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HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS AT THE
CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER.
BY 11. W. LONGFELLOW.
The standard of count Pulaski, the noble Polo who
fell in the attack upon Savannah, during the American
Bevoluion, was of crimson silk, embroidered by the
Moravian nuns of Bethlehem in Pennsylvania.
When the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head,
And the censer burner swung,
Where before the altar hung
That proud banner, which, with prayer,
Had been consecrated there;
And the nuns’ sweet hymn was heard the while
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle.
Take thy banner. May it wave
Proudly o’er the good and brave,
When the battles distant wail
Breaks the Sabballi ofotlr bale—
When the clarion’s niusic thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills —
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks.
Take thy banner;—and, beneath
The war-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it—till our homes are free—
Guard it—God will prosper thee!
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
Take thy banner. But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquished warrior bow,
Spare him —by our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him—he our love hath shared —
Spare him—as thou wouldstbc spared,
Take thy banner; —and if e’er
Thou shouldst press the soldier’s bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be ,
Martial cloak and shroud for thee.
And the Warrior took that banner proud,
And it wU his martial cloak and shroud.
_ i
Galvanic Rings.—Of all the most bare
faced ridiculous, humbugs of the day, perhaps ,
tliesfe Galvanic rings stand pre-eminent. Almost (
every pretension has some truth for basis, be- (
fore it is seen in public. But these are a no
t orious exception even to this rule.
All that are conversant with chemistry, know |
that in order for galvanism to be developed, it (
is necessary that the zinc and copper be so ,
sit'v.ted, that a third substance may develope j
an onvey a current of galvanism from the one .
to the other. This is absolutely necessary, else ’
tl.qre will be no galvanism developed. Usually, '
both the copper and zinc are placed together, in
a vessel containing an acid. Sometimes the zinc ,
is put into a copper vessel which has previously
been tilled with acid. At all events, the pre- '
sence of a third substance is necessary, in order
to establish the galvanic current. Any one not ,
having seen a galvanic battery, can do so by call- ,
itig ai one of our high schools, academies, or at
■ either of the editors’ offices, ft may be proper
to say, that galvanism is now being used with '
much advantage in the treatment of many dis- ;
eases.
But now apply the principle upon which
galvanism is developed, as stated above, to the ,
so-called “ galvanic rings i” What an absurd- '
ity, what anopen handed attempt to swindle
money from those not well informed upon the
subject. The “ ring ”is composed, simply, of
these metals, in direct contact with each other.
No acid or third substance is present to excite 1
the current, and even if they Were —the metals (
being in immediate contact —there could be no ,
galvanism developed.
As for any salutary effect, one might as well
cut off a brass ring from a curtain, and wear it, ,
expecting; With much faith; to be speepily re- j
jieved from some dire calamity, as to wear one ,
of these much lauded “ galvanic rings,” alias j
galvanic humbugs. And yet, the worthless ar
ticles are brought and palmed off, as doing
wonderful cures. One would think that the age
Bf Baron Maunchausen had returned.
This, however, is only the natural conse- 1
quence of the Want of information on medical ]
subjects. If people will inform themselves — (
understand their systems—know what every re
medy offered them for disease, is—know its na
ture, and the effects it usually gives rise to—
refuse all advice that is not explained, so that £
they can understand the principles upon which (
it is offered —they will save much money—save 2
themselves much sickness, and save themselves
from being imposed upon every time it may be (
for the interest of some unprincipled biped to [
take advantage of their ignorance.—Poughkeep
sie Safeguard. j
Exhaustion of talk. —How long the lamp ?
of conversation holds out to burn, between two 1
i ersons only, is curiously set down in ths fol- r
lowing passage from Count Gonfaloniare’s ac- 0
count of his imprisonment:
“lam an old man now; yet by fifteen years
my soul is younger than my body I Fifteen s
years I existed, for I did not live—it was not
life—in the self-same dungeon ten feet square ! 1
During six of those years I had a companion— I
during nine I was alone I I never could rightly ]
d istinguish the face of him who shared my cap- i
tivity in the eternal twilight of our cell. The
first year we talked incessantly together; we I
related our past lives, our joys forever gone, j
over and over again. The next, we communi- <
cated to each other our thoughts and ideas on
all subjects. The third year, we had no ideas s
to communicate ; we were beginning to lose the t
p< wer of reflection! The fourth, at the inter
v : lof a month or so, we would open our lips to i
aSk 6ach other if it were indeed possible that <
the world still went on as.gay and bustling as ]
when we formed a portion of mankind. The j
fifth, we were silent. The sixth, he was taken 1
away, I never knew where, to execution or to <
liberty; but I was glad when he was gone—
e 'en solitude was better than the dim vision of <
11 at pale vacant face I After that I was alone, i
c nly one event broke in upon my nine years i
vacancy. One day, it must have been a year or i
two after my companion left me, the dungeon
< oor was opened, and a voice—whence pro
ceeding I know not—uttered these words: ‘By i
order of his imperial majesty, I intimate to you !
that your wife died a year ago.’ Then the door
was shut, and I heard' no more ; they had but
flung this great agony in upon me, and left me
alone with it again.”
Travelling Beggars.—The following peti
tion, drawn up by some wag in Boston, and car
ried round by a rosy cheeked urchin, is about
as true as most of the distressing tales doled
cut by vagrant beggars, who so often traverse
our State.
“ This is to certify that the bearer Antonio
I'atricko O’Flahertyo, is a native of Italy, and
belongs to one of those unfortunate families
who were thrown from the crater of Mount
Vesuvius in the eruption of 1807 ; and in de
scending the sides of the rugged mountain, with
masses of stone, lava, &c., was cruelly separated
from his fond parents, his tender sisters, and
his loving brothers. Thus he was thrown upon
the world at an early age an orphan, without
friends ; but by the aid of philanthropic Italians,
he was enabled to procure a license and a stock
< f penny papers, which he for months continued
tose Hat the various railroad stations in and
about Naples; by untiring industry and strict
economy, he was enabled to reach this country
through which he now wanders in hopes of
meeting his long lost separated family, who, as
the wind was blowing strong from the east at
the time of the eruption, he doubts not exist
somewhere among us.
I commend this young cinder to the tender
mercies of the benevolent, knowing as I do that
he is honest, and his story, which he cannot
speak in English, is a true one.
Signed, Dundrum Hoskins,
Captain of the ship Titus A. Peep.
J. Caesar, Jr., Charge de Affairs at Naples.
If a girl has pretty teeth she laughs often—if
she’s got a small foot she’ll wear a short dress—
■ and it she’s got a neat hand, she’s fond of a game
at whist— and if the reverse, she dislikes all
” these small affairs,”
THE FIRST FALSE STEP;
OR, THE PATH OF CRIME.
A ROMANCE IN THREE PARTS.
JIB
/JW Iwk
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v) SMB
(The Quarrel at Lady Clare's Party.)
