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Wk ” £ .mi d 4&k. " ' K Jrto W<« > ; ; rf 4®> Hr Hrwr «rHr flrlr ■ ??. KF ■■ -nM /■’.® :3 Bb S fIF3 Wlb ;■ • i L Tx "" ‘ 4 ' <■.. < xpg^ t yjx BF " rjffl't _ 711 IB 7 7 ; _ VOLUME 4, NO. 8. WRITTEN EXPESSLY FOR THIS PAPER. THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. A TALE OF ROMANCE AND REALITY. BY A'NEW CONTRIBUTOR. CHAPTER 11. ..Peihaps, however, I have hurried a little too fast inßringiEj? before the reader Bell and Julia, in their new characters as Sisters of Charity, and apparently without any con cert of action or predetermination, and a lit tle explanation may not, therefore, be mal apropos. Julia, as I have said, had imbibed early and strong prejudices in favor of the ‘ Sisters of Charity,’ and having often noticed them; in this city, she had adopted a style of dress si milar to that worn by them in order that she might, with more safety and secrecy, pur sue her avocations of charity and good works. Her father, who scarcely ever interfered with any of her arrangements, had often no ticed her wearing this rather unsightly garb, but he asked no questions, presuming she had merely adopted it as a matter of taste, and as she only wore it on the occasion of vi siting the poor, he considered it appropriate, and was perfectly satisfied. Julia had used this dress for a long time, and was particularly attached to it, for, as she told Bell, she had never been insulted while wearing it, and as the’reader will dis cover before this narrative closes, she visit ed places which most women would avoid as they would the rankest pestilence. It had always commanded respect, and afforded the most ample protection in every emergency to which her frequent visitations in the dwellings of the poor and vicious exposed ■her. She had'explained the purposes of this dress to Bell Manville long before the period to which I am now alluding, but Bell never dreamed that it was ever intended to be used at night, and hence her exclamation of sur prise when Julia speke of visiting her poor that evening. Now then let us follow our noble-hearted adventurers to some of the scenes which, common as they are in every portion of our city, are but too little known to those whose wealth and position would enable them to shed so much happiness and comfort around the desolate, the desponding and the suf fering. “I say, Julia,” said Bell, halt whispering, as If she feared to trust her voice above her breath, “ don’t you feel afraid—just a leetle,” and as she spoke, giving a sly pinch to her friend’s arm, for even her own apprehensions could not entirely quench the spirit of fun so ripe within her. Not a whit, Bell, except that I am afraid somejnischief may have been occasioned, by my leaving some of my poor friends so long unattended.” “ Never mind, make it up to them to-night by a double dose. Did you bring any medi cine with you.’ Eh.” “Oh yes,” said Julia, entering into the humor of her light-hearted friend, and she slightly shook her pocket, producing a very pleasant sound, very much like the jingling of coins. “Oh ! the universal panacea—l see. But where are you going, Julia,” she exclaimed, as her friend turned out of Broadway into one of the bye streets, which was as dark and gloomy as a prison-house. “ Why, you don’t expect to find the poor, and sick, and suffering in Broadway or Union Square, do you, Bell “ True—l did not think of that. Well, I will try and not be afraid, but if my heels should run away with my head and my heart, you must not blame me.” “ Oh, lam not afraid of that. There, give' me your arm, Bell; I know the way, and you go halting and shuffling along, as if you expected a pit to open beneath you at every step.” “ One can’t be too cautious, my dear, in such localities,” replied Bell, at the same time putting her arm within her friend’s. “.Ugh, whatja horrid taste you have. My idea of sorrow and poverty never entered into such an arrangement as this at all. There, you can go on alone, if you are going up there,” she suddenly added, pausing, as Julia turned up to the entrance of a dark alley way leading to some houses on the rear of the lots. “ There is no use, I won’t budge an inch,” she said, holding back while her friend was trying to smother the laugh exci ted by Bell’s apprehensions. “Oh come along, you silly girl. Do you suppose I don’t know where I am going; why I have been here a dozen times, and I never met with any one to interfere with me.” “ Must I go, Julia?” inquired Bell, trying to look up the alley way, at the end of which appeared a dim light, scarce enough to pene trate the darkness around it. “If you don’t go with me, I shall have to leave you standing there alone, and you will find that a great deal the worse of the two.” “ Well, wait a moment, until I can get a little courage,” and she drew two or three very long mouthfulls of breath. “ There, I think I can go on now,” and taking fresh hold upon Julia’s arm, they entered the alley ' way, and Bell groped her way cautiously along, as if each step might be her last. At the end of the alley way was a small open space, surrounded entirely by houses— small, low, and dilapidated—the windows stuffed with rags, and coats, and hats, and every thing, in fact, which could exclude the cold. Advancing onward, Julia reached the stoop which led t» the house at the end of the al ley, and just as they had ascended it, and opened the door, a loud burst of laughter, and jingling of cups or glasses, saluted them. Bell started back, actually trembling with terror, but Julia steadily advanced, and gro ping onward, reached the bannisters of the stairs and prepared to ascend, the shouts of uproarious and evidently drunken mirth still continuing. “For Heaven’s sake, Julia,” gasped Bell, almost dead with fright, “ let us get out of this.” “ It is for Heaven’s sake I am going in, so come along and hold your tongue, or I shall' scold you soundly when we get home.” “ When we do get home, my pet, you may scold me as much as you choose. There is then a prospect of getting home—l am glad to hear you say that much—what a horrid noise, she continued, while groping up the dilapidated stairs, as the laughter and shout ing which they had at first heard, continued. “ Oh, she screamed out, suddenly letting go her hold of Julia’s arm, which she had until now grasped with all her force. ‘ What on earth is the matter with you, Bell,” enquired Julia, stopping—“ has any body hurt you ?” i Before she had.time to finish her question, the door of the room whence the noise which had so alarmed Bell proceeded, was opened, and a rough looking man in his shirt sleeves, standing in the door-way, exclaimed—“ Who the devil was that ?” and as he spoke, the other in mates of the room, male and female, a rough, uncouth and dissipated set, all hurried to the door to ascertain the cause of the noise. Bell was nearly fainting with terror, and would have fallen to the floor but for the friendly support of Julia, and of the stair > railings, to which she clung with a vice-like \grasp. ) The light from the room just opened, shone full upon the figures of the girls as they stood on the stairs, and as the man who opened the door and addressed them, saw the black cloaks and hoods',he waved back his companions with both hands, exclaiming at the same time in accents of command mingled with respect, “ Whisht—it’s the sisters sure. Bring a light here, Jim, you fool you—quick There ladies, you can see now—hold it up higher,” he said, taking the candle from the hands of the man who had brought it in obe dience to his command, and