‘A
,
e -' S?’ -..:&r
mos: ‘rug-3 PHIL-.m1~:Lrnut nitrous’
Uh weep not_fb'r tfrosé.
Uh weep not for those who have sunk to their rest,
In the blaze of their martial renown ! ‘
Whose spirits have fled to the realms of the ‘lilest,
Whom the lain'el’s of martydom crown;
Oh weep not for those who have fled to the bourne
. VVhe-re the dust of their forefathers sleep l
Whose relics repose on the rude letter’d urn,
Or bleach on the shores of the deep.
‘lveep not for the dead ,- the dead cannot hear-—
_' They feel not the sting of neglect ;
Their spirits have soar’ti to their own native
_ _ sphere—
_ ‘They need not the tears ofrcspect ;
‘Weep not for the dead, but weep for the brave,
' Who wander, forlorn and distress‘d ;
I2‘Vhose sun has deolin’d to the verge of the grave,
I‘/Vho freeze on 1N'GnA'r1'ruon’s breast I
- . Bosrou naitn.
. i ,, "T" .
Tile Fligfzt--By T; Moore.
’Tis night I Judea-’s woes have ceas’d,
And all her sons to slumber given 3
The wretched, now fromcares releas’d,~
Abandon earth, to dream of heaven ;
O blissful vision-_—-foretaste of that love _
That strengthensfaith, and wafts the soul above 3
’Tis night I o’er_ wide .ludea’s plain,
The stars of heaven are beaming bright ;
The winds have sung theiripa_rting.sti-ain,
_ -And died upon the mountain’s_ height.
The ocean’s wave is slumbering on the shore,
And the cold watchman’s voiceis heard no more.
’Tis night 3 at this lone solemn hour,
_ W'hen man fdrgets to *:.*ak‘e and weep,
‘Nitltin the Virfrin's holy bower,
. The fiabe of Ilethl,e’m wakes from sleep ;
And hark 3 from daz-ling clouds ofheavenly light,
The song of Seraph’s llali'4l!l.‘.S'8ftl/1'3 flight.
....&§__
_t ‘When Gulliver in days of yore,
To Lilliput did waddle ; ' L
The ladies said (and ’twas no bore}
That he a‘ paintetl "was/1-mo worc,
To grace his empty-noddle;
Dear littlc souls—~hov;r would they state
In Clt’esnt1t-Street once landed ;
To see upon the tow’ring fair,
V '\Vho daily llounce and saunter there,
A lobster-ru/lorry stranded I
Miscellatiy.
.'M0.N‘TFOIt’B, or
_ _ _ Tm; GENEROUS M.tN.-
Ii/Ir. iV'lontfotd was one of the most estimable
of characters. He was arrived at that time when
the passions, the gales of life, cease to agitate
the mind with‘ their usual force ; but he was still
alive to all the feelings of a humane and gener-
ous heart, though too cool to be the dupe of them
by misplaced benevolence. In early youth he
had felt the sting of poverty, and well consider-
ed how many deserving minds are hourly pining
in obscurity, which tlie patronage aadassistance
_ of a man of consequence might bring into life,
and render useful to society. He had himself
felt the want of such assistance, but had risen
without it, through a yariety ofsccnes, to opu-
lence and distinction-—‘-,His wishes were bounded,
and he retired from the hazard and cares of hu-
siness at the age of fifty. But as an active mind
requires continual employment, it became his de-
light to discover and assist those whose.situa-
_ tions, in some measure, resembled that in which
-he himself had formerly stood. If ever man
possessed the art of conferring favors, without op-
pressing the receiver, Montford was one. '1 be
real and sincere pleasure with which he performi-
ed any good ollice, was so apparent that the favor
seemed to he almost reversed, as it might justly
be questioned whether his own gratification did
not exceed that of the person obliged.
