‘POETRY.
ADIEU TO YOUTH.
BY THE LATE THOMAS HOPE, ESQ.
Distant plans of daring pride,
Views remote of wild romance,
\Vhose perspective vast and wide
Could my youthful soul entrance ;
Trophies which I hoped to raise,
Regions where I meant to rove,
Schemes of pleasure and of praise,
VVhich my early fancy wove.
Projects mad all things to scan
\Vhich the gods vouchsafe to man,
\Vlierc the Pole’s resistless chill
Bids the oceau’s self stand still,
Or the tropic’s fellest sun
Man compels his shafts to shun ;—
You I cherisli’d so before,
I must cherish you no more.
Niagara’s foaming fall ;
China’s everlasting wall ;
Chimborazo’s snowy top,
\Vhicli appears the sky to prop ;
Hoary Hecla’s watery spires;
Raging 1Etna’s rolling fires;
' 'Torneo’s sun whose glimmering light
Half a year still haunts the sight;
Towering Tliibet’s lofty plain,
'\Vhich conglomerate wounds sustain ;
Sacred Ganges’ secret source;
Niger's unexplored course-—
Hapless Park’s unravel’d dream,
Quench’d for ever in its stream ;
Deep Elora’s sculptured caves;
Desert Memphis’ gorgeous graves ;
Pliile’s Isle, whose ruins smile
I, i the mirror of the Nile; '
A ceful Cashmere’s flowery vale,
. low’d scene of Eastern tale;
Mounts of Kaff, where fairies dwell,
And contend with sprites of hell ;
Georgia, where God’s noblest creature
Shows his noblest form and feature ;
Mecca's house, Medina’s shrine ;
Slieeraz, flusli’d with rosy wine ;—
You, which once to face I swore,
You I ne’er must think of more;
Bold acliieveineuts, noble feats,
\Vhose einprise man’s wonder greets,
\Vhose success e’en glads his ghost ;—
You I ne'er must hope to boast.
-‘I
By the foolish vulgar throng
Both detain’d and dragg’d along;
After things just born to die
Made to join the vulgar cry, —
In the toil of each dull day
My best years have roll’d away,
Till, approaching fast my wane,
\Vinter claims my worn-out brain.
Tales that used my soul t’ inspire,
Now I bear with calmness told;
Sights that set my blood on fire,
Now that torpid blood leave cold.
Slow and tedious is my pace,
And no longer dare I hope
Vigour while I run the race,
Pleasure when I reach the scope.
Then adieu, once dazzling dreams!
Leave, oh! leave my haunted mind,
\Vcary of its brilliant schemes,
To an liuiiihler fate resigned.
Simpler tasks my toil demand,
Nearer objects claim my care,
Higher duties for my hand,
I-Iumblcr labours, fast prepare.
'._l‘liese with liouors to achieve,
And a virttious race to leave,
\V'lien in everlasting rest,
And, percliance, among the blcst,—
," this globe’s vain joys deride,—-
¥ enceforth be my only pride.
THE NUN-
BY war. woitnswoitrii.
In Bruges town is many a street
cs?
~»=-wire/©
BY VVIVI. G. HYER.
VOL. is.
SELECT TALES.
From the New England Magazine.
THE AMBITIOUS GUEST.
One September night, a family had gathered
round their hearth, and piled it high with the
drift-wood of mountain streams, the dry cones of
the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees,
that had come crashing down the precipice.-
Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened
the room with its broad blaze. The faces of the
father and mother had a sober gladness; the chil-
dren laughed ; the eldest daughter was the im-
age of happiness at seventeen; and the aged
grandmother, who sat knitting in the warmest
place, was the image of happiness grown old.—
They had found the ‘herb, hearts ease,’ in the
bleakest spot of all New-England. This fami-
ly were situated in the Notch of the White
Hills, where the wind was sharp throughout the
year, and pitilessly cold in the winter-—giviug
their cottage all its fresh inclemency, before it
descended on the valley of the Saco. They
dwelt in a cold spot and a dangerous one; for a
mountain towered above their heads, so steep
that the stones would often rumble down its
sides, and startle them at midnight.
The daughter had just uttered some simple
jest, that filled them all with mirth, when the
wind came through the Notch, and seemed to
pause before their cottage-rattling the door,with
asound of wailing and lamentation, before it
passed into the valley. For a moment, it sad-
dened them, though there was nothing unusual
in the tones. But the family were glad again,
when they perceived that the latch was lifted by
seine traveller, whose footsteps had been un-
heard amid the dreary blast, which heralded his
approach, and wailed as he was entering, and
went moaning away from the door.
Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these
pcopleheld daily converse with the world. The
romantic pass of the Notch is a great artery,
through which the life-blood of iiiterual com-
merce is continually throbbing, between Maine,
on one side, and the Green Mountains and the
shores ofthe St. Lawrence on the other. The
stage-coach always drew up before the door of
the cottage. The way-farer, with no compan-
ion but his staff, paused here to exchange a
word, that the sense ofloneliness mightnot utter-
ly overcome him, ere he could pass through the
cleft of the mountain, or reach the first house in
the valley. And here the teamster, on his way
to Portland market, would put up for the night
—and if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond
the usual bed-time, and steal a kiss from the
mountain maid, at parting. It was one oftliose
primitive taverns, where the traveller pays only
for food and lodging, but meets with a homely
kindness, beyond all price. VVheii the footsteps
were heard, therefore, between -the outer door
and the inner one, the whole family rose up,
the grandmother, children, and all, as if about
to welcome some one who belonged to them,
and whose fate was linked with theirs.