PART I.
INNOCENCE AND TEMPTATION.
CHAPTER XII,
TREACHERY, AND THE FATE OF MINNA.
THE DREADFUL MORNING.
The interior of the cabinet was more exten
sive than its outward appearance would have
warranted any one in supposing, and it seemed
to be filled with a number of articles of the
most incongruous and oddly assorted character.
There were books, bottles, articles for the
toilet, and a number of other matters of the
most opposite description; among which were
firearms of a curious and costly character.
When Minna observed that there were means
of destruction in the cabinet, she became, in
the height of her alarm, convinced that it was
for the purpose of finding with one of them the
means of self-destruction, that Harding had so
suddenly rushed to that miscellaneous repo
sitory.
Her terror became excessive. To her, whose
whole life had passed amid the quiet scenes of
domestic affection, the idea of becoming the en
forced witness of a fearful deed of blood, was
most excruciatingly terrific. She forgot at the
moment, all the dictates of prudence. If she
did doubt the sincerity of the presumed dread
ful intention of her despairing lover, that doubt
was not sufficient to induce her to run the fear
ful risk of seeing him madly do the deed, he
threatened with so much apparent despairing
determination to perform.
That they were alone in that house, she now
too fully believed, for it was with no weak
voice she had before called for help, so that
now to attempt to procure assistance would be
madness.
“ Hold ! hold ! For the love of Heaven,
hold!” she cried, as she saw Harding lay his
hand upon the richly surmounted hilt of a pis
tol. “ Dare you for one moment dream of your
self taking that life which should be left to
Heaven’s disposal; one moment’s reflection
must and will disarm you of the wish to com
mit so desperate an act.”
“ I only know,” he said, “ that your heart is
another’s. Sufficient for me is the concen
trated agony of that thought.” ;
“ You shall not do the deed you meditate 1”
“ Shall not ?”
“I say you shall not. You dare not. You |
pause even now. I again say you dare not!”
Harding made a pretence of being much
overcome by some sudden revulsions of feeling,
and, leaning against the cabinet, he said in a
low voice,
“ Oh, Minna, Minna! say that you will yet
love me. Can you doubt a passion, which, in
its excess, would have taken me from this
world for ever ? Say that you will strive to .
love me.”
“ Thank Heaven !” exclaimed Minna.
“ Wherefore, this sudden thanksgiving ?”
“ Your reason has returned, your murderous .
intention has passed away. You no longer can
contemplate that dreadful deed, which would
have hurled you to perdition. I thank Heaven
with all my heart and soul for that.”
“ And you have saved me.”
“ No, no.” 1
“ Yes, Minna Woodward; but for your pre
sence, I should have done that deed, which '
time, nor the bitterest reflection, could have
recalled. You are my better angel.”
“ Not to me,” said Minna, “be any commen- ■
dation. The hand of Heaven has saved you for
better purposes.”
“ I will hope so. If you bid me, I will 1
indeed strive to think so But Minna, can you
ever forgive the wild ungovernable passion that ]
impelled me to take so desperate a step as this 1
night I have taken, to enter your presence for <
a time, to hear me tell you how I loved you ?”
“Yes, yes. Let me go now in peace.”
“Is this possible ? Can you indeed forgive ’
such an outrage, Minna Woodward ?”
“ I do—l do. Live to think with better and ;
holier thoughts of this night’s proceedings,
I pray you. Allow me now to seek my home. ,
Let this night be a lesson to you, as well as to
me.”
“ I breathe again ! I breathe again ! Oh !
Minna, if I thought really that from your heart
you would forgive me, and find for me some ex
cuse ”
“Be satisfied,” said Minna. “ I would not
say I forgive, if the feeling were foreign to my
nature.”
“ Still I cannot convince myself. Yet, Minna,
if, before you go, you would drink one cup of
of wine, and append to it what sentiment you
please; I shall, indeed, think that, although
you may not forget the cruel selfishness that
brought you here against your will, you really
do forgive it.”
Even as he spoke, he took from the cabinet a
decanter, in which was, to all appearance, some
wine ; but Minna, exclaimed, as r she moved to
wards the door, which she was in an agony to
see unfastened,
“ No, no, no—l cannot!”
' “ Then,” said Harding, “lam convinced that
sincerity was not in your words of forgiveness.
Madness comes again. I ought not to live, since
I have nothing to live for, that can invest life
with a single charm.”
As he spoke these words, he placed the de
canter of wine and a glass upon the table, and
once more seized from the cabinet a pistol.
Despairingly, Minna rushed forward and laid
her hand upon his arm.
indeed,” she said, “has come
again. Will you, if 1 take some of this wine,
make me a solemn promise, that you will then
allow me instantly to depart to my home ?”
“ I will—l do.”
“On your sacred word ?”
“ On my honor.”
“ Then give me the glass. I do forgive you,
if you can forgive yourself.”
With an affectation of great agitation of man
ner, which completely disarmed poor unsus
picious Minnafjhe poured out a glass of the
wine, which heHianded to her.
“You forgive me,” he said; “but this last
time it has been* with a qualification which
renders the forgiveness of little avail.”
“ Indeed I”
“ Yes, I cannot forgive myself.”
“Then, I will forgive you freely,” said
Minna.
“ Thanks, thanks —a thousand thanks, dear
est Minna! Oh, how much do I owe to you.”
“No more, no more—l cannot hear such lan
guage.”
“You shall be conveyed home with speed,
, the moment you have finished your wine. You
, may trust me now. I am not the mad, desperate
man I was. lam now convinced that you can
not love me; and I love you too well to inflict
upon you another pang.”
In her anxiety to be gone, Minna was not
slow in drinking the wine; she took about two
f third’s of the glass-full, and then placed it on
- the table.”
e “ Now,” she said; “ fulfil your promise ?”
1 “ I will,” replied Harding, and he touched a
bell.
In an instant, the door was opened, and a
tall, hard-featured woman appeared.
Harding pointed triumphantly to Minna, as
he said,
“ ’Tis done!”
The woman stepped up to her, and had she
not held her up, poor Minna must have fallen to
the floor. Every object in that magnificent
apartment seemed to her to be whirling round
in a wild career of maddest confusion; her
brain felt as if liquid fire were poured upon
it. She tried to shriek, but an indistinct mur
mur only came from her lips. Insensibiliiy ra
pidly ensued, and she sunk upon tho arm of
that fiend-like woman, who had answered the
summons of Harding.
The drugged wine had done its dreadful
duty. The victim was in the power of the
destroyer. Oh, Harding, Harding! can you
ever again look up to the blue vault of heaven,
and hope to be forgiven ? Can you flatter your
self even that a day of dreadful retribution will
not come at last ?”
* * * * * * * *
It is morning. The soft beautiful light
of day is lingering, to steal in through the
massive and rich hangings of a costly chamber.