advancing he held it so that they could see their way clear. “ Heaven’s blessings on you—the saints pro tect you.” “ I would not make such a noise, if I were you,” said Julia, halting at the landing, and looking down upon the man os he stood there with his bronzed face upturned towards them, holding the candle—“ You know the poor woman here is very sick.” “ The first man that spakes a loud word ’ll get this,” and he held out his tremendous brawney fist—“ Get in’ the place every mother’s son and daughter ov yes—sure ye shan’t hear awhisper—God bless the sisters,” and Julia ascended the stairs, followed by the now re-assured but still trembling Bell. “ God bless the black cloaks and hoods,” said Bell, with a long drawn sigh, which seemed so much to ease her that she grasped Julia’s arm and gave it an extra pinch as she knocked at the door of a room on the second floor, and which she entered without waiting for an answer to her summons. “ God bless you, Miss,” was the first ex clamation which saluted her before she was fairly in the room, and the person who had uttered it sprang forward, and catching Ju lia’s hand pressed it to her lips and heart, and without paying any particular attention to Bell, except to drop her a slight curtsey, she advanced towards the farther end of the room, still holding Julia’s hand. “ How is your mother ?” whispered Julia to the young woman, as they advanced to wards the bed on which the sufferer lay. “ Better, much better, thank Heaven and your kindness.” “ Well, Mrs. Parker, how do you feel this evening?” said Julia, going to the bedside and bending over tlje sick woman. “ Better—oh, so much better,” she whis pered feebly, for her Strength would not permit her to speak aloud. “ Have you got all you want ?” you must not neglect anything, you know.” While Julia was bending over and con versing with the sick woman, Bell was watching with intense eagerness the young woman, her daughter, as she stood at the foot of the bed gazing alternately at her mother and at the bending form of her young friend who stood over her. The countenance of this young woman, though pale and haggard, as much from want as from watching, still bore traces of beauty, and even her coarse, ill-fitting dress failed to conceal a form of faultless symmetry.— That she was unused to her present condi tion, her air and manner indicated with) un erring certainty, and Bell felt the tears gath ering in her eyes as she contrasted her situa tion now with what it doubtless had been in earlier days. “Here, Bell,” said Julia, rising and ad dressing Bell as she turned towards her, but without moving from her place by the bed side, and without a moment’s hesitation she advanced, for the few moments she had pass ed in that room had wrought a great and serious change in her feelings. “Mrs. Parker,” she said, taking Bell’s hand and drawing her close to the bed, “ I have brought a young friend of mine to see you. I wish your health was a little better, she would keep the low spirits away from you. Annie this is a dear friend of mine,” she continued, addressing the daughter, who maintained her place at the foot of the bed, but who, as Julia addressed her, came around by her side,” you will find a kind good friend in Bell, here.” “Any friend of such an angel is most wel come here,” said the young' woman, taking Bell’s hand. “ This lady, she has never per mitted us to know her name, has been our preserver. But for her we must have per ished from want and cold.” “ Not so bad as that, Annie —you are too grateful—but how does the money hold out? I have been very busy for a few days past, arid although I have not forgotten you, I fear fhave neglected you. I hope you have not suffered for anything.” “ Oh, no,” said Annie, reddening, “ your generosity has left us nothing to wish for.” “ Let me look at your friend,” said the sick woman, pulling Julia’s sleeve, and as she turned aside so that the light fell on her fea tures, she said, “ she is very beautiful and very good to visit us in our misfortunes.” i Bell blushed at both compliments—the one might be merited—many thought she was beautiful—the other she knew was not, and she said— “ I hope I shall deserve your good opinion one of these days—Miss ” “ There, that will do,” said Julia, inter rupting her hastily, before she could pro nounce the name. “ Now if you have anv money to spare, you can leave here, Bell,” she whispered—” I want to talk a little to Mrs. Parker, and you must keep Annie busy. She is a fine girl, Bell, and when I tell you what I know of her, you will love her dear ly.” Bell did not exactly know how to com mence with Annie—a hasty glance around the room showed that nothing in it afforded sub ject for comment—every thing betokened the very wretchedness of poverty. Annie, however, saw her embarrassment, and came to her relief, by addressing her upon the sub ject nearest her own heart—the kindness of Julia, who she only knew and loved by that name. “You have an angel for a friend, Miss— I can only call you by the name I have heard —Miss Bell.” That_will do,” said Bell, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry, so novel was her situation. It was the first time in her life she had over entered the abode of poverty and destitution such as this, and knew not how to act. “ Has she been here often ?” “ Often ! Heaven bless her, yes. We must have perished but for her, and when my poor mother was thought to be dying from day to day she was here, and sat for hours by her bedside, watching and tending her. And not content with that, her gener osity has supplied every want—Heaven bless her.”- “ Heaven will bless her. Now I need some of those blessings, too, Annie,” said Bell, nervously, “ so let me contribute a lit tle to your comforts as well as Julia. There is lack enough of them, I am sure,” she said, glancing around the miserably furnished apartment; and as she was speaking, she drew from under her cloak her purse, and tendered some money to the young woman. “ Oh, you need not hesitate,” said Bell, “ it all comes from Julia. There—there, take it, do,” she said quickly, for she felt that her eyes were growing moist and dim, and the strangeness of her feelings seem«d to over power her. “Well, good night now, Mrs. Parker,’’ said Julia, who had been quietly watching Bell’s manoeuvres, and seeing that her object was accomplished, she arose to go—“ you will see me soon again. Keep up good spir its, and every thing will go well yet.” “ Good night,” said Annie, taking a hand of each and pressing it to her lips. “We can only repay your kindnees by prayers and thanks.” “ Your prayers we need, Annie,” said Julia, “ your thanks you will have to keep, for no one here wants them, do they Bell ?” “ I don’t know—come, Julia,” said her friend, now no longer able to restrain her tears—“ are you going ?” “ Goed bye, Mrs. Parker,” said Julia, as she opened the door, “ remember what I told you. There, Annie, hold a light, will you, if you please. It is rather dark here,” and Annie having brought the light to the head of the stairs, they found their way down very readily, and soon stood in the street at the etitranee of the alley-way. “ Now stop one moment, Julia, if you please,” said Bell, letting go her friend’s arm and wiping her eyes—“ lam not quite my self yet,” and having drawn two or three long breaths, she exclaimed — “ There, now I am ready.” “ Well, what do you think of Mrs. Parker and Annie ?” queried Julia, as they groped their way along the dark and narrow street towards Broadway. “ The mother is a very sick and patfent woman, and the