PRINCIPLES AND MEN.
N €)RWALI{, TUESDAY, JUNE 30, 1835.
and confess, that a gifted one had passed from
his cradle to his tomb, with none to recognise
him.
“As yet,” cried the stranger—liis cheek glow-
ing and his eye flashing with enthusiasm—‘as
yet, I have done nothing. Were I to vanish
from the eartli-to morrow, none would know so
much of me as you; that a nameless youth
came up, at uiglit-fall, from the valley of the
Saco, and opened his heart to you in the eve-
ning, and passed through the Notch by surprise,
and wasseen no more. Not a soul would ask,
‘\Vlio was he? Whither did he go ?’ But I
cannot die tillI have achieved my destiiiy.—
Then, let Death come! I shall have built my
monument !’
There was a continual flow of natural emotion,
gushing forth, amid abstracted reverie, which
enabled the family to understand this young
man’s sentiments, though so foreign from their
own. With quick sensibility ofthe ludicrous, he
blushed at the ardor into which he had been be-
trayed.
“You laugh at me,” said he, taking the eldest
daiighter’s hand, and laughing himself. ‘You
think my ambition as nonsensical as if I were to
freeze myself to death on the top of Mount
VVasliington, only that people might spy at me
from the country roundabout. And, truly, that
would be a noble pedestal for a man’s sta-
tue !’ ,
“It is better to sit here, by- this fire,” answer-
ed the girl, blushing, ‘and be comfortable and
contented though nobody thinks about us.”
“I suppose,” said her father, after a fit of inu-
sing, ‘there is something natural in what the
young man says; and if my mind had been
turned that way, Iiniglitliave feltjust the same.
It is strange, wife, how his talk has set my head
running on things, that are pretty certain never
to come to pass.’
“Perhaps they may,” observed the wife. ‘Is,
the man thinking what he will do when he is a
widower?
“No, no!” cried he, repelling the idea with re-
proacliful kindness.- ‘VVlieu I think of your
death, Esther, I think of iniue, too. But I was
wishing we had a good farm, in Bartlett, or
Bethlehem, or Littleion, or some other town-
ship round the \Vhite Mountains ; but not where
they could tumble on our heads. I should
want to stand well with my neighbours, and be
called ’Squire, and sent to General Court for a
term or two; for a plain, honest man may do
as much good there as a lawyer. And when I
should be grown quite an old man, and you an
old woman, so as not to be long apart, Imightdie
happy enough in my bed, and leave you all
crying around me. A slate grave stone would
suit me as well as a marble oue—witli just my
name and age, and a verse of a hymn and some-
thing to let people know that I lived an honest
man and died a Christian.’
“There now !” exclaimed the stranger, ‘it is
them all. There were the little faces of the
children, peeping from their bed apart, and here
the father’s frame of strength, the mothers sub-
dued and careful mien, the high-brewed youth,
the budding girl, and the good old grandam still
knitting in the warmest place. The aged wo-
man looked up from her task, and, with fin-
gers ever busy, was the next to speak.
‘Old folks have their notions,’ said she, ‘as
well as young ones. You’ve been wishing and
planning, and letting your heads run on one
thing and another, till you’ve set my mind a
wandering too. Now what should an old we-
man wisli for, when she can go but a step or
two before she comes to her grave ? Children,
it will haunt me night and day, till I tell you.’
‘What is it mother?’ cried the husband and
wife, at once. '
Then the old woman, with an air of myste-
ry, which drew the circle closer round the tire,
informed them that she had provided her grave-
clothes some years ‘oefore—a nice cotton shroud,
a cap with a muslin ruff, and every thing of a
finer sort than she had worn since her wedding-
day. But, this evening, an old superstition had
strangely recurred to her. It used to be said,
in her younger days, that, if any thing were
amiss with a corpse, if only the rull were not
smootlie, or the cap did not set right, the corpse,
in the coffiin and beneath the clouds, would strive
to put up its cold hands and arrange it. The
bare thought made her serious.
‘Don't talk so, grandmother!’ said the girl,
shiicldering.
‘Now,’ continued the old woman, with singu-
lar earnestness, yet smiling strangely at her own
folly-‘I want one of you, my children, when
your 'l]‘.Ol.l'lel‘ is drest, and in the coffin—I want
one of you to hold a looking-glass over my face.
\Vho knows but I may take a glimpse at my-
self, ard see whether all‘s riglit ?’
‘Old and young, we dream of graves and iiion-
uments,’ miirinured the stranger youth. ‘I won-
der hov mariners feel. when the ship is sinking,
and thty, unknown and undistinguislied, are to
be buried together in the ocean-—-that wide and
nameless sepulchre !’
