Alone can hold o'er nature-Ministers aw bob And the long courted vision shall vanish-while I

The cetacea (an order of mammalia comprising the whale, the grampus, the porpoise, &c.,) were formerly classed with fishes, an in con mon language still bear that ill-applied title. Hence we read of the 'whale fishery,' and of the number of fish' taken upon any occasion. They breathe the atmospheric air by means of lungs; their heart consists of two auricles and two ven. tricles; their blood is warm; they bring forth living young, and inanifest toward them great attachment, nursing and protecting them with remarkable assiduity.

THE PORPOISE.

they scarcely occupy the space, in length, of a
single vertebra of the giraffe. Hence the neck
of the cetacea is immoveable and solid.

The cetacea are divided into several groups.
Some are herbivorous, as the dugong, feeding
on the submarine vegetables which grow in
shallows or near the shore; most however are
carnivorous, preying on the fish and other tenants
of the ocean. To this latter family must be re-
ferred that common native of our Atlantic shores,
the porpoise. (Phocana communis. Cuvier.)

The porpoise is the smallest of the cetacca, selThe cetacea appear to have no neck; they dom exceeding five feet in length. It frequents, have no distinct interval of separation between in troops, the bays and inlets of our coast, and the head and the trunk, yet if we examine their especially the mouths of rivers, not unfrequently skeleton we shall find that they possess the num-advancing to a considerable distance up their ber of cervical vertebræ common to all mam.stream. In such places it is often taken in nets malia, namely, seven. The neck of the giraffe by the fishermen, becoming entrapped while also consists of seven vertebræ: but in the one eagerly pursuing its prey. When the shoals of case we find the vertebra clongated to the ut-herring and other fish which periodically visit most; in the other case, the whole seven are compacted closely together, and so compressed as to lose the usual appearance of such bones,

our coast make their appearance, they are har.
rassed, among other enemies, by this active and
voracious animal, which revels in the luxury of

a perpetual feast; and, as its appetite is enor. mous and its digestion rapid, the slaughter in which it appears incessantly occupied must be very great. The porpoise is common in the vicinity of New-York, and few have sailed among the islands of its bay, or up Long-Island Sound, who have not seen these animals tumbling along, as they appear to do, in the rushing waves. The peculiarity of their motion results from the hori zontal position of the tail-paddle, and the up and-down stroke which it gives; and their momentary appearance is for the purpose of breathing, which accomplished, they plunge down in search of their food.

In former days the flesh of the porpoise was highly esteemed as a delicacy for the table, and was served at public feasts in England; indeed, it is but lately that it has fallen into disrepute,ard been omitted at city entertainments, where the turtle usurps its place. Our forefathers must have had a different notion about table delicacies from ourselves; for few, we believe, would now relish the rank, oily, fishy flesh of this animal.

Mr. ANSON was a descendant of the famous Deiderick Knickerbocker, and as such preserv. ed in his family the manners and customs of the 'Faderland: the language he held with religious veneration, esteeming it too sacred to permit any innovations to be introduced, or improvements to be made in the pronunciation of the words. His antipathies and prejudices were deep-rooted in his soul, they were founded in nature: an insult or an injury he would never forgive-revenge and retaliation were the boasted principles of his bosom, for time never softened the harshness of his feelings. An aristocrat in feeling, he cared for none; and if his own schemes and wishes were accomplished, he cared not if the multitude waned back to the times of barbarism, or the world returned to its primeval chaos. The blessings of education, however, had never spread their refining and genial influences over him;|| and therefore the rough asperities of his nature never had any levelling principles applied to them.

He cherished an inveterate hatred against all (except those of his own nation) who were so unfortunate as not to be born in this happy country, but more particularly against the sons of Erin; toward whom his vengeance slumbered not nor his persecutions ceased this side of the grave. But his indomitable hatred toward the 'exiles of Erin' may be palliated, when it is known that one of his daughters bestowed her heart and hand upon one of them in opposition to his will: in his view this was an insult to his dignity, and a plague.spot upon the pride of his family, which his proud spirit could never brook. 'Tis no wonder, then, that the very atmosphere in which one of them breathed was poisonous to him. But I need not particularize all the excentricities and peculiarities which distin. guished him from the community in which he lived: suffice it, he carried in his family the same principles which governed his conduct elsewhere; he ruled there with a despotic sway, for none dared oppose his will. 'Lord of the ascendant.' But I have digressed, and intend now to confine myself to my story.

