The Sun. — London, England, 1865-09-18 00:00:00

wolem• 40.440r-1 'RICA.. (Prom a Correspondent of the Times.) NEW YORK, Sept. 6. During the recent war the North could obtain very little information with regard to the actual con dition of affairs in the South, beyond that which came back to this country from England. No Northern man was allowed to go within the South ern lines, and consequently it was impossible to ob tain material for correctly estimating the effects which the long-protracted contest produced in the South until very lately, when the country was thrown open again to the world. Every one who has passed through the States lately in secession testifies that the wreck is complete, and but for the enterprise from new channels which will flow into the South it would probably be irretrievable. There is no latent vitality in the Southern States themselves which could lead to their recovery. All the wealth that was made there formerly was invested in slaves, and the whole of this property was summarily destroyed by a stroke of Mr. Lincoln's pen. There are thus no resources in reserve to fall back upon in this time of trial and adversity. The entire system of labour has been revolutionised, and thus the very fruits of the earth cannot be secured unless help from without is furnished. The prostration of the South is much greater than many in England can suppose. A few facts will serve to show how utterly the South had exhausted its strength before Lee was aura rounded by the Union armies and reluctantly sur rendered. In the early part of 1861 gold was at 5 premium in Georgia, and by the end of the year it had advanced to 30. The first three months of 1862 found it fluctuating between 20 and 60, and before the end of June the dollar in gold was worth $2. In November the gold dollar was worth $3 ; seven months afterwards (in July, 1863) it was worth $lO ; in December of the same year the premium had advanced to $2l. Down to December of the following year (1864) the price varied between $2l and $35, and from that time it advanced by giant strides. In April of this year, when the troubles of the South were fast over whelming it, the dollar in gold could not be bought for less than $BO in paper; on the 20th of April the price was $100; on the 26th, $200; on the 27th, $300; on the 28th, $5OO ; on the 29th, $BOO ; and on April 30 it was $l,OOO. At last, on May 1, the gold dollar was quoted in the Southern brokers' list at $1,200 premium, and it was on this day that the last sale of Confederate notes was made. To single out an individual State in further illus tration of the condition of the late Confederacy. When the war began, Charleston, South Carolina, had $15,000,000 invested in bank stock. Of that sum every vestige has been lost. It had $5,000,000 of bills in circulation, of which the market value is now said by a local paper to be 20 per cent. It had $20,000,000 in railways, and as the railways are de stroyed the money is gone. There were three insu rance companies, all of which were obliged to aban don business. "Of 5,000 houses in Charleston," states a journal of that city, "1,500 have been burnt, and others almost irreparably damaged. Of estates of secedents and minors, and of property in litiga tion, four-fifths are represented by Confederate securities, and are therefore valueless. The estates in the district have been seized for taxes, or long since abandoned. The cotton estates in the interior are now as bare as a wilderness. The money which the inhabitants possessed was invested in Confede rate securities, which are now so much waste paper. The farming stock has all been carried off or de stroyed, the funds of churches, schools, and similar institutions have been swallowed up in the general gulf, and property invested in slaves, representing $200,000,000, has also disappeared. " And thus," says the Charleston paper, " Of the $400,000,000 worth of property in the State in 1860 but little more than $50,000,000 now remains. The State, indeed, resembles a vast wreck. Something valuable may possibly be saved by time and labour; but at present it is a mere mass of broken spars and shattered timbers. When the debris is cleared off, and the killed and wounded disposed of, something may be done. At present, even the extent of the destruction is hardly realised." With scenes such as these before them it is no wonder that the people of the South are heartsick at the very thought of war. However strange it may seem to the English nature that men who have been so terribly beaten should be on good terms with their victors so soon, it is a fact that there is not one Southern man out of a hundred who is not now as strongly a Union in to as Mr. Seward himself. Recent converts are always eager, and possibly the enthusiasm of the Southern people for the " old flag," and the rest of it, is occasionally a little sus picious. But at heart they are for peace, and not for peace only, but for unity in the Legislature, and for obliterating all the bitter feelings of the past. " If our advocates here and elsewhere, a prominent leader of the late Confederacy said to me recently, would but let us alone, since they cannot do us good in any other way, they would entitle them selves to our gratitude. We want Northern men and Northern money to help us. We can get neither while the papers which are supposed to represent our views affirm that we are preparing for another attempt to break up the Union." And, again, another said, " Why should we want to fight now ? Slavery is gone ; it was the one great source of dis agreement between us. All the fighting in the world could not bring it back again." At the Mississippi Convention, held a few days ago, the Hon. W. T. Martin, a major-general in the Confederate army, said he went into the contest from a feeling of loyalty to his State, but he had never wished to see the Union broken up. The persons who had been loudest in their outcries against the Union had been the first to run away when a draught was made— " they were the very people who had brought on the war, and their deluded victims were the igno rant people." This gentleman added— "ln God's name, let the South never again rebel upon such a miserable, miserable delusion as the right of seces sion. He hoped most devoutly that there would never again be any attempt to separate from the National Govern ment. He was tired and sick of war—tired of fighting the battles of others, who enticed him and others) with lying speeches, and when the day of their calamity came, deserted them to their fate." Such is the spirit in which the South itself is ac celerating the work of reorganisation. No doubt there are many vast difficulties yet to be surpassed before that work can be deemed to have materially advanced ; important issues have still to be decided, intricate political problems to be unravelled. But it is a great thing to have the people apply themselves with heartiness and sincerity to the restoration of their country in their own way. I have no doubt that it will be said, "The Southern people are not in a - yielding spirit—they have not abandoned the fight, but only postponed it." But those who will so allege are among the judicious persons wha bragged and ran away, who beheld the strug g l e a t a sa f e dis tance, who are not now on the scene of the late strife to know the truth, and who shut their eyes and ears to all that is being said and done by the mass of the people. There are some men in New York who say the South will have another struggle for victory." They were the identical men who said orginally, 46 The North will never fight ; the Yankees are all cowards; England will be obliged to recognise the Confederacy in order to get cotton; the Northern States must be bankruptsoon ; the South must: Among other fragments of the history of the con test on the part of the South which are now floating up on the dark stream of its hitoryt are some which relate to the eminent commanders : of , its armies. The Northern generals, and possibly a large propor tion of the people, reverence Jackson as much as even the South can do. It would, indeed, be strange if he were ever spoken harshly of, since he was a man of whom all Americans have reason to be proud. In conversation with many officers who were his contemporaries at West Point—the great military school of America, as the reader need scarcely be reminded—and from some