Sunday dispatch. [volume], May 30, 1847, Image 1

About Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854

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VOLUME 5 10.26.
(Elje Simirau
S PUBLISHED EVERY MORNING,
AT NO. 41 ANN STREET, YORK,
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WILLIAMSON & BURNS,
TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER MARRIAGE.
They tell me gentle lady, that they deck thee for a
bride,
That the wreath 13 woven for thy hair, the bride
groom by thy side;
And I think 1 hear thy father’s sigh, thy mother’s
calmer tone,
As they give thee to another’s arms—their beauti
ful—their own.
I never saw a bridal but my eyelid hath been wet,
And it always seem’d to me as though a joyous
crowd were met
To see the saddest sight of all, a gay and girlish
thing,
Lay aside her maiden gladness—for a name—and
for a song.
And other cares will claim thy thoughts, and other
hearts thy love, »
And gayer friends may be around, and bluer skies
above;
Yet then, when I beheld thee next, may’st rear
upon thy brow,
Perchance, a mother’s look of care, for that which
decks it now.
And when I think how often I have seen thee, with
thy mild
and lovely look, and step of air, and bearing like a
child,
Oh I how mournfully, how mournfully, the thought
comes o’er my brain,
When I think thou ne’er may’st be that free and
girlish thing again.
I would that as my heart dictates, just such might
be my lay,
And my voice should be a voice of mirth, a music
like the May;
But it may not be within my breast all frozen are
the springs,
The murmur dies upon the lip—the music on the
strings.
But a voice is floating round me, and it tells me in
my rest,
That sunshine shall illume thy path, that joy shall
be thy guest,
That thy life shall be a summer’s day, whose even
ing shall go down,
Like the evening in the eastern clime, that never
knows a frown.
When thy foot is at the altar, when the ring hath
press’d thy hand,
When those thou lov’st, and those that love thee,
weeping round the stand,
Oh! may the verse that friendship weaves, like a
spirit of the air,
Be o’er thee at that moment—for a blessing and a
p ra y er! t
[Original.]
Religions of tlje iDorlir.
NUMBER NINETEEN.
The Shakers, or as they call themselves,
the Millenial Church, or United Society of
Believers, had their origin about the middle of
the last century, and were organized chiefly un
der the ministration of Ann Lee, an illiterate,
but industrious and worthy woman of Manches
ter, England. In her childhood she was subject
to strong religious emotions, but these subsided
when she was married, only to return with
greater force, after severe domestic afflictions.
While in this state of mind she became acquaint
ed with a society of people who were favored
with remarkable revelations of the approaching
second coining of Christ.
This society, of which Ann became a promi
nent member, had adopted no creed of faith
or forms of worship ; they surrendered them
selves up to the operations and manifestations
of the Divine Spirit, which, in their meetings,
were of a very extraordinary character, giving
them a spirit of prophecy and divine revela
tion, Sometimes, after sitting awhile, in silent
meditation, they were seized with a mighty
trembling under the influence of which they
were often led to express the indignation of
God against all sin. At other times they were
exercised with singing, shouting and weeping
for joy at the near prospect of salvation. It
was these exercises, and their curious dances
of a more regular and voluntary character
which gave them the name of Shakers.
After a season of agony and prayer, Ann be
came fully imbued with the divine spirit, and
came forward with extraordinary power and
energy, testifying that she had received a full
revelation of the fallen nature of man and the
means of redemption, and her inspiration was
so evident, that she was acknowledged as their
leader and was called their spiritual mother in
Christ. This apostle of Shakerism, after en
during much persecution in England, came to
the United States, and died in New Lebanon,
in 1784.
The Shakers do not believe in a Trinity of
male persons in Deity, nor do they attach the
idea of personality to God; but they believe
that there are in Deity two incomprehensible
primary principles, corresponding with male
and female, as father and mother of all things.
God can be made known to man only in connec
tion with seven attributes revealed in him;
viz : powder, wisdom, goodness, light, holiness,
love, and righteousness. They do not believe
Christ to be God, but that he “ proceeded forth
and came from God.” They believe that man
was created holy, and that the real forbidden
fruit was the lust of concupiscence. Conse
quently they reprobate all intercouse of the
sexes, in matrimony or otherwise. The second
coming of Christ, was not personal but spiri
tual and commenced in the testimony of Ann
Lee. Therefore this is the true millenium, and
the society of Shakers constitutes the true Mil
lenial Church.
The first principle in this church is the pub
lic confession of sin, without which there can
be no salvation.
They recognize seven principles in the testi
mony of Christ, which are duty to God; duty
to man ; separation from the world; practical
peace; simplicity of language; right use of
property; and a virgin life.
Duty to God consists in his worship and ser
vice according to the manifestations of the
holy spirit.
Duty to man in scrupulous justice in their
dealings, and the avoidance of every description
of fraud. Hence the excellence of their pre
parations and manufactures, which every where
command the readiest sale at the highest prices.
Separation from the world is carried out, by
living in their isolated communities to which
no strangers are admitted except as visitors.
Practical peace is manifested in their princi
ples of non-resistance. They, are like the
Quakers, excused from bearing arms, and are
seldom or never engaged in lawsuits, except as
defendants.
Their simplicity of language is in literal
accordance with the command of Christ, “ let
your communications be yea, yea; nay, nay.”
A right use of property they conceive to be
the making a common stock of the products
of their common industry. No individual has
any personal property in the wealth of these
societies, nor can any one who joins them re
cover any thing back on leaving them, accord
ing to the compact, and the decisions of our
courts. ....
The last of the seven principles, virgin life, is
the most curious and important. They con
sider the circumstance 'of Christ having been
born of a virgin as a conclusive testimony in
regard to the sanctity of that state, confirmed
by his own personal example. The Apostle
Paul gave his testimony in its favor; and in the
Revelations, the vision of the hundred and forty
four thousand virgins who had not defiled them
selves with women, but follow the Lamb
whithersoever he goeth, seems to them proof
of their doctrine, to which they all rigidly
adhere.
Having no children born among them, their
members are recruited by converts and their
offspring, and such orphans and destitute chil
dren as they receive from motives of charity.
Another argument against marriage consists
in their belief that the true resurrection began
with Christ, and is of a spiritual nature, and that
in this resurrection there is neither marrying nor
giving in marriage. The day of judgment, they
believe, began with tho second coming of
Christ, that is, with the ministration of Ann
Lee, and is progressive, so tha£ the separation
of the sheep and goats is now going forward, the
sheep being the -Shakers
The public worship of the Shakers does not
differ essentially from that of several other de
nominations, except that it is interspersed with
dances of a very violent character, for which
they find warrant in scripture, and during
which they experience spiritual manifestations.;
The social economy, neatness, order and pros
perity of the Shakers are too well known to re
quire any description.
THE FIRST FALSE STEP;
OR, THE PATH OF CRIME.
A ROMANCE IN THREE PARTS.
il|i
il j I
ifill ?
(Capture of the French Sixty-four by the Fohis.)
PART 11.
