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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854, April 04, 1847, Image 1

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VOLUME 11. NO. 18.
Simban IDispatch,
Is Published every Sunday Morning,
To City Subscribers, or
One Dollar a Year, by Mail.
Will be inserted at the rate of One Dollar per Square
of sixteen lines) the first insertion, and Fifty Cents for
every subsequent insertion. Advertisements for alon
ger period at the same rate.
Office 41 Ann Street,
A. J. WILLIAMSON, ) v ... .
WILLIAM BURNS, I Publishers.
The Pauper’s Death Bed.
Tread softly—bow the head—
In reverent silence bow—
No passing bell doth toll ;
Yet an immortal soul
Is passing now.
Stranger ! however great,
With lowly reverence bow;
There’s one in that poor shed—
One by that paltry bed,
Greater than thou.
Beneath that beggar's roof,
Lo ? death does keep its state ;
Enter—no crowd’s attend—
Enter —no guards defend
This palace gate.
That pavement damp and cold,
No smiling courtiers tread ;
One silent woman stands ‘
Lifting with magic hands
A dying head.
No mingling voices sound —
An infant wail alone,
A sob suppressed—again
That short deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.
Oh ! change—oh ! wondrous change—
Burs: are the prison bajs—
This moment there, so low,
So agonized and now
Beyond the stars!
Oh ! change—stupendous change !
There lies the soulless clod ;
The sun eternal breaks
The new immortal wakes —
Wakes with his God. J}
[Written for the Sunday Dispatch.]
Wlje dcrguman’s sans ;
A Tale of Higli and Low Life.
The narrative of the sailor was interrupted
by Mr. Temple, who, rising, said—
*No more to-day, Edgar. I have engage
ments which compel me to leave you now.’
‘ As you please, sir,’ Swan responded, ‘ but
Mr. Temple, there is hope that I shall slip the
‘ That you will be respited I have no doubt,
and we will hope and strive for a full pardon.
And so Edgar I leave you for to-day.
The clergyman returned home to find two
notes, which had been left with directions that
they should be given to him the moment he
came in. The first was from Mrs. Munson,and
read thus:—
Ellen is in a high fever and delirious. She
calls incessantly tor Charles. You must come
up immediately.
The second was from Mr. Jacob Tent, the
worthy reporter of the paper and read as
Reverend Sir:—
I have seen the man of whom I spoke to
you yesterday—the only man who can do your
business. A respite first, he says, and a pardon
by and bye, as soon as it can be safely granted.
He does not promise too much, he has all the
influence in the right quarter, which he boasts
of. You will have to pay his expenses to Wash
ington, which wtll be rather heavy, as he lives
freely—say three hundred dollars to begin
with. I will call to-morrow to see what you
have determined on. Yours &c.,
Jacob Tent is a very useful, excellent man,’
the clergyman muttered to himself after read
ing this straight forward business note, ‘but his
charges are rather high. Fet I must pay them,’
he added, with a sigh.
At this moment Charles Temple entered the
room, his face pale, and his manner betraying
excessive agitation. The clergyman for a mo
ment regarded his son with a stern look and
said :
‘ Sit down, sir, and tell me how you pass
your time. I see very little of you, and the’lit
tle I hear is not satisfactory. You are an idler,
Charles ; without your fine clothes you would
be a vagabond. Does it never occur to you that
the difference between the two is very slight ?
‘ I suppose, sir,’ the young man answered,
‘jthat I am neither better nor worse than others
of my rank and position in society.’
‘ There you are right,Charles, you are neither
better nor worse than that class of young men
in this city, who have been educated without
other object than self gratification. You
have been so educated, and now I see my
error. You are incapable of a generous
act, or a noble effort.’ You live for your
miserable self. I make you an allowance
—which you spend. You eat, drink, sleep,—-
the beginning and end of your life is self-grati
‘ I suppose I am as generous as the rest of the
world,’ Charles replied,
‘ O, yes, as generous and unselfish as the
world you move in. You think it very gene
rous, for instance, to track a poor girl to her
wretched home, to engage her affections, to
destroy her purity and then after a little season,
to cast her away, a vile, worthless thing—vile
and worthless through your agency, to festerin
vice and infamy for a few years, and then die !’
‘ I do not understand you, sir,’ young Tem
ple replied, hurriedly, while the color in his
cheek went and came.
‘ Why then I will speak plainer, Charles,’
the clergyman said in a louder voice, while he
bent his eyes on those of his son. ‘ I will
speak plainer. You saw ayoung girlleave this
house, you followed her home, you—
* Ellen Morris !’ Charles exclaimed involun
‘Now you do understand me. Shall I say
more ? shall I tell you that that poor child to
escape you, fled here, to me, your father ; that
she unveiled to me your baseness, that she en
treated my protection ! _ Shall I tell yon that
she is how a raving maniac, that you have des
troyed her reason and broken her young heart !
Nay, more, shall I tell you who your victim is!
Would you like to know that !’
Charles was silent and the clergymen con
‘ You shall go with me to the asylum I have
provided for her; but before you see her again, I
will confide to you a secret.' These walls must
not hear it,’ the clergyman said in a lower
voice while his eyes wandered apprehensively
around the apartment, and he whispered a few
words in the ear of his son, whose face in an in
fant assumed the pallid hue of death.
‘ Now,’ continued the clergyman aloud, ‘ ac
company me to the bed of a maniac.’
Without a word,Charles arose, and the father
and son left the house.
Poor Tommy, silly Tommy ! Seated at the
foot of the bed, on which Ellen Morris was
stretched, he wept bitterly, he did not know
why. The girl lay perfectly quiet now, appa- ;
rently asleep. A deep, red spot was burning in
her cheeks, her skin was dry, and her forehead
looked like polished ivory. Exhausted by her
struggles she had sunk into a state verging on
insensibility. Her hands, which in one day had
become attenuated, were on the outside of the
bed-clothes, and with her long, slender fingers,
she convulsively grasped, and picked the co
verlid. This movement and the fever spot in
her cheeks, alone indicated that she lived.
Mrs. Munson sat at the head of the bed,her face
covered with her hands. The idiot sobbed au
The door was gently opened, end the clergy
man and his son almost noiselessly entered the
room ; but the movement disturbed the sick girl.
She turned quickly on her side, opened her eyes
and stared wildly about her for a minute, when,
recognising Charles, she raised herself up and
stretching foith her arms, exclaimed, in a voice
which melted the clergyman’s heart
‘O, Charles,you have come and lam happy !’
The young man advanced to the bedside with
a trembling step. He could not return her
proffered embrace—his soul revolted—and he
stood there, his eyes fixedly bent on her face
T o relieve so painful a scene, Mr. Temple step
ed forward and taking her hot, dry hands in his
own, said,
‘ Do you not know me, my poor Ellen ?’
The girl, thus addressed, looked up into the
clergyman’s face with a vacant stare, but an
swered not a word. She knew no one but
Charles Temple. Releasing her hands from the
clergyman’s grasp, she extended them towards
the son, saying,
‘ Come, Charles, sit down by my side. It was
only a hideous dream, dear Charles! Say that
it was no more,’ and she leaned her head on the
bosom of the young man, who had sunk down
on the side of the bed, and, for the first time for
twenty-four hours, began to sob.
Mrs. Munson had drawn the clergyman to the
window, and Tommy, standing up at the foot of
the bed, looked at the young couple with a per
plexed and curious expression in his blight,
cunning eyes. Charles Temple still remained
silent; he would fain have spoken, but his
tongue seemed paralyzed. The girl, raising her
head from his bosom and putting her arms
around his neck, said,
‘ Why do you not speak to me. Charles ? Why
do you not kiss me? You told me that you
loved me, Charles, and I—l believed you. You
know that I trusted you until ’
Here she stopped, and shuddering, covered
her face with her hands. Charles Temple rose,
and without saying a word to his father, walked
hastily out of the room. The closingof the door
caused Ellen to raise her head, but only for a
moment, for, seeing that her lover had gone,
she uttered a piercing cry of agony and fell back
senseless on the bed.