house of Mr. Anson, and indeed was as much father's estate by the old English law of prime.
regarded as if he had been one of the family. geniture. The distant prospect of wealth was
There never happened an assembly, or party of productive of more injury to James than good.
pleasure, but that Charles and Melinda were He did not consider that there was a possibility
parties. He was of an ardent temperament, a of its never coming in bis possession; and if he
mind formed to admire the beautiful and the did, that it might be so guarded that he could
good; and in the growing virtues of Melinda || use only the proceeds: but he expected to be at
Anson he saw shadowed forth the developments || liberty to waste it in whatever manner his de.
and imagery of one on whom he could lavish praved inclinations might lead him to.
the virgin affections of his heart. In her he
saw all that his poetic fancy could picture of
this world's perfection; and he felt assured that
this feeling was reciprocated. Melinda loved
him with all the enthusiasın and ardor of her
soul; it was her first, her onl. love. But alas!
Charles was poor; and he was well aware that
the pride of him who could boast of the famous
Deiderick Knickerbocker in his ancestral line,
would not permit him to consent to have the
escutcheon of his family tarnished by a name
which could bring with it nothing but talents:
for Mr. Anson regarded riches as superior to
the most brilliant talents or the most exalted
genius.

While Charles Wilton was meditating upon his unfortunate attachment toward the beautiful Melinda, Mr. Anson was forming a scheme and maturing a plan, the consummation of which he did not doubt his daughter would acquiesce in. But Melinda's feelings were already too firmly engaged; and although she considered it her duty to obey his wishes so far as consistent with her own happiness, yet when she saw that he would have her barter her affections for money, for sordid avarice, that noble independence of mind which had ever characterized her conduct was shown, by scornfully rejecting the suit he proposed: and Melinda Anson secretly resolved never to forsake Charles Wilton-never to see him immolated upon the altar of her father's unholy ambition.

The anticipation that young Vernon would at some future day come in possession of a considerable amount of property, served as an ignis fatuus' to Mr. Anson. He already in imagination saw James Vernon possessed of an estate which had for ages been accumulating in one branch of the family, and surrounded with all the pomp and pageantry which some persons of wealth are accustomed to make. Mr. Anson endeavored to persuade his daughter to accept of James by every means in his power; and though Melidna had flatly refused, yet he hoped that time would alter her feelings toward him; or at any rate, that she would finally be induced to accept of his hand, and thus become a participator in his wealth.

One evening after Charles Wilton had taken leave somewhat later than usual, the truth burst upon the mind of Mr. Anson like a thun lerbolt that a warmer feeling than friendship existed between Charles and Melinda. Though Mr. Wilton was a frequent visiter at the mansion of Mr. Anson, yet he never dreamed that 'poor Charles Wilton,' as he was pleased to term him, would dare to aspire after the heart and hand of Melinda, so far above him in birth and fortune, or ask for anything save the civilities and friendship of his family. When therefore the suspicion entered his mind, it was like the withering sirocco to his hopes. He then saw how short. sighted he had been, in not perceiving in the reception, the respect and partiality she gave him, something more deep in feeling than mere friendship. When Mr. Anson recovered from the consternation in which this sudden conviction that his daughter preferred Charles Wilton to James Vernon had thrown him, he resolved to ascertain from her the opinion she entertained for Charles; and accordingly bent his steps to. ward the parlor. He found Melinda sitting upon the sofa, pale and dejected, for Charles had been expressing his fears of her father's disapprobation. He inquired if she considered Charles Wilton her equal?

A young man by the name of James Vernon also resided in the same neighborhood. He was respectably connected, and his family in com. fortable circumstances, though not wealthy. James had had excellent opportunities for ad. vancement in life, but he did not improve them; the proverb. that many who can do won't do' was quite applicable to him, for he was more fond of the tavern and the gambling board than of the academy: and when he arrived at that age when most young men who carly possessed the facilities of education are prepared to enter upon the active duties of life, he was found so The sudden crimson of Melinda's cheek told in illiterate as to be almost destitute of the rudi-language too plain to be misunderstood, and after ments of a common education-and scarcely a short pause she said she had always considered able to write his own name. The very acme of his ambition was attained when he was among his associates of the 'pit of inebriation,' for he was a bright star among a galaxy of worthless fellows who congregated at the village tavern, and whose midnight orgies disturbed not a little the peace and quietness of the inhabitants. Such was the character of James Vernon, whose suit Melinda Anson was continually importuned to accept of by her father.