For a moment, the old woman’s ghastly con-
ceptionso engrossed the minds of hearers, that a
sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of
a blast, had grown broad, deep and terrible, be-
fore the fated group were conscious of it. The
house, and all within it, trembled; the founda-
tions of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this
awful sound were the peal of the last trump.——
Young and old exchanged one wild glance, and
remai__ned an instant, pale, aflrightcd, without
uttcraice or power to move. Then the same
shriek ‘)urst simultaneously from all their lips.
‘Tlu Slide! The Slide !’
Tlre simplest words must intimate, but not
pourtray, the unutterable horror of the catastro-
phc. The victims rushed from their cottage and
souglitrrfuge in what they deemed a safer spot
our nature to desire a monument, be it slate or
marble, or a pillar of granite.’
where, iii comtcmplation of such an emergency,
a-sort of barrier liatl been reared. Alas! they
$2 PER ANNUM.
No. 34..
third was that ofa constant throbbing and burn-
ing sensation ofthe left side ofthe face, as though
hot needles were thrust into the flesh. This last
was attended with permanent deafness in one
ear, occasioned by a pistol having been iiicau-
tiously fired too near the face. The patient was
admitted into St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, where
corbon ate of iron was administered in large de-
ses, combincd with large doses of opium. The
patient observed, “This always made me very
dizzy and stupid, and I always felt as though I
was drunk; 1 was, in fact, at a loss to say whe-
ther the pain was not preferable to the queer and
uucoinfortablc sensation produced by the large
doses of opium. After Iliad remained in the
hospital for one month, I was discharged by the
physicians as incurable.” This unhappy man
next became an inmate of St. George’s Hospit-
al, wliere, however, the ability of the tlistiuguislii-;
ed physicians was exerted, but with no bette
success. Having been advised to make trial of
magnetism, within twelve applications on the
affected part, the pain was entirely removed,‘
and the patient was enabled to resume his usual
avocations.
V’Ve are aware that the singular effects induced
by the application of the magnet have not been
suffered to pass by without meeting some objec-
tions. Confined as these have been merely to
doubts respecting the probable action of the rem-
edy, and by those who have never had opportu-
nity to investigate the proofs of its success as
thus established, and as such opposed to the com-
mon productive principles of philosophical ana-
logy, the futility of objections which would deny
the evidence of the senses, because they are not
tangible to the comprehension, might easily be
proved. It is, however, impossible, in a popu-
lar notice of its success, to enter into an elucida-
tion of the modus opcrandi of causes, the effects
of which are as novel in a pathological as in a
physiological point of view. These will form
the subject ofa work which Dr. Blundell is pre-
paring for the press, being an “Inquiry into the
Medicinal Application of Magneti_s_m,.’;’ i_r1‘;which
some curious views will be eluciiiiigkfediibn the
identity of this agent with various natural
agents, and even with the vital p1*int3ipTe.—N a-
tional Gazette. ‘ - l
....—.x
if
establish itself in the mostrefined of dictionaries.
It will mount into good society, and be uttered
by aristocratic lips—for it is the only word, dc-
signating the most important species of the genus
idler-s——-the most important, because the most
annoying branch ofthat family.
The lo__afei;-is not exclusively, as some suppose
him, a ’ragged step-and-corner louuger, who
sleeps in the sim, and “hooks” sugar on the,
wharf. On stlie contrary, the propensity to loaf
is confined to no rzilik in life; all conditions are,
more or less, troubled with it. Like squinling,
the king and the beggar may be equally afflict-
ed with the iin]'ici‘fection. There be your Wei]-
dressed monicd loafer, as well as your loafer
who is nigluly taken by the watch.
He is that kind ofa man, (for to the credit of
the fair sex be it spoken, there are few such as
we would describe among tliem,) who, having
nothing to do, or being unwilling to do any thing,
cannot keep his tediousness to himself, and
therefore bestows it all upon others, not when
they are at leisure for conversational recreation,
but when l)USl[10SS'pl'CSS€S, and they would look
black upon the intrusion of a sweetheart, or a
three days wife. He is the drag-chain upon in-
dustry and yet so far different from the drag-
chain, tlja't_».-he hitches to the wheel, when the
pull is iipjiill. Loving the excitement of busy
scenes, yet too lazy to be an actor in them,
where men are busiest, there, too,,is to be found
the pure, uuadiiltcrated loafer, sprawling about
as the bound sprawls before the fire—iii every
body’s way, and tripping up every body's heels.
In the store, he sits upon the counter, swinging
his useless legs, and gaping vacautly at the
movements around him. In the office, lie
eficctually checks necessary conversation among
those who do not wish their business bruited to
the world, turns over papers which he has no
right to touch, and squints at contents, which he
no right to know. In the cotinting-liotise,
h'e"p,erches on a stool, interupts difficult calcula-
tionlsgwitli chat as idle as himself, follows the
bustling clerk to the storehouse, pouches the
genuine Havana, quafls nectar from proof-
‘glasses, and makes himself free ofthe good things
which belong to others. He is himself every
where at home, but like the porcupine in the
den of the snake, he soon causes the legitimate
occupant to feel as if any where, rather than at
home.
