The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser. — Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1843-11-28 00:00:00

Litt rature. - .111. -- POETRY ENGLAND For the Liverpool Slondo . England, awake ~ gathers round thee, thy all is at stake ; cot of the Peasant, the hall of the Queen, oe'er the eye turns, the destroyer is seen. od in thy churches, perverting the truth— '--hold him enslaving thy youth ; , through the breadth of the land, He exultingly raises his soul-slaying brand. And what force shall withstand him? Not musket or sword But the Truth un• efil'd, the pure Word of the Lord. Thou first of all nations, let this be thy shield, And to it the Socinian and Papist must yield. Where'er the promoters of error are found, Let the clear, shining light of the Gospel abound ; Let the Truth to thy sons and thy daughters be told, So that all may become the bless'd lambs of one fold; For each ictrn of error, each priest-ridden slave, Awake from thy lethar ast to the west His holy sake. THE WORLDLY VOICE BY CHARLES SWAIN -et-Me-Not for 1844 ght and better sphere, rude leaf, worn and sere— t wanderers from a Rubb'd aven were born ien d thrift Ros, ne odours on the careless night? Tfume for unwholesome blight— _ _ ach wind that blows wander lorn by por and abbey wall; )'er the Dead must thy fond shadowfall,— The Dead can serve thee not ad the pail And len liou Worldly Foie their brief mission given, soar again to heaven, new spheres rejoice 1; reVied the Rose, iierOus hearts in secret done lose the selfish shun, at heaven bestows —Voice the World respects— le Worth which Pride negle teturn thou Voice and prove nple truth to calculating Man and Leaf ,ath trod— I holy theme convey Man, if Man would but CARDINAL DE RETZ, OR THE COURTIER'S PLOT BY PETER POPJOY, ESC For the Liverpool Standard.) CHAPTER I ow he marries, and Ime twenty years cl further, how he dies iu AT the commencement of the nineteenth century, Baron Gervais Piiillibert de Croissi, still in the very prime and summer of his life, wearied with the solitude of his old mansion, determined upon committing matrimony. With the Baron to determine was to do ; he therefore without delay wooed and won the fair hand of a noble lady in the vicinity of his estate, whose amply dowry enabled him to " the heavy eebts he h id incurred during the wars, wild his mansion, whieh bad almost become unte from decay and neglect. The result of the of a son. This event filled the breast with joy and pride ; f or more t h an . —nt name was destined to be this son, if one might .sports of the neighbours, was the only satisfac- Baron found in the married state, for it was It privately but openly, that the brave and daunt ri "ie great Henri Quatro was not able to th vill of his lady, and therefore suffered ier The baroness, however, did not live after ,ie young heir Albert de Croissi had made his ; and as the Baron did not exhibit much re , and certainly no joy at the circumstance, it is hard say what his opinions really were as to the state of wed- pay of )e Crois less warrior o th of t subdue the imperious w from her ill temper Twenty years passed away, during which time Baron de Croissi continued to lead the life of a quiet country gen- His sword hung harmlessly in the scabbard, and leisurely fed in the paddock. The was confided to an old abbe, a .ind man, but who it was suspected fostered strongly tinged with Protestantism. We wish we Juld assert that the heir of Croissi profited by the lessons of his preceptor; but unfortunately he knew nothing. Albert, like his father, possessed no taste for study; but, unlike him, he had not the frankness, the bonhommie, which characterised the old soldier of Bearnais. From his mother he inherited an indomitable and irascible tempera mingled in e strange manner with his in ir At eighteen a notable ied lace. Albert, all at once, ap ,onsi ~;ssity of concealing from those nim his ,unhappy infirmities of temper. On a sud .die grave, staid, and thoughtful ; and under —trance of submission to the paternal will, he hid ride and ambition that reigned within his heart. The enchanted with his progress, began to re- I his son as a mirror of accomplishment, and a model 11 the young men in the neighbourhood to take pat ')y- in their conduct. Hardlyhad Albert attained his ty when the cloven foot protruded itself; throw the mask of hypocrisy he had hitherto worn, he • a rigorous account of the fortune tieman care of De Crois [earned stincts of cunn med to take i r the nec 3aron was e J from the maternal side ; and imself to Paris, to reside with r, whose interest at court held )id advancement. le Baron find himself alone. more than ever lonely. At ~.ate is felt perhaps more acutely .ier in life, many things to amuse are in Seldom did he hear of Albert; and though the Baron to look for his return, yet he indifference- awakened resentment, and ,ger, determined once more to him, his choice fell on a hand e daughter of honest parents; good 'id good sense, making up for a mother )geared our gra hope pr the old gentleman, in his an some young girl health, good tempe want of wealth and the absence of rank and station. Great was the outcry made by Albert at this me'salliance. But the Baron, who could at one time have resisted the stout-at foe, bad fallen off in his courage; and though incapable of fencing with his antagonist, was opinionative and inflexible at a distance from him. The marriage, therefore, took place ; and though Albert did not attend, the ceremony was proceeded with, much to the enter • . , nobility, who made it a Two years afterwards Fahien de Croissi means lessened the gossip in the uses. The Baron found himself .of domestic bliss. His handsome pretty infant, thus coming to giid the -ire,. made him for a time forgetful of the ~on who had abjured him. Notwithstanding . was partially happy, by one of those whims which he often noticed in the human heart, that which ought to have effaced from his memory the remembrance of Albert was precisely the means by which it was en graven the more deeply. In spite of all his efforts, the Baron could not but consider his wife as a stranger, whom he had elevated in a moment of caprice, and whose vulgar tastes and homely habits, placed in striking contrast with the aristocratic defects of the first Baroness de Croissi, 'ere but too obvious to escape notice. As for the poor he was looked upon as nothing but a sort of intru who could not sustain the eclat of the family. The 's ideas were naturally carried back towards the yeti ig of the old stump—he who alone could continue genealogical tree. Thus the Baron became sombre and melancholy, and his griefs —per haps his regrets—hastened him to the tomb. On his deathbed he supplicated, with so many entrea ties, the presence of his eldest son—he so urgently re quested his attendance, that the young courtier was com pelled to quit Paris suddenly, where he was pursuing his ambitious projects, to receive the paternal benediction. His arrival at the mansion-house smoothed the last mo ments of the Baron, who had sought this reconciliation for a long time, so that he might die in peace. Latterly Albert had not shown himself so hostile as formerly to wards his mother-in-law and his young brother. The veteran recommended the two warmly to him ; and, con fiding in the promise Albert made him of watching over them, the old Count died in the arms of his eldest-born. hhouring manor-I- e trunk of the once mor CHAPTER II and his Mother manage the De Croissi ' • falls in love, after being left an N Fabie The Baroness de Croissi, and Fabien aged fourteen, found themselves at the mercy of an imperious man who considered their existence as a stain upon the honour of his house. After the death of the old man they were wishful of escaping from the tyranny which would inevi tably be exercised to weigh upon them by the new lord of Croissi, but they were both of them deceived as to the in tentions of the mysterious Albert. To their great as tonishment he announced to them with much gracious ness. that he desired that nothing should be changed in the mansion house, and that his mother-in-law and his brother should continue to hold the same state as formerly ; that as for himself he would return to Paris, leaving to them the management of his property, of whi c h, never theless, they should render him once a-year a true ac count. He was convinced, added he gallantly, that his estate could not but prosper in the hands of a lady, whom his fath e r h a d cons id ere d wort h y to be his companion. This