worthy of royal majesty, and a temple where the body of Alexander was deposited in a golden coffin.

Alexandria owed much of its glory to the Ptolemies. Ptolemy Soter, the first of that line of kings, and one of the captains of Alexander, who, on the death of his master, seized on his Egyptian dominions, fixed the royal residence in this city, about three hundred and four years before Christ. This prince instituted the academy called the Museum, in which a society of learned men devoted themselves to the study of the sciences. He likewise founded for their use the Alexandrian library, which was afterwards so prodigiously increased, and one of the greatest ornaments of this celebrated city. It is said to have amounted to no less than seven hundred thousand volumes, before its destruction.

Alexandria continued for nearly three hundred years in the possession of the Ptolemies; but at the death of Cleopatra, it passed into the power of the Romans, and was the theatre of several memorable events in the history of that people. It sometimes might receive a favor at the hands of its masters; but it as frequently obtained its full share of all the calamities which the tyranny, the cruelty, or weakness of the Roman emperors inflicted on the rest of the empire.

The first inhabitants of Alexandria were Egyptians and Greeks, to whom must be added numprous colonies of Jews, transplanted thither B. C. 338, 320, and 312, to increase ths population, who, becoming familiar with the Greek language and learning, were called Hellenists. It was they who made the wellknown translation of the Old Testament under the name of the Septuagint.

The modern Alexandria does not occupy the site of the ancient city, of which only the ruins remain. The town has now two citadels and harbors, and its commerce is improving; but the population, which formerly amounted to three hundred thousand, is now reduced to thirteen thousand. It is the seat of a Christian patriarch, but under a Mohammedan power.

The present state of this city presents a scene of magnificent ruin and desolation. For the space of two leagues, nothing is to be seen but the remains of pilasters, of capitals, and of obelisks, and whole mountains of shattered monuments of ancient art, heaped upon one another to a greater height than that of the houses. The famous tower of Pharos has been long since demolished, and a square castle, without taste, ornament, or strength, erected in its stead. The lake Mareolis, through the carelessness of the Turks in preserving the canals which conveyed the waters of the Nile, no longer exists;

but its place is now occupied by the sands of Lybia.—Edin. Ency.

When Alexander the Great had finished this renowned city, he gave considerable encouragement to the Jews to settle in it; and to induce them so to do, he endowed it with peculiar privileges and immunities, allowed them the free exercise of their religion, and admitted them to a share of the same franchises and liberties which ho granted to his own Macedonian subjects. Not long after the death of that ambitious and enterprising monarch, Ptolemy, king of Egypt, invaded Judea, laid siege to Jerusalem, of which he took possession about three hundred and twenty years before Christ, and carried an hundred thousand of the Jews captive into Egypt; to whom he confirmed all the immunities and privileges which had been formerly granted to their brethren by Alexander the Great, and spared no encouragement to allure others to settle in Egypt. The consequence of this was, that multitudesof them were continually flocking thither from Judea and Samaria, preferring rather to live under so generous and friendly a prince in a foreign country, than to be subject to the incessant changes of government which were occasioned by so many contending tyrants in their own. Accordingly the city of Alexandria was in a great measure peopled by Jews, and it is chiefly this circumstance which connects its history with the elucidation of the Scriptures. Hence we read, Acts ii, 10: that among those who came up to Jerusalem to keep the feast of pentecost, there were Jews, devout men, from Egypt, and the pn rts of Lybia about Cyrene, in which Alexandria was situated. Of this city, Apollos, the companion of Paul, was a native, Acts xviii, 24; and of the Jews that disputed with Stephen and put him to death, many were Alexandrians, who, it seems, had a synagogue at that time in Jerusalem, Acts vi, 9. But to form an estimate of the number of Jews that statedly resided at Alexandria, it may be sufficient to mention that about the year of Christ 67, while the quarrel was going on between that people and the Romans, which ended in the destruction of Jerusalem and its temple, the subversion of their ecclesiastical polity and their ruin as a nation, fifty thousand of them were put to death at one time in the city of Alexandria! It is said that at the time this terrible event took place, there were not less than a million of Jews dispersed throughout the whole province of Egypt, in which they had a vast number of synagogues, and oratories, which were either demolished or consumed by fire, for refusing to set up the statues of the Roman emperor Caius Caligula.