There are mirrors on its walls, and every ap
pliance of taste and luxury might there have
been found. A man steals slowly from the
room—a guilty wretch. His eye shuns the
daylight—for it seems as if God was looking ;
into his heart. He is attired in a loose dress
ing-gown, and he slinks into another apartment, .
where, with draughts of wine, he seeks to still
the whisperings of that conscience, which is ■
not quite dead, even within such a heart as his.
This man is Bulkley Harding. He has met ■
the woman on the staircase—that woman who ‘
answered his summons, after poor Minna had '
so unconsciously partaken of the drugged wine. :
Thay..eflnuF»rfifi tngfAf.hAv a few ;
moments; and she proceeds up stairs, while j
Harding, as we have stated, takes himself to the .
wine-cup for support, and consolation from his '
own thoughts. And now we will follow that j
—we can scarcely bring ourselves to call her j
woman, to the chamber which Harding has (
just left, and to which she proceeds with all the ,
calmness and indifference in the world.
She draws aside the heavy window-curtains, j
and admits light into the apartment. The |
morning’s rays falls upon the costly bed, and <
upon the face of one who seems to sleep; but j
it is the sleep of insensibility. The breathing i
is slow and labored, while occasionally low i
moans come from the lips. It is Minna Wood
ward 1 For a moment or two the woman looked ]
upon the wreck which ungoverned passion had
made, and then she muttered, <
“Oh! she’ll soon get back her good looks, I’ll ,
be bound. Much ado about nothing I She cer
tainly is a nice-looking girl! Ah, I hate them |
all. I suppose, now, for a day or two, we shall ,
have nothing but fainting and crying. Rub
bish I” (
She took from a capacious pocket a small
phial of stone-colored liquid, and uncorking it, (
she placed the neck of the bottle between the
lips of Minna, and steadily poured its whole ;
contents into her mouth.
“ You’ll soon be all right now,” she muttered, s
“ I’ll be bound. I’m sure you are not worth all
the trouble and expense you have been, and all
the trouble and expense you will be. There’s I
no accounting for tastes, however, I suppose. |
The men are all fools, to my mind, to be run- |
ning continually after a parcel of girls. I have .
no patience with them—none in the world.” ,
Milina soon began to give evidences of the
power of the antidote which she had swallowed, j
for she shifted her position, and opened her
eyes, fixing them upon the face of the woman i
with such agaze of pitying supplication, that it
would have melted any heart but so obdurate a
one as hers to see it. She, however, was not of <
the melting order of human beings, and all poor
Minna got, in reply to her speaking glances, ;
was—
“ Well—what now ? What are you staring i
at.”’ ;
“You are not my mother?” said Minna, 1
faintly; and] she passed her hand across her 1
brow as she spoke. i
“Your mother! That’s a good joke.” .
Minna shuddered, and turned ghastly pale. i
“Who will kill me?” she said, “who will ’
kill me ? Oh ! what kind hand will take my 1
life ?” ;
“ Rubbish !” said the woman. “ How can you :
talk such nonsense ? Come, come! we don’t i
want any scenes here.”
We cannot bring ourselves to recount the i
conversation that ensued now between Minna
and this woman. With difficulty the wretched !
girl was prevented from laying violent hands !
upon herself, and finally, in a state of absolute
exhaustion, she fainted. The woman took a
huge pinch of snuff from a tin box she had
in her pocket, and then, with all the sang froid :
in the world, she said,
“Ah ! that’s over—the worst I call it; she’ll
be better now. She’ll most likely have a good
cry when she comes to herself again, and that’ll
do her a world of good. Well, if there is any
thing I hate more than another, it is peeple
making a fuss about their fine feelings. Bother
their feelings ! I’ve got no feelings, and never
had any, and don’t intend. Well, well! Hard
ing has been very liberal about this affair, and
it pays well; that’s a comfort.”
So saying, she took no further notice of Min
na, but left her to recover from her insen
sibility, or not,’as nature chose; but she had
no intention of leaving her to do, perhaps, some
desperate deed when she should come to her
senses, for in the course of a few minutes a ser
vant, wench, with all the appearance about her of
being one of the worst specimens of her class,
took her station by the bed-side to watch Min
na, when she should recover, and prevent her
from attempting either escape or self-destruc
tion, both of which were much to be feared.”
CHAPTER XIII.
THE FEARS OF HARDING THE PROPOSAL TO
MINNA.
The woman who enacted so prominent apart
in that house, as to prove that she was its infa
mous mistress, went direct to the room where
Harding was indulging himself, with potations
both deep and strong, in order to give him a re
port of the state of his beautiful victim.
After having first helped herself to some
wine, she said—
“ Well, she’s fainted away.”
Harding changed color, as he said—
“ You do not think there is any danger, I
hope ?”
“ Danger ?’
“Yes, yes. Have her well watched. I have
my fears that she will yet attempt some despe
. rate act.”
“ Well, she’s about as likely a one as ever I
i saw do so.”
ji “ You think so ?”
“ Yes, I does.”
i “ I—l half repent ”
“ Oh! you do, do you ? Why, what’s come
NEW YORK, SUNDAY MORNING, MAY 16, 1847.
over you ? Repent, indeed ’ Yott had better go
and say your prayers next!”
“ No, no, no, don’t talk to me of prayers,
woman. I don’t want such things mentioned;
but I tell you I have serious fears now about the
result of this affair.”
“ Well, all I can say is, you should have had
them before.” „
“ That cannot now be helped. When she re
covers, tell her that I will marry her.”
“ Very good.”
“ Describe my state of mind as bordering on
distraction, and tell her that I will not leave
the house until I have made her my wife. As
sure her of that, and it may, at all events, quiet
her, and make her not meditate anything des
perate. You can tell her that I can get a special
liceuce her here. All that can be easi
ly managed. My man Robert has played the par
son before to-day,, as you well know ; and, in
deed, I am always of opinion that it’s the best
way of getting over all scruples.”
“ Perhaps it iss and perhaps it ain’t. Why
didn’t you do so at first ?”
“ In this case it was impossible.”
“ Well, of course you know best. I’ll pro
nose.it to her, and if she will listen to reason at
all, of course she’ll say yes, and be made an
honest woman of. Bless me! what dreadful
prejudices there is in society, when you comes
to think!”
The lady kept helping herself liberally to the
champaigne which Harding had before him, as
she spoke, but it produced no more effect upon
her that if it had been cast into a waste-butt.
Her rubicund visage quite sufficiently proclaim
ed how accustomed she was to deep potations;
and it was not until Harding, with an oath, told
her to bring another bottle, since she had emp
tied the one he had, that she rose to go.
“ Very good,” she said; “ I’ll tell her of
course, that you’ll marry her ; and what a for
tunate woman she ought to think herself! By
the-bye, does she know your real name ?”
“ She does,” said Harding. “ I was intro
duced to her by my real name and designation
at Lady Clare’s; but that matters not, since the
marriage will be but a mockery, and indeed it
will give far greater safety to the proceeding.”
