to the public, in consequence of their not being carried on at great establishments which attract general attention.

We furnish this comparison between the value of these articles produced in the most manufacturing section of the United States, in proportion to its population, for the purpose of showing, that the increase in the cotton manufactures cannot with any fairness be attributed to the plausible but cruel protection they have received from the monopoly legislation of Congress. Had this unfortunate interference not periodically intervened, they would probably have reached a far higher degree of prosperity. It is certain that most intelligent manufacturers consider the reduction of duties provided by the Act of 2d March, 1833, to have been a measure of great and substantial benefit to them. It is not necessary for us to express any opinion upon the question whether the reduction might not have taken effect with more rapidity, to equal or greater advantage. The simple fact, that our manufactures for the last dozen or fifteen years have been able to compete successfully with the English in many foreign markets, shows conclusively the mockery of imposing high duties for the purpose of protecting their products. They obtain the raw material cheaper are free from burdensome excise duties--and use principally a moving power of much less cost than those of England. Any slight difference in the price of wages is of comparatively little importance, in operations carried on in such great proportion, and to such great extent, without human aid. Capitalists in England are indeed contented with a much smaller rate of profit than those of our own country. But when the business is placed upon a footing of security and stability, as it has been by the Act of 1833, this disparity must gradually lessen.

We are ardently anxious to advance the permanent interests of the cotton manufacturers in common with those of all other pursuits of industry. But we are solemnly convinced that they can only be effectually promoted by abstaining from all legislative disturbances, which have heretofore so often been the occasion, as we have seen, of the most melancholy results.

We have avoided by design all remarks upon the constitutionality of imposing duties upon the importation of foreign manufactures for the purpose of affording protection to our own citizens in the production of similar articles-not from unwillingness to enter upon the subject, but because we consider it as now a settled question, beyond any serious danger of revival; as it would also be a waste of time to discuss an abstract doctrine, while we possess so many conclusive proofs within our own experience, that all monopoliesor any tendency towards them-are not less injurious, in the irresistible course of events, to those in favor of whom they may be grant ed, than to those on whom they are imposed.

PENTUCKET.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

[The village of Haverhill, on the Merrimack, called by the Indians Pentucket, was for nearly seventy years a frontier town, and during thirty years, endured all the horrors of savage warfare. In the year 1708, a combined body of French and Indians, under the command of De Challions, and Hertel de Rouville, the infamous and bloody sacker of Deerfield, made an attack upon the village, which at that time contained only thirty dwelling houses. Sixteen of the villagers were massacred, and a still larger number made prisoners. About thirty of the enemy also fell, and among them, Hertel de Rouville. The minister of the place, Rev. B. Rolfe was killed by a shot through his own door. ]

How sweetly on the wood-girt town,
The mellow light of sunset shone !

Each small, bright lake, whose waters still
Mirror the forest and the hill,
Reflected from its waveless breast
The beauty of a cloudless west,—
Glorious as if a glimpse were given
Within the western gates of Heaven,
Left, by the spirit of the star
Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!

Beside the river's tranquil flood

The dark and low-walled dwellings stood,

Where many a rood of

open land

Stretched up and down on either hand,
With corn-leaves waving freshly green
The thick and blackened stumps between ;
Behind, unbroken, deep and dread,
The wild, untravelled forest spread,

Back to those mountains, white and cold,
Of which the Indian trapper told,
Upon whose summits never yet
Was mortal foot in safety set.

Quiet and calm, without a fear
Of danger darkly lurking near,
The weary laborer left his plough-
The milk-maid carolled by her cow-
From cottage door and household hearth
Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth.
At length the murmur died away
And silence on that village lay-

So slept Pompeii, tower and hall,

Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all,
Undreaming of the fiery fate

Which made its dwellings desolate!

Hours passed away. By moonlight sped
The Merrimack along his bed.
Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood
Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood,
Silent, beneath that tranquil beam,
As the hushed grouping of a dream.
Yet on the still air crept a sound-
No bark of fox-no rabbit's bound-
No stir of wings-nor waters flowing-
Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.