Mr. Temple and Mrs. Munson rushed to her
assistance,while the idiot boy began to sob more
violently than before.
‘ Emma,’ the clergyman said to the woman
who bent over the girl— ‘ I will go at once for
Dr. ——. This poor child is dangerously ill.’
Mrs. Munson turned her face, which was
pale and haggard, towards the clergyman and
‘ Edward, troubles seem to gather thick
around you. But this girl is not the only one
who is dying. I have not long to live. That
terrible day, Edward, is rapidly coming round,
and you tell me only that you hope. It is hope
—hope deferred, Edward, that is wearing out
my life!’ and as the woman said this, her eyes,
deep sunken in their sockets, glared with an
unnatural brightness. She shed no tears.
‘ Take courage, Emma,’ the clergyman said—
‘ I have strong reason, to believe that he will be
pardoned, but certainly, certainly, Emma, he
will be respited.’
‘ And what will respite be, but the prolong
ing of the torture I endure ? Do you know, Ed
ward, that I have not slept for three nights !’
The conversation was here interrupted by a
convulsive movement of the girl. She opened
her eyes, gazed wildly about her for a moment,
and then, her hands rising and falling slowly,
set up a low, mournful, monotonous chaunt,
which was more painful to the listeners than
would have been the howl of an infuriated mad
Mr. Temple brushed the tears from his eyes,
and left the apartment. As he was descending
the stairs, he paused for an instant and leaned
his head heavily on the bannister. Then he
resumed his calm, self-possessed carriage, and
passed from the house.
An liour afterward, Dr. , accompanied by
the clergyman, stood by the bed of the stricken
girl. The physician felt her pulse, regarded
her attentively fox' a moment, and with a shake
of his head, which needed not words to make
its meaning known, said—
‘ Brain fever—she can hatdly recover!’
Mr. Jacob Tent, faithful to the instructions
received from his master, the editor of the
paper, was pursuing his interesting enquiries in
Elizabeth street. He had no difficulty in finding
the house, and very little difficulty in ascertain
ing from the occupants that the girl, to whom
the visits of the elegant young gentleman had
been paid, had suddenly vanished. With most
men, this information would have stopped fur
ther investigation. But Jacob Tent was abound
that once put upon the track,would not give up,
because occasionally he lost the scent. Bydint'
of hard questioning, he ascertained that the girl
had left her room, which, a few hours afterwards
was stripped of its scanty furniture. Mr. Tent
got the best description he could of the caiman
who had removed the furniture,and then walked
into the street. For two hours he walked pa
tiently around the neighborhood, enquiring of
every carman if he had carried a load from the
house which he mentioned. At length his per
severance was rewarded with success. He found
the carman who had removed Ellen Morris*
household goods. Assuming at once an air of
authority, he said to him—
‘ I belong to the police, sir, and must ask you
to accompany me to the Tombs.’
‘ I have no time to go with you,’ the carman
replied. ‘ I’ll tell you all I know, which isn’t
‘ Well, sir,’ Tent replied, ‘ tell me where
you carried that furniture ?’
‘Willingly; I carried it to No. Charles
Mr. Tent put his arms akimbo, and drew a
long breath, which he expelled in a prolonged
whistle. Then turning quickly on his heel, he
left the astonished carman, muttering to him
‘ The devil! —this parson is a curious fellow.
But the old man must know nothing of this. —
No, the girl is gone, and I can’t find her. But
the Rev. Edward Temple and I will settle this
delicious mystery quietly. A strange man that
for a parson. But never mind.’
Kent went about his ordinary business,which
enables us to direct our attention to other of the
parties who figure in this narrative.
When Mr. Temple returned from his pro
tracted visit to the house in Charles street, he
found Miss Slim patiently awaiting his arrival.
The philanthropic lady, it will be remembered,
had engaged to call on the clergyman, to consult
with him on the readiest means to save the pi
rate, and also to receive the twenty-five dollars,
the contribution promised by Mr. Temple to the
fund for circulating Evangelical tracts in Mexi
co. She was seated in the easy chair in the
library and appeared to be quite contented and
very much at home,
Mr. Temple greeted Miss Slim cordially,
apologised for detaining her, passed into her
hands the twenty-five dollars, and proceeded at
once to the more important business.
‘ I have thought, my dear lady,’ the clergy
man commenced with a smile, ‘ of your kind
proffer, and accept it at once. There is a gen
tleman named Tent, who is also good enough to
take an interest in the matter.’
‘ Do you speak of Mr. Jacob Tent, the report
er ?’ the lady enquired.
‘ The same.’
‘ And did he mention by what means he pro
posed to accomplish the.object ?’
‘ He spoke of a gentleman who had great and
indeed controlling influence with the present
administration, and.—— ’
‘ I understand,’ Miss Slim interrupted with a
smile. ‘ There is then no need of introducing
to you the gentleman I spoke of yesterday.’
‘ I am glad to hear you say so, Miss Slim,’ the
clergyman answered, ‘ for to speak frankly, I
wish to be as little known in this application to
the Executive, in behalf of Swan, as possible.’
‘ Have I then your authority to confer with
Mr. Tent on this subject, and act in conjunction
with him and this influential politician, whom
we must secure ?’
‘ You have,’ Mr. Temple replied, taking Miss
Slim’s hand and pressing it warmly— ‘ and I
gladly leave the whole business to you. What
ever expenses may be incurred ’
‘ Hem,’ the lady again interrupted the clergy
man— ‘ I think we must go to Washington. I
shall carry with me the entire influence of two
female associations, who are about to improve
the condition of prisoners and work an entire
reform in our prison discipline; and this poli
tical friend of mine is strong enough to do the
rest. But 1 must see Mr. Tent.’
‘ He is to call on me to-morrow.’
‘ I will see him to-day, and perhaps it will
not be necessary for him to trouble you. You
know the man, I suppose?’
• Yes.’
‘ Well, then, Mr. Temple,’ the lady said, ris
ing, ‘we understand each other. After I have
seen Mr. Tent and the third and most important
party, I will trouble you with another visit.’ So
saying, the lady bowed her adieus, and the
clergyman was left alone.
We pass over the events of the next three
days, simply remarking that Mr. Tent and Miss
Slim, who appeared to be excellent friends, un
derstanding each other perfectly, had taken
counsel with the influential politician, and that
a journey to Washington had been resolved up
on. The next chapter will describe the scene
at the President’s house. *
On the close of the fifth day, after the visit of
the Rev. Edward Temple and his son to the
house in Charles street, they were hastily sum
moned there by a brief note from Mrs. Munson.
It ran as follows:
Ellen is dying. She has been delirious for
thirty-six hours, and is entirely worn out. Pray
come at once, and bring Charles with you. She
incessantly repeats his name.’
There was no rebuke in the clergyman’s voice
or manner, as he handed the note to his son and
bade him accompany him to the bedside of the
dying girl.
The two rode along without exchanging a
•word; the father’s head was bent upon his bo
som, the young man’s eyes were directed out of
the carriage, as though he would divert his at
tention by the passing scene, and drive away the
painful thoughts that made liis facextr-pale-,-n«<l
his hand so unsteady.
They passed up stairs and entered softly the
sick room.