generosity, which the baroness and her son were far from expecting, excited their gratitude to the utmost. Both had been accustomed to hear the old man speak of Albert, only with the most profound respect, and this noble conduct tended to augment the regard that had been inspired for him. As we have said the Baroness was of poor family. If therefore she quitted the chateau she had no other step to take but to enter a convent. On the other band Fabien as a younger brother had no right to the property which his father left ; and this law which en tirely despoiled the younger scions of a family for the sake of the elder brothers, was more severe in Normandy than in any other province : whence the term " Cadets of Nor mandie" became a nickname for all who had little of the world's goods in their possession. Thus were both mo ther and son compelled to accept the protection of the Baron de Croissi even if their respect to the will of the new head of the family had not been to them as a law. To tell the truth, this conduct of Albert's had its origin in other sentiments than those of benevolence, it was not benevolence alone which he had thus all of a sudden manifested for the widow and son of the deceased lord, for on his arrival at his estates, which were formerly greatly impaired,' he found them so much improved and so prosperous, that they could not but prove satisfactory to him. His father had taken occasion to inform him that this cheering state of the revenue of the ancient house of De Croissi had arisen from the prudent and wise administrations and suggestions of his second wife ; and as Albert could not accustom himself to reside in the country he was not sorry to leave his little territory in the care of a person not only skilful but trustworthy, and one whose superintendance he could have for nothing. Thus then the source of his generosity was explained ; besides he did not dare to commit an act of violence upon the good opinions of the neighbouring nobility in driv ing his stepmother and little brother from the paternal roof. Madame de Croissi and Fabien therefore remained in Normandy, and the Baron returned to Paris, where he at once cast himself headlong into those intrigues by which he intended to push his fortunes. The quiet Cha teau of Croissi, which for a time had been agitated by the death of the old lord and by the presence of Albert, took again its accustomed aspect ; the Baroness continued to manage the affairs of her son-in-law with the same wis dom as before, and Fabien, young as he was, aided her in this duty. The second son of the Baron was thus brought up in a sort of worship for his elder brother, and, from the age when reason first dawns, he habituated himself to look upon him as the complete ruler of his destiny ; and when his mother died, which took place nearly two years after the death of the old Baron, Fabien did not refuse to undertake in his turn the management of the De Croissi domains,—think'ng, while he did so, that he was but the steward and first domestic of his elder brother. Left to himself in the paternal chateau, Fabien led a dull and monotonous life. Happily for him he had no ambition. and expressed no desire to follow the example of those country gentlemen who went abroad to seek ad ventures, and who exposed their lives at every moment in party quarrels, since they had nothing else to risk. In fact, he was ignorant of himself in this isolated re treat, and never dreamt that it was possible to elevate himself above the modest position which be had tacitly accepted. A new event took place to augment in him that love of solitude, and give him a veritable aversion to the world. At some distance from De Croissi was an old chateau, which had remained a long time uninhabited, having fallen into ruins during the wars. It then be longed to a noble family who had quitted Normandy, its members having followed divers fortunes ; and so unfor tunate had been their lot, that their name was almost effaced in the memory of the country people in the vici nity. But some few years after the epoch when this history commenced, the almost obsolete name had been mentioned afresh : they had repaired a wing of the old house, and so soon as it was habitable, an old lady, al most an octogenarian, and a young girl of about fifteen years, her pupil, came to reside in it. The old lady had known brighter days at the court of Henry Quatre ; but it was supposed that to this brilliance she owed much of the decay of her ancient splendour, and that she there fore consented to retire to this sad chateau. Her young companion was her niece, the only offshoot of the ancient family of Montglat, of which house both bore the name. Fabien did not pay much attention to his new neigh bours, and several months passed away before he visited them ;as they lived, in fact, extremely retired. One day, however, chance or caprice of his horse having directed his way to Montglat, he resolved to go p far as the man sion -house, and, prompted by a feeling of courtesy natu ral to gentlemen of his time, offered his services to the two noble recluses. Who can tell which struck the young man the most—the amiability, the wit, and profound knowledge of the old lady ; or the grace, beauty, and, sweetness of the young countess ? Be it as it may, Fa bien found an infinite charm in the society of his hitherto neglected neighbours, and he often took occasion to see them. At length the old lady let him into her confidence as to their projects. They were poor, and the lands of Montglat were all barren ; and as their fortunes consisted in them, they wished to better them. For this purpose the old Baroness thought she could not take better advice from any one than Fabien, as to what should be done. On his part the young agriculturist could not refuse his advice to two persons so interesting—the one for her extreme youth, the other for her extreme age, and both for their misfortunes. He visited them every day, took in hand the direction of their property, and soon might be said to reside with his neighbours. One may easily divine what the consequence was of this intimacy. Fabien loved Mlle. Elizabeth de Montglat, and he was beloved by her in return. It was a sweet, a modest, innocent love, which grew under the eyes of the excellent aunt, without giving her offence, and almost with her consent. Fabien found in his intercourse with these graceful, elegant, and polished women of the world, that delicacy of ideas, that urbanity of manners, that he had never known till then; and fora long time he thought that his attentions at Montglat, had no other cause than the charms which he found in the conversation of its inmates. No avowal had been exchanged, no project had been put forward ; nevertheless, these three persons understood each other excellently. True it was that Fabien was poor ; but the moderate fortune, which would revert to Mlle. Montglat after the death of her aunt, would not establish between them a great disproportion of wealth. There was therefore no serious obstacle to their union ; and in their young imaginations they saw before them the most smiling future, when a thunderbolt fell to crush their sweetest hopes. Madame de Montglat, in her sequestered retreat, bad preserved her correspondence with certain ladies of the court, who had formerly been her friends. Uneasy for Elizabeth's future welfare, she had many times soli cited her old friends to interest themselves f or th e young orphan girl. For a long time no reply was returned to her entreaties, and the good old lady was remarking with grief the gradual weakening of her health ; when at length she received a reply from the Marquise de Chevreuse, to whom she had more particularly recommended her little girl. This letter announced that the place of maid of honour to the Queen had been obtained for Elizabeth de Montglat. What should she do under such circumstances ? Should she, for the vague hope, sometime or another, of marrying her child to a younger son who had nothing, and who depended absolutely upon an avaricious brother, re nounce the brilliant advantages which now were offered for Elizabeth's acceptance ? The determination of the old lady was therefore made up at once, and Elizabeth departed for Paris with her aunt, and we leave the imagination to pic ture what promises were exchanged between the two young people before their separation ; for this catastrophe had compelled the timid Fabien to declare himself. Nor were his vows unexchanged. Elizabeth de Montglat truly loved him. On the first arrival