. . . • N.Ak...." a . . . I•• .. • .. . . . . . . . . .. anrib, _ . .. . . . . . . ED. A. DUEIILER, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. ‘rOL. NEW SPRING GOODS. D. .11IDDLECOFF AS just received from Philadelphia a 111 large and well selected-stock of,Brit ish, French, and American D 1:111 Ss of the newest styles and ric •t designs. ALso,—anoc Es, Hardware. Quee vare, Gloves HOSIERY, BONNETS, Mato. 0 ©lilt WW)ifj s 0a3C930 at unusually low prices; making his as sortment very full and complete, find to which he respectfully invites the attention of his friends and the public, believing that he will be able to offer thanfirst-rate BAR GAINS, and which will givq. entire satis betion. Gettysburg-, April 23.--1 t NEW GOODS. . • . EAPE T II A E E OE E II W Ati just received, and is no opening as LA ROE A STOCK 0 V FRESH GOODS as has ever been offered lo the piddle in this place, and will he sold at the very lowest prices—among which are CIIEAV CloChs, Twee Cassiancres, ..Yontiner Cloths, owl ['est gs, with almost every other article calculated gcnticuu:u's wev,i W — The Ladies' attention is . intrticularly iltvited to a selertioh FA , Al:qr . • p,i_oqqs4 wltteii ARE Plaid, Striped, and Plain Silks, •Gingham?,. Lawns, Dlus. Delains, AND 130 NN IN GS, • NVilll almost every :mirk! iu bis line of Im4iness. Please rail, eNniiiine, and page for ,pourselves. Gettysburg, April 9.-6 t ./g • / l'E aT.lle 47 • E. 1111.als, of the latest Style,' CAN he htid to the Ilto I.;:tittbliphlticnt. of J. J. BALDWIN, iii -ouch Bal timore street, a lee doors above the. Post Office, and next door to \Vamplees Tin ning Establishment, TEN emt CENT CHEAP ER than at any other Hat Establishment in town—embracinif Pine Aulria hearer, 411 fine Fur, and Old Jlen s Brood . brims, and a good assortment o 1 Alen are! Youth's . i SUliiill HATS, : , Il of which he is authorized to sell low Mr rash or country produce, if delivered immediately. J. J. 13.1 1.13 \V .Igent Gettysburg, March 19, JS I T-3111 COUNT ); Tlll.l 1:13E1.1. N accordance with the wishes of nu .' inerous friends. I offer myself as a can didate for the Office or ('oll.\ — lT 7EE:I - and respeetfully ask the nomi nation for that ()thee at the next regular Win , Cowles' Convention. :1()11N F.III N EST()(!l. Gettysburg, .11,ril 23, 18.17.-11 IN compliance ‘vith the request ola num her of . Criends, I respectfully present _myself as a candidate for the office of ('()UN'I'Y .1 1:4:EASE IZEIt and solicit the nomination at' the next Whig County Con , vention. . GEt)l?(; E 1.11 - I'l,E. May '7. the 81114 p. ..slim' of a number of friends, 1 olferinyself as a candidate fur the office of COUNTY 771.E.'1 S 1?1:11. and respectfully ask from my broth er Whigs a nomination for the alike at their regular Convention. IMBEIIT CI. HARPER Gettysburg . , April 16, 18.17.—i1. N COI; RAGED by - the suggestions • A of numerous friends, I hereby an nounce myself a candidate for the office of U.V 71 . TUE./MU/lEu, subject to the decision of the Whig County Convemion. Should my political friends deem me worthy of their confidence, and elect me 1 0 the office, its duties will be promptly and faithfully discharged. TlioNlAs WARREN Gettysburg. April 23, 1847—if WOOD WIINTED. 1 l IOSE persons wh h" ve engage d to furnish the Subscriber with Tr 001). on :Ironton, are requested to de liver it immedial ely at his Foundry, other wise he will expect the ntoney. 'Those interested will please attend to the above proyptly. THOMAS WARREN i;vitysburg. April TO lit. WKS:1111'1M rrIE subserihers have O H hand a very l a rge stock of 81' ONE COA whieh they will dispose of low by the sin }lnstil!, or otherwise, q't, their Coaeh , lintking Establit4lonent. DA N NEI: & 7,11;(11,ER. There is a,gloom to-day in Charleston It - is not often that a great city feels, but when this great heart of humanity, whose every pulsation is a •life, can feel, the re sult is more tetrible tban the bloodiest bat tle. Yes, when those arteries of a city, its streets, and lanes, and allies, thrill with the same fiteling, when, like an electric chain, is darts invisibly front one breast to another, until it swells ten thosusand hearts the result is terrible. I care not whether that result is manifested in a riot, that fills the streets with the blood of