SS52 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
NOV. 8. 
fk'tues’ ||ort-|'fllifl. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
MY LOVE AND L 
Last spring, when shining Aptil camp, 
My love and I were wed ; 
I, trusting, placed ray hands in his. 
And thus our vows were said. 
One long, regretful look 1 cast 
On my happy maiden life; 
But all regret was lost in j 'y 
When hist he whispered “Wife." 
Six peaceful moons their paths have tun 
Since I have b >rne his name: 
The brightness of our bridal morn 
Continues still the same. 
There’s sunshine in the summer sky, 
There’s sunshine in my heart, 
(And strange it seems my love and I 
So long could live apart) 
Now I am sitting by his aide, 
His kiss is on my brow, 
My happy girlhood never knew 
Such joy as thrills me now. 
May Goo, who has so richly blest, 
Still h ! e-s our wedded life ! 
There ! read these simple lines, my love, 
And call tro your ‘‘awtet Wife.” 
Rochester, Oct., 1856. Manettb. 
“I LOVE YOU.” 
Who do you suppose said it ? 
No. She was very beautiful, with her cheek 
of rose hue, and the curling auburn tresses that 
the wind sports with so gallantly ; but she did 
not say it. No, that bright creature, by whose 
side stands a lover, looking so tenderly in those 
glorious eyes ; nor yet the dimpled babe, with 
cherub face lifted to the more mature but not 
less innocently sweet features, with the holy 
light of mother glorifying every smile. 
Then, who do you suppose said it ? 
Wrong again. Not that, newly wed husband 
whose home for a few fleeting months he has 
aptly called heaven—full of smiles and tender¬ 
ness, and oft-repeated vows flitting like birds 
of paradise in rainbow plumage—where a pret¬ 
ty white-robed beiDg, with girlish matronly 
air, glides about the neat kitchen, making with 
her own handsthe snowy bread. Where, when 
the odious shop is closed, he can come home, 
and, sitting with her hand in his, rove with a 
pair of brown eyes over his “ Daisy,” every 
little while stooping to snatch a kiss from the 
red lips so close to his cheek. Although he 
whispers many times of love, yet this “I love 
you,” was not spoken then and there. 
A tired woman sits hushing to sleep her 
nestling babe. Beauty once made that face ra¬ 
diant, perhaps, but all that beauty has gone 
now. The blue eye is dim and faded — the 
whole expression is sorrowful — the pale brow 
covered with lines of care. Perhaps, in that 
far off look of hers, she sees three little graves, 
green with as many summers. Her home is 
very humble—all day she has toiled, and the 
fainting spirit almost surrenders to fatigue, the 
downcast eyes trembling in tears—she is so 
weary. And every nerve tingles when the 
boys come hungry from school, some with 
weeping and tales of sorrow, that mothers must 
hear. And after that they are hushed with 
hissings or chidings, it is time to get supper for 
seven hungry mouths, and then the accustomed, 
never-ending routine of putting away and 
clearing up, till the worn out creature wonders 
with a sigh if there really will ever come a rest 
to her—an eternal rest. 
At last she can rest her weary limbs in the 
old corner rocking chair. The babe, whose 
eyes close fitfully to a low lullaby, lies in his 
father’s lap. He is a plain man, that good 
father, with an honest face and great heart, 
that would, it it could, take in all the care and 
sorrow of the household. 
The babe sleeps. With a rude gentleness he 
lays it on his mother’s bosom, and as the ruddy 
fire-light plays over her careworn features, he 
looks upon her with eyes suddenly grown lus¬ 
trous and beautilul. He lifts his great hand 
softly, till it rests on her shoulder, as he says : 
“ I love you, dear Mary.” 
How the poor heart leaps into love, light, 
and rest 1 How vanish the cares that tiod upon 
her very soul! She no more remembers the 
toilsome washing; she reflects not that the 
pretty babe, with its pink-flushed cheek against 
her breast, has worn her patience threadbare 
with its tears and unrest. She forgets that the 
broth was burned; that the children teased 
her : that the line broke, and that every limb 
in her frame ached. 