of the two ladies at court, Fabien often received news from them, and a word or two was furtively slipped into the letters of her aunt, by Elizabeth. But soon these letters became rare ; and when Madame de Montglat died, they ceased altogether, the young lady appearing to entertain a convenient feeling which could not permit her to continue a correspondence that courtly man ners no longer sanctioned. In the brilliant world in which she now lived she had found many attractions to chase poor Fabien from her heart and thoughts. It was with this reflection that she rested herself when his last letters com plaining of her silence remained unanswered. At length Fabien lamented, and then abjured the ungrateful one, who so quickly forget her sacred promises. His grief then became more calm, and manifested itself in a profound and concentrated sentiment, which betrayed itself only in con tinual melancholy. Two years thus passed away. Fabien, crossed in his dearest affections, had recovered that taste for solitude, and had fallen into a sort of apathy which rendered him more than ever blind to all sorts of ambitious views. He desired nothing more than to live in obscurity, and die unknown, in the place where he was born, since the one for whom he at one time desired grandeur and opulence, thought no more of him. In this listless mood was he absorbed when the Baron Albert suddenly arrived at the chateau. (To be continued.) SELECTIONS. OrrAn OF ROSES.—This perfume is said to have been discovered by accident. Nur-laham. the favourite wife of the Mogul, among her other luxuries, had a small canal of rose-water ; as she was walking with the Mogul upon its banks, they perceived a thin film upon the water—it wzs an essential oil made by the heat of the sun. They were delighted with its exquisite odour, and means were immediately taken for preparing by art a substance like that which had been thus fortuitously produced.— Southey's Omniana. POLITTCS VERSUS POETRY.—Telemachus was univer sally read and admired in France, not so much on account of the political images and the fine imitations of Homer which it contained, but for the many artful and satirical allusions to the profligate court of Louis the Fourteenth, scattered up and down the work. He that treats of fa shionable follies and the topics of the day, that describes present persons and recent events, as Dryden did in his Absalom and Achitophel, finds many readers whose un derstandings and whose passions he gratifies, and who love politics far more than poetry.—Warton's Life. of Pope. STATISTICS OF A BEE-HIVE.—The " masses" of every hive consist of two kinds of bees, the workers and the drones. The fist are undeveloped females ; the second are the males. Over these presides the mother of the hive, the queen-bee. The number of workers in a strong hive is above 15,000, and of drones, about one to ten of these. This proportion, though seldom exact, is never very much exceeded, or fallen short of. A single family, where swarming is prevented, will sometimes amount, according to Dr. Bevan, to 50,000 or 60,000. In their wild state, if we may credit the quantity of honey said to be found, they must sometimes greatly exceed this num ber.—Quarterly Review. OLDEN TIME.—In 1331 the price of labour was regu lated in this country by parliament ; and it is remarkable that " corn weeders and hay makers, without meat, drink, or other courtesy demanded," were to have one penny per day ! In 1314, the pay of a chaplain to the Scotch bishops, who were then prisoners in England, was three halfpence per day. Although wages were so low, things at that time were so che ap t h at 2 4 eggs were sold for a penny ; a pair of shoes for fourpence ; a fat goose for two pence halfpenny ; !L hen for a penny ; e i ght b ushe l s o f wheat for two shillings ; and a fat ox for six-and-eight pence. In 1336, wheat per quarter two shillings ; a fat sheep sixpence ; a fat goose twopence ; and a pig one penny.—Fleeltrood's Cheonicon Precios. MASSACRE OF ST. BARTotomEw.--Gaspard de Saulx de Tavannes, Marechal orFrance, in the night of St. Bartholomew, ran through the streets of Paris, cry ing, " Let blood, let blood ; bleeding is as good in the month of August as in May." His son, who has written his memoirs, relates that his father, being on his death bed, made a general confession of the sins of his life ; after which his confessor, saying to him, with an air of astonishment, "why, you speak not a word of St. Bar. tholomew."—" I look upon that," replied the dying Marechal, " as a meritorious action, which ought to atone for all the sins I have committed."—Voitaire. UNWITTING INJURY DONE TO TRADESMEN AND OTHERS, BOTH BY HIGH AND Low.—The lady of rank will sometimes detain her jeweller and dressmaker till near midnight, in her drawing-room or hall, with as little remorse as the wife of a labourer will be haggling with the poor huckster at the same unseasonable hour; neither party caring for the deprivation of domestic enjoyment, and the neglect of social duties, of which both are unwit tingly the cause. Yet, both these classes, high and low, are to be awakened to a sense of the wrong which is in flicted by the system of late hours. The highest and the lowest are yet but human beings, and must be capable of sympathising with their fellow-creatures, whether they be much below or somewhat above them in the accident of worldly station.—Hours of Business, by E. Flower. THE BRIGHTISH ASSOCIATION.-Mr. Sappy read a paper, proving the impossibility of being able to see into the middle of next week, from known facts, with regard to the equation of time. He stated that, supposing it pos sible for a person to ascend in a balloon sufficiently high for his vision to embrace a distance of 700 miles from east to west, he would then only see forty-minutes a-head of him : that is, he would see places where the day was forty minutes in advance of the day in which he lived. Thus he might be said to see forty minutes into futurity. It has also been proved that, in sailing round the world in one direction, a day's reckoning is gained; so that the sailor, on his return, finds himself to be " a man in advance of his age" by one day. This one day, however, is the far thest attainable limit; and it is, therefore, impos sible to see into the middle of next week.—Q. E. D.— Punch. A COMEDIAN'S RUSE.-At the close of the Drury-lane season, Elliston proceeded on an engagement to Dublin, where he found his attraction by no means equal to his expectations. In a letter to his wife, he says, " I was tossed about for 26 hours. On leaving the coach at Shrewsbury, being anxious immediately to proceed, I or dered a chaise, but was told they had no horses at the first post house—at the second and third I received similar answers. I was greatly distressed ; for it was a point with me to reach Oswestry without delay. You will be amused at my expedient. Summoning a diplomatic look into my countenance, I demanded instantly to be con ducted to the mayor, declaring that I had despatches for the Duke of Richmond ; and that, if horses were not im mediately supplied, the affair would come at once under the consideration of the secretary of state. Show me to the mayor !' said I. He is in bed, sir,' was the reply— ' seriously ill.' Then I shall be sure to find him at home my business is as much of life and death as his own. Show me to the mayor, or supply the horses.' My man ner and words bad the desired effect : horses were pro vided, and within twenty minutes I was off again."—The Elliston Papers. A LIFE OF DRUDGERY RENDERING A MAN INCAPA BLE OF REFINED ENJOYMENT.—A butcher, not a mile from Temple Bar, made a large fortune, left his business to his son, and retired into the country " to enjoy the re ward of his industry." A year passed ; he came to town to visit his son, and " to see ho w the old t ra de was getting on." He declared that he had been miserable ever since he left business. Scarcely a day had passed before be was in the shop, cutting, chopping, and selling meat. I myself saw him—the retired oentleman !—with a tray upon his shoulder, delivering a leg of mutton at the house of one of my relatives. A day or two afterwards he insisted upon his son allowing him to go over to the slaughter-house to kill an ox ! He was aceable d' ennui—he wanted some thing for an after-dinner pastime—here was an amusement according with his taste, and he availed himself of it. The object of this man's life had been to make himself a gentleman ; he had all the natural capabilities for refined enjoyments; he had gained all the appurtenances to his new. station which gold could purchase ; but habit had rendered him in heart and soul—a butcher. He returned to his country residence, where he relapsed into a state of Bloomy despondency, and died very shortly afterwards. — Hours of Business, by E. Flower. A COMPARISON.