daughter has been a very beautiful, and I have no doubt a well educa ted girl.” “ You are right in both. Do you remem ber Edward Parker, who went away suddenly about four years ago!” “ I remember reading something about his mysterious disappearance, as it was chroni cled.” “ This was his second wife. She had a considerable property of her own when she was married—the law gave it all to her hus band, and when he got it in his possession he ran away, leaving her and Annie absolutely penniless. Since his departure they have supported themselves by their needles, but when Mrs. Parker was taken sick they would have starved, but for the chance which threw me in their way. There was a son, too, a young man, who was so incensed at his mo ther’s second marriage, he went away before it took place, and they have never heard of him since. She thinks he went to sea, but does not know.” “ Does she know that you are aware of her former situation ?” “ No—l would not hint to her that I knew any thing of her affairs. But that is not all —you know George Carman ?” “Oh, yes, every body knows that he is paying attention to Julia Hanford.” “To Julia Hanford’s money, you mean. He will never be troubled with the care of either. But I want to tell you of him. He was engaged to be married to Annie, and when her step-father ran away and left her poor, he forsook her.” “ The heartless wretch !” exclaimed Bell, clinching her little fist —“ he will be punish-' ed one of these days.” “ That he will, Bell, and I am going to ad minister some to him myself. Have you a mind to help me ?” “ Mind, heart and hands!” exclaimed Bell eagerly, pinching Julia’s arm for want of some other means to convey an adequate ex pression of the intensity of joy with which she would lend her aid for such a purpose. “ Enough, then, for the present. I will tell you more about them when we reach home. Now then, another dark street, Bell,” said Julia, laughingly, as she turned down M street. “ Oh, I don’t care for dark streets now,” replied Bell, pinching Julia’s arm, for the reader must know that was a weakness with her. “ Here is the house,” and Julia paused in front of a small two story house, the lower part of which was occupied as a grocery, and the upper part by a family whose character was unfortunately unknown to Julia, but well known to the police. But let Julia tell her own story. “ Now Bell, you will see some thing here that will make your heart ache. I found out the poor girl whom we are going to see, by the merest accident, and as I have only seen her two or three times, I do not know much about her, except, that she js sick and suffer ing. Perhaps we shall hear something to night,” and rapping at the door, it was open ed by a colored woman, who after peering closely in their faces for a few moments per mitted them to enter, and Julia led. the way up to the attic. As they passed the second floor, Bell notic ed the voices of men and women in the front room, but made no ramark about it, and fol lowed Julia in silence. “ Well my dear, ho'w do you feel to-night ?” was Julia’s salutation, as she entered the apartment, a small attic room. “ Oh I am so glad to see you,” exclaimed the inmate, a young female who was sitting propped up in the bed, and moving as though she would reach forward to embrace her benefactress. “ I feared you had forgotten and forsaken me.” “ Not so my dear,” said Julia, advancing, and parting the hair from her forehead, she kissed her tenderly. “ How do you feel— what are you reading ?” she continued, taking up a book which lay on the bed beside her. “ Oh the Bible—good —you will be sure to get well now,” she said, with animation.— “ Here is a young friend who has called to see you. Bell, come here dear,” and Bell ad vanced to the bedside of the young girl, but as she approached so as to see fully the features lof the sufferer, she leaned forward, and with amazement and sorrow pictured in every fea- NEW YORK, SUNDAY. MORNING, JANUARY 21, 1549. ture exclaimed, Emma Maitland ! you here.” “ Oh my God,” exclaimed the poor girl, recognising at once, the voice and features of one whom she knew too well, for Bell’s hood was thrown so far back that her beautiful face was entirely exposed. “ Bell, dear Bell, don’t tell my poor mother—it will break her heart,” she exclaimed with frantic eagerness. “ You know her then, Bell,” said Julia, to her friend. “ Well indeed do I know her, and sad I am to see her here in such a situation. Oh Emma,.Emma, what has brought you here, to this dreadful situation.” But Emma had no power to reply. The emotion excited by the sight of one who had known her in earlier and happer days was too much for her feeble frame, and she fell back in a flood of tears. As the progress of this narrative will de velope the history of Emma Maitland, I do not think proper to anticipate now, and will therefore, only say, that after remaining with Emma for-upwards of an hour, during which time she narrated to them the history of her early years and of the occurrences which had brought her to her present position, Julia and Bell left her and proceeded homeward, for the hour was now late, and both were wearied. As they left the house, they observed a man buttoned up to the chin, standing on the opposite side of the street, who appeared to be watching for some person, but without paying any attention to him they joined arms and started for their home. As soon as they had turned the corner, the man started after them and keeping at a respectable distance, so as not to excite suspicion, he followed them until they reached and had entered Julia’s residence. Then ascending the steps, he stooped down- and having read the name on the door plate, he went away rubbing his hands with evident exultation, exclaiming to himself—“ that’s good for a hundred any day.” What this exclamation was intended to convey was made known to the girls on the following morning. About ten o’clock, while seated in the parlor, conversing upon the scenes they had witnessed on the evening previous, the front door bell was rung, and in a few moments thereafter, the servant an nounced that a person was in waiting to see Mies Hanford. “ Shew him up—no beau I know Bell, at this time of day, so you need not stir an inch,” and as she ceased speaking, the servant usher ed into the room, a man dressed in the very heighth of what is termed the flash style. He had on a white overcoat faced with scarlet— a brilliant vest, with two or three gilt chains, crossing and recrossing, serving to hold up an enormous bunch of seals, which were pen dant thereto. A crimson silk cravat, adorned his neck, and his hands were encased in yel low kid gloves so tight that they must have put him in misery, while glossy patent leather boots, covered his clumsy feet. Julia and Bell, gazed at this singular speci men of humanity, with looks of wonder, entirely unmixed,'however, with any particle of admiration. “ Can I see Mrs. Hanford,” said the fellow, rather abashed by the coolness of his recep tion, for they neither rose to receive him, nor invited him to a seat. “ There is no such person in this house,” replied Julia, very coldly. “ Miss Hanford, then I suppose.” “ That is my name,” said Julia, somewhat proudly. “ Can I speak with you alone ?” he said, hesitatingly. “On no consideration. I have no secrets from my friend here.” “ Oh she was with you last night, was ■she ?” he said, with something like a leer, “ well, I suppose it won’t frighten her at all.” “ Come sir,” exclaimed Julia, impatiently, “ what is your business with us ?” tTo be Continued.] [Original.