Yes-wretch that I was-I saw and heard it all, and without one single pang; even the common emotions of pity, which would have stirred in a stranger's bosom, found no place in my estranged and hardened heart-but I was punished, O fear. fully was I punished, when in after years conscience woke up, and with remorseful bitterness reviewed the memories of days departed. A little while and the last sad office was performed, and Charley was laid in his little grave, and I returned to the desolate home whence he had departed forever; henceforth I deemed to find my only solace in the thought that we should meet again. I was an alien in my father's house with his heaviest curse upon me, which I could not hope neither by prayers nor tears to move him to revoke -I was in the midst of strangers, and so destitute of the common necessáries of life, that I was dependent upon them for my daily sustenance. My duties were neglected; I had neither the motive nor the spirit for exertion-the last star of the many which had once shone over the pathway of my existence, had vanished, and gloom and darkness were around me, from which I could hope to escape but in my grave, and I set down in listless, calm despair, patiently to await the hour which should lay me there. A month had passed, and by a wonderful and merciful Providence my husband had been snatched from the threshold of the tomb, and was now convalescent, though still unable to rise from his bed. Once only after his restoration to reason, had he alluded to Charley's death, and then, though few words were spoken, I could perceive by his uncontrolable emotion, it was with the bitterest remorse and the deepest affliction. One evening after a day spent in unusual melancholy on my part, a stranger arrived from New York bearing a letter from my father. I grasped the precious missive, and eagerly broke the seal and perused its contents with mingled joy and grief. Since my departure the health of my parent had gradually been declining, till now he was only able to dictate the few brief words, which the letter contained: He had repented of his severity towards me, and sent for my return, to look upon me once again, to bless me and to die. Foresceing the annoyances and dangers which I should probably have to encounter in so long a journey, if undertaken alone, an old and tried friend had been sent to accompany me, on whose protection I was told I might with safety reply. With him a sum of money had been placed, for the defrayment of journeying expenditures, and also for those which I might deem it necessary to incur, in preparations for travelling. Thus every obstacle being foreseen and removed, I did not hesitate a moment in deciding upon the course I should pursue but instantly determined to comply with my father's request, and the morrow was fixed upon for my departure. ingly upon me, as if to read from my appearance the confirmation of what I had said. "O Mary," he exclaimed, "you cannot, you will not forsake me thus-O God! I had not dreamed of this, and yet-and yet, wretch that I have been, I deserve it all. Yes, go my Mary—righte ous Heaven! for the last time do I call you mine! -but peace" he said, laying his thin hand upon his breast, as if to still its convulsive heavings, while his white lips quivered—“ why should I mur. "Never! she repeated," "surely it would be in-mur at the returning justice made for sin? Go, justice and cruelty to desert your husband now in the first moment of contrition." and may peace attend you, and the richest bles sings in the gifts of Heaven in recompense for your "And what," I replied, "but injustice and cru- sufferings for my sake, but before we part, tell me, elty have I received from him? I go at the bid-in pity tell me that you do not hate mc-say that ding of a parent, from whose heart, for his sake, though henceforth we must be as strangers, you I have long been estranged, and for which he has will remember me kindly-say, Mary, say that repaid me only with coldness and neglect. I owe you forgive me." him no duty nor affection, he has forfeited all claims to both. If one spark of my early love had lingered in my heart. the wanton indifference, which he betrayed when he knew that perhaps his child was dying, wouid have extinguished it. To my heart he has become a stranger, and I sever the bond which has hitherto existed between us, without a pang-tomorrow we part, and I rejoice in the hope that we part forever.". Listen," she answered, "for your own sake I beseech you listen. By the laws of God and man you are bound to him by a tie which you cannot sunder with impunity. As surely as justice is an attribute of that Being, in whose presence you breathed your perjured vows at the marriage altar, you will repent and it may be when repentance will avail