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YOL. 7. NO. 20.
A Story of New York at the Present Time, LIFE AND ADVENTURES of JACK ENGLE: AN AUTO-BIOGRAPHY; IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND SOME FAMILIAR CHARACTERS, CHAPTER XVIII, Jn which is told the end of the scrape—and what came to pass afterwards. New as an adventure and situation of this ■sort were to Martha, she stood it like a hero ine. I had never seen a woman’s conduct more admirable; and, from that moment, my attachment —for such a feeling had al ready taken root in my mind—was colored with an esteem and respect whioh mado it indeed true love. Previously, the sentiment had perhaps been composed more of pity and (sympathy for the wrongs whioh were encom passing her; but the demeanor she exhibited in these incidents, proved her worthy of a more solid regard, and warmer friendship. Yes, it was while wo were waiting thore tn that cheerless police room, that the inspi ration first came to me, cf a simple way to cut the knot at once ; or, at any rate, to re move most of the complications, and make the battle between Covert and Martha a de cided one. I felt, I knew, that such a girl as this I could love. Indeed, I felt that I did love her, now: and that my feeling was of that positive, real kind, equally witnout re serve, and devoid of morbid ardor —a feeling which I divined was the best and the only genuine feeling whioh should lead to mar ring;. I bethought mo then—for though we wait ed but a few minutes, thought travels over space and time quick enough—and I be thought mo of the little girl in the basement, years before. I saw the scene before me— the good protectress in her plain oap, and the smooth hair parted on her head. I thought of my early crony, Billjiggs. Tho good lady—ah ! how gently she washed that dirty head, while I held the largo basin of half-warm water; how the jagged wound made me almost feel sick, although one who helped bring Billjiggs in, pronounced it not so much after all, and laughed, and said that it was more blood than anything else. How the lady looked around, and, finding nothing else handy, took that famous hand kerchief, so large, so fragrant, of such beau tiful white linen, and bound up Bilijiggs’s phrenological developments from the public gaze. Then how the little girl Martha came and neatly tied the knot, with such tender fingers, for fear she might hurt the wound. Even then, did she not exhibit the inward force and strength of her character.’ — Wouldn’t almost any other little girl have been frightened and held back in alarm.’ And thus and so, under a semi-arrest, and not knowing but what wo would have to pass the night in durance, was determined tho love of Jack Eagle. In a few minutes, the man who had brought ns hither, came up to us and asked for the bundle. He wished to take it away. “To that I must object,” said Martha, turning to him, “and I do not know if thee has any right to do so.” Martha was a different person to deal with, from the boy Nat, and the officer felt it. “ Then let the boy bring the things,” said ho, “and all of you come in here.” We followed him into an adjoining room. At a little wooden table there was seated the captain of the district. The moment I saw him 1 felt relieved; for he was an old ac quaintance of Ephraim Foster’s, and, be sides, ho and I knew each other well. Al though older than I, he was yet a young man, and we had spent many months in tho same studies at the public school. “ What, Jack Eagle,” he cried, looking up; and then turning to tho man who had brought us in, “ Oh, Jones, your trouble is all for nothing. These people cannot possi bly bo anything to that affair.” “ Well, if you know them,” answered Jones, “ that’s enough, of course.” Tho officer, in a civil tone, but without showing any vexation or disappointment, asked our excuses, said that the captain would tell us why ho had been so particular, and then left the room. My school-friend good-naturedly rose, and pushing his seat along to Martha, informed me how there had been a good deal of seri ous pilfering in that neighborhood—that from information obtained by the officers, he supposed a still more daring robbery was on fool that very night—and that a female was concerned with the parties in it. Their in formation was not exact enough to point them specifically to'tho premises endangered nor to the thieves; but they were more than usually on tho lookout. Under such circum stances, we happened to fall in the way of one of the most vigilant of the officers. The captain hoped we would have philosophy enough to overlook the an annoyance. Martha’s now cheerful face assured him that there was no great harm done. Truly, that face alone was enough for a passport of honesty through all the police stations of the land. Steady young man as my friend, had reason (I hope,) to set me down for, from all he knew of my past life, one look at