What were these in comparison with the 
steadfast love that had burned for eighteen years 
in the sunlight of happiness, through the clouds 
of despair, when beauty made her winning, 
and when the charm of loveliness was gone, 
and the freshnes of her youth departed forever. 
What cared she for aught outside her home, 
though she had many sorrows, while such words 
thrilled her whole being ? 
“ I love you, dear Mary I” 
Ah 1 you long married husbands, who exact 
every attention as a duty—how much would it 
cost you to make your home beautiful with all 
its cares ?—I tell you one word of love will 
loosen great burdens from the shoulders of the 
toiling woman you call wife. Try it. Go home 
some night, and look upon her with the eyes of 
long ago. For one little moment think what 
great trials she took unto her heart when she 
married you. Then tenderly clasp her hand, 
and as she looks with wonder-opened eyes, say 
to her in a low and steady voice, not carelessly 
nor sportively, but earnestly— 
“ I love you.” 
Trust me, it will be to her, and to you both, 
“better than diamonds.”— Evening Post. 
TREE THOUGHTS. 
When looking at trees a person of feeling 
admires their beauty, delights iu their leafy 
luxuriance, and loves to watch the graceful 
moving of their boughs, when fanned to wind 
life ; while even the being, whose fancy is most 
torpid, seeks with pleasure their cooling shade. 
But only the eye of poetry can gather from the 
tree-book of our earib, the sentiments, in alt 
the richness of their beauty, which give a life 
and loveliness to the pen-work of God. 
Each animal which treads the globe, from 
man in whom heaven’s creative finger has fash¬ 
ioned the throne of thought—to the creature 
whose atom of meutality scarcely gives it rank 
above the vegetable kingdom, has a character 
peculiar to itself. 
Ay, ihe li tle birds which make the groves 
warble with their gush of soug—the insects 
which dance existence on a sunbeam—and no 
doubt the animalcules which sport their being 
iu a drop of water, have their own unoccupied 
nature. 
Then why may not ihe inmaf.es of the vege¬ 
table family exist iu the same variety? Why 
may not each, from the tiniest flower to the 
stateliest tree, besides having size aud shape, 
branch aud leaf, to mark it from the rest, be as¬ 
sociated also with its own sentiment—linked to 
its own idea ? Happy the one who, walking 
the pilgrim path of earth, 
u Fitids tongues in tree*, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons iu stouts, aud good in everything.” 
Such living truly lives. 
Two trees of most expressive nature cast 
their shadows on my meadow. The one is a 
willow, the other a poplar. The former has an 
attendant grace which. makes it attractive 
among the shades of wood or Jawn. The latter 
I never admired. It always seemed the em¬ 
blem of haughtiness. Towering so far above 
surrounding trees, with its limbs and even leaves 
pressed close toward its own body, I always 
fancied it wrapped up in self and trying to look 
above its humbler neighbors. Although I am 
aware that violent prejudice, even toward a tree, 
is unkind aud unreasonable, yet selfish pride is 
disgusting, so I never could love the poplar.— 
But the other evening standing nearand watch¬ 
ing especially this same proud tree, whose 
leaves, moved gently by the night breeze, 
seemed like ripples in the wave of moonlight, 
I thought it beautiful. 
Shall I tell you the reason of this change ? 
To its rustling foliage I gave another voice 
and a new character seemed to expand upon 
each leaf. 
From the willow drooping near I had often 
read the lesson of humility. And a feeling of 
reverence for its aged boughs had ever risen, 
when I saw that the noblest tiuuk still held the 
lowliest head. But as its waving branches 
bent near me now, with their load of evening 
clew, I thought it the emblem of s-rrow. In¬ 
deed I know not but the feeliug arose that it 
was sorrow, planted here to weep with aud for 
us—to sj mpathise and pity. 
