects another form—a form so slender that it seems scarce to hve attained tie full proportions of womanhood, and >'i time whose soft gray eyes and fair complexion, and hair of the palestgold, present a singular contrast, to the dark vet glowing beautv beside her. This is Mary Grayson, the orphan cousin of ( aroline Danny, who has grown up in her father’s house. !She has glided in “;th her usual gentle movement and I g'ht. noiseless step, and Caroline first perceives her in the glass. “ Ah, Mary !” she exclaims, “ 1 sent to. you to put this diamond spray in in\ hair: you arrange it with so much more taste than any one else.” Vlary smilingly receives the expen >iv ■ ornament, and fastens it amidst hie dark glossy tresses. At this mo m’ lit the door-bell gives forth a hasty and, and going to the head of the stairs, Mary remains listening till the door is opened, and then comes back to say, “Mrs. Oswald, Caroline, and Philip.’ ” Prav, go down and entertain them ,V * O tig 1 come, Alary”—and seemingly nothing loth. Alary complies with the t'epiest, hi the drawing-room to which Mary ■ hnsoii directed her steps stood n lady, who advanced to “vet her as she entered, and kissing affectionately, asked, “Are you not g’ ing with us this evening V’ “ Xo ; my sore throat has increased, u: ‘d the Doctor is positive; there is n ° appeal from him, you know ; 1 am V| ‘ r y sorry, for 1 wanted to see some of [‘ /dip's foreign graces,” she said niay m iy, as she turned to give her hand a gentleman who had entered w hile 7* ! was speaking. lie received it with b ank kindness of a brother, but be -5 i;, e lie could reply the door of the ’ nwing-room opened, and Caroline ( Mnby appeared within it. Philip Mwaid sprang forward to greet her, ; bxun that moment seemed forget- a hbi toaajiAi, mwm to idjaitSM, m mi ab jsihmiss. am ta ■ sebsal Mmuasms. ful that there was any other thing in life deserving his attention save her ra diant beauty. Perhaps there was some little regard to the effect of his first glance at that beauty, in her presenting herself in the drawing-room with her cloak and hood upon her arm, the dia mond sparkling in her uncovered tress es, and the ? >ft. ’’eh folds of her satin dress and its li .wing iace draperies, shading without concealing the grace ful outline of her form. The gentle man who gazed so admiringly upon her, who wrapped her cloak around her with such tender care, and even insist ed, kneeling gracefully before her, on fastening himself the warm furred over shoes upon her slender foot, seemed a fit attendant at the shrine of beauty. Philip Oswald had been but a few weeks at home, after an absence of four years spent in European travel, The quality in his appearance and manners, which first impressed the observer, was refinement—perfect elegance without the least touch of coxcombry. It had been said of him, that he had brought home the taste in dress of a Parisian, th e imaginativeness of a German, and the voice and passion for music of an Italian. Few were admitted to such intimacy with him as to look into the deeper qualities of t he mind—but those who were, saw there the sturdy hon esty of John Bull, and the courageous heart, a: id independent spirit of his own America. Some of those who knew him best, regretted that the possession of a fortune, which placed him among the wealthiest in America, would most, probably consign him to a life of indo lence, in which his highest qualities would languish for want of exercise. By nine o’clock Caroline Danby’s preparations were completed, and lean ing on one of Philip Oswald’s arms, while the other was given to his mo ther, she wits led out, and placed in the most splendid sleigh in New York, and wrapped in the most costly furs.— Philip followed, tiie weary coachmen touched his spirited horses with the whip, the sleigh-bells rang merrily out, and Mary Grayson was left in solitude. The last stroke of three had ceased to vibrate on the air when Caroline Dauby again stood beside her cousin. Mary was sleeping, and a painter might have hesitated whether to give the palm of beauty to the soft, fair lace, which looked so angel-like in its placid sleep, or to that which bent above her in undimmed brilliancy. “Is it you, Caroline 1 What time is it ?” asked Mary, as she roused at her cousin’s call. “Three o’clock; but wake up, Mary; 1 have something to tell you, which must not be heard by sleepy ears.’* “ iiow fresh you look!” exclaimed Mary, sitting up in bed and looking at her cousin admiringly. “W ho would believe you had been dancing all night!” “ i have not been dancing all night, nor half the night.” “ W hy —what have you been doing then ?” “ Listening to Philip Oswald. Oh Mary ! i am certainly the most fortu nate woman in f lie world. lie is mine, at last —he, the most elegant, the most brilliant man in New York, and with such a splendid fortune. 