} The Jesuits in Old Califoi'nia, PREFACE. With the single exception of its wild le gend, which still lingers in the dim tradi tions of old California, the following story is founded on facts strictly historical. It is a vexed question, whether the Jesuit mission aries were acquainted with the rich mines of the country. If so, it would be altogether natural that they should disguise their know ledge of tiie fact out of revenge for their cruel expulsion. At all events, the golden wealth on the borders of “ the vermillion sea,” as the gulf was then called, made as much noise, one hundred and fifty years ago, as the wonderful mines of the Sacramento do now, and there can be no doubt that the fame of their secret treasures was the chief cause which led to the banishment of Loyo la’s disciples. The ensuing picture, instead of being over colored, represents but faintly the inordinate thirst of the first adventurers for the precious metals—a passion that now finds its counterpart, exhibited in the same romantic regions a century and a half later. A venerable man with silver-white hair, was seated in his garden at the evening hour, gazing on the distant gulf of California, which lay gleaming in the slant sunbeams, with a variety of changing colors rich as the rpbes of a rainbow, justifying well the poetic name it then bore, ‘ the vermillion sea.’ And altogether worthy of that sea’s serene beauty was the quiet spot of which the old man seemed to be the sole possessor. It was a small, solitary garden, embracing little more than half an acre, with a picturesque cottage rising in the centre. But notwithstanding the paltry dimensions inclosed by its peri phery, that bright bit of vegetation, under the inspiring genius of human culture, could boast a richness of flowers and luxuriance of fruit rarely found in the most imposing fields. There might be seen the Salnia. Fulgent, with its large scarlet blossoms of extraordi nary brilliance; the elegant Dahlia, the tow ering Helianthus, the delicate JUentzeZin, and lhat singular bombax, which yields a cotton fine as silk, and strong as wool. These served as ornaments; but there also flourish ed for use the apple, pear and fig, the golden orange and pomegranate, the purple blushing grape, two species of banana, cocoa nuts, sugar canes, indigo plants, and several sorts of legnmens. The charm of contrast relieved and height ened the beauty of the scene. To the east of the garden, in full view, like a smooth she ( et of painted glass, was the vermillion gulf. To the north stretched a desert of barren sand, of unknown extent. On the south was a similar waste reaching nearly to Loretta, more than twelve leagues distant, while to the west, some miles o.ff, the eye caught in the midst of illimitable desolation, half a dozen specks of emerald verdure, scat tered at intervals —green isles in a sea of sand. These were the two silver mines so celebrated in the history of old California, but long since neglected for the want of wood and Inercury. Almost a century of rolling years has elapsed since the evening when our story opens. The country then was a wilderness, occupied, for the most part, by Indians scarcely less savage than the ferocious beasts, always their enemies, and some times their masters. Here and there, widely sundered, arose a few military posts, erected by the goverment of Spain to protect their laborers in working the mines. What could be the business of that venerable old man in such a boundless desert ? A brief paragraph will suffice to solve the enigma.— We need only paint the person and the scene. His high, pale, narrow brow, passionless thin lips, and countenance of iron austerity, proclaimed a spirit whose thoughts had been divorced from the sphere of material forms. He sat beside a little table in an alcove trel lissed with many vines, and interwoven with gorgeous flowers. Pen„ink and paper were before him; and there too might be seen— mystic symbol of “ the religion of sorrow,” a symbol that has circumnavigated the globe from zone to zone—the cross; and near it the mild faced Madonna, with that starlight smile, and those sweetly earnest eyes. He was evidently an aged priest. The fact was further confirmed by the solitude of his dwelling. Around or within it not a living thing appeared save himself. Let us add the ■ flowing black robes, and the missionary and Jesuit is revealed to every reader. The priest had been 'employed writing a letter to the superior of his order, but had paused for some time in a fit of deep abstrac tion. His revery was at length broken by the sound of approaching footsteps, and parting with his withered hand, the thick clustering vine leaves of his arbor, he glanced out, murmuring immediately—“lt is Juan returned. He looks gloomy. I much fear the youth has been sorely tempted of late. I know not the cause. But alas! the natural fire of young blood is more periloui to the heart than all the coalesed demens.” In a moment afterwards the individual of whota he spoke entered. The latter was in the first prime of manhood,’ a tai, elegant figure, face of exquisite mould, ard proud penetrating eye that ill befitted the garb he wore, for he too was habited in the Jesuit’s sable. His complexion was of alabaster paleness. It might be the sign, of deep thought or of deeper passion. His counte nance also was equally ambiguous. It was sad, and yet stern ; mournful, but wild, as of one who had been touched with some heavy sorrow, or shaken by some powerful emotion, which nevertheless had proved im potent to vanquish an unconquerable will, or humble a lofty pride. The youth uncovered as he came into the presence of his venerable superior, and mak ing a profound reverence, said : “ Father Raynal, thy blessing.” “ Thou hast it ever, my son,” replied the other affectionately, and then hastily sub joined—“ Oh ! Juan, I would that my bless ing might shield thee from the dangerous trials and dreadful temptations inevitably at tendant on thy unripe years.” The young man slightly colored, and ap peared confused, as if the words of the other had inflicted an accidental wound; but in stantly regaining his composure, he answered mournfully,— “ Father, between us there must be no concealment. You shall see my heart, as God sees it. Father, I repent me of the ir revocable vow. lam vain and proud. This desolate sphere can never satisfy the cravings of my ambition. I know it is wicked; but it is true.” The old priest manifested no surprise at this frank confession. His eye kindled, how ever, with the light of burning enthusiasm, and his bony form dilated into commanding majesty, as he said—- “ Show me the walk of a nobler ambition, and I too will wade through fire and flood to reach it.” “ The cause, I admit, is sufficiently glori ous,” replied Juan, “but it is horrible to waste the strength and sweetness of one’s youth on such a desert as this.”.. “ Has heaven any brighter Ay than yon der .'