One morning as he was passing his hour as
i ’ usual at the coffee-‘house, a young fellow entered,
and seated himself carelessly at one ofthe tables
on’ the opposite side of the room. His aspect
seemed to denote the polite and intelligent mind,
but acertain listlessness in his manner, and dis-
regard to things about him, and an air of settled
melancholy in his countenance, indicated that
some secret calamity was preying on his heart.
The imagination of Montford, who at first sight,
was prejudiced in his favor’, "was buried in_ form-
ing conjectures on the subject ; when the youth,
who had hitherto seemed immersed in ‘thought,
rose up, looked at his watch‘ and departed. Mont-
ford was irresistably impelled to follow and speak
with him. There is a certain dignity inthe ap-
pearance of distress, that commands respect,
which the delicacy of Montford made him feel in
an eminent degree, and they walk-ed_ together a
considerable distance before he bt'oltc silence.-‘-—
“ I do not know, sir, said he, (addressing himself
to the young gentleman) whethier you may not
think my interruption impertin-ent. The forms
and vices of the world have introduced a caution
with respect to strangers, which however com-
mendable in general, may certainly be laid aside
on some occasions. Permit me, wi‘thot'-it apology,
to request your friendship, and offer you mine 3
perhaps it may be of service ; or at least, do _thc
. - justice to suppose that that wish is the motive "of
my request.” The manner i_n which this was
spoken, evinced that it {lowed immediately from
the heart; besides which, the person and manner
of Montford was such as laid claim to attention,
and placed him above the rank of suspicion.
Young \Vilson (for that was his name) surrey-
ed Montford with some surpri-ze, having not so
much as observed him before. ‘While Montfortl
spoke, hc involuntarily seized him by the hand,
and at the conclusion, sighed without speaking,
while the tear stole down his cheek. But in a
little time, rccollecting himself, he made suita-
ble acknbwledgtncnts for the offer, and they
' of age, and she just turned of 16.
walked together towards the gardens at Kensing-
ton.
After a little conversation, Montford begged
his companion to relate the cause of the afflict-
ion, which appeared so visible in his countenance,
to which the other answered in the following
terms :
“ My parents were obscure people in business
in Doncaster, and I was their only child. The
ambition of_ my father was to make me a gentle-
man ; for the accomplishment of which, he tho’t
nothing was more required than a sufficient ac-
quaintance with literary matters. He had felt
the want of such an accomplishment himself,and
was resolved that the genius and penetrations his
paternal fondness induced him to think that I
possessed, should not be lost for want of cultiva-
tion. VVith this intent, he placed me in an acad-
emy, the expence of which did not well suit his
finances; where [remained till his death, which
happened when I was aboutten years old. His
circumstances being insolvent, my want of friends
prompted me to accept with joy an offer the‘
schoolmaster made me, that of becoming his ap-
prentice for seven years.
“ This was the happiest part of my life. In
the bloom of health and spirits, in a country whose
variegated face was the most romantic that can
be imagined, I passed mytime -void of all cares
and solicitudc. The wonders of nature, and the
sentiments of great men were my amusement;
and my only task was the delightful one
——-—-—“ To rear the tender I/mug/it,
Yb teac/i I/I6’ young idea how to slzoot,
T 0 /tour I/refresh zhstructions o’cr I/I8 mz'nd,~
To breathe the enlivmzirig sjiirit, and to fix
T/ze generous fzur/zose in the glorving breast.”
“ Observation convinced me, that converse
with books alone, was rarely sufficient to form!
the man ofijudgment, and contributed still less
to the forming of the man of address and polite-
ncss, I wasambitious of being both ; and as the
desire to oblige seldom fails of its effect, I was‘
noticed by the gentlemen in the neighborhood;
who visited us, and became on the most intimate}
terms at their houses, at several of which I en-;'
joyed advantages in quality of private tutor; at
one in particular, there was a young lady whom I
taught French and writing. I was then 18 years
She was in
my opinion, beyond comparison the most beauti-
ful of her sex. Her father introduced me as her
tutor, and I was captivated with the undissembled
pleasure which she showed on the occasion. Ev-
ery day gave new proofsof the delicacy and sen-
sibility of her mind, andimy esteem increased in
proportion. Why need I describe the many hap-
py hours we spent together ! Under the specious
free and ardent lovewithout her pains.