CHAPTER XVIL
MINNA AT HOME THE DREAWUL EXPLANA-
TION THE WARNING VOICE AGAIN, AND
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
Alas ! what a dreadful morning was that to
poor Minna Woodward which dawned after that
night of suffering and woe. We need not des
cribe how, with frantic haste, she sought her
home; how, guided almost by an instinct, rather
than reflection, she found her way to that once
happy abode of innocence and peace.
Oh I of what a different character now was
the agony of sorrow that oppressed her, com
pared to the description of sorrow she had felt
even at her poor father’s death ; with what a
bitterness of anguish she now blamed herself
for a seeming want of affection for him and his
memory.
Now that she could, with less of passion and
more of grief, review what had occurred, she
deeply wondered that for one moment the wish
to obtrude upon that class of society of which
she had now so horrible an experience, should
have arisen in her mind with sufficient intensity
to induce her to yield so readily to the invita
tion of that dreadful Lady Clare, and to become
a visitor at her more than questionable house.
To think of the proceedings of that fearful
night was madness; and even a passing reflec
tion upon them was almost enough to tempt
Minna to the commission of some fearful deed
hazarding her soul’s safety.
She did reach home, she knew not how, and
by the morning light, pale, haggard, and op
pressed, and with such an expression of un
utterable woe on her face, that those who had
known her in her happiness might well fail to
recognize her now. She crept rather than
walked within that doorway which had so long
sheltered her.
She shuddered to think of whom might be
the first person she might meet. She knew not
herself the look of anguish that pervaded her
countenance; she could not guess how fearfully
miserable she appeared, and it was only with a
start of surprise that an old servant, who had
known her from earliest childhood, gave, that
she began toguess, indeed, that she was strangely
altered.
“ Where is my mother!” she said, and her
very voice sounded like a funeral dirge—
“ where is my mother?”
“Oh, Miss Minna!” said the old servant,
“ how dreadfully ill you look. Your mother’s
gone to lay down a little, and she has been so
anxious about you.”
I will go to her,” said Minna.
Slowly and sadly she ascended the stairs of
that abode, which was so dissimilar to the splen
did mansions she had so recently left; but
which, to her mind, would ever be associated
with so much terrific recollection.
Mrs. Woodward was sleepy; she had sat up
waiting the return of Minna, until exhaustion
had compelled her to seek repose.
Minna approached the bed, and drawing on
one side the curtain which shaded her mother’s
face, she sat down there in an arm-chair, which
she recollected from her earliest childhood, to
await her awakening. She felt thankful that
she had yet some time given her for reflection,
notwithstanding its painful, nay, its almost ago
nizing character; and she was enabled to
arrange in her mind what she ought to say to
her mother, with- regard to what had occurred.
“ I will not keep from her,” she said, “ the.
fearful secret. She shall know all; and, thank
Heaven that I can add to it the information,
that I am a wife. Yes, yes; the vows have
been breathed, although they bind me to one
whom I have so much more reason to hate than,
love. lam his wife, and I will bear his name.
He cannot cheat me now of that melancholy,
wretched consolation; and oh, Heartwell!
when I think of thee! But that is weakness.”
The very pronunciation of the name of Heart
well seemed almost to drive her distracted;
forgetting that her mother slept, and that she
wished her yet to sleep, she uttered a sound of
despair, and Mrs. Woodward opened her eyes.
“ Minna, Minna!” she said, “ have you come
home at last ?” and then she trembled at the
look of terrific despair which she saw upon her
“My child; my child!” she said; “you have
something dreadful to tell me. Speak, Minna !
oh, speak, do not let me dread aught that may
be worse than the truth.”
“ Mother ?” she said, and she seemed to be
gasping for breath as she spoke. “ Mother, f
have something dreadful to tell you. Do not,
oh! do not speak to me ; but hear all, and them
condemn me if you will; it may, perchance, be
mercy so to do.”
A painful consciousness that Minna would
not speak in such a strain, unless she had some
thing more than ordinary to communicate, terri
fied poor Mrs. Woodward fearfully as she ex
claimed —
“ Minna, Minna! another moment of sus
pense will kill me.”
“ You shall not endure it,” said Minna; “ you.
shall know all, without disguise to thee, and to
thee only dare Ibe so communicative. Listen !’”
With such a wrapt attention as some pool
criminal might be supposed to bestow upon the
frightful particulars of some impending and.
terrific doom, did Mrs. Woodward listen now
to that narrative of terror which came from.
Minnd’s lips.
We would not, because we cannot hope to do
so fully., attempt to set down, with anything
like the force with which they were spoken,
the words of bitterness and anguish in which,
the beautiful Minna detailed the fearful occur
rences of the preceding night. With a sad
attention which showed a despairing conscious
ness that the tale must have a very sad end, did
the mother listen to her child’s discourse ; but
when; Minna spoke to her of her marriage, of
that ceremony so roughly and so rudely per
formed, but from which she derived a wretch
ed consolation, Mrs. Woodward wrung her
hands, and in the impulse of the moment she
exclaimed—
“ Minna, Minna! you are deceived. I feel a
consciousness that that marriage was ”
Minna clasped her hands with frightful energy
as she exclaimed—
“ Was what ? was what!”
“ A mockery.”
“ Death—death'!” cried Minna, springing to
her feet, as if with an intention of immediately
leaving the chamber. She grasped her throat
convulsively—blood came from her mouth, and
she sunk insensible to the floor.
All was alarm and consternation —never had
such a world of terror been concentrated in that
old tavern. Everything else was forgotten in
the presumed danger which Minna was in.
Medical aid was immediately procured, and
it was at once announced upon that authority
that a small blood vessel had given away upon
the lungs, which, although not necessarily fatal,
was still dangerous, except the greatest care
and attention was bestowed upon the sufferer.
Here, then, was a new circumstance, wnich
at once stopped further inquiry, prevented any
steps being taken by the mother, until she as
certained that her child was out of danger. She
could scarcely think of leaving Minna’s bed
side for one moment, and all other thoughts and
feelings were merged in the great question of
would she live er would she die.
Thus, then, many days wore on, during which
the gallant Heartwell was fighting the battles
of his country, and during which, to do him
common justice, Captain Bulkeley Harding was
making vain efforts to reach his ship.
That the storm which had come on had ren
dered it imperative for the Eolus to put out to
sea, was a proposition he could not dispute,
and, therefore, was it, although torn by vexa
tion, and terrified that he should hear some
thing extremely unpleasant, as regarding the
infamous treachery he had been guilty of to
wards Minna, his state of mind was anything
but a pleasurable one.
Fourteen days passed away, and then Minna
was pronounced out of danger by her medical
attendant, and it was considered expedient to
resort to means for the recovering again of her
strength and general state of health.
During all this time she had remained in a
state of dreamy unconsciousness of surrounding
objects, her thoughts had been a chaos of con
flicting emotions. She knew of nothing tangi
ble for a brief moment, but what was mingled
with all the wild visions of fancy, and with a.
thousand_other objects.
Happy confusion ! happy intellectual bewil
derment ! and so far happy indisposition that
at least for some time had stilled the pangs of
thought.