Such is the genuine loafer, who preys upon
what is more precious than gold, the time of his
victim. But great as the evil is, there is no
remedy for it, (as it cannot be touched by law)
except by the force of expressed opinion. Let
the pregnant mischief, therefore, be attacked
with the grey goose quill, that those who are
loafers through igiiorauce—and there are many
oftliem-—may have their eyes open to the error
of their ways; and they that are cold-blooded,
premeditated loafers, who sin with deliberation,
may be friglited from their cruel practices: at.
tack them all——those of the country, who will
loaf you for twelve hours at a stretch, and those
of the town, who go three or four heats—and
let the body politic be purged. \Ve have thrown
the firstjavelin ; let it be followed up.
For the benefit of the rising generation, par-
ents should early teaoh their cliildreu to abhor the
2 habit of which we write.
Impress it deeply on
A COUPLE Olt‘ STRAY LEAVES.
“Ex uno disce oinnes.”
THE FIRST Li;Ai-‘—si.1:nionl/is rt/Zcrmarriage.
“\Vcll, my dear, will you go to the party to-
night? you know we have a very polite invita-
tioii.”
“VVliy my love, just as you please, you know
I always wish to consult your pleasure.”
you are perfectly willing ; now don’t say yes be-
cause I do, for you know that where you are,
there I am perfectly happy.”
“\Vliy my love, you would enjoy yourself
there I am sure, and wherever you are happy
Isliall be of course. What dress shall I wear,
VVilliam ?—my white satin with blonde, or my
“\Vell then Harriet, suppose we go—that is if
their tender minds, that if they ever deem it ad-.
visablc to be good for nothing, they should not
force others to be likewise good for nothing, when
their tendencies are in another direction . Eve-
ry one should be allowed to paddle his own beat
his own way.—Philad. Vade Mecum.
The following interesting particulars of the
late unfortunate young Beauharuois the hus-
Band ofthe Queen of Portugal, are from a Lon-
oii ia ierz
Afierl the autopsy on Sunday, the Prince's
body laid in state in that part of the Palace,
where the Cortes formerly held their sitting.—.
lminediatey after his appointment as Comman-
der-in Chief, he had a new uniform ofthat grade,
with all the correspondent ornaments and trap-
ashes of roses, or my levantine, or my white
iin s made which was com ileted an e
I3”-‘s 3°“ 3!-‘V-'-tys know better than I do about I g ’ I I d brought
liad hgittetl their security; and fled right into the
to him whilst he was laying ill of that malady,
\Vlicm:c busy life liaili tlctl,
pathwily of destruction. Down came the whole
\Vliere, without hurry, noiseless feet -ii-iVS"i,r_° I“ 3 5m““‘c«’*' “"‘Y~ ‘°‘“!£-'!t‘-'. ”5.-’.‘5.'.l the
The door was opened by a y0flI]gI1'laI1.i:
harp that tuneful prelude made
' I‘0 a voice of thrilling power,” _ , W
The measure, simple truth to tell,
\Vas fit for some gay throng ;
Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.
'\Vheii silent were both voice and chords
The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet, for English words
Had fallen upon the ear.
-,,I,t_was a breezy hour of eve,
Amd pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave,
Clothcd with innocuous fire;
But where we stood, the setting sun
Shewed little of his state ;
And if the glory reached the nun,
’Twas through an iron grate.
Not always is the heart unwise,
Nor pity idly born,
If even a passing stranger sighs
For them who do not mourn.
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove,
Captive, whoe’er then be !
Oh! what is beauty, what is love,
And opening life to thee ?
Such feelings pressed upon my soul,
A feeling sanctified
By one soft trickling tear that stole
From the maiden at my side;
Less tribute could she pay than this,
Borne gaily o’er the sea,
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss
Of English liberty?
XVI-IAT IS SOLITUDE?
BY ens. F. H0]-‘I-‘MAN.
Not in the shadowy wood,
Not in the rock-ribbed glen,
Not where the sleeping echoes brood
In caves untrod by men ;
Not by the sea-swept shore
\Vhcre loitering surges break,
Not on the mountains hoar,
Not by the breezeless lake,
Not on the desert plain
‘ \Vhere inau hath never stood,
\Vhether on isle or inain—
Not there is Solitude !.
"here are birds in tiie woodland bowers,
Voices in lonely dells,
nrl streams that talk to the listening hours
In Eartb’s most secret cells.
iere is life on the foam-flecked sand
By the Occau’s curling lip,
ud life on the still lake’s strand
’Mid the flowers that o’er it dip;
here is life in the rocking pines,
I‘liat sigh on the mountain’s crest,
' life in the courser’s niaue that shines
s be scours the desert’s breast.
'1 ut go to the crowded mart,
’Mid the busy haunts of iuen,
‘o there and ask thy heart,
\Vhat answer makes it then’!
V y! go where Wealth is flinging
llcr golden lures around,
Vliere the triump of Fame is ringing,
\Vlicre Plcasurc’s wiles abound ;
lo--if thou wouldst be lonely-
\Vbere the phantom Love is wooed,
nd own that tliere—tlicre oiily—
Mid crowds. is Solitude.
it impressions in type-.-.dclightfnl ! but
.s this chronological dillcrence in the two
while old love and new type will open a
=f:_7/cs, new love and old type will make
,7zd .’