the aforesaid face was enough to reassure him against any suspicions from our situation. For although we were cleared of any dark er imputation, there was something that might be supposed worth elucidating in being out at this hour of tho night, or rather morning,- scudding rapidly through the streets with a woman, a bundle, a boy and a dog. But the captain did not by word of mouth ask any explanation. And as I did not think the circumstances fitting to a volun tary recital of the facts, I bid him good night, and we departed. We soon reached the wharf, where Tom Peterson was on the alert for us. Nat’s boat had not been disturbed; andl helped Martha down into it, and laid my overcoat over the seat for her to sit on. Jack entered with a bound after Nathaniel sprang in, and with a push from Tom off the pier, we were afloat. Then I felt relieved indeed. It seemed to me that we were now free from Covert’s more direct machinations, at all events. He might plot as much as he liked, but bis presence and the sound of his voice could not trouble us more. Martha, too, entered into these feelings. She bad suffered much from her situation in Covert's house, after his wife’s death; al though her simplicity and vigor of mind had shielded her from things that would have been sore trials to ordinary girls. Within the past few weeks, in particular, she had found growing up in her mind a nettled re pugnance to the lawyer. Her sentiment to wards him, during the life time of his wife, had been one more deserving to be called indifference than any thing else. She did not particularly dislike; but at the same time she had no attachment, and nothing more than a very ordinary respect for him. Since the developments of late, as was to be expected, she could no longer occupy that neutral position, Her character had a good deal of strong impulse in it; and this was directed in a manner anything but favorable toward her legal adviser and hitherto con troller. We rowed out in the river; I pulling on cue side, Tom’s oar on the other, and Nat acting as steersman. Jack was at the prow, with his nose elevated, and making quite a figure-head for our little craft. Martha looked upward at the sky, and evidently en joyed the whole scene. Though there was no moon, the stars were shining bright. The fresh south breeze came pleasantly up from the Narrows; the water dashed in rip ples against our boat; and altogether it was indeed a soothing and refreshing half-hour, after the hurry of Martha’s escape, and the stoppage at the police house. Out in the middle of the river, wo loy on our oars a few minutes, and enjoyed the scene still more. The long stretch of the city’s shores wore silent and hushed; two or three sloops, at various distances on the riv er, moved along, their white sails showing like great river ghosts; and not a harsh sound was to be heard. The Hoboken shore, too, was solitary and we neared it, the just-risen moon shown out from a cloud, and scattered a flood of tight on the wooded banks, the water, and every thing else. It seemed like a good omen, and, indeed, could hardly help having that effect on us all. The river, up above! which had seemed like a path of darkness and doubt, was now sparkling; the sails of the sloops lookod like things of real life again ; and the round heights of Weekaw ken. n had their sombre shadows touched up into varied gray and dark green. From a war-vessel lying oft Castle Garden, came the sounds of bells striking the time, aud the sonorous voice of the watch. We stepped ashore, full of spirits and with the young blood in ns aroused to the vigor of renewed life, and hope, and action Tom and Nat tied the boat, and the latter took his bundle again, while the farmer remained until our return. Jack coursed to aud fro like a mad creature. A good walk brought us, not at all tired, to Inez’ cottage. She was up and expecting us. She kissed Martha on the cheek and welcomed her warmly. Our troubles and adventures were over for that night, at any rate ; for, though Tom and I had to row back nome, & n d had a good time in so doing, we hardly spoke a word, and mot with nothing worth mentioning. I had hardly got in bed on i heard the advance movements of Ephraim, who an early riser. CHAPTER XIX. Some hours in an old New- York church yard; where /am led to investigations and meditations. In the earliest chapter of my life, speaking cf Wigglesworth, I alluded to the melancholy spectacle old-age, down at the heel, which we so often see in New York—the aged rem nants of former respectability and vigor— the seedy clothes, tho forlorn and half-starv ed aspect, the lonesome mode of life, when wealth and kindred had alike decayed or derserted. Such thoughts recurred naturally again to my mind as I and the old landlord descended from the hired back, and entered the gates of Trinity Church, to pay the last honors to the body of poor Wigglesworth, who, at a heavy