Was that the same face that young Charles
Temple had but a week before regarded with
admiration? Were those thin,lxlanched lips,
the lips which in transport he had pressed to
his own ? Was that sunken eye, the same which
had smiled a welcome upon him ? That trans
parent hand, those attenuated fingers, that
shrunken, fever consumed form ! Was this Ellen
Morris ?
Charles Temple’s lip quivered as he beheld
the wreck he had made. The delirium and the
fever had passed away; Ellen was now conscious,
but too weak to speak. When the young man
took her hand respectfully, hex- eyes brightened
up for an instant, and she endeavored, but in
vain, to raise her arms as though she would
place them around his neck. There was in the
expression of her countenance no rebuke. Love,
forgiveness, resignation, spoke eloquently in
every feature of her face.
Charles Temple bowed his head, and his tears
fell like rain on the forehead of the girl.
‘ Ellen ! Ellen ! you forgive me,’ he faltered
A faint smile, a slight pressure of the hands
was the only response. The clergyman stepped
forward, his eyes blinded with tears he in vain
endeavored to repress; when the girl’s eye fell
upon him, the man whom she regarded as her
friend and benefactor, she made a violent effort
to speak. He knelt down by her side, and plac
ing his hand upon her head, blessed her. Then
his full soul found vent in prayer, and in a voice
broken with emotion, while all around him,
save the patient sufferer herself, wept audibly
—he repeated the touching invocation of the
church in behalf of a departing soul:
‘0 Almighty God, with whom do live the
spirits of just men made perfect, after they are
delivered from their earthly prisons; we hum
bly conimend the soul of this thy servant, our
dear sister, into thy hands, as in the hands of a
faithful Creator, and most merciful Saviour;
most humbly beseeching thee, that it may be
precious in thy sight : Wash it, we pray thee,
in the blood of that immaculate Lamb, that was
slain to take away the sins of the world ; that
whatsoever- defilements it may have contracted
in the midst of this miserable and naughty world,
through the lust of the flesh, or the wiles of Sa
tan, being purged and done away.it may be pre
sented pure and without spot before thee. And
teach us who survive, in this, and other like
daily spectacles of mortality, to see how frail
and uncertain our own condition is: and so to
number our days, that we may seriously apply
our hearts to that holy and heavenly wisdom,
whilst we live here,which may in the end bring
us to life everlasting, through the merits of
Jesus Christ thine only Son our Lord. Amen.’
The girl’s eyes were closed during the prayer,
but when it was concluded, she opened them
and fixed her gaze full on the face of Charles
Temple. She seemed strangely agitated. With
a last effort, she exclaimed ‘ Charles!’ and tried
to lift her hands towards him. The young man
caught her in his arms and raised her so that her
head rested on his bosom. She turned her face
upward to his, threw her arms about his neck
and convulsively drew her lips to his own. The
young man saw the sweet smile that played on
her countenance: he received the impression of
her lips, he felt the grasp tighten about his neck,
Then, suddenly, it relaxed, the head fell heav
ily on his bosom. He replaced hex- on the bed.
The smile still lingered on her face —but Ellen
Morris was dead !
[Conclusion next week.]
[Written for the Sunday Dispatch.]
Religions of tlje tUorU :
Creeds, and Forms of Worship.
No. 11.
We continue our account of the early Christian
sects, running through the most important of
those which arose and flourished in the third
century, though not attempting to give an acceunt
of all.
This sect was founded by Theodotusof Byzan
tium, about 200 years after Christ, in the reign of
the Emperor Commodus, and during the ponti
ficate of Victor, the Thirteenth Bishop of Rome.
We know little more of his doctrine than that he
denied the divinity of Christ, in which he is said
to have been at first favored by Vietor.who, how
ever, subsequently cut him off from his commu
nion. The denial of the Divinity of Christ in the
early centuries of the Christian faith was, indeed,
much more common than at the present time.
This sect began to spread about the beginning
of the third century—we find it revived in the
twelfth, and as late as the fifteenth we find it
spread into several countries of Europe. Their
idea appears to have been that mankind ought to
return to the innocence in which Adam was crea
ted,and in this attempt to restore Eden; they were
accustomed to attend their meetings in a state of
nudity; rejecting all clothing as the mark of sin.
They also believed that marriage was a diabolical
institution; but authors do not agree as to the
purity of their lives, some, and'Ross among them,
asserting that for marriage they substituted pro
miscuous connections. They rejected prayers to
God, as insults to his omniscence, and in connec
tion with their singular assemblages and ceremo
nies adopted this maxim:
‘Jura, perjura, secretum prodere noli.’
Swear, forswear, but reveal not the secret.
Tn the reign of Decius, Emperor of Rome, in
the year of Christ 251, Novatian, a presbyter of
Rome, refused to acknowledge the election of
Cornelius, the Twentieth Bishop of Rome,and laid
the foundation of a sect whose principles may be
traced in the protestants, puritans and reformers,
down to the present day. This was the most
serious Heresy, as it is called, that ever sprung
up in the church, and it was followed by the most
marked effects. The whole church was agitated
by tills division, but the party of Cornelius gained
the ascendency, though they could not root out
their opponents.
The principles upon which this division took
place were those of discipline. The church was
liberal, and readily received back to her bosom
those who had fallen from the faith in times of
persecution. This the Novatians refused to do,
but left them to the Divine vengeance.
Novatian is sometimes called the first Anti-
Pope, he having been the first who boldly dispu
ted the authority of the Bishop of Rome, and
placed himself at the head of an opposite party.
The Novatians were the puritans of the third
Paulus Lamosatenus, who was born at Lamo
sata, near the Euphrates, was the author of this
sect, which arose about 250 years after Christ.
Their most distinguishing doctrine was the denial
of the divinity of Christ, who, they taught, was
a good man, but not partaKing at all of the nature
or essence of God. The doctrine of the Divine
Unity has been the belief of Eastern Christians
to a greater extent than of those of the West.
This sect, sometimes called Manichees, was
founded in the latter part of the third century by
Mani, or Manes, a Persian by birth, who, having
been educated among the Magi, brought to his
aid the learning thus Acquired in his explanations
of Christian doctrine. The Maniehmans were
philosophers, who were willing to receive the
doctrines of Christianity so far as they seemed
reasonable and no farther.
Mani believed in an eternal self-existent being,
called God, and in another being of only less
power but evil inclinations, the Devil. God has
his dwelling in light inaccessible, the Son in the
solar oxb, while the Holy Ghost is diffused
through the atmosphere. The Devil originated
by some commotion of the eternal chaos of mat
ter. As in nature they recognised the opposing
principles of good and evil, so did they, the good
and evil principles in the soulof man. Marriage
being connected with the evil principle, it was
only allowed to the inferior class of believers.—
The perfect rejected it. They denied the real
bodily existence of Christ and the resurrection.
Many of their principles were similar to those of
the Gnostics, treated of in a former number.
The believers in an earthly millenium, near at
hand, existed as a distinct sect, about the begin
ning of the third century. They thoughtthat the
city or temple of Jerusalem should be rebuilt and
upUndid-ly-uxlarneJ w jtli „old and jewels, and that
Christ, having come down from heaven to earth,
the Just, who were dead or living, should reign
with him a thousand years, when would come
the conflagration of the world and the last judg
ment. Their descriptions of the happiness they
expected to enjoy were not so purely spiritual as
some might suppose. The earth was to pour
forth abundantly spontaneous harvests, and all the
productions of nature lavishly multiplied. The
rocks were to burst forth with honey, the streams
to run with wine, and the rivers flow with milk.
Orchards and vineyards were to hang laden with
luscious fruits, and banquets of delicious fare
were to ever attend them. And that no exertion
should interfere with their pleasures, the nations
and princes of the world were to become their
slaves, and the beasts of the forest to become
subject to them. All joys, all pleasures, all de
lights, were to constitute this millenial foretaste
of the hanpiness of heaven.