occasional narratives in local papers, I have gathered a few facts about this hero of the Confederacy, in losing whom the South bast half its strength at one fatal stroke, and found the other half too little to enable it to bear up against its antagonists. The candidates for admission to the West Point Academy are required to pass a preliminary exami nation of an exceedingly elementary Jackson failed to pass this, and under ordinary circumstances would have found the doors shut against him. But the examiners saw that he was a I MM;ftiminse lad of good parts., and they bore in mind the fact that he had trudged hundreds of miles on foot in order to obtain the education he coveted. Some exertions were therefore used in his favour, and he was sent to a little school close by, where he pre pared for the examination, and upon his second attempt successfully passed it. Here, too, at the same time, were Lee, and Grant, and Hooker, and Baird, and Sheridan, and Longstreet, and other afterwards when an officer asked him if the wound was painful, he said, " No, my friend, don't trouble yourself about me." At last they reached a hos pital at Wilderness Run, five miles from the place where he was wounded. The doctors asked him whether they should amputate his arm if they found it necessary, and he replied, " Yes, certainly, do for me whatever you think right." General Lee meanwhile heard the news with deep grief, and sent a message to his comrade, saying, " I cannot express my regret at the occurrence. Could I have directed events I should have chosen for the good of the country to have been disabled in your stead. I congratulate you upon the victory, which is due to your skill and energy." That was the last com munication which ever passed between these two great soldiers. Soon after Jackson heard the letter read pneumonia attacked him, and he gradually sunk. He said once, referring to his wounds, "I consider these a blessing ; they were given for some good and wise purpose, and I would not part with them if I could." He had borne all his sufferings with marvellous serenity and patience. Presently his wife, who had been brought to his side, an nounced to him that his end was approaching. He listened calmly, and tried to soothe her distress by answering, " Very good ; very good ; it is all right." Then he became delirious, and those who stood over him say that he used these words, as if giving orders for an attack Order A. P. Hill to prepare for action ! Pass the infantry to the front ! Tell Major Hawks to send forward pro visions for the men." Then his manner changed, " a smile diffused itself over his pale features, and he murmured, ' Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees.' After this he spoke no more. So passed away one of the noblest spirits which had animated a desperate cause. He was buried in a little churchyard, with rows of his men near him, and a board over the head of his grave to tell who lies beneath." commanders who have made themselves distinguished by their services on one side or the other during the late war. After Jackson left West Point he took part in the Mexican war, but his old companions lost sight of him, and it was not until his name became a house hold word in the South that they recalled the moody and retiring youth who spent so much of his time in solitude and prayer. The men under his com mand did not understand his stern ways at first, but they soon learnt that wherever their captain led them it was to certain victory, and although his dis cipline was severe and inexorable, he came to be regarded by his soldiers with the strongest affection. Chary of speech at all times he never made addresses to his men ; and, indeed, at the councils of war his opinion was always given in a few words. After the battle of Fredericksburg, when Lee summoned the generals around him to decide what was to be done, after much discussion, Jackson was appealed to for an opinion, "Drive 'em into the river ; drive 'em into the river," said he curtly, waking up from a doze. The strength of the Federals was gradually exerted on a larger scale, and Jackson's hands were always full of work. At last, in May, 1862, the Confede rate commanders formed an army of over 150,000 established under General Hooker at Chancellors vine, and Lee hastened down from Fredericksburg to stop its further progress. An attempt was made under Jackson to carry a part of Hooker's intrench meats, but the position being too strong it was pro posed by Jackson that he should pass rapidly round the Federal front, where he would be partially con cealed by the woods, and attack Hooker on the right flank. This movement was carried out, but not un perceived by the enemy. They saw him pass in front, and fired upon his force, but left it to continue its road under the impression, as it was said at the time, and even reported now, that they were retreat ing towards Richmond. That this story should still gain credence only shows how soon facts are for gotten here. I have the evidence taken before the committee appointed to inquire into the conduct of the war before me, in which it is conclusively proved that General Hooker foresaw the attack upon his flank, and issued explicit orders to Major-Generals Slocum and Howard to strengthen their reserves in order to resist a flank attack. General Hooker had inspected the lines in the morning, and wrote an urgent note to the officers named, bidding them to make better defences for the threatened position. These orders were entirely neglected, and mean while Jackson was pushing forward. As soon as he had succeeded in getting his men into the desired position he ordered the attack, and it was so unex pected and determined that it caused something like a panic among the Federal forces in that direction. Jackson designed, as his staff officers say, " to put his entire force into action, extend his left, and place that wing between Gen. Hooker and the Rappaha nock. Then, unless the Federal commander could cut his way through,_ his army would be captured or destroyed." Jackson himself said, a few hours later, when his remaining moments were few, " we should have surrounded their army, and they would have been obliged to surrender, or cut their way out ; they had no other alternative. My troops may sometimes fail in driving an enemy, from a posi tion, but the enemy always fails to drive my men from a position." The accident which cost the life of this invaluable officer happened before he could see his purposes accomplished. It appears from the statement of a " Virginian," who has gathered all the facts from Jackson's offi cers, that Jackson had ridden out to reconnoitre, the night being a dark one except when the moon occasionally broke through black drifts of clouds. He had left orders behind with his men that they should be very 'vigilant, and fire on any one they saw approach, and particularly upon cavalry, should any appear, " for," said he, " as we have no cavalry about here, any that comes must be the enemy's." He rode off with a few members of his staff, his force being then so near the enemy that Federal skirmishers strolled in and were taken prisoners, amazed to find that they were actually within the Confederate lines. Jackson was about a mile away, listening intently for any sound from the enemy, when suddenly a volley was fired upon the party from his own force behind him. " The origin of this fire," says the Virginian who has painstakingly inquired into all the circum stances, "has never been discovered; and after Jack son's death there was little disposition to investigate an occurrence which occasioned bitter distress to all who by any possibility could have taken part in it." It is believed, however, that the Confederates saw the horses and men dimly, and believing them to be the enemy's cavalry fired upon them. It was fatal to several members of the staff, and Jackson him self galloped off into the woods close by to escape from it. Unhappily, a brigade of his own men, drawn up within 30 yards of him, saw him do so, and, believing that he was a part of an advancing force of Federals, fired with such fatal precision that he was struck in three places, twice in the left arm and once in the right hand. "At the moment when he was struck," says the authority I have mentioned, " he was holding his rein in his left hand, and his right was raised either in the singular gesture habi tual