1 was so hap py, so excited, that l could not sleep, and therefore I woke you to talk.” “ 1 am glad you did, for 1 almost as much pleased as you can be —such joy is better than sleep but all the hells in the city seem to be ringing—did you see anything of the fire X “Oh yes! the whole sky at the southeast is glowing from the flames— the largest fire, they say, that has ever been known in the city—but it is far enough from us--down in Wall street —and who can think of fire with such joy before them ! Only think, Mary, with Philip’s fortune and Philip’s taste, what an establishment I shall have.” “ And what a mot her in dear, good Mrs. Oswald !” Yes—but I hope she will not want to live with us—mothers-in-law, you know, always want to manage every thing in their sons’ houses.” Thus the cousins sat talking till the tire-bells ceased their monotonous and ominous clang, and the late dawn of a winter’s morning reddened the eastern sky. It was halfpast nine o’clock when they met again at breakfast; yet late as it was, Mr. Dauby, usually a very early riser, was not quite ready for it. He had spent most of the night at the scene of the fire, and had with great difficulty and labor saved his valuable stock of French goods from the destroy er. When he joined his daughter and niece, his mind was still under the in fluenee of the last night’s excitement, and he could talk of nothing but the tire. “ Rather expensive fireworks, I am afraid,” said Caroline flippantly, as her father described the lurid grandeur of the scene. “Do not speak lightly, my daughter, of that which must reduce many from affluence to beggary. Millions of pro perty were lost hist night. The 10th of December, 1835, will long be re membered in the annals of New York, I fear.” “ It will long bo remembered in my annals,” w hispered Caroline to her cou sin, with a bright smile, despite her fa ther’s chiding. “Not at home to any but Mr. Philip Oswald,” had been Caroline Danby’s order to the servant this morning ; and thus when she was told, at twelve o’clock, that that gentleman awaited her in the drawing-room, she had heard nothing more of the fire than her father and the morning paper had communi cated. As she entered, Philip rose to greet her, but though he strove to smile as his eves met hers, the was vain; and throwing himself back on the sofa, he covered his face with his hand, as if to hide his pallor and the convulsive quivering of his lips from her whom he was reluctant to grieve. Emboldened by her fears, Caroline ad vanced, and laying her hand on his, ex claimed “What is the matter ? —Are you ill ?—your mother—pray do not keep me in suspense, but tell me what has happened.” lie seemed to have mastered his emotion, from whatever cause it had proceeded ; for removing his hand, he looked earnestly upon her, and draw ing her to a seat beside him, said in firm, though sad tones. “ That has happened, Caroline, which would not move me thus, but for your dear sake —I asked you last night to share my fortune—to day 1 have none to offer you.” “Gracious heaven !’’ exclaimed Caro line, turning as pale as he, “ what do you mean ?” “ That in the fire of last night, or the failures which the most sanguine as sure me it must produce, my whole fortune is involved. If I can recover from the wreck what will secure to my poor mother the continuance of her ac customed comforts, it will be beyond my hopes ; for me—the luxuries, the comforts, the very necessaries of life must be the produce of my own exer tion. Ido not ask you to share mv poverty,Caroline; I cannot be so selfish: had 1 not spoken of my love last night, you should never have heard it—though it had been like a burning fire, 1 would have shut it up within my heart—but it is too late for this ; you have heard it, and I have heard—tile remembrance brings with it a wild, delirious jov, even in this hour of darkness”—and the pale face of Philip Oswald flushed, and his dimmed eye beamed brightlv again as he spoke : “ I have heard your sweet confession of reciprocal regard. Months, perhaps years may pass be fore I obtain the goal at which I last, night thought myself to have already arrived—before I can dare to call you mine—but in our land, manly determi nation and perseverance ever command success, and I fear not to promise you, dearest, one day a happy home— though not a splendid one—if you will promise me to share it. Look on me, Caroline —give trie one smile to light me on my way—with such a hope be fore me, I cannot say my dreary way.” He ceased, yet Caroline neither look ed upon him, nor spoke. Her eheek had grown pale at his words, and she sat with downcast eyes, cold, still, sta tue-like at his side. \et did not Philip Oswald doubt her love. Had not her eye kindled and her cheek Hushed at his whispered vows —had not her hand rested lovingly in his, and her lip been yielded to the first kiss of love—how r then could he dare to doubt her? She was grieved for his sake—lie had been selfishly abrupt in his communication of his sorrow, and now he —the strong- J 5 er—must struggle to bear and to speak cheerfully for her sake. And with this feeling he had been able to conclude tar more cheerfully than he commenced. As she still continued silent, he bent forward, and would have pressed his lips to her cheek, saying, “ Not one word forme, dear one,” —but drawing liastilv back. Caroline said with grea’ effort, “ I think, Mr. Oswald—it seems to me —t hat—that—an engagement must be a heavy burden to one who has to make his own way in life—l—[ should be sorry to be a disadvantage to you.” It was a crushing blow, and for an instant liysat stunned into almost death like stillness by it: —but he rallied; he would leave no loop on which hope or fancy might hereafter hang a doubt.