An English Tourist, whose name is not just now recollected, has published a volume of his travels through the United States, in which he speaks particularly of the orderly manner in which Elections are conducted in the city of Newyork. "On the appointed day, says he, all the citizens take care to be at home at a certain hour, at which time the inspectors of the election go through the city with ballot boxes in their hands, and call at every door for votes, whereupon the citizens step to their doors and deposit their ballots in these same small boxes, which are straightway carried to the City Hall; the votes are there examined, and thus the election is determined in a few hours, without uproar or inconvenience!!!" An English Editor of a work, called the _German Museum_, in his translation of some memoirs of Major Andre, records, that this unfortunate officer was taken and hanged "_at the west point of America_." A London paper some time ago made mention of certain improvements which were taking place in Newyork, with a view to promote the health of the city, and observed that our corporation were erecting a range of permanent wharves on one side of the city, which were to extend from Corlear's Hook to the Battery _along the Delaware River_! Some notice shall be taken hereafter of the misrepresentations and falsehoods of Laincourt, Weld, Bulow, and a number of others, relative to the United States. _An_ AMERICAN. _Worcester Spy._ * * * * * SECRET LOVE. _From a very rare volume of old Poetry._ The fountaines smoake, and yet no flame they shewe; Starres shine all night though undeserned by daye; And trees do spring yet are not seen to growe; And shadowes move although they seem to staye; In winters woe is buried summers bliss, And love loves most, when love most secret is. The stillest streame descries the greatest deepe; The clearest skye is subject to a shower; Conceit's most sweete, when as it seems to sleepe; And fairest dayes do in the morning lower: The silent groves, sweete nymphes theye cannot misse, For love loves most, when love most secret is. The rarest jewels hidden virtue yield. The sweete of traffique is a secret game; The yeere once old doth show a barren field And plants seeme dead, and yet they spring again. Cupid is blind; the reason why, is this, Love loveth most, when love most secret is. _Salem Register,_ 1827. * * * * *