The importance of selling cotton to good advantage has been considered paramount to the protection of the Indian shipping; but in order to compensate them for the loss of the monopoly, they will probably be allowed to partake with the English shipping in the trade west of the Cape of Good Hope. The English Navigation Laws, about to be modified, are a complete bar to the employment of native shipping to the westward of the Cape of Good Hope, and are a great injury to all the interests connected with the shipping of India. To foster the shipping of England, those laws check the growth of that of Bombay. The owners of both are English subjects; and thus the laws injure one class for the benefit of another. The advantages said by the advocates of these laws to be conferred on English shipping, are clearly, in the case of the Indian trade, at the expense of the Indian shipping, both being British.

By the change produced by Earl Dalhousie, the Indian ports are now consolidated under one custom system, in the manner that the American ports were united by the confederation; and a corresponding impulse may be expected to be given to all interests.

One great cause of the admitted superiority of American vessels vero those of all other countries, may be ascribed to a cause generally overlooked, mainly, in the competition excited by the complete free trade established, between rival colonies by their union into states; while English vessels have ever been doing a monopoly trade, those of the United States have excelled them upon the Atlantic, almost entirely driven them from the whaling business, and are now sharply competing with them in the Indian Seas. Some of the causes of the superiority of the Americans is thus expressed in the letter of an English merchant to his correspondent:

"The success of the American ships is owing to causes of which the principal ones are-good ships, built at a high cost, equal to that of the first-class river built vessels; comfortable and splendid accommodations for passengers; regularity in sailing; responsible consignees on each side; captains owning generally one-eighth of the ship; good seamen obtained by good wages and comfortable quarters; most excessive pains in neatness, scraping and painting every passage; and lastly, perhaps, the great attention of the press in puffing and praising, chronicling short passages, and stimulating to the most honorable rivalry. In these they were assisted by their competitors, partly by the absurd old measurement laws, inducing false models; by the stupidity of the English, refusing to ornament their cabins, or render them comfortable; by their vessels being nearly all transient; and lastly, by the well-known inferiority of captains and officers of English ships. The instances are not only numerous-they are universal-that our customers order their goods sent by American ships only, unless a cargo is all coal or iron, or something which must be a total loss or none at all.

"The stupidity of adhering to antediluvian notions is not yet abandoned. Instead of blue and gold, and couches and sofas, and painted glass, and 12 feet square state rooms, like the American, show a traveller into a narrow, ill-furnished, oak-painted, English cabin, and he will judge of the ship (and pretty correctly too) by these minor details, at which Messrs. W. and G., of B., might scoff. I am told that their vessels are the best in the world; but their cabins are plain, and will only do for a monopoly trade; and, if the Navigation Laws are repealed, those who sit still will soon be in the mire, and those who manfully set about asserting their superiority, need fear neither Yankee, Norwegian, nor Russian. "In one little matter English ships generally contrast unfavorably. I have seen men at the wheel on the open deck, standing still, steering in all weathers, blinded by snow, scorched by sun, or frozen on the winter passage; while the

American steersman, protected by a little house with windows, warmed by the cabin below, drove the ship in the worst weather in perfect comfort, aud corresponding attention to duty, and freedom fro.. sickness. Sailors brought up in the former course may laugh at the effiminacy of such a remark; but I say, in all stations comfort, when consistent with duty, does not render a man less fit to endure needful severity of exposure."

This is true of American shipping in general; there is, however, one branch which has from the formation of the government been cursed with protection, in the shape of bounties, viz., the fishery interest. That interest has always enjoyed a bounty supposed equivalent to the duty on the salt used in curing the fish. All other interests, the farming particularly, pay the same duty as do the whaling and freighting vessels, not only on salt, but on iron, hemp, cordage, and on articles of outfit; yet the fishers. were the only ones that were allowed the bounty. The result has been precisely what might have been expected, viz. :-That this is the only interest that has not flourished. While all other branches of navigation have increased immensely, that protected cod and mackerel fishery has alone remained stationary.* The condition of this interest, after a direct application of some $3,000,000 in bounties paid to it by the federal government, is thus described by one of the strongest advocates for the continuance of the bounty:

"It is enough to say, that with the help of the bounty, and with a protecting duty uniformly the same, we believe, in every tariff since that of 1816, no hardworking, hard faring men in New-England, are, as a class, so poor as our fishermen. The temperance pledge has done wonders of late years to improve their condition and to create in them babits of thrift and saving; but yet, as a whole, they are hardly in comfortable circumstances They are too poor to stay, too poor to go,' said Fisher Ames of them in his day-and it is thus that we may speak of them yet."