cost, had the one engrossing wish to be buried there with his mother For his family, particularly on the maternal side, was of considerable rank, reduced as the old man had become. May tho aged clerk rest in peace there, in that vault in the midst of the clang and hub bub of the mighty city, whioh surrounds him on all sides! For his was a good nature; and from first to last, he had proved my firm friend. I often imagine him, even now that time has mellowed down his appearance—l often imagine him to be again shuffling around—his lips caved in upon a mouth be reft of teeth ; his white, thin hair, his bent shoulders, bis spectacles, and his dismally warm clothes. Again I say, may ho rest in peace there in the venerable church-yard! The better feeling of our times has crea ted ample and tasteful cemeteries, at a proper distance from the turmoil of the town; the elegant and sombre Greenwood, unsurpassed probably in the world for its chaste and ap propriately sober beauty; the varied aud wooded slopes of the cemetery of the Ever greens; and tho elevated and classic sim plicity of Cypress Hills. And correct sani tary notions have properly made interments in the city limits illegal, prohibiting them by a fine whioh is heavy enough to form an ef fectual bar, except in oases, as occasionally happens even yet, of a strong desire to be buried in a spot hallowed by past associations and the presence of ancestors; with an abil ity to pay the fine. Still, the few old grave-yards that lie in some of tho busiest parts of our city, are not without their lesson; and a valuable one. On the occasion of the old man’s scanty fune ral, after the others had departed, and I was left alone, I spent the rest of that pleasant, golden forenoon, one of the finest days in our American autumn, wandering slowly through the Trinity grave-yard. I felt in the humor, serious without deep. sadness, and I went from spot to spot, and sometimes copied the inscriptions. Long, rank grass covered my face. Over me was the verdure, touched with brown, of trees nourished from the de cay cf the bodies of men. The tomb-stone nearest me held this in scription ; “JAMES M. BALDWIN, “ Aged 22 years, “ Wounded on Lake Champlain .” By the date of the time of his wound, and als that of his death, both of which were given, on the stone, I knew that the latter took place about a year after the first. Here, then, lay one of the republic’s faithful children —faitnful to death. Was it—for I felt in a musing vein—hard for him to die .’ Hung round about his prospects a gay-colored future.’ Twenty-two; that was my own age—and, of Death, I shuddered instinct ively at the thought! For I felt that life, matter of fact as it was and ia in reality—l felt that to me it opened enjoyment and pleasure on every side. I was happy ia ray friends—happy in having Ephraim and Violet and Tom and Martha and Inez —every one of them! I was happy that I lived in this glorious New York, "where, if one goes without activity and enjoyment, it must be his own fault in the main. Truly, life is sweet to the young man.— Such bounding and swelling capacities for joy reside within him, and such ambitious yearnings. Health and unfettered spirits are his staff and mantle. He learns un thinkingly to love —that glorious privilege of youth! Out of tho tiny fractions of his experience, ho builds beautiful imaginings, and confidently looks for the future to real ize them. And then he is so sure of those future years. Was not, probably, such the spirit of the young man whose grave I now sat on.’ The shroud and the coffin for him ? Alas, so it was ordained. For nearly a year, fever burned his bleed, and sharp pains racked him, and then came the dismissal of obliv ion. In the northern part of the old grave-yard I found the tombs of a father and mother, natives of New York, with a numerous fami ly of their children. Haply, the whole of the chain, unbroken, was there. Various, as I saw by the dates, were the periods of their dying, they had all been brought here at last, some of them, no doubt, from distant places, and were there mouldering, but to gether. Human souls are as the dove, which went forth from the ark, and wandered far, and would repose herself at last on no spot save that whence she started. To what purpose has nature given men this instinct to die where they were born ? Exists there some subtle sympathy between the thousand men tal and physical essences which make up a human being, and the sources wherefrom they are derived ? Another inscription I found in the grave yard read thus; “EDWARD MARSHALL; "Died 1704.” The stone was low and uneven. The words appeared to have been obliterated by time, and then traced out again by some kindly hand 1704! at the time when those paragraphs are being printed, nearly a century and a half ago. Of the generations then upon the earth, probably not a person is living. What great events have happened too, since