--If Alexander and Archimedes, evoked from their long sieep, were to contemplate with minds calmed by removal from contemporaneous interests the state of mankind in the present year, with what dif ferent feelings would they regard the influence of their respective lives upon the existing human world of 1843 ! The Macedonian would find the empire, which it was the labour of his life to aggrandize, frittered into particles, modelled, remodelled, subject to various dynasties. * * * In parts of the world which his living grasp had not seized, he would see little to remind him of bis past existence. Would not mortification darken the brow of the resuscitated conqueror on discovering that when his name was mentioned in historic annals, it was less as a polar star to guide than as a beacon to be avoided ? What would the Syracusan see in the present epoch to remind him of himself? Would he see the man of 212 B.C. at all connected with the men of 1843 A.D. ? Yes. In Prussia, Austria, France, England, America, in every city of every civilised nation, he would find the lever, the pulley, the mirror, the specific gravimeter, the geometric demonstration ; he would trace the influence of his mind in the power-loom, the steam-engine, in the building of the Royal Exchange, in the Great Britain steam-ship ; he would find an application of his well-known invention the subject of a patent, an important auxiliary to navigation. Alexander was a hero ; Archimedes is one.—Blachwood's Magazine. LOUIS PHILIPPE AND THE SPANISH REVOLUTION isTs.—There is, however, a charge brought against Louis Philippe with regard to Spain, and the commencement of the Spanish revolution under Minna and Valdz in 1830, which I will state broadly and fully, and meet, I hope, with fairness and distinctness. The charge is this,—that Louis Philippe encouraged by an advance of money, and by assurances of protection, the early efforts of Mina and Valdez, and of their supporters on the frontiers of Cata lonia, whieh had for their object to effect a revolution in Spain ; and that afterwards, from some personal or pri vate motives, not only was all assistance stopped, but the Spanish chiefs of the movement, when repulsed, were sent into the interior of France, and treated with coldness, if not with severity. That Louis Philippe determined on alarming Ferdinand VII., the last king of Spain, into a recognition by him of the government and throne of July 1830, is indubitable. Ferdinand had refused to recognise either. This determination had rendered Louis Philippe indignant ; and, as Mina and Valdez proposed to raise the drapeau of revolt in the Basque provinces and on the frontiers of Catalonia, they were unquestionably aided in that proceeding by the French government and king. When, however, Ferdinand VII. made the "amends hon orable," recognised the Orleans dynasty and the revolu tion of 1830, and professed a great desire to maintain the most friendly relations with the King of the French, Louis Philippe, of course, refused further aid to the Spanish revolutionists, to whom he never gave, directly or indirectly, any pledge or promise for additional support ; and when they were defeated by the army of the Spanish monarch, they were sent into the interior of France, and placed under strict surveillance. I have often seen Valdez and Mina. With the latter I was intimate. I believe them both to have been honest, brave, but mistaken men. I think their talents were greatly overated, and that their plans were always ill- digested and absurd. But Ido not believe that they have any real cause of complaint against the King of the French. The Spanish king and govern ment had good cause, since Louis Philippe ought rather to have marched a French array to the Spanish frontiers, or even invaded the Peninsula, to have avenged himself for the insult offered to his government and dynasty by Ferdinand VII. ; and. in fact, should have resorted to every possible measure for redress rather than have en couraged revolutionary projects got up by Spanish refu gees against their own government. I think, then, that this was an unwise, inconsiderate, and culpable act ; and the only excuse which can be offered for it was, that it occurred in the very early days of the king's reign, and when as yet all men were more or less affected by the spirit of revolt which stalked abroad upon the earth.— Fraser' s Magazine. CONCEALMENT BETWEEN HUSBAND AND WIFE. — The first and most innocent step, says Mrs. Ellis, towards falsehood, is concealment. Before our common acquaint ances there is wisdom in practising concealment to a con siderable extent ; but where the intimacy is so great, the identity so close, as between a husband and a wife, con caalment becomes a sort of breach of faith ; and with par ties thus situated, the very act of concealment can only be kept up by a series of artful endeavours to ward off suspicion or observation of the thing concealed. Now, when a husband discovers, as in all probability he will, unless these endeavours are carried out to a very great extent—when he discovers that his wife had been conceal ing one thing from him, he very naturally supposes that she has concealed many more, and his suspicions will be awakened in proportion. It will then be in vain to assure him that your motive was good, that what you did was only to spare him pain, or afford him pleasure; he will feel that the very act is one which has set him apart in his own house as a stranger, rrther than a guardian there — an enemy, rather than a friend. Why, then, should you begin with concealment? The answer, it is to be feared, is but too familiar—" My husband is so unreasonable." And here then we see again the great advantage of every thing you think or do. After concealment h as b e co me i habitual, there follows, n order to escape detection, a sys. tern of false pretences, assumed appearances, and secret schemes, as much at variance with the spirit of truth as the most direct falsehood, and unquestionably as debasing to the mind. But, as an almost inevitable consequence, next follows falsehood itself; for what woman would like her husband to know that she had, for days, months, or years, been practising upon his credulity. If he disco vers what she has been concealing, he will also discover, that often, when the subject was alluded to, she artfully evaded his question by introducing another; that some times she so managed her voice as to convey one idea while she expressed another, and that at other times she absolutely looked a lie. No ; she cannot bear that he should look back and see all this, lest he should despise her ; and therefore, in some critical moment, when into that trying situation in which she must either confess all or deny, and she pronounces at last that fatal word which effectually breaks asunder the spiritual bond of mar. ried love. And now it is scarcely possible to imagine a more melancholy situation than that of weak and helpless woman, separated by falsehood from all true fellowship human or divine; for there is no fellowship in falsehood. The very soul of disunion might justly be said to be em bodied in a lie. It is, in fact, the sudden breaking asun. der of that great chain which binds together all spiritual influences ; and she who is guilty of falsehood must neces. sarily be alone. THE LIVERPOOL STANbAItb. CEYLON.