But with returning health of body came re
turning mental vigor; then the past began to
assume its proper shape, and, on the fifteenth
day, weakened, oppressed, and exhausted Minna,
awoke to a lull consciousness of her absolute
wretchedness
The agony of grief that came over her was:
terrific and alarming. Those words of her
mother that the marriage was a mockery, imme
diately they were uttered, had seemed to come
upon her with astounding truthfulness. She
doubted them not for one moment; and now
that reflection had come again, she wondered
at the simplicity and ignorance that had induced
her to become an actor in the farce.
She made an effort which she had not strength
to carry out, It was to rise and leave the
house, to go she knew not whither; but physi
cal weakness constrained her to give up the
hasty impulse, although the thought had not
departed from her mind.
The horror of having the finger of scorn
pointed at her by those who knew her, but not
sufficiently well to believe the real story of her
wrongs, incessantly haunted her. That was a
state of things she could not endure. She was
strong enough now to feel all the bitterness of
her situation, but not strong enough to rise
superior to it, and look with contempt upon the
opinion of those who, if they judged her ill,
would judge her harshly and wrongfully.
And now the was wonderfully quiet, she
spoke little—a bad sign, for it showed that dark
and fearful thoughts were heavy at her heart,
and yet there were but two tangible ideas pre
sent to her imagination, and they both required
the means of their accomplishment to be con
sidered.
The one was that she should leave her house,
and get among strangers, who knew her not,
and the other was to have one last interview
with Heartwell, to tell him that now she
was unworthy of him, and that she never could
be his. To implore him not to judge her
harshly, to pity rather than condemn her ; or,if
he could, to banish her from his thoughts, as if
no person had ever possessed them.
The means by which these two results were
to be brought about, she could not even dream
of. How she was to reach Heartwell was a
mystery. And how she was to live, if she
voluntarily left her home, she had no means
whatever fo conjecturing.
It was at this juncture, and late in the even
ing, while Mrs. Woodward was sitting by the
bedside of Minna, and endeavoring to cheer her
heart with better counsel, that word was
brought to her that a stranger wished to speak
with her, and moving noiselessly from the room,
for she was not sure but Minna slept, as she
had not answered her for some time, she went
softly down stairs, and entered the bar parlor,
when a tall, youngish-looking, man, well attired,
stood awaiting her coming.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE DISTRESSING INTIMATION —THE DISAP
PEARANCE OF MINNA.
Upon a second glance at the stranger, who
had demanded to see her, Mrs. Woodward had
a slight impression that his features were not
altogether unknown to her, but it was so slight
that she found it impossible to fellow it up, or
to remember in the least when and where she
had seen him.
Under such circumstances, it is in ninety
nine cases out of a hundred in vain to attempt
to follow up the slight clue which memory has
given; thought only the more perplexes the
dimness of recollection, and until some accident
touches on the right chord of memory, it is in
vain to hope for a satisfying result.
The young stranger seemed to be perfectly
willing to allow Mrs. Woodward as much time
as she pleased for the purpose of endeavoring
to recollect him, for he spoke not, but endured
her gaze unflinchingly, and it was not until she
turned her head aside, and he saw by the ex
pression of her countenance how unavailing
had been the effort to remember him, that he
spoke.
“ You have seen me,” he said, “ but you do
not know nor will you yet for a time. I have
done all I could to save from destruction one
whom I know to be dear to you; but it was in
vain. Allured by the false glitter of a mode of
life new and strange to her, she has fallen into
the snare laid for her destruction.”
“ You speak,” said Mrs. Woodward, “ upon a
subject, your knowledge concerning which may
be greater than my own, but nevertheless, you.
will not be surprised at my shrinking to hold
such communication with a stranger.”
“Nay, madam, I cometogive you advice and
counsel; let such be welcome on, their own
merits, whether coming from friend or foe,
stranger or intimate. Know you the man Who
has wrought you so much woe ?”
“ Yes; Captain Bulkley Harding.”
“’Tishe; the marriage, to the recollection
of which doubtless your unhappy child still
clings, I need scarcely tell you was a mockery.”
“ Alas ! my fears told me as much.”
“It-is so; and in your present aspect of
affairs, what hope have you of being able to
obtain even a shadow of justice for your child?”
“ None ! none ! none !”
“ Mrs. Woodward, did you chance to know
accurately the whole of the contents of that
ancient bureau in your late husband’s chamber?”
NEW YORK, SUNDAY MORNING, MAY 30, 1847.
Mrs. Woodward staggered back a pace or
two, and sunk into a chair. Astanishment and
alarm were depicted upon her countenance,
and it was some moments before she could say,
faintly—
“ Yes, yes; tell me who you are, and more
than that, what is the extent of your informa
tion upon a subject, I am convinced, from the
few words you have uttered, you are not wholly
ignorant.”
“You may speak freely and confidently to
me. I know all, and while I can scarcely blame
you, I still can enter into the feelings which
could induce you to keep a secret so long and
so well preserved, and the divulging of which
now would bring great censure upon you for
the lateness of the act, as well as perhaps
deprive you of the society of one who has
become dear to you from habit and reflection.”
“ Yes, yes,” exclaimed Mrs. Woodward; “it
is so.”
“ And yet a sense of right and wrong is surely
not dead within you ; it is only lately that I
have known enough to enable me to act with
the certainty that lam right: but now that 1
can do so, you would surely be the last to bid
me pause.”
“ I cannot; I have always felt that I cannot
stand in the way of a disclosure of certain facts,
when any one should step forward to do so. If
you are in a position to proclaim facts, only
some of which are known to me, I will aid you.
Heaven knows how much I wish that four-and
twenty hours ago you had come here, and then
perhaps you might have saved her of whom we
are speaking, from the dreadful fate which has
been her’s.”
“ I knew it not sufficiently accurately, al
though I had very strong suspicions. I have
been betrayed by one I trusted. He has paid
the penalty of so doing, and I can do no more.
I could not awaken expectations which might
have proved futile : the subject was too serious
a one to tamner with. I did my best to save
Minna from the destruction which has fallen
upon her She has now her revenge in her
own hands. Her destroyer shall be at her
mercy.”
“Oh ! reveal to me,” said Mrs. Woodward,
“ all you know. You can guess at my affection
for Minna, although you may not know its full
extent; and I will take fitting time and oppor
tunity to tell her all that you may communicate.”
“ No,” said the stranger; “ to herself must I
relate that which no one but I can communi
cate to her, and prove. I must see her, and she
shall hear a tale which may speak some consola
tion to her heart, in her affliction. Does she
most weep or rave for vengeance ?”
“ Her disposition is too gentle to visit even
upon the head of him who has worst injured
her, much suffering. She looks to Heaven,
rather, for consolation in her affliction than to
earth for vengeance. You will not move her
to any desperate act, which promises revenge.”
“ I may not; but I will move her to an act
which will promise her justice, Mrs. Wood
ward. I swear it—Bulkley Harding, her sedu
cer, shall wed her yet.”
“ Convince her of that; for already does the
feeling possess her, that the marriage she
fancied she solemnized with him was a delu
sion. Convince her, then, that such a repara
tion may ensue, and you will be entitled to her
gratitude.”
