NEWSPAPERS. FOREIGNERS laugh at the Americans for being fond of news. There is something delightful in a newspaper, with a quiet breakfast, even to him who, dwelling in the city, must necessarily soon learn from other sources whatever may have occurred of uncommon interest. To rise from your slumbers refreshed—to have a spare hour before you plunge again into the clash and whirl of business-to unfold the damp sheet before a cheerful fire, while the fragrant coffee is sipped at leisure, and to know that busy men have been on the watch all night while you slept-that swift boats have been ploughing the dark deep-that the mails have been urged unceasingly almost with winged speed, and all to let you know, most accurately and immediately, every thing that can amuse or surprise or interest you,-it is pleasant, gentle reader, is it not? It furnishes a constant theme for reflection-it is the great arena of the world, reduced by a wonderful process into a miniature picture -as the landscape of an extended country is thrown in, with living beauty and precision, upon the narrow plate of a camera obscura, and you have waves washing, vessels sailing, trees waving, clouds melting and floating, and all the innumerable goings on of nature, produced on a space no larger than your table. But if you really wish to enjoy the luxury of a newspaper, you must live awhile in the country, after having mingled in the city din. If you can get into some remote, obscure, tedious village, so much the better. You should pine a week or two to learn what people can be doing in your familiar places; and then, when some attentive friend, knowing your eager anxieties, encloses you a journal-one for instance "for the country," with three sides covered with precious items -there's a luxury better than eating, drinking, or sleeping. With what a tremulous curiosity, on such delectable occasions, you hang over the prolific columns! How you swallow the littleb its of paragraphs 66 66 commencing "we understand that," and "we are requested to state;" the "new discoveries," the "interesting trials," the "singular rumors," with what an insatiable appetite they are all devoured. Even the "dreadful murders," the "melancholy accidents," the 'distressing fires;" things which at home you do not read at all, are all magnified into an unnatural importance. I have, at such times, waded even through the ship news,' "the "New York markets,' ," and the "commercial" head. I have even experienced a tender regret that there had been "nothing doing in ashes during the past week," and stroked my chin with self satisfaction on learning that "a parcel of Cuba white bees' wax had been disposed of at thirty-eight cents, short price." I read the "passengers" in the ships, the auction sales," the "court calendar," and all the heterogeneous medley to be met with in a briskly conducted gazette; and once I trudged through six columns of congressional proceedings-I did, upon my word— speeches and all; but then it was raining, and I was tremendously at a loss for something to do. Newspapers! dear newspapers! friends to liberty— to man! many a delightful surprise I owe to you! many a hearty laugh-but, also, many a soft regret—as, for instance, it was but the other day, in casually casting my eyes over one of them, they fell upon the stunning item, uninteresting to all the world-to me, alas, how eloquent-how sad! "On Thursday evening last, by the Reverend A. B., Mr. John Grimmer, to Miss Henrietta L."-the very being I had selected' for myself, and intended to take as soon as I got a little settled in business. Then, Mr. John Grimmer-who was Mr. John Grimmer? How dim all the surrounding matter appeared to those two magic lines. They shone out like a star in a midnight sky. This, I confess, is an objection to newspapers. They are so cold hearted: under the very words that nipped my budding passion so unceremoniously, it told me that United States bank stock was one hundred and twenty-five, and that the schooner Porpoise, captain Herring, was in, thirty-five days from Malaga. What did I care for the schooner Porpoise? what did I care for the United States bank stock? I, who loved, and was treated in such a shameful style. Yes; newspapers are like men of the world. They march steadily on through misery and joy, without turning to the right or left, or if ever they do grieve, ten chances to one it is for some event that no one cares a farthing for in reality. They tell you your mistress is married; your friend is dead, and recommend you to go to the theatre without fail, and hear the splendid new opera. They describe the fall of a nation in a tone that would make you believe they would end their existence from mere grief and indignation, and you stumble out of a scene of awful oppression and gory massacre into a merry drinking party or a smart repartee. One the other day really aroused my feelings on a subject of a pathetic nature, and just as my imagination was elevated