Mr. Anson was blessed with one daughter out of a numerous offspring, who was in every respect the very antipodes of her father. She was kind, condescending, and humane; with a pleasing countenance, and a form most divinely fair; possessed of a mind whose conceptions were of the finest mould, and judgment and discretion far superior to her years and opportunities. These marked the rising sun of her who won Though James Vernon's present pecuniary the esteem and affection of all who knew her. circumstances could illy afford to indulge him in In the same neighborhood lived a young man habits of dissipation and prodigaliy, yet he look. by the name of Charles Wilton, who had knowned forward to a time when he would probably MELINDA for that was her name-from a come in possession of considerable property from child, Charles was a constant visiter at the l an old bachelor uncle, who had inherited all his

him so.

'What said Mr. Anson, his countenance ex. pressive of rage and his voice trembling with anger, 'is poor Charles Wilton the equal of my daughter, who is rich!

'I have never considered it a crime to be poor,' mildly but firmly answered Melinda, especially when it arises from something over which we have no control. Recollect, dear father, that Charles always was poor; he never had a fortune as some have, and then by habits of dissi. pation and imprudent conduct spent that fortune, and thus reduced himself to poverty. No, he was born to no inheritance; but he has talents, and is industrious.'

'But he is poor,' said Mr. Anson.

'I do not despise him for his poverty any more han I would love him for his riches alone, if he had them,' said Melinda.

for each other. And the star of empire' which
westward took its way found them following in
its train, and they finally located in one of the
great and growing states in the west, where
Charles Wilton now enjoys one of the highest

'But,' said her father, 'even supposing Charles
vas rich, still his rank is not equal to yours. He
an point to no illustrious ancestors to give celatoffices in the gift of its people.
nd dignity to his name. He is nothing but poor
Charles Wilton!

'But,' said Melinda, I have never considered iches essential to happiness; I do not believe here is much alliance between them. You are wealthy, yet I have often heard you say that our tenants were happier than you. Charles, lis true, has no distinguished ancestors of whom o boast, but he is respected by the wise and good intelligence and virtue will gain honor n any station in life; and though Charles is ow, yet I would be proud to exalt him. But the erson you have selected I can never think of as by husband. I loathe him, and can never force by soul to love such a senseless object as he is. Though I would obey you in all things, yet, car father, command me not to think of him s the one on whom I must lavish the affections f my heart! You will not, if you value my appiness. My feelings revolt,-it would be iolence done to my nature. Advise me not to arter my affections for gold. Would you see our child living in rank and splendor merely › gratify your pride, while in her heart the se. ret poison was corroding its life-springs? Could ou, dear father, tear from my bosom the image bich it has always cherished, and deprive me f the society of him who alone can render me appy? With Charles Wilton I shall be happy; reciprocity of feeling joirs our souls in union. His presence can illumine the dark hovel or the ismal garret; and in the vicissitudes, the changg scenes of this world, I can cheer and solace Im in his progress through life. His steps will ad up the rugged path of fame, and the time not far distant when he will stand pre-eminent mong inen,'

More eloquently than I have attempted to ortray did the artless girl plead for the person e most loved. The rough heart of the old an was softened by the entreaties of his child. is heart smote him for having placed his affecons so much upon the grosser things of earth, the neglect of those higher and nobler feelings hich the Creator has bestowed upon us to cle-te us in the scale of being, and the cultivation which can alone constitute true happiness. nd that heart of adamant, as it were, which d scarcely ever before throbbed in unison en with the wife of his bosom now almost iraculously burst its golden prison, and his untenance beamed with benevolence and fection. The pure girl, by her eloquent in eaties, and the high tone of moral character e exhibited, enlightened the heart of her faer, and he saw what would most enhance e happiness of his child; and, subduing his aricious propensities, he wisely ceased his position, and bade her MARRY CHARLES WIL

see her happily settled before he quit the stage of existence. It was not long ere he suspected that young Henry was the cause of her indifference to others; the evident pleasure she took in hear ing him praised, the blush that overspread her cheek when even their eyes met, all served to convince the old gentleman, who had not forgot. ten that he was once young himself, they took more than a common interest in each other's welfare.

The history of James Vernon is short; and his example a warning beacon to others. Dissi. pation soon engendered the seeds of a mortal disease, which terminated his career of folly and wickedness. And cre his sun had attained Thus satisfied, he forebore making any re. its meridian, or the flush of youth departed, he marks upon the subject, but was not as displeasfound a drurkard's grave,—his name dishonored at the supposition as the pennyless Henry cd, and covered with obloquy and reproach. would have imagined. La Grange, November, 1839.

B. F. D.

FILIAL WORTH REWARDED.
"My tale is simple and of humble birth,
A tribute of respect to real worth."

"You are too parsimonious, Henry," said Mr.
D to one of his clerks, as they were to.
gether in the counting house one morning-gire
me leave to say you do not dress sufficiently
genteel to appear as a clerk in a fashionable
store."

