I read Mr. Roane's letter with the attention that it deserves. Every thing from his pen on the subject of our laws and institutions excites a profound interest. I was highly gratified at the manner in which it was spoken of in my hearing by one of the best and ablest men in our house. It is indeed high time that the hucksters and money-changers should be cast out of the Temple of Justice. The tone of this communication belongs to another age; but for the date, who could suppose it to have been written in this our day of almost universal political corruption? I did not read the report on the lottery case. The print of the Enquirer is too much for my eyes: and besides I want no argument to satisfy me that the powers which Congress may exercise where they possess exclusive jurisdiction, may not be extended to places where they possess only a limited and concurrent jurisdiction. The very statement of the question settles it, and every additional word is but an incumbrance of help. And now, my dear sir, you may be glad to come to an end of this almost interminable epistle. Shut up in my little “chair-lumbered closet” this cold day, without a soul to speak to or a book to read, you have become the victim of my desolate condition. Indeed, if I had a book I could not read it, having exercised my eyes so unmercifully on John Wesley, that I do not see what I am writing—at least not distinctly. My best regards to Mrs. B. I wish I could provoke her to talk. When you see Dudley, tell him I have been trying to write to him for several days; and when you see Mr. Cunningham, present me most kindly to him and _his house_. Sincerely yours, J. R. of R. _Washington, January, 1821_. TO A LOCK OF HAIR. BY J. DOGGETT, Jr. Bright auburn lock! which like the wing Of some kind angel sweeping by, Shinest in the sun a glossy thing, As soft as beams from beauty's eye, Thou dost recall, sweet lock, to me, All of the heaven of memory. Thou once did'st shade a marble brow, Where beauty raised her polish'd throne; Methinks I gaze upon it now And listen to a silver tone— Which floats from lips in notes as sweet As angel's greetings when they meet. Fair lock! I'd rather hold with thee A silent, blissful, strange commune, Than join that boisterous gaiety Which seems of happiness the noon: For thou dost whisper, shining hair, Peace comes not, rests not, _is_ not there. _Philadelphia, June, 1836_. EXAMPLE AND PRECEPT. BY J. K. PAULDING.