“ A whole summer passed in this state of hap-
piness, without any disturbing apprehension ; and
at length the time arrived at which the family
removed to their own residence.
“ One morning, when the young gentlemen
having a day’s holiday, I was released from my J
charge, I went as usual on such occasions, to pass
the day at Mr. N ewton’s,~ who was this youngla-
dy’s father. He was gone out on a hunting par-
ty ; but Mrs. Newton met me at the entrance.-—
‘ Good morning, Mr. Vv'ilson,’ said she : ‘ if Mr.
Newton had knowrrthis was a leisure day with
you, he would have sent to have engaged ;Vt:ldt-‘
company to the hunt.’ ‘ I am sorry that I had
not the pleasure,’ replied I, ‘ but since it is so, I
shall hope to enjoy a greater by making a fishing
party in the grove, if you and Miss Clara ap-
prove the plan.’ ‘ I agree with all my heart,’ an-
swered she, ‘ and as for your pupil, she is in the
library: go to her, and I shall be ready in half
in hour.’
‘ I went and found her sittingin a pensive pos-
ture_. with her handkerchief in her hand, and per-
ceived she hadbeen in tears.
‘ W'hat is the matter, my dear friend?’ cried I,
tenderly seizing her hand. She made no answer,
but sighed and turned her head away to conceal
the tears that began again to flow. ‘ My Clara,’
exclaimed I, tell me your griefs ! Do you think
I would not sympathize with you ? Tell me (con-
tinued I with emotion,) or is Wilson no longer
the friend of Clara i’ Upon this she turned her
eyes towards me, and exclaimed: ‘\Ve ‘go to
town next Thursday, and I do not know how to
part with my friend.’ A
“ VVords cannot express the effect this unex-
pected intelligence had upon‘ me. I was almost
stupified with amazement, and should have con-
tinued -so, if. the coming of Mrs. Newton had
not so soon awakened me out of my reverie. I
had dreaded the penetratingeeyeg for this adven-
ture had convinced me that"my ‘attentions to
Clara was not founded on po_liten“css alone’; imd
Iknew too well that a separation would be’the~
consequence of her attributing it to’ any other
cause. Mrs. Newton supposing her daughter to
be ill, did not observe any confusion, but tenderly
inquired how she did, and urged her to take the
air, attributing her disorder to too much eon-
finement and attention to her books.
“' The next time I called at Mr. N_e\vton’s,
Clara was in the grove, where I went to"h;er. I
found her seated in an arbor, an_d could seea con-
fusion in her countenance, on my’ approacl:.v I
trembled with apprehension, lest she should have
resolved to break off our correspondence, a_nd
stood before her like a delinquent that waitep my
dooin from. her lips. ‘ Can you forgive your:
friend, my Clara ?, said I, seating myself beside
her: ‘ I confess I do and ever shall love you;
my crime is involuntary, and I fear will be stilli-
cient punishment in itlelf: let me at least l.:now
that your contempt is not added to the burthen."
“ Why should I fatigue you, Mr. !Montford, by
repeating transactions which the yretlection is
painful, yet I cannot help dwelling 2’ The conclu-
sion was, that she confessed a mutual flame, and
for the first time, I held her in my arms and kis-
sed the tear from her cheek; but I was (loomed
to be unhappy. W'hile we were in that tender
situation, Mr. Newton entered the arbor. The
disguise of friend_ship, we tasted the pleasures of.