“ Oh, very good,” said the woman, with the
same indifferent and careless tone; “as I re
mark, you know best. I’ll tell her, and as for
you putting yourself in a fidget about such a
matter, it’s just about one of the silliest things
in the world to do. I should have thought
your experience would have taught you better.”
“Well, well, say no more—say no more—let
the matter rest with that understanding; I must
leave within a very few hours, but I don’t want
to leave a riot behind me, such as might ensue
if I did not settle this affair; be, therefore, as
expeditious as you can, and in the meantime,
send Robert to me. I suppose he’s in the
house ?”
“You may depend upon that, and drinking,
as usual.”
“ You know that in that particular,” said
Harding, “lam at the mercy of the whole of
you; and most unquestionably you should not
be the one to complain of Robert.”
“Yes, I ought,” she said, with a laugh, as
she left the room; “ for I drink champagne and
he ale.”
When she was gone Harding rose and paced
to and fro, for many minutes, in silence.
“I do repent me,” he said, “ that ever I en
gaged in this most desperate affair; the shadow
of some coming evil seems to oppress my soul.
I am certain, now—would that I had been so
before—that something extremely serious will
be the result of this passionate adventure. How
I shall now dread any glance of Lieutenant
Heartwell; it will seem to me as if my very
countenance will reveal to him the truth of
this night’s proceedings: sooner or later he must
know all, and then—how implacable, how ter
rific an enemy I have made for myself. I repent
me, yet—no—have I so soon forgot the indig
nity that was heaped upon my head at the old
tavern, when, taking advantage of his brutal
strength, he flung me from the window !—have
I so soon forgotten that, or the promise I then
gave myself of vengeance ? No ! had I all that
has been done to do over again, it should be
done. I may have given myself an occasional
passing pang, but I have the satisfaction of feel
ing that I have destroyed his happiness for ever,
and will persevere; Minna Woodw’ard, in all
her beauty shall be mine and mine only. The
agony of reflection that now oppresses her will
pass away, and although she may find herself
mated with the man she hates, instead of the
man she loves, pride will now induce her to
conceal the bitterness of her feelings, and the
secret of her dishonor, known only to so few, is
not likely to pass her own lips; by that means
lam safe from Heartwell. She cannot well ex
plain to him how, or under what circumstances,
she believes herself to be my wife. By heavens,
it would be a rare treat to see them meet; a
treat which I shall have sooner or later. Who’s
there ?”
“ It’s only me, sir,” said Harding’s man, (
Robert; “ I understood you wanted me, sir.” ]
“ Oh, aye, certainly—Robert, come in and 1
close the door Do you remember the last time 1
you appeared in canonicals ?” j
“Yes, sir, I should think so; I married you 1
to that little dark-haired girl, you know, her (
you took away from the lawyer’s.” j
“You did, Robert. I wonder what has be
come of her ?”
. “ Bless me, sir, don’t you know; I thought 1
everybody knew that.”
“Indeed I do not, Robert; have you heard ,
any news of her ?” 1
“ Lor, yes, sir, to be sure; she drowned her
self.”
“ Drowned !”
“Yes, sir, that was the end of it; nobody
knew who she was, but I happened to be about
the place, and saw her. It was off Southwark (
bridge she went, and there was an end of her. t
A nice-looking little piece of goods she was, sir, ‘
when first we knew her.”
“ Peace ! peace !” said Harding; “ why did 1
you tell me this ?”
“Why did I tell you, sir? why, I thought (
you wanted to know as a matter of curiosity.” 5
“ Enough ! enough, enough ! say no more.”
“ Why, you know, sir, she had no occasion to ,
drown herself unless she liked.” J
“ Certainly, Robert; certainly not. I believe
you remember I was very liberal!” f
“You was, sir; you gave her a five pound
note, sir, and told her to make it last as long 1
as she could; that was a year-and-a-half, sir, j
before she made a hole in the Thames; so be- (
tween you and I, sir, I really think she made it
go a long way.”
“ You scoundrel, how dare you speak to me j
in such a strain; leave the room, sir, and pro- ’
vide yourself somewhere with a clerical cos- 1
tume ; and, hark ye, I am serious in this affair, <
and must have it conducted with all due caution f
and discrimination. No quivering or nonsensi- 1
cal pantomimic tricks, that may breed suspicion.
I say be careful, or you will find that a contrary £
course will be very much to your cost.” <
“Be careful, sir ! I always was careful; I ;
haven’t been with you all these years not to <
have learnt a thing or two.”
Robert left the room, while his master eyed ’
him, as he went out, with a savage scowl.
“.The rascal,” he said; “ nothing pleases him
so much as the finding out of some uncomfort
able fact to throw in my teeth; and yet he is
useful to me, and has a rough and ready talent
in his way, which has got me out of many a
serious dilemma; I cannot well part with him.
Besides, the inevitable consequences of employ
ing these scoundrels are, that, in a short time,
they know too much. To make them useful
one must be confidential, and so it is that men
of likelihood and mark become in time the very
tools with which they have hewn their way to
the accomplishment of their purposes ”
With pain we again enter that chamber where
lay the unconscious Minna Woodward; happier,
far happier would it have been for her had she
never again awakened to the consciousness of
existence, and that that trance of death in which
she lay were death itself.
But this was not to be; her destiny was not
yet fulfilled; yet was she to enact a busy part
in life ; and although a blight would be for ever
on her soul, and all thoughts, feelings, and
aspirations, must be completely changed, still
would we bespeak for her the kindly sympathies
of those who knew her in her beauty and glad
ness ; and we trust that throughout all chances
and changes they will keep in mind that happy
and innocent girl who on the terrace of the old
Gun Tavern conversed with her lover on the
dreamy future.
The woman who had the control of the ar
rangements in that dreadful house dismissed her
who watched by the bed-side of Minna; and
then, as she had received her instructions what
to propose to the wretched girl when sh'e
should be in a condition to hear it, she set about
endeavoring by every means in her power to
restore her to consciousness. This, by the aid
of stimulants, was effected, and once again
Minna looked up into that face where could not
be found the faintest trace of feeling.
“ Well,” said the woman, “ what do you mean
: to do ?”
“ Die,” said Minna.
“ Oh, stuff, not yet awhile, I’ll be bound. I
l tell you what it is, the only reparation Sir
Bulkley Harding can offer you is to marry you,
and that he is willing to do at once. lam sure
it is very liberal of him. He’s sent for a special
license now, and I believe there’ll be a parson
a in the house.”
i! II
(Minna Woodward, before the Marriage Ceremony.)
Minna placed her hands over her face and
sobbed bitterly. After a time, she spoke in a
voice of great anguish, saying—
No, no, no! this is some new delusion —
some heartless mockery. If you have one pity
ing sensation in your breast, give me the means
of death.”