—Certainly, if Ceylon was not, at least it ought to have been, Paradise ? for at this day there is no place on earth which better supports the paradisiacal character than this Pandora of islands, which the Hindoos call Lanka, and Europe calls Ceylon. We style it the " Pan dora" of islands, because, as all the gods of the heathen Flubbed their powers in creating that ideal woman—cloth ing her with perfections, and each separate deity subscrib ing to her dowry some separate gift—not less conspicuous, and not less comprehensive, has been the bounty of Pro vidence, running through the whole diapason of possibili ties, to this all-gorgeous island. Whatsoever it is that God has given by separate allotment and partition to other sections of the planet, all this he has given cumulatively and redundantly to Ceylon. Was she therefore happy, was Ceylon happier than other regions, through this hy per-tropical munificence of her Creator? No, she was not; and the reason was, because idolatrous darkness had planted curses where Heaven had planted blessings ; be cause the insanity of man had defeated the graciousness of God. But another era is dawning for Ceylon ; God will now countersign his other blessings, and ripen his possibilities into great harvests of realization, by super adding the one blessing of a dove-like religion ; light is thickening apace, the horrid altars of Moloch are growing dim; woman will no more consent to forego her birth right as the daughter of God ; man will cease to be the tiger-cat that, in the noblest chamber of Ceylon, he has ever been ; and with the new hopes that will now blossom amidst the ancient beauties of this lovely island, Ceylon will but too deeply fulfil the functions of a paradise. Too subtly she will lay fascinations upon man ; and it will need all the anguish of disease, and the stings of death, to un loose the ties which, in coming ages, must bind the hearts of her children to this Eden of the terraqueous globe.— Blackwood's Magazine. TUB BROTHERS.—It is generally supposed that the Duke of Wellington was born at the family scat, Dangan, county Meath. His Grace was born in Grafton-street, Dublin. The Marquess Wellesley was born at Dangan. These illustrious brothers—the Fabius and Marcellus of the British empire—have ever evinced a heartfelt interest for the welfare of a country which their ancestors have in habited, as distinctly traced, for more than five centuries. The Duke. of Wellington conceded Roman Catholic emancipation contrary to his feelings and judgment, ra ther than deluge his native land with the blood of his countrymen ; and for this act of self devotion he has been meanly and ignominiously taunted and reviled by those whom he has benefitted. The Marquess Wellesley twice refused the premiership, and for years voluntarily excluded himself from office, to obtain Catholic emancipation ; and when the records of his Irish viceroyalty are published, the just and comprehensive policy he endeavoured to carry into effect in Ireland will be found equal to his glorious government of British India. Lord Wellesley was a perfect specimen of the Irish gentleman of the old school, with a beautiful form and of the most polished manners and exquisitely refined taste ; thoroughly master of his own language and of the highest classic attainments ; abounding in pathos, rich in anecdote, and sparkling with wit; qnickly perceptive, and yet deeply reflective; of high comprehensive resolves ; prompt, vigorous, and effective in action: quickly discriminating character, and well adapting instruments for the purposes designed ; yielding confidence most fully, and, with the power that alone belongs to genius, pouring into his subordinates the spirit and energy of a large, vigorous, and well stored mind ; kindly considerate to inferiors ; gay, animated, in structive to equals ; deferential but proud to superiors ; ardently attached to constitutional liberty ; conscious of the responsibility of political power, despising wealth, imbued with a pure patriotism, and, when full of years and honours, descending into the grave, breathing forth his dying thoughts for the welfare and perpetuity of the united British empire.—Montgomery Marlin's Ireland. BOOK MANIA.—BIDDING AT AN AUCTION.—It is ge nerally acknowledged, that the bibliomania is amongst the diseases which have been decli n i ng i n i n t ens ity o f action during the last twenty years. It was at its greatest height during the first years of the present century, when even new books bore prices which it would now be mad ness to dream of. Perhaps the sale of the Duke of Rox burgh's library, in May, 1812, marked the very noontide of the fever. At this greatfiaht, as Dr. Dibbin calls it, which lasted forty-two days, Mr. Evans made his profes sional (Mut. Amongst many curiosities collected by the duke in the course of a long life, was a copy of Bocca cio's Decameron, printed by Valdarfer, of Venice, in 1471; a book of which no other perfect copy was known to exist. On this lot being exhibited, Mr. Evans made an appropriate oration, which was listened to in breath less silence. Three noble candidates had gathered to the field, the Duke of Devonshire, Earl Spencer, and the Marquis of Blandford (since Duke of Marlborough). The biddings rose rapidly to 500 guineas. " Hitherto," says Dr. Dibdin, in his glowing account of the action, " it was evident that the firing was but masked and de sultory. At length all random shots ceased, and the champions before named stood gallantly up to each other, resolving not to flinch from a trial of their respective strengths. " A thousand guineas " were bid by Earl Spencer, to which the Marquis added " ten." You 'night have heard a pin drop. All eyes were turned, all breathing well-nigh stopped, every sword was put home within its scabbord, and not a piece of steel was seen to move or to glitter, except that which each of these cham pions brandished in his valorous hand. See, see ! they parry, they lunge, they bet; yet their strength is undi minished, and no thought of yielding is entertained by either. Two thousand pounds are offered by the Marquis. Then it was that Earl Spencer, as a prudent general, began to think of a useless effusion of blood and expen diture of ammunition, seeing that his adversary was as resolute and " fresh" as at the onset. For a quarter of a minute he paused ; when my Lord Althorp .advanced one step forward, as if to supply his father with another spear for the purpose of renewing the contest. His coun tenance was marked by a fixed determination to gain the prize, if prudence, in its most commanding form, and with a frown of unusual intensity of expression, had not bade him desist. The father and son for a few seconds converse apart, and the biddings are resumed, " Two thousand two hundred and fifty pounds! said Lord Spen cer. The spectators were now absolutely electrified. The marquis quietly adds his usual " ten," * * and there is an end of the contest. Mr. Evans ere his hammer fell, made a due pause ; and, indeed, as if by something pre ternatural, the ebony instrument itself seemed to be charmed or suspended 'in the mid air.' However, at length down dropped the hammer. * * The sound of Mr. Evans's prostrate sceptre of dominion reached, and resounded from, the utmost shores of Italy. The echo of that fallen hammer was heard in the libraries of Rome, of Milan, and St. Mark. Boccaccio himself started from his slumber of some five hundred years; and Mr. Van Praet rushed, but rushed in vain, amidst the royal book treasures at Paris, to see if a copy of the said Valdarfer Boccaccio could there be found! The marquis's triumph was marked by a plaudit of hands ; and presently after, he offered his hand to Lord Spencer, saying, " We are good friends still !" His lordship replied, " Perfectly ; indeed, lam obliged to you." "So am Ito you," said the marquis; "so the obligation is mutual." He de clared that it was his intention to have gone as far as £5,000. The noble marquis had previousl3 possessed a copy of the same edition, wanting five leaves. " For which five leaves," Lord Spencer remarked, " he might be said to have given £2,26o."—Chambers's Edinburgh Journal ASSUMPTION OF DIGNITY BY A CANDIDATE FOR MAYNOOTII.—He accordingly took his father aside one morning, after he had eaten a more meagre breakfast than usual, and after licking his lips, addressed him in these words :—" I think, father, that upon considerating the consequence to which I am now entitled, and the degree of respectability which, in my own person—in prepria persona—l communicate to the vulgarians with whom I am connected—l call them vulgarians from no derogatory motive ; but you will concede yourself, that they are ig norant of the lamed languages, an' consequently, though dacent enough, still in reference to Latin an' Greek, but vulgarians. Well! Quid multus?