men, and wo men, and little children, that fires the roof over the head of the innocent, or sends the church of God whirling in smoke and flame to the midnight sky ;' or whether. that feeling is manifested in the silence of thous ands, the bowed head, the compress ed lip, the stealthy footsteps, still it is a fearful thing to see. There is a gloom to-day, in Charleston. Every face you see is stooped with gloom ; men go silently by, with impish in their hearts and eves. Women are weeping in their ‘larkened chambers, in yonder church old men are weeping before the altar, praying in low, deep, muttered tones. The very soldiers whom von meet, clad it their Bthish uniform, wear sadness on their faces. l'hose men, to whom noir der is sport, are gloomy to-day. The cit izens pass• hurriedly to and fro ; cluster in groups ; whisper together; glide Silently in to their homes. . . ARNOLD The stores arc closed to-day,‘-as though it were Sunday. The windows of those houses are closed as diugh, some great man were dead ; there is silence on- the air, as though a plaue had despoiled the town of its hrnmv and its manhood. The British banner—stained as it is with the best blo«1 of the. Palmetto State --seems to partake of the influence of the Hour: for, floating from yonder stafr, tt does not swell buoyantly upon the breeze, but drops heavily to the ground.. • The only sound von hear, save the, Itor: riledtread of the cirizen,is the low. Solemn notes of the dead .mareh. groaning front mottled drums. Why all this gloom that oppresses the heart and tills the.eyes NV by do whig and tors-, Citizen and soldier, share the gltiont alike ! Why this silence, this awe, this dread . Look yonder. and in the centre of that Common, deserted by every human thing, behold—risiHrnlll lonely hideousness—he hold a UAL'./WS. Why does that gibbet stand there, hlack cuing in the morning sun Come with •me into yonder mansion, whose roof ari ses proudly over all other roofs. IT') these carpeted stairs, into this luxurious chamber, whose windows are darkened by haul rinos of satin, whose walls are covered with tapestry, whose floor is cov ered with elegant furniture. All is silent in this dmber. A single glow of mornimr halm steals through the parted curtains of yonder win dow. Beside that window, with his back to the light, his face in the shadow, as though he wished to hide certain dark thoutrlits from the light, sits a voum• man, his handsome form arrayed in a British unit'orm. Ile is young, hut there is the gloom of age upon that woven brow, there is the resolve of murder upon that curling lip. his attitude is. significant. llis head inclined to one side, the cheek rest ing on the left hand, while the right grasps a parchment, which bears his signature, the ink not vet dried. That parchment is a death-warrant. If von will look closely upon that red uniform von will see that it is stained with the blood of Paoli, where the cry fur "quarter" was answered by the falling sword and the reeking bayonet. Yes, this is none other than Gen. Grey, the butcher of Paoli, tranformed by the accolade o' his Kim , • in into t, , iril IN W(1011. 1V Idle he is there, by the window, grasp ing that parchment in his hand, the door opens, a strange groupc stand disclosed on the threshhold. A m nman and three (dill dren, dressed in black, stand there gazi n w upon the English lord. • They slowly ad vanee ; do you behold the pale face of tha woman, lier eyes, large and dark, not wet with tears, hut glaring with speechless awe f 0.1 one side a little girl, with brown ringlets, on the other her sister, the year older, with dark hair,-relieving a pal id face. 11 Somewhat in front, his young form ri sing to every inch of his height, stands a hoy of 13, with chesmit curls, clustering alamt his fair countenance. You can see that dark eye dash, that lower lip quiver, as he silently confronts Lord Rawdon. The woman-luse that word, for to me it expresses all that is pure in passion, or holy - in humanity, while vour word—lady —means nothing but ribbons and milline -Iw—the woman ad wanees, and eneireled by those children, stands before the gloomy lerd: "1 have emne," she speaks in a voice that strikes you with its music. and tender ne:ss, "1 have come to plead for my broth- I cr!N life !" • She does not say, tehofd, my brother's children, hut: there they are, and the Eng lish lord beholds them. 