“ A delusion do you call it—being married a
delusion ? I dare say there’s hundreds of thou
sands of people who wish it; but it’s rather too
real; I tell you he means it, and let what will
come of the affair, you had better be an unwill
ing wife than something worse. Who can re
proach you when you are married, too, to a
gentleman? It is possible you may not like
him quite so well as you may like somebody
else; but where’s the odds,? The beauty of be
ing married is, you may consult your own in
clination afterwards So don’t be a fool, but
think yourself amazingly well off. Your hus
band will have to support you, and then you’re
as comfortable as a queen. Everybody’s not so
lucky; there’s lots of young women would
jump out of their skins for half the chance,”
It is probable that poor Minna heard nothing
of all this, for she was busy with her own
thoughts; thoughts which came at all events,
as regarded the most essential particular, to the
same conclusion, that the heartless creature
who addressed her wished her to arrive at.
With startling firmness she said, suddenly—
“Be it so; I will be his wife. I wish once
more to look upon my mother’s face; it shall
be as a wife, and then welcome death.”
“ Ah, you’ll alter your mind about that,” said
the woman; “so you had better get ready as
soon as you can, and come down stairs. You’ll
find all your clothes here, and the finery you
wore at the ball, so that you won’t be bad off
for a wedding costume; upon my word, you
are lucky —a most fortunate female. Lady
Harding, to be sure, you’ll be; a nice idea.
Well, it’s better to be born lucky than rich, at
any time.”
Minna made her no answer; but, when she
was alone, she arose, and kneeling by the bed
side, she prayed long and fervently; she prayed
that she might never again look upon the face
of Heartwell, but that he would feel sufficient
indignation at her supposed capricious conduct,
to cast her from his heart far Avor, and without
x -ygivU, ajx- her mother, too, she prayed; and,
then, with imploring earnestness, she sought
forgiveness for a crime she meditated, and the
dim shadow of which was already darkening
her soul.
That crime was suicide.
Yes; she, the young,the beautiful,the intel
ligent, she whom we have already presented to
the reader in all the spring of life, and rich in
endowments, she, standing as it were but as yet
upon the very threshold of existence, contem
plated suicide !
“ Oh, that there should be found any human
heart capable of dragging down to such an abyss
of wretchedness, one of Heaven’s best and fair
est creations! For more than a quarter of an
hour she poured forth her incoherent supplica
tions to the throne of mercy; she fancied, then,
that she was calmer and better able to go
through the scene that awaited her, and at
tiring herself, then, in the faded finery of the
evening before, she moved from the room, look
ing more like a spectre than a living being.
Her countenance was of a death-like pale
ness, and still there was a confusion in her
mind, which made her more than once pause
to ask herself if, indeed, all the horrors of the
I ast four-and-twenty hours could be real.
She was well watched ; for, she had not pro
ceeded down above four stairs, when she was
joined by the woman, who gave herself credit
to Harding, for having induced her to consent
to the marriage.
“ There now,” she said, “ you are quite an
other thing—-just step this way, and you’ll find
all prepared. What is there to fret about,
now? just nothing; and I shall have to call you
my lady, in another ten minutes—think of
that.”
Minna shrank from the contaminating touch i
of this woman as she would have done that of
some loathsome reptile; the very sight of her
was a shuddering ‘horror. She made her no
answer, but, following her wheresoever she
chose to lead, with a kind of gloomy resignation
that was frightful to behold, they reached a
smaller room upon the ground floor. There
was but one window in this room, and through
the interstices of a Venetian blind, which was
let down to its entire length, but a faint light
came into the apartment.
No doubt this was purposely, done for
fear Minna should look a little too scruti
nizingly at the sham clergyman, who per
haps, would not have been able to bear a very
close examination, notwithstanding his posses
sion of an amount of effrontery of a most extra
ordinary character.
Minna was left alone in the room for some
seconds, but not for a sufficiently long time to
enable her to make any observations of the
place, or to indulge in any reflections of her
own. Through another doorway came Hard
ing; a consciousness of guilt even oppressed
him sufficiently to prevent him from looking in
the face of that wan and pale victim of his base
ness.
Not a word passed between them, for, close
upon his heels came Robert, looking as demure
and devout as any evangelical parson could, for
the life of him. This rascal could act his part
very well; he took, indeed, rather a pride in
the performance, and producing a veritable
prayer-book from his pocket, he said, solemn
ly— .
“ Being authorised by special licence, ob
tained from the proper authorities, to solemn
ize a marriage between Minna Woodward,
spinster, and Bulkley Harding, bachelor, at any
time, and in any place, the said parties may
choose, I have no hesitation in at once proceed
ing to the exercise of my sacred functions. I
should wish some witnesses present.”
“ They are here, your reverence,” said Hard
ing, as the woman and the maid-servant entered
the room.
“ That will do,” said Robert, solemnly. “ I
shall now proceed; and I trust that you will
make a virtuous and exemplary husband to that
young lady.”
“ D—n you !” muttered Harding, as he gave
Robert a kick with his heel.
“ What did you remark, sir ?” said Robert.
“ That we are quite ready, your reverence,”
added Harding. “ Curse you, be quick!” he ap
pended in a whisper.
“ Don’t hurry the church,” said Robert, “ or
you’ll come under the ban of ecclesiastical cen
sure.”
He then opened the book, and in the most ed
ifying manner read the marriage ceremony.
Harding then took a ring from his finger, which
although not a plain gold one, answered the pur
pose sufficiently well, and he pronounced the
mock vows with an assumption of ease that sat
very ill upon him.
Poor Minna’s voice was scarcely audible, and
when the brief ceremony was concluded, and
she believed herself to be the wife of the man
who had destroyed her peace of mind for ever,
she turned towards him, and was evidently about
to speak; but he interrupted her by saying,
with much respect—
, “ Lady Harding, we shall be alone imme-
i diately, and any observations you may have to
L make, I shall be most delighted to hear.”
i This was a sufficient signal to those who
played the subordinate parts in that most sa-
crilegious farce, to leave the room, and they
accordingly did so.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE STRANGE INTERVIEW MINNA’S DE
NUNCIATION OF HER DESTROYER
harding’s fears and the
ESCAPE.
They were alone—alone for some few brief
minutes, before either spoke. Minna could not
sufficiently command her feelings to give utter
ance to the thoughts that were swelling at her
heart; and as for Harding, he wished, before he
uttered a word, to ascertain what Minna her
self might say in her particular state of feeling,
so that he might govern his own observations
accordingly. And she did speak firs't. She
was not waiting for him to commence; for, in
truth, she cared not whether he spoke at all.
It was she who wished, before she left that
place, to say something to him which she hoped
he never could forget.
A deep sense of the wrong which had been
done her nerved her, and in a low, but clear
voice, she commenced,
“ Sir, you have achieved a great triumph.