Before sadness was boin it may be that no 
willow grew on earth. 
Mayhap its germ was a tear of heaven. And 
even now, that it bends in token of the sorrow 
there, weeping only with the drops of heaven, 
aud sighing only when moved from above. 
How terrible, how linked with despair, must 
be the sins aud woes of earth to make fall the 
pitying sigh and sorrowing tear of heaven I 
Reflecting thus, the poplar’s rustling leaves 
drew my attention. I turned. Far it towered 
above, but not with the same haughty mien ; 
for its curving boughs, as they straiued toward 
the sky, seemed to breathe of hope 1 Aud as 
1 gazed they said almost as plain as words 
can utter—“ Look aloft.” 
The willow bends full of grief, but the pop¬ 
lar’s language is, “ Hope on, thy rest is on high.” 
The one looks toward the source of sorrow ; the 
other points where sorrow ends. 
Beautiful would be their union above the 
Christian’s grave! The one will weep for his 
trials on earth, the other stand aud with its 
waving finger trace his path toward heaven.— 
Truly these are worthy grave marks. The one 
bends low and sighs above the body’s grave; 
while the other gently moves its topmost leaf 
and points to the home of the soul. The one 
wails, “Dust to dust;” the other softly whis¬ 
pers, “Not here, but there.” The one says. 
“ Come see where they have laid him ;” the oth¬ 
er, “He has risen.” The one, “ Alas 1 he is 
dead;” The other, “The end is not jet.”— 
The one stands at life’s earth goal and weeps. 
The other is the guide-Jboard of the spirit’s 
flight to immortality. How lovely in associated 
thought are the willow and the poplar /— Stledtd. 
An Elegant Extract.— Oh ! who in the 
course of his life has not felt some joy without 
a security and without a morrow ; when life 
seems concentrated in one short hour which we 
would wish to make eternal, and which we feel 
slipping away, minute by minute, while we 
listen to the pendulum which counts the sec¬ 
onds, or look at the hand that seems to gallon 
o’er the dial, or watch a carriage wheel of which 
each turn abridges distance, or hearken to the 
splashing of a prow that distances the waves, 
and brings us nearer to the shore where we 
must descend from the heaven of our dreams, 
on the bleak and barren strand of harsh reality ? 
— Lamartine. 
Tiie season is going away like the sound of 
bells. The wind passes over the stubble and 
finds nothing to move. Only the red berries 
on that slender tree seem as if they would fain 
remind us of something cheerful; and the mea¬ 
sured beat of the thresher’s flail calls up the 
thought that in the dry and falling ear lies 
much of nourishment and life.— Ooethe. 
©jiflief glisffllaRg. 
THE EVENING HEARTHSTONE. 
BY WIN.MB 1VOODVII.LK. 
Gladly now we gather round it, 
For the toilinv day is done, 
And the irrav and solemn twilight 
Follows down the. golden sun ; 
Shadows lengthen on the pavement, 
Stalk like giaDts through the gloom, 
Wander past the dusty casement, 
Creep amund the firelit room, 
Draw the curtaiu —c'ose the shutters — 
Place the slippers by the Are ; 
Though the rude wiud loudly mutters 
What care we for wind sprites ire ? 
What care we for outward seaming ? 
Fickle Fortune’s frown or smite? 
If around us Love is beaming — 
Love can human ills beguile t 
’Neith the cottage-roof and palace, 
From the peasant to the king — 
All are quaffing from Lite’s chalice 
Bubbles that enchantment bring. 
Grates are glowing—music flowing 
From the lips we love the best ; 
0 , the joy, tln^b.iss, of koowing 
There are hearts whereon to rest! 
Hearts that throb with eager gladness— 
Hearts that echo to our own— 
White grim Care and haunting Sadness 
Mingle ne’er in look or tone. 