'fears are cour- 1 sing down., the cheeks of those little girls, hut the 6 , e of the woman is not dint.--. 1 The boy of thirteen looks intently in the faee of the Briton, his under lip quivering like' 4 leaf. Fur .it single moment.' that proud lord raisc.: , Ilk head and surVess the group, and THE MARTYR OF THE SOUTH GETTYSBURG, PA, FRIDAY. EVENING, NAY 1847. then you hear his deep yet melodious voice : "Madam your brother swore allegiance to his Majesty, and was aftemiiards taken in arms against his King. Help guilty of Treason, and . must endure the penalty, and that, as you well know, is DEATH." "But, my lord," said the brave woman, standing erect, her beauty shining more se renely in that moment of heroism,. "you well know the circumstances under which he swore allegiance. Ile, a citizen of South Carolina, an American, was dragged from the bedside of a dying wife, and.hur ried to Charleston, where this language was held I- youroflicers : 'Take the oath of allegiance, and return to the bedside of your dying wife : refuse and we will con sign you to gaol !' This, my lord, not when he was free to act, ah, no ! but when his wife lay dying of that fearful disease, small pox, which had already destroyed two of his children. How could he act otherwise than he-did ? how could he re fuse to take your oath ? In his case, would you, my lord, would any man re fuse to do the same ?", Still the silent children stood there be fore him, while the clear voice of the true woman pierced his soul. . "Your brother is condemned to death !" he coldly said, turning his.hcad away "He dies at noon-1 can do nothing- for you." Silently the woman, holding a little girl in each hand, sank on her knees ; but the boy of thirteen stood erect. 1)o you see that group Those hands upraised, those v_oices, the clear voice of the woman, the infantile tones of those sweet girls, ming ling in one cry for "mercy !" while Ore Briton looks upon them with a face oliron, and the boy of thirteen stands erect, no tear in his eye, -hut a convulsive tremor on his lip ! • Then the tears of that wainan came at fast—then, as the face of that stern man Blooms belbre her,she takes the little hands of the girls within her own, and lifts them to his knee, and begs him to spare the fath er's life. ' • ' INot r n «•oral from the English Lord The boy still lirm, erect and silent—no tear (Ihns the eye which glares- steadily' in the face of the tyrant. "Ah, you relent !" shrieks that sister of the condemned man. ."You will not. de prive these children of a father—yon will not ent him MI in'the prime of manhood by this hideous death ! As you h o ops, for tn.trtw to yam. last hour, be: ilk:reit - al now. Spa:e my brother, and not a heart in Charleston but will bless you—spare him for the sake of these children'!" "Madant," was the cool reply, "yonr brother has been condemned to die. I call do nothing hir yon." • lie turned his head away, and hdid the parchment before his eyes. At last the stern heart of the boy was melted. There was a spasmodic motion about his chest, his limbs shook, he stood for a moment like a statue, and then fell on his knees. seizing the right hand of Lord Rawdon with his trembling lingers. Lord Rawdon looked down upon that young film!, sharlowittl with chesnut curls, as the small hands clutched his wrist, and an expression of' surprise came over his face. • "\ly chill," said he, "I can du nothing . fin you!" The boy silently rose. Ile took a sis ter by each hand. There was a wild look in I►is young eye—a scorn of defiance on his file. "Come, sisters, let us go." Ile said this. and led those fair girls to ward the'door, followed by the sister ofthe couilmine:l. Not a word was said—but ere they passed from the room, that true woman looked back into the face of Lord liawdon. Up never forgot that Ion!: Th"y wer!