— “Caroline.” he said, in a voice whose change spoke the intensity of his feel ing, “do not speak of disadvantage to me —your love was the one star left in my sky —but that matters not —what 1 would know is, whether, you desire that the record of last evening should lie blotted from the history of our lives?” “I—l think it had better be—l am sure I wish you well, Mr. Oswald.” It was well for her, perhaps, that she did not venture to meet his eye —that look of withering scorn could scarce ever have vanished from her memory —it was enough to hear his bitter laugh, and the accents in which he said, — “ Thank you, Miss Dan by—your wish es are fully reciprocated—may you never know a love less prudent than your own !” The door closed on him, and she was alone —left to the companionship of her own heart —evil companionship in such an hour! She hastened to relate all that had passed to Mary, but Mary had no assurance for her —she had only sympathy for Philip—“ dear Philip”— as she called him over and over again. ‘ I think it would better become one so young as you are to say Mr. Oswald, Mary,” said Caroline, pettishly. ” i have called hnn Philip from my childhood, Caroline—l shall not begin to say Mr. Oswald now .” Mary did not mean a reproach, but to Caroline’s accusing conscience it sounded like one, and she turned away indignantly. She soon, however,sou ht her cousin again with a note in her hand. “ l have been writing to Mrs. Os wald, Mary,” she said ; “you are per haps too young, and Mr. Oswald too much absorbed in his own disappoint ment, to estimate the propriety of my conduct; but she will, lam sure, agree with me, that one expensively reared as I have been, accustomed to every luxury, and perfectly ignorant of econ omy, would make the worst possible wife to a poor man ; and she has so much influence over Mr. Oswald, that if she think so, she can soon persuade him of the same thing. W ill you take my note to her ? Ido not like to send it by tt servant —it might fall into Philip’s hands.” Nothing could have pleased Mary more than this commission, for her af fectionate heart was longing to offer its sympathy to her friends. Mrs. Oswald assumed perhaps a lit tle more than her usual statelinesss when she heard her announced, but it vanished instantly before Mary’s tear fnl eyes, as she kissed the • hand that was extended to her. Mrs. Oswald folded her arms around her, and Mary sank sobbing upon the bosom of her whom she had come to console. And Mrs. Oswald was consoled by such true and tender sympathy. It was CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, DEC. 14. 1850. long before Mary could prevail on her self to disturb the flow of gentler af fections by delivering Caroline’s note. Mrs. Oswald received it with an al most contemptuous smile, which re mained unchanged while she read. It was a laboured effort to make her con duct seem a generous determination not to obstruct Philip’s course in life, by binding him to a companion so un suitable to his present prospects as her self. In reply, Mrs. Oswald assured Caro line Dan by of her perfect agreement with her in the conviction that she would make a very unsuitable wife lor Philip Oswald. “This,” she added, “was alwavs my opinion, though 1 was unwilling to oppose my son’s wishes. I thank you for having convinced him i was right in the only point on which we ever differed.” It cannot be supposed that this note was very pleasing to Caroline Dauby ; but whatever was her dissatisfaction, she did not complain, and probably soon Install remembrance of her cha grin in tlic gayeties which a few men of fortune still remained, admidst the almost universal ruin, to promote and to partake. In the mean time, Philip Oswald was experiencing that restlessness, that burning desire, to free himself from all his present associations, to begin, as it were, anew 1 fe, which the first pres sure of sorrow so often arouses in the ardent spirit. Had not his will been “bound down by the iron chain of neces sity, he would probably have returned to Europe, and wasted his energies amid aimless wanderings. As it was, he chose among those modes of life de manded by his new circumstances, that which would take him farthest from New York, and place him in a condi tion the most foreign to all his past ex perience, and demanding the most ac tive and most incessant exertion. Out ot that which the fire, the failure of in surance companies and of private indi viduals had left him, remained, after tiie purchase of a liberal annuity for his mother, a few thousands to be de voted either to merchandise, to his sup port while pursuing the studies neces sary for the acquirement of a profes sion, or to any mode of gaining a living which he might prefer to these. The very hour which ascertained this fact, saw his resolution taken and his course marked out. “ 1 must have new scenery for this new act in the drama of my life,” lie said bi his mother, “i must away— away from all the artificiali'ies and trivialities of my present world, to the rich prairies, the wide streams, the boundless expanse of the West. Igo to make anew home for