!' asked Raynal, pointlnj/ trem bling finger towards the west,; where a few fleecy clouds were 1 seen floating,™ the hori zon, at sunset, displaying the.most brilliant tints of amethyst and emerald, surrounded by a purple border, fringed with crimson and violet, while above them, to the zenith, all was one color of deep, vivid blue. “ But that beautiful sky,” answeied Juan, “ canopies a climate of torrid. heat and drought,—a country where the frail cylinder of the cactus, rising from between the clefts of barren rocks, is almost the sole vegetable to relieve the intolerable monotony and bar renness of the' scene.” “ You forget,” said Raynal, with increasing animation, “ you forget these rich and rare oases, with their sparkling springs and allu vial mould; their astonishing products of corn and fruit, and their generous wines, similar in quality to that of the Canaries. You forget the pearls, which are fished on the coast of a water as beautiful as those of the Persian wave. You forget the mines of silver, famous throughout the world; and the secret veins of gold, known only-to our order —veins—say, rather, mountain masses, abundant enough to buy all the thrones of Europe ! You forget those vast plains in the interior, covered with crystals of salt; and the surface of that Vermillion sea, which no storm ever ruffles. Shame on you, Juan, for slandering this second Eden of the Al mighty 1” “Yes; but Paradise itself would be poor, without intelligent people,” responded the youth bitterly. “ What science has taught you the doctrine of a radical difference between immortal souls I’’ demanded the aged Jesuit, with an ominous frown. “ You see the present hap py condition of the indigenous natives. One century ago they were in the lowest abyss of degradation. Like the vilest animals, they would spend whole days, lying stretched out upon their bellies in the sand ; and like ra venous beasts of prey, they would rush to the chase, when roused by the pinch of hunger, devouring their food raw. But the missiona ries of Loyola found them. They abandoned their brutal life, and built houses and chapels, and cultivated smiling gardens, in the midst of arid rocks, of brush-wffod and brambles. Such is the sublime workjot the Jesuits eve ry where ; in the snow-drifts of Canada, and the hot swamps of Hindustan... It is Godlike. God creates. He delegatesjo us the mission to restore I” “ Many of our converts are only Christian savages,” suggested Juan. •“ They all believe in the one Savipur,” re plied Raynal, “ and that is something.” “ All ?” asked the young priest. “ All, save a few sun-worshippers,” an swered Ragnal; “ and that reminds me of. the contumacy of a maiden who has renounc ed her baptism. My son, you must go this yery night to the Indian Cacique’s, and sum mon his daughter Violetta to appear before the holy tribunal, which will sit to-morrow, in the village of the Mines.” Juan started as if a serpent had stung him. The other noted the gesture, and accompa- nying change of countenance, and said, in a voice of sepulchral solemnity— “ Beware ! A death of ice here, and of un quenchable fire hereafter, must be the forfeit to the priest, who breaks his vow.” “ I cannot obey your present order,” re plied the youth firmly. “You cannot? This is strange language, and demands a terrible penance.” “ I cannot be the instrument of ruin to one so beautiful and good.” “Beautiful she is, beyond question,” an swered Raynal, tn mocking tones; “but where is the evidence of her goodness?” “ In the purity of her life, in the benevo lence of her deeds.” “ In her morning strolls, to watch the ris ing sun, in her vigils at midnight to gaze upon the stars,” added the old priest deri sively. “ She worships-all beauty because she is herself its type and queen,” said Juan in im passionate fervor. “ She is an accursed idolator of fire,” re plied the other, trembling with anger. “ That may be, holy father ; but you forget her angelic mercy towards the poor. When that' appalliug scourge of God, the epidemic matlazahuatl, only the last year, desolated the coast, and carried dismay and death even to the central plateau of the interior ; who was ever first at the side of the sick, and last by the bed of the dying ? To whose kind attention do we both owe our lives ?” “I will bear no more,” said Raynal, rising, and then adding sternly, as he left the arbor, “Do as I have bidden, and speedily, or I shall forget that you are my sister’s son, and remember only your love for the abhorred pagan and apostate.” They both emerged from the vine-bower, at the same time, and both paused simulta neously to survey the approach of two persons who were coming rapidly to wards that secluded spot, one from the west and the other from the south, in the di rection of Loretto. The first was mounted on a mule, of the nimble though slender breed of the coast, rode at full gallop, and on alighting at the garden gate, each one of the Jesuits, saw that the visitor was a wo man. Both started with surprise, when tripping swiftly through glittering masses of foliage and flowers, Violetta, the Cacique’s daughter, neared them. Never did a more enchanting vision lighten along the air, or skim the earth which she touched only to adorn. Slight in form ; graceful in motion; her sun-tinted face lustrous as opal; her eyes beamy as the purest pearls, dark as ' night, yet like stars brimming over with ce lestial fire; her glossy black hair waving in countless ringlets, and radiant with costly jewels; her lovely limbs clad in the loose flowing tunic, not of coarse brown cloth, so generally worn by the natives of all classes, but of changeable silk, gaudy as the wings of a butterfly, l —Violetta was a siren sorcer ess, whose faintest smile might seduce a St. Ignatius to renounce his unnatural vow. But now the features of the maiden were sad even to tears; and every lineament of her pallid countenance betokened some ex traordinary emotion. “ Save yourselves !” she almost shrieked as she came within speaking distance, “ Fly ! Fly ! Come with me and I will deliver you 1” she cried with the wildness of one deranged. “ Maiden, you must be dreaming,” said fa ther Raynal. “ What danger menaces, or can menace, the servants of the holy cross ?” “ My father has been at Loretto,” she an swered, bursting into tears, “ and your cruel king has willed the death of your whole order.” “ Impossiblel” exclaimed both missiona ries in the same breath. Before, however, any lucid explanation could be evolved from the 'singular riddle of the Indian girl’s words, the other visitor ap proached with jingling spurs, belted sword, and lofty step, unmistakeable signs of (he »ld regime Spanish Cavalier. “ I presume to have the honor of address ing the learned father Raynal, Chief of the Jesuits’ missions in Lower California,” aafa the stranger, with a bow of formal etiquette. “My name is Raynal; and by the grace of God, and sanction of j>ur Holy Father at Rome, I have been appointed shepherd of the California missions,” answered the grey haired priest, with dignified humility. “ I bear an order from his excellency, Don Postola, governor of all Mexico, command ing you forthwith to repair to Loretto, where his excellency remains in waiting, from which place, in company with your fel low missionaries of the coast country, you will embark for such exile as may suit your choice, our gracious sovereign of Castile and Arragon having banished you forever from the Mexican dominions.” “ Let me see the royal rescript ?” said Ray nal, without the slightest change of demea nor, while Juan turned pale as a corpse, and Violetta uttered a piercing shriek. The cavaliej placed in the priest’s hand a sealed paper, which the latter having bro ken, glanced over, and then answered in a voice calm, but unspeakably sorrowful, “ I and my nephew are ready to attend you this night. We are slaves of the Lord in heaven, and of our gracious sovereign on earth, who reigns by the right of appoint ment from on high.” In the meantime Juan and Violetta had withdrawal a little to one side, and were en gaged in a whispered, but earnest conversa tion. As father Raynal turned his head, he beheld the forms of the lovers, half-conceal ed in the clustering sun-shaped flowers of the magnificent