“ Will you let me see her, then ? It is not
that I doubt the discretion with which you
would make the communication to her, but I
have documents to show her, which I have
sworn to myself I will never allow to go out of
my possession, even for a moment; and, believe
me, that in refusing to place them in your
hands as confirmatory testimony of what I
could disclose, it is not that I distrust you, Mrs.
Woodward, individually, but in pursuance of
my general resolution not to do so.”
“ I am satisfied,” said Mrs. Woodward, “ and
you shall see her; perchance you are able to
add so much to that which I know, as may pro
duce a result which, although I once dreaded,
I, now that I am left alone by the death of my
husband, long for; and, oh! if you can but
carry out and achieve that which you have
promised, namely—that she should become
really the wife of that bad man, who has inflict
ed so much misery upon her, I may have, in.
time, to acquit myself of some of the blame
which lies so heavy at my heart; for I feel that
I ought to have prevented her leaving my house
in the society of that Lady Clare, whose conduct
was unquestionably, more than supicious.”
“ Nay ; doubtless you acted for the best; but
every moment is of consequence; let me see
her, I beseech you. I have a claim to see her,
which you know not of, but which soon, now,
you will understand.”
“ I will go,” said Mrs. Woodward, “and pre
pare her for your visit, with all the haste I
may.”
Mrs. Woodward hastily left the room, in
order to seek the chamber of Minna; and while
she was gone, the stranger paced to and fro in
the apartment with evident impatience. He
seemed, if one might judge from his manner,
to have a presentiment of some sort of evil, and,
occasionally, he paused to listen if any sound
disturbed the unusual stillness of the house.
Somehow or another, since the death and
burial of old Woodward, the Gun Tavern had
fallen off greatly; its old habitual customers,
finding that a kind of restraint was upon them,
while the body of the landlord remained un
buried, had gone temporarily elsewhere to
spend their evenings, so that those who had,
apparently, filled the reception rooms of the
house, were chiefly persons whom curiosity had
drawn thither, and when they found that there
were no more alarms, and that nothing of an
adventurous character was occurring within
those ancient walls, they left again, and it was
evident that the business of the Gun Tavern
had, in the death of its landlord, received a
mortal blow.
The stillness, however, which reigned within
the place, was suddenly interrupted by such a
cry of despair, that the stranger staggered, and
would have fallen, on the first impulse of his
surprise, had he not reached the wall, and
leaned against it for support.
It was but for a moment, though, that he
was unmanned, for, uttering a hasty exclama
tion of dread, he rushed from the bar parlor,
and feeling convinced that the sound of distress
came from above, he bounded up the narrow,
dark staircase with amazing speed, and rushed
into the first chamber which presented itself
to him. It was that of Minna, and for a mo
ment he believed it untenanted, but a second
glance showed him the prostrate form of Mrs.
Woodward upon the floor, apparently in a state
of insensibility. Before, however, he could
raise her, the servants, as well as several
alarmed guests who happened to be in the
house, made their way into the room.
She was at once raised and placed in a chair,
when it was observed that she had a scrap of
paper tightly clutched in one of her hands.
The stranger took possession of it, and advanc
ing to the light he found that the following
words were written upon it—
“ Farewell for ever! —Minna Woodward.”
This was sufficiently explanatory of the cry
of despair which had came from Mrs. Wood
ward. The mysterious stranger stood for a few
moments like one panic-stricken, and then
without_speaking to any one, or indeed making
the least remark, he turned and abruptly left
the house.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE FATE OF MINNA —THE DREADFUL
ATTEMPT.
It now becomes our melancholy duty to detail
in what manner Minna left the home of her
infancy, and what were her ideas and impres
sions concerning the future in so doing.
The step was about as ill-advised and indis
creet a one as she could possibly have taken,
and her best friends would have used force
before they would have permitted her to take
it, but unhappily she had the opportunity of
committing an act of great desperation—and
she did it.-
There was nothing particular in her state of
mind, when Mrs. Woodward last left her,
which could have induced any one to believe
she immediately meditated anything so rash;
and, indeed, it was not until she found herself
alone that the full amount of wretchedness and
disgrace came across her mind with such resist
less force, that she felt herself capable of any
act, however desperate.
“ What will,” she exclaimed, “what can be
come of me ? The dread of again looking upon
the face of Heartwell will for ever haunt me.
One glance from his eyes will kill me; and if
1 live now, I shall surely encounter such a
glance. How can I ever plead my justification.’
how clothe in language fit for me to utter, and
he to hear ? I cannot hope to do so. lam now
as a thing accursed; to look upon the past is
madness, and the future—desolation.”
She covered her face with her hands, and
remained for many minutes in a state which
could scarcely be called one of reflection, inas
much as it was far more like a delirium of the
imagination, in which a thousand thoughts and
fancies chasedj each otherJhroughJier brain
with a frightful rapidity ; and then came the
fearful thought, that in death alone would she
eveUfind that repose she had lost in life.
Such a feeling as that was more than likely
to grow gigantic under the circumstances; and
it did so; for in few a moments more it became
the sole pervading thought of her mind. She
hastily sprung from her bed, and attiring her
self in such articles of clothing as came nighest
to her hand, she was, in an incredibly short
space of time, ready for the streets.
Fearful, then, of interruption, she only
allowed herself time to write in pencil the few
words on the scrap of paper which had been
taken from the hand of Mrs. Woodward by the
stranger.
From the moment she had been left alone, to
that in which she crossed the threshold of the
room, ten minutes could not have elapsed. No
one met hei. 'n.l she passed the door of the
back parlor, hearing, as she. did so, the mur
mured sound of conversation within. She
paused not a moment, but along the long narrow
passage she took her way into the street, unin
terrupted by any living soul.
One last sad glance she took at the old house,
and then, with a shudder, she turned away,
and, with rapid steps, took that road which
would soonest lead her out of sight of that
building which was once so nearly associated
with all her happiest thoughts.
Settled plan of action she had none; grim
and terrific, the dreadful thoughts of suicide
held possession of her intellect. The how and
the when it was to be performed were still
subjects to be thought when she should be at
sufficient distance from home, to feel that ;her
awful could not be marred by'the
(jealous interference of those who loved her.
How far she had proceeded she could not
tell; her notions of time and space were sadly
deringed ; but feeling that she hadhttained, at
all events, a sufficient distance from home, she
paused to look around her as she cowered down
beneath an ancient archway leading to some
stables.
Here she paused and looked around her with
a feeling of dread, lest she should be questioned
by my of the passers by. It was a lonely spot,
and she felt conscious that if noticed, she might
have her intention marred by some one who
would see her distress. She turned her head
and gazed down the gateway to see if any one
were about, but there was nothing stirring—
all was still and quiet down below there. She
suddenly determined to walk down, and see if
there were no place where she could hide and
obtain time to think, without any distracting
fears that momentarily she might be disturbed.
Creeping cautiously, as though she meditated
doing some evil deed, she walked down the
deserted gateway.