to him at times of excitement, or to protect his face from the boughs of the trees." It may be, how ever, that this gesture was intended as a signal to the brigade to cease firing; but his arm dropped directly he was shot, and his horse carried him on among the trees, until a branch caught him violently in the face and threw him back. Still he was not un seated, and catching the bridle with the broken and bleeding fingers of his right hand, he recovered the turnpike road, and succeeded in rejoining the surviv ing members of his staff. He sat on his horse a few moments, looking up the road towards his lines with apparent astonishment, and continued for some time to look in that direction, as if " unable to realise that he could have been fired upon and wounded by his own men." Captain Wilbourne, one of his staff, said to him, " They certainly must be our troops." He nodded his assent, and in a few minutes, finding himself exhausted by loss of blood, said, " You had better take me down." He was lifted off his horse and laid under a tree, begging that the news of his being wounded should be kept a secret from his men. Before there had been time to bring the doctor up the Federals pushed on their lines so rapidly that the staff became anxious for the safety of their general, who was close to the enemy, and proposed among each other to carry him to the rear. Jackson said, "No ; if you can help me up I can walk." He " slowly dragged himself along towards the Confe derate lines, the blood from his wounded arm flow ing profusely over Capt. Leigh's uniform," on whom he was leaning. At last they reached a litter, and Jackson was lifted into it. The Federals opened a heavy fire at this moment upon the road on which they were moving, and the officers who were with Jackson ordered the litter to be laid down, and threw themselves on the ground to escape the deadly storm : which st ruc k m illi ons o f spar k s f rom t h e fl i nty ones of the roadside." Once Jackson tried to raise himself up, as if to look . round him, but Lieut. Smithana Prevented him. On that awful r o a d Jackso n wo ofT e t c beyonde r s were men his ' bore i who thehe litter t t a e l r o alone having that nn moment, th e off into the wood s to g cannonade. Presentl y the fire relaxed reach of the ' son was moved on till lie came t o the' S a p n o d t j where k - one of his generals, Fender, was stationed. Fender ex pressed his sorrow at seeing him wounded, and said he thought he should fall back, in consequence of his lines being much broken. But Jackson's officers repeat now that his eye flashed with its old fire, exhausted as he was, and he cried out, " You must hold your ground, General Fender ! You must hold your ground, sir !" It was the last order Jackson was destined to give. The party moved on, and before long one of the men who carried the litter slipped and let it fall. It struck upon the hero's " shoulder where the bone had been shattered, and his agony must have been extreme." He groaned for the first time, but soon FEE SUN, LONDON, MONDAY EVENING, SEPTEMBER 18, 1865. out of their depth, and their crested shadows relieve with their dark fringes the vivid green of the sloping pastures beneath. Wood is as hair to a landscape. Looked at singly a hair is a wondrous texture, but by no means a pleasing object, but let it fall in clusters round the neck and shoulders, and it becomes one of the great elements to give loveliness or dig nity to the human face divine. than that the officer cannot afford to wear such expensive clothing, and renew it as often as might appear necessary. From having to parade every day in the tunic there is the certainty of its getting wet through several times in the course of a season, and consequently of its being ruined; therefore, as every officer is obliged to have two tunics, it is suggested that he might have one without lace or other ornament for the daily parades and drills, and all other occasions ex cept when the staff wear red, when the full dress might be worn. The blue patrol jacket (advocated by so many) would not be so useful as an undress tunic would be, for there is always the objection to the officers being in a different colour to the men on parades ; and this is not the case with those branches of the service already in possession of the patrol jacket, viz., the Artillery and Rifles. A. scarletpatrol racket, similar to the serge frock worn in India, might be useful. The buttony frock is so seldom worn, except by rifle instructors, that it might easily be dispensed with without a substitute. There are certain parts of a mounted officer's trousers which soon become shabby from friction, perspiration from the horse's flanks, and mud splashings, and as the staff and mounted corps have long since found the advantage of leather strapping as a protection, what reason can there be for the invidious exception ? A correspondent says :—" I cannot understand why the present shako is so abused, it is comfortable to wear and much lighter and better shaped than its predecessors. I only know of one fault it has, which is that the grease comes through and makes it shabby before the men are entitled to new ones. A bronze plate instead of the present shining brass one would be preferable, the latter being too con spicuous when skirmishing ; those who recommend a white shako should know that anything white can be seen distinctly by a sharpshooter when most other colours at the same distance would be almost invisible." But I must not forget that the theme of my tra velling notes is the traveller, not the land he travels through. Interlaken, we are told, is half German ; the 36 tribes that have been toiling from the days of Otho the Great to become a nation have made themselves at home here, and it is as much as one can hope if one can crowd in here in some of their pensions among them. The Junfraublick, for instance, is almost entirely taken up by Ham burg, Dusseldorf, and Baden. The Germans have managed to get up a Kursaal here, where they have music and beer and pipes. This Kur saal is a huge chalet lurking back in the rear of the row of hotels, close to the river, and almost crushed by the perpendicular mountain behind. There is a room for drinking goat's whey on the premises, and there are molkenkur, traubenkur, and all other sorts of kurs in several establishments about the place. For your German has faith in cures, all and each, and his learned doctor sets no limits to his inventive powers, and ride& out on a new hobby yearly. I hear even of a hunger-kur being now the rage—a starvation system which, carried on with stubborn German consistency, will undoubtedly rid a man of all earthly complaints. Notwithstanding this ascendancy of Germany and Germanism, Interlaken cannot, at the present moment, harbour less than 700 or 800 English guests within its dwellings. Their number would soon exceed the thousands if this long spell of per petual sunshine were to break, and the many cara vans which are now rambling along the passes of the Wengern Alp, of the Great Scheideck, of the Ro senlaui and the adjoining valleys, were to be driven in by stress of weather, as their wont is, and seek the well-known comfort of this overland centre. " THE READER" ON LONDON MUSIC HALLS.