It is somewhat difficult to reconcile with the alledged benefits of protection, the fact, that this business, which alone, of all others in the Union, has received the special support of the federal government, should be, according to the admission of its warmest friends, the poorest and most miserable in the Union. Is there not some affinity between this pauper dependence on federal bounty and their thriftless condition? It has always been observed in the countries of Europe that the best protected trades are the most thriftless and miserable, as, for instance, the Spitalfields silk weavers in England were to that government what fishermen have been to ours, and the result is the same. These weavers were the most miserable of all classes of English artizans until the trade was thrown open in 1825, when they immediately began to thrive.

The dependence which a protected class feels upon the protecting power is always fatal to that spirit of enterprise and exertion, without which success is impossible; and the necessity of having untrammeled, cheap, and speedy means of transportation upon the ocean, is felt to be as great as to have uninterrupted avenues of trade to the ocean. The progress which has in the last quarter of a century been made towards modifying the restrictions imposed in a semi-barbarous age, will soon be carried to a successful issue.

.5,631.. ..193,858.. ..1,053,491..

186,874..... .108,682 ..399,210......109,131

1848.

......1,152,640.....16,067............192,179......1,280,454... .411,873......106,633

THE LOVER'S MONUMENT.

THERE is a natural sympathy existing between mankind; a connecting link binding us to each other, by the influence of which we are forced to feel the situation of all. This inherent principle may act feebly at times, yet it exists and does exert an influence. We feel the sorrow of our unfortunate neighbor, mourn when he mourns, and make his grief partly our own. If he is prosperous and happy, we are, or should be, prepared to rejoice with him. The heart that remains unmoved by the situation of others-that feels no sympathy with them, is strangely, wonderfully, and dangerously perverted, and needs the correcting influence of a higher civilization, to quicken its impulses and enlarge the circle of its affections. Thus it is in the ordinary occurrences of life; but occasionally we meet with cases of a peculiar character-cases, that rising above the daily objects of joy and sorrow, draw largely upon our feelings, and ere we are aware of it, find their way to the fountain of tears. The case of Miss Curran, the affianced bride of the patriot Emmet, so beautifully described by Irving, in his "Broken Heart," is one of that description. History records but few instances, in which the affections have been stronger than the desire of life; and this fact may account for the cold indifference such most generally receive. We are not disposed to magnify the vir tues of others, especially when they excel our own, however much sympathy we cultivate for the unfortunate or sorrow stricken of our species.

There is a depth of feeling-a power of sentiment, which but few are permitted to realize. It may be the result of education; but to me, it appears more like the natural refinement of the soul, untouched by the depreciating influences of a selfish world. To mock its effects upon those who are distinguished by such ennobling traits of character, is evidence of our ignorance of the striking contrast between their refinement and our own coarseness; as well as a want of respect for those distinctive qualities, which make us most like God.

During my stay in I visited the cemetery; not so interesting in its appearance as many others in our country, but not less sacred as the resting place of the dead-not less solemn, as the common theatre for the sighs and tears of the living over the departed. I passed from monument to monument, until I stood before one that arose above all its companions in this office of silent, but pathetic eloquence. It was an Italian marble monument of the purest white. Two hands joined together, constituted the front and principal design; they project from the surface, and are highly finished. A few lines-"We part to meet again, &c.," are engraven directly under them, and further illustrate the object of the design. On the other side of the monument, a most beautiful wreath of flowers stands out from the surface, in the same style. "The flowers, at morn her bridal flowers, formed ere the eve her funeral wreath." The appearance of the monument is plain, yet there is a richness and elegance in its simplicity, perfectly beautiful. It is called "The Lover's Monument." In 1839, a marriage engagement was entered into between Miss of A few days before the time

and Mr.

