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her marriage and death; and the next morning was seen mounted as usual, and bowing beneath the window of his adored Sally Singleton.
WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON.
“Urged by a curiosity common to all strangers, Captain Lockerby visited the tomb of Bonaparte. The spot where the tomb stands is only accessible by ticket. It was railed round with green paling, and a sentinel' walked round it night and day, to prevent approach within the railing." Behold what a contrast is here!
Two heroes gone down to decay-
While the other is deck'd in its marble array,
And a sentinel guards it by night and by day. Oh what was the life of the first,
That in death they have left him thus lone?Was the crown of the Tyrant his thirst?
And mounting in blood on the steps of a throne
Had he murdered his thousands to aggrandize one? Of grandeur of soul was there none
In that bosom transform’d to the clod ;
To abandon the lictor, the axe and the rod,
The tomb of the valiant and wise !
And gleaming in white, as those tropical skies
Beam down on the waste where St. Helena lies. LQ! numbers resort to that spot,
And bequty bows too at the shrine-
The grave cannot darken thy splendor divine,
Yet Christian !-come nearer and read,
For conjecture hath led us astray-
Of a blood-loving tyrant-ferocious—whose sway
Was supported by rapine, while earth was his prey ? 'Tis to him that these honors are paid,
And his dust must be guarded from whom? Are the terrified nations afraid
Lest he yet should arise from the curse of his doom,
And bursting its cerements, escape from the tomb? Ah no! he lies powerless now!
But thousands would bear him afar: To this Juggernaut long did they bow,
And were abjectly crush'd by the wheels of his car,
As triumphant he rode through the red fields of war. Is virtue then nought but a name?
Let us turn to the spot we have passed If guilt can exult in its shame,
The good in his grave may be silently cast,
Abandoned unnoticed—the scene but a waste ! Yes, yes, thou art dumb with amaze
'Tis Washington slumbers belowWas language too weak for His praise ?
Was the grief so profound that it baffled all show,
Or the feeling too deep for the uttrance of woe? Let us hope that it was—let us trust
That we honor the Friend of Mankind-
His merited meed of abhorrence shall find
THE DYSPEPTIC MAN. Mr. EDITOR, I am so unfortunate as to be the wife of a dyspeptic man, and shall find some relief if you will permit me to spread my complaints upon the pages of your Messenger. Men are "April when they woo, December when they wed,” as I have found to
my cost. My husband was once as tender and affectionate as I could wish, but, poor man, he is now totally changed; I suppose it is owing to his having
I the dyspepsia. He is so peevish and fretful, I hardly dare speak to him;
“He's always compleenin frae mornin to e’enin;" and it is impossible to keep pace with the endless variety of his ailments. If I happen to make a mistake, and inquire after the wrong pain, he flies into a violent passion, and reproaches me for a want of sympathy in his sufferings. It was but yesterday I happened to say, “my dear, how is the
your back ?" (I had forgotten it was his side.) This was enough; he cursed matrimony, and swore it was the vilest of all institutions; that a wife was nothing more than a legalized tormentor; that if he were single, he would not marry any woman under the sun-no, not if she had a bulse of diamonds torn from a Begum's ear, and much more in the same strain; and at last cooling down, he asked me if I did not remember that his last pain was a pain in the side; and then entered into such a history of his malady, that I sorely regretted I had opened my lips upon the subject. What right have we to worry other people thus with our maladies ? I never tell mine to any but the doctor, because I know that nobody else listens, and I doubt very much whether he does half his time. If any one gives my husband the common salutation of, how d’ye do ? oh dear, he begins at the beginning of his disease, [like an old gentleman of my acquaintance, who always begins at the Revolution] and traces it down through all its variations for the last five years—tells all the remedies he has used, and their effects, until you may see a half suppressed smile Jurking about the lips of the interrogator, which increases at length to so broad a grin, that I am in agony for the consequences. He has tried in turn every remedy of every quack upon earth, and has gone so far as to punch himself almost to death with his own fists, by the advice of one Halstead. At first he is always pleased with the medicine, but at the end of two or three days he protests that he is worse, much worse, and venis his spleen upon the physic, the inventor, and upon me for permitting him to use such vile trash. Sometimes he comes to me, and tells me exultingly that he has at last found out the panacea—the grand catholicon for all his sufferings. “My dear B- ," he will say, “let me explain to you the philosophy of this matter. When food is taken into the human stomach, if it cannot undergo a proper digestion, it goes through the putrefactive process; just such a process as would take place in animal or other substances, if exposed to the action of heat and moisture in the open air: a quantity of carbonic acid gas is disengaged, and this gas filling the stomach, acts by mechanical pressure, and thus produces the pain I feel. Now I have discovered that in consequence of my habit of eating fast, my food is not sufficiently triturated, and of course the gastric juice [heaven help me!) cannot act upon it; and I am exactly in the situation of the sheep or any other ruminating animal, who swallows the herbage whole, and then regurgitates, that it may undergo a better mastication. Well, what then is the remedy ? I will tell you; I will make John pound my food in a mortar, which will supply the necessary trituration and thus I shall be a well man.” He sent off immediately to a druggist and purchased a nice little wedgewood mortar, and there stood John, every day, behind his chair, pounding his meat, bread and vegetables, into a revolting mass, until my poor ears were well nigh deafened with the shrill din of the pestle against the sides of the mortar. Was ever woman so beset? At the end of a week, finding himself no better, he threw the mortar, pestle and all, at John's head, and would certainly have pounded him to death, but for a fortunate dodge, which permitted the mortar to come in contact with my china press, where it made sad havoc among my most valuable ware. He was very glad, he said, because I had no business to let the press stand there. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “bray a fool in a mortar,”' &c., but I checked the impulse, and mildly said, I was very sorry indeed, that he could get no re
lief. This somewhat mollified him, and the next day he came to me and apologized for what he had done, and promised to repair the damage by making me a handsome present; but this calm was of short duration, for he soon relapsed into gloom--and as he sat by the fire, smoking his pipe, he all at once declared that it must have been the cursed tobacco which had poisoned his existence; that during the combustion of the tobacco an oil was disengaged, which, mixing with the saliva, was taken up by absorption into his lungs, and had eaten them to a honey-comb. John was immediately called : “Here,” said he, “John take this pipe, and d’ye hear, sir, hide it-hide it where I never can find it again." John accordingly took the pipe, but struggled in vain to choke his laughter. Before he could escape from the room, he burst out into such a loud, distinct, irrepressible ha! ha! that there was no mistaking the thing, and he was soundly caned for his involuntary breach of decorum. About three days after this, in the evening after tea, my husband's favorite time for smoking, I observed him very restless, indeed; he rose, walked about the room, sat down, whistled, hummed a tune, and rose again. At last he began to rummage about the wainscot and mantlepiece, and behind the book-case, and suddenly turning round he called John in a softened voice; “John, my good fellow, where is my pipe? I must have left it in the study ; do go and look for it.” John hesitated and grinned. “What the devil is the fellow laughing at? Begone, sir, and bring my pipe immediately.” John speedily vanished. Turning to me, “you see,” said my husband, “my unhappy condition; my very servants turn me into ridicule, and you do not reprove them for it.” I could not reply, but felt anxious to point out to him that he could never hope to be well, because he would not adhere for a space of time sufficiently long to any plan whatever. His scheme now is to eat nothing but cold bread. It must be set away in a pure place to ripen as he calls it. Hot bread, just from the oven, he says, is giving out carbon continually, and has not imbibed a sufficiency of oxygen to make it