on the scaffold.—Be it so—be it so. If it be the pleasure of Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a free country. Through the thick gloom of the present I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in Heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgivings, with bonfires and illuminations. On its annual return they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears—not of subjection and slavery—not of agony and distress—but of gratitude, of consolation, and of joy. And I leave off as I began—that live or die—survive or perish—I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment—Independence now, and Independence forever!”

Reflections at the grave of Charles A. Jesup, who reposes in the suburbs of Westport, Ct.; written by Stephen H. Branch, in his early years:—

To thy loved tomb I’ve come to day,
To sing of thee a mournful lay:
Not in the strain I used to sing,
For life is now a weary thing.

As I came here, I gladly found
A pretty bird upon thy mound:
It lingered long, and sang as though
Departed worth reposed below.

By thy lone grave, in this strange land,
‘Neath April skies, I hapless stand:
While num’rous flocks and herds I spy,
With honest farmers ploughing nigh.

I can but think, as I look round,
That you once played upon this ground:
The hills! the stream! the velvet lawn!
E’en house I see where thou wast born!

Where thou wast born? Alas! where died,
And all our best affections tried:
Aye, on that drear, autumnal day,
When, round thee, dying, all did pray.

That was, indeed, a cruel year,
To cut down one to kin so dear;
So full of promise, and so young,
To whom we all so fondly clung.

Was’t not enough, with fatal blow,
A nation to o’erwhelm in woe?
In that fell year, a chieftain died—
Brave Harrison—his country’s pride.

But we’ll not chide—’twas God’s decree:
Thy day was come—He wanted thee:
Thy sudden death spread gloom—indeed,
Caused many a manly heart to bleed.

Yon weary farmers cease to plough,
To mingle with sweet twilight now,
Which warns me to depart this place,
And wend my way at rapid pace.

Hear Charley! all the past I see!
Our fav’rite walks! thy happy glee!
O God! farewell! in tears I leave!
My heart would here forever cleave!

The following meritorious gentlemen are wholesale agents for the Alligator.

Ross & Tousey, 121 Nassau street.
Hamilton & Johnson, 22 Ann street.
Samuel Yates, 22 Beekman street.
Mike Madden, 21 Ann street.
Cauldwell & Long, 23 Ann street.
Boyle & Gibson, 32 Ann street and
Hendrickson & Blake, 25 Ann street.

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