Sunday dispatch. [volume], January 21, 1849, Image 1

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

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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.