At the bottom, she found an empty build
ing. She entered it, for it was partially open ;
it had some means to keep an intruder out, and
in one corner she found some straw that had
long lain there; and upin this she threw her
self, in an agony of grief, for here she could
weep unseen and unheard.
Here it was that the same thought of death
came over her that had before visited her. How
was it to be accomplished, that was the great
inquiry that now agitated her mind.
How long she remained in this place she
knew not; time passed unnoticed by her, but
there she sat in one corner of the deserted and
crumbling building; her face buried in her
hands, thinking Upon the one dreadful subject
that now entirely took possession of her mind
to the exclusion of all others, and that one was
suicide.
“ Yes, yes,” she muttered, “ it must be so—
it must be. It is the only means of obtaining
that peaceful serenity that I now so much covet.
The river—yes, the peaceful, smiling river—
that I have so often seen rippling in the dancing
sunbeams, as it ran its course past my poor
father’s house; yes, the peaceful, smiling river,
that I have seen glancing in the moon’s beams
when I have leaned on the arm of Heartwell.
Oh, God! I cannot bear the thought of it—it
maddens me!”
She arose to her feet, and tottered to the
opening at which she entered and emerged
beneath the desolate archway.
All was dark and quiet; no sound reached
her ears; the dull light of the lamps shone
obscurely; the sound of the watch she could
hear at a distance. She listened, but they
were too indistinct to catch; she paused, how
ever, to listen if they came nearer, which they
did.
The slow step of the watch she could dis
tinctly hear as he neared the place; the wind
blew down the archway, but she heeded it not;
however, she moved away from the spot she
stood in, crouched down behind a projecting
buttress to conceal herself from the guardian
of the night.
There was but little need of that, for that
drowsy individual stalked along in all the
majesty of a great white coat and lantern,
giving a terrible thump on the stones every
now and then with his baton or stick.
“ Past twelve o’clock, and a cloudy night!”
sung out this worthy in sonorous, but drawling
accents.
Minna listened to the sounds with an anxiety
it is difficult to conceive; she feared to be
found; but what a relief was it when she heard
the sounds gradually dying away in the distance.
Again did she creep out from her hiding
place, and peer up the archway; and then she
once more emerged into the open street. She
gazed around her, but she saw no cause for
immediate fear or interruption, and she fled
through the streets.
She met no one, but, had she done so, there
can be no doubt but she would have attracted
attention, if, indeed, she had not been stopped.
Her look was wild, her step irresolute, and
her purpose apparently undefined, for she wan
dered through many streets, apparently with
out any object—she had missed her way, and
knew not which way to go to reach he river.
“Yes, yes, the river,” she muttered—“the
river—it must be the river.”
These words were upon her lips as she moved
on along the streets, and, at length, she did
come near the river. She caught a glimpse of
it from the end of a street, at the further end
of which she now entered.
A shudder ran through her frame, but she
urged herself onwards, despite the feeling that
struggled in her breast against the deed she was
about to commit.
It was the struggle of the mind against the
instincts of nature. She was young—very
young, to leave a world upon which she had
scarcely passed more than the threshold, and in
which she had had such bright prospects,
such happiness in store; but how soon were
the hopes she had formed blasted most cruelly!
Yes, she was young to embrace that death
which the ordinary course of nature would
no doubt place at great distance.
“Yes, yes,” she again murmured; “may
God forgive me; I cannot live happily or in
honor, and I will embrace the sad alternative
of death.”
She hurried on towards the river, and soon
arrived at a wharfing.
The sound of the water washing against the
barges and other small craft that were moving
about was enough to make a sterner and more
courageous heart fail; not so Minna; her mind
was made up to one point—to the performance
of one deed she was resolved; and, without a
moment’s hesitation, she jumped upon the
brrges that were moored alongside, and rapidly
walked to the last of them that floated far out
into the stream.
Here she paused for a moment, and then, ut
tering a short prayer, craving mercy for the
deed she was about to enact, and calling a be
nediction down upon the head of him who was
far away, and whom she yet loved, she plunged
ii.’.j the stream.
A sudden plash was the only sound which
was returned, and then all was still. A mo
ment afterwards she rose to the surface; her
clothes were buoyant and filled with air, and
she floated.
“ Where did you see her I” said a voice on
the barges she had just quitted.
“ She was here a moment ago,” said a woman;
“ she made a splash.”
“ Then she’s gone to the bottom. I thought
she looked wild.”
“ Yes, something’s wrong; the young girl’s
beau, I suppose, has been false, and she’s now
tired of life.”
“ I’ll wager anything to nothing she’d be glad
to get out again—eh, gal, eh ?”
“ Well, I shouldn’t wonder; but more fool
she to take a bath at such an hour. See —what’s
that ?”
“ What’s what ?”
“ There, yonder—floating.”
“ Oh, I’m cursed if I know.”
“ But it is a woman; there by the moorings
of that barge.”
“ Why, it looks like a porpoise, or a clothes
basket.”
“ It’s the girl we saw come down this street
and jump oft here.”
“ Do you think so
“ Think! are you a man ? go save the poor
wretch; we may teach her to live and enjoy
life.”
The man who was with the woman crept
along the barges until he came to the one
where the body of Minna Woodward was
drifting against the moorings, which were
secured somewhat low, so that as the stream
drifted by, the body of Minna was thrown
against it, and was thus held for some minutes,
while the man crept round to it, and lowered
himself by the chain.
He seized her by the hair and dragged her by
that to the side of the vessel, and thus detained
her until he got safely on to the barge.; t Then,
by means of a boat-hook, he contrived to heave
her up, and bring her on to the barge.
This was not done without some struggles on
the part of Minna; but her struggles were
faint, and not directed against anything or any
object; they were the undirected efforts of na
ture—she was all but insensible.
In this state the man bore her in his arms,
dripping with water, towards the spot where
his companion stood.
“ Is she livinginquired the female, whose
occupation was easily seen in her demeanor and
in her dress.
“ Yes, I believe so; she’s plaguey wet. I
haven’t had so much water down me, unmixed,
I don’t know how long.”
“You; fool, she’s come from a wet place;
what, besides water, did you expect from, the
river ?”j
“ Certainly not a woman.”
“She’s a mermaid; bring her along’to the
house, we can have her taken care of there, and
something may come of it. I dare say old Mas
ter Whileback can make use of her.”
“ Yes, yes—come on; we have been out now
toojjong.”
“ I shall be out as long as I please.”
“ Come on.”
These last words of the man were uttered in
a loud, brutish tone, which seemed to be under
stood by his wretched companion, who obeyed
in silence.
The two went up one street and down
another for some time; and, between them,
they bore Minna along at a tolerable pace, as if
she were walking.
They met with no interruption, and arrived
at the door of a house, over which burned a red
light. They tapped at the door, which was
opened cautiously, with a chain up, and a man
peeped out.
“ Who have you got ?” he said, in a surly tone
and hesitating manner.
“ Open the door, will you, and stow your jaw
for a time. Do you want to have the Charleys
down upon us ?”