Care may tread the halls of Daylight- 
Sadness haunt the midnight hour_ 
But the weird and witching Twilight 
Brings the glowing Hearthstone’s dower. 
Altar of our holiest feelings ! 
Childhood's welt-rem-mbered shrine ! 
Spirit yearnings—sout-revealings — 
Wreaths immortal round thee twine ! 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SATURDAY NIGHT. 
Saturday Night has come again. How often 
it returns—and yet it is ever welcome, espe¬ 
cially to those who toil. The man of ease may 
care little for it. The mere pleasure seeker, 
who wants not money, but who is ever search¬ 
ing out new objects—some to excite fresh de¬ 
sire and others to gratify those already nur¬ 
tured—may sadden at its approach. He feels 
no need of the physical repose which it brings, 
and the coming Sabbath which it ushers in may 
have few joys for him. 
But to those who labor during the long week, 
it is ever welcome. When it arrives, the tools 
of the mechanic are laid aside with more than 
ordinary care, for on the morrow they will not 
be needed. The merchant looks more closely 
to his accounts ; Ihe wages of the laborer are 
received, and the cash enables him to provide 
for the wants of himself and his family. His 
children meet him at the gate to welcome him 
home, and to see the new pair of shoes, the new 
dress, or the. new hook which was promised for 
Saturday night. The post-office, which perhaps 
he has not visited for several days, is waited 
upon for his paper, and for his letters, if any he 
may chance to have. 
Saturday night is something more than sim¬ 
ple Saturday night—it is the night of the week. 
As it arrives fewer are missed from the family 
circle—the absent have returned, and in the 
winter time, when all are gathered around the 
cheerful fire, each with something new to tell, 
there is pleasure and joy in their midst. From 
such a group, composed of those who have 
learned to love virtue and to live after wise 
counsel, banish all waut of the necessities aud 
common comforts of life, and behold, an Eden- 
like scene, as beautiful as the earth affords, is 
before you. 
Saturday night is the link which counectsthe 
Sabbath with the week of labor that has gone 
before. It is a period of repose greatly in uni¬ 
son with a contemplative mind. When the 
bustle attendant on the days of labor has sub¬ 
sided, aud a calm is ushered in by an evening 
itself the precursor of a day of rest., then the 
mind wont to muse, delights to give itself up 
to its own vagaries, to let the thoughts wander 
whither they will, and to summon a thousand 
varied images from the bowers of fancy. But 
to him who would meditate on the past, it is an 
auspicious hour. Now is the time f t a general 
reckoning and adjusting of accounts—Dot mere¬ 
ly those that relate to the common business of 
life, but those also which fix and determine our 
moral position. Silent and many are the invi¬ 
tations which now come to us invitiDgthe mind 
to relax the severity of its grasp on all mere 
worldly pursuits, and feast i'self on the riches 
that Providence has so bountifully provided for 
us all. It is a fit time to commune with our 
own thoughts, with the past, and with Dature— 
ever remembering that “ God is good.” 
Imlac. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE PASSING SEASONS. 
Wait a moment, Old Father Time—be not in 
such haste. You have brought us to the last 
days of another glorious ()ctober,and we would 
fain take a “ last, fond look” at the faded leaves 
and flowers, and linger in this warm, genial 
sunshine, a little longer. No? Can’t you stop 
turning your ceaseless wheel thisoDce ? Have 
you just so many days to work—a specific pe¬ 
riod in which to complete your task—that you 
cannot grant us this one respite ? Full often 
you’ve turned us round to this, and we begin to 
think, where will all this turning end ? Seems 
to me, you did not use to bring us round so 
soon. October did not come so often in days 
past. Cold winter only came once in a long 
year, and then our blood was warm and our 
hopes high, and you gave us long and merry 
seasons. But now, when we are thine, worn 
and weary, you shorten the days, and the win¬ 
ter grows colder and colder 1 At every turn of 
the wheel, we miss some loving face, and by 
and by, you will leave us in the cold and dark- 
ness alone 1 Inscrutable, relentless Time ! We 
read our doom in these swift revolutions. You 
pause not, nor listen even, to our regrets and 
entreaties. Round and round we go. Fare¬ 
well, then, be .utiful Summer and Autumn— 
gone forever ! Treasures ve have borne away, 
and dreams and hopes, never to return 1 Flow¬ 
ers and leaves may come again, but youth, and 
lost dear ones, come no more! Speed us on 
t hen, Old Father Time, and take us also, to the 
land whence all our treasures have departed. 