you, dear mo ther—you shall lie the queen of my kingdom.” This was not. the choice that would have pleased an ambitious, or an over fund mother. The first would have pre ferred a profession, as conferring high er social distinction; the last would have shrunk from seeing one nursed in the lap of luxury go forth to encounter the hardships of a pioneer. But Mrs. Oswald possessed an intelligence which recognized in that life of bold adven ture, and physical endurance, and per severing labour, that awaited her son in the prosecution ofhis plans, the best school for the development of that de cision and force of character which she had desired as the crowning seal to Philip's intellectual endowments, warm affections, and just principles; and holding his excellence as the better part of her own happiness, she sanc tioned his designs, and did all in her power to promote their execution. He waited, therefore, only to see her leave the house whose rent now exceeded her whole annual income, for pleasant rooms in a boarding-house, agreeably situated, before he set out from New’ York. It is not our intention minutely to trace his course, to describe the “local habitation” which he acquired, or de tail the difficulties which arose in his progress, the strength with which he combated, or the means by which he overcame them. For bis course, suf fice it that it was westward ; for his habitation, that it was on the slope of a hill crowned with the gigantic trees of that fertile soil, and beside a lake, “a sheet of silver,” well fitted to be “ A mirror and a bath for beauty’s youngest daughters and that the house in which he at length succeeded in rearing and fur nishing there, united somewhat of the refinement of his past life to the sim plicity of his present; for his difficul ties, we can only say, lie met them and conquered them, and gained from each encounter knowledge and power. For, two years, letters were the only me dium of intercourse between his mo ther and himself, but those letters were a history—a history not only of his stirring, outer life, but of that inner life which yet more deeply interested her. Feeling proud herself of the daring spirit, the iron will, the ready inven tion, which these letters displayed, yet prouder of the affectionate heart, the true and generous nature, it is not won derful that Mrs. Oswald should have often read them, or at least parts of them, to her constant friend and very frequent visitor, Mary Grayson. Nor is it more strange that Mary, thus made to recognize in the most pleasing man she had yet known, far more lofty claims to her admiration, should have enshrined him in her young and pure imagination as some “ bright, particu lar star.” Two years in the future ! How al most interminable seems tbe prospect to our hopes or our affections!—but let Time turn his perspective glass— let us look at it in the past, and how it shrinks and becomes as a day in the history of our lives. So was it with Phillip Oswald’s two years of absence, when he found himself in the earliest dawn of the spring of 1838, once more in New Y r ork. Yet that time had not passed without leaving traces of its pas sage—traces in the changes affecting those around him—yet deeper traces in himself. He arrived in the after noon of an earlier day than that on which he had been expected. In the evening Mrs. Oswald persuaded him to assume, for the gratification of her curiosity, the picturesque costume worn by him in his western home. He had just reentered her room, and she was yet engaged in animated observation <>f the hunting-shirt, strapped around the waist with a belt of buckskin, the open collar and loosely knotted cravat, which, as the mother’s he art whispered, so well became that tall and manly form, when there was a sight tap at the door, and before she could speak, it opened, and Mary Grayson stood with in it. Si e gazed in silence for a mo ment on the striking figure before her, and her mind rapidly scanned the changes which time and new modes of life had made in the Philip Oswald of her memory. As she did so, site ae knowledged that the embrowned face and hands, the broader and more vigour ous proportions, and even the easy free dom of hisdress, were more in harmo ny with the bold and independent aspect which his character had assumed than the delicacy and elegance which had formerly distinguished him. His outer man was now the true index of a noble, free, and energetic spirit—a spi rit which, having conquered itself, was victor over all—and as such, it attract ed from Mary a deeper and more reve rent admiration, than she had felt for him when adorned with all the trappings of wealth and luxurious refinement.