This allusion to the guardians of the night
had the effect of inducing this Cerberus to open
the portals of the mansion, and they hurried
the unfortunate Minna along the passage.
When the man saw the state the poor girl
was in, he made a sudden present of his eyes
and limbs to a certain region, and then said,
“Well,l never saw such arum start as that;
what the devil do you mean by doing such water
cart business ? I’m blessed if they ain’t got the
daughter of old father Thames there, and there’s
the. swells up stairs. Such a night, too, as this
—what a pity! they’ll spoil all. Cursed fools
they are, to be sure. I’d have kept ’em out
side, only there would have been a shindy.”
The man and woman who bore Minna along
between them, hurried her into a side room, in
which there was a bed and a fire, and placed
her on a chair.
“ Send in Bet,” said the woman, “we can
manage her.”
The man left the apartment, and, in a few
moments more, the woman denominated Bet—
a piece of female propriety of the Saracen’s
head pattern—came bouncing into the room
with the exclamation of,
“ Well, blow me tight, Ben says you got a
water-witch with you.”
“ Call her what you will, but lend us a hand
to get these things off—we can put some others
on.”
“ Well, what if we do ?” said the woman ;
“ what’s to come of it ?”
“ Why, she’s young, and will help to fill the
room; they want new faces—they can’t always
be looking on the same; they get tired and will
go away to some other ken.”
The two women now set about undressing
Minna; they tore off the wet things that she
had on, and replaced them with others of
a more tawdry description; but they were dry.
They were but ill-calculated to suit the taste
of such a one as Minna Woodward, but they
were calculated for the place she was then in.
All this while Minna had but a glimmering
consciousness of something going on; she could
scarcely be called insensible, and yet she was
hardly above it; she was passive; she knew
her attempt was abortive, but she did not know
how it had been rendered so.
“ Where am I ?” she murmured, when they
had nearly dressed her.
“ Ah, where are you, indeed; where you
wouldn’t have been if you had gone to the bot
tom of the river.”
“ Was she in the water, then ?”
“ Didn’t you see her clothes ?”
“Yes; but I mean did she throw herself
in ?” inquired the brazen-faced female.
“ She did—she meant it; but Ben and I had
followed her a short way, and then, before we
could get up with her to see who or what she
was, she turned down towards the river; we
followed, and heard her go splash in the water,
but Ben got her out.”
“ Ah, I see; she’s been gammoned by some
body, and they don’t want her any more.”
“ That’s it; but come, I think she will do
now; we’ll take her in the kitchen, and there
she can have something warm.”
“Yes, she will soon get round—in time
enough to walk into the room ”
“That is what I want, before those swells
go; it will be a means of attracting them again
—she’s pretty.”
“ Yes, but little.”
“ They like these kickshaw girls best, and
that’s all we have to look to Come along, we
must take her down.”
These two amiables led her out of the room
unresistingly, quite unconscious of who or what
they were, or what was their object. Poor
Minna Woodward had fallen, indeed, into bad
hands; they were the lowest and most de
graded beings who pander to the vice of the
vicious of the great city, and who know neither
pity or remorse; and their sole object in saving
her was, that she appeared likely to answer
their purposes.
They carried her into a large kitchen where
there was a fire like a furnace, before which
were a variety of implements, and much cook
ing appeared to be carried on before it.
A variety of odors arose ; the steams of roast
and boiled, the mixture of liquors and wine.
Minna was placed in a seat near the fire, and
some provisions were forced down her. She
ate, but she knew not why; all was mazy and
indistinct to her senses; and, after that, she
had been compelled to swallow some brandy
and-water.
The joint effects of these matters were, that
Minna found herself half stupified and sleepy.
The water she had been in, the cold wet clothes
she had had on her, were so different from the
heat of the apartment, that her senses were
completely overpowered, and she was unable to
sit with safety in her chair.
“ Let her have half-an-hour’s sleep up stairs,”
said one, “ and, by that time, they will be
ready.”
Accordingly,"thus directed, some of the fe
males present took her between them, and as
sisted her to walk up stairs to another bed
room on the second floor.
“ Here,” said one, shaking Minna, “you will
be safe for half or three quarters of an hour; I
shall wake you up in that time.”
Minna, with the help of these people, was
placed in a bed, and a sheet thrown over her.
She was soon asleep.
Her slumber was short, and the effects of the
combined causes were soon dispelled, and then
she awoke to a sense of her wretched situation.
She had scarcely began to reflect, ere she
heal'd some persons approach the room and
enter it; she was completely hidden by the
sheet that was thrown over her by the female.
“ We are alone here,” said one voice.
“ Yes,” replied the other, holding alight up,
and glancing round the room; “yes; we’re
alone here, and can speak freely.”
“ That’s what I want. Do you know that
cove with the mourning ring
“ I think 1 do; he’s got a striped blue satin
stock on.”
“ The same.”
“ Seems to have plenty of money.”
“ He has plenty of money,” was the reply, in
an emphatic tone; “he has plenty of money,
but he takes care of it.”
“ Have you seen his purse ?” inquired the
other.
“ Yes; he must have more than two hundred
guineas in it.”
“ So much ?”
“Yes, quite; besides that, I saw a roll of
notes that are worth something. Why, he had
a small fortune about him, such as we don’t
meet every day.”
“ We do not, indeed.”
“ Well, then, are we to let this go by, and not
have it
“ Not if we can get it.”
“ But how can we get it
“ How ?”
“ That’s the question; cutting his throat
would be making such a mess; it would bring
suspicion. Besides, there would be too much
noise.”
“So there would; but we might overpower
him and smother him.”
“ Stun him first.”
“ Yes—yes.”
“Well, that is easily done; but not in the
room, because there are several strangers; and
the best thing we can do is to do it as quietly
as possible. Get him out of the room somehow
or other but quietly.”
“ Well, well, arrange as you will; we divide
the spoil ?”
“ Of course we do.”
“That is agreed upon,” said one of the
voices.
“ Yes, quite; we will manage it between
ourselves; but now let’s return to the saloon,
or we may be missed.”
The two left the room, and disappeared alto
gether. S
Poor Minna never beforeiheard of anything
half so dreadful. Murder was to be committed;
she, too, in the house in*which it was to be
committed. What were her feelinga ? She,
the confidant of murderers ! —unwillingly so,
but yet she was the possessor of their secret.
S&What could she do ? She could not save the
person who was to be murdered, for where was
he ? She had not seen him. True it was, she
had heard enough to understand who was meant,
if she saw him; but how to see him was the
question, She knew not how to frame an an
swer.
See him she must; and yet what could she
do where all were so much stronger than she ?
It would be impossible to do anything by force,
and any other means seemed equally hopeless.
Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by
the entrance of some one, who approached the
bed with a candle, and threw off the sheet.
“Come, are you awake yet? You’ve had rest
enough, I think. Are you any better yet?”
“ I am better,” said Minna, sadly ; “ and
should ere this have been better, had it not so
happened that I was dragged from my grave.”
“ Ay, that’s always the way. But no matter;
you will soon know how to enjoy yourself, with
out any fear of the future. You’ll soon get a
living and thank nobody. I see you’ve been
afraid of starving, and all that sort of thing.