’ whim, caprice and folly of’ every one, ' but
iexpressed ; Clara screamed at the sight--and
Mr. Newton, who is a man of remarkable cool-
ness, only said, ‘ \Vhat, Clara, have I become 0-
dious to you, child E--Go‘, you foolish child, your
mother wants you.’ A She departed, and Mr.-
Newton‘ assuming a look of calm severity, ad-
dressed himself to me. ‘ I thought, young gené
tlenian,’ said he, ‘ that you were acquainted with
something more than the more names of honor
and integrity ; and, I assure you, it mbrtifies me
not a little to find that 1 was mistaken. Surely
the esteem I have always had for you, merited a
better return than you have been pleased to make.
After what has passed, I need not tell you thatmy
friendship is at an end, and that your absence is
the only favor you are capable of bestowing. I
threw myself at his feet; but he turned and left
me ; and I departed ashamed and confused from
the house that contained the object of my wishes.
.. To be concluded in our next.)
THE PRI.7V'TEIl.-
‘ I pity,’ cried my uncle Toby,‘ I pity the Prin-
ter.’—‘ He is a poor devil,’ replied I.—-‘ How so ?’
asked my uncle Toby. ‘ In the first place, he
must endeavour to please every body ; and it is
ten to one if he pleases any b'ody. In the inno-
cence of the moment, perhaps a "small paragraph
pops upon him ; he hastily‘ scans i_to’er’-—throws
it to the compositor-—-it is inserted-'-and he is
cl-'—d to all intents and purposes I" ‘ Too much
the case.’ ‘ And besides,’ continued I, ‘hc'some-
times hits upon a piece that pleases him MIGHT-
inv, and he thinks it cannot but go down with
his subscribers ; but alas I who can calculate it
He inserts it, and all is over with him. They may
forgive others, but they can't forgive the Printer
--[I saw Trim crouched in the corner ; he sat
on nettles]—-he has a host to print for—he has
fools and he has wise men ; and every dunce that
knows not B from a_ bull’s foot, sets up for a crit-
ic. The pretty miss exclaims, Why don’t they
give us more poetry and hon mots ? Away with
these stale pieces ! The politician claps his specs
on his nose, and runs it over in search of violent
invective ; he finds none ; he takes his specs
oll'—folds them—claps them in his pocket, de-
claring the paper good for nothing but*****. 80
it goes. Each one thinks it ought to be printed
cxjzressly to /zlease lzims-cl]; as he is a subscriber ;
and thus, weekly, it is brought to the grand or-
deal.” ..
Trim could no longer contain himself ": ‘but ri-
sing and bounding with a lengthy stride to the
middle of the’ floor, with his arms a-ltimbo, and
his head upright. exclaimed with a loud and audi-
ble voice, ‘ If I was a Printer, I’d please my-
self—I’d-never give up the ground to any one, or
renounce one particle of my sentiments as big as
a mustard seed.—I :.;‘would not be swayed by the
would mark out a straight, [Trim had been a
school-master,]mathematical line, anti pursue it.
If I could not succeed inaplain, independent
course, 1’d freely kick the "beam. Yes, like Sir
Harry, in‘ Columbus,’ I'd inquire, ‘ was you ever
at the death of a game-cock? If not, come and
view the spectacle.’
Cu}:
. Times long [zast.—The clothes of the Roman
Emperor Augustus Cesar, were seldom any oth-
er than such as the Empress Livia, or his sister
Octavia,’ had spun for him. Cato rode upon a
single horse without attendance, and his baggage
behind him. Aristides, Valerius, Publicola, and
several other great names, who had the man-
agement of the public treasures of republican
Greece and Rome, did not leave enough to bury
them when they died. ‘But these are heathen ex-
amples--not to be adduced for intimation now-'a-
days.—-‘-'Con. Cour.