— All classes and both sexes, with the exception of the higher grade of women, use them ; and they are as variously classed as concerns frequenters as the theatres, which are greatly affected by situation. According to a late calculation, there are in London thirty-two music -halls, at which are employed, as singers, musicians, dancers, and helpers of all kinds, fifteen hundred people; and they can accommodate nearly forty-two thousand visitors, although they are not, on the average, above half full. It is said that, including the great provincial towns, there are upwards of a hundred and fifty music halls in Eng land. We, however, can only speak from personal knowledge of the metropolitan ones. They are of very recent growth, the first music-hall (proper or improper) being built in 1851 ; and the Canterbury Hall has, we believe, the honour (or the dishonour) of starting a new and mixed form of popular enter tainment. Evans's, indeed, was far earlier, but it never admitted female visitors, or employed female performers. That Apollo and the Muses should be introduced to beer and tobacco--and even to mut ton chops and kidney potatoes —seems an anomaly ; yet Ovid tells us in his classic lines that the andanar of the ancient "'theatres were not unmindful of the creature comforts ; and his hero is told to be very assiduous in providing these cates for his adorable mistress. It is not pleasant to associate the Alcestis or the Medea with fried sausages and assafeetida sauce, yet we fear that the researches of that great scholar, whom Le Sage mentions as finding out that little boys cried when they were whipped at Athens, • might discover that such indulgences took place in an Athenian audience, and during the performance pf the immortal Greek plays. However this may be, Music has ushered in Dancing, and the two seemed inclined to introduce Comedy or even Tragedy. However shocking this may be, it is probably a natural process, and we can only hope that ultimately the intellectual may completely triumph over the sensual. The question is Beer and some art, or Beer and no art. But it is no province . of ours at the present moment to settle this ques tion, which indeed is sure to settle itself, and will probably do so by saying " Less Beer and more art" We, however, intend only, in our brief view of popular entertainments, to report what we have seen, and what are the facts. The West-end music halls are the loosest as to morals and the genteelest as to company. The East-End and Suburb music halls are most frequented by the artizan class, who introduce their wives, and are frequented by the family. These latter really show a new phase of manners, as introducing women to participate in their evening enjoy ments. At Canterbury Hall, the Metropolitan in Edgware-road, at Wilton's, Wellclose-square, the genuine artisan and his family will be found, or the new and populous class of girl-workers, and their affianced and accepted lovers. At the Oxford, Weston's, and the London Pavilion, will be found the faster portion of the grade above the artisan and small trader, the young assistant and clerks of the wholesale dealers, with a sprinkling of the fastest portion of a still higher grads ; but all these are also intermixed with respectable men and women, who come solely to enjoy the entertainment. Of course, the vicious will resort to all available places to ply their vile trade ; and although there are no scenes such as we recollect in the two grand (and then only) theatres for the performance of the legitimate drama, when the staircases and lobbies were beset and thronged with the most openly abandoned wo men, yet there is a sufficient demonstration at some of the music halls that they are used as a resort by habitually misconducted women. Perhaps this is unavoidable, while there is no open violation of pub lic decoruth ; but it is to be regretted, as it is desir able to afford to the wives and families of the less rich grades of society a cheap and amusing resort uncontaminated by obvious vice. We are very much inclined to think if any proprietor were to open one of these places of entertainment, With a strict determination only to admit respectable wo men, it would answer his purpose as a pecuniary speculation. It is perfectly possible for any intel ligent person to keep his hall perfectly select, if he will only exercise his own discretion as to whom he admits. Indeed, the arrangementwould soon work itself, for disreputable women have no motive for wishing to get into purely respectable society, when not formed solely of wealthy men. As to the perform ances at these places of public entertainment, it is noticeable that the same kind of performance pleases all classes. The country or the town gentleman is as anxious to hear Vance or Mackney as the coal whipper at Wapping. "Slap bang !" is as charm ing at the West End as at the East. Plenty of money and fine clothes give no assurance of mental refinement ; and it may be doubted if the Faust music is not more eagerly listened to by the quiet artizan and his young wife than by the sport ing gentleman and the very fast-looking lady in the pink bonnet. The managers of the establish ' rnents have, on the whole, been active and intel ligent in catering for their audiences. They have provided good concert music ; and in some instances, as at the Oxford and the Canterbury, a full and efficient company of instrumentalists and singers, who have given some of the best modern music, not even excepting the high productions of Beethoven. At Evans's, at one time, they had a remarkable youthful choir, with some unrivalled voices, that sang the music of Purcell and other high masters. Mingled with this has been, and un doubtedly is, much buffoonery and some vulgarity. Comic singing has never been noted for its refine ment, and that of the present day is not so coarse as that of the past generation. The abominations of the Jim Crow melodists have been much amelio rated, and Vance is not so gross as Grimaldi. The comic songs of a nation are always a re-echo of its manners ; and every popular comic song has some sly hit at the ways and conduct of the beaux and belles of the lower grade, and certainly takes life as it at present exists and is known in their own circle. It expresses some foolish confidingness of Mary Jane, or some crafty deception on the part of a flash cracksman. It betrays the innate love of flirting in the sex, as in the case of the damsel who goes off with the organ-grinder, or is fascinated by one of a German band ; or it sings the praises of the dark young girl who works at the sewing machine. Absolute buffoonery seems sometimes to be in the ascendant, and the long popularity of " The Cure" and " The Nervous Man" prove on how infinitely small an idea many minds will feed. It has, how ever, the rare merit of not being imitative. Alto gether, perhaps, music-halls andtheir entertainments do not give all, or exactly what a philanthropic philosopher would desiderate for a free, intellectual, and progressing people. But the question to consi der is, are they on a par with other portions of our manners and proceedings. Look at our system of education ; our social arrangements as regards our general mode of living ; on the way the masses are housed; the state of the domestic arts, and of the fine arts as concern every-day life, they really seem to fit in harmoniously. The great populace can only be taught manners by associating in public ; and at least the music halls conduce to that. Nor are their morals any worse than other places of public resort; and compared with the old fairs they are refinement itself. Compare Evans's, Canter bury Hall, and the Oxford, or Weston's, the Metro politan, Highbury Barn, or the Lord Raglan, with Bow, Camberwell, or Bfirtlemy fairs, or even with the more genteel Brook Green, and certainly, as regards the conduct of the visitors or the entertain ment provided, there can be no comparison ; but to the advantage of the music halls. For the rest, the particular charm which makes Interlaken the resort of Alpine tourists is sufficiently obvious to all comers. It has all the character of an oasis in the mountain wilderness. Here you stand on perfect even ground—a strip of level ver dure between two lakes, shut in by huge rocky masses, on the beauty of which you may gaze to your heart's content as you saunter along the easiest of garden walks, under the shade of the loftiest walnut trees. It is the oasis in the desert, the secure haven from which to contemplate the turmoil of Alpine storms. On one side (the southern side, the side towards which all your front windows are turned), you have two great mountain masses coming down obliquely upon each other from east and west, and closing the view much as the screens and curtains of a drawing-room, or the decorations of a stage. Those two mountain sides are like the folding doors of a reliquary, or of a triptych, on an altarpiece in some old mediaeval minster. The wings fly open, and within you see the Jungfrau, that Venus de Medici of mountains, wooing the world in purest snow and ice. There is nothing like the one view at Interlaken in the whole Alpine region —no thing, perhaps, unless we cross over to the other side and see Mont Blanc descending in one slope like a wall upon Cormayeur, or Monte Rose coming, as it were bodily, within reach of man's hand amid the rich pastures of Gressoney. " THE ATHENIEUM" ON THE DOUBTS AS TO SHAK SPERE'S HAVING EVER EXISTED!