that time ! A nation of freemen has arisen, out stripping all ever before known in happiness, good government, and real grandeur. And even that star of Corsica which fitted like a glaring phantom across the world, now lies in no warmer a tomb, splendid as it is in the gay capital of France, than the one covered by that brown and age-decayed slab. Near the wall that divides the yard from Hector-street, I stopped by the grave of a man, who, in his time, was the sower of seeds that have brought forth ggod and evil. The burial stone tells the following story : “ TO THE MEMORY OF “ ALEXANDER HAMILTON. “The Corporation of Trinity Church have eject ed this Monument in testimony of their respect for the patriot of incorruptible integrity, the soldier of approved valor, the statesman of consummate wisdom, whose talents and virtues will he admired by a grateful posterity, long after this marble shall have mouldered into dust.” The circumstances of the death of Hamil ton, which took place July 12th, 1804, are well known. He was forty-seven years old. On the day of Ms funeral, the” Common Council, the Militia, the Clergy, the Bar, and the Society of the Cincinnati, with a mass of citizens, convened in Park Place, and while dire wishes of vengeance rankled in many a bosom, moved in solemn proces sion down Broadway to Trinity Church, whore Governeur Morris mounted a stage erected in the portico, and delivered a fune ral oration. The grief of Hamilton’s fami ly, who were present, seamed contagious; every eye was wet with tears. I may here add that I have once or twice in my time met the still living widow of the dead man —a lady whose aged form is constantly bu sied in works of kindness and benevolence. Nearer to Broadway is a broad, square, simply elegant mausoleum, on the slab of which is graved: “ MY MOTHER ; “ Too trumpet shall sound. And the dead shall rise.” A sweet epitaph, and the manifestation of a most sweet motive! In the farther corner of the yard was a ruined tomb, the bricks fallen down, aud the whole partly covered by a rough pine shed. But read the history inscribed upon it: “In memory of Capt. James Lawrence, of the U. S. Navy, who fell ou the first day of June ISIS, in the 32d year of his age, in the action between the frigates Chesapeake and Shannon. * * * * He hud distinguished himself oa various occasions, but particularly while com manding the sioop of war Hornet, by capturing arid sinking His Brit. Moj. sloop of war Pea cock, after a desperate action of 14 minutes. His bravery in action was only equalled by his modesty in triumph, and his m gnanimity to the vanquished. In private life, ho was a gentleman of the most generous and endearing qualities, and so acknowledged was his pnbl c worth that the whole na'ion mourned tis loss —and the enemy contended with his country men who most should do h m honor.” (On the opposite side ) “The here whose remains are hero deposited, with his dying breath expressed his devotion to his country. . . Neither the fury of bat tle—the anguish of a mortal wound—nor the horrors of approaching death—could subdue his gallant spirit, ilia dying'Tforfls wore, JJowt give up the ship /” [ln the present condition of the church and grounds, the remains of Lawrence have been removed from their distant corner, and now occupy a new and appropriate tomb, closo by Broadway, at the immediate left of the lower gate. The foregoing inscription has been transferred literally; and the posts at the corners of the new tomb aro formed of cannon planted there.] Lawrence ! the brave ideal of such as l— of all American young men! —what a day must that have be4n when he drew out of Boston harbor, and the hearts of his coun trymen beat high with the confidence of victory. What a moment, when, struck down by the enemy's fire—enveloped in smoke and blood—the sounds and sights of carnage around him on every side—he was borne from the deck, overcome but not con quered—his last thought, his last gasp, giv eu for his country! Taken by the generous victors to Halifax, his corpse was treated with those testimonials of illustrious merit which became his exalted courage, and the character of a people never niggard in their admiration of true patriotism. But not long could his beloved republic spare the re mains of a child so dear to her, and so fit to be a copy for her children His body was brought to New York and here the people buried him. Even his nearest friends wept not. Their hearts were not sad, but joyful. The flag he died for, wrapped his coffin— and he was lowered in that native earth whose boast is that she has nurtured such brave defenders as himself Sleep gently, Bold Sailor ! nor let it be thought presumptuous that many a youth of America, wandering near your ashes, feels that he could wish to emulate your devotion to your Native Land. More and more enamored with these re searches, I continued strolling for hours in the old