— The very depth of this sentiment de stroyed the ease oflier manner toward him, and as Philip Oswald took the hand formerly so freely offered him, and heard from her lips the i meet ful Mr. Oswald, instead of the frank, sis terly Philip, he said to himself —“She looks down upon the backwoodsman, and would have him know bis place.” So much for man,s boasted pane: ration! Notwithstanding the barrier of re serve thus erected between them, Phi lip Oswald could not but admire the rare loveliness into which Mary Gray son’s girlish prettiness had expanded, and again, and yet again, while she was speaking to his mother, and could not therefore perceive him, he turned to gaze on her, fascinated not by the fine ly turned form or beautiful features, but by the countenance beaming with gentle and refined intelligence. Here was none of the brilliancy which had dazzled his senses in Caroline Dauby, but an expression of mind and heart 1 far more captivating to him who had entered into the inner mysteries of life. A fortnight was the limit of Philip Oswald’s stay in the city. lie had come no* for his mother, but for the house in which she was to live, and he carried it back with him. We do not mean that his house, vi: i all its conveniences of kitchen and untry, its elegancies of parlour and <. a wing-room, and its de corations ol’ pillar and cornice fitly joined together, traveled off with him to the far West. We do not despair of seeing such a feat performed some day, but we believe it has not yet been done, and Philip Oswald, at least did not attempt it; he took with him, how ever, all thos<- useful and ornamental contrivances, in their several parts, ac companied by workmen skilled in put ting the whole together. Again in his western home, for another year, his head and his hands were fully occupied with building and planting. For the first two years of his forest life, he had thought only of the substantial pro duce of the field—the rye, the barley, the Indian corn, which were to be ex changed for the “omnipotent dollar”— but woman was coming, and beauty and grace must be tiie herald of her step'. For his mother, he planted fruits and flowers, opened views of the l ike made a gravelled walk to its shore bordered with flowering shrubs, and wreathed the woodbine, the honey suckle, and the multifioru rose round the columns of his piazza. For his mother this was done, and yet when the labours of the day were over, and he looked forth upon them in the cool, still evening hour, it was not his mo tier’s face, but one younger and fairer which peered out upon him from the vine leaves,or with tender smiles wooed him to the lake. Young, fair, and tend er as it was, its wooing generally sent him in an opposite direction, with a sneer at his own folly, to stifle his fan cies with a book, or to mark out the plan of the morrow’s operations. More than a year had passed away, and Philip Oswald was again in New 4 ork, just as spring was gliding into tile ardent embraces of summer. This time he had come for his mother, and with all the force of his resolute will, he shut his ears to the flattering sug gestions of fancy that a dearer pleasure than even that mother’s presence might be won. lie had looked steadily upon his lot in life, and he accepted it and determined to make the best of it, and to be happy in it; yet he felt that it was after all a rugged lot. Without considering all women as mercenary as Caroline Dan by, which his knowledge of his mother forbade him to do, even in his most wjinan-scorning mood, he yet doubted whether any of those who hid been reared amid the refinements of cultivated life could be won to leave them ail lbr love in the western wilds; and as the unrefined could have no charms for him, he deliberately em braced bachelordom as a part of his portion, and, not without a sigh, yield ed himself to the conviction that all the w ealth of woman’s love within his power to attain, was locked within a mother’s heart. A fortnight was again the alloted time of Philip Oswald's stay; but when that had expired, he was per suaded to delay his departure for ,vet another week. He had been drawn, by accompanying his mother in her farewell visits, once more within the vortex of society, and his manly inde pendence and energy, his knowledge of what was to his companions a new world, and his spirit-stirring descrip tions of its varied beauty and inexhaus tible fertility, made him more the sash- ion than he had ever been. lie had often met Caroline Danby — now Mrs. Randall—and Mary more than once delicately turned her eyes away from her cousin’s face, lest she should read there somewhat ofchagrin as Mr. Ran dall, with his meaningless face and dap per-looking form—insignificant, in till save the reputation of being the weal thiest banker in Wall street, and pos sessh g the most elegant house and | furniture, the best appointed equipage, I and the handsomest wife in the eitv— j stood beside Philip Oswald with “ a form indeed Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man,” and a face radiant with intelligence, while circled by tin attentive auditory of that which was noblest and best in their world, his eloquent enthusiasm made them hear the rushing waters, see | the boundless prairies, and feel for a time all the wild freedom of the un tamed West. Such enthusiasm was | gladly welcomed as a breeze in the still I air, a ruffle in the stagnant waters of fashionable life. Within two or three days of their intended departure, Mrs. Oswald pro posed to Philip that they should visit a friend residing near Fort Lee, and in vited Mary to accompany them.