—The life of Shak spere is still the puzzle, the disgrace, and the despair of critical art. Although it is beyond question the greatest of all literary subjects, nothing has been made of it better than an antiquary's jest. Genius, prudence, labour, hospitality, success—noble virtues, noble services _are stamped upon that story, like figures on a coin. But the story itself appears to lack the ordinary marks of actual truth. It is a history without details. The tale may be quite true, and the moral beauty of it may represent material facts, but we have no evidence to convince the eye and ear. That large life of the poet— " Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues"— clings to the actual world of dates by such slender threads that we can barely seize it as a part of the wide province of prosaic fact. Shakspere is the highest name in the highest of all arts ; higher than that of Homer, that of Dante ; and of the selectest and supremest band of poets, he is also the youngest born. Yet we have nearly everything still to learn about him. It is true he lived in a great city in the neighbourhood of a busy Court, in the midst of taverns and theatres, and among a nation of news mongers and letter-writers; but when we come to these idlers and gossips, who loved to tell each other of " some new thing," and bid them speak what they know of this player, their faces are all but blank. They have nothing to say. Player ? One William Shakspere ? Yes ; no more, no less ; the author of " Hamlet," " Othello," and "Measure for Measure." Certainly, he was a man who wrote plays ; those and some others ; also poems and sonnets. But beyond these general words the oracles are dumb. Dates, names, incidents, stories, conversations, everything entering into the realities of a man's life, must be sought elsewhere by those who want them ; sought, it may be feared, for ever, evermore in vain. Are we sure of a single fact in .what is called Shakspere's life ? Sir William Penn was said to be a suppressed cha racter in English history. Is William Shakspere another ? A modern critic of the destructive school would reject as fable the whole bases of the poet's life. If the subject came in their way, Strauss and Renan, perhaps Millman and Colenso, would feel no compunction in stigmatising Shakspere as " un historical." And critics of a safer school of thought would see that in doing so they would be acting in good faith according to their principles and the measure of their light. Clouds and mists surround the poet as a man so closely that of all the theories of his life, the least unintelligible theory would perhaps be one assuming that he never lived at all. Of course there would be difficulties in the way of a theory making Shakspere an illusion of the mind—• • a convenient invention—a masculine form of Betsy Prigg's invisible friend. Every theory has its weak points. It certainly might be urged in favour of Shakspere having lived and written books, that the books remain—a thin quarto of sonnets, other thin quartos of poems, " Lucrece" and " Venus and. Adonis," a thick folio of plays; that sundry por traits of the man exist in National Portrait Galleries and elsewhere ; that the house in which he was born is known. All these things are a part of the case, and must be taken into account by those who would argue against an actual Shakspere in the flesh. To a certain extent, they tell against the theory of non existence ; but then it is a question whether they tell for much. Look at them sternly, and see if they will not begin to melt away under your ardent gaze. Even those who stand to the idea that a poet who bore the name of Shakspere lived in the flesh— wrote plays and poems—trod on the stage—owned shares in a theatre—made a little fortune by his pen —and died in Stratford-on-Avon—as the common story, told in a thousand books, asserts, will admit that this old idea of the Poet's life is based on all sorts of assumptions, contradictions and absurdities. Which of the facts put forth in the books have ever been proved ? How do you know that Shakspere wrote plays? You produce the copies ; quarto, folio; " Hamlet," " Othello," and their bright compeers. Very good. But where is your evidence that Shak - spere wrote those plays? Where are the originals in Shakspere's hand ? You allow that none of them are to be found. Why are they not to be found ? Shakspere is not an ancient. Writings of his time abound in our public libraries. Spenser's manu scripts exist. Jonson's manuscripts exist. Bacon's manuscripts exist. Raleigh's manuscripts exist. Why of this great circle of contemporary authors should Shakspere (if he really lived and wrote), and Shaks pere only, have left no originals to prove his right ? You say the plays must have been burnt in the fire which destroyed the Globe Theatre. It is a common, an unhappy leap in the dark. How do you know that Shakspere's manuscripts were kept in the Globe Thea tre ? Is it likely? Between the early plays and the later there was, according to the usual story, an interval of about thirty years. Some were written in Lon don, some in Stratford. Some were produced at the Globe, some at Blackfriars, some at Court. Why should they all be kept in the Globe Theatre ? Blackfriars was the chief establishment, and there, if anywhere in theatrical custody, the manuscripts should have been kept. But more. If a fire at the Globe were allowed, for the sake of argument, to have furnished a possible explanation for the disap pearance of all the MS. Shakspere plays, such an agency could only account for the plays. Where are the sonnets ? Where is " Lucrece" ? Where is " Venus and Adonis"? Still more, where are the private letters, the personal accounts, the noted and inscribed books belonging to this great reader and writer ? Did they all perish in the Globe fire ? This query would be pressed by a Strauss with re lentless logic. A man's private letters are not easily destroyed. They are sent to many persons. They lie up in country houses, and are often preserved with religious care. Hundreds of Bacon's, Raleigh's, Cecil's letters—not a few of Donne's and Johnson's —are preserved. Yet not one scrap of ordinary writing, known to be Shakspere's, has ever yet turned up. What is the meaning of this strange circumstance ? You say there are portraits ; and you argue that a man who sits for his portrait must be a living man. The portraits answer for Shak spere ; but who will venture to say a word for the portraits ? We know nothing whatever about these pretended portraits. We do not know that Shak spere ever sat to a painter. We have no record of any artist ever painting him either with or without his consent. No contemporary ever mentioned a painting of him, good or bad. Moreover, the pretended portraits are each unlike the other, and all are unlike Droeshout's engraving and Johnson's bust. The Chandos picture is of a different man from the birthplace picture, and neither work has a pedigree worth a straw. What, then, a critic of the destructive school might urge, is the value of an argument drawn from the existence of a dozen spurious portraits ? No more than a Wardour-street ancestry for a grocer suddenly grown rich on sand. But, says the fond believer in tradition, there is the house in which he was born ; house in Henley-street, Stratford; once a butcher's shop, then a crumbling cottage, now a sacred shrine ; restored, enlarged ; made into a library, a museum, a picture gallery ; surrounded by a pretty garden in which Shakspere plants and flowers are taught to bloom. But alack! the house is only part of the general legend. Instead of the house answering for the fable, the fable is obliged to answer for the house. Shakspere may have been borne in Henley-street ; but we do not know that he was so. It is probable, and some believe it. But no court could receive, in a case where ss. depended on the evidence, such probabi lities as can be urged in behalf of the idea. In truth, without going the length which a destructive critic might feel himself free to go, we must admit that very little of the common kind is known of our greatest writer. We are uncertain of his name. We find it in the forms of Chacksper and Shaxpur, and with twenty other variations, including Saxpere and Shagspere. Critics cannot agree even now upon a common way of spelling Shakspere's name; Malone, Knight, and Collier having each his favourite delu sion on the subject. We only know beyond doubt that the poet spelt his name