place. Since the settlement of our i dand, this spot has never been used for a y other than religious purposes. Before 1696 there was but one Episcopal church here; and that, until 1740, the time of the Negro Plot, when it was burned, stood in the Port, now one of the favorite public grounds, the Battery. In 1690, Trinity was built; in 1737 it was enlarged, and in 1776 it was burnt down in the great fire which destroy ed a thousand houses, just after the battle of Brooklyn, the city falling into the hands cf the British. In 1788, when the country bad become somewhat settled from the Revolution, Trin ity Church was rebuilt, its dimensions being a hundred apd one feet by seventy-four—a great size for those days. But the immense wealth of the church corporation, and the gigantic progress of the city, encouraged the officers—it is, when this statement is read, not many years ago—to pull down what was not yet an old edifice, and erect the costly and superb pile that certainly forms one of the finest pieces of architec ture in the New World. While pursuing my meditations, the noon had passed, and the after-half of the day crept onward; and it was time for mo to close my ramble, and move homeward. 1 put my pencil and the slip of paper on which I had been copying, in my pocket, and took one slow and'last look around, ere 1 went forth again into the city, and to resume my interest in affairs that lately so crowded upon me. Out there in the fashionable thorough fare, how bustling was life, and how jaunti ly it wandered close along the side of.those warnings of its inevitable end How gay that throng along the walk ! Light laughs come from them, and jolly talk—those groups of well-dressed young men—those merry boys returning from school —Claris going home from their labors —and many a form, too, of female grace and elegance. Could it be that coffins, six feet below whore I stood, enclosed the ashes of like young men, whose vestments, during life, had engrossed the same anxious care—and schoolboys and beautiful women; for they too were buried here, as well as the aged and infirm. But onward rolled the broad, bright cur rent, and troubled themselves not yet with gloomy thoughts; and that showed more philosophy in them perhaps than such sen timental meditations »o any ifio reader nas been perusing. CHAPTER XX. I spend an evening in the perusal of the manuscript. Not a word from Covert, Was not the silence ominous? Bat any way, Martha was out of his power; and we had that im portant possession which is niae'poiuta of the law. E, hraim heard from Hohoken in the course of the day. All went smoothiyUhero. Na thaniel came in on his way home, to say that the office, with the exception of himself and his dog, was quite deserted, he also having received, from his master, no word or com maud that day. X did not altogether like this stillness, for I feared Covert’s craft, and, that there might be something behind, of which I was not yet aware. My reflections convinced me, how ever, that there was no bettor course for our side, than to keep quiet, and let the en emy make his move for himself. The hour was yet early when I retired to my room that night, and placed my lamp on the table. I had been pretty seriously im pressed with the occurrences of the past few days, and with the reflections in the grave yard of Old Trinity. I took from the drawer, where I had deposited it, the manuscript written by the unfortunate father of the Quakeress; for I felt that I was in a fitting temper to read it. When I had removed the envelope, and opened it, X found the manuscript written in a hasty and often scrawling manner, evident ly under the influence of- excitement. It was upon the strong stiff paper used many years since, and still remained in perfect preservation. That it interested me completely, and that I felt a deep sympathy for the unfortunate gentleman who had committed it to paper, is certain. Time and his punishment obliter ated any thing that might otherwise have been resentment in my feelings toward him j and his story came to me more like soma tning I might read in a book. The tone of the narrative is morbid, but under the circum stances that must of course be expected. (NARRATIVE OF MARTHA’S FATHER. Whoever yoh are, into whose bands this dismal story may fall —oh, let me hope that my daughter may read it, and drop a tear for her parent —whoever you are, whether daughter, friend, or stranger, I begin my narrative, written in prison, to while away the heavy hours and leave the chance of one little legacy of sympathy for myself, by a command. Look around you on the beautiful earth, the free air, sky, fields and streets —the peo ple swarming in all directions. —All this is common you say; it is not worth a thought I once supposed thus, like you. But I sup pose so no longer. Now all these things seem to me the most beautiful objects in the world To be free, to walk where you