Love of C'ozmtry.--—During the American rev-
olution while Gen. Reed was president of Con-'
gress—the British commissioners offered him a
bribe of 10,000 guineas, to desert the cause ofhis
country. His reply was “ Gcntlcnzcn I am /zoor,
very/zoor ; but your king is not rich cmougl; to
buy me.” i '
Hints for the LacIz'cs.--The longer a woman
remains single, the more apprehensive will she
be of enteringinto a state of wedlock. At sev-_
enteen or eigltteen, a girl will plunge into it, of-
ten witho'ut'fear or wit; at twenty’, she will be-
gin tothink ; at twenty-four, will weigh and dis-
criminate; at twenty-eight, will be afraid of ven-
turing ; at thirty, will turn about and look down
the hill s‘he'has_' ascended,‘ and sometimes rejoi.
ces and sometimes rcpetits that she has attained
that summit. '
j ' From a French [ta/zer‘. ' _ .
An occurrence has happened in the neighbour-'
hood of Frankfort, which is looked upon as an
example of divine justice. A woman believing
her husband killed in "1806, at the battle of Jena,
married again without scruple. The man had
not been killed, but only wounded 5 ‘he was cur-
ed by the French, and entered the_,service in one
of the Prussian regiments which France raised
at the period. After serving for more than three
years in §pain,~ he suddenly returned to «-Prussia,
and went to look for his wife. The latter was
afraid to acknowledge that she had got another
in his place, and suffered him to go to bed ; but
immediately induced the new husband t_o rid her
of this‘ returning importunate. The unhappy
man was strangled, and put into a sack, and they.-
setiotl‘ to carry him away, and throw him into
the Oder. But the weight of the body burst the
sack, and one foot came through. The woman
hastened to sew up the torn place, but did_ not
perceive at the same time she sewed the clothes
of her accomplice. Being’ arrived at the bank
of the river, thelatter proceeded to apier, and
endeavoured to throw over the body of his victim.
He was dragged in with him, and was drowning,
when the woman, forgetting how important it
was to hold her tongue, set up a terrible cry.-
Some peasants ran up; the criminals were ar-
rested, and they confessed their crime with all
agitationiof my soul at that instant is not to be
its particulars.
'one case, the infant will surely act as zthuman
JVéw.EaIf'ard, July if. ,
Illélanchaly Shifiwreék. -—The brig Mary, Capt:
Paul Howland, sailed from this port on the 5th
of May last, on a whaling voyage to the Coast
of Patagonia, and on the night of the 28th,. was '
stranded near Cape Blanca, Coast of Africa-’ ,‘
In the morning, Capt. Howland and his crew.
succeeded in getting" on shore, with a quantity of
provisions and other necessaries,’ but were‘-soon?
discovered by the Arabs, who came and loaded
their camels with the articles which had been
saved, while‘ at the same time the women di-'
vested Capt. I-Iowland’s men of almost every are
ticle of clothing they had_on, and attempted to rob‘
him also, but be resisted and escaped from them..- .
The Arabs then departed with their plunder, but" «
soon returned with several camels, apparently"
loaded with brush-wood, under which severalmexr
armed with muskets and spears, were concealed.
As soon as they arrived on the beach they dis-I ‘
covered themselves, and attempted to take_Capt.' ‘r.
Howland and his men prisoners, who imnrediiate-rt J
ly ran to their boats and pushed off, wl1en,tliej ’
Arabs fired and wounded James Edwards, of
Rochester, who died three days after :—-Job Mil-‘
ler,‘ of Dartmouth, who was on the deck of the
brig was w'o'unded in the thigh, and left there-—;
Lemuel Gifford, of Fairhaven, being alone in a ,
boat, was driven ashore by the surf, and taken by
the’ Arabs.‘ . ‘ ’
Capt. Hovvland and his crew having asmall
quantity‘ of provisions in their boats, continued
their course for the Cape de Verd Islands, and
arrived at the Isle of Sal, 5th June, and took pas-
sage in the Shakespear, of London, Capt. Ste-
phen Briggs, for Bonavista—from thence he took
passage in the brig Gen. Gates, VVhite, of and
for Machias, and arrived at Tarpaulin Cove, lltht
inst. ' V ’
..i..—- AV .!'~
V Jletzuar/ll‘, Ji". J. July 2 l. ,
I/l’o7:clc7fu1Eeca/zc.-'--On the night of the 13th '\, ,.