Then thou and we, will bid adieu. Elise. 
THE POETRY OP COMMERCE. 
The Hod. Edward Everett, whose brilliant 
genius gives a golden tinge of poetry to every¬ 
thing it touches, thus speaks of Commerce in 
his late beautiful speech at the Peabody testi¬ 
monial : 
Track its history for a moment from the ear¬ 
liest period. In the infancy of the world its 
caravaus, like gigantic silk-worms, went creep¬ 
ing through the arid wastes of Asia and Africa 
with their infinitesmal legs,and bound the hu¬ 
man family together in those vast regions as 
they bind it together now. Its colonial estab¬ 
lishments scattered the Grecian culture allround 
the shores of the Mediterranean, and carried 
the adventurers of Tyre and Carthage to the 
North of Europe and the South of Africa. The 
walled cities of the middle ages prevented the 
arts aud refinements of life from beiug trampled 
out of existence under the iron heel of the feu¬ 
dal powers. The Hanse-Towns were the bul¬ 
wark of liberty and property in the north and 
west of Europe for ages. The germ of the rep¬ 
resentative system sprang from the municipal 
franchises of the boroughs. At the revival of 
letters the merchant princes of Florence receiv¬ 
ed the fugitive arts of Greece into their pala¬ 
ces. The spirit of commercial adventure pro¬ 
duced that movement in the fifteenth century 
which carried Columbus to America and Vasco 
di Gama around the Cape of Good Hope. The 
deep foundations of the modern system of in¬ 
ternational law were laid in interests and rights 
of commerce, and necessity of protecting them. 
Commerce sprinkled the treasures of the 
newly found Indies throughout the Western 
nations; it nerved the arm of civil and religious 
liberty in the Protestant world—it gradually 
carried the colonial system of Europe to the 
ends of earth, and with it the elements of fu¬ 
ture independent, civilized republican govern¬ 
ments. But why should we d well on the past? 
What is it that gives vigor to the civilization of 
the present day but the world-wide extension 
of commercial intercourse, by which all the 
products of the earth and of the ocean, of the 
soil, of the mine, of the loom, of the forge, of 
bounteous nature, creative art and untiring in¬ 
dustry, are brought by the agencies of com¬ 
merce into the universal market of demand and 
supply ? No matter in what region a desirable 
product is bestowed on man by a liberal Prov¬ 
idence, or fabricated by human skill; it may 
clothe the hills of China with its fragrant fo¬ 
liage ; it may glitter iu the golden sauds of 
California; it may wallow in the depths of the 
Arctic seas; it may ripen and whiten iu the 
fertile plaiosof thesnnny South ; it may spring 
forth from the flying shuttles of Manchester in 
England, or Manchester in America—the great 
world magnate of commerce attrac it alike, 
and gathers it all up for the service of man. 
HOOD’S ADVICE TO WRITERS. 