you nothing." "Have done,” I answered impatiently-" my mind is fixed and it is useless to attempt to dissuade me from my purpose." "Yes, Charles," I answered, "I do forgive you, and pray that Heaven may forgive you also-and now farewell." He feebly grasped the hand which I extended, and I turned away. Before leaving the room I turned to look upon him once again. His eyes were humid with tears, and they were fixed upon me now with an expression so full of sad, regretful tenderness, that, hardened as I was, it subdued me in an instant. The fondness of love came back for a moment upon me, and I rushed back and twining my arms around his neck, covered his cheek with passionate kisses, while scalding tears which could no longer be restrained, fell from my eyes like rain. My heart spoke for him, but I hushed its gentle pleadings, crushed back the feelings of my better nature, and hardened myself a gainst him. One moment more and the farewell was repeated, and I tore myself away-and thus we parted. CHAPTER IV. The old lady cast upon me a look of mingled pity and reproach, and turned away. Her words It was nearly midnight. I had dismissed my were powerless then, but in after years the remem-waiting-maid, and sat alone in my chamber. I brance of her friendly warning enhanced a hundred fold the pangs of an accusing conscience. had that evening attended a brilliant ball in my na. tive city, and, in consequence of a slight indispo. Morning canie, and I stole forth to visit the grave sition, had left the company at an early hour, and of my child. It was a sweet, secluded spot, on the returned; and, moreover, I had promised to make, velvet banks of the Ohio, at the entrance of the that night, a decision upon a subject which had forest. Tall, old trees stretched their wide boughs been repeatedly urged upon my consideration, and above him, and the gentle breeze, fragrant with this evening with unusual earnestness, with a rethe breath of the thousand flowers that were blos-quest, that to the question proposed, a definite ansoming round, whispered mysteriously and sadly amid the emerald leaves; and no other sound save the voice of singing birds, and the monotonous dashing of the bright waves, as they went trooping and sparkling by, ever broke in upon the solemn stillness that reigned around. I tarried awhile by the little grave, and then with one long, lingering look as if to fix the sweet scene in my memory forever, with a bursting heart I turned away. When nearly in readiness to depart I entered my husband's room and approached his bedside. He was sitting up, supported by pillows, and looking An old lady was then residing with me, whose from the restlessness of the preceding night, unuservices my neighbors had in charity engaged for sually pale and worn. I had not seen him for the term of my husband's sickness, and to her I nearly two days, and now as I approached him his immediately made known my intentions, and ob- eye brightened, a feeble smile broke upon his lip, tained a promise that she would remain in her pre- and he extended his hand in welcome. In spite of sent situation so long as Ashburton should think myself I was touched by his manner, and it was her care and attention necessary. For her past with strong effort that I kept down the risings of services I amply rewarded her, and likewise my heart, as I briefly informed him of my intenplaced in her hands a sum of money, from which tions, and told him I had come to bid him farewell she might receive the recompense for future ones, forever. For a moment his eyes were bent search swer should be rendered on the morrow; and the exciting gayeties of a ball-room, I deemed, would scarcely allow me to bestow upon the subject the thought and deliberation, I felt it required. And now, shall I confess it ?—yes, pitiful worm that I was, I sat me down with a cold, calculating policy, to reason and consider upon the question, whether or not it would be expedient and politic to appeal for a legal separation from my husband; to petition an earthly power for the dissolution of that bond, which the Almighty had wrought between us. Even now, as I write, though years have passed since then, the remembrance of that hour crimsons my cheek with shame, and I shudder at the thought of the dread punition, which must have been the return of my guilt, were justice only an attribute of my Maker. Nearly three years had passed since I had scen Ashburton. Soon after the death of my father, which occurred a few weeks after my arrival in New-York, I received a letter from him, in which, encouraged by the deep feeling I betrayed at the tics, upon its réception, had carried it to my cham- moment of parting, he had attempted, with a win- Soon after the reception of this letter, leaving ing the settlement of the estate bequeathed me by my father, to my attorney, I departed for Europe, in company with a gentleman and lady of my acquaintance, whence, after more than two years' absence, I had but just returned. The lady was a sister of one of my former lovers, who yet remained unmarried, and it was easy to understand why so much interest was betrayed by her and by her husband, with relation to my divorcement.