Arius, of Alexandria, who flourished about
three hundred years after Christ, founded this
extensive and important sect He was a man of
accomplished learning and commanding elo
quence, venerable in person and fascinating in
address. Having had a dispute with Alexander,
the successful candidate for the office of Bishop
of Constantinople, he was excommunicated about
320, when he retired into Palestine, and there
began to gather converts; and his doctrines
soon spread, very widely through the Eastern
Arius contended that Cffrist being ‘ co-eternal,
co essential and co-equal ’ with God was an
absurdity, since the Father who begot, must be
before the Son, who was begotten. Constantine,
who did not perhaps see' the full importance of
the matter in dispute, and who wished to have it
reconciled, called the Council of Nice. There
appeared Arius on one side and Athanasius on
the other, and the Council siding with the latter,
the Athanasian creed was made, and it is very
explicit on the doctrine of the Trinity, as might
have been expected, asserting that Christ is ‘ be
gotten of his Father before all worlds, God of
God, Light of Light, very God of very God, be
gotten, not made, of one substance with the
Father, etc.’ Arius was now banished, but in
three or four years he was recalled, and was
again in favor at Court, and Constantius, the
next Emperor espoused the Arian cause, and
Julian, his successor, laughed at both parties and
neither cared for or persecuted either. For
a long time first one party and then the other was
in power, and sometimes the Arian creed was in
vogue at Constantinople, and the Athanasian at
Rome, so that what was orthodoxy in one of the
Roman capitals was heresy in the other.
Arianism has existed, by name, since the be
ginning of the third century, and the very re
spectable sect of Unitarians maintain that as the
true doctrine, it was taught by Christ himself.
The founder of this creed, of whom we have
just spoken, was born in Alexandria, in Egypt, in
296 Though his creed eventually prevailed in
the Church, the tide at that period setso strongly
against him that he was obliged, more than
once to flee for his life. Of forty-six years of his
official life, twenty were spent in banishment.
His creed, that is now termed orthodox, says:
‘ The Catholic faith is this; that we worship one
God in trinity and trinity in unity ; neither con
founding the persons nor dividing the substance.
For there is one person of the Father, another of
the Son, and another of the Holy Ghost. But the
Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost is all one; the glory equal, the
majesty co-eternal. Such as the Father is, such
is the Son, and such is the Holy Ghost; uncreate,
incomprehensible, eternal.’
One article of this creed is, that those who do
not believe it entirely, ‘shall no doubt perish
[From Chamber’s Edinburgh Miscellany.]
Circumstantial Cuibence.
The Young Sail Maker.
In the year 1825, a young man who was serving
his apprenticeship in London to a master sail
maker, got leave to visit his mother, to spend the
Christmas holidays. She lived a few miles from
Deal, in Kent. He walked the journey; and on
his arrival at Deal in the evening, being much
fatigued, and also troubled with the bowel com
plaint, he applied to the landlady of a public
house,who was acquainted with his mother, for a
night’s lodging. Her house was full, and every
bed occupied ; but she told him that if he would
sleep with her uncle, who had lately come ashore,
and was boatswain of an Indiaman, he should be
welcome. He was glad to accept the offer, and
after spending the evening with his new com
rade, they retired to rest.
In the middle of the night he W’as attacked
with his old complaint, and wakening his bed
fellow, he asked him the way to the garden. The
boatswain told him to go through the kitchen;
but as he would find it difficult to open the door
into the yard, the latch being out of order, he
desired him to take a knife out his pocket, with
which he could raise the latch. The young man
did as he was directed, and after remaining half
an hour in the yard, he returned to his bed, but
was much surprised to find his companion had
risen and gone. Being impatient to visit his mo
ther and friends, he also arose before day, and
pursued his journey, and arrived home at noon.
The landlady, who had been told of
to depart early, was not surprised ; but not see
ing her uncle in the morning, she went to call
him. She was dreadfully shocked to find the bed
stained with blood, and every inquiry after her
uncle was in vain.
The alarm now became general, and on further
examination, marks of blood were traced from
the bedroom into the street, and at intervals
down to the edge of the pier head. Rumor was
immediately busy, and suspicion fell of course
on the young man who had slept with him, that
he had committed the murder and thrown the
body over the pier into the sea. A warrant was
issued against him, and he was taken that even
ing at his mother’s house. On being examined
and searched, marks of blood were discovered
on his shirt and trousers, and in his pocket were
a knife and a remarkable silver coin, both of
which the landlady swore positively were her
uncle’s property, and that she saw them in his
possession on the evening he retired to rest with
the young man. On these strong circumstances
the unfortunate youth was found guilty.
He related all the above particulars in his de
fence ; but as he could not account for the marks
of blood on his person, unless that he got them
when he returned to the bed, nor for the silver
coin being in his possession, his story was not
credited. The certainty of the boatswain’s dis
appearance, and the blood at the pier, traced
from his bedroom, were supposed to be too evi
dent signs of his being murdered ; and even the
judge was so convinced of his guilt he ordered
the executions to take place in three days. At
the fatal tree the youth declared his innocence,
and persisted in it with sach affecting asserva
tions, that many pitied him, though none doubt
ed the justness of his sentence.
The executioners of those days were not so
expert at their trade as modern ones, nor were
drops and platform invented. The young man
was very tall; his feet" sometimes touched the
ground; and some of his friends who surrounded
the gallows contrived to give the body some
support as it was suspended. After being cut
down, those friends bore it speedily away in a
coffin, and in the course of a few hours anima
tion was restored, and the innocent saved. When
he was able to move, his friends insisted on his
quitting the country, and never returning. He
accordingly travelled by night to Portsmouth,
where he entered on board a man-of-war on the
point of sailing for a distant part of the world;
and as he changed his name and disguised his
person, his melancholy story never was dis
After a few years of service, during which his
exemplary conduct was the cause of his promo
tion through the lowest grades, he was at last
made a master’s mate; and the ship being paid
off in the West Indies, he and a few more of the
rirew were transferred to another man-of-war,
which had just arrived short of hands, from a
different station.. What were his feelings of
astonishment, and then of delight and ecstacy,
when almost the first person he saw on board his
new ship was the identical boatswain, for whose
murder he had been tried, condemned, and ex
ecuted five years before ! Nor was the surprise
of the old boatswain much less when he heard
the story.
An explanation of the mysterious circum
stances then took place. It appeared that the
boatswain had been bled for a pain in the side
by the barber, unknown to his niece, on the day
of the young man’s arrival at Deal; and when
the young man wakened him, and retired to the
yard he found that the bandage had come off
his arm during the night, and that the blood was
flowing afresh. Being alarmed, he arose to go
to the barber, who lived across the street, but a
press gang laid hold of him just as he left the
public house. They hurried him to the pier,
where their boat was waiting. A few minutes
brought them on board a frigate then under
weigh for the East Indies, and he omitted ever
writing home to account for his sudden disap
pearance. Thus were the chief circumstances
explained by the two friends thus strangely met.
The silver coih being in the possession of the
young man could only be explained by the con
jecture that when he took the knife out of the
boatswain’s pocket, in the dark, it is probable
that, as the coin was in the same pocket, it
stuck between"the blades-pf ilu.-h»»ife t -<md in--
this manner, became the strongest proof against
On their return to England, this wonderful
explanation was told to the judge and jury who
tried the cause, and it is probable they never
after convicted a man on circumstantial evi
dence. It also made a great noise in Kent at the
Soutlj-lUestern Sketches,
From Cincinnati to New Orleans.
First view of New Orleans—Situation of the City
—Floating Prairie—Buildings—Hotels— Com
merce and Manufactures —Life in New Orleans.