Being a clever, calculating villain, you have
succeeded in deceiving a poor and ignorant
girl, unacquainted with the world and its ways
—one, sir, who not only never heard of such
unexampled baseness, but who never in imagi
nation could have conceived it possible. This,
then, is your victory—the triumph of guilt over
innocence; and now, sir, you may glory in it,
and among that dissolute few, who may court
such society as yours, you may make a boast of
the ruin you have made. It will get you,
doubtless, the ready laugh and the unblushing
jest. Let there be no drawback to the bar
barous joy you may feel in my destruction.
The tragedy, sir, shall be complete, it shall not
want a catastrophe—one which you .can tell
well, and which you can dress up, if it may so
please you, in the colors of romance; and while
the boast of that poor triumph lasts you, and
while you can jest upon it, do so. We shall ne
ver meet again.”
Twice or thrice Harding had tried to inter
rupt her, but his voice faltered, and his limbs
trembled; the flush of conscious guilt was on
his cheek, and he cowered and shrank before
that young girl, as though she had been some
avenging spirt sent from heaven. He did sum
mon courage enough to gasp out,
“ Minna, Minna, you know not what you do !
you are angry —maddened. Better thoughts
will come to
“ God of heaven !” exclaimed Minna; “ think
you ever better thoughts will come to you ?
Nay, you shall hear me—you cannot stir. I
speak with a prophetic warning. Let that
which I have to say sink deep into your very
soul.”
“No, no, no,” cried Harding; “I can hear
no more, and wish to hear no more. Girl, you
are mad, and know not what you say.”
“ I may be mad, and Heaven knows I have
cause; and yet you shall listen to me as yet,
perchance, with the prophetic voice of mad
ness, I shall speak to you ; for of-times it would
appear that to those whom HeaVen has smitten
with the loss of reason, there is given a pro
phetic power unknown to soberer judgments.
Therefore, mad though I may be, I speak to
you, Harding, of that which is to come, with a
warming voice; and I tell you that a day of re
tribution will arrive—a day of bitter and ter
rific retribution—and then you will think upon
me and the words which now come from
my lips. Sooner or later, Harding—the lapse
of time will matter not—there will come a
period when despair will seize upon your very
soul —when the heart you have broken, though
it be mute, will plead fearfully against you
when you crave for that mercy to which you
feel you are not entitled; and when amid the
despair that shall seize upon you, you will
in vain seek relief from those pangs of con
science which cannot bu, be
“Nay, this is midsummer phrenzy. I tell
you, girl, I will hear no more; say what you
like, prate of these matters as you will, I care
not.”
“ I have said all that I wish to say—my
speech is done. Heaven help you, and forgive
you !”
“Have you done?” said Harding, who now ,
seemed upon the point of giving way to passion.
“You will please to recollect who I am, as
well as what I am. To please you, and to in
duce you to feel more at home with your- ,
self, I have become your husband—that is a fact
which seems to have escaped your memory;
but, you will recollect with the title, if it so
please me, I can enforce a husband’s rights.
Beware, I say, that you do not push this ro
mantic spirit of obstinacy too far; perchance
you will yet find you are trespassing upon a pa
tience not, at the best of times, of great endur
ance.”
“ I have no desire to trespass further, even
upon you personally,” said Minna. “Fare
well !”
“ Hold ! hold ! where are you about to go ?”
Minna was deaf to his cries; and, with a
sudden energy whiph no one would have given
her credit for, she rushed from tlie room
in which that mock ceremony had taken pl,ace
—a ceremony, however, which she fully be
lieved in the reality of—and gaining the street
door before any of the parties in the house
could have the least suspicion of what she
intended to do, she at once rushed precipitately
from that ill-omened mansion into the street.
Harding pursued her as quickly as possible;
but by the time he reached the door, she was
nowhere to be found. Pursuit, therefore, was
madness, since he knew not in which direction
to go; and stunned and mortified by the man
ner in which she had left, he stood irre
solutely in the passage until he was joined by
the woman of the house.
“ She is gone !” he cried, “ she has es
caped !”
“ Escaped! You were with her yourself—
how came you to let her go ?”
“On my soul, I know not. After upbraiding
me bitterly, she suddenly left the place before
I could recover from my astonishment. 1 sup
pose I shall now have this affair bruited all
over town. Confusion seize her! but I must
take my chances. I have not a moment’s time
now to throw away ; send some one directly to
order me a carriage and post-horses. I must to
Portsmouth at once; for well 1 know the im
placable character of my uncle ; should he dis
cover that I am in London beyond the four
and-twenty hours he mentioned, it would be
my irretrievable ruin.”
These words really alarmed the woman, for
she had by no means done with Harding yet as
a customer; and if he were irretrievably ruined,
as a matter of course, he would cease to be
a desirable one. Robert was immediately dis
patched in all haste to procure the post-chaise,
and in less than half an hour from that time,
Harding, without any further preparation for
his journey, was proceeding as fast as post
horses could carry him towards Portsmouth.
And thus ended that night and morning of so
fearful and extraordinary a character—a night
and morning to Minna Woodward, which were
' to exercise their baneful influence over her as
’ long as she existed—a night and morning which
were to be for ever subjects calculated to en
gender remorse, even in the breast of such
‘ a man as Bulkley Harding, callous as he ap
peared to be, and dead to all the best of human
} sympathies.
■ 1 [To bo continued.]
[Original.]
Religions of tlje toorllr.
NUMBER SEVENTEEN.
The Crusades were followed by what Catho
lics call the Great Heresy of the Church, and
Protestants the Great Protestant Reformation,
of two of the most remarkable leaders of which,
as the founders of doctrines which bear their
names, we have already given an account—we
refer to Luther and Calvin. Wickliffe and
Huss, indeed, had followers who assumed their
names, and the Hussites were at one period
formidable, but not so much from the nature
of their doctrines, as the means they took to
defend them.
Faustus Socinus, the founder of a sect
termed Socinians, is worthy of a more particu
lar notice. He was the son of Alexander Soci
nus, a professor of law, and was born in Sienna,
in 1539. Though bred to the law, he became
engaged in theological discussions, at the court
of the Duke of Tuscany, and retired for three
years to Basil, where he became confirmed in
the doctrines of Unitarianism, which at that
period prevailed widely in Europe, particularly
in Transylvania and Poland.
Socinus is not to be considered as the founder
of a creed, so much as a regulator of one. He
travelled and preached and wrote, to reconcile
the differences that existed among those who
believed generally in his doctrines. After great
difficulties, and persecutions, this work was ac
complished, and a creed or confession of fdith
was agreed upon, and published under the name
of the “ Cracovian Catechism.” Shortly after
this Socinus died, in 1604.
The private character of Socinus is spoken of
with uniform encomium. No one can question
the sincerity of his faith or the ardor of his
piety, which supported him under all his afflic
tions. He was pure in his morals, mild and
conciliating in his manners, and upright and
disinterested in all his affairs.