— They had spared no pains, both before and after our return, to win me to compliance with their wishes, and it was to them I had promised to render a decision upon the subject on the morrow. out his higher qualities of mind, might have almost death, came over me, and with a deep moan, wrung from my tortured soul, I sank to an insensibility, from which I was not aroused for hours. With returning animation, came an indistinct and dreamy recollection that something dreadful had befallen me, and then the full realization of the fearful truth broke upon me. My fond hopes were blighted in their very bud, and I was crushed down to the lowest depths of despair, to be tortured almost to madness by the stings of an impotent remorsc. My repentance had come too late-100 late. The being, to whom, in the presence of the Almighty, I had sworn eternal love and constancy, and then perfidiously forsaken, was deadIn fancy I stood again by his bedside-I saw and what would my groans and cries of contrition him pale, attenuated and weak from suffering; I avail me now? The ear that should hear them heard his wild, passionate, parting words, and O was cold, dull and unheeding, and the lips I had that last sad look-how faithfully had meinory { fondly hoped would breathe the answering word— preserved it. And now as she held it up before forgiveness, were sealed in the deep stillness of the me, so full of love and yet so sorrowful and chidd.grave. I did not weep, I could not-tears would ing, burning drops, such as the torturing bitterness of remorse alone can wring from the heart, rolled thickly over my cheeks. Hours passed a strange change had come over me; the warm fountain of affection, so long sealed beneath the ice of indifference, had again gushed forth, and my penitent heart once more experienced the delicious happiness of loving. The morbid apathy, which since the death of my child had have been as mockery of the terrible agony which seemed wringing the life from my heart, and no moan nor sigh broke from my lips, to tell to those around, the misery I was suffering-I had no friend but the One in Heaven, to whom I could unburden my sorrows, and in silence I bore them all. The physician who had been summoned to my attendance by my terrified waiting-maid, pro I had that evening casually overheard a citizen of the city, who was probably reminded of Ashbur-constantly possessed me, even in all my wander-nounced my illness caused by some powerful ex. ton by my appearance for the first time since my return, in society, making some inquiries respecting him, of a gentleman from the West. From the few words which I could distinguish, I supposed that he was still living, but, where, or in what situation, I did not ascertain, and I was too unconcerned and careless about the matter to propose any inquiries to myself. ings amid the interest wakening scenes of foreign citement, but what had occasioned that excitement, no one knew, or if they knew, no allusion was made to it in any way. Days and weeks passed by, during most of which time I was unable, through illness, to leave my chamber. The blighting sirocco, which had swept over my heart, had infected the very springs of my existence, and I felt there was but a span between me and eternity. Hitherto I had placed my sole reliance on earthly trusts for happiness, and in the bitter lessons of experience, I had learned my folly-all had departed, and where now could I determined, at an early hour in the morning, I look for support and consolation? My bible told to call at the lodgings of the western gentleman me to my God, and I turned and laid my sorrowbefore mentioned, and learn from him the address burdened heart at his feet, and breathed the sigh of my husband, and then to write immediately, of penitence and prayer for solace in that henig. and tell him of my remorse, and sue for his forgive-nant ear which is ever open to the cry of the suf ness, and permission to resume the place I had so ferer, and found the peace arising from divine forwantonly resigned. Bright, peaceful dreams visi-giveness and the hope of Heaven. And now but ted me that night, as I lay upon my pillow, and one wish remained-to be permitted once to look when I awoke, it was in the new and sweet antici- upon my husband's grave, before I should be pation of happiness in future. My first care in called to die. the morning was to