one way in his books and another way in his will. We are uncertain as to when he was born and where he was born. We infer that he was born on the 23dof April, 1564 in Hen ley-street ; but we only infer the first from the cir cumstance of his being christened on the 26th of April, and the second from the fact of his father being then the owner of a house in Henley-street. Books have been written to show that he was not born on April 23. As regards the house, our only particle of evidence tells against the received idea. Shakspere mentions it in his will • and he does not describe it as his birthplace. We are uncertain about his childhood and his youth,--when he went to school, what he learned, to what business he was put, why ke left Warwickshire, and when he came to London. That he wrote poems and plays is matter of safer knowledge ; though critics like Mr. Smith and Miss Bacon have not been slow in assert ing that the poems and plays which go under his name were really written by Bacon and Raleigh, with a philosophical and revolutionary purpose. Beyond the facts of his being in London for some years, and producing plays and poems, scarcely any thing is known with clearness. He wrote sonnets, which are the profoundest mystery in all literature. He retired from London to Stratford ; but we are ignorant why, and when this change in life took place. We see nothing of his married life, and we have only two or three lying stories about the com panions of his social hours. The origin of the com mon tale of Raleigh founding the Mermaid Club, of which Shakspere is said to have been a member, has not been traced. Is it older than Gifford ? No thing is known as to the cause of his death. His will makes no mention of books, papers, letters, manuscripts, or copyrights; a fact of the utmost sin gularity on the part of such a writer in such an age. All these mysteries make us look upon the life of Shakspere as the disgrace of our critical art. THE " EXAMINER" ON FRANCE'S TRIBUTE TO JENNER.—France has erected a monument at Bou logne to record its gratitude to an Englishman who saved more lives than all the conquerors celebrated in history have destroyed. Jenner went to his grave with no title but the title to world-wide honour, which has just been so generously accorded by the ALPINE TOURISTS. (From the Times' Correspondent.) INTERLAICEN, Sept. 13. I have not been an idle man for this many a year, and although I had occasion to cross the mountains once or twice every season, I only hurried through the great highways of Mont Cenis or the St. Got hard, and now find myself almost a stranger in Switzerland. The time was—l am almost afraid to bring it back to memory, it is so long, long ago— when I looked upon a year as lost unless a few weeks, at least, were spent on the Alps. There are not any of the beaten paths of summer tourists with which I am not thoroughly familiar, nor was I at a loss how to strike out a new route for myself where I lost sight of the holiday Alpenstocks, and where the babbling of Babel no longer mingled with the rush of mountain waters and the moan of the winds through the pine forest. The Alps, God bless them, are still the same, and the first champagne draught of their pure air sends the wonted thrill through our veins, attunes the nerves, strengthens, softens, makes us at peace with the world, in love with life, But the actors are changed, although the stage re mains the same. Where one holidaymaker ventured beyond Brussels and Bruges in former years, now ten summer idlers push forward to the Handeck and the Grimsel, and where a chellet was sufficient to harbour a few determined climbers, now half a score Noah's arks of hotels are almost inadequate to the wants of the manifold menagerie of pleasure seekers. I crossed from Lucerne this morning over Sar nen, Lungern, and the Brunig, and the string of carriages, carryalls, diligences, coaches and four, and conveyances of every description I met on the road might almost bear comparison with the throng one used to fall in with on the way to Richmond in the good old times when the world went on wheels. If you ever fell into the delusion that all Cornhill and Charing-cross was in Germany you will soon rectify the error by perceiving that all Piccadilly. and St. John's-wood are in Switzerland ; and, in deed, if you stay-at-home people fancy that there is any soul left in London or England, be assured that you are labouring under some hallucination, and that you may well doubt the reality of your neigh bour's presence and your own—they are all here, and you must be alone. Notwithstanding the confused vastness of these clouds—l will not merely say flocks--of birds of passage, it is not difficult to draw lines of distinc tion between traveller and traveller, and classify them into at least three different categories—the bona fide Alpine climbers, the mere holyday folk, and the thorough-paced migratory species. The work of the first named class is by this time well nigh done. Though the summer lingers on the Alps this year with more than wooing fondness, yet the days are drawing in, the night breezes are cool ing, and the uncertainty of the morrow makes your guide mistrustful of the sunset smile of the even ing. It is time to fold tents and shoulder knapsacks homewards. But now the time has come for the mere idlers, for the followers of others' footsteps, for the multitude ; and of these the Alps at this moment have almost as great a share as the Epsom Downs at mid-May. A worthy, amiable, well-be haved set of people does England send to these European trysting spots of Helvetia ! Lavish of money, and chary of their time, with plans laid out before them to achieve a three months' tour in three weeks, and yet refining and trenching even on that niggardly allowance, and breaking off mid way as news from home may announce a shortening of the tether. The third class of my fellow-idlers consists of people 'who can afford to take things easily, who can stretch out a holiday into a holy year—people who tarry about Germany to let the year cool, who linger about Switzerland till the year needs warm ing, who end the autumn in Italy, and take Smyrna and Jericho, and the first cataract of the Nile, on their way home. Look round any of the great tables d'hote at Lucerne, Zurich, or Geneva, run over the list des strangers at Interlaken, listen to the talk of the groups standing round the Giessbach, lighted by Bengal fires, and you will see the three sets more or less mixed together, outnumbered by, though nos lost in, the crowd of French and German tourists. With all his wide-awake and shooting-jacket, John Bull knows he could not succeed in disguising him self, and never attempts it. There are snug, smooth toned, dulcet-voiced high reverends, who even here are of the Church clerical. Their interest is in the Great St. Bernard—the convent in the glaciers-- with many shrewd surmises about its solitaries--if monks, why unfrocked? if priests, query in orders? Mighty puzzles to believers in Brother Ingnatius and Wagnerites. Lawyers muster strong between terms, look knowing, apt of fence, yet harmless for the moment; live and let live. I may say as much for the M.D.'s. Your Cheapside " gent" will smack of the shop to eternity. A pack of these the other day when issuing out of the Lake of Lucerne where it branches out into the Alpnach and Kus nacht Bays were--heaven alone may account for association of ideas—" reminded of the circus where Regent-street cuts across Oxford-street." I left my conveyance at the foot of the Brunig, and walked alone over the pass that comes down upon the valley of the Aar at Meyringen and the Lake of Brienz. The pass of the Brunig is hardly as high above the sea level as Snowdon. On the Unterwald side, however, it has forest scenery un matched on greater altitudes, and the first glimpses of the Oberland, of the glittering IVetterhorn, and of the jagged, deeply-indented bulwarks that con stitute its outworks, give you a foretaste of the are . bristlingassThe fi rex sublime that ought to suffice for one d a y. I t hi n k little of mountai n scener y a p ar t f rom woo dl and beauty. The m ere b are roc k s o f th e M ar i t i me Alps, where Prove nca l an d I ta li an n i ggardl i ness has left hardly a s ti c k on hill or dale, can only be made endur a bl e t o t h e eye by morning and evening shades. The pass o f t h e Brunig is beautiful at all hours ; even in th e scorching noontide under which I toiled havees trees a n Takendwe eo i r t i I i t which athineo lnysetanbtoey r i l yeo d nu g o em e f ttbhhrbehindeeeyllb umbrella reap beauty pines dull, y e i ridge 00 e f f the massy ilexes Southernclimes. ragged things, in the mass monotonous ; but they look dark, solemn, and mystic in their interminable rows ; the rocks loom more abrupt and portentous SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS. ".THE LONDON REVIEW" ON THE LIBERTY OF LOVE-MAKING.