Tom Hood, a celebrated English author, gives 
the following sensible advice to writers who 
would see themselves in print. We commend 
hi« advice to the large number of Rubal read¬ 
ers who are attempting to become good and 
acceptable writers lor the press: 
“ It is more difficult than may be supposed 
to decide on the value of a work in MS., and 
especially when the hand writing presenisonly 
a swell mob of bad characters, that must be 
severally examined and re-examined to arrive 
at the merits and demerits of the case. Print 
settles it, as Coleridge used to say, and to be 
candid, I have more than once reversed or 
greatly modified a previous verdict, on seeing a 
rough proof from the press. But, as editors too 
well know, it is next to impossible to retain 
the tone of a stanza, or the drift of an argu¬ 
ment, while the mind has to scrabble through 
a patch of scribble-scrabhle as stiff as a gorse 
cover. The beauties of the peace will as nat¬ 
urally appear to disadvantage through such a 
medium, as the features of a pretty woman 
through a had pane of glass; and, without 
doubt, many a tolerable article has been con¬ 
signed, hand over hand, to the Balaam box for 
want of a fair copy. Wherefore, O ye Poets 
and Proser8, who aspire to write Miscellanies, 
and above all, 0 ye palpitating Untried, take 
care, pray ye tak« care to cultivate a good, 
plain, bold, round text. Set up Tomkins as 
well as Pope aDd Dryden fora model,and have 
an eye to your pothooks. Some persons hold 
that the best writers are those who write the 
best hands, and 1 have known a conductor of a 
magazine to be converted by a crabbed MS. to 
the same opinion. Of all things, therefore, be 
legible; and to that end practice in penman¬ 
ship. If you have never learned, take six les¬ 
sons of Mr. Carstairs. Be sure to buy the best 
paper, the best pens, and then sit down and do 
the best you can ; as the schoolboys do, put out 
your toDgue and take pains. So shall ye hap¬ 
pily escape the rash rejection of a jaded editor; 
so, having got in your hand, it is possible that, 
your head may follow ; and so last, not least, 
ye may fortunately avert those awful mistakes 
of the printer, which sometimes ruin a poet’s 
sublimest effusion by pantomimically trans¬ 
forming his roses into noses, his angels into 
angles, and all his happiness into pappiness.” 
>1, IV'li'l.'’, 
BEN. FRANKLIN’S FIRST NEWSPAPER. 
At the inauguration of the Franklin Statue, 
in Boston, on the 17 1 h September, someyke sirni- 
Hes of the New Eng'and Cour ant, the first paper is¬ 
sued by Fraukiiu, were priuted on a press once 
used by him. The copy before us is dated 
February 11, 1723, and is printed on a half 
sheet of very dingy foolscap. It contains, all 
told, but thirteen articles. The leader is a cu¬ 
rious piece of composition, abounding in the 
quaint humor of “ Poor Richard.” After the 
leader comes the King’s speech to Parliament, 
delivered four months previous to the date of 
the paper, and one or two London items. The 
restof the matter,consisting of five news-items, 
two advertisements, aud the publisher's notice 
to the public, we print below, as much like the 
original as our types will enable us to do : 
Lofton, Feh. 11 . 
Lafc week the Reverend Mr. Orum, Minifter 
of the Epifcopal Church at Briftol, came from 
thence with a Petition from twelve of his Hear¬ 
ers, (who are imprifoned for Refuting to pay 
Rates to the Prefbyterian Minifter of Briltol) 
to the Lieut. Covernour, who, with the Advice 
of the Council, promis’d Mr. Orum to ufe his 
Iutereft for their relief at the next Meeting of 
the General Affembly, the Men beiug imprifon’d 
by Vertue of the Laws of the Province. 
We have Advice from the Eaftward, that200 
Men,uuder the command of Capt. Harmon, are 
gone to Nongiwcck, in quelt of the Indians, 
and 170 to Penobfcot, under command of Col. 
Weftbrook. ’Tis said another party are to 
march to i-Vjepcot. 
Y"efterday Morning about 6 of clock, a Fire 
broke out at Mr. Bluth’s Work-houfe in thin- 
hill, which burnt a coutiderable part of the 
Roof before it was exdnguifhed. 
Cuftom Honfe, Lofton. Entered Inwards. 