The view of the magnificent plantations, on
the banks of the river, prepared me for the city
itself. The distant prospect of New Orleans is
confined to the brilliant dome and cupola of the
St. Charles Hotel, the square tower of a cathedral,
and two church spires. Next are seen the masts
of the shipping, the black pipes of a long line of
steamboats, and the tall chimneys of the numer
ous steam cotton presses. The Mississippi is
here a noble river, of great depth, sweeping along
the wooden wharves, and forming the inner
curve of the crescent form in which the city
expands around it.
The ships, which count by hundreds and mea
sure by miles, are moored with beautiful regu
larity, in pairs, with their heads all in the same
direction, and are formed on the upper and lower
portion of the levee, the steamboats, ranging with
their bows to the bank, forming the centre. You
step upon a very dusty landing, and the city is
before you, the streets running back from the
river, at a gentle, downward inclination, which
brings the pavements to the low water level of
the river, which should it break through its
banks, at high water, would fill the first stories
of all the stores and houses.
The whole city is thus upon almost a dead
level, the slight inclination being like that of all
the plantations above, downward from the river,
and toward, the swamp. It was no easy taks, one
would think, to build a town on such a situation
No atttempt has been made at filling up, for there
was nothing to fill with. There is no such thing
as a cellar or a well, or any sort of excavation —
not even a grave, as I can learn, in all New
Orleans. One foot below the surface, and the mud
is full of water. The gutters of allthe streets are
always draining the soil, and when the river is
up they fill to the surface. Ido not know what
is beneath—quicksands perhaps—possibly pure
water —for there is west of the river, in this
state a pirarie, on which you can drive out, with
a horse and buggy, where you have only to dig
a hole two or three feet deep, to come to water
of immense and unknown depth, where large
fish are sometimes caught with a hook and line.
These may be ‘the waters under the earth,’
spoken of in the scriptures.
However this may be in New Orleans, it is
certain that the city rests upon a plain of soft
loam, saturated with water, increasing as you
descend. It is certain that there is no such thing
as digging for foundations, for the deeper they
dig the less there is to sustain a weight of walls.
In Holland, the public buildings are set on piles
—but these are of no use in New Orleans, for
the farther they are driven, the more easily they
descend, and I believe that if forced down far
enough, they would sink down altogether, and
very possibly float off in the Mississippi.
Knowing all this, one is the more astonished
at the massive and magnificent buildings in New
Orleans. Resting upon the dead surface of this
swamp, are blocks of immense warehouses, of
brick and granite—are hotels covering whole
squares, like the Astor House, but built in a
much more showy and striking style, are cathe
drals, public buildings, churches and palaces,
built of the most durable materials, and lasting
for centuries. It is the singular elasticity of the
soil, and that alone, which sustains them. If the
first brick or stone will stay where it is placed,
the building is carried up fearlessly to its fifth
story ; and if the ground is too soft for that, all
they do is to lay down a plank or the bottom of a
flat boat, and all is secure as possible. In paving
some of the principal streets, the only way in
which the stones could be laid was to first cover
the soft mud with a layer of brush and weeds.
With all this, the streets are well paved, and in
dry weather, much toojdusty. The side walks are
washed clean, and the warehouses, stores, and
dwellings, will compare with those of any city I
have visited.
The thing that strikes a stranger, on entering
the city, is the number of the hotels, with their
extent, and magnificence. The St. Charles,
chief hotel of the American quarter, covers the
front of an entire square, and is built in a more
showy style, than any building in New York. It
is of a composite order of architecture, with a
profusion of lofty fluted columns with Corin
thian capitals, and the building is surmounted
with a high, gracefully shaped dome, and a
pretty cupola. The whole surface is of stucco,
brilliantly while, and it can be seen to a great
distance around.
On the next square, diagonally from the St.
Charles, is another great hotel, the Verandah, a
splendid establishment, and at a few blocks dis
tance, in the French part of the city, is a more
extensive and more splendid establishment than
either, the great Hotel St. Louis. The Orleans
Hotel, Hewlett’s Exchange, and a dozen more,
are indications of the great commercial impor
tance, the immense business and the abounding
wealth of the southern emporium.
I have said before, or might have said, that the
population of southern cities is no indication of
their commercial importance. This is especially
the case in New Orleans. No manufactures, but
those of necessity are carried on here—the work
is that which belongs to commerce. There are
extensive cotton presses, requiring a great many
hands, powerful steam engines and severe labor
—there are, of course, and especially among the
creoles, tailors, shoemakers, milliners, &c., but
still the North supplies much the greater portion
of all the articles of Southern wear, ready made.
The indications of commercial importance are
to be found in these magnificent hotels, in three
theatres, in the numerous public resorts, where
merchants congregate, in the long lines of steam
boats and shipping, in the great banking houses,
chartered, and private, in the commercial daily
newspapers, filled with advertisements, and in
the immense masses of cotton, sugar, tobacco,
iron, lead, flour —in short the staples of the South
and West, and the manufactured products of
every quarter of the globe.
But I shall have a thousand things to write you
of New Orleans, as I intend to study the city
thoroughly. I arrive at a most propitious sea
son. Business is just about to assume its great
est activity. Cotton and sugar are now pouring
in by floods. The hotels are filling up with mer
chants and planters. To-night the St. Charles
Theatre opens with Booth for the first rising star,
ind the promise of the Keans, Mr. Anderson,
Mrs. Mowatt, Chippindale, Dan Marble, and
others. The Orleans opens in a few days with
Opera by the French company. The divine
Pico, with Majocca, Valtellina and Aniognini
announce a series of concerts, at the St. Louis.
The councils of the first municipality last night
passed an ordinance authorizing and regulating
the masqerades for the winter —so you see that
New Orleans is to be as gay, as the happiest
humored man could wish. I have been here
three days—-and we have had one duel, a very
private, affair which, as it resulted in no injury,
caused no excitement, and last night in the most
magnificent public saloon in the city, the public
bar-room of the St. Louis, Mr. Wadsworth, in a
quarrel with Capt. Carson, drew a pistol, and
shot him through the heart, and this, surrounded
by a crowd of people. He surrendered himself
to the sheriff, who it appears was present, and
was taken to prison, and in the morning papers
is the usual notice, inviting the friends of the
deceased to attend his funeral. So opens to me,
life in New Orleans.
I) c Mosaic in literature.
What a glorious gallery of literary paintings,
the accumulation of ages, now exists for the
deligat of the student! The great masters of
_£X£iy nation and period have contributed to form
it and truly the collection is magnificent! But,
alas, for the aspirants of the present time! their
predecessors have almost exhausted every no
velty and beauty of the art. The modern pro
ductions, placed beside those of long-established
excellence, are accused by the public of want of
talent or originality. If the design be new, it is
said that the drawing is bad. If the drawing
escape censure—then the disposition of the piece
is so like some other! But, supposing the candi
date for fame so happy as to meet with no objec
tion to either his design or his drawing, then
how miserable is the coloring !— ‘ there is no
light and shade—no mellowness 1 That mass of
shadow is so hard—and that figure should have
been brought out more! What would some of
the great masters have made of this subject!’
Thus is the aspirant criticised. He has his
choice of being wrecked on Scylla or engulphed
in Charybdis. If his work be good, it is not new
—and if new, it is not good. If he give to the
world a production composed in the best taste,
he is told that he has studied his predecessors too
much ; but should his production be inferior, he
is told to study his predecessors a little more.
It must be confessed.that there is great justice
in these complaints. Such a multitude has ap
peared before us that originality and merit at the
same time are now very scarce. A Pedant,
from too much study, elaborates good old works
—and a Dunce, from too little, dashes off bad
new ones.