— ■ Among the acquaintances whom they I found on board was an invalid lady, who could not bear the fresh air upon deck ; and Mary, pitying her loneliness and seclusion, remained fora while con versing with her in the cabin. Mrs. Oswitld and Philip were on deck, and j near tjiein was a voting and giddv girl. | to whose care a mother had intrusted a bold, active, joyous infant, seemingjy about eight mouths old. “ That is a dangerous position for so lively a child,” said Philip Oswald to the young nurse, as he saw her place him on the side of the boat; “he may ; spring from your arms overboard.” W i'h that foolish tempting of the danger pointed out by another, which we sometimes see even in women, the girl removed her arms from around the cliiid, sustaining only a slight hold of its frock. At this moment, the flag of the boat floated within view of the little fellow, and lie sprang toward it. A splash in the water'told the rest —but even before that was heard, Philip Os wald had dashed off his boots and coat, and the poor child had scarcely touched ! the waves when he was beside it and held it encircled in his arm. “Oh, Mary! Mr. Oswald! Mr. Oswald! cried one of Mary’s voung acquaintances, rushing into the cabin with a face blanched with terror. , “ What of him?” questioned Mary, starting eagerly forward. “ He is in the water. Oh, Mary! he will lie drowned.” . Mary did not utter a sound, yet she felt in that moment for the first time, how important to her was Philip Os wald’s life. Tottering toward the door, she leaned against it for a moment while all around grew dark and strange sounds were buzzing in her ears. The next instant she sank into a chair and lost her terrors in unconsciousness.— I’he same young lady who had played the alar nist to her, as she saw tiie pale ness of death settle on Mary’s face and her eyes close, ran again upon the deck exclaiming, “Mary Grayson is fainting —pray conic to Mary Grayson.” Philip Oswald was already on the deck, dripping indeed, but unharmed and looking nobler than ever, as he held the recovered child in his arms. As that cry “ Mary Grayson is flfinting” reached his ears, he threw the infant to a bystander, and hastened to the cabin followed by Mrs. Oswald. “\\ hat has caused this ?” cried Mrs. Oswald, as she saw Mary still insensi ble, supported on the bosom oflier in valid friend. “Miss Ladson’s precipitation,” said the invalid, looking not very pleasently on that young lady ; “she told her Mr. Oswald was drowning.” “ Well, 1 am sure l thought ho. was drowning.” “If he had been, it would have been a pity to give such information so abruptly,” said Mrs. Oswald, as she took oft’ Mary’s bonnet and loosened the scarf which was tied around her neck. “1 am sure,” exclaimed MissLadson anxious only to secure herself from blame, —“ lam sure I did not suppose Mary would faint; for when her un cle’s horse threw him, and every body thought he was killed, instead of faint ing she ran out in tiie street, and did more for him than anybody else could do. lam sure 1 could not think she would care more for Mr. Oswald’s danger than for her own uncle’s.” No one replied to this insinuation ; but that Philip Oswald heard it, might have been surmised from the sudden flush that rose to his temples, and from his closer clasp of the unconscious form, which at his mother’s desire he was bearing to a settee. Whether it was the water that oozed from his saturated garments over her face and neck, or some subtle magnetic fluid conveyed in that tender clasp that aroused her, we cannot tell; but a faint tinge of col our revisited her cheeks and lips, and as Philip laid her tenderly down, while his arms were still around her, and his face was bending over her, she opened her eyes. What there was in that first look which caused such a sudden flash of joy into Philip Oswald’s eyes, we know not; nor what were tiie whisper ed words which, as he bowed bis head yet lower, sent a crimson glow into .Ma ry’s pale cheeks. This, however, we do know, that Mrs. Oswald and her son delayed their journey for yet anoth er week ; and that the day before their departure Philip Oswald stood with Mary Grayson at his side before God’s holy altar, and there, in the presence of his mother, Mr. Danby, Mr. and Mrs. Randall, and a few friends, they took those vows which made them one forever. Does some starched prude, or some lady interested in the bride’s trousseau exclaim against such unseemly haste ? We have but one excuse for them. — THIRD VOLUME.—NO. 33 WHOLE NO 133. They were so unfashionable as to pre fer the gratification of a true affection to the ceremonies so dear to vanity, and to think more of the earnest claims of life than of its gilded pomps. Mr. Danby had been unable to pay down the bride’s small dower of $8000; and when he called on his son-in-law, Mr. Randall, to assist him, he could on ly offer to indorse his note to Mr. Os wald for the amount, acknowledging that it would be perilous at that time to abstract even half that amount from his business. It probably would have been perilous indeed, as in little more than a month after he failed for an enormous amount; but fear not, read er, for the gentle Caroline; she still retained her elegant house and furni ture, her handsome equipage and splen did jewels. These were only a small part of what the indignant creditors found had been made over to her by her grateful husband. Six years have passed away since the