Christianity was planted in Alexandria at a very early period; and it is very probable that it was first carried there by some of the Jews who were converted by the preaching of Peter on the day of Pentecost, Acts 2; for nothing can be more natural than to suppose, that those who had themselves been blessed with the knowledge of the Saviour, should carry the glad tidings with them to their own homes and make known the way of salvation to others. For several ages the light of the glorious gospel shone conspicuously in this great city which gave birth to many eminent men, particularly to Clemens, toOrigen, and others.

Written for the Ladiee' Garland.



Sabbath, welcome to the weary,

Emblem of eternal rest;
Morning breaketh, now, to cheer ye

With fair vistas of the blest.
Brightly beam, auspicious morn,
On the aged and forlorn.

Now unfurl love's glorious banner

To the Saviour's rising day; Shepherds, feed the flock with manna,

Drive the prowling wolf away; Gently lead the lambs along— Spread the banquet, swell the song.

Toll the bell,—youth and beauty

Are beset by snares and sin; Watchmen, mount the tower of duty,

Souls from thrall to Jesus win—
Tell his love, from sacred story—
Pardon, peace, and future glory.

Toll the bell,—time is flying,
Love is wooing from the sky,

Widow, in thy lone hut sighing—
Raise thy head, and wipe thine eye:

Jesus died to purchase bliss

For the lone and fatherless.

Toll the bell,—time is precious,—
Hither bend, ye sons of toil—

God is waiting to be gracious,
Mark the dear Redeemer's smile;

Come, for sins on earth forgiven,

Fill with joy the courts of Heaven.

Toll the bell,—now God speed thee,

Matron in the vale of tears; Hoary grandsire, weak and needy,

Groaning 'neath the weight of years— Soon thou'lt drop the galling load, And be ever with thy God.

Onward, upward, all is ready;

Christian, let thy aims be pure— Single eye, and purpose steady, Wins the riches that endure; Warfare, here, must virtue test— Earth's the field, Heaven's thy rest! Ptnn' Grave, Del. Co-, Pa

Wiitten for the Ladies' Garland.



As the oaks of the forest, which have for centuries withstood the storm, are bent beneath the weight of years, and finally fall to the ground, so do the sires of our revolution, who have felt the storms of adversity, and endured the toils of a national war—one by one pass from among us; and that too in the morning of our country's hope; when the sunlight of prosperity gilds our happy nation. Gratitude leads us to their graves, and causes us to shed a tear over the memories of those "soul-tried" men, and to hold in greater respect the gallant few of their patriot band, who still remain (as living records of our country's toils,) to smile upon our land. Soon they will all be gone—for as the autumn leaves of the forest, they are gradually fading away; but though their bodies perish, and their very names be forgotten, yet their noble deeds will live forever, for they purchased, with their sufferings and then- blood, this liberty which we enjoy; and bequeathed unto us, their descendants, the noblest heritage of time—the American's birthright.

But they struggled not alone; for He, who presides over the destinies of nations, raised up friends to aid them in the hour of battle, who, though they had no tie to bind them to our cause, save their love of liberty, and hatred to oppression, sprang to our relief.

One of these friends was Thadeus Kosciusko—a native of Poland. He heard the cry of our fathers' resounding from this western world, and he knew that their cause was just; he felt every pang of their oppression, and his heart responded to every groan they uttered—their feelings were his feelings, and he resolved that their cause should be his cause. He crossed the wide ocean, leaving behind him friends and kindred, country and home, to assist the little band of American patriots, whilst struggling for their dearest rights. He came—a stranger to the American people, but not a stranger to the cause in which that people were engaged, for he had knelt at the shrine of Freedom from his boyhood's days. He entered their little army, and toiled as eagerly for them, as though their country had been his own; and by his deeds of daring, he became distinguished amongst the bravest of his fellow-soldiers. By the penetrating eye of Washington, ho was soon singled out, and raised to a station of high trust—to a place by that great chieftain's side. Together they toiled—together they triumphed; and Kosciusko had the pleasure of seeing that country, in whose cause he had risked his all, rise from beneath the iron-hand of oppression, to a free and independent nation.