In spite of these discouragements, however,
first-rate artists are continually appearing, whose
works are worthy of a permanent place in the I
Literary Gallery ; but innumerable are the pro
ductions which fall, almost at once, into oblivion
many, althouah in themselves not bad, being
direct imitations of some great original; and
others, although with a degree of novelty, fail
ing in coming up to the proper standard of
Yet, candidates for fame in literature who
honestly do their best, and write as well and as
newly as they can, should always receive re
spect. The very attempt, whether successful or
not, entitles them to this; and. if the resem
blance to some fellow-laborer be not too near—
and seem to have been unpremeditated—the
work, if good, should not suffer. Absolute
novelty, in the present day, must be considered,
like absolute virtue, a thing never seen; and we
must be contented with an approach to it.
The difficulty being, then, so great for artists,
except of coiiiiiiaiiding talent, tv produce, on the
literary canvass, anything like a meritorious and
original composition, a class has arisen which
prudently declines making the attempt, and
whose hopes are derived from the cause which is
so fatal to the hopes of all others —the works of
the great masters. The name of this school is
the mosaic. Its followers possess just sufficient
skill to put neatly together the ideas of others,
and are totally devoid of the enthusiasm and
hope of enduring fame which animate every legi
timate artist, however humble. They do not
even expect that their patched productions will
be considered to possess any novelty, but they
hope that, for a short time, they will please and,
before they fall to pieces, handsomely remunerate
the workman for his trouble.
The ideas of all their predecessors being public
property, the superiority of one operator to an
other is shewn in his choice of materials, and in
their skilful and harmonious arrangement. To
select judiciously he should be well acquainted
with all the best works, ancient and modern, so
as to be able, in the course of his composition, to
know exactly what masterly bit, cleverly copied
or perhaps slightly varied from those works, will
best suit his purpose. Gain is his object, and
his utmost ambition is to make the performance
pass for a veritable painting, until that object be
accomplished. So blind is the public, and so
perfect is often the workmanship, that this wish
is commonly gratified; nor does the sharper
sighted critic always at once, detect the joints
and expose the ruse.
Thus do these imposters degrade a sublime
Art into a mechanical Trade. Tact, with them,
supplies the place of Genius, and, by its aid, they
place themselves on an equality with the true
artists. With the increase of approved works
their resources increase, and, as a matter of
course, their numbers; so that there seems
every probability of the workers in literary mo
saic forming soon one of the most numerously
followed trades in existence.
By the Watch.
Blunders by Irish waiters, of the most curious
and laughable character, are as common as brick;
but the most laughable one we have heard of
since the waiter scooped out the inside of the
watermelon and served up the beautiful green
rind, is a little ‘ misundher standin' that occurred
at one of our principal hotels a few days since to
a very particular English ‘ gent’ with a vory short
tailed coat, a large number of plaids on his pants,
a considerable amount of drab cloth gaiters, a re
markably small cane and particularly yellow
gloves. He had just arrived from the great com
mercial emporium of Great Britain and Ireland,
via Boston, New York, and a number of other
small towns and villages. He approached the
breakfast table, prepared to make a decided im
pression upon the American public, and give them
a pretty fair idea of un Anglais en voyage, and
after selecting the most desirable situation possi
ble for the accomplishment of his purpose, beck
; oned a waiter to him and stuck his eyeglass in
his eye—not the waiter’s eye, but his own indi
vidual organ- After surveying him for a moment
he addressed him with —‘ Are-athere-a any Eng
lish waiters’ere I’
‘ Which, sir? enquired the waiter.
‘ English waiters ; don’t you ’ear me V
‘Oh yis, sir; of coorse, Ido Flinty of ’em,
sir. What ’ud ye plaze to take for breakfast,
‘ You’re not an English waiter, sir !’ replied the
‘Oh yis, sir; I don’t spake divil a word besides
English, exceptin’ Irish ; but I’m a lawful subject
of Queen Victary.’
‘Well then, if I can’t get an English servant to
wait on me, I must take an Irish one.’
‘ Yis. sir,’ said the lawful subject of her Gra
cious Majesty Queen Victoria.
‘ Well then, get me a couple of eggs, and boil
them precisely three minutes, not a bubble more,
and a cup of coffee —bee f steak, very rare, and
some toast.’
‘Yis, sir/ said the waiter, and started off.
‘ And recollect, three minutes for the eggs,’ said
the gent, calling him back.
‘ Yis, sir,’ said the waiter.
The gent disposed himself to the best advan
tage, and waited the arrival of the eggs. Upon
cracking the shells they were as hard as a lapstone
and with the utmost indignation he turned upon
the waiter and inquired of him if he had not di
rected him to cook them just three minutes.
v ‘ Yis, sir,’ replied the waiter— ‘ I did, sir ; I
counted ’em mesilf.’
‘ What I didn’t you look at th? clock? exclaim-
ed the gent, with as much surprise as if he had
just heard that Louis Philippe had suggested the
propriety of divorcing Albert from Victoria, and
marrying her to one of his own sons.
‘Divil a once, sir,’ said the Irishman— 4 divil a
once at all! What ’ud Ibe afther lookin’ at the
clock for all the time ?
‘ Oh, this is too much, positively!’ said the
gent. ‘ Here, you stupid fellow, take my watch
and go into the kitchen, and boil me a couple of
eggs just three minutes with it.’
‘ Yis, sir,’ said the waiter, taking the watch.
‘Do you understand me now, sir? said the
‘Of coorse/ was the reply, and off he started.
At the expiration of the three minutes appeared
the waiter, with the breakfast, and on the plate
with the eggs the watch was deposted. As the
gent was about to take up the watch, the waiter
stopped him, by exclaiming—
‘ Take care, sir; you’ll burn your fingers—it’s
hot, sir.’
‘What’s hot? inquired the gent.
‘ The watch, sir.’
‘ The watch !’ echoed the gent.
‘ Yis, sir ; sure didn't you tell me to bile the eggs
with it three minutes, an' didn't 1 do it V
‘What!’ said the horror-stricken gent, starting
up, ‘ boiled the watch !’
‘Yis, sir—three minutes !’
The gent, like the watch, was completely done,
and seizing his gold lever, he made a speedy exit,
uttering curses loud and deep, and tossing his
watch from hand to hand, as a boy does u hut po
tato, to cool it — N. O. Picayune.
[From the N. Y. Spirit of the Times.]
A Confidential 1 Publishment.’
Dear ‘ Spirit'— Any one who can appreciate ‘ a
character’ ought to be acquainted with John
Green, a ‘ cullud pussun barber/ who is now in
Mexico, doing duty as ‘ private secretary and ser<
vant’ to some volunteer Captains that I wot of
‘ General Green/ as he was always called, is of
small stature, but of large words, and expanded
ideas. He has an aristocratic-negro look, a waist
which he says is ‘ an imitation of Venus de Me
dichy/ and he was once a travelling servant of
our present Vice President Dallas—‘Three things,
Mr. Smith/ said he to me, ‘which is competent
for a patent for nobility.’
An adventure of his in Richmond, Va., would
he worth your reading and my writing, if 1 had
time and were able to put its strength on paper.
If I ever see him again, I will ‘cage him/and
make him write it. [Try it yourself, my dear
I received from Mr. Green a few days ago, a
letter, vyhich I think ought not to ‘ die unborn.’
His capitals are a matter of taste, and Green cer
tainly was never introduced to Lindley Murray.
X. S.
Wilkes, Barre, Pa.
At See. 100 miles out,
Feb. Ist, 1847.