—As for Miss Crosse and her papa's groom, that resolute young lady has deprived the world of amorous batchelors—who have an eye not only to the mind and form, but the purses of their inamoratas—of the benefit of a judicial decision as to what the Act of Parliament touching the crime of abducting ladies of fortune means. Had her papa persisted in prosecuting his paternal wrongs, the late romantic elopement - might have resolved itself into a " leading case" for the guidance of runaway lovers. But Mr. Crosse has, at the eleventh hour, done what it would have been better if he had done a little sooner. As we said last week, it was not George Smith who abducted Miss Alice, it was Miss Alice who abducted George Smith. How it came to pass that the " natty" groom won the affections of the rector's slim and ladylike daughter, we know not, except from her own statements ; and, though it is not a commendable thing for a delicately-reared girl to conceive an affection for the lad who g roomed her palfrey and helped her to her saddle, to make ' advances to him as they rode side by side in the lanes of Ockham, it was a greater offence against paternal prudence on the part of her father to allow her the opportunities of throwing herself away which_ culminated in her elopement and the late proceeding at the Wandsworth police-court. Partly Mr. Crosse redeemed his error after the first inves tigation of "the case before the magistrate. When he found that the groom was rather the victim than the abductor of his agreeable daughter, he:withdrew his prosecution—committing a lamentable blunder, however, in the indecent intimation which he in structed his solicitor to publish. Wholly he re deemed it, as far as he had left himself the power to do so, by consenting to the marriage of his daughter and George Smith, which took place on Thursday. It is not given to ordinary couples to enjoy the ovation which attended the celebration of marriage between Miss Alice and her groom —we beg pardon, her bridegroom—at All Saints', Wandsworth. Never before was there, on such an occasion, such a gather ing of the townsfolk. "The chu rc h," says th e E x p ress 1 1 of Thursday, "was crowded, and every available spot, both inside and out, from which a glimpse could be obtained of the couple, was occupied. The road and paths were literally blocked up for some distance, and as the pretty church bells rang a merry peal a stranger might have supposed that nothing short of a royal marriage was being celebrated. The couple arrived in Wandsworth last night, and took up their temporary abode at the house of Mr. George, a baker, in the High-street, who was one of the groom's bail. They were unaccompanied by any friends saving those who had been made in Wandsworth. Mr. George and his daughter ac companied them to church, and acted as their best friends. After the ceremony was concluded, and on walking from the church, they were received with loud and continued cheering. The young lady was dressed in a pink bonnet, with a black silk cape and purple silk dress. The young gentleman looked exceedingly happy, and escorted his bride on his arm to the residence of Mr. George, Inspectors Lovelace and Usher exerting themselves manfully to clear the path for them. As the young couple walked for the few yards from the church she seemed to have the advantage of height over her husband, who, however, presented a very natty' appearance. He was dressed in a black coat and trousers, with a white waistcoat, and wore white kid gloves. They were quickly ushered into the baker's shop by the police, but quickly reappeared at the first-floor window, where Mr. Smith took off his hat and bowed repeatedly to the crowd beneath. However, that appeared not to satisfy his friends, and he then opened the window and briefly addressed the crowd. He thanked his friends sincerely for all their kind ness and sympathy shown to him since he had been in Wandsworth, and he hoped they would all live long and be happy. This short speech was followed with tremendous cheering, and it was some time before the police could clear the streets and restore order." When we add that "it was understood that the newly-married pair intended to travel for a short time," we may close the romantic history, which has so enlivened these dull days, of " The Lady and her Groom." " THE ARMY AND NAVY GAZETTE" ON RU MOURED CHANGES IN THE INFANTRY DRESS ! There seems to be a general impression that several changes will shortly be made in the Infantry dress, mere especially in that of the officer, and there can be no doubt that they are urgently required ; but suggestions are so numerous, that the required alterations are doubtless most difficult to decide upon. When the present tunic was substituted for the old coatee, the authorities urged that it was to save the officers expense ; and if it was the practice to wear the former no oftener than the latter, then such would really be the case ; but the tunic is worn every day on parade, and on almost all duties, so that instead of one red coat being sufficient, a single season of field-days, reviews, and flying columns, especially at Aldershot, completely takes all the gilt off the gingerbread, and necessitates the provision of a second tunic for occasions when the officer may wish to appear otherwise than shabby. An officer finds, on looking over his tailor's bill, an item of 13 guineas for a tunic supplied since last Christmas, and already it is quite unfit to appear in either at a ball or a levee. It is argued that it is hard that regimental officers should have to do all the rough work in camp in full dress, when the staff only wear theirs three or four times during the whole season. If it is considered indispensable that the officer should wear red whenever his men do so, and such is the practice, it either obliges him to buy a new tunic annually or to be the worst dressed of the two, and unfortunately it too frequently hap pens that such is the case, and from no other reason nation foremost in civilisation. The progress of the cosmopolitan sentiment is marked by the hand some tribute France renders to the fame of Es foreigner who has done a vast service to mankind. It has been said that we were first in this enlarge ment of brotherhood beyond national distinctions, in the honours paid to the memory of the gallant and generous Bellot, but Bellot perished a volunteer in our service, and the monument at Greenwich has not so large a meaning as the monument at Boulogne. A French author, in doing justice to the character and achievements of the Duke of Wellington, finely observes that true g rea t ness b rea k s d own th e distinc tion of nationalities, and throws open to the whole human family an interest and pride in the superior natures. When a character or genius stands on high for the admiration of the world, the land that has produced it is the last thought, and almost as idle as the inquiry into the parish. The great fames pass into the ownership of the whole human kind, become part of its wealth in all deserving honour and emulation. Any detraction would thus become a sort of robbery of the common stock of worth, a lessening of what all have an interest in preserving in full integrity. We hail the monu ment to Jenner as earnest of a brotherhood trans cending nationalities, and the French, in advance of us, have taken other opportunities of evincing their reverence for lights of the world. While we, for example, give our ships names of barbarous destruc tion, they show that Newton is a household word with them, and give it to one of their finest vessels. By such examples the French must deliver them selves of the reproach hitherto attaching to them, of being the most cockney nation in Europe, like the Chinese conceiting themselves the inner and flowery people, ignoring all others, or despising them as outside barbarians not worth