Socinianism has one chief characteristic,
which is the trial of religious doctrines by rea
son, and the rejection of all which does not
coincide with a right judgment. The Socinians,
therefore, rejected all the mysteries of the
Christian faith, as held by other denominations;
they did not endeavor to believe in any thing
inconsistent or incomprehensible, and con
sidered the mission of Christ as intended only
to introduce a new moral law, distinguished I by
its superior sanctity and perfection.
Socinus held that in Jesus dwelt the fullness
of the Godhead bodily ; that he enjoys universal
power over the church in heaven and on earth;
that he may therefore with propriety be called
God ; that religious adoration ought to be paid
to him, as one appointed by the Supreme Being
to be our Lord and God ; that his aid may be
implored as if he was really God, while the aid
must come from God, through him; and that
he obtained the power of expiating our sins by
the offering which he made of himself to God
by his death
It is obvious that the Socinians of the 17th
Century differed widely from the Unitarians
of the present day; as, indeed, do these from
each other.
While the right of Christ to the title of God,
from his elevation as the head of the church, is
recognised by the Socinian creed; it is held
that the Father above is the Only, Real, and
One God; and that the Holy Spirit is but a
modified personification of divine energy. But
we shall have occasion to go more fully into the
doctrines of Unitarianism, as at present be
lieved in future numbers; remarking here,
that those who have read our former notices
will remember, that similar doctrines were
held by powerful sects in the earliest centuries
of the Christian faith.
The Quietists were a sect which arose in
the very bosom of the Catholic Church in the
17th Century, and were the disciples of a Span
ish priest, one Michael de Molines He wrote
a book entitled “ The Spiritual Guide,” and had
followers in Spain, France, Italy, and the
Netherlands.
The name of this sect indicates its chief doc
trine. This is, in brief, their argument, “ The
apostle tells us, that ‘ the Spirit maketh inter
cession for or in us.’ Now, if the Spirit pray
in us, we must resign ourselves to his impulses,
by remaining in a state absolute rest or
quietude, till we attain the perfection of uni
tive life”—a life of union with and absorbtion
in the Diety. This doctrine is to be found in
the creed of Boodhism, and partially in that of
the Quakers, who, however, act under the
movings of the Spirit. This lazy creed gave
the Popes much trouble, and all the more be
cause its opposition to the church was of so
passive and negative a character.
The Anabaptists were believers in Bap
tism oy immersion, and derived their name
from their practice of baptizing again those
who had, according to the forms of other sects,
been baptized or sprinkled in infancy. They
arose as a denomination in the 16th Century.
They believed in the purity and spirituality to
be attained in their church, and in its freedom
from all human institutions and governments.
This sect was soon joined by great numbers,
and in a short time their discourses, visions, and
predictions, created great commotions over
various parts of Europe. One faction pretend
ed to be armed against all opposition by the
power of working miracles. They taught that
to Christians, who were guided by the Spirit of
God, magistracy and government were quite un
necessary ; that there should be no distinction
of persons or property ; and as they found poly
gamy authorized in the Bible, they either kept
as many wives as they could maintain, or threw
them into the common stock with their world
ly possessions.
Having failed to propogate these doctrines
against the powerful opposition of both Catho
lics and Lutherans, as well as the governments
and police; they concluded to do by force, what
they could not effect by persuasion, nor yet by
the pretence of direct revelations from Heaven.
So, in 1525‘, Munzer, one of their leaders, arm
ed his followers, and declared war against all
laws, governments and magistrates of every
kind, giving out that Christ was coming to take
the management of affairs into his own hands.
The Elector of Saxony, however, routed and
dispersed this army, and put Munzer to death.
This did by no means put a stop to the fana
ticism of this sect; for eight years afterward,
they took forcible possession of the city of Mun
ster, deposed the magistrates, confiscated the
wealth of all who did not join their party, put
all property into a public treasury, and made
all their arrangements according to the licen
tious doctrines already mentioned. Munster,
they called Mount Zion, to which they invited
their brethren to assemble, and prepare for the
conquest of the world. One of their leaders
was cut off, and the other was crowned King of
Zion, and made chief ruler, with powers simi
lar to those enjoyed by Moses. The city stood
a long siege, but was finally taken, arifl the King
of Zion was put to death.
It may be questioned whether some accounts
of the Anabaptists of Holland and Germany
have not been too highly colored. However
that may be, it will not do to reproach any sect
at present, with the fanaticisms or errors of the
past; as it is very difficult to find any one which
would be free of censure.
Rlobel Republic
A fortnight ago, we mentioned the appearance
of a second article in Blackwood, of which men
and manners here is the theme. We make an
extract or two for the entertainment of our
readers. The bagman was evidently smitten
with our New York beauties:
“New York sets the fashions of the Republic,
and is the Elysium of mantua-makers and up
holders. We doubt whether any city in the
world of its size can boast so many‘smart draw
ing-rooms and so many pretty young women.
Indeed, from the age of fifteen to that of five
and-twenty, female beauty is the rule rather
than the exception in the United States, and
neither cost nor pains'or spared to set it forth
to the best advantage. The American women
dress well, dance well, and in all that relates to.
what may be called the mechanical part of so
cial intercourse, they appear to great advan
tage. Nothing can exceed the self-possession
of these pretty creatures, whose confidence is
never checked by the discipline of society, or
the restraints of an education which is termina
ted almost as soon as it is begun. There is no
childhood in America—no youth—no freshness.
We look in vain for the
“Ingenui vultus puer, ingenuique pudoris,”
or,
“ The modest maid deck’d with a blush of honor,
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and
love.” Daniel.
There is scarcely a step from the school to the
forum —from the nursery to the world. Young
girls, who in England would be all blushes and
bread and butter, boldly precede their mammas
into the ball-room, and the code of a mistaken
gallantry supplies no corrective to their ca
price, for vouth and beauty are here invested
with regal prerogatives, and can do no wrong.
In short, the Americans carry their complai
sance to the sex beyond due bounds—at least in
1 little things—for we by no means think that the
real influence of their women is gteat, notwith-
PRICE, THREE CENTS.
standing the tamo and submissive gallantry with
which the latter are treated in public. We
doubt whether the most limited gynocracy
would tolerate the use of tobacco as an article
of daily diet, or permit ferocious murders to go
unwhipped of justice under the name of duels.
But the absorbing character of the pursuits of
the men forbids any strong sympathy betwixt
the sexes; and perhaps the despotism which
the women exercise in the drawing-room arises
from the fact that all that relates to the graces
and embellishments of life is left entirely to
them. We do not know that this can be avoid
ed under the circumstances of the country, but
it has a most in jurious effect upon social inter
course. The Americans of both sexes want tact
and gra.iousness of manner, and that prompt
and spontaneous courtesy which is the child of.
discipline and self-restraint They are seldom
absolutely awkward, because they are never
bashful; they have no mauvaise honte, because
they are all on an equality; hence they never
fail to display a certain dry composure of bear
ing, which, though not agreeable, is less ludi
crous than the goucherie so commonly observed
in all classes of English society, except the very
highest
The art of pleasing is nowhere well under
stood in the United States; but the beauty of
the women, though transient, is unrivalled
while it lasts, and perhaps in no country is the
standard of female virtue so high. The formal
and exaggerated attention which the sex re
ceives from all classes in public, is at least a
proof of the high estimation in which it is held,
and must we think be put down as an amiable
trait in the American character.