Deer Sir— These few Lines I Hope will find
you Enjoying the same blessing. lam well At
present and attend to my Dutys Religisly. The
guverment has expressed itself opposed in the
abstrac to wiskers and Beerds, and thenceiormy
labors is ardjus. The captain of my Kore has a
h—ll of a beerd. It is equal to a Illinois congress
man’s. But lam content when he don’t cuss me
harder than the Prince of wales would for a dull
razor Ive heard the Prince uses the hardest
kind of words.
Our provisions is good but the common sailors
is d low.
If you was ever at See, Mister Smith, you
would feel the Force of the Poat’s burst
‘ My bark is on the See/
A corporal friend of mine Just now is giving
his Dinner to the Slimy deep. He seems to be
sick at the Stummack. We expec to take Verey
Cruz in a month or so. The offsers are full of
The Idea. Most of them Says they have no fa
mileys at Home, and two has agreed to convay
me Through the town when the cassle is taken.
I must close these few lines, as I am Called
away to play a Gaim of ches with an Offser from
Philadelphy. Aw revoy—
John Green.
A ‘ Down East’ Joker ‘ Served Out.’
Mr. f Spirit.'— l never wrote a story in my life,
yet, with your permission, I will chronicle one
through the columns of your ever-welcome paper.
The story is true, and eet the particular crowd to
whom it was related in a roar. Thus it is:—
A. Mr. D., In lhe town of w., in this State,
was applied to by an Ir ishman for the loan of his
gun for a day. Pat was unacquainted with its
use, and enquired of Mr. D. how to load it 3 D.
supposing that he was quzzing, said that he gene
rally put in about two feet of powder and shot al
together ! The Irishman took the gun and started
for the field ; when he was cleverly out of sight
he commenced charging his gun. ‘By the pow
ers, an’ I pitty the man tbit finds a plinty;’ was
his soliloquy as he emptied the contents of his
powder-flask into the barrel. He found no put
ting down the wad that the ‘ two feet’ were com
ing short. Next he emptied his shot-pouch into
the barrel, and found that all his ammunition
made only a foot and a half of load altogether.
As luck would have it, Pat did not find anything
in the shape of lawful game to ‘ empty at/ so he
brought up at Mr. D.’s with the .gun con
dition. No questions being asked honest Pat
respecting his luck, the gun was laid aside and
A few days after D. had occasion to use his
gun; being in haste he glanced at the lock, and
seeing that it was capped he pulled the trigger at
his object; the consequences may be imagined.
The gun burst into pieces ‘ too numerous to men
tion/ and the unfortunate joker found himself,
after an indefinite space of time, Looking at the
stars as well as he could, with one eye ‘bunged
tight.’ and his nose enquiring the way over his
shoulder! His first thought was vengeance on
the Irishman. When he found him he com
menced enquiries as to what the devil he had
been doing with his gun— ‘ you blasted bog-trot
ter, you put in powder enough to blow up all the
castles in Mexico!’
Pat not understanding him, and-supposing he
had not put in powder enough, replied— ‘ An’
sure, I put in all the powder and shot I had, an’
it was full eighteen inches load ; if that was not
enough, sure I couldn’t help it. Faith, an’ you’ll
be plaised to load yer own gun next time !’
Poor D. shut his other eye and left for Canada
—the States couldn’t hold him. S. E. D.
New Haven, Conn., March 10,1847.
The treatment of the Poles by the Russian
government, according to the French papers,
continues to be of the most cruel and revolting
character. The Boston Atlas translates the fol
lowing items from late papers:
Last March, says the Democriiic Paci/ique, the
Czar ordered that the Polish insurgents should
ascend the scaffold to the sound oi joyous and
lascivious music, and that all Warsaw should
look on without a murmur, at this revolting spec
In December, this kind Emperor wishes all
Warsaw to celebrate, by transports of joy, the
anniversary of his birth, and required every
one to illuminate his house, under pain of death.
The German papers inform us that the people
remained sad and silent, and that Warsaw had
the appearance of an immense charnel house,
under this universal illumination, where shone
alone the fatal ‘ under pain of death !'
To the frightful details that we have published
of the cruelties inflicted by the Czar upon the
exiles of Siberia, we add the following, which
shows at the same time, says the Reforme, to
what monstrous excesses Russian despotism
• abandons itself in Poland, and the well-merited
, feeling it inspires in the population.
A young man of Warsaw had been arrested
and confined in the citadel. He was there so ill
treated that in a short time he was attacked by a
. disease in the chest, which left no hope of saving
him They then resolved to restore him to his
family, and two or three days before he was to
1 be set at liberty, his betrothed was permitted to
• visit him. At the moment when she left him,
the prisoner whispered to her, ‘ Burn my dress
ing gown.’ These words were unfortunately
overheard by the jailor, and upon going out of
the prison, the young girl was seized, bound
with cords, plunged into a dungeon and subjected
to tortures, to discover Where was the dressing
gown. The executioners grew weary before the
victim, who was restored to her family—but so
, mutilated, that she died in a few days. Her be
trothed died the following day. The funeral of
the two young people took place upon the same
day, at the same hour, in the same church.
Never had the population been so numerous or
i so excited as at this sad procession; and the
; palls which had covered the coffins were seized
by the crowd and divided into a thousand pieces,
every one wishing to have a relic of these two
1 martyrs of patriotism.
Ethan Allen.—The following capital anec
dote is told of Ethan Allen, one of the heroes of
, the Revolution: •
At the defeat of Montgomery, Allen was taken
prisoner and carried to England. Here he was
1 treated with marked respect, and an offer was
made to him by the British Minister to make
him Viceroy of Vermont, and confer to that
province unusual privileges, if he would use his
influence with his countrymen against the exist
ing revolution. ‘ Sir/ said the stern hero, with
a flashing eye and contemptuous smile, ‘ you put
me in mind of a certain personage in history,
who, upon one occasion, took the Redeemer on
a high mountain and showed him all the king
doms and principalities of the world, and offered
them to him if he would only fall down before
him; but the poor devil did not own a foot of it!'
A young damsel was telling one of her ad
mirers after church that she had been trying ‘all
Meeting time ’ to get him to look at her, but
without success. Said he, ‘l’m sorry, but really
I didn’t catch the eye dear'
Ccltcr from itlrs. MTycro.
Voice prom AltaVista.—The following letter
from late Mrs. Virginia Myers, now Pollard, to
a friend in Louisiana, is published in the N. O.
Delta. It was written in contemplation of seek
ing a residence in that State.
Alta Vista, Dec. 10,1846.
My Dear Mrs. : I have just read your
husband’s letter to my father, and I am so deeply
touched by your kind mention of me that I can
not refrain from expressing to you my gratitude.
Many years have passed since my happy associa
tion with you. To me the interval has been
fraught with many sad changes. I know not how
you will receive this communication, but I re
member your kindness to me in my summer-dav
of prosperity, and I cannot think you will shrink
from me now, when my unexampled misfortunes
must render me an object of pity to all imbued
with the blessed charity of a holy religion. I
am confident that the spirit of relentless cruelty
which characterized the proceeding of the late
trial in Richmond has not been unobserved by
those who are disinterested and unprejudiced.