write an answer to the question concerning my divorcement-what that answer was, it is unnecessary for me to relate. This be But now, in the solitude of my chamber, the subject before me, naturally led my thoughts away to him, and before I was aware, I caught myself wandering where he was, what was his situation, and whether he still remained the same debased and wretched creature of former days; and in spite of myself, I half regretted the indifference which had allowed me to neglect the opportunity for learning these, which had that evening been presented. I tried to shake off the feeling of self- reproach which had seized me, but in vain-conscience was waking, and its low whisperings, for the first time, were heard, for years. Strange memories of days departed, spite of the efforts to repulse their risings, came thronging to my mind. I thought of my early love, my bridal and the happy years succeeding, my deep devotedness in the cruel change which followed, and subsequent es-ing done, I took up a newspaper which had been trangement, and then of my guilty desertion. While musing thus, I idly unclasped a bracelet upon my arm, and scarcely conscious of what I did, drew towards me a small ivory box, which my maid, had mistaken for my jewel casket, and placed upon my dressing-stand. I raised the lid, and started at beholding that which it contained, as if a spectre had appeared before me—it was the min. iature of my husband, which he had given me long years before. In my poverty, I had bartered its costly setting for bread, and the likeness itself, upon returning to my father, I had left as a worth. less thing, with its original. He had re-purchased the sheathing, and placed the miniature within it, and sent it to me during my absence. The domes left at my door the preceding evening during my inst. Mr I had still sufficient strength to warrant an effort for the attainment of my desire, and I determined at once to make it; and in company with two faithful domestics, I commenced a journey to Kentucky. Several days passed, when, one evening, I found myself at a little inn, where I had chosen to remain during the night, in a quiet village, scarcely more than a day's ride from my destination. Though unusually fatigued, I had not yet retired to my chamber. I had taken up a pamphlet in the little parlor which I had first entered, and hoping to obtain a temporary forgetfulness of myself, had commenced reading it. "Died, in -, Ky. on the The subject considered was intemperance, one, Charles Ashburton, formerly of this city." if any, to awaken my attention, and from the first Shall I describe the thrill of agony which shot I was deeply engaged, and as I proceeded, an inthrough my heart, as I read this terrible intelli-tense and almost painful interest was excited, and genc? 0: I cannot, for words are too feeble to I bent over the pages and drank in their intoxicaexpress it. My brain reeled-a faintness, as of ting eloquence, till all around me was forgotten.— Now the diction was glowingly beautiful and imaginative, leading the mind away to wander amid scenes of ideal loveliness-now it was so tender, so touching, so pathetic, as to fill the eye with blind. ing tear-drops, and then gracefully it would change to a style of loftiness and grandeur, mounting higher and higher, until the astonished mind reeled, drunken with sublimity, and the breath grew still and the heart suspended its beatings, till the writer should stoop to a lowlier strain. After finishing the perusal of the work, I turned to learn who was its author; no name was given, and I laid it aside, greatly fatigued by the excitement it had occasioned. I had before been informed of the arrival of two statesmen on their way to Washington, by the loquacious landlady, who was delighted with the honor she deemed would accrue to her from the entertaining of such distinguished guests. One of them had entered the room where I was sitting; but so deeply had I been absorbed in reading, that until I had closed the book, I was unconscious of his presence "A splendid work this," he remarked, taking it up. "It is written by one who can fully appreciate the evils of intemperance." piness sprang to my eyes, such as I had not known for years, and silently my heart sent up a grateful tribute to that Being, through whose mercy I was permitted to taste it. "Oh how cruelly," I continued, "I have been deceived. Tell me, stranger what meant the rumor of his death ?" "The decease of a distant relative and fellowtownsmen of the same name, probably occasioned the report," he answered. "But, madam," he added," what am I to infer from this strange agitation ?—are you, as I suspect, his wife ?”