will— to look on freedom—to bo free from care, too—by which I mean, not to have your soul pressed down by the weight of horrible odi um or disgrace ; not to have a dreadful pun ishment hanging over you—o, that is hap piness. Happiness! Alas, what absurdities pass among men, under the name. Happiness : I am in prison, with death perhaps waiting for me; and I write some of my thoughts on happiness. Is thet-e, indeed, no specific for the enjoy ment of life ? Come we hero on earth but to toil and sorrow—to eat, drink, and beget children—to sicken and die ? In that world, the heart of man, glisten no sun-rays, and bloom no blossoms, as in the outer world ? And love, and ambition, and intellect, and wealth—fountains whence, in youth, we ex pect the future years to draw so much of this happiness—as their fruition comes, does not dit- appointment also come ? I would that the Devil in the garden of Eden had been made to tell the young man what it was that led to felicity. That in these modern days, the pursuits in which men engage with so much ardor—the men all around ue—do not reach it, is evident Wealth cannot purchase it. The newspa pers every month contain accounts of indi viduals, assuredly prosperous in all their pe cuniary affairs, and some of them young and healthy, wfyo in the very midst of what the poor think perfect bliss, have committed self-murder. The successful seeker after rank and place is not happy, —not from that success, at least. The most learned scholars are often the most melancholy men in the world. Beauty grieves and pines as much as the brain which wears a homely face. Ele gant dress frequently covers a sick soul — and the furniture of a handsome carriage may be but the trappings of misery. Then among the busier and more laboring kinds of people, the same general absence of happiness prevails. It seems reasonable that he whose existence is one uninterrupt ed struggle to keep off starvation by slavery aud hard work at that—should see but few bright days. But the man whose labors are effectual, fares little better. The mechanic, the ploughman, the literary drudge, are alike debarred from any delicious experience of that sweet morsel we so much prize, but never obtain. I am speaking now, not of the goodly gratifications of sense or every day tastes, which arc common enough—but of the attainment, at any time, to that con dition when a man can say to himself, I feel perfect bliss, I have no desire ungratified. Am I not philosophic, here in my grated walls ? Do you not see how keen my sight has become ? And truly it is a consolation, in this sort, to think what a miserable world it is. NEW " YORK, SUNDAY MORNING, APRIL 11, 1853. But I would not be miserable if I had one great weight off my soul, and were at liber ty again Now, when I am nigh leaving life, my eyes are just opened to its beauty; 0, what a cheap and common beauty! to be free, and to be not a criminal! For I have now also removed the greatest bar that once stood between me and happi ness ; that was a fiery temper. I have lost that now; I feel that if I should live a hun dred years, they would be a hundred.years without anger or revenge. How wild, how disconnected arc my tho’ts. How I talk of a hundred years! Shall I see, yet half a hundred days ? A fiery temper grew up in me from my birth Sly boyhood was fierce and uncon trolled ; my homo was not worthy the name; I had no home. Although parents oared enough for me to spend money liberally, and give me an almost unlimited indulgence that way, yet they did not furnish me what is most wanted from parents —good example, good counsel, and a true home-roof I was boarded, almost from the beginning, away in the country. For 1 had such a stormy temper; and my mother was nervous, and the servants would not stand it. And the father. Ah, he med dled himself with no such things, and did not even want to be spoke to about them. Was he not at all the expense ? Could he not fairly count that enough ? Besides, 1 was to inherit his property ; that must sat isfy me. It wore too much to expect that he should give up his time for my education, and the shaping of my character liven the death of my mother, which occurred when 1 was a half grown boy, made no difference in his treatment. Such are what the world calls good pa rents ; for they do not beat their children, nor starve them. They leave them estates too, and what doos.a child want more than money ? When I grew up to be a young man, I was rude, boisterous, and ungovernable. Already I had fallen into many scrapes, from my vii - lent temper: but they were none of them hard enough to teach me the great lesson 1 needed. My temper wts nude, indeed,ra ther more unbearable from them; for 1 emerged victorious after all. One gleam of sunshine came across my life, and, for a time, subdued me into gentler con dition, Love tamed me from my roughness. She was herself a being of peace and calm ness—she