—l say, that taking all these things into speculation, looking at them—reluli in speculum—it is neither dacent nor becoming that 1 should ate in the manner I have done, as vulgarly as themselves—that I should ate, I say, any longer without knife and fork. Neither, I announce, shall I in future drink my milk any longer, as I have, with all humility, done hitherto, out of a noggin ; nor continue to disrobe my potatoes any longer without a becoming instrument. I must also have better viands to consume. You are not to be informed that I am in that situation of life, in which, from my education and other accomplishments, I must be estimated as duly qualified to ate beef and mut ton instead of bacon, an' to have my tay breakfast instead of stir-about, which, in polite society, is designated por ridge. You know yourself, and must acknowledge, that I'm soon likely to confer distinction and pre-eminence upon the poor illiterate, but honest creatures, with whom lam associated in the bonds of blood relationship. If I were a dunce, or a booby, or a leather-head, the case might be different ; but you yourself are well acquainted with my talents at logic and conthroversy ; art' I have sound rasons and good authority, which 1 could quote, if necessary, for proving that nothing increases the weight of the brain, and accelerates to gravity and solidity more than good feeding. Pay attention, therefore to my words, for I expect that they will he duly observed :—buy me a knife and fork ; and when I get them, it's not to lay them past to rust, you consave. The beef and mutton must follow; and in future I am resolved to have my jay breakfast. There are geese, and turkeys, and pullets enough about the yard, and I am bent on accomplishing myself in the art of carving them. I'm not the man now to be placed among the other riff-raff of the family over a basket of potatoes, wid a black c.erical coat upon me, and a noggin of milk under my arm ! I tell you the system must be changed : the schoolmaster is abroad, and I'll tolerate such vulgarity no longer. Now saddle the horse till I ride across the bog to Pether Rafferty's Station, where I'm to sarve mass : plase heaven, I'll soon be able to say one myself, and give you all a lift in spirituals— ehem !" " Throth, Dinny, I b'lieve you're right, avick ; and—" " Vick me no longer, father—that's another thing I forgot. It's full time that I should be sirred; and if my own relations won't call me Sir instead of Dinny, it is hardly to be expected that strangers will do it. I wish to goodness you had never stigmatised me wid so vulgar an epith e t as Di nn y. The proper word is Dionysius ; and, in future, I'll expect to be called Misther Dionysius." " Sure, lor your mother needn't be sirrin' you, Dinny ?" " I haven't made up my mind as to whe ther I'll demand that proof of my respectability from you and my mother, or not ; but on this I'm immovable, that instead of Dinny, you must, as I said, designate me Dionysius." " Well, well, avoutneen, I suppose only it's so long and lamed a word." "Itis a lamed word, no doubt : but she must persevere until she's able to master it. I wouldn't for three tenpennies that the priest would hear one of you call me Dinny ; it would degrade me very much in his estimation. At all events, if my mother can not manage the orthography of Dionysius, let it be Denis, or anything but that signature of vulgarity, Dinny. No w , father, you won't neglect to revale what I've ordered to the family ?"—Carleton's Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. ORIGINAL STOPPAGE OF BANK PAYMENTS.—On Saturday, the 25th of February. 1797, the late Mr. Samuel Thornton, deputy governor of the Bank of England, waited on Mr. Pitt, to explain to him the imminent dangers to which that corporation was exposed. Mr. Pitt appointed to receive him at dinner that very day, for the purpose of examining into the facts, and of determining upon the line to be adopted. At that dinner there were present but three persons —the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Deputy Governor of the Bank of England, and Mr. Steele, then secretary to the Treasury. The presence of the latter was soon dispensed with, and the authorities of the Trea sury and Threadneedle-street were left to discuss confi dentially the most important proposition that had ever been mooted between those " high contracting powers." Mr. Thornton demonstrated to the minister that it was utterly hopeless for the bank to continue its specie pay ments; and that early on the following Monday it was necessary that some decisive resolution should be per formed and acted on. The interview was long. Mr. Pitt examined into the case with the deepest anxiety and minuteness. In dismissing Mr. Thornton, he directed him to attend a meeting of the council, to be held on the following morning, on Sunday. Mr. Thornton was in waiting, even before the arrival of Mr. Pitt. Having sent in his name to the council, he was asked by some of the official persons what was the object of his attendance—an object which did not appear to have been communicated to them. He replied that he attended by the command of Mr. Pitt, and on behalf of the Bank of England. On the arrival of Mr. Pitt, Mr. Thornton was called in and examined. He explained the state of the bank, and the imminent peril to which it was exposed by an immediate stoppage. The persons present were—the Chancellor (Lord Loughborough), the Duke of Portland, Marquis Cornwallis, Earl Spencer, Earl of Liverpool, Earl of Chatham, and Mr. Pitt. The latter shortly, but conclu sively, stated his reasons for the instant adoption of an order of council, directing the suspension of cash pay ments by the Bank of England. The Lord Chancellor expressed the strongest objection to such an act, as being wholly contrary to law. The reply of Mr. Pitt was con clusive :—" My Lords, it must be done, the public safety requires it ; and I lay before your lordships a minute directing the proper steps to be taken. To that minute I affix my own name, and I assume the whole responsi bility of the proceeding." The minute was adopted, as might have been expected, from the authority almost supreme, conceded to ,Mr. Pitt by his colleagues as well as by parliament. The order of council was issued ; it was communicated to the Bank of England; it was dis persed throughout the metropolis at the earliest hour on Monday morning. We are aware that this statement does not altogether agree with the declarations made on the occasion, as well as subsequently ; but our information came from the lips of one of the parties to the whole transaction, from its commencement to its close; a man who would not deceive, and who could not be mistaken. — Quarterly Review. THE PARTING WITH AN OLD FAVOURITE.—A few days afterwards the Captain announced his intention to shoot the Great Mogul himself, and a day was appointed for what, to boys, was almost a festival. A consultation was held with the skinner of the village, who agreed to accom pany us to the forest for the purpose of aiding in the exe cution, and to bring spades for the use of all. When the time arrived, the Captain was ill, and the meeting was deferred,—again it was fixed, and again put off; but at last he became ashamed of his irresolution—and the next even ing, towards sunset, we all marched off with the glee of Old Bailey spectators to a hanging match. The great number of operators soon made an ample grave,—the scene was one of singular beauty, —a deep recess in the wood arched over by tall trees, and the sides thickly bor dered with holly, was open only at the western end ; and as the rays of the setting sun streamed up the glen, and marked the outline of the cathedral spire in the distance, they showed in strong relief the group of boys ranged on a little rising bank, and on the foreground the decrepit and tottering horse, and the pallid face of the venerable old man. He had deposited his hat on the ground, and pushed back his long silver locks behind his ears ;—the horse was tethered, and his master advanced with a sieve of crushed beans ;—fond as the Great Mogul was of the repast, he would not begin it till he had licked the hands of his benefactor, unwitting of the cruel mercy designed him ;--the Captain placed the sieve on the ground, and with a deep sigh withdrew to a distance, and prepared his gun. At last the dreaded moment arrived,—he slowly raised the gun to his shoulder, but his emotion made it impossible to hold it steady ;—the horse raised his head at the moment he fired, and the only effect of the shot was to take off a piece of the ear. " Cut me some sticks, boys, and make me a resting-place for my gun." This was soon done, and he once more prepared his musket and took de liberate aim. Long did he pause—passed his hand to the trigger again and again, and drew back as if it were red hot—took out a ragged cambric handkerchief, and applied it to his eyes. The horse had finished his beans—looked full in his master's face, and gave his accustomed neigh of recognition and gratitude ;—it was too much—the gun dropped from his hands. " I cannot do