>gone from . the room, and lie stood alonelwrore that window, with the sunlight pouring over his guilty brow. •Wes. it is necessary to make an exam ple ! This rebellion must he crushed ; these rehels taught submission ! The death or this Mall will strike terror into their hearts. They will learn at last that trea son is no trilling game; that the rope and the gibbet will reward each rebel for his crime !,• Poor Lord Rawdon! The streets were now utterly deserted. Not a citizen, a soldier, nor even a negro, was seen. A sil!ukce like death rested up on the city. Suddenly- the sound of the dead march was heard, and yonder behold the only -evidence of life throughout this wide eitv: On yonder common, around the gihbet is gathered a strangely contrasted crowd. There is the negro, the outcast of society, the British officer in his uniform, the citi zen in his plain dress. All are grouped together in that crowd. In the centre of the dense mass, beside that horse and cart, one foot resting on that coffin of pine, stands the Only man in this crowd with an uncovered hroy. He stands there, an image of mature nfinhood, with a mirscular form, a clear, full eye, hold forehead. His cheek is not pale, nor his eye dimh He is dressed neatly in a suit of dark velvet, made after the fashion of his timer; one hand inserted in his vest, rests on his heart. Above his head dangles the rope. Near his back stands that figure 'with the crawl lace ; around are the British soldiers, sep arating the condemned from 'the crowd. Among all that .rude band forsoldiers, not CVC but is wet With tears. , . "FEARLESS AND FREE." The brave officer there, who has charge of the murder, pulls his chapeau over his eyes, to shield them from the sun, or—can it be ?—to hide his tears. All is ready. He has bidden the last farewell to his sister, his children in yon der goal; he . has said his last word to his noble boy, pressed his last kiss upon the lips of those fair girls. All is' ready for the murder. _At this moment a citizen advances, his face convulsed with emotion— "Hayne," he speaks in a choking voice, "show them how an American can die !" A will endeavor to do so," was the re ply of the doomed man. By this time the hangman advanced and placed the cap over his brow. A cry was hourd in the crowd, a footstep, and those eiTdiers shrank back before a boy of thir teen, who rushed forward. ...Father !" he shrieked, as lie beheld the condemned with cap over his brow. One groan arose from crowd—a simultaneous expression of hor or. • The father drew his cap fron his brow, beheld the wild face, the glarit g eyes of his son. "G'od bless you, my bny," he spoke, gathering dial young form to his heart. "Now go, and leave your father to his fate. Return when I am dead—receive my body, and have it buried by my forefathers !" As the boy turned and went through the crowd, the father stepped lirinly into the cart. There was a pause, as though every; man in that crowd was suddenly turned to stone., The boy looked back but..once, Only once, and then beheld—ah, I dare not speak it, for it chills the blood in the veins— ! he beheld that manly form suspended to the gibbet, with the cap over his • briiw, while the distorted face glowed horribly in the situ. That was his FATHER. The boy did not shriek, nor groan, but instantly—like a light extinguished denly- - -the tire left his eye, the 'color his cheek. His lips opened a silly smile. The first word he tittered told the story— "Nly father !" he cried, and then point ed t ) the body, and broke into a laugh, Oh, it was horrible—that laugh, so hol low, shrill and wild. The 'child of the niarter was an idiot. Still, as' the crowd gathered round him, as kind hands bore him away, that pale face was lurned over his shoulder toward the gallows •fiAlv Ftvriimt !" end still that laugh was borne upon the breeze, even to the gibbet's timbers, whePe, iu hideous mockery, a blackened but not dishonored thing, swung the body of the nuattyr H avoc. "This death will strike terror into the hearts of the rebels !" Poor Lord Rawdon ! Did that man, in his fine uniform, forget that the voice of a martyr's blood can nev er die ! "This death will strike terror into the heart of the rebel !" It roused one feeling of abhorrence thro' the whole South. It took down a thou sand rifles front the hooks above the fire side hearth. It turned many a tioubftiu heart to the cause of freedom ; nay, tortes by hundreds came docking to the camp of liberty. The blood 'of Ilavne took root and grew into an army. 