—and his eyes were bent sternly upon me, and his lip curled scornfully as he spoke. It is a picture of surpassing loveliness, and my feelings are all in keeping with its peace and quiet. Years have passed since the event I last recorded long years of uninterrupted happiness and peace, more than compensating me for former sufferings. In the bright present, the gloomy past seems like a troubled dream, from which I gladly turn my thoughts, to fix them on the blissful future, hope whispers shall be mine. At my feet sits a noble boy of twelve summers as I write, his dark eyes bent intently upon the pages of the Iliad, and his spirit away with its brave heroes in battle, while a lovely Hebe, four With a blush of shame, I answered in the af-years his senior, bounds into the room, her face all firmative, and besought him to go immediately and request the private attendance of Ashburton. "But stay," I added, as he turned to depart," tell him not whom he is about to meet, say that a stranger asks the interview." He bowed in answer to my request, and left me. Minutes passed-the door at last unclosed, and my husband stood before me. He bowed haughtily, as he entered, but there was no look of recognition. "Madam," he began, "I am here at your request, you will now be pleased to honor me with "You are acquainted with the author, then," I your commands." answered, carelessly. "I am," he replied. "He is a young lawyer, of Kentucky. He was highly distinguished in his profession some few years since in the city of New-York. An accomplished politician, he sustained several high public offices, discharging his duties for a time satisfactorily to his constituents. By his intemperate habits, however, he forfeited, by degrees, their esteem and confidence, and gradually sank from the rank which he had attained, to the extreme of degradation. Though fallen, his proud spirit could not brook the gibes and scoffs of those whose voices had been lent to swell the acclamations which had greeted him in the days of his prosperity; and poor, despised and forsaken by every one but his wife, he left the scenes of his former greatness, and removed to a small settlement in Ohio. Here several circumstances occurred which eventually led to a thorough reformation. He removed to his present place of residence, and resumed the practice of his pro. fession, and has since met with the happiest success. His splendid talents and unimpeachable integrity have gained the admiration and respect of a wide community, whose highest honors are lavished thickly upon him. Young as he is, old men grown grey in halls of legislation, go to him for counsel in State affairs, and his opinions are received as oracles. He has occupied a prouder eminence than that from which he fell in years gone by, and his course is still upward and onward, and where it shall end, should life be spared I know not. He is now with me, on a journey to to Washington, to take his seat in Congress, of which he has lately been chosen a member." There was a bitter revulsion in my feelings as I heard this formal greeting. I was not aware thaf my appearance was so sadly changed by grief and sickness, that he did not know me; I deemed that in my own coin I was receiving the recompense of my sin. "Oh Charles! look not so coldly on me !" I exclaimed, as I sprang forward and sank at his feet, with my clasped hands upraised before him"Your wife, your Mary kneels for pardon for the past; oh do not turn away, but say, in pity say that you forgive her." He started back and bent his searching eyes earnestly for a moment upon my upturned face, while his lip and check and brow waxed white as marble. in serene and solemn grandeur to the skies, clothed to their summits with forests of majestic trees, all robed in the rich, bright foliage of early summer.— Velvet valleys wind between them, stretching away in long, green vistas, growing in the distance dim and shadowy at length, in the fading light.The Ohio comes sparkling on across a broad savanna, that spreads greenly away to the east, and directly before me its waters part, and flow divided on awhile, then mingling, form a lovely isle, glow. ing up in the yellow light, like an emerald set in "Charles Ashburton," he answered, regarding one broad sheet of gold. On and on, the stream me with a look of astonishment. A strange dizziness came over me, as I listened, and my heart throbbed with a suffocating violence. "Tell me his name, in pity tell me his name," I gasped, as I reeled forward and grasped the stranger's arm for support. "Righteous Heaven!" I exclaimed, "he lives, my own Ashburton lives, and I yet may make atonement for my guilt." Tears of delicious hap. goes flashing, till, with a graceful sweep around a wooded promontory, the bending foliage all mir. rored in its lucid depths, it hides itself from view. radiant with joy, as she exclaims: "Father is coming, at