,se who are at rest in their graves, were
,_air amongst. us, it would not be to reclaim
" altb, but to bear testimony to its vanity.
{x
of his reception.
He Wilt. his heart spring for-
ward to meet them all, from the old woman,
who wi )C‘(l a chair with her a mu, to the little
child thlat held out its arms to ffiin. One glance
and smile placed the stranger on a footing of iii-
noceut familiarity with the eldest daughter.
“Ah, this fire is the right thing!” cried lie,
“cspeciall ' when there is such a pleasant circle
round it. '31 airi quite henuiiibed; for the Notch
is just like the pipe of a great pair of bello\y1s;1it
has blown a terrible blast in in face, a tie
way from Bartlett.” y
“Then you are going towards Vermont ?”
said the master of the house, as he helped to take
a light knapsack off the young man’s shoul-
ders.
“Yes; to Burlington, and far enough beylgnd,”
replied he. “I meant to have been at ‘than
Crawford’s to-night; but a pedestrian lingers
along such a road as this. It is no matter; for
when I saw this good fire and all your cheerful
faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose
for me, and were waiting my arrival. So I shall
sit down among you, and make myself at
home.”
The frank.-hearted stranger had just drawn
his chair to the fire, when something like a
heavy footstep was heard without, rushing down
the steep side of the rr.onntain, as with long and
rapid strides, and taking such a leap, in passing
the cottage, as to strike the opposite precipice.
The family held their breath, because they knew
the sound, and their guest held his, by instinct.
“The old mountain has thrown a stone at us,
for fear we should forgetfpini,” said the laii[(]llo}rd,
recovering himself. “ e sometimes no s iis
head and threatens to come down; but we are
old neighbors, and agree togepher pretty wep, up}
on the whole. Besides, we iuve a sure p ace 0
refuge hard by, ifhe should be coming in good
earnest.”
Let us now suppose the stranger to have fin-
ished his supper of bear’s meat ; and by his nat-
ural felicity of maurier, to have placed himself
on a footing of kindness with the whole family
—so that they talked as freely together, as if he
belonged to their mountain brood. He was of
a proud, yet gentle spirit——haughty and reserv-
ed among the rich and great; but ever ready to
stoop his head to the lowly cottage door, and be
like a brother or a son at the poor man’s fireside.
In the household of the Notch, he found warmth
and simplicity of feeling, the pervading intelli-
gence of New—England, and a poetry of native
growth, which they. had gathered, when they
little thought of it, from the niountaiu-peaks
and chasms, and at the very threshold of their
romantic and dangerous abode. He had travel-
led far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had
been a solitary path ; with the lofty caution of
his nature, he had kept himselfapart from those
who niiglitotherwise have been his companions.
illhle iamily, too, though go kipd and hospitlablc,
iat t iat consciousness o unity among t icin-
sclvcs, and separation from the world at large,
which, in every domestic circle, should still keep
a holy place, where no spaiigcr may jutrude.-1-
But this evening, a rop ietic sympat iy impc —
led the refined Iaud Ifzducated youth to pour out
his heart before the simple inouutainecrs, and
constrained them to answer him with the sauic
frcc confidence. And thus it should have been.
ls not the hindrcd ofa coiniiiou fate a closer tie
than that of blood ?
The secret. of the young man’s character, was
a high and abstracted ambition. Ile could have
been born to live an undistiuguishcd life, butiiot
be forgotten in the grave. Yearning desire had
been ti'aiisforuicd t.o hope; and hope, long cher-
ished, had become like certainty, that obscurely
as hejourccycd now, a glory was to beam on
all his pa..h way-—-though not, perhaps. while
he was treading it. But when prosperity should
gaze back into the gloom of what was now the
present, they would trace the brightness of his
footsteps’ brightening as mcauer glories faded,
1
children had been put to bed in ‘any. .. .
but a door opened between, so that they could bé‘
heard talking busily among themselves. One
and all seemed to have caught the infection
from the fireside circle, and were outvying each
other, in wild wishes, and childish projects of
what they would do, when they came to bemen
and women. At length a little boy, instead of
addressing his brothers and sisters, called out to
his mother.
‘I’ll tell you what I wish mother,’ cried lie,
‘I want you and father and grandma’m, and all
of us, and the stranger too, to start right away,
and go and take adrink out of the basin of the
Flume!’
Nobody could help laughing at the cliild’s no-
tion of leaving a warm bed, and dragging them
from a cheerful fire, to visit the basin of the
F luine--a brook, which tumbles over the pre-
cipice, deep within the Notch. The boy had
hardly spoken, when a wagon rattled along the
road and stopped a moment before the door. It
appeared to contain two or three men, who
were cheering their hearts with the rough cho-
rus of a song, which resouuded, in broken notes,
between the cliffs, while the singers hesitated
whether to continue their journey, or put up here
for the night.
‘Father,” said the girl,
by name.’