occurrence of the events we .have been recording. Caroline Randall, weary of the sameness of splendour in her home, has been abroad for two years, traveling with a party of friends’ It is said—convenient phrase that—her husband has declared she must and shall return, and that to enforce his wili he has resolved to send her no more remittances, to honour no more of her drafts, as she has already almost beggared him by her extravagance abroad. Verily, she has her reward ! One farewell glance at our favourite, Mary Grayson, and we have done. Beside a lovely lake, over whose margin light graceful shrubs are bend ing, and on whose transparent waters lie the dense forest shadows, though here and there the golden rays of the j declining sun flash through the tangled boughs upon its dancing waves, a no ble-looking boy of four years old is sailing his mimic fleet, while a lovely girl, two years younger, toddles about, picking “pitty flowers,” and bringing them to “papa, mamma, or grandmam ma, as her capricious fancy prompts. Near bv papa, mamma, grandmamma, and or.e pleased and honoured guest, aregrouped beneath the bending boughs of a magnificent black walnut, and around a table on winch strawberries and cream, butter sweet as tlie breath of the cows that yield it, biscuits light and white, and bread as good as Hum bert himself could make, are served in a style of elegant simplicity, while the silver urn in which the water hisses, and the small china cups into which the fragrant tea is poured, if they are somewhat antique in fashion, are none the less beautiful or the less valued by those who still prize the slightest ob ject associated with the affections be yond the gratification of vanity. The evening meal is over. The i shadows grow darker on the lake.— j Agreeable conversation has given place j to silent enjoyment,which Airs. Oswald i interrupts to say, “ Philip this is the j hour for music; let us have some be fore Alary leaves us with the children.” bull, deep-toned was the manly voice that swelled upon that evening air, and soft and clear its sweet accom paniment, while the words, full of adoring gratitnde and love, seemed in cense due to the II eaven which had so I blessed them. The last sweet notes have died away, and Alary, calling the children, leads t hem away, after they have bestowed their good-night kisses. Philip Oswald follows her with his eves, as, with a child on either hand, she advances with gentle grace up the easy slope, to the house on its summit. She enters the piazza, and is screened from his view bv its lattice-work of vines, but he knows that soon his children will be lisping their evening prayer at her knee,and the thought calls a tenderer expression to his eyes as lie turns them away from his “sweet home.” Contrast this picture with that of Caroline Randall’s heartless splendour, and say whether thou wilt choose for thy portion the gratification of the true and pure household affections which Heaven has planted in thy nature, or that of a selfish vanity ? ■ ■ - rrmnT— (Urntral (Brlrrfir. H AVAGE LANDOR UPON SAVAGE HAYNAU. The veteran W alter Savage Landor has written the following letter to The Examiner respecting the reception of Marshall Haynau in England: Sir: Accounts have reached every part of England announcing the recep tion of Haynau. Whatever is new is generally more acceptable in this coun try than in any other; and murderers have lately been the principal objects of solicitude and compassion. Person al wrongs, urgent necessity, and neg lected education, the fault of parents or of government, have impelled the greater part of these wretches to the commission of their crime. Yet the fueling is false and morbid which in duces those of a better nature to visit them in their prisons, and to comfort them under the sentence of the laws. What excuse then is there for patroniz ing the deliberate murderer of brave soldiers, not met in the field of battle, not taken with arms about them, who, j if they had taught against Haynau, i fought against the invader of their couu- j try, fought for the laws of the land, : fought for their wives and children ! j What excuse is there for scourging in j the public market-place the most deli- ; cate of girls and mothers ? Ages have ; passed over our heads since such atroci- \ ties were committed in Europe; and only one man has been found capable of committing them. Alost deservedly has this wretch been designated bv all the languages as the i Hangman Haynau. Is it creditable ■ that he has the audacity and impudence j to venture into this country ; to walk openly in our streets ‘? If Marat and Robespierre and Couthon had been dis placed and exiled, is ours the land in which they would have claimed the rights of hospitality? Yet they were only the engines of the laws, which, many as were the innocent struck down by them, many the noble, many the aged, many the young, spared torture, spared degradation. I think it probable that the gentle man in the Times, who defends on every occasion the exercise of arbitrary pow er, may receive a reprimand from Pe tersburg. For the disgrace of Haynau (this is the term in Courts, where tur pitude has no such meaning) came, like all other continental movements, from that quarter. Os