Lord love you, we never dream of such things.
Come, get up.”
Minna obeyed the injunction given her, and
rose up.
“An! you are a likely lass enough. Who
knows but you may please some gentleman
or other. You’ll be a made woman now. Ne
ver fret and stew yourself; wo are all merry
here.”
“ Where am I to go ?” Minna Inquired of
her.
“Into the saloon.”
“ What place is that?”
“ Oh, there are many people there—many of
us; and there are some gentlemen there with
loads of money.”
Minna said nothing. She was passive; she
felt she was in desperate hands, and scarcely
cared what became of herself; and, besides, she
had a great object in view—to save some unfor
tunate person from a dreadful deatlf. She
therefore determined to go.
“ You will do very well; so come along, and
take no notice of what is said or done, because
things often happen by accident that are not
meant.”
Minna followed her conductress into a large
room, that appeared to be fitted up as a gamb
ling-room. Billiards, and card-tables, and seats
were to be seen in different places. There were
side-tables, where there was wine and other
refreshments in profusion.
The place was fitted up voluptuously, or in a
manner that was intended to be so; but there
was, indeed, a contrast between this place and
that of Lady Clare’s. The difference was great
and striking, but the aim and object of both
were the same.
It did not take Minna many minutes to dis
tinguish the person she had heard described.
He was among the most heedless of the group
of gamblers, and had the air of a man used to
society, and who cared not for money.
He had just taken up a sum of money he had
won, and put it into his pocket, as he turned
his gaze round the room at the females who
were present, when his eye suddenly encoun
tered the features of Minna.
Upon her his eye rested with an evident
look of surprise and interest. She could not
but cast her eyes down with shame at her own
situation.
“ Ha! what have we here ?” he exclaimed,
suddenly leaving the table, and coming towards
her—“ what pretty nymph have we here ?”
As he spoke he took her hand, and attempted
to kiss her lips; but she shrunk back with ter
ror, which caused him some mirth, and he
said, —
“ Well, come, you are an actress too. I did
not expect that; but we shall be better ac
quainted before long.”
“ If you will allow me to speak a word to
you unheard by others,” said Minna, speaking
low in his ear, “ I can tell you something that
concerns your safety.”
He took no notice of the request; but after a
little while he led her aside, unobserved by the
rest, and then said, —
“ Speak softly, and tell me what is it you have
so say, my pretty dear.”
“ Your life is in danger.”
“ My life ?”
“ Yes; you will be murdered for the gold
and notes you have about you. Be as quick and
as quiet as you can, and get out of the house, or
your life is forfeited.”
“ And you —will you remain after this ?
Will you come too i”
“ If I was sure they would only kill me, I
would not care; but, as it is, I fear my fate
would be a dreadful one-”
“ Then, come along; I will go now.”
He turned round, and was about to leave the
room, when he was met by a blow from a man
who had listened to all that had taken place.
The gentleman staggered, but he recovered
himself sufficiently to fell the man to the
earth.
“ Take eare of yourselves, and follow me,”
he said to some of the strangers whom he knew,
or who had entered in his company.
The lights were all extinguished in an
instant; but he had seized Minna by the waist,
and with her had reached the door.
There was a desperate struggle, and heavy
blows were given and taken, and many were
struck at random, and struck those they were
not intended to strike.
After a desperate fray of some minutes, the
individual succeeded in winning his way down
the stairs, and had nearly reached the door;
but’was met by the porter with a bludgeon.
Here the light over the door gave them an op
portunity to see who was friend or foe, and he
nad certainly been killed, but for Minna, who
seized the porter’s arm, and in another moment
the man lay prostrate, and his weapon in the
hands of her preserver.
A few moments more,,and they stood in the
street, the fresh air of the morning fanning
their heated brows; and then, after a pause,
the gentleman hurried off some distance from
the spot.
[To bo Continued.]
[Original.]
Messrs. Editors :
Perceiving in the Dispatch of the 16th inst.,
some remarks by you complimentary of the
Analytical System of Medicine, I am thereby
induced to a belief that you are free and un
shackelled from the popular prejudices which
have for so many centuries sustained a medical
aristocracy—that you are at least willing, if
not desirous to see the practice of medicine
founded upon more scientific principles, and
thus become of greater utility to the cause of
suffering humanity, than it has yet been the
good fortune of mankind to realize. With this
conviction, and a desire that the principles of
the Analytical Practice of Medicine may more
fully be understood, I am induced to pen the
following remarks, hoping they may not be con
sidered too unworthy to find a place in your
columns.
The uncertainty in the effects which a medi
cine may have upon the system, is well known
to every observer—in one instance apparently
producing much benefit, in another irreparable
mischief. The reason of this uncertainty,
medical authors have never yet been able to
define. That there is a reason —some cause,
all admit, but what that cause or reason may be
none determine ! It is a common occurrence
when an individual is attacked with some slight
indisposition, that a medical adviser is called,
who quite sanguine that in a few days the
patient will be restored, prescribes some medi
cinal agent which he assures the patient will
in a few hours afford him the required relief.
On his next visit, contrary to his expectations
he finds his patient worse. He is surprised,
to find his prescription has not ooerated as he
expected, and the patient not relieved as he
anticipated—he is disappointed and chagrined.
Why the good results formerly attending his
prescription have not been realized in this in
stance he is unable to tell, but considers that
from some “ peculiar idiosyncrasy” of the case,
which iS utterly inexplicable, the prescription
does not agree with the constitution of his pa
tient. He changes his prescription, equally
sanguine that beneficial results must follow,
and when he again calls is equally surprised to
find the subsequent prescription not only ef less
utility but even injurious. Again is the pre
scription changed, but with no greater benefi
cial effect! The patient and his friends become
discouraged and advise a consultation or change
of physicians, which is repeatedly done without
| realizing much, if any, permanent benefit; he
I at length is advised to use no medicine whatever
PRICE, THREE CENTS
it being supposed not to agree with his constitu
tion, and to which the discouraged patient readi
ly submits, despairing of all hope of recovery.
Yet it sometimes so happens that such patients
are restored again to health by the simplest
means, and that too after the utmost skill of the
most celebrated and renowned practitioners of
medicine has been exhausted in vain.
That important knowledge, beyond that
which has hitherto been attained by medical
practitioners, is absolutely requisite, is not only
proved by the above illustration, but in thou
sands of other daily occurrences. That all the
present systems of medicine are no other than
hypothetical, and entitled to no further credit
than the mere observation of the visible effects
which a medicine produces, appears equally
conclusive. The utmost researches in Medical
Science appears to have extended no further
than to ascertain the visible effects of a medi
cine, whether it be an emetic, cathartic, diu
retic, sudorific, &c—how medicines produce
their effects—the invisible action which pro
duces the visible effect, appears to have been
no part of the study of medical men.