Longer would he have lingered amid scenes so congenial to his soul;—but his own country called him away. Poland was in distress; her voice reached the ear of her son, who hastened home, obedient to her call, carrying with him the blessings of the people whom he had so ably assisted. He found his home polluted by the foot of the despoiler, and its territories falling a prey to the three throned robbers of Europe; yet he drew his sword, and at the head of a few heroic companions, endeavored to render to his country that assistance^ which he feared had unconsciously been too long delayed. But against such fearful odds, resistance seemed madness—yet he did resist, and by his valor, astonished his very opponents. By the combined forces of Russia, Austria, and Prussia, his little band was soon overpowered, and, at the command of a wicked queen, was thrown into a Russian prison, for the atrocious crime of having resisted the invaders of their homes. But from a queen—the murderess of her husband—this was mildness. What were the feelings of the Polish patriot, when, immured in a foreign dungeon, he thought of his bleeding country, and his inability to lift a hand in her behalf! Although her prospects were gloomy and forbidding, yet he looked forward to the time when brighter days would dawn upon the land. His cruel persecutor —the bloody queen—died, leaving behind her a name immortalized by crime. Her successor saw the sufferings of the brave Poles, and knowing that their devoted patriotism— which met with his warmest approbation— was the occasion of these sufferings, he opened the doors of their prison, and set the captives free; and Kosciusko he treated as a brother, rather than as an enemy. But there was cruelty in this kindness; for it did more injury to the cause of Poland than any army ever arrayed against her; it deprived her of her chief support, her Kosciusko, who never after grasped his sword for her defence.

Shortly after this the patriot retired to the interior of Switzerland; he did not, however, lose his anxiety for his country's welfare. Often he appealed for clemency and humanity in behalf of his afflicted countrymen. But he appealed in vain. In this retreat the patriot died, and was placed by the side of his sovereign—in a grave that has been watered by the tears of a whole nation.

After the fall of Kosciusko, Poland began rapidly to decline, and she sAon tell a prey to her rapacious foes, who tore her asunder, and blotted her from the list of nations. Now her sons have no spot in this wide world where they may stand and exclaim, "this is our own, our happy land," but are driven

about as wild beasts; some to wander over the frozen regions of Siberia—there to die, forsaken and forgotten; whilst others are sent to the mines of Russia, to labor for their malignant foes. But we will anticipate the time when they will again return to their native land—when, under another Kosciusko, they will throw off the shackles of oppression, and flocking around the shattered flag of their country, will proclaim themselves a free and independent people.

August, 1842.

From the Knickerbocker.



It is quite unnecessary to account for the publication of the following apparently confidential letter: it is enough to say that it came into my hands in a very strange manner; and its contents being of a serious nature, I thought it best, after consulting with a judicious friend, to send it to the "Old Knickerbocker," as I knew of no way of forwarding it to its destination direct.

Harry Franco.

Swampville, January 1,1842.


My Dear Mary:—I cannot say my lost one, because I know that you are in heaven, and it is I that am lost and not you. But, my dear Departed! Alas, that I should live to call you so; and alas! that I should call you so and live! But we know ourselves as little as others know us; indeed, we do not know ourselves so well; because in judging of others we are influenced by the whole conduct of their lives; and as men never alter, we know that what they will do at one time, they will do at another, under the same circumstances; but in judging of ourselves we reason from the feelings of the moment. Thus, when stunned with the awful announcement, just twelve months ago this very hour, that the Angel of Death had caught you in his arms, I threw myself upon your stiffening form, which never until then had refused to return my embrace, and vowed in my heart that henceforth, if doomed to live, I would live only for you; that I would die to the world and its blandishments, and never would pollute my heart by allowing thought of another to usurp the throne where you had reigned supreme; forgetting that I had before made many solemn vows and had broken them all. Yet I was sincere, dear Mary; I was true and honest; and your parting spirit, still cognizant, as I fondly thought, of earthly things, bore up to heaven the vows I had uttered in my heart. But