existing rulers, certainly the Emperor of Russia is the most able ; and whenever he perm its a cruelty under his subject crowns, he in sures to himself popularity by compas sing in due time the humiliation of the subordinate actor. He was resolved that the youth ho protected at Vienna should lose forever his hold ou the Hun garians, while he took’ himself oif’a lit tle and stood aloof, breathing a tepid air of clemency. There is much to be admired in the character of this protentate, but there is greatly more to be feared. He is guided by one sole star, and never turns his eves away from it. Variable as the winds are the counsels of every nation round, while his are conducted by calm sagacious men along the same line of polity from age to age. What ever he meditates he effects. He knows that the hour of action is not to be accelerated by putting on the hands of his watch. Omnipotent not only at Athens, but through Athens at Munich; omnipotent at Vienna, at Berlin, at Stockholm, at Copenhagen, he excites, or suppresses, or modulates, or varies, the discordant cries of France in every Department. The. eastern empire rises up again, with greater vigour and surer hopes than Constan tine in Byzantium could impart to it, and is now overshadowing and overaw ing the dislocated and chaotic West.— Nicholas wills the abolition of repub lics ; France swears to maintain them; and instantly throws down her own that she may the more readily subvert the Roman. In the hand of Napoleon his half dozen royalets were nevermore pliable manikins than the nephew is in the hand of Nicholas. It will use him for a time, as fora time it used Haynau. In England, it seems, this discarded butcher,stripped by Austria ofhis apron and cleaver, is not to be to -ched, but is, on the contrary, to be respected.— And why? Because he has come upon our shores! Unquestionably thb hangman will find defenders here in England: but the defenders of such a wretch, wheth er in print or Parliament, are even worse than himself. Criminals who have been put into the pillory for much smaller offenses, and indeed for one on ly, have undergone thereby the sen tence of the law; yet public indigna tion pelts them, and the press ac quiesces. Mr. Baron Rothschild calls the unfortunate man his friend. Jews arernost peculiarly citizens oft he world: Baron Rothschild among the rest: but Baron Rothschild,the friend of Haynau, lias a better right to be a citizen of the world than a citizen of London ; and a better right to be a citizen of London than its representative. Never let us hear again of the indignities the scourg er and hangman has undergone, nor of extenuating comparisons between his crimes and the crimes of others. The distinguished writer in the Times is indignant that a person of Haynau’s age should be scouted and insulted. — 1 here are crimes bf which age and in firmity itself are an aggravation. Age ought to be exempt from the violence of the passions: age ought to be leni ent, considerate, compassionate: agfc should remember its past iinputuosi ties, and rejoice in their extinction : age must often have st 1 around its own domestic hearth the irrepressible ebullition of generous emotions, and sometimes of ungenerous. The nearer to the grave we are, the more should we be on a level with the humanities, and the more observant of those, fellow men whom we are leaving on this side of it. There is folly in calling it an act of cowardice to drive away an as sassin, whatever be his age or his con dition. Gray hairs are venerable only on the virtuous. We have seen gray whiskered wolves ; but we never have seen a body of the most innocent vil lagers backward to pursue them in con sideration of this merit. AY alter Savage Landor. September 7. THE TELEGRAPH BETWEEN NEW YORK AND LONDON. | Doubtless what the British prophet said will yet be true: someone will “put a girdle round the world in forty minutes;” or better than that, intelli gence of events will come to us from Asia half a day before the sun ca n mark the hour of their occurrence: we shall have in our morning papers “what took place this evening” in*(Janton and Cal cutta —having a system of electro-tele graphic grammar. The London Me chanics Magazine says, pertinent to this matter: “ The establishment of this electro telegraphic communication across the Straits between England and France has been fora considerable time forseen as one of the most natural in tie train of consequences resulting from the mo dem application of electricity to the transmission of intelligence between dis tant parts. If a line of wire could con vey the electric impulse for thousands of miles over the surface <tf the earth —as it has done, and is doing—there could be nothing in the nature es things to prevent it from being equally effica cious it carried under the earth or even under water ; granted always, that no one has been heard to dispute, that it is in the power of art to protect the wire from whatever antagonistic influ ences it may be exposed to when laid down under earth or water. Trials of submerged lines of wire had in fact, been made with perfect success across the Thames and the Hudson, both tol erably broad rivers; and it was uot to be doubted that what could be acco.m-