Henry's face was suffused with a deep blush,
and a tear trembled on his manly cheek.
"Did I not know your salary was sufficient to
provide more genteel habiliments," continued
Mr. D. "I would increase it."

"My salary is sufficient, amply sufficient, sir,
replied Henry, in a voice choaked with that
proud independence of feeling which poverty
had not been able to divest him of.
ployer noticed the agitation, and immediately
changed the subject.

His cm

Mr. D. was a man of immense wealth and
ample benevolence, he was a widower, and had
but one child, a daughter, who was the pride of
his declining years. She was not as beautiful
as an angel, or as perfect as Venus; but the
goodness, the innocence, the intelligence of her
mind shone in her countenance, and you had
but to become acquainted with her, to admire
and love her. Such was Caroline Delancy,
when Henry became an inmate of her father's
abode.

|
No wonder then that he soon loved her with
that deep and ardent affection—and reader, had
you known him you would not have wondered
that that love was returned, for their souls were
congenial-they were cast in Virtue's mould-|
and although their tongues never gave utterance
to what they felt, yet the language of their eyes
told to plainly to be mistaken. Henry was the
very soul of honor, and although he perceived
that he was not indifferent to Caroline, still he
felt that he must conquer at once the passion
that glowed in his bosom. 'I must not endeav.
or to win her young and artless heart,' thought
he. "I am penny less, and cannot expect that
her father would ever consent to her union-he
has ever treated me with kindness and I will not
be ungrateful." Thus he reasoned, and thus
heroically endeavored to subdue, what he con
sidered an ill-fated passion. Caroline had many
suitors; and some who were fully worthy of
her, but refused all their overtures with a gentle
yet decisive firmness. Her father wondered at
her conduct, yet would not thwart her inclina.
tions.

He was in the decline of life, and wished to

Henry had now been about a year in his em ploy. Mr. Delancy knew nothing of his family, but his strict integrity, his irreproachable morals, his pleasing manners, all conspired to make him esteem him highly. He was proud of Henry, and wished him to appear in dress as well as manners, as respectable as any one, He had often wondered at the scantiness of his wardrobe, for although he dressed with the most scrupu lous regard to neatness, his clothes were almost threadbare. Mr. D. did not think this proceeded from a niggardly disposition, and he deter. mined to broach the subject, and if possible ascertain the real cause-this he did in the man. ner related.

Soon after this conversation took place, Mr. D. left home on business. As he was returning and riding through a beautiful village, he alight. ed at the door of a cottage and requested a drink. The mistress with an ease and politeness that convinced him that she had not always been the humble cottager, invited him to walk in. He accepted the invitation-and here a scene of poverty and neatness presented itself, such as he had never before witnessed. The furniture consisted of no more than was absolutely necessary, was so exquisitively clean, that it gave charms to poverty, and cast an air of comfort all around. A venerable looking old man who had not seem. ed to notice the entrance of Mr. Dr., sat lean. ing on his staff, his clothes were clean and whole, but so patched, that you could have scarcely told which had been the original piece. 'That is your father, I presume,' said Mr. D., addressing the lady.

Henry W, cxclaimed Mr. D. Why he is my clerk. I left him at my house not a fort. night since.'

Here followed a succession of inquiries, which evinced an anxiety and solicitude that a mother alone could feel to all of which Delancy replied to her perfect satisfaction.

You know our Henry?' said the old man, raising his head from his staff; 'well, sir, then you know as worthy a lad as ever lived; God bless him. He will bless him for his goodness to his poor old grand father,' he added, in a tremulous voice, while the tears chased each other down his checks.

'He is a worthy fellow, to be sure,' said Mr. D., rising, and placed a well filled purse in the hands of the old man. He is a worthy young man, and shall not want friends, be assured.' He left the cottage.

'But you said it would not put you to any in. convenience and that you would wait with pleas. ure.'

'Command me in any thing else, sir, but in that request, I cannot oblige you,' said Henry, rising and walking the floor with rapid strides.

Poor fellow; he had thought his passion subdued; but when he found that Caroline was so soon, so irrevocably to become another's, the latent spark burst forth into an extinguishable flame; and he found it in vain to endeavor to conceal his emotion.

'Noble boy,' said he mentally, as he was ri-of earnestnessding leisurely along, ruminating on his interview; he shall not want wealth to enable him to distribute happiness. I believe he loves my girl, and if he does, he shall have her, and all my property in the bargain.'

happiness.