'There came a day when George Washington, by the con quest of Yorktown, had in his possession, the Murderers who did this deed—Lord Cornwallis, who condemned and com manded it—Lord Rawdon, who signed the death warrant. Here was a glorious chance for Washington to avenge the martyr Hayti°, who had been choked to death by, these men. The Noting of the army— the voice of Anterica— T nay, certain iwices that spoke in OM British Parliament would have justified the deed. The law of na tions would have proclaimed it a holy act. But how did Washington act ? • Ile left each murderer to God and his own conscience. lie showed to the whole world a sublime manifestation of foregive ness and scorn. Forgiveness for this hu miliated Cornwallis, who, so far front hearing Washington home to London a prisoner in chains, was himself a prisoner in the midst of his captive army. But this 'Lord Rawdon, who, captured by a French vessel, was brought into York town, this arrested murderer, who skulked Auto the camp, an object of universal loathing, how did Washington treat him ? lie scorned him too much to lay a hand upon his head ; from the fullness of eon hanpt he permitted him to live. :Poor Lard Rawdon ! Who hears his name now, save as an object Almost forgotten in the universality of scorn ? • But the martyr—where is the heart that does not ,throb at the mention of his fate, at the name of ISAAC HAIM.: ? la'.lrwo millions of human beings, ac cording to the Dublin Nation, are destined toyer ish by this year's famine in Ireland.! a populatirm sufficient for a powerful State—and - two thirds of our own at the time of our Revolutionary strug gle. The mind shudders at the bare contempla- , tion of the fact: what then must be the feelings of the spectators of the horrible 'calaugity. PC7" The Cheap Postage System seems to be working admirably. The receipts at filly-five of the principal offices iu the Union for the last quarter, show an increase of 17 per cent. over that for the corresponding quarter feat year. Irfr"Anti-License" has been carried in Lpuisville, Ky., by a majority of 407 votes; The vote be4ng 878 for license, 1085 against license.— But twd counties in lowa have voted in lavor of granting iircnae. [Translated from the the Danish by C. I3eckwith.] AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF OLE BULL. Behind the Alps is the world of adven tures; and such a one as only happens to genius, took place in Bologna, iu the year 1 1834. I The poor Norman, Ole Bull, whom at I that time no one knew, had wandered thus far southward. In his fatherland some persons certainly thought that there was something in him; but the most part, as is generally the case, predicted that there would be nothing in Ole Bull. He him self felt that he must go out into the world in order to cherish the spark into a flame, 'or quench it entirely. Every thing at first seemed as if the latter ivould be the case. He had arrived at Bologna, but his money was expended, and there was no place where there was a &aspect of ma king any—no friend—no countrymen stretched forth a helping hand towards him —he sat alone in a poor attic in one of the small streets. It was already the sec ond day that he had been here, and had scarcely tasted food ; the water jug arid , the violin were • the only two things that cherished the young and suffering artist.— He began to doubt if he were in possession of that gift with which God had endowed him, anti in his despondency breathed into the violin those tones which now seize our hearts in so wonderful a manner ; those tones which tell us how deeply, he had suffered' and felt. The same evening a great concert was to bb given in the principal theatre. The house was filled to overflowing; the Grand Duke of Tuscany was in the royal box; Madame Malihran and Mons. de Beriot were to lend their able assistance in the performance of several pieces. The con-. ceit was to commence, but matters looked inauspicious,—the manager's star was_not in the ascendant—M. deßeriot had taken , • umbrage and reftised 'to play. All was all Was trouble and confusion on the stage; when in-this dilemma the wife of Rosini the composer, entered. and in, the. midst of the manager's distress :related that on the previous evening, as she passed through one of the narrow streets, she had sudden ly stopped on hearing the strange tones of an instrument, which certainly- resembled those of a violin, but