We are qnite sure, for instance, that females
may travel unattended in the United States
with far more ease and security than in any
country of the Old World; and the deference
paid to them is quite irrespective of the rank
of the fair objects—it is a tribute paid to the
‘woman’ and not to the ‘lady.’ Some travellers
we believe, have denied this. We can only say,
that during a pretty extensive tour we do not
recollect a single instance in which even the
unreasonable wishes of women were not com-.
plied with as of course. We did remark with
less satisfaction the ungracious manner in which
civilities were received by these spoilt child
ren of the Republic—the absence of apologetic
phrases, and those courtesies of voice and ex
pression, with which women usually acknow
ledge the deference paid to their weakness and
their charms. But this is a national failing.
The Americans are too independent to confess
a sense of obligation even in the little conven
tional matters of daily intercourse. They have
almost banished from the language such praises
as, ‘ Thank you,’ ‘ If you please,’ ‘ I beg your
pardon,’ and the like. The French who are not
half so attentive to the women as the Ameri
cans, pass for the politest nation in Europe, be
cause they know how to veil their selfishness be
neath a profusion of bows and pretty speeches.
Now, when your Yankee is invited to surrender
his snug seat in a stage or a railroad carriage in
favor of a fair voyager, he does not hesitate for
a moment. He expectorates and retires at
once. But no civilities are interchanged ; ns
smiles or bows pass betwixt the parties. The
gentleman expresses no satisfaction—the lady
murmurs no apologies.
The humors of most nations expend them
selves on carnivals and feast-days, at the thea
tre, the ball-room, or the public garden; but
the fun of the United States is to be looked for
at public meetings, and philanthropical gather
ings, in the halls of lyceums, female academies,
and legislative bodies. There, they sprout,
there they swell, and cover themselves with
adulation as with a garment. From the inau
guration of a President to the anniversary of the
fair graduates of the Slickville female Institute,
no event is allowed to pass without a grand pa
laver, in which things in general are extensive
ly discussed, and their own things in particular
extensively praised. They got the trick no
doubt from us, whose performances in this line
are quite unrivalled in the Old World, but they
have added to our platform common places a va
riety and “ damnable iterasion” entirely their
own. Besides, when Bull is called upon to
make an ass of himself on such occasions,
he seems for the most part to have a due appre
ciation of the fact, while Jonathan’s impurturba
bility and apparent good faith are quite sublime.
The things that we have been compelled to
hear of that “ star-spangled banner!”—and all
as if they were spoken in real earnest, and
meant to be so understood.
JHimllanji.
Eccentricity of Dreams.—Sears’ new
Monthly for F ebruary, contains an admirable
article on the subject of dreams, from which
we make the following extracts of facts and
cases, given by the writer in illustration of his
subject.
It is a well known fact that’ dreams may be
suggested by external causes. Put, for instance,
bottles of hot water to the feet of a sleeping
person, he will immediately dream of walking
over burning lava, or the hot sands of Africa,
with all the associated circumstances proper in
the case. Play upon his face with a bellows,
and he will have a dream of sitting in a draught
of air, or walking in a high wind. There have
been instances of sleepers whose dreams could
be suggested at will by the conversation of the
waking bystanders. These facts show that the
mind works in sleep much in the same manner
as in our waking moments, but in the absence
of the power of correct perceptions, is obliged
to employ the imagination to account for the
things presented to it.
There are instances of very smart and adroit
things occurring to the mind in sleep. Mr. S.
dreamed that he was in his parlor with a friend,
and that a piece of black cloth was lying on the
table, but which his friend happened to remark
was flesh color. The dispute became warm,
and Mr. S. offered to bet that it was black; his
friend offered to bet that it was flesh color. Mr.
S. concluded the bet, when his friend immedi
ately exclaimed, “ And is. not black the color
of more than half the human race ?” thus com
pletely stealing the march upon Mr. S., and
winning the bet. Mr. S. declares the idea of
black being entitled to the name of flesh color
had never before occurred to him.
The following are from sources well accredit
ed :—A young lady, on the eve of marriage,
dreamed that she and her lover were walking
along a pleasant path side by side. While
spreading trees waved their leavy branches
over their heads, her lover turned to her with
a smile, and asked if he should show her the
home he had provided. She longed to see it;
and they pursued their way; they came to a
tangled thicket, through which they found diffi
culty in passing. At last they suddenly came
to an opening ; a grave lay open before them;
the yew, the cypress, and other dark evergreens
were seen on every side ; her lover pointed to
grave and said, “ there is our home.” She woke
in violent agitation. The dream made a fear
ful impression on her, and in a few days after,
her lover’s death was announced to her. She
fell into a state of deep dejection, from which
her sisters made every effort to arouse her; she
attended them in their walks, but was ever
pensive and sad. One day while they were
making some purchases in a shop she loitered
listlessly at the door. A woman carrying a
basket full of bunches of sprigs tied up together,
advanced towards her, and asked her to pur
chase some. “ I don’t want them,” she replied
without raising her heavy melancholy eyes
from the’ground. “Ah, Miss, if you don’t
want them to dress out your rooms, you might
like them to strew over the grave of some one
that you love.” These words touched the right
chord, and she raised her sad eyes to the bas
ket. There she saw the bunches of the same
evergreens that her dream had exhibited around
the grave of her lover. “ Let me have the
whole basket,” she said, “ at any price you
please.”
Her sisters, from whom I had these particu
lars, found her pale and faint, with the basket
she had purchased, by her side. She planted
branches round the grave of her lover; some
took root and are now waving their green
boughs over the faithful heart that lies beneath
them.
New Pater. —The Lynn News says that
Frederic Douglass, at a public meeting in Lynn,
lost Sunday evening, announced his intention to
issue a paper, the printing materials for which
are coming from Scotland. The paper will, of
course, be an anti-slavery advocate.
Prayers vs. Manure.—A German priest
walking in procession at the head of his parish
ioners over cultivated fields, in order to procure
a blessing upon his crops,; when he came to
one of unpromising appearance, he. would pass
on saying: “ Here prayers and singing will
avail nothing—this must have manure.”
Clerical Kepartee.—A noble lord asked
a clergyman once at the bottom of his table,
“ why the goose, if there was one, was always
placed next to the parson ?”
“ Really,” said he, “ I can give no reason for
it, but your question is so odd, that I shall never
see a goose again without thinking of your lord
ship.”
“ None of your lipI” as the mortified maiden
said to the man that kissed her.