and inspired, and a thrilling sense of compassion was spreading itself through my veins, it assured me that a capital shaving soap might be obtained within a few doors of its office : Beside the elegance of the style, comes the immense importance of the paragraphs which are sometimes served up for the astonishment of the world. I have made a list of some of these, culled indiscriminately from various papers, and hasten to give them to the public. "We take great pleasure in informing our readers that Mr. Jacob Brown reached this city yesterday morning on his way to Connecticut; Mr. Brown's private affairs demanding his presence in that section of our great and growing country. Connecticut was the scene of several interesting events during the revolution. Mr. Brown is well, as also are Mrs. Brown and little Peter. It is said that in consequence of a scarcity of sausages in the market he was compelled to breakfast on eggs and bread and butter. Rumors are afloat that he could have been abundantly supplied with buckwheat cakes, but his extraordinary and well known repugnance to that article prevented the possibility of setting them before him. We trust the appearance of our city will strike Mr. Brown in a favorable point of view, as after having transacted his business in Connecticut, he will immediately set off on his voyage to London, where his opinion of us will be much regarded. We are delighted in being able to contradict the assertion made in one of our leading contemporaries, that he had hit his nose against a pump handle on returning from his visit to the court house. On hearing the report we instantly dispatched a courier extraordinary to ascertain the truth, who assures us that it is altogether fabulous, the nose of the illustrious foreigner being in a state of perfect preservation. We shall resume this subject tomorrow, as want of space must be our apology to an impatient public for not dwelling upon it at this time."-Independent Watchman, "As a young lady, daughter to Colonel Flap, of the militia, was going out yesterday morning to purchase some blue sewing silk, and some other little articles, which at present we do not feel ourselves at liberty to disclose, she was startled by an ill looking dog, who placed himself directly in her way at the south west corner of Gooseberry lane and Madison street. Fortunately the dog went away immediately without any other consequence than an alarm to Miss F., who with a presence of mind that cannot be too highly praised, proceeded on her errand and made the intended purchases in perfect composure and safety."--North American Advertiser. "The conduct of the Russians to the Poles we consider as disreputable to the former as men. A distinguished gentleman, and one well known to the public, yesterday observed in our presence that he considered it worthy of a barbarous nation in a Gothic age.” ”Brood's Daily Reporter. SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. **** am. JUNE. I am awake. I amThere! I have wept. I who have been the fiercest in anger, the haughtiest in principle, the merriest or the boldest in all adventures, have wept child-like tears, and sobbed bitterly, and wished my heart would break while I thought it was breaking. It is an incomprehensible creation, this human soul. I am happier now here, in this small stone cell, with only yonder single stream of light falling from that narrow aperture, suffering the realization of my worst forebodings-I am less miserable than I have been for months, months before. The suspense is ended. I had rather be broken on the wheel at once than live in that suspense; beside, these tears have relieved me. Yet even now my mind is thronged with images-the court-room, the vast heaving crowd, the faces all gazing, the hum and murmur of multitudes, the voices of the contending parties, the judge, the hushed silence, the condemnation, the strange eyes fastened on me-my brain teems with them all yet, with dreadful vividness and reality. I cannot close my eyes against them. I cannot drive them from my imagination. Sleep itself affords me no cessation, for they pass all with exaggerated importance into my dreams, and so haunt me. Wonderful images of the outward world, that world which I am never to see again. Never-never. **** JUNE. Two nights have passed since I wrote the above. I have been too wretched; my reflections have been too excruciating to admit of writing. Sometimes I have paced up and down my cage. I must have exercise or I die, so I walked and leaped and stamped, to put my blood in motion. Then I laid down for hours, and thought. My past life has been all in review before me. I have slept, too, and dreamed-not of the faces -oh no! a sweet, sweet vision of early youth--of my mother. While I write, the big tears are bursting out from my swollen eyes, and coursing each other down my cheeks. They fall, like the heavy drops of a shower, on the paper. Well, let them. It is fitting it should be |