knowing. There is a beginning of the end of this folly in the tribute to Jenner. And nothing can more conduce to a cordial underganding between us than accord ing due honour to the great minds of both nations that have conferred benefits on mankind material or intellectual. COUNTRY MARKETS" NOT TINGHAM-SATuRDAT. We had a good supply of wheat, and superior dry sot made late prices ; other sorts unsaleable even at reduce" rates. There was a fair supply of barley, for which the de mand was moderate at previous rates ; new rather lower. Oats of good quality maintained their value ; inferior tended downwards. The inquiry for beans middling; neW sorts rather lower. Old white wheat, 47s to 518; old red, 45s to 48s ; neo white, 42s to 46s ; new red, 38s to 42s per 36 stone. Bar ley, new malting, 27s to 35s per qr ; old grinding, 26s to 288; new, -s to —s per 30 stone. Oats, old, 26s to 30s ; new, 21s to 25s ; old foreign, 22s to 26s per stone. Beans, old, 48s to 52s ; new, 42s to 46s per 38 stone. NORWICH-SATURDAY. There was a fair supply of wheat at this market to-day, and a further concession in the price of is to 2s per qr. had to be made by the sellers to induce millers to buy either old or new wheat of best qualities ' secondary sorts quite neglected. Little passing in other articles. White wheat (weighing 631 b to 641 b), 48s to 526 ; red ditto (weighing 631 b to 641 b), 42s to 48s ; best malting barley (weighing 551 b to 561 b), 30s to 33s ; runs ditto (weighing 541 b to 551 b), 28s to 30s ; distilling ditto (weigh: mg 521 b to 531 b), 24s to 265; oats, 24s to 265; beans, 3 " to 89s ; peas (maple), 36s to 38s per qr; flour, 31s to — 4 Od per sack. YORK-SATURDAY. Some very good samples of wheat and barley have been secured, but not ual to last year's. The suppl of whe . ab at our market was pretty fair, but there was not y much 14 ° in the trade, at is to 2s per qr. less money. Barley was 111 fair supply, and good samples brought late rates ; inferiol rather easier. The demand for oats was middling, au ° late prices were obtained. Beans of good quality firm. New white wheat, 44s to 48s; new red, 40s to 420,1 4 ' 86 stone. Barley, for malting, 30s to 32s per qr ; grinding' 28s to —s per 30 stone. Oats, new, 23s to 24s per 24 stout Beans, 43s to 44s per 40 stone. Malt, 58s ; rye, 280 pe r qr. Flour, 83s to —s per sack of 2801 b. LEICESTER-SATURDAY. Our market was well supplied with wheat, mostly of i. 116 new crop. The pastures are in good condition, but turn l ll and potatoes are not so well spoken of. New wheat at 2s to 3s per qr. reduction ; old tended downwards. 1 ,„; supply of barley was tolerable, and sales made at last weet", rates. Oats in moderate supply, and late rates real quoted. Not much alteration in beans, but new 2s per lower. Flour less firm. Old white wheat, 47s to 49s ; old red, 45s to 48s ; rte lr , white, 42s to 455.; new red, 39s to 41s per 36 stone. 13 10 ley, malting, 30s to 33s per qr. ; grinding, 28s to 30s pe r stone. Oats, old, 28s to 32s ; new, 21s to 24s per 24 ston e " Beans, old, 45s to 48s ; new, 39s to 43s per 88 stone. Foreign Mail Packet List. MAILS DUE. Australia and New Zealand, via Southampton Sept• 18 ' Ditto, via Marseilles Sept. Brazil and Cape Verds. by British pao.et Oct. 4 ',, Ditto, by French pack e t Sept. 2: Cape of Good Hope, As cens i on, an d St Helena.. Sept• 2:" China, Penang, and Singapore. via Southampton Sept- 18. Ditto, via Marseilles Sept. 12 ' Falkland Islands Gibraltar, via Southampton • Sept. 18 " 8. India (Calcutta), and Ceylon, via Southampton.... Sept. 1/. Ditto, via Mar s eilles . Sept. 1 2 India (Bombay), via Southampton. Sept. 4, "'„ . A Ditto, via Earseilles .. Sept. Mauritius, via Southampton 4 ' Ditto, via Mansell e 3... Oct. Newfoundland , Sep t ' 27. Portugal Ditto, by private ship to Lisbon... United States and British North America, by Bri- 1. tish packet ...Sept. A Ditto. by United States packet, via Southamp ton • Ditto, 'via Cork Ditto, by Canadian packet, via Londonderry.. Sept 22 : West Coast of Africa. Madeira, and Teneriffe Oct. 11 ' West Indies and Pacific (except Bahamas, Cuba, 0 4 and Mexico, Sept. Bahamas, via New York. Oct. 1 , 1 ; Bermuda, ditto Sept 7 Cuba and Mexico TRAPPED AT LAST.—A fox was recently v- - r t by the leg in a trap at Trevarrick ; but it bit off the hanging, and again made off, leaving the limb in th e gl a On Thursday a workman looked into a hole and folk Mr. Reynard. He is now safely ensconced in a bade looking little the worst for his adventures. rier FISHING IN SCOTLAND.—The Inverness says :—" We have still to report badly of the anek til l in the Ness. There is wonderfully little sport, and Wf i tl a makes it particularly aggravating is, that the river Co '; , not be in better order for fishing, or the weather more ' vourable. In the upper water salmon show themseliree freely, but both above and below they are as coy in tak the fly as -trout in a west coast stream during a drolle,, With little exception, the utmost that an angler can do to induce the fish to make the semblance of a rise 1 follows the fly, disturbs the water, and retires—e o i. . a il;- ; hope, prompting labour, but to no purpose. It has P— ( l remarked that the more numerous fish—i. e., salmon. 4 grilse—become in a river, the more s h y th e y ar e in I ' 3 'l 1 the artificial fly. This seems a paradox ; for the presumption is, the more candidates there are for a g . „ i° ll - ,t quantity of food, the more g r eedily they should take A " it is offered, but there seems t o ba some truth in it, a n d hen certain that salmon and trout take most greed il y 0 1 rivers are in flood, and the water teeming with -vrorras insects, swept away from the banks and stones." 10 i rADVERTISEMENT.I-11olloway's n to 1 e,ti Sick.—Though the mind be downcast, and the b° la e feebled by continued indisposition, the sufferer sblifo. l , / ' this season make an effort to regain health by takl°d viw loway's purifying pills, which by cleansing the bloo me do search out the hidden cause of mischief and expel thetc7tio' of most diseases. No invalid is too much reduce i d.otr a dergo this very gentle treatment with safety auu,, - to t",." 0 tags; neither youth for old age need fear any Lula„-Ic ae i system from a regulated course of these pills. s a nd infallib'e in stomach complaints, bilious affectiorit, ito„ ness, want of appetite, disordered bowels, constipetroi the annoyances which spring from derange digestive and assimilating organs. Births. We` "' LLOYD.—On the 14th inst., at Felton Grange , bury, the Lady Frances Lloyd, of a daughter. irictori' Scorr.—On the 14th inst., at Littlehampton, La d y , Hope Scott, of a daughter. v , 1 4f O WEATHERALL.—On the 14th inst., at Leddingtoll C thamptonshire, the wife of Captain T. Weat i3e __. - 6th Dragoons), of a son. Marriages, r rail °1 CUFFE—FowLER. — On the 14th inst., at the r T„g htl e ts Cil l Aghour, Freshford, Ireland, Otway Wheeler,,J. V , 0 0 . tarn R.M. Artillery, second son of the late P.,.' yrk, ;3- " r e Cuffe, Bart., of Leyrath, co.Kilkenuy, to Lonl' A i r v ' Florence, only daughter of the Rev. Luke ,F°" • e ' ~,ifl, bendary of Aghour. ac .- -, # rit,, fp THEORALD—OwEN.—On the 16th inst., at Stan" a ce ~s ' g9' James Theobald, Esq., of Shrewsbury-terrA,c'S'lli° water, to Marian, only daughter of the late 1 1 ,,,e"; Owen, rector of Llanystyndwy, Carnarvonslw' Deaths. 11 4)bei4 Bo ß ß o T r rn th vi w c ie K k7E o sci n. „ the 13th inst., at Edinburgh' l ife , late of H.M.'s9lst Regt . ,,,,, „ i s C''' ' CAVE.—On the 13th inst., at Hastings, Mr. .-1-'°— as of of Richmond, Surrey, aged 53. vio EA' HAWKINS.—On the 15th inst , John riftw- - s ' c ot; Staplehurst, Kent, aged 51. • ..,,..ere s it go. , LITCHFIELD.—On the 14th inst., at 44, Lansdew4erp Captain Richard Litchfield, of the Royal Ar ts T V , 74. _1.4. tU a' oll V OAKLEY.—On the 15th inst., at Rhyl, in l'i r tw"" Co' a p ul% Charles E. Oakley, M.A., rector of St. for a garden. is Chores $e STRATHMORE.—On the 13th inst., at Glara.,,,,ra- b oil, farshire, the Earl of Strathmore and Yo n g „„ot, 43. TV EALL.—On the 14th inst., at the Dove goose' - DP' Mr. John Weall, see., aged 83 • v,i o .sp iiop London : Printed and Publiehed 'by WILLIA3I,!:.e. 14 0 ; 4 , 0 1 of No. 112, Strand, Printer, at THz SUN o , fl coal. Strand, in the Precinct of the Savoy. in Ow Middlesex.—Monday, September 18,180. 10 25 50 25 25 50 25 40 LS Al ( 191 It" lo ( tic 14