Was that the tread of many feet,
Which downward from the hill side beat?
What forms were those which darkly stood
Just on the margin of the wood—
Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim?
Or paling rude, or leafless limb ?—.
No-through the trees fierce eye-balls glowed,
Dark human forms in moonshine showed,
Wild from their native wilderness,
With painted limbs and battle-dress!

A yell, the dead might wake to hear,
Swelled on the night air, far and clear-
Then smote the Indian tomahawk,
On crashing door and shattering lock-
Then rang the rifle-shot-and then
The shrill death-scream of stricken men;
Sunk the red axe in woman's brain,
And childhood's cry arose in vain.
Bursting through roof and window came,
Red, fast and fierce, the kindled flame,
And blended fire and moonlight glared
Over dead corse and weapons bared.

The morning sun looked brightly through
The river willows, wet with dew.
No sound of combat filled the air,-
No shout was heard,-nor gun-shot there;
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke
From smouldering ruins slowly broke,

And on the green sward many a stain,

And, here and there, the mangled slain,-
Told how that midnight bolt had sped,
Pentucket, on thy fatal head!

Even now, the villager can tell

Where Rolfe beside his hearth-stone fell;
Still show the door of wasting oak,
Through which the fatal death-shot broke;
And point the curious stranger where
De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare,—
Whose hideous head, in death still feared,
Bore not a trace of hair or beard,-
And still, within the churchyard ground,
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound,
Beneath whose grass-grown surface lies
Each victim of that sacrifice"!

THE CAPTIVE BIRD.

BY MRS. C. E. DA PONTE.

Go, captive bird, thy wings are free,
To flutter in the morning air;

Go, drink the dew, from flower and tree,
And sing thy song of freedom there.

Go, skim the clear and rapid stream,
Bird of the dark and brilliant eye;
Go, float with clouds whose orient beam
Gilds the fair face of earth and sky.

Away! the breath of spring is near,

The woods are crowned with rosy light;

Ah, could I now retain thee here,

From scenes so lovely, skies so bright?

My lips are prest upon thy wing,
My hand is on thy little heart,
I catch thy last notes as they ring,
In thrilling sweetness, ere we part.

Forth on thy way!-and pour thy strain
Where fields are green, and waters flow;

Mine own sweet bird, thy voice again
Shall never speak a captive's woe!

RECOLLECTIONS OF EASTERN TRAVEL.

BY J. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ.,

No. II.

ANCIENT ELIETHEAS.—TUESDAY, NOV. 30.

We left Esneh with the earliest dawn of light, and, with a faint but steady air of wind, continued to make some progress against the stream of the Nile. I had passed the three last days so happily in the society of Mr. Burckhardt, that I felt its loss as severely as though our intimacy had been of much longer duration, and it had the effect of rendering me really melancholy throughout the day; nor was it a morbid sensibility, though perhaps so short an acquaintance seems insufficient to have inspired it; yet the distance from every other friend, at which we both were placed, and the peculiarity of our place of meeting, were of themselves strong auxiliaries to this state of feeling, independently of the very high attraction which sucb. talents, manners, and sentiments as his naturally presented.

The appearance of the river's banks offered nothing remarkable, until our arrival opposite to El Bessaliah, where observing a firm pier of masonry to project into the stream, I was induced to land there, in order to ascertain if there were any appearances of former grandeur in the neighbourhood. This pier, instead of being an embankment of the soil, as that at Ptolemais, Luxor, and Latopolis, has its end only connected with the shore, from which it stands out into the river, in the form of a jetty-having a flight of steps on the southern side, descending to the water of the Nile; and the whole structure is well and firmly built. On the shore itself are the remains of a large canal, with high banks on either side, the channel of which is filled during the annual inundation; but at the moment when we saw it, the waters having retired, it was cultivated with wheat. This pier then answered the purpose of arresting the rapidity of the current, and turning it into this canal-the only Egyptian work of the kind I had yet seen-and, excepting at its extreme point, it was but little injured by time.

From hence, also, we saw a pyramid, of worse construction, and small size, a little farther to the southward, and at the distance of about two miles from the river, built in the sands. Crossing to the other side of the Nile, we passed the island which here divides the stream; and as the wind had entirely died away, we towed our boat