appointed for their union, the young lady became the victim of a disease, which terminated in her death. During her illness, the young gentleman watched by her bed-side, with a constancy and devotion which put to blush the ordinary fidelity of man; and in the most mournful and trying moment, when in her last convulsive struggles she threw her arms around his neck, and with a smile of unfaltering faith and love, pressed her farewell on his lips; he exhibited a firmness unnatural-a resignation superhuman. The struggle with her was over; she sank back upon her pillow, calm and beautiful; but it was the calm of death-the beauty, that not unfrequently, lights the features of the pure in heart after the soul has departed. She passed away, peaceful and quiet, "as fades the morning star amidst the light of heaven." To earth the heriot clay was given, but "joyously her youthful soul ascended to claim its heritage." Unlike the martyr, whose blood, unavenged, still smokes upon the scaffold of his oppressed and deeply injured country, the death of my friend was marked by no political outrage-was not required by regal executioners to perpetuate laws of oppression, injustice, and inhumanity. In answer to one of those mysterious and imperative calls of Providence, wholly beyond the understanding of human wisdom, she parted with a numerous circle of loved and loving relatives, at the very moment she became the object of their deepest interest, and the centre of their hopes. Without that circle her death was perhaps but little felt. Society missed one of its brightest ornaments, but the festivities stopped not; a sigh, perhaps a tear of sympathy was shed, and a few "commiserations" sent in, when another took the place of the departed, and the tide moved onwards. But who can tell of the unnumbered heart-throbs, and burning tears, around the desolate hearth? Who can describe those dreary hours of unutterable longings, enlivened only by the half imaginary lights religion bears us from eternity? "Let those answer who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth-who sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed." Tis sad, indeed, to witness the desolation, even of those upon whom time has written its lines of decay, and it matters but little, how well we are prepared for the solemn event. But the death of the young and beautiful, from whom so much is expected-around whom so many hopes and affections cling, makes a deeper impression. If the realities and beauties of earth are sufficient to inspire an attachment-if its joys and hopes can fill the dimensions of a pure and impassioned soul-both are realized in the strong and mutual affections of kindred and youthful spirits. And if its bereavements and sorrows can dry up the sources of enjoyment and happiness, and render life a cold and cheerless probation, the destruction of those fine wrought fibres of the human heart, caused by the death of the few noble creatures whom God has distinguished by the most liberal gifts of everything that contributes to perfect female loveliness, is a completion of the work. Such was its effects upon the lonely survivor. The sympathy of relatives and friends, contributed but little to the relief of his distress. Their efforts were unavailing, and he sunk under the afflicting dispensation of Providence, into settled melancholy. What availed the smiles of friends? They were but mockery of his past happiness, and of his present desolation. What availed the beauties of the world? He had seen the grave inclose the perfection of all beauties. Like the forest oak,

stripped of its foliage, he stood amidst his prosperous companions, the more sad and dreary, when compared with their cheerful appearance-in all but breath already dead. The monument described was the labor of his love-a noble but inadequate expression of his attachment. The flowers of nine summers have shed their fragrance around that monument, and the frosts of ten winters have whitened her grave; but no change has yet been observed in the mind and affections of him, to whom flowers and frosts perform the same office; alike, witnesses of the seasons that must pass away, before he is permitted to enjoy a happy re-union beyond.

Society has had but little influence upon him. Time has not been the healing physician in his case. Whether he yields to the blighting effects of this bereavement, and sinks, prematurely, as did the noble lady, referred to by Irving, into the grave, or lingers out his brief span, the result is the same; in his affliction, all that made his life pleasant or desirable, was lost. Every Sabbath evening, an appropriate time for spirits to hold communion with each other, he visits this little world of his, in which, all he prized on earth, save the immortal soul, lies buried.

"Oh, is not this love?

That one pure, wild feeling, all others above,
Vow'd to the living, and kept to the tomb,
The same in its blight as it was in its bloom."

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE-ODE XIV.

TO THE REPUBLIC.

THOU bark, and must thou, seaward bent again,
New billows ride? Take heed, remain, remain,
Where safety abides:

Oh look! no rowers man thy naked sides;

Africa's winged gales have riv'n thy mast;
How thy yards moan! If not rope-bound and fast,
Vessels can scarce sustain

The growing fury of the angry main.

Thy sails in fragments flutter in the air;
No God will list thy supplicating prayer.
Though pine of Pontic fame

Thy parent forest yielded for thy frame,

Vainly thou'lt boast thy name and noble race.
In pictur'd sterns the trembling sailor's place
No faith. If not decreed

To be the sport of winds, be warn'd, take heed!

Once weary partner of thy dangers, I
Now gaze on thee with sad and anxious eye.
Mayst thou avoid those seas.

Whose waves divide the shining Cyclades.