What a horrible word is this "But!"— What a sure prelude to disappointed hopes. How many a pale cheek and beating heart has the bare utterance of it caused; how many knees have faltered, how many eyes have been dimmed at the mere sight of it; how suddenly Hope withers at its sound, and expectation stands on tip-toe to learn what it half announces! If it were possible for your gentle spirit to feel with earthly feelings you could not suspect the truths to which this word is a preface. But as I know you would have forgiven me when here, let my offence have been what it might, you will not forgive me less now that you are in heaven where my vileness cannot mar the happiness that you enjoy. Therefore, I will confess all. But before! relate the events which have occurred since you were taken from me, let me once more call to mind the sad occurrence that hurried you away; that my own conduct may appear to me in its true light, without palliation or excuse. I would recall again the story of our love, but that I could not bear.

We had been married just two years; two moments you call them; and yet they should have been heavy years to you, for you had been turned from your father's door for marrying me, and had exchanged the elegancies of a happy home, for privations and hardships of which you could not have dreamed, until they fell to your lot. I was forced to leave you to go on a business errand to the south. How I regretted my slender income which compelled me to go! And how gently you rebuked me, and instilled new hopes in me, until, as the time of our parting drew nigh, your faltering voice told too plainly that you needed the consolation that you were endeavoring to afford me. At last we parted—neither able to say farewell. I know not what forebodings filled your mind, but for myself I was strangely oppressed with the conviction that I should never return; and it was the agonizing thought that you would be left alone in the world, without a protector, that caused my unhappiness; for my stay was not to be long, and the prospect of seeing you again would have alleviated the pain of our parting.

I had scarcely arrived at the place of my destination, when one of those fatal epidemics, peculiar to the south, broke out, and threatened to sweep off all who were not inured to the climate by a long residence. Frightful and exaggerated accounts of the ravages of the distemper reached you at the same time with the news of my arrival, and filled you with the most gloomy apprehension. I knew what effect such reports would have upon you, and I endeavored, by frequently writing, to inform you of my health—to

soothe your fears. At last, having escaped the contagion unharmed, I set sail for home, with a light heart. What a vision of delight danced before my eyes when I thought of meeting you! But we had to contend with foul weather. and head winds; and our voyage was prolonged to an unusual length. Fool that I was! I forgot the kind Providence that had kept me unharmed in the midst of pestilence, and now murmured at the little delay that kept me from you.

But my punishment was in store. If the time passed wearily with me, oh! how sadly it passed with you! You suffered a daily and hourly agony in watching for my return, the intensity of which I can only know from its fatal termination. You had watched so fondly and so long, with such unceasing anxiety, and such singleness of affection, that when at last they brought you intelligence of my safe arrival, and assured you that in an hour you would see me, the sudden realizing of 3'our hopes, and the dissipation of all the cruel fears that beset you, proved too much for your slender frame, and you sunk under the happy reverse. The excess of your joy, and the wild tumult of your exultations had destroyed you. And now, dear Mary! I live, and know that

you died for me. And now, I live But

I will not anticipate. It will come too soon, though it comes last.

With fond haste I hurried to your apartment, little dreaming of the sad greeting that awaited my coming. You were surrounded by strange people, a stream of blood was gushing from your mouth. Oh! what a sea of blood it seemed to me, drowning in its red waves all that was dear to me in life! It was in vain that kind and sympathising friends crowded around me. I could not be comforted. How idle were their gentle words! They could not restore you to life; of what worth then, were they to me? Even your old father, your implacable father, who had refused to see you when living, for my sake, now knelt at my feet and begged my forgiveness; he bathed my hands with his tears, and kissed me, because I had been loved by you; you, whom he turned from his door. Strange! that death, which makes no change in the departed, should so change the living! The world erects a monument today over the man to whom it refused a shelter but yesterday. Your father begged my forgiveness for his cruelty to you, and for your sake I forgave him. Why should I not? You would have done so.