yet seemed difrerent. She had asked the landlord of the house. who lived in the attic whence the sound proceeded, and he replied that it was a • young man front the North of Europe, and and that the instrument he played on was certainly a lyre, but she felt assured it could not be so; it must either be a new sort of instrument, or an artist who knew how to treat his instrument in an unusual manner. At the same time she said that they ought to send for him, and he might perhaps supply the place 01 M. de Berio: by playing the pieces that must otherwise be deficient in the evening's entertainment. The advice was acted upon, and a mes senger was despatched to the street where Ole Bull sat in his attic. To him it Was a message from heaven; "now or never," thought he ; and though ill and exhausted, he took his violin under his arm and ac companied the messenger to the theatre.— Two minutes afterwards the manager in formed the audience that a young Norwe gian—consequently a 'young savage,'— would give a specimen of his,skill on the violin, instead of M. de Beriot. Ole Bull appeared; the • theatre was brilliantly illuminated; he perceived the scrutinizing looks of the ladies nearest to him ; one of them who watched him very closely through her opera glass, smilingly' whkpered to her neighbor, with a mocking mien, about the different manners-of s the artist. lie looked at his clothes, and in the . strong blaze of light they appeared rather the worse for wear. The lady made her remarks about them, and her smile pierced his very heart. He had taken no. notes with him which he could give the orchestra ; he was consequently obliged to play,without accompaniment, but 'what should he play ? will give them these fantasies which at this moment cross my mind!" and he played improvisatorial remembrances of his own life, melodies from the niountains of his home, his struggles with the world, and the troubles of his mind; it was as if ''every thought, . every feeling passed through his violin, and revealed itself to the audience. The most astounding acclaim..., tions resounded throughout the house.— Ole Bull was called forth again and again ; they still desired a new piece, a new im provisation. 'He tgen addressed himself to that . lady, whose mocking smile had met hint on his appearance, and asked her fin ethe,me, to vary. She gave him one from "Norma." He then asked two other 'ladies, who chose one from 'Othello,' and one from 'Moses.' 'Now," thought lie, "if I take all three, unite them with each other, and form one piece, I shall then flat ter each of the ladies, And, perhaps, the composition will produce an effect. Ile did so. Power fully as the rod of the magi cian his bow glided across the strings, while cold drops of perspiration trickled down 'his forehead. There was fever in his blood ; it was as if the mind would free itself of the bady ; fire shot from his eyes —he felt himself almost swooning ; yet a few bold strokes—they were his last boadi Flowers and wrbathepfrom the churned multitude, fluttered anent -him, who, - hatisted by mental conflict .and hunger i I Was nearly fitinting. llq wont to hie home accoinlianicd'h - y DetOre' the lionse TERMS.--TWO . DOLl:int :Pkg. - 1 W II 0 LE..,1.10.•;.8.94•*,-.'.:-,:.' sounded the serenade for the heio" Of Ai, evening; who; meanwhile, crept up t)4l, dark and narrow staircase ; higher and, hiiho t . er imo his garret, where 'he the water-jug to refresh himself.' When all was silent the landlor4 caffie`, to hint, brought him his food and drink,and' gave him a better room. The next day he, was informed that the theatre - was 'at hid service, and that a concert was to bear ranged for him. An invitation front the' Duke of Tuscany next followed ;:atia 3 from that moment name and fame were. • founded for Ole Bull. CITY OF PUEBLA. •`. The city is walled and fortified. 'lt is built of stone, and the streets. ere well,pay.• ed. Here water is abundant, but from the' National Bridge to this place no -water can be obtained—the natives substiutting..ptil que as a beverage. From Jalapa to ..Pue bla there are occasional heights neat—the) road, which, if fortified, might annoy the invaders. In fact, from Vera Cruz itolint , ebla this is the,case, the travel being alter•; nately over broad, unobstructed roads and: narrow passes, commanded by heights.