Helianthus. “ Come, my nephew,” said the venerable Jesuit, “our la bor in the new continent is accomplished. To-night we must attend the governor’s messenger to the ship which bears us into everlasting exile.” “ I cannot and will not go,” answered the youth, approaching with flashing eyes ; “ I will not obey the order of a fool and a tyrant. His minions may do their worst.” [To be continued.] Fashions. The contrast between the costume of men and that of women, in Paris, at the com mencement of the present century, is very happily illustrated in the following extract: Monsieur wears a large cravat enveloping his chin ; Madame has her back, her shouL ders, and her bosom uncovered to the middle of her breast. The waist of Monsieur’s coat reaches down to his thighs; that of Madame’s robe scarcely passes below her shoulders. The skirts of the one scarcely touch the ham ; the trains of the other are trailed along the ground. Our elegantees no longer wear anything ■ stuffed and quilted ; our young men are stuffed and quilted from the ears down to the small of the back. White is the favorite color of the former ; dark ’colors are the favorites of the-latter. The more pains the one takes to show the shape of the leg and thigh, in the same pro portion does the other endeavor to conceal it in boots and large pantaloons. IThe men wear cloth winter and summer, the ladies muslin. .-^==^S=S=S=^SSsS=^a^3^/W£W"*»>t«$~- ; -ife-i?35£2^$eSS iMMPliB f * j*Wsssi1 jOlW r The subject of this sketch—now a surgeon of distinction in this city—was born on 25th of October, 1806, in the town of Edinburg, Ohio. His first, progenitors in the United States were -John ana Artnur Bostwick, hrntharo, -rrho arrived here from England among early immigrants to New England, and who stettled in the town of Startford, Connecticut. John removed from Stratford to New Milford, and was the second white inhabitant, who, with his family, made that village a place of residence. He had seven ■sons. His third son, Ebenezer, was the father of five sons. The fourth son of Ebs nezer, Edmund, had eleven sons, of whom, the youngest, Henman, was the father of Homer—the subject of this sketch. Henman was among the first who went into the west ern country and settled in the town of Edin burg ; but he did not long sojourn in,his new abode. Soon after the birth of Henman, his fourth son, he returned to Hinesburgh, Ver mont, where he still resides. He is by trade a house-carpenter. He has been unfortunate in consequence of unavoidable calamities— such as the burning down of his house three times. His narrow circumstances prevented him from giving his son other than a common country-school education. Dr. Homer Bostwick manifested at a very early age a decided predilection for anatomi cal pursuits. Whenever there happened to be a chicken killed, this juvenile disciple of Esculapius, if the feathered‘biped could be laid hands upon, would hide away to dissect it with his penknife. When seven years old he declared his intention to be a doctor. He remained with his father, working about the farm, until he was twelve. He then went to live with his uncle, Robert, a lawyer in Ver gennes.’ While there he attended school for two years. His father then wished him to enter a cloth manufactory, and acquire the trade. Homer went with much reluctance, but, after the lapse of a year, could not be persuaded to remain longer. He then ob tained a clerk’s place in a country store, but soon went back to the farm. One day, while engaged in hoeing potatoes where the ground was very hard, he suddenly threw away his implement of labor, exclaiming, “ There, Mr. Hoe ! I’ve done with you forever —I’ll go and be a doctor.” The next night, to make good his word, he set out for the town of Whitehall. The weather was very inclement. His father did all in his power to prevent him from carrying hid boyish resolution into effect; but in vain. He accompanied- his son several miles oh the road, at times weep ing and trying to persuade him to return. The boy’s answer to his remonstrances was, “ I am sorry to grieve you, father ; but I must go and seek my fortune. Pray go home and let me go my own way. I’ll take care of my self. In a few years, if God spares my lite, you shall hear that I have been successful; and I will then come home and see you, and you shall share with me all my earnings. So bid me good bye, and let us part.” The old man at last bade his son farewell, and turned homeward. The youth, with a light, though sorrowful heart, travelled stoutly onward. He was at that period about sixteen years old. Walking all night through the’mire and mud, he reached Vergennes early on the next morning. His funds consisted of precisely fifteen cents ; his wardrobe of one shirt be side the garments that he wore. His break fast he owed to a hospitable farmer. After this one meal he trudged onward till night, when, over powered with fatigue, he asked for and obtained lodgings at a small plank house by the wayside, for which with his supper he was charged in the morning the sum of three shillings. On making known, however, that his whole worldly wealth consisted of fifteen cents, he was told by his hostess to give her that and be off for a vagabond. He offered his single shirt in addition,.but that was re fused. When he arrived.at Whitehall he was very hungry and weary, destitute of money, friend, or recommendation. Quite at a loss what to do, he ventured at last to inquire of the keeper of a grocery store if he did not want a boy. After telling his name and ad ventures,, he succeeded in interesting the grocer, who took him in and treated him kindly. In this situation he remained long enough to procure for himself a suit of clothes and sufficient money to take him down to Troy. There he applied for employment to Mr. Pierce, who was the landlord of the best hotel in the place, and, fortunately, with success. After working here for several months _at small wages, he was told by a companion that he could be much better paid if he would go on board of one of the North River steamboats. Accordingly, he hired as “ a hand” on a boat commanded by Capt. Crittenden ; but not liking his occupation, he left it and went to Hudson. While there, he made the acquaintance of a dentist by the name of Parsons. One day, while witnessing operations on the teeth, ha inquired of Mr. Parsons if he could not learn to do the same, adding, also, that he had long been desirous of studying medicine, and thought, as he had a great aptitude for mechanics, he might learn to be a good dentist, and thus enable himself' to acquire the profession of a doctor. Mr. Parsons gave him some instruction and sold him some necessary instruments, and the next we hear of our adventurer is that he was es tablished as a dentist in Courtlandt street, New York. On the first of May, 1830, the subject of our sketch entered the office of Dr. J. Kear ney Rogers, as a student of medicine, being obliged at the same time to obtain his liveli hood by operations in dental surgery. After remaining there for a year and a half, he left, and, soon afterwards, entered the office of Dr. Brownlee, who furnished him with the requi site certificate, of his having entered as a student of medicine, on the 23d of December, 1832, and continued there till the Ist of March, 1839; and that he had also attended a full course of lectures at the New York College of Physicians and Surgeons. After receiving his diploma, he commenc ed the regular practice of medicine in this city, on the 15th day of April, 1837, and has continued in the practice with the