* * * Notice the course pursued to-
wards me by Mr. Myers’ counsel—was it not
unjustifiable ? Their words send a blush to my
cheek, and delicacy and refinement make me
shrink with horror and disgust from their accu
sations. The case did not require the attack
they made on me. What was more heartless
than tfie exposure of those letters ’ They were
left by the unfortunate Mr. Hoyt with the injunc
tion that every line should be burned. This 1
have recently learned through a friend. Those
letters, although they breathe the ardor and fer
vor of affection, yet I defy the man to point out
one sentence which proves me guilty of the crime
which my enemies so cruelly attempted to fasten
on mp. No ! they are untainted by one impure
thought, unsullied by one polluted expression—
all my heart was thus bared before the world all
its hidden feelings exposed, every thought laid
open for the jests and taunts of an unfeeling mul
titude. Tell me, is there a being who does not
shrink from exposing to the world the inmost
recesses of his bosom 1 Were all hearts thus
exposed as mine has been, perhaps there are
some whose feelings could not stand the scruti
nizing gaze of a prejudiced community. I can
not refrain from remarking that the conduct of
Editors in publishing those letters was inhuman
in the extreme. Had they possessed the feelings
of humanity, they would have spared me the deep
humiliation. Mark well this fact: The dying
testimony of the unhappy Mr. Hoyt proclaimed
my innocence. Remember! the confession of a
dying man, with eternity and judgment close be
foie his eyes, is held by our law more powerful
than any other other kind of evidence. This
declaration of my innocence, if received, estab
lished my purity—but this part of his testimony
was pronounced perjury, while the other was re
ceived. I appeal to the world —was this justice ?
Yes, I say, review the whole proceedings—tell
me, was ever woman so cruelty wronged, so in
humanly sacrificed! * * * My hus-
band casts me from him as unworthy. With a
pride which none but the virtuous can feel, I
willingly accede to his desire for a divorce—but
my sufferings have been so great, and my health
so affected by them, that if another blow falls on
me now. I feel I shall sink under its infliction.
* * * —take all else beside, but leave
me this jewel—’tis my life, my soul, my diadem
of glory—for is It not my fair and virtuous name 1
* * * God alone reads my heart, and
I say mortal should not be my judge. Think not
I wish to conceal my errors. With a torn and
bleeding heart I acknowledge they have been
glaring, but they have been but indiscretions. Be
fore high Heaven I declare that in thought, in
deed, I am as pure as the untrodden snow : I
swear I am as guiltless of the crime for which I
suffer as one of God’s angels. Dare I ask if you
believe me! For these indiscretions there is
extenuation. lam a person of deep impassioned
feelings. I was unappreciated. My husband
did not love me—l felt his alienation, his cold
ness and neglect. In that hour of desolation I
listened to the words of affection from another.
Had my husband loved me, I should never have
given one thought to another. For my errors I
have fearfully expiated. Human mind cannot
conceive the anguish I endure—sleepless nights,
and days of such suffering that it appears as if
life itself would sink under them. Nay, I tell
you that— * ♦ * My only desire is
that God will soon release me from my suffer
ings, and that I may lie in a peaceful grave,
‘ where the wicked cease from troubling, and the
weary are at rest.’ * * *
This affliction has brought with it many
changes. I have known all the luxuriousness of
wealth—had all its comforts. Now my situation
is changed, and it is necessary I should seek my
support by my own exertions—my family are not
rich, and I cannot consent to be a burden to
them. So soon as my feeble health and shatter
ed spiritswill allow, I must earn my own support.
* * * Thank God! this change from
wealth to poverty has not cost me one pang—for
oh ! how worthless are all the splendors of earth
compared with the peace of a pure, unsullied con
science ! This jewel is mine, and I cl«sp it to
my broken heart, and with tearful eyes thank
my Heavenly Father that this precious treasure
cannot be wrested from me. * * *
May God bless you and your kind, generous
husband, who I know feels forme in my annihi
lating sorrow. May Heaven bless you both ! is
the prayer of your heart-broken, unfortunate
friend. Virginia Myers.
Wrongs of Woman.—We cut the following
forcible paragraph from the London Dispatch.
Woman, whom society in this country, with
its fudge and cant, pretends to worship so reve
rentially, and to treat with such deferential con
sideration and refined gallantry, is, by our law,
almost blotted out of social existence, and re
duced to the most degraded position, while the
surviving prerogative of a dead latitudinarian, or
the rights and immunities of a living married
blackguard, shall be made to overbear the great
charter which Nature has conferred upon every
mother by the nurse and guardian of her child
ren. Why should the will of a dead father be
competent to rob a living mother of the custody
ol her own offspring? Our’customs breed up
men to the art of earning their own subsistence,
but leave our women entirely without the means
of self support. Where a female is possessed of
a separate estate, the entire property is at once
handed over absolutely to the husband to do with
as he pleases. He may squander the substance
of his wife and children—his creditors may come
in and carry off her entire means before her very
eyes, and leave her to Svarve. He may live as
he pleases, and compel her to share his mean
ness—he may assign her a domicle where he
likes—even after thrusting her out of doors. If
by her own industry or genius she raises herself
to independence or affluence, he can step in and
destroy her business, seize upon the property she
has acquired by her fingers or brains, and make
her toil to supply his idleness, luxury, or de
bauchery. Lord William Lennox regularly
pounced upon Miss Paton’s weekly salary at the
theatre, and many a prima donna and premiere
danseuse can testify to the rascally extortion of a
debauched and drunken biute of a husband.
Positively delicious.—A Sunday paper pub
lished in Cincinnati, gives the following as
a correct version, for the use .of all doubting
husbands, of the‘Wife’s Commandments.’ Lis
1. Thou shalt have no offler wife but me.
2. Thou shalt not take into thy house any
beautiful brazen image of a servant girl, to bow
down to her and serve her; for I am a jealous
wife, visiting, etc. .
3. Thou shalt not take the name of thy wife in
4. Remember thy wife to keep her respectably.
5. Honor thy wife’s father and mother.
.6. Thou shalt not fret.
7. Thou shalt not find fault with thy dinner.
S. Thou shalt not chew tobacco.
9. Thou shalt not be behind thy neighbor.
10. Thou shalt not visit the rum tavern; thou
s ehalt not covet the tavern-keeper’s rum, nor his
i brandy, nor his gin, nor his whiskey, nor his
wine, nor anything that is behind the bar of the
11. Thou shalt not visit BilliarHall, neither for
worshipping in the dance, nor heaps of money
that lie on the table.
And the twelfth commandment is. Thou shalt
not stay out later than 9 o’clock at night.
Novel Carriage.—A New Orleans paper gives
the following description of a new and novel
The body of the carriage, which presents a
perfectly plain but rich surface, is painted inMa
deira drop’lake, and some notion may be formed
of its quality from the fact that the raw material
costs $25 per pound. The inside trimmings are
of French silk cotelaine, the sides covered with
drab satin. Among the novelties in its construc
tion, we noticed a spring, so arranged that the
opening and shutting of the door lowers or closes
up the step, and thus, as the spring-lock of the
door is easily turned from the inside, not only
may the occupant readily let himself out without
the driver leavingh is seat, and the step is always
protected from mud and dirt. Another very con
venient affair, is a hollow cord passing through
the carriage, one end having a speaking trumpet
attached, hanging in the form of a tassel. A pull
at the cord attracts the driver’s attention, and
the lady sitting upon the back seat gives her or
ders for the driver.
* Louis Philippe’s Reminiscences of Nash
ville —At a presentation of gentlemen a short
limo ago, at the Court of France, says the Nash
ville Gazette, about fifty Americans were present,
among whom was a gentleman from this State.
On the latter being presented to the King, our
Charge d’Affaires mentioned that he was from
Tennessee. ‘ What part of Tennessee ?’ inquired
the king. On being informed, he remarked that
he was from near General Jackson’s residence.
He then proceeded to make inquiries as to the
present condition of the road between Knoxville
and Nashville, and spoke of the cednr groves in
this neighborhood. He said when he was in
Nashville, the Grand Jury was in session, and
the hotel being much crowded, the guests were
obliged to sleep three in a bed— ‘ this,’ he added,
‘ was called bundling. Is such the custom now I’
‘ Not at all,’ was the reply of the young gentle
man ; ‘ we have become more refined, now we
only sleep two in a bed,’ at which the old king
laughed heartily.

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