But the good man doubted whether they had
really called him, and was unwilling to show
himself too solicitous of gain, by inviting people
to patronize his house. He,,therefore, did not
hurry to the door, and the lash being soon ap-
plied the travellers plunged into the Notch, still
singing and laughing, though their music and
mirth came back drearily from the heart of the
mountain.
‘There, mother !’cried the boy, again. ‘Thcy’d
have given us a rideto the Flume.’
Again they laughed at the child’s pertiua-
cious fancy for a night ramble. But it happen-
ed, that a light cloud passed over the daughter's
spirit; she looked gravely into the fire, and drew
a breath that was almost a sigh. It forced its
way, in spite of a little struggle to repress it.——
Then starting and blusliiug, she looked quickly
round the circle, as if they had caught a glimpse
into her bosom. The stranger asked what she
had been thinking of.
“Nothing,’ answered she, with a downcast
smile, ‘onlyI felt loncsomejust then.’
‘Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what
is in other peole’s hearts, said he, halfscriously.
‘Shall I tell the secrets of yours? For I know
what to think, when a young girl shivers by a
warm hearth, and complains oflonesomeness at
her mother’s side. Shalllput thesofcelings into
words?’
‘They would not be a girl’s feelings any lou-
ger, if they could be putinto words,’ replied the
mountain—nympl_i, laughing, but avoiding lus
eye.
All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of
love was springing in their hearts, so pure
that it rriiglit blossom in Paradise, since it could
not be matured on cart.li; for women worship
such gentle dignity as his; and the proud, con-
coiiteinplative, yet kindly soul is oftcnest cap-
tivzited by simplicity like hers. lot, while they
spoke softly, and lie was watching the happy
sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearn-
ing ofa maideu’s nature, the wind, through the
Notch, took a deeper and drearier sound. It
seemed, as the fanciful stranger said, like the
choral strain of the spirits of the blast, who, in
old Judeau times, had their dwelling among
these mountains, and made their heights and
recesses a sacred region. There was it wail
along the road, as ifa funeral were passing.-
'I‘o chase away the gloom, the family threw pine
branches on their fire, till the dry leaves crack-
led and the flame arose, discovering once again
a scene of peace and humble happiness. The
light hovered about them fondly, and caressed
.1 UR.‘ .\
‘they are calling you
.,...oi{eu°d,.‘i' ,.\ioii/d',’aiid auiiiliilated every thing
in its dreadful course. Long ere'the thunder of
that great Slide had ceased to roar among the
mountains, the mortal agony had been endured,
and the victims were at peace. Their bodies
were never found.
The next morning, the light smoke was seen
stealing from the cottage chimney, up the inoun-
tain side. Within, the fire was yet smoulder-
iug on the hearth, and the chairs in a circle
round it, as iftlie inhabitants had but gone forth
to view the devastation of the Slide, and would
shortly return, to thank Heaven for their mirac-
ulous escape. All had left separate tokens, by
which those who had known the family, were
made to shed a tear for each. Who has not
heard their name? The story has been told far
and wide, and will forever be a legend of these
mountains. Poets have sung their fate.
There were circumstances, which led some to
suppose that a stranger had been received into
the cottage this awful night, and had shared the
catastrophe of all its inmat.cs. Others denied
that there were sufficient grounds for such acou-
jecture. Wo, for the liigh-souled youth, with
his dream of earthly immortality! His name
and person utterly unknown; his history, his
way oflifc, his plans, a mystery never to be solv-
ed ; his death and his existence, equally a doubt!
VVliose was the agony_ of that death mom eut?
IVIISCELLANY.
MEDICAL APPLICATION OF MINERAL l\IAGl\'ETISM.
A new remedial agent in the form of Mineral
Magnetism, is new exciting a great degree of
attention amongst the medical profession; the
mode of administration consisting merely in the
passing ofa powerful magnet over the affected
parts, in those local or coiistitutioual diseases in
which it is efiiccaious. From the results of its
successful applications, which have been made
known through the medium of “The Lancet,”
it must unquestionably soon attain a lugli rank
amongst the medical auxiliaries. It has been
very successfully and extensively applied by
Dr. E. .I. Blundell, a physician who held a
high official sitiiatiou in the Belgian forces, and
who also enjoys considerable reputation as an
eminent and scientific practitioner at home, and
the results of whose practice are sufficient to es-
tablish its efiicacy asa powerful and specific
agent in all diseases connected with the nervous
system. In a recent number of “The Lancet,”
the editor announces a case treated by Dr. Blun-
dell, at St. Tlioiiias’s Hospital, one of tie dolor-
eux, in the m_iddle fingers ofthe left hand, in
which the whole phalanx of medical remedies,
morphine, stryclmine, prussic acid, the lobeha
inllata, and carbonate ofiroii to the amount of
sz':rlccn ozmccs (L day, had been c_n'ipl_oyed_, but
without the sliglitest influence in diiiiinisliiiig
the iiiteuse sull'cring of the patieut., who, with
the expectation or relief. had three times applied
for the amputation of the allcctcd arm as consti-
tuting his sole hopes of providing effectual miti-
gation from the severity of his disorder, which
otherwise could only be subdued by dcath.—
Every application of the magnet was attended
with the most decided symptoms of relief, and
a perm-.iiicnt recovery were very apparent.