The old gentleman regarded him with a look business further and further up the river. No one indeed can tell how soon, in the rapacious 'Henry, tell me frankly, do you love my girl? and resistless action of this mighty current, the 'I will be candid with you, sir,' replied Henry bar and the island may be swept away; but noth. conscious that his agitation had betrayed him.-ing can bring the steamboats below their pres. Had I a fortune such as she merits, and as you, sir, have a right to expect, I should esteem my. Filled with this project, and determined,. if self the happiest of men, could I gain her love.' possible, to ascertain the true state of their Then she is yours,' cried the delighted old hearts, he entered the breakfast room next morn-man, say not a word about property, my boy-mense merchantmen of the Mississippi dis. ing, after his arrival home. Caroline was alone. true worth is better than riches. I was only 'So Henry is about to leave us to go to Eng-trying you, Henry-and Caroline will never be land" he carelessly observed.

'Henry about to leave us,' said Caroline, dropping the work she held in her hand-about to leave us, and going to England,' she added, in a tone which evinced the deepest interest.

To be sure; what if he is, my child.' 'Nothing, sir nothing-only I thought we should be rather lonesome,' turning away, to hide the tears she could not suppress.

'Tell me, Caroline,' said Mr. D., tenderly em. bracing her, 'tell me do you love Henry? You know I wish your happiness, my child. I have ever treated you with kindness, and you have never until now, hid any thing from your father.'

Neither will I now,' she replied, hiding her face in her fathers bosom. 'I do most sincerely esteem him, but do not for the world tell him so, for he has never said it was returned.'

The daughter was left alone. 'Henry,' said he, entering the counting house, 'you expect to visit the country, shortly, do you -I believe you so told me?'

'Yes sir, in about four weeks.'

If it would not be too inconvenient,' replied Mr. D., 'I should like to have you defer it a week or two longer, at least.'

'I will be no inconvenience, sir, and if it would oblige you I will wait with pleasure'

It will most certainly oblige me, for Caroline is to be married in about six weeks, and I would not miss having you attend the wedding.' 'Caroline, to be married, sir! said Henry, starting, as if by an electric shock. to be married! Is it possible?

wonderful about that?

married to any other but yourself.'

The transition from deep despair to happiness was great. For a moment Henry remained si. lent; but his looks spoke volumes. At last he

'Carolineness.'

'I am merciful, sir, and for that reason would To be sure, she is ; but is what is there so not wish to put you to the inconvenience of stay ing. You said you would oblige me, but you 'Nothing sir; only it was rather sudden, rath-could not, indeed you could not!' or unexpected, that's all,'

It is rather sudden, to be sure, but I am an

You have once been young, sir,' said Henry. 'I know it, I know it,' replied he; laughing old man, and wish to see her have a protector-heartily-but I am afraid too many of us old and as the man is well worthy of her, I see no folks forget it--however, if you can postpone use in waiting any longer, and am very glad that your journey, I suppose we must have a wed. you can stay to the wedding.'

ding?'

ent landing and moorings, which stretch along for a mile and a half in front of the American part of St. Lou's. There all the large ware houses and wholesale stores are-there the im

charge and take in their cargoes; there in short, nearly all the heavy business is done, and there it will be done.

St. Louis is larger than I had supposed; and appears to be advancing more rapidly than any other town that I have seen at the West. The city, prop r, now contains about 15,000 inhabi tants; and there are nearly as many more with. out the limits, in the immediate neighborhood. Many hundreds of houses were built last year, notwithstanding the pressure of the times, and many more are going up this year. Rents are enormously high; higher than in any eastern city, not excepting New York itself; and I be lieve higher than any where else on the conti nent of America. For a handsome two story brick house, with one parlor in front, you would have to pay 7 or 800 dollars per annum. Louis must from its position, become a very large commercial city; and there is no prospect that any other town on the Mississippi, above New Orleans, will be able to compete with it. Al. ready the landing, covered with iron and lead and all kinds of heavy goods, reminds you of one of the front streets of New York or Philadelphia. But why don't they build wharves here?

St.

In the lower and much the oldest part of the town, where the French chiefly reside, the streets are narrow and filthy-the buildings are, for the most part, small, and constructed with the least possible regard either to elegance or comfort. Hogs and dogs seemed, the morning I passed through it, to have undisputed posses sion of the ground; and the former had many a comfortable wallowing place in front of the houses. The French Catholics, I understand, are some of them very wealthy and respectable; and they have the most costly and magnificent cathedral west of Baltimore. Till very lately they held the ascendancy in St. Louis; but it has passed out of their hands never to return The Anglo-American population is gaining upon them every hour; and the French never