last-see, mother, see you coach approaching. I know that he is there." She is right. He is just returning, after several days' absence, from Frankfort, whither the duties of his profession, and also of a high office under government, frequently call him. But the carriage has reached the gate as I write, and I must away to meet him. Reader, farewell. MISCELLANI. TALLEYRAND AND ARNOLD. THERE was a day when Talleyrand arrived 'n Havre, hot foot from Paris. It was in the darkest hour of the French Revolution. Pursued by the bloodhounds of the Reign of Terror, stripped of every wreck of property or power, Talleyrand secured a passage to America in a ship about to sail. He was going a beggar and a wanderer to a strange land, to earn his bread by daily labor. Is there an American staying at your house?" he asked the landlord of his hotel. "I am bound to cross the water, and would like a letter to some person of influence in the New World." The landlord hesitated a moment and then said: "There is a gentleman up stairs cither from America or Britain, whether an American or an Englishman, I cannot tell.” He pointed the way, and Talleyrand-who in his life was Bishop, Prince and Prime Ministerascended the stairs. A miserable suppliant, he stood before the stranger's door, knocked and entered. In the far corner of a dimly lighted room, sat a gentleman of some fifty years, with bis arms folded, and his head bowed on his breast. From a window direetly opposite, a flood of light poured over his forehead. His eyes looked from beneath the downcast brows, as he gazed in Talleyrand's face with a peculiar and searching expression.His face was striking in its outline, the mouth and chin indicative of an iron will. His form, vigorous, even with the snows of fifty winters, was clad in a dark, but rich and distinguished costume. Talleyrand advanced-stated that as he was an American, he solicited his kind and feeling offices. He poured forth his history in eloquent French and broken English. "I am a wanderer-an exile. I am forced to fly to the new world, without a friend or home.— You are an American! Give me then I beseech you a letter of yours, so that I may be able to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any mannerthe scenes of Paris have filled me with such horror that a life of labor would be a paradise to a career of luxury in France. You will give me a letter to one of your friends. A gentleman like you has doubtless many friends." The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Talleyrand never forgot, retreated towards the door of the next chamber, his head downcast, his eyes looked still from beneath his darkened brow. He spoke as he retreated backward; his voice was full of meaning. "I am the only man born in the New World, who can raise his hand to God and say I have not a friend-not one in all America." troyed, both in mind, body, and etsate go to the A FACT THE ready wit of a true-born Irishman, however humble, is exceeded only by his gallantry. A few days since, says an exchange paper, we observed a case in point. A sudden gust of wind took a parasol from the hand of its owner, and before one had a chance to recollect whether it would be his Talleyrand never forgot the overwhelming sad- etiquette to catch the parasol of a lady to whom ness of that look which accompanied these words: he had never been introduced, lively Emeralder "Who are you!" he cried, as the strange man dropped his hod of bricks, caught the parachute in retreated towards the next room. "Your name!" the midst of it Ellsler gyrations, and presented it “My name”—with a smile that had more of to the looser, with a bow, which reminded us of mockery than joy in its convulsive expression-poor Power. "Faith, madam," said he as he did "my name is Benedict Arnold." so, " if you were as strong as you are handsome, He was gone. Talleyrand sank in a chair, gasp-it wouldn't have got away from you." "Which ing the words "Arnold the traitor." Thus you see he wandered over the earth, another Cain with a wanderer's mark upon his brow. Even in that desolated room at that Inn of Havre, his crimes found him out, and forced to tell his name-that name the synonymy of infamy. The last twenty years of his life are covered with a cloud, from whose darkness but a few gleams of light flash out upon the page of history. The manner of his death is not distinctly known. But we cannot doubt that he died utterly friendless -that his cold brow was not moistened by one farewell tear-that remorse pursued him to the grave whispering John Andre! in his ears, and that the memory of his course of glory knawed like a canker at his heart, murmuring forever; "True to your country, what might you have been, O, Arnold the Traitor ?" THE DEVIL'S RAGGED SCHOOL. If you are determined