Scveral other cases of recovery, in confirmed
gout. anomalous rlicnn_1ati_c affections, neuralgia,
toothache, tic doloreux, hysteria, _&.c. have been
published in that Journal, sullicicnt to convince
the remedy in the alleviation and cure of iierv-
nus disorders. A recent number of this Journal
contains a description oftlirce cases: one was
an anomalous form of tie doloreux; a second
was a rlieumatic affection ofthe hand and arm.
the severity of w
_ed by the previops l‘Bl‘l'lC
dies employed; and :4
iii the cotirse ofa few applications the signs of
the most sceptical of the undoubted efficacy of
hicb had been much aggravat-
. “There, \Villiam, dear, I knew you would
thinkjust as I did—Oli! how happy we shall be
there to-iiight and you must promise not to leave
me a moment, for I shall be so sad if you do.”
“Leave the dearest, leave thee,
No by yonder star I swear.”
“Oh, \Villiam, dear William, how beautiful
that is, you are always learning poetry to make
me happy.”
“And I-Iarriet, my own prized Harriet, would
I not do any thing in this world to give you one
moineut’s happiness. Oh, you are so very, ve-
ry dcar to me, it seems at times almost too much
liappiuess to last.”
“Oh, do not say so, dear \Villiam, it will last
—and we shall see many years happier even
than this, for will not our love be stronger and
deeper every year; and now dearest, I will be
back in one moment, and tlieu we will go.”
“There she has gone, bright and beautiful
creaturethat sheis——Oh ! how miserable I should
be without lier—slie has indeed cast a strong
spell around my heart, and one that never can
be broken ; she is the only star of my existence,
guiding me on to virtue and happiness, and can
I ever love her less than now? can I ever do-
sert her, can I ever speak of her other than in
praise ?—Oli, no, it is impossible—slie is too
good, too pure—happy man, that I am.”
“Finis coronat opus.”
THE SECOND Li-:Ai~‘—si.i: years after -marriage.
“My dear, I will thank you to pass the sugar,
you did not give me but one lump.
“\Vell Mr. Snoolis, I declare you use sugar
enough in your tea, to sweeten a hogshead of vin-
egar. Jaines keep your fingers out ofthe sweet-
irieats; Susan keeps still bawliiig, I declare its
enough to set one distractcd—-there take that you
little wretch.”
“\Vliy, Harriet, what has the
declare you are too hasty.”
“I wish Mr. Snoolts, you would mind your
own business, you are always iiicddliug with
what does not concern you.”
“\Vell Mrs. Snooks I want to know who has
a better right ifI have uot—you are always fret-
ting aiid fuming about nothing.”
“Pat, Thomas is tearing your newspaper all
up‘)!
“Thomas come here, how dare you to abuse
my paper? I will teach you to tear it agaiii—
there, sir, how does that feel-—uow go to bed.”
“Mr. Suooks, you horrid w1jetch—how can
you strike a child ofmine in that \_vay—coine
here Thomas, poor fcllow—did he get hurt-
uever mind—liere’s a lump of sugar; there,
that’s a good boy.” _
“Mrs. Snooks let me tell you, you will spoil
all the children, you know I never interfere
when you see fit to punish a cliild—-its strange
that a woman can_ u_e.ver do any thing right.”
“Never do any thing right.-,--faith Mr. Snooks.
if nobody did any thing right in this house but
ourself, I wonder what would become of us.”
“Let me tell you, Madam, this is impr_oper
language for yeti inadam—and I’ll hear it no
longer. You are as snappisli and surly as a—-.-
a—-she dog——and it there if a divorce to be had
in the land I’ll have it——»you would wear out the
pat.icnce ofa Job.”
“Oh! dear, how iuad the poor man is—well,
good night my dear——- ileasnnt dreams.”
"There she goes. ’ hauls: I-Ileaveu, I am alone
once more. Oh ! unhappy man that I am,to be
chained down to such a creature-—.-she is the es-
sence of all ugliness. cross and peevish! Oh!
that I could once more be a bachelor; curse the
day and hour I ever saw the likeness of.lier.—
Yes, I will get a divorce; I can't live with her
any longer, it is utterly itnpossible 1".
‘child done, 1
LOAl:‘~ERS.‘ This is a new word. and, as yet
being but a cult, or a cbrysalis, is regarded as a
slang cpitbet.~It is, however, a good word, one
n . . . . , face at first wore the iiielaucl - . - ' “ .""% in her e cs. "'l'e sa ' it is a , , , , , .