Daniel Jackfon from New Hampf hire, Jona¬ 
than Chase from Newport, John Dafkinsfiom 
North Carolina, JoHiua Benjamin for South 
Carolina, Charles Whitfield from Martineco, 
John Bonner, Ship Sarah from London. 
Cleared Out. None. 
Outward Lound. Amos Breed for New Lon¬ 
don, William Flelcher for Maryland, James 
Blin, for Annapolis Royal, John Trobridge for 
North Carolina, J. Pompey for Antigua, Jacob 
Pinhorne for London. 
T IE h(*ft Dew Philadelphia Town bonited Flower, to be 
foi l hv Mr. William Ca k in Merchant’s R^vr, at 
T-venty-Eight Shillings per hundred. 
A Servant Bov’s Time for 4 Years to be dif pofed of. He 
i*ahout16 Veara of aire. aud can keep Acc nnpts. En¬ 
quire at the Blue Ball iu Union Street aud know turther. 
* 1 * This Paper having met with fo general an 
Acceptance in Town and Country, as to reqmre 
a far greater Number of them to be printed than 
there is of the other public% Papers ; and it being 
befd“S more generally read by a vafl number of 
Lorrouers, who do not tale it in. the Publifhcr 
thinks propter to give this publick Notice for the 
Incouragemeut of ihofe who would have Adver¬ 
tisements inf tried in the pmblic Prints, which 
they may leave printed in this paper at a moderate 
Price. 
L OS TON: Priuted and fold by Benjamin 
Franklin in Queen Street, where Advertise¬ 
ments are taken in. 
ST. HELENA. 
a - 
George W. Kimball, Esq., the American 
Consul at St. Helena, communicates some in¬ 
teresting facts about the island of St. Helena. 
Instead of being a “ lone barren isle,” he rep¬ 
resents it as one of the most beautiful, in the 
romantic wildness of its scenery, with green 
vallej’S and wooded knolls, and says its 7.000 
inhabitants breathe the purest air and enjoy 
the finest climate in the world. At Jamestown, 
the only city of the island, is a safe anchorage, 
and the arrivals of vessels average about three 
a day. The aueborage is secure at all seasons, 
the accessible nature of the harbor needing no 
pilot; the ever constant trade wiud blowing a 
fair breeze for the homeward bound, a hospital 
free to seamen of all nations, a regulating time 
ball, the abundant supply of the finest water 
in the world, flowing from more than two hun¬ 
dred springs, and the dispatch that all ships 
receive, seldom being detained over twenty- 
four hours, will ever, as now, make it a favorite 
resort for ships from the eastern world. Men¬ 
tion is made of the tomb of Napoleon, and of 
Lonerwood House, where the Emperor died.— 
Both places have changed. He says : 
“ Longwood House is in the last stages of 
rapid decay, and is now used as a granary, 
while the sleeping room where the Conqueror 
lay is now a stable. The room in which he 
died is filled with grain and agricultural im¬ 
plements, while the flowers and pretty garden 
that once encircled the house, have aft passed 
awiy. The new house erected by the Euglnh 
government for his residence, still remains in 
perfect repair, and is occupied by the Lessee of 
the five hundred acres of Lungwood farm. The 
Tomb ensconced in a lovely valley about a mile 
and a half from LoDgwood, from which the 
body was removed in 1840 to France, is a single 
vault walled in with stone and encircled by an 
iron railing, over which droops the sacred wil¬ 
low. A roof of canvas protects the vault from 
rain, into which the visitor descends by steps. 
Just at hand is a spring of delicious water from 
which Napoleon drew his supply daily, carried 
hy Chinese servants to his house — and heie 
beneath the willow was his favorite retreat, aud 
the spot of his own choice for burial. Thou¬ 
sands of visitors every year still make a pilgri¬ 
mage to these historic grounds, though empty 
of their greatness and former beauty.” 
The love of glory can only create a hero ; the 
contempt of it creates a great man. 
iV'ilWV'il’IAI'i 