It is contended by Medical authors, that it is
absolutely impossible for us ever to acquire a
knowledge of the “ modus operandi ” of medi
cine, and that we can only he governed by the
effects which a medicine produces. If this
doctrine be true, is it strange that medical men
should change and repeatedly change their pres
criptions, and with what degree of certainty
can any one of them prescribe beneficially. It
is a wonder that in many instances their pres
criptions should prove injurious, if they must
prescribe pell melt and wait until the effects ap
pear to determine whether the prescription was
•udicious or not. Wherein exists the difference
in this respect, between the learned physician
and most illiterate quack ! Does not the quack
know that his pills will act as a cathartic as
well as the physician knows that such is the
action of Jalap and gamboge.
This is the system and those are the princi
ples which the Analytical system of medicine
rejects, and proclaims open hostility against.
The Analytical system of medicine, requires
a full and perfect knowledge of the chemical
coastituents of all the fluids and solids of the
Human Body, the office destined for them to
perform in the animal economy,and the changes
those fluids and solids are capable of under
going under all the ordinary circumstances. It
requires a like knowledge of the chemical con
stituents of every agent employed in medicine.
Possessed of these qualifications, we contend
that it is possible to prescribe understandingly,
and in that way which need not be followed by
injurious results; and such knowledge neces
sarily renders us familiar with the “ modus
operandi of medicine,” and enables us to fully
comprehend and understand the invisible action
which produces the visible effect upon each
and every fluid and solid. If the blood be
charged with morbid matter, we are enabled to
employ that agent capable of neutralizing and
rendering it harmless—if there be billiary or
urinary calculi, ossific formations, or other vis*
cid obstructions, we know their nature and
character, and are able to employ that agent
' which will dissolve them and render them fluid
—if the secretions or excretions are performed
inefficiently, we can ascertain with correctness
the cause and remove it; if an organ is diseased,
knowing the character of the depraved fluid
circulating in it, we can correct it; if the ner
vous system is affected, we can diminish or aug
ment the strength of the fluid supporting it.
We are not ignorant of the fact, that in pre
senting principles before the public which
have not yet received the stamp of popular fa
vor much opposition is to be encountered, espe
cially from those whose interest may be more
or less jeopardised ; yet if beneficial results may
thereby accrue it cannot be at too early a period.
We know that our motives are impugned, and
that epithets of no enviable character are dealt
out against us with a liberality which, in other
instances would be deemed extravagant. Yet
we can sympathise with gentlemen who find
themselves compelled to this course—whose
very existence depends upon sustaining their
cause, and the suppression of all others be they
as correct as they mav.
J. CLAWSON KELLEY,
Analytical Physician.
(Glorious nutorn!
City of Cork Taken.
General Starvation, and the Flour of his
Army completely routed.
The U. S. ship of war Jamestown, Capt.
Forbes, which left Boston on the 2Sth March,
loaded with provisions, arrived at Cork on the
12th April, after a splendid passage of only
fifteen days. As soon as the gallant ship was
seen coming up the cove, the “ Bells of Shan
non,” and of the cathedral were rung, and the
greatest excitement prevailed among the citi
zens. At 8 o’clock, Dr. Parks, Surgeon of the
ship, landed with dispatches for the lord
lieutenant, which were forwarded to that dis
tinguished personage immediately. Rear Ad
miral, Sir H. Pigott quickly dispatched a mes
senger to the ship to ascertain when hostilities
would commence, Tjhe messenger had scarcely
entered the cabin when he was struck in the
mouth by a huge buttered pancake, which came
nigh dislocating his jaws. As soon as he re
covered himself and had wiped the grease from
his lips, he was informed that the ship would
fire upon the town as soon as the ship’s tackles
could be brought to bear upon the wharves and
warehouses. When Sir H. Pigott was informed
of the intention of Capt. Forbes, he issued im
mediate orders to General Starvation, to bring
his troops together and form in columns upon
the quays fronting the enemy. The gallant
and brave Capt. F orbes, seeing that no time
was to be lost quickly beat his men to arms,
and soon had hie ship safely moored at one of
the principal wharves, when the signal was
given and the fore and main hatches were un
closed, and double tackles rigged in the twink
ling of an eye. The cannonading now com
menced in good earnest, and dreadful indeed
was the (slaughter. Barrel after barrel, some
of them 200 pounders, was now discharged upon
the Irish troops in quick succession, which set
them to capering and prancing in such a man
ner, as was truly shocking to behold. At the
first discharge seventy men were struck direct
ly in the centre of their bread baskets, and forty
two others had their appetites carried clean
away, so accurate and infallible was the aim of
Capt. Forbes’ crew. As the battle progressed,
the air seemed thick with smoke from the
Jamestown’s guns, “ looking,” says an eye
witness,” “ for all the world as though there
was a shower of fine wheat flour.” A bomb
shell of corn-meal lodged in an old house on
the quay, in which were huddled a large num
ber of men, women and children, and bursted
into a thousand fragments, scattering dough
nuts, johnny-cakes, and stomach pills in ev«iy
direction, not a soul in the house escaping, buc
every one receiving a complete belly-full. Still
the battle waged, and still the Irish troops re
ceived the steady fire from the batteries of the
Jamestown, with a heroism and devotion which
none but such solders could stand under and
live. Cork was never in such an uproar before.
Her citizens were seen running about armed
with pots, kettles and pans, and anon running
into the thickest of the fight, from which they
would emerge after a prolonged and heroic
struggle, covered with glory and corn-meal.
Father Mathew, who was seen rallying the
troops and cheering them on, was descried by
Capt. Forbes, who immediately dispatched a
plate of buckwheats at the old gentleman,
which struck him just between the nose and
chin, leaving a hole in his face big enough to
put a beefsteak in. Sir H. Pigott himself, was
hit by a Yankee johnny-cake which completely
destroyed his appetite, besides carrying away
three of his vest buttons. In vain did General
Starvation endeavor to hold his ground. Every
discharge from the gallant ship caused him to
quail, until at last overcome and overpowered
by the incessant showers of corn, barley, beans,
bread, and salt pork, he turned to run, when a
howitzer of smoked hams came rolling from
the ship, and hitting him behind, knocked him
clear into the last end of the next century.
This of course decided the battle, and Gen.
Famine, Col. Gaunt, Major Hunger, Capt.
Gripes, Cornoral Thin, and all their starving
followers took to their heels and fled from the
city, leaving our troops complete masters of
the field.
Thus has corn and wheat achieved another
great victory, and crowned the brows of our
brave soldiers with never fading laurels. May
the good time soon come when all Ireland will
be overrun by such troops as Capt. Forbes
carried out.— Aiew England Washingtonian.
Gen. Taylor.—One anecdote of Gen. Tay
lor at Monterey, told oy his staff, has never
appeared in print. In traversing the field of
battle, it was necessary to cross a bridge which
was constantly swept by the Mexican artillery.
When approaching it, it was agreed that they
(the General and his staff) should cross it singly
at a gallop Four had crossed thus, when it
came to the General’s turn. Just as he reached
the middle of the bridge, and when the balls
were showering around him, something going
wrong in another parth of the field attracted
his attention. Stopping his horse, (much to
the discomfiture of those following him,) he
deliberately took out and arranged hispspy-glass,
satisfied himself, and then closing it, rode on,