poor workman, not having time to escape, was instantly overwhelmed with the foundering earth. Standing fortunately at this time under a mass of rock, he escaped being immediately crashed to death; but as there were many thousand tons of earth above him, the melancholy prospect of certain destruction, by weans the most lingering and terrible, still presented itself to him.

When the accident happened, he had half a pound of candles in his hand, and upon this, and the trickling water that destiled through the crack of the rock, he subsisted nine days until his fatithful companions, who, with an anxious solicitude that does honour to humanity, worked incessantly (spelf and spell) for nine days and as many nights, at length reached, and liberated him from the horrible prison in which he was immured.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening, by the Rev. Dr. Miller, Maltby Gelston, Esq. to Miss Mary Jones, daughter of the late Dr. Thomas Jones.

On Sunday evening, by the Rev. Dr. Romeyn, Mr John Sharp, merch't, to Miss Henrietta Golman.

At New Rochelle, on the Igth inst. by the Rev. Mr. Thomas, Mr. Isaac Bonney, of New York, to miss Susan

Drake, daughter of Benjamin Drake, of the former place.

On Wednesday evening last, at East Chester, by the Rev. Mr. Thompson, Mr. Daniel Drake, merchant, of NewYork, of the house of M and D Drake, o miss Martha Valentine, daughter Mr. Joel Valentine, of the former place.

On Saturday last, by the Rev Dr. Beach Mr. James A Moore, to Miss Maria Sophia Armour, daughter of the late capt. John Armour, all of this city.

On Monday evening, by the Rev. Mr. Broadhead, Mr Joha King, to Miss Janet Nexsen, daughter of Elias Nexsen, Esq.

On Monday evening last, by the rev. Dr. How, Dr. Henry U. Onderdonk, to miss Eliza Carter.

On Wednesday evening, hy the rev. Dr. Moore, mr. Harman Wallace, to miss Eliza Harrison.

On Thursday evening, by the rev, mr. M'Clay, mr. John Currie, to miss Eliza Fraser.

On monday evening, by the rev. Dr. Broadhead, mr. Richard N. Rosencrans, to miss Matilda Halsey.

On Wednesday evening, by the rev. mr Spring, mr James F. Palmer, to miss Catharine Davenport.

THEATRE.

On Monday evening next, will be
Presented,

The celebrated play of, the
MOUNTAINEERS.
To which will be Added,
THE APPRENTICE.

His master's, and his mistress's esteem;

While all the family lov'd him much,
And fellow servants thought him just.

And now Petruchio on a sick bed lies,
His master visits him each day
His mistress with attention tries
His pains to ease, his suff'rings to
allay.

At last he died.-Petrucio's master, kind,

At his own charge buried this servant true,

And with a high respect, behind
The corpse, follow'd him to the tomb.

And as thro' church-way path was borne

The ashes of this faithful man,
Tears flow'd from all around.
How honor'd much! respected high !
Was to each one the general cry,
"Like the good man, so let me die."

But there's reason to think they might save more lives still,

Did they publish a list of the number they kill.

XANTIPPUS.

William Tell.

WHEN William Tell was doom'd to die,

Or hit the mark upon his infant's head;

The signal told the hour was nigh,

And soldiers march'd with grief and

dread.

And now each valiant Swiss his grief partakes,

For they sigh, and wild cry, poer

William Tell,

Poor William Tell, once hero of the lakes.

At length was heard the muffled drum,

And straight the painted arrow fliesThe trembling boy expects his doom,

And all shriek out, he dies, he dies. When hark! the lofty trumpet sounds,

The mark is hit, my child is free

Into his father's arms he bounds,
Inspir'd by love and liberty!
Now each valiant Swiss his joy par
takes,

Live William Tell, live William
Tell.

NEW-YORK:

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY

ALEXANDER C. MORTON,

No. 3 Dutch-Street.

ST. HERBERT ;

OR, THE

VICTIMS OF PREJUDICE.

FE sun was verging toward HE the empurpled horizon, and the evening winds had already un folded their dewy wings, when the weary Albudor entered the forest, within whose gloomy confines he hoped to find his solitary Caroline, who, fleeing from the rigours of parental authority, had taken up her residence with an aged nun of Montreal, in this wil derness. He hesitated some time what course to take, for he had left the beaten road, and saw no traces of a footstep, save where the hungry buffaloe had wandered to browze. Fear smote his heart, and he had half determined to return, when he descried, at a little distance, something that resembled a path; it had been one once, but it was so long since an human foot had marked its yellow dust, that the purple clo

4.

[NO. 5

ver, and the airy spear-grass had concealed it. He pursued it, however, and found it to terminate at a shattered gate that stood in a high stone wall of ancient structure, and over which clambered wild grapes, and honey-suck!es in profusion; and having with much difficulty raised its rusty latch, he entered, and passed down a slope, through a long vista of tall cedars, to an extensive garden. On the one hand ran a clear brook over some marble figures that had once been gay to the sight, but now lay in ruins, while shrubs and flowers, wildly mingling. their luxuriance on either margin, painted the fanciful water with a thousand charming colours; on the other side a verdant lawn was decorated by a variety of trees, formed into little clumps, with seats of turf beneath them, and nearly in the midst of the square stood a lofty grove of fir. Struck with its solitary air, he approached it, and found that it shaded a small summer-house, that once was elegant, but the bus

Sy tooth of time had fretted away its beauty, and left nought but the ruins of grandeur; the roof was supported by eight arches joined at the bottom by a low balustrade, round which some tangled evergreens clung, and the pavement was of white marble: an old blue damask sopha rested itself against one side of the building, and opposite to it stood a harpsichord, grey with dust, with a chair before it, while in one of the arches, upon the railing, were placed two large jars of porphy ry, filled with rose bushes.

The awakened curiosity of Albudor would not permit him to tarry, but with hasty steps he passed through the garden, and upon opening a small gate, a large stone building with grated windows, and a magnificent portico, that partly held up the roof, barst upon his view; it was surrounded by a deep wood, whose tall nodding spires seemed to mingle with the skies, and cast a mournfui gloom upon the moist green that environed the mansion; the winds hummed through the broad chinks, and the doors slowly turning, moaned upon their hinges; while the clamourous quai!, perched upon the balcony, interrupted at intervals the unsocial silence. Albudor paused at the gate, his heart chilled with irresolution, and he was just going to

return, when a heavy groan struck his ear he started, and turning his eyes around, beheld an old man come out of the wood, who, supporting himself upon a staff, tremblingly crossed the green, and seated himself upon a stone oppo site the house, fixed his gaze on one of the upper windows, and exclaimed Again, Oh thou solitary prison, is thy visitor com to break with wailings the sullen silence in which thou art embo. somed; again do his fruitless tears moisten thy tufted sods: once, indeed, I could fill thy forest with the mellifluous warblings of my. flute, and I only pressed this ver dure to be gay; but then my Louisa was her beauty made thee ever charming, and her inno. cence made me ever cheerful. O transient days of rapture!" He drew a long sigh, and covered his face with his hands. The heart of Albudor was sensibly touched with sorrow, and ap proaching the old man, "Unfor-) tunate sage, (said he) are the woes of thy bosom too weighty to admit of alleviation, that thou thus abandonest thyself to despair?" "Alas, my son," replied the old man, looking up, "few lives: have been more devoted to afffiction than mine; but I only grieve, I do not despair; the indulgence of our griefs softens them, but despair hath no solace." He paused awhile, and then added