to be poor, go to the devil's ragged school—the grog-shop-and you will soon be ragged, and pennyless, too. If you wish to starve your family, go to the devil's ragged school-for that will consume the means of their support. If you would be cheated by rogues, go to the devil's ragged school for that will make your task easy. If you want to become a fool, go to the devil's ragged school-and you will loose your wits. If you want to expel all comfort from your house, go to the devil's ragged school-and you will do it most effectually. If you would expose both folly and secrets, go to the devil's ragged school-and they will run out as the liquor runs in. If you think you are to strong, go to the devil's ragged school-and you will be conquered by so powerful an enemy. If you would get rid of your money without knowing how, go to the devil's ragged school-and it will melt away directly. If you would be dead weight upon the public, go to the devil's ragged school-and that will render you useless, helpless and burdensome. If you would be hated by your family and friends, and be a nuisance, go to the devil's ragged school-and you will soon gain your wishes. Finaly, if you are determined to be utterly des shall I thank you for first, the service or the compli- YOUNG MEN THE most anxious moment in the history of a a livelihood. The interests of life are crowded The trial of virtue now comes. The test of Letters Containing Remittances, Received at this Office, ending Wednesday last,deducting the amount of postage paid. P. M. Earlville, N. Y. $3,00; E. S. Otego, N. Y. $1,00; P. M. Madrid, N. Y. $2,00; C. H. P. Austerlitz, $3.00; Mrs. E. W. Greene, N. Y. $1,00; P. M. Cedarville, N. Y. $2,00; P. M. Levant, N. Y. $7,00; Miss F. A. G. Trenton, N. Y. $1,00; N. S. R. Guilford, N. Y. $1.00; J. C. Perrysburgh, O. $1.00 E. H. A. Columbus, Miss.$2.50: L. H. Horicon, N. Y $1,00; E. C. T. Plymouth, la. $1,00; R. S. B. Easton, N. Y. $1,00; P. M. West Farmington, N. Y. $2,00; A. R. South Dover, N. Y. $0,50; MARRIAGES. In this city, on the 2d, inst. by the Rev. Dr. Gosman, Alexander S. Rowley, Esq. to Julia A. Shufelt, both of Hudson. On the 8th inst, by the Rev. G. Coles, Mr. Lloyd Alkins to Mrs. Christiana Lane, both of Columbiaville, N. Y. In Ghent, on the 4th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Gosman, Mr. Albert Wilcox, of Canaan, to Miss Bethia Ostrander, of Hud son. By the Rev. Dr. Gosman, Mr. Seth W. Bowman, to Mrs. Harriet B. Smith, both of Hudson. At Stuyvesant on the 10th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Van Zant, Mr. John Palmer of Scodack Rensalear Co. to Miss Ruth Ann Lant, of the former place. On the 20th ult. in Hillsdale, by Rev. John Campbell, Mr. Jacob Coleman Palmer, to Miss Mary Elton, eldest daughter of Rev. John Elton, of Cairo, Greene Co. N. Y. At Copake on the 4th inst. by the Rev. Winthrop H. Phelps, Charles H. Parks, of Austerlitz, agent of the Farmers Insurance Company, to Jane, daughter of Jacob I. Van Deusen. By the Rev. D. Robinson, of Hillsdale, Mr. Sylvester Stickles to Miss Julia A. Vanderboe, both of Claverack, Col. Co. At Chatham, 9th inst. by the Rev. E. S. Porter, Seymour Tracy, of Hillsdale, to Mary, daughter of William Stupplebeen, of Ghent At Greenport, Columbia Co. on the 27th ult. by the Rev. Polheimus Van Wyck, Mr. Richard Becker to Miss Deborah Hallenbeck. DEATHS. At New Lebanon, on the 11th inst. Mrs. Hulda Abbott, relict of Benjamin Abbott, deceased, aged 84 years. In the City of New-York, on the 6th inst. Mrs. Anne Gardner Wells, formerly of East Windsor, Conn. and late of Hudson, N. Y. aged 94 years. Original Poetry. For the Rural Repository. THE MERRY HEARTED. BY CATHARINE WEBB BARBER. Yes, I am merry henrted! A fount of sunlight lies, Down in the centre of my soul, I've tried to school my spirit I've tried with all my might, For I know 'tis unbecoming, To laugh from morn till night, But ah! I cannot do it, There is no shady place, Withiu my bosom lying Why make one on my face? They say there is no poetry, They must be schooled in sorrow, Who learn the magic art; Then fare ye well all visions, · Of future wealth and fame; I cannot learn of misery, Or worship at her fune. say They 1 now am plucking, It may be so, but never, I'm sure shall I be sad, Tho' storms of grief may lower, My heart was made too glad. Might cheat me in their stay; They say that I should sorrow, Could that but ease a single pang, I surely would do so: I'd hush my ringing merriment- But mine's a joyous spirit, I love the bee The bird upon the spray; I love all beauteous creatures- And I cannot be sad hearted My face will wear no shade. La Fayette, Ala. 1849. For the Rural Repository. AN Angel passed the golden gates And bent his course to a fallen world His brow was fair as Ocean pearl, His