Your poor old Aunt Keziah, who had so often dandled you upon her knee, and who loved you with a mother's love, came to find consolation, if haply she might, from mingling her tears with mine. Poor simple affectionate soul, how dearly she loved you!—and with true womanly affection forgot her own grief, in remembering the proprieties that were due to one she loved. Her over-solici- j tude for your poor remains, distressed me.: They were most dear to me, because they had been the habitation of your better part; but to her your lifeless body was yourself. She was most anxious about the place of your burial; to me it did not matter. Let your remains be buried where they might, it would be a holy place to me.

"Shall we not bury her in the Concordance!" said Aunt Keziah; "tis a lovely spot; so full of green trees and flowers; and then it's so quiet, and so genteel!"

"It matters not," I replied, "if it only be in a quiet spot, where I can sit and weep without being gazed at. But the place you named I never heard of before. Where is it?"

"Oh, she means the Commentary," said another old lady; "don't you, Aunty V j

"Yes, yes; I did mean the Commentary," said Aunty; "the Greenwood Commentary,! of course. But my poor head is turned. Ah! it is a dreadful thing not to call things by their right names in these days."

Whether or not Aunty had discovered a knowing look in any one present, and wanted to upbraid him with the superior civilization of the gentlemen of the old school, who would allow things to be miscalled with impunity, I do not know; but she continued to play upon that one string for some time.

"Well, well," continued Aunty, " we must all die, whether we read the Bible or the Dictionary. Ah! it matters but little, if the heart is only right, how wrong the head may be. Yes, yes; we must all go when our time comes, learning or not. Learning won't save us, nor dictionaries, but the Bible will. Well! ah !—the Greenwood Commentary. That's it, 1 suppose. Yes. It's a dreadful thing not to know the right names. Well, learning won't save a poor soul from dying. Money we can leave behind us for others, buti learning we can neither take with us nor leave behind. But it's a dreadful thing not to be learned. Ah! well; yes, the Commentary—the Greenwood Commentary, that's it, I suppose."

And here grief stopped the utterance of poor Aunty. Kind-hearted, womanly soul! She now lies in the very spot where she was j so anxious for your remains to be placed. She bequeathed her little fortune, which you know would have been yours, to the church of which she had been a member, upon the condition that the vestry should have her grave freshly sodded every spring. Tidy soul! But some of her graceless nephews disputed the validity of her will upon the ground of insanity, alleging, in proof, the'

terms of her bequest, which, to my perception, was the strongest evidence that she could have given of her perfect soundness of mind. They went to law, the nephews and the church, quite in a christian spirit, contending for a small sum of money; a very edifying spectacle to the world's-people, who rather like such things themselves, and would take vast comfort in the thought that the church sanctioned their likings. But it is impossible to tell in whose favor the law would have decided, for the suit was just about coming to trial, after having been put off three times, at the instigation of the defendants, and having missed one term from the illness of the judge, when the bank broke in which Aunty's fortune was invested, and the parties withdrew their suits, each paying their own costs, which I have been told was no trifle. And poor Aunty's grave to this day has never been sodded once—Alas, for human calculations! The tidy old creature left this world with the pleasing consciousness that a neatly trimmed hillock of green turf would always be lying upon her breast. What a lesson for those who place their affection upon earthly objects—and their money in banks!


After they had borne you away, and I sat weeping in the fading twilight, some of the neighbors remained to offer such aid as they could render to one in my sad condition. Among them, there was one whaspoke tome in so sweet a tone, that I could not but look up and thank her, for the interest she took in my behalf; for I knew it was rather for your sake than mine; and so she declared it was; and this pleased me so well, that I half fancied she resembled you. Perhaps she was neither so youthful nor so delicate in her beauty; my eyes were blurred, and I was not disposed to be critical. She said she had loved you, and I almost loved her for it. When she was about to leave, I could not but see her to the door and ask her to return the next day, for it was a sad pleasure to me even to see those who had known you and loved you. She came the next day, and I thought the resemblance to you was stronger than before. She stayed long, was very kind, and said a thousand things in your praise. She told me how well you had loved me, and she thought that I was the most miserable of men.

But to spare myself the recital of events that would give pain to both, if you were capable of pain; I will confess in brief, that she awakened a thought in my mind that one who bore so strong a resemblance to you in her person, might not be altogether objectionable as a companion. It was but the

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