most bril liant success until this day. The little fortune he had accumulated as a dentist, was unlucki ly (or, perhaps,- luckily, as the event has proved,) wasted in unprofitable speculations, into which the shrewdest of men are some times apt to be drawn ; and thus he found himself, when on the threshhold of his labor iously acquired profession, as utterly without pecuniary means, as when he left his father’s house, and breasted the rough billows of life alone. He had, moreover, just become unit ed to the daughter of Henry M. Western, Esq., an eminent lawyer at the New York bar. He was thus supplied with a double motive fbf effort and exertion. He was, moreover, ambitious, determined, courageous. Not content with falling into the ordinary routine of the profession, and acquiring a compe tence by slow and tedious degrees, he resolv ed to strike out a new and independent path. Thus was he induced to commence, in Cham bers street, that useful and excellent dispen- sary, now situated at 504 Broadway, which has become so well and favorably known as the New York Medical and Surgical Institute. There he dispensed advice and medicine to the poor gratis, and thither numerous weal thy patients soon resorted. After taking the advice of several friends of high character, he was at length induced, notwithstanding the implied prohibition of the faculty, for the laudable purpose of making the benefits of his dispensary widely known, to advertise its establishment and existence in the public papers. This he did, with the sanction and under the patronage of such men as the Rev. Dr. Gardiner Spring, the Rev. Edward Y. Higbee, the Rev. Dr. W. C. Brownlee, the Rev. Dr. George Potts, Dr. E. Spring, and Dr. L Rogers, consulting surgeons.. .The acquirements, proficiency and great skill of Dr. Homer Bostwick, have long been acknowledged, both by numerous patients and the most distinguished members of the medi cal profession. In conclusive evidence of this, we will here cite the recommendation of several of the most celebrated, long-estab lished, learned and able physicians and sur geons in our city, whose names were volun tarily and freely appended to a card, urging the appointment of Dr. Bostwick as physician to the City Prison. We give the card and names, the original of which is properly pre served by the doctor, as a high and flattering testimonial: “ IFe take pleasure in certifying to the competency of Dr. Homer Bostwick, as a physician and surgeon, and we should con sider his appointment of physician to the City Prison, fitly conferred on him.” — (Signed)—Valentine Mott; F. U. Johnston, M.D.; A. H. Stevens, M.D. ; Martyn Paine, M. ; Detmold, Dr. ,- BR. Kirby, M.D.; J. N. Neilson, M.D., 163 Chamber street; Ar chularius G. Smith, M.D., 79 White street; G S. Bedford, 695J3roadway ; William Chan ning, M D.; R. T. Underhill, 400'Broadway ; R. Hathaway, M D., 19 Murray street; Gran ville S. Patterson, M.D., Professor of Anato my, Sec. University of New York; Willard Parker, M.D., Prof. Surgery in Col. Phy. and Surg.; John Murray Carnochan, M.D.; Jno. O. Bliss, M.D., 80 Chamber st.; M. Schmidt, Jr., M.D., 6 Warren street; James A. Wash ington, M.D.; John W. Francis, M.D.; Sam uel R. Moore, M.D.; David L Rogers, M.D., 326 Broadway ; H. M’Lean, M.D., 4 Warren street. No superior proof of the estimable char acter of Dr. Bostwick, in a professional point of view, need be asked for than this, and it affords a sufficient answer to those who im -agine, because a physician chooses to make the benefit of his skill and the fruits of his success known to the public,"he is not so highly esteemed, or considered so competent by his brother doctors, as are those who con tinue in obscurity. Like several other physicians and surgeons of high celebrity, among whom we may men tion the gifted Dr. Ricord of Paris, Dr. Bost wick has turned bis attention, in a great mea sure, towards the treatment of that certain class of diseases which make many patients the victims of quacks and imposters. Im pressed with the idea of the vast good to be effected, and the mighty relief thereby to be afforded to suffering and sinning humnanity, Dr. Bostwick has profoundly studied the sub ject, and evolved new principles and facts of vital importance. He has written and published two books, the one a popular treatise, and the other a scientific work, which have already elicited the warmest encomiums from laymen and medical critics. The one is a duodecimo volume, treating of seminal complaints, their causes and cure—and the other an elegant quarto, on diseases of the genito-urinary organs,-profusely illustrated with magnificent ly colored plates, and entitled to a prominent place in the library of every physician. Of the the latter, Dr. J. V. C. Smith, the learned editor of the Boston Medical and Surgical Journal, speaks in terms of just and cordial commendation. We have thus presented our large circle of intelligent readers with a portrait and memoir of one of the most justly-distinguished and capable surgeons of whom our city can boast. In so doing we have been incited less by any desire on our part to extend his celebrity than to make known his merits —self-taught and self-made as he is—to all who may stand in need of his great skill and large experience. As a man, the character of Dr. Bostwick is He is honorable, honest and high- kind and generous to the poor; a member of the Christian church; and a friend of literature. He is rapidly acquiring a for tune by his profession, and well deserves even higher success than he has achieved. Preaching in the West. , Old Mr. Jacob ,an itinerant preacher in the West, who, like a lawyer in bygone times, had to ride his circuit—had an ap pointment one day a mile or two North of the Conemaugh river, near its head, a little thunder gust stream that would rise in a freshet ten or fifteen feet in as many hours, amf run dry again, almost as quick. He reached the southern bank one day when the river was behaving its very worst, *The peo ple on the other side called to him that it was above “rideableorder,” and he “must’nt ventur.” But Jacob had his appointment to keep, and his rule was “ no postponement on account of the weather,” he did “ ventur.” His horse was strong and his heart stout, and the river was not very broad ; but it was a little deeper and wickeder than he had con tracted for. Near the opposite shore the tide was too much for him, and he began to go down stream rapidly, the current drifting him towards an eddy that was raging like a whirlpool. He saw it and made a vigorous effort to grasp the branch of a tree that hung ever the swollen water It broke in his hand and the chances seemed desperate. Firmly grasping the pummel of his saddle, he cried out in his stentorian preaching tones, “Lord, thou hast promised to be with thy servants in difficulty, and it is pjetty near time to do something.” The next moment he was rol ling in the waves and thrown against the bank. The folks who had warned him against the attempt quickly fished him out, and after a little more rolling and shampooning bn the shore, “he came to.” His first words were, “ now-, if I had my horse, it is still time to keep my appointment.” , * 00- It affords a very peculiar pleasure, as we grow older, to see in our offspring an other and more lovely form, embodying the thoughts and sentiments we once nursed in eurselves. It is then no wonder that we feel warm-hearted towards the object that seems the incarnation of our youth ; the living por trait of all that was bright in ourselves. Caustic.