--.' Flie road passes through Puebla. Tlio 'Pueblanos have a peculiar character; they are cunning and courageous, and the roost. expert robbers and assassins throtighent Mexico, where there is no lack of sitch..-- Yet, r. Thomison calls Puebla "th e, Lowell of Mexico." If an, offender..ix. brought before the alcalde, any where el se,, and is known or ascertained to be a, Pue. blano, his condenination is snre. Puebla is situated at the extremity- of a large Plai ns: on the Vera Cruz Side; its population id estitcated at 50,000 souls; the streets are parallel, and very wide and, well paved-- , 'the houses, built with atone and ,covere ll with terraces, and - two and three, 'Stories high, are remarkably tine.. !MO . 'S:olin: place would be admired in.althott any part' of the world; it forma a perfect .' isquarev facing it st t eUds ihe 'cathedral; other sides • are Magnificent palace's. There...are many other edifices stn . :leer:ad , : mired for their beauty. • . - There are few churches in the world' more magnificently ornamented than ->the cathedral of this city. All the chandeliers anti lamps, which are in great number's, are a massive gold and silvdr ; the dome is in, marble of t h e country, of great beauty and : line workmanship. There ten: chapel., richly decorated, and closed, each of-them with an iron gate door . olvery great- height and of the finest finish. -. This igharch was finished in 1808, and* is said to have cost $6,0.00,000, There ore,akto, many, other, fine churches. -The Almeida, of .public walk, is very ,well kept. I t , is composed of three alleys (of 600, to 000 feet each) of poplars and other fine trees, and is surrounded, by a wall, at the fan. which runs a . fine fine Wrr ean% of oser,—. There are a guar) many fountainsin differ ! , parts of the city, and a feer felt, treatt, 'or water spouts, • , Few cities in Europe are fi ner,thart cbla ; but much cannot be spidfor the.okr ulation, which, since the lata . ex.ped,of the European Spaniards, who, Were b* far the most intelligent and indastrious.portion of it, leaves a canoes. contrast betwenzt,thcs present occupants of pnblie and private ed-, glees, indicating . the, highest state of eivili zation. The same may ' be said:of the en tire population bordering on the road:fro:li Vera Cruz to the city. Time WM . :Milo:ll4 correct this. Puebla is distant trout - the capital about 78 m it es . THE ROUTE: FROM PCIESLA Tc! TAE' CAP ITAL.—The only town of any note' be:i tweet Puebla and, the city of •IVlerico in Cholua s , Vie ancient Capital of a greatinde= pendent Republic, which ebataiited, daring the time of Cortez, according - to 1111014:n account, 40,000 ,Iniuses hati'declinett into .a town of 6,000 inhabitants'. ` Thettct+ . tell pyramid here is a work of . art Which; • next to the pyramids of Egypt, upproach es nearer to those of nature in magnittidn and vastness. • Its base covers:upwards Or forty-eight acres of ground, or about'fcitur and a half times more than•the largest : gyptian pyramid. Cholula is 70 miles from Mexico. The capital is a walled ci ty, but is not supposecrto be ousceptibliqif a stubborn defence. It ia'a very wealthy city, and contains a population of .140400; abounditig in fine buildings,.eostlrehureh - - es, public squares, and broad and:Wilda streets. et. GEN. La VEDA sx Love.—According Courier des Etats Unis, it would aptiear that Gem Ln Vega, at the very time he Was fighting our e.mutrymen in Mexico, was subdued by une of otir equally irresistable countrywomen:. • Says the Courier, 'speaking of , the, cap tured Mexican Generals, "among; : diem N as Gen. La Vega, who, doutitless to mind his previous captivity, appeared delighted to return to the U. States, and eliatted 4 'quite gaily. with Gen. Scou Ilia very evening'of the battle. .41 a certain chronicle is to be believed, which we think is predicated on poditi r formation, Gen. La Yoga 4.47 5q.,150W Orleans to, recommence. a. pl 01,Arlyett romance which his release and return.to Mexico had interrupted,' and mem of which seinued.postpaned,i*tbe conclusion'of the war 4 This:urilh*, nation of the= resifftation:,..with. meets his new captivity.',t i r .r A l luil t ic lifi b s-clifl94'.' 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