it," he ex claimed, and staggered back fainting to the bank. The gun exploded as it fell, and its contents lodged in poor Mogul's knee. Reader, did you ever hear the scream of a horse in an agony of pain and terror ? It is, of all mor tal sounds, the most awful and unearthly. No one who has not heard it, can conceive anything so full of super natural horror. The horse turned his expressive eye on his master, and said as plainly as in words, " This is thy doing, monster—and this is my reward." The Captain fell senseless into our arms. The startled deer rushed past the opening of the dell in groups, and were soon fol lowed by one of the forest keepers, who had been alarmed by the forbidden sound of fire-arms, and had hastened up to see what was the matter. He comprehended our situa tion at once—walked up to the noble animal, and, putting his musket close to his heart, fired with fatal precision, and ended his suffering. Thus perished the Great Mogul. When the Captain recovered, his first words were, " Is he dead ?" " Quite dead," was the reply. " Thank God !" said he, and alowly attempted to rise : till we got out of the dell he kept his eyes closed ; but, when once seated in the open air, he revived and assumed an air of cheerfulness. " I did not think I had been so weak," said he; " I am an old fool.—llluminated Magazine. VARIETIES In America, we find Democracy united to Slavery; in France, Jacobinism to Despotism ; in England, Conser vatism to Freedom ; and Liberalism conjoined to Humbug everywhere ! Fuller, the well-known author of " British Worthies," wrote his own epitaph, as it appears in Westminster Abbey. It consists of only four words, but speaks volumes :—" Here lies Fuller's earth." NEW PUBLICATIONS.—On the 20th of this month will be published, highly ornamented, and bound in calf a work by a churchwarden of St Stephen's Walbrook, entitled A New Way to Pay Old Debt:.—Punch. CURIOUS COINCIDENCE..—There is a family at King cross, Halifax, in which the first born of three generations have been all girls—all born on the 7th of a month—and all christened Elizabeth. THE REPEAL CAP.—Mr. Hogan, tha sculptor, has de signed a cap for the Repealers, which, however beautiful in itself, is by no means illustrative of the prime object of Mr. O'Connell. The repeal cap should be a cap with out a crown.—Punch. Quick lime is found to be a much better agent than water in dispensing the choke damp that is often found in wells and pits. The application of a bushel of lime, slaked or unslaked, will be sufficient to clear a well in five or ten minutes. We find by a St. Petersburg journal that during the year 1840 there died in Russia 479 persons aged more than a hundred years ; 236 of them reached the age of 105 ; 108 had turned 110 ; fifty-nine had reached 115 ; forty five died at 120 ; twenty-five at 125 ; four died at 130 ; aril two attained 145. Bishop Bedel, to remind him of the need he had of being cleansed and purified in heart, chose an ingenious device, consisting of a flaming crucible, with a Hebrew motto, signifying take from me all my tin, in allusion to Isaiah i. 25. The reason for selecting those words was that the Hebrew word for Tin is Bedil. THE DANGER or TAPPING.—After a consultation, several physicians decided that a dropsical patient should be lapped. Upon hearing of the decision of the doctors, a son of the sick man, who had been remarkable for his devotion to John Barleycorn. approached him and said, " Father, don't submit to the operation ; for there was never anything tapped in our house that lasted more than a week." Corn given to fowls should be crushed and soaked in water : this helps digestion. Hens will lay in winter that are so fed, that would not otherwise. Feed your fowls in winter with bones powdered fine, and they will need less corn, and lay as plentifully as at any season of the year. The bones supply the carbonate of lime, which is neces sary for the production of the shell, and a part of the yolk of the egg. Egg-shell, chalk or unburnt lime, answers a similar purpose. PRAISES OF THE IGNORANT.—Racine always reckoned the praises of the ignorant among the chief sources of chagrin ; and he used to relate that an old magistrate, N:ho had never been at a play, was carried one day to his Andromaque. The magistrate was very attentive to the tragedy, to which was added: the PlaideurB ; and going out of the theatre, he said io the author, " I am extremely pleased, sir, with your Andromaque ; I am only amazed that it ends so gaily." MONSTER BouQuErs.--One prevailing fashion I must notice, which is the monster b ouquets o f exqu i s i te fl owers which turn the Paris Opera-house into a hot-house in every sense of the word ;—those for the hand would be a load for a market girl, and of those borne in the bosom I leave you to judge, when I tell you I saw a fat marquise with five full bloom cabbage poses under her chin ! biers msuvais gout, no doubt, and in her case especially, un wise, as they gave the hint direct to her age and propor tions.—Cheltenham Looker-on. A CRYING MISTAKE.—At Southampton last week, the cryer proclaimed a reward of £2OO for the recovery of £7OO, stated to have been lost in a green purse of notes. The cryer was in error—the sum was £7, and the reward offored was £2. A gentleman of Southampton, a friend of the loser, in writing out the particulars for the cryer, wrote the sums thus—£7 0 0 ; £2 0 0;,,, omitting to put s. d. to the ciphers ; and though the cherub was somewhat startled at the amount, he " followed his copy," as the printers phrase it. A DISCONSOLATE WIDOW.—A few weeks ago the hus band of a young woman died in the vicinity of this city ; being quite inconsolable for the loss of her late partner, she was called upon, before the funeral, by a male friend, who did everything he could to console her, and finding that nothing else would do, he made her an offer, plump, to supply the place of the deceased. After a good deal of ill-suppressed sighing, the poor widow sobbed out, " Oh, Richard, you're very gude—very con-con-siderate, indeed —but I pro-promised mysel' to our puir John's coffin maker last night !"—Glasgow Constitutional., Nov. 28, 1841. AMERICAN DEBT TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRO,HCO* Sir,—Having been unwell for some days past, 11 1 had no opportunity of paying my respects to', reaehro Duff Green, who (whatever,,he his other mort# "- o r c h e is rt c a o in u l n y tr n y o . t sThohwen Generalhiinself d a e W ma a n s d h s i , ng s4 t . o i n th in def e . oe ..s%t a beau t ), simplicity, " Whence this morbid hatred of But this question, all-affecting as it is, is stolen ..- b i- Pilpay's fables :—" A fox," says Pilpay, " ca u g ht the leg in a trap near the farm-yard, uttered the 3 9 6 ., piercing cries of distress ; forthwith all the birds(' big yard gathered round him, and seemed to delight in t , a, misfortune ; hens chuckled, geese hissed, ducks quacj'el.., and chanticleer with s hrill cockadoodles rent the pis Whence,' said the fox, stepping forward wi th in ehe gravity,l done ' wh P Whom enceth have ismorbid I injuredhatre of fth; I fox a c have a ve_• whelmed with astonishment at these symptoms of sion.' Oh, you old villain,' the poultry excision where are our ducklings ? where are our goslingfii Did not I see you running away yesterday wi th .. mother in your mouth ? Did not you eat up 2. 11 t of lations last week ? Y ou o ught to die the ° ' i s c e w deaths—to be pe c k e d i n t o a th o usand pieces.' dof hence, General Green, comes the morbid hatre beeri America, as you term it—because her conduct has, predatory because she has ruined so many he.; children, so many miserable women, so many a ged Orl because she has disturbed the order of the rifled those sacred treasures which human v irtue a, hoarded for human miser) Why is such hatred it, bid P Why, is it not just,r.inevitable ? whY , ' innate e to not disgraceful to want it ? why, is it not h nonrab l y, is feel it ? A nie Hate America !! ! I have loved and honoured ...