—Macauley, in his new history of England, is rather hard upon the progeni tors of the pilgrims. He says the puritans hated bear-bating, not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators. PRICE THREE CENTS. [Original.] S*air Caroline of S?roy. A NIAGARA RHAPSODY. BY J. E. TUEL. [Mr. Tuel, the writer of the following beautiful piece, has already made himself favorably known by “A Review of the Diplomatic Policy of the Mexi can War,’’ which appeared about the time of the battle of Cerro Gordo, aad some other productions.— De h?s now in press, we learn, a new Poem of some length, entitled, “A Mora! for Authors,’’ In which onr writxxri .aj-xi. after-th« Juniue eiyltj - but all we are glad to learn, in good nature, and with nothing of the Cynic.) i. I saw .thee but a moment Dearest Carry—fleeting Carry ! x I saw thee but a moment In the dance—giddy dance! Tho’ afar from thee to night 1 will tarry—ever tarry ! Forever in thebrightness Oi »hy glance—brilliant glance. Forever in the brightness Of thy glance—cruel joy, I will tarry—-ever tarry, Fair Caroline of Troy ! it. 1 ho’ my steps have wandered far, Dearest Carry—distant Carry ! Since thy form 1 first beheld Fleeting by—swiftly by, Yet thy eyes have been to me A beacon starry—beacon starry < Like the stars that greet the gazer In the sky—distant sky. Like the stars that greet In the sky—fleeting joy ! A beacon starry-‘-beacon starry, Fair Caroline of Troy ! w in. I hear the Music’s sound Dearewi Carry—sweetest Carry! Tho’ far from thee and music, To night—dreary night Yet my soul hath wander’d back Tothefhiry—regions lairy ! Where thy angel form and face Shed a light—brilliant light, Where thy angel form and face Shed a light—fleeting joy ! My soul hath wander’d back, Fair Caroline of Troy ! IV. Beneath the raging falls Of the waters—roaring waters ! ’Tis said two lives are yearly Lost—forever lost!. But not among the billows, But the daughters—heartless daughters, With love upon their brow, I was toss’d—forever toss’di With love upon their brow, - " I was toss’d with cruel joy, But not among the billows, Fair Caroline of Troy! A Soxing Snatch. A crowd of British worthies having "assem bled at an alehouse to get rid of their Christ mas Boxes, a violent dispute arose between a hackney coachman and a lamp-lighter, about which of them was dressed in the most gen teelest manner! Words soon became so violent, that the quarrel could terminate only in a and the whole party adjourned to Moorfields—where the crowd soon increased. —the combatants stripp’d Amid the circle now each champion stands, And poises high in air his iron hands ; Hurling defiance, now they fiercely close, Their cracking jaws re-echo to the blows. Watchmaker.— Go it, my boy; that’s the motion,—spring at him— seal up his eyes; d—n me, finish him. Sailor.— Knock out his starboard eye— run in under the guns—get into his wake. Never mind lee-shores— batter his hulls— douse his glims—shiver his mizen— give him a broadside. Soldier.— Keep to your post, Dick— fire away—work his buff —wheel about— rally again— give Lira -no quarter— dam’ me don’t desert him. Bricklayer.— Give it. to him in his upper story— strike his scaffolding—trowel the dog. Shoemaker.— Now my lad of wax—peg away— tan the dog’s hide—curry him well— that’s my good sole—bristle up to him again Jack— leather him soundly—now you have him fast in the stocks. Dustman. — Silence his clapper—blind him. Fidler.— Lick him to some tune — now he quavers. Carpenter.—Box him well— glue up his eyes. Gambler.— Let him see you’r not making game of him, Dick—give both fair play— no underhand work. Hackney Coachman.—Cut him up—give him his full fare — summon up all your cour age—don’t give up your ground. Publican. —Cork up his eye—show you have 'spirit in you. Tobacconist.—Smoke him. Ostler. —Spur him up, sweat him down. jPZaVer.-x-Mind your cue—come on now Jack, and he’ll soon make his exit. Bookseller.— Tip him a second edition of Broughton—let out his red ink. Fishmonger.— Strike him in the right place— make him flounder— knock his sole out. Painter. —Brush up to him—peg his pallet —dam me, make him look like a layman— knock him into the back ground— you’ll soon make a carricature of his countenance—he’s a d d deep shadow under his eyes already. Poulterer.— Don’t be chicken hearted— sew his eyes up—ease him—lard him—break his breast bone. Glazier.— Darken his day lights— that’s my Dimond — batter his window-frames make the sun shine through him. Baker.— Peg his dough— hit him in the bread-basket—paste up his eyes—give it him in the crumb— let him see you are not a French roll. Tailor. — Stick to his skirts— trim his jac ket—lace him—aim at his /i/M button— have the other brush — let him see you are a man. •Apothecary.—Pound the-dog— bleed him —give him his dose— dam’ me sicken him. Barber. —Lather away, Dick— shave him close, work him a good two-pen’ orth— dress him— dust him— pin him down tight—beat him to powdei—that's the barber. Blacksmith. —Hammer away— ply briskly —make his anvil ring again— blow ’em up, Jack. Undertaker.— Send him to his long home —make the dog mute. Auctioneer.—He’s going— knock him down. Butcher— Have a good heart— come Ben Boozle over his jaw-bone— give ’em a cross buttock—slay the dog alive—knock'out his liver—brine him—break every bone in his skin. Waterman.— Break his skull— bring him down upon his bum-boat —ply your blows quick—very fair. Printer.—Batter his form — knock him intoyii—make him see stars — use your mal let and shooting stick. “ Oh ! what a charming thing’s a battle !” —Budget of Fun, London, 1801. Singular Escape from Slavery. William and Ellen Craft, man and wife, lived with different masters in the State of Georgia. Ellen is so near white, that she can pass without suspicion for a white wo man. Her husband is much darker. He is a mechanic, and by working nights and Sun days, he laid up money enough to bring him self, and his wife out of slavery. Their plan was without precedent ; and though novel, was the means of getting them their freedom. Ellen dressed in man’s clothing, and passed as the master, while her husband passed as the servant. In this way they travelled from Georgia to Philadelphia. On their journey, they put up at the best hotels where they stopped. Neither of them can read or write. And Ellen, knowing that she would be called upon write her name at the hotels, &c., tied her right hand up, as though it was lame, which proved of some service to her, as she was called upon several times at hotels to “ register ” her name. In Charleston, S. C., they put up at the hotel which Governor M’Duflie and John C. Calhoun generally make their home. They arrived in Phila delphia, in four days from the time they started.— Liberator. Singular Custom. The following account of a singular cus tom that prevails in Cooch Bahar, adjoining Bengal, is given by an intelligent traveller. In the district of Cooch Bahar, an usage of a very singular kind has prevailed from remote antiquity, and I was assured by many of the inhabitants of its actual existence at this-day. If a Ryot or peasant owes a sum of money, and has not the ability to satisfy his creditor, he. is compelled to give up his wife as a pledge, and possession is kept of her tjll the debt is "discharged. It sometimes happens, (as thfey affirm,) that the wife ot a debtor is not redeemed for the space of one, two or ' three years ; and then if, during her residence and connection with the creditor, a family should have been the consequence, half of it is considered as the property of the person I with whom she lived, and half that of her • real husband.