llie grass-grow ii pavciiiciit tread. almost deg mud ’ F iolly expression, wife, with lC...i.... _ _ , .t_11Ym3 mdcr_ slde 0, we Momma”), m a cataract up mm__ such ,hmgs_n I ‘ . wmoh mmfinmed in his death and y} .1“ “
_hcre heard we, halting in the shade 1 H l 5110), 0 One who travels a wild sign of something, when iolks 'I,11ll1t5¢ V. -Just bet-We it reached the house, the stream “Harriet, dearest, you look beautiful in any Qm,oS;,i0u ;,, ,1‘, C0 , ’ .‘.‘ ‘L’ ;. ‘out
. . _ ' . - _ I . ' . . . J , _ 7 v- .,
Flung {mm ‘‘ c°“"e“l‘[°“'°"v Em} } 5 (ma mm ’ hat ilngm fa“: dllonch hm’ "Ma "W 'Q1r“]',eyH1“jr!‘ to the (’h1i,drel,1 ' r[_1t_ broke into two branclies—shivci'ed not a window thing. now take Your OW" CI10109 10411‘-flltrbul 1 the §l7- . V-" "" ' 1.: as “fa.-i‘ty of the ap-
irigi enc - ‘.ie ' llt. warm i mu» ""r*r\"' _ _ , , _- - - ~' . . , - . ’ - ’. '*v' ' . “" - ‘
._ UP» W 0" 16 Saw '* ‘I Y " "W ‘’ -“F. LJ_[~:?_q1>’3_\]DIl,ilf .1 the whole vicinity, mm!‘ Y0‘! 10"!‘ Very “ 3!! 1" W9 “M”? 511"“-” pouitment, which lie was, alas, doomed so soon
to vacate, not by a vote ofthe Deputies, but by
the fiat of late, the inexorable hand of death.—
His Royal Hl8!“”°°s tried on the splendid gar-
ments—thcy fitted his elegauny nmuhled limhs
delightfully. In the pride of youth, and with
the buoyancy ofspirits belonging to his age and
exaucd 5tation.—.ll(~‘. said he should wear this
dazzling uniform for the first time on Sunday,
the day fixed for the review of the National
Guards, and his debut. as Commander-in-Chief,
and begirt his loins with the sword of the Lib-
erator, left him by Don Pedro’slegacy-.—a sword
connected with as brillinnt recollections perhaps
as that of Alfonse Heuriques, the conqueror of
Ismao, and five Moorish Kings, at Campo d’Ori-
que (25th July, A. D. 1139.) Prince Augus-
tus ineaut to wear his new Commander-in.
Chiefs uniform, Marslial’s staff, and the Libe-
rator’s sword on Sunday. But, alas, “man pro-
poses, and God disposes.” He intended to wear
these trophies, and did wear them, but in a way
far different from that he intended, for they were
placed upon his body while lying in state, af-
ter liaviug undergone dissection. The scene of
grandeur had closed. Lord Byron said, “Prin-
ces live like gods, but the like men.”
. Short was the Prince’s li_fe—-short his career
as Royal consort, expectant King and quasi
Sovereigu—shorter his Peerage, and shorter still
his sliarply-contested functions as Commander-
iu-Chief, or, as his epitaph describes him,-—-
“L7lS'ff(I7l.'I .E.‘l‘c7‘CZ./.'tl.S' S-uipreimzs III7]9€7'€l107'»"
which he assuinmcd on a bed of sickness, and
exercised (if exercising it can be called) in h is
chamber for one short week. The Empress
performed the last duties to her beloved dying
brother. She closed his eyes with her own
hands, and said, “This is my duty.” She had
never left his bed-side during the whole of his
illness. The grief of the too youthful, Royal,
and Imperial widow—-liis bride, wife, and sis-
ter, was incxpressiblc-—indescribable. Yet Por-
tuguese etiquette compelled them, as the near--.
est relations on the departure ofthe funeral pro-
ccssioii, to takeleave of the corpse on the thresh-
old of the palace; a painful ceremony they had
but six months before perft.-rined at Queluz to
the remains of Don Pedro.
The decree nominating Prince Augiistus.
Comniandor-in-Chief, was dated Friday,‘ the
20th l\Iarch, but not publised in the Duzrio do
Governo tili Monday, the 23d. On_the inter-
vening Sunday, the Queen and PHHCC IIFOVB
in an" open carriage to the races at Compo
Grande; but his appointment not being known
then, and he having never shown himself to
the army as Commander-in-Chief} he was nev-
ersaluted as such in public. He was takeirill
that evening, and iicvcr left his apartment allV'0
afterwards.
How TO BE Ricu.——Notliing is more easy
than to grow rich. It is only to trust nobody.-.
to befridnd none—to get every thing, and save.
all we get—-to stint ourselves and every body he-
longing to us——to be the friend of no man. and
have no man for your friend——to heap interest
upon interest, cent upon c-ciit—to be mean, mis-
erable and despised, for some twenty or thirty
years-—and riches will come as sure as disease
and (lisappoiiitmeut. And wlicu pretty nearly
enou_g‘h wealth is collected, by a disregard of all
the charities of the human heart, and at the ex-
pcnse of every enjoyment save that of wallow-_
iug in filthy uieauu_ess—ileath comes to finish
the work ; the body is buried in a hole, the heirs
dance over it, and the spirit goes—\Vhere?
._F7‘077_l. th_e New-IIm;cn Herald.
FAmu1«:It Ann iris sou.
Son.---Father, what under heaven did the
Legislature make so many Justices this year
for? ' '
Farmer.---‘When the potatoes are small, we
much ticeded in the language. and will, in time.
.' ,...
always put titers in tl3.§hi1!23'°!! lit!-°W=
. I ‘I ‘F
i
\
Norwalk Chronicler