•-at rica all my life ; and in the Edinburgh Review, anuti all opportunities which my trumpery sphere of ° 4l has afforded, I have never ceasedtopraise and cle' e the United States ; and to every American to wh alu ro f have had the good fortune to be introduced, I ha T ve . P ee fered all the hospitality in my power. nu t c- b ° P. shut my eyes to enormous dishonesty ; nor, reineni_Zog ing their former state, can I restrain myself from cal he up from on them (though I copy Satan) to spring gulf of infamy in which they are rolling— world, " Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen." do I am astonished that the honest States of Atner i l re . not draw a cordon sanitaire round their unpaYi n g A the thren—that the truly mercantile New Yorkers, a% ill theirthoroughly p European honest s visits wear of tn u nform Massachusetts , wtb o d t ° sh.e s:; ,t o tle r waistcoats, ir and " our own property" Solvent States," worked in gold letters upon and receipts in full of all demands tamboured pantaloons. th'e But the General seems shocked that I should saY st A • mericans cannot go to war without money : cr t do I mean by war ? Not irruptions into Canada the embodying of militia in Oregon ; but a long? T tefil o ci maritime war of four or five years' duration. le man so foolish as to suppose that Rothschild haj, thing to do with such wars ? and that a bankrupt State, without the power of borrowing a shilling in the W . °_ r , si li may not be crippled in such a contest ? W e all that the Americans can fight. Nobody doubts tri`.. , e a whole ar011; courage. I see now in my mind's ey the plains of Pennsylvania in battle array: b eefyirnine corps of insolvent light infantry, regiments of of horse debtors, battalions of repudiators, brigade:heft bankrupts, with Vivre sans payer, ou mour=n, on , ese banners, and cere alieno on their trumpets : all their desperate debtors would fight to the death for i , 00% country, and probably drive into the sea their inYOOO7). creditors. Of their courage, I repeat a gain, I h ale is figured on Or doubt. I wish I had the same confidence in ther.vi„ dom. But I believe they will become intoxicated, "if the flattery of unprincipled orators ; and, insteaolarioug. entering with us into a noble competition in in „ r ace calico (the great object for which the Anglo-Sa%°'"theit, of bloody, foolish, arid accursed wa ste s ears appears to have been created), they will happiness and their money (if they can get any) in / to the world that Perkins is a real fine gentleman' w ill that the carronades of the Washington steame r a carry farther than those of the Britisher Victoria, - the Robert Peel vessel of war. tion te lam accused of applying the epithet repud. 3 but States which have not repudiated. Perhaps t he But wiltyou then these latter States have not paid. ct I don't °'" e jors i difference between a man who says, anything, and will not pay you," and another wo o ; t he mnitteuto be cc I do owe you a sum," and who, having debt, never pays it ? There seems in the first t° some slight colour of right ; but the second is blazing, refulgent, meridian fraud. men i n It may be very true that rich and educated f est Pennsylvania wish to pay the debt, and that as,e who objectors are the Dutch and German agriculturifsetet cannot he made to understand the effect of 0h.% du' upon clover. All this may be very true, but it i s tat ioa mestic quarrel. Their churchwardens of reP!,...ce must make a private rate of infamy for themselcic:rei is have nothing to do with this rate. The real t i ll n r is. the Unpaid World versus the State of PenneYlva- &lost And now, dear Jonathan, let me beg of you t° wbut l the advice of a real friend, who will say toy u st vl Wat Tyler had not the virtue to gay, ad d cti° ns el ro t speakers in the eleven recent Pennsvanian 44 Make 3 g have cautiously abstained from saying,}o have effort ; book up at once, and pay." Youou ception of the obloquy and oontempt to which doom exposing yourselves all over Europe. Bull a s oe s 0° ° f disposed to love you, but he loves nobody 'iv° l ot ; pay him. His imaginary paradise is some anu soon as I hear that the last farthing revs.' sg punctual payment, where ready money p where debt and discount are unknown. A 8 fg t he creditor, I will appear on my knees at the bar o. ole Pennsylvanian Senate in the plumeopicean robe of shall rican controversy. Each Conscript JonathadecotgAte trickle over me a few drops of tar, and help r ° me with those penal plumes in which the vail'i to the reasoner of the transatlantic world does honsgehavilit s to physical superiority of his opponents. And O w ' clt eased my soul of its indignation, and sold s ubje e ; 40 per cent. discount, I sulkily retire from to fr e " with a fixed intention of lending no more moneY 00 0e1 and enlightened republics, but of employing A /11 . 0 7 uro,:: henceforth in buying up Abyssinian bonds, a n ' sol— ing into the Turkish Fours or the Tunis Ore-- Half per Cent. funds g"is war, top pto .r,oovfetaxabe SYDNEY sMITO. YOUNG WIVES.—In the county of 13ed1r, it , Ca women marry under age; in Huntingdon , 25 ,-V; i. n t ri;• bridge, 23 ;in Essex, 23 ;i n Northampton' of g; West Riding of York, 21 ; in the East Itidingofom 11; Cumberland, 10; Westmoreland, 10 ; c Salop, 9 ; Hereford, 9. SUITS —From Saragossa in 1555 ; the 'l ll- 066; LIST OF THE EXPULSIONS ENDURED IP in Vienna 1568; Avignon 1570 ; Antwerp , Segro t o vatelineja fort; N ll gal 1570; England 1579, 1581, and 1586; ° ° `1589; 49 1; Hungary and Transylvania 1588; Bordea°oou 40.1; France 1594 ; Holland 1596; the city of Tocnoe, Lr'og" Bearn 1597 ; England again in 1601 ; th e i6V; ' l O4 Dantzic and Thorn 1606 ; Venice 1606 and i i s; 111 0 r od dom of Amara or Japan 1613 ; Bohemia 1 , 6 , 1 ; Chindoo9 1619 ; Naples and the Low Countries 16.z%i'523; India 1622 ; Malta 1634 ; Russia 1676 and ', t oil , 1 0 6 1729 ; Portugal 1759 ; Spain, the 2d Pf c 7kP fit Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, 3d Nov. “;„ 2P: r ge" Parma, Bth Feb. 1768 ; Isle of Malta ag'';;rtial 1768 ; Rome and all Christendom 176 8 . is' i ti f neral expulsions, 37. ;ao 0f JUST LIKE HIM !—Brevity is the soul of w' n ' et eris tl i ol a , as most men know, the distinguishing ch ar y , an el. t ioo the " The Duke's" epistolary style. We ~1 38.0 0 19 it i 5 pie in point to submit to our readers, the 1000'61119 suppressed being the name of the perso n ;, v roor h e g t tbe, addressed. But in order that the reader re ga y th t ba a t the laconic reply, we roust As' Grace r ' it er writer had taken upon himself to inform his the writer a certain estate in land, formerly enjoyericblothehreriore" ancestors, was now in the possession m chg and as the property had belonged to the he ", boW to. 00. , be came into the writer's family, he fel t 'vac n ow charging his duty in pointing out to the ° ,,,.er I ' l9l the crown might re - possess it—the arts the better appreciated : The Duke of Wellington 10/ letter of the 11th • inst. the e a in e n gto o. Mr. ° f °f the question which he has asked the Du lce ( (I 1 th e The Duke is the Commander in of ° not a counsel learned in the law. Mr. , Preston." w e Pk: e ANECDOTE OF THE AYttstitas BAI LI ? r ,' ° . rnae_2„ n rit t°, following anecdote in Ainsworth 's a°' Carlisle, "•' ire" " One Andrew Horner, a resident in 1-•°l:yin•eil suc),,yed Glasgow, to publish a volume of Pnems,'„,,ne, be Strayed by himself. Oddly enough, on his WO "v. e t with ~t the out of the direct road into Ayr, where be l'' an i e llS 5 ' the' at a public-house, and some boon cor" f oie of if3 a uitts' poet errant and the poet resident (w l,ose t ve rse -f° ,,ore i unmade) to try their strength in a match use, EtS , 1 0 An epigram was the subject chosen, be e poe r°s :s 0 02 internally argued, ' it is the shortest of all e , ~a t in compliment to him, the company resolv toteronced..., merits should supply the theme. He cornii i e ta n ine or ' In seventeen bonder thretty-n, ,„ 1 WO 11 , 1 too l ‘ and he paused. He then said, 'Ye s e ,'l fie th e- o f alv 1739, so I mak' that the commencemen • ._ us 81r C oil , pen in hand, folded his paper with a conson_e s(h° pet 'lce " wll v thorship, squared himself to the table, 11 _.. 1 8 10 0 01 sidered it no trifle even to write a letter, %n o ' . raniiing down, in good round hand, as if h e had be en a bill of parcels, the line— o° • tty-ni" ; 'ln seventeen hunder thre ._,. as Ori_opi but beyond this, after repeated attenctePt!,,_ll,,o, h . 0 , to advance. The second l►ne was th or_',',,t3titlf_na not pass. At last, when Andrew Horne% rf e L; l, in , o rh ere mitted he was not quite in the vein, t, ~ Kin , the c: , paper were handed to his antagonisotnowinYg viv a o , rejected, for he instantly t " f In seventeen burlder threttY_vine, The Dell gat stuff to male a ~, And pit it in a corner ; e ~, plan, But, shortly after, c hange I unt , ;' , Made it to something 'lke a "":! , , r' And called it Andrew Horner "hia,soniaeoco eiv'sre,aovis.lls. 1813• io No td i ab t itt ° " tto ` °4 t% 1 4 1 h t , t t "„, 0)1 . 4° kr 13 , ill 140