inst, a Mrs. Limbert, a respectable widow Lady,
in this town, but late from Savannah, got up in
the night and went to the well to procure adrink
of water.’ Strange as it may appear, the person
who had been fixing the platform the preceding
day, had removed the curb from its usual place,
and had not rep'la‘r:ed it at night. The lady in
going to the well, as she supposed, fell directly ».
into it, and feet foremost, reached the bottom in
about six feet water. V’Vhen she found her per-’
ilous situation, and as she rose in the water she
provitlentially got a foot hold, and with her cries
of distress soon alarmed the neighbors ; who 4_
were enabled to extricate her from her distressed
situation. In the fall she experienced some inju-
ry in one of her feet—but no bones were broken
nor was she otherwise seriously affected. A:
solemn warning this, not to leave wells uncover-
ed.
M01‘alist.
FROM THE c/t'rsxit.t. 111-zconntsn. t
“ Ye must be born again.”
I-‘ram these vvnrdé, Eltere appears, without can ..
troversy, an absolute necessity in the case ; and
accordingly _the subject demands the serious
attention of all. And for what purpose must we
be born again ? Of this we are informed in the
context-'—to “ see the kingdom of God..” .VVith_-
out this heavenly birth, then, we can never see,
or in other words relish the holy beauty and ex-
cellence of, or enjoy, the kingdom of God»-
which kingdom, in the spiritual sense here under- »
stood, is the dispensation of gospel grace, asit is-
set up on earth, in the souls of believers, and as
it will eventually bloom and flourish on the shores
of eternal glory; But does this figurative ex-
pression mcan that we must actually become new
‘creatures ? -This is too deep for‘ our comprehen-
sion--and “ how can these things be I” To this
question of Nicodemus, let the Saviour’s answer
be given--‘ Marvel not that I said thus unto thee,’
and that answer is sufficient. VVc cannot com-
pre-hend the deep things of God. Our duty, and
the penalty of disobedience known, let us acqui-
esce in humblest reverence‘. _ ,
' But why must we be born again, in order to”
enjoy the kingdom of God? His kingdom is a '
spiritual kingdom, and we naturally are alone do-.
lighted with corporeal things. His kingdom is a
holy kingdom, and we are unholy. The heart
is the principal thing concerned here; but the
heart is blinded ; for holiness is the eye of the
heart, and therefore we cannot moral-l.y oer: holy
things. Then the reason is obvious why we must
be born.,again—-why our sinful hearts must be-
come holy, our carnal affections bemade spiritual.
The nature of this heavenly generation we can-
not comprehend ; neither can we the nature of
a natural birth. _ But as the latter is intro-
ductory to allthe actions of human life, so is the
former to all those of the spiritual. As in the '
creature ; so in the other, the convert._will as
certainly act as a spiritual creature. And as the
newborn child has all the partsof agrown man,
and with care and nourishment will eventually be-
come one ; so the new believer though weak in
faith, will grow from grace to grace, till he be-
come a perfect man. in Christ Jesus. A
Brief Scriftture Rcnzarker.
._......
Old ./!ge,—To the intelligent and virtuous, old
age presents a scene of tranquil cnjoyments—-,-of
obedient appetites-—of well regulated affections
-—of maturity in knowledge»-and of calm pre-
paration forimmortality. in this serene and dig-
nified state, placed as it were on the confines of
two worlds, the mind ofa good man reviews what
is past with a complacency of an approving con-
science, and looks forward .. with humble confi-
dence in the mercy of God, and with devout as-
pirations towards eternal and ever increasing fa-
vour. '
_....._
As Religion risesin speculation, it w'll loose
in practice. ‘ ‘
Man cannot be engaged in a deeper science ‘
than that of himself.
Norwalk Chronicler