voice was sweet, as murm'ring sound His beauteous form was closely robed In cloud of azure hue; Was veiled from mortal view. The wailing band of little ones, He marked for special care; He soothed their grief, and placed their tears An aged man is bending o'er His The well-worn-Sacred Page; The angel touched his harp, and smiled, The anthems of the heavenly choir He fancied, to be near. And then, within a princely hall Not that he sought the great-but now A stricken father bended o'er In vain he cursed his cruel fate, And vainly offered all their wealth "Call on thy God,"-the angel said, Despise not praying breath :" No word of comfort could he breathe How could they lay their idol now, I'll bear it to the Savior's arms Where, Death may ne'er draw nigh." Well pleased 10 teach that little one The parents laid the beauteous clay Still flowed their tears-thou 'well they know The tie that binds our hearts to earth He claims our love-we must obey, BOUND VOLUMES. We now offer to the Public, at the lowest possible reduced prices, any of the following Volumes. viz: Vols 11, 12, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, and 24, handsomely done up in Pamphlet style, with Cloth Backs, and thick Colored Paper sides; one side printed with Title Page, the other with beautiful Engravings. These will be furnished for 624 Cents single, Eleven Copies for $3,00. They will last nearly as long as those bound, and as they are trimmed a size larger it will not injure them for future binding. Also the same Volumes half bound. in a very neat and tasteful style with Leather Backs and Colored Paper sides, with Printed Title Page, &c. for 75 Cents single, or Nine Copies for $5,00. Also the same volumes half bound, in a neat, substantial and durable manner, with Leather Backs and Corners, Marble Paper sides and Lettered on the Back, for $1,00 single, or Seven Copies for $5,00. The Postage on the Stitched Volumes, will be about 17 Cents; the Half Bound, 20 Cents to any part of the United States. We have also on hand any of the Volumes above mentioned bound in Double Volumes (two Vols. in one) for $2,00 single or Three Double Volumes for $4.50. These are bound in the neatest and most substantial manner. Postage about 40 Cts. each to any part of the United States. We have also some Volumes of a smaller size in Pamphlet style, viz: Vols. 3. 5, 6, 8, and 9, which we will sell for 374 Cents single, or Nine copies for $3.00. The same Volumes bound at 50 Cents single, or Seven Copies for $3,00. Postage on Stitched Volumes 10 Cents.-Bound 16 Cents to any part of the Union. Persons sending for a Club of Bound Volumes, can make choice of any number of the Volumes mentioned, and include the present, unbound, in it at the same rate if they wish; but where there is no choice, we would prefer sending the most of Volume 18th, it being as good a volume as any of them If any one should wish to get one for a sample, before they get up a Club, they can have one sent at about the wholesale prices, say 50 Cents, or one of each of the two first mentioned for $1,00 and the last 75 Cents. N. B. We have also, a few copies of Vols. 10, 13, 14, 15, and 22, at $1.00 each, unbound. Also of the small size, Vols. 4 and 7, at 75 Cents each unbound. We can furnish a full set from the commencement Bound, and all but Vols. 1 and 2 unbound. New Volume, September, 1848. RURAL REPOSITORY. Vol. 25, Commencing Sept. 30, 1848. EMBELLISHED WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS. Price $1 Clubs from 45 to 75 Cents. THE RURAL REPOSITORY will be devoted to Polite Literature containing Moral and Sentimental Tales, Original Communications, Biographies, Traveling Sketches, Amusing Miscellany, Humorous and Historical Anecdotes, Poetry, &c. The first Number of the Twenty-fifth Volume of the RURAL REPOSITORY Wll be issued on Saturday the 30th of September, 1848. CONDITIONS. THE RURAL REPOSITORY will be published every other Saturday in the Quarto form, containing twenty six numbers of eight pages each, with a title page and index to the volume, making in the whole 208 pages. It will also be embellished with numerous Engravings, and consequently it will be one of the neatest, cheapest, and best literary paper in the country. TERMS. ONE DOLLAR per annum, invariably in advance. We have a few copies of the 11th, 12th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th. 20th, 21st, 23d, and 24th, volumes, and any one sending for the 25th, volume, can have as many copies of either of these volumes as they wish at the same rate as that volume. All volumes not mentioned above will not be sold, less than $1,00 each, except when a whole set is wanted. Clubs! Clubs! Clubs! Clubs!! 2 Copies for $1.50,being 75 Cents Each. 3 do. $2,00, do. 66 do. 5 do. $3,00. do. 60 do. |