whom I loved ; aad her influence brought into my temperament something o) the same soothing qualities. She was o) Quaker family ; and perhaps it was that the very tameness to which she had been accus tomed gave my free and independent manner the charm of freshness, to her taste. For my affection was returned, truly and faithfully. She did not chance to see the worse phases of my character. Her very presence was soothing and pacifying. For never did I dissemble. I acted always as I felt; and had tho occasion provoked, not even the knowledge of what an ungracious look it would possess in her eyes, could have kept down my rebellious temper. My father had an attack of illness at this time whioh, in the course of a few weeks, was pronounced hopeless. I did not mourn; for what reason had I ? Ho called me to him before he died, and, at the eleventh hour, gave me some good advice. Some good ad vice—some words! Doubtless they were very valuable—those words ; but thby were nothing but words. After the tree has grown up, with the bend in its trunk, and the shape of its branches formed, would it do to stand before it and preach a sermon of good advice ? Would it change that bend, or *he gnarled branches ? But a few months passed away after my father’s death, when I found myself married and comfortably settled. Ah, those wore my happiest days. These tears that roll down my cheeks while I write, attest it. They arc not bitter tears. The time of which they arc the remembrance, is the only gleam of pure light in the course of my past career of clou dy chequered fortune. And, sweet as it was—that long continued honey moon —the saving freshness it brings to me now, is per haps the moat beautiful part of it! ItOlu mines tills prison eell. n bestows a cnarmeu atmosphere even in these sad and sombre walls. A child, too, blessed our marriage, a fair daughter. May she be blessed, in her life, with something of that blessing which she brought to us. May she live, and, when she looks back on these dismal days, and thr tears drop for her ill fated father, ah, then perhaps tho story of my life will have its of fice in her mind. I commenced this document with some gloomy thoughts on happiness. But gloomy as they arc, and fitted for my present situa tion, I am almost tempted to blot them out. The memory of tho twenty months that followed my marriage is a full denial of him who would say there is no happiness on earth. Surely my good genius was in the ascendent all that time. Oh bow scon was it to be followed by a thunderstroke ! There was a man of my own age, but poor and hardy, whom I had known while we were boys together, when I was boarding in the country. He had in many things been my friend ; but, even when youngsters, we fre quontly quarrelled, for ho never would sub mit to my domineering temper. He belonged to what are termed the common classes, aud, as I had wealth, perhaps it was that whiob separated us afterward. For I met him often in the city to which he had himself oome, and was earning his living, in a poor way. Illit erate, hard-working, and married to an or dinary and rather shiftless woman, he was not much worse off, when his wife died and left him a widower with a little infant son. My evil genius it was that put this man in my way. His hard life had formed him to a temper as morose as mine was fiery. He oo cupied part of a moan dwelling close in thi neighborhood of my own costly residence; and various causes conspired to bring us into contact. I had not thought of it before; but it seemed to me now, notwithstanding the little services of friendship which ho had per formed for me, that there had always been some seeds of antipathy between ns. He made sarcastic remarks about my appearance and manners. He thought I was, from vul gar pride, unwilling to acknowledge the for mer intimacy with him. He was mistaken in the cause, althongh right in his conolu siou. 1 gave out a contract to make some addi tions and repairs on my premises; and this man was engaged by the contractor, in a laboring capacity, among his workmen. I was too proud to utter a word about it; but his appearance was greatly annoying to me. He took a bitter advantage, too, of the posi tion he had, relative to mine; and often was I conscious of his sneers and jibs, as I passed along, followed by the suppressed laughter of the workmen. This was all a trifle, it may seem; and so indeed it was. But that man made, to me, the Jew Bitting in the King’s gate; a living mockery to my pride. One time when his remarks were coldly insolent to my face, 1 swore to him that if he repeated his unprovoked outrages, I would dash him to the earth. He laughed tauntingly, but, at that time replied not a word. I was conscious, at the while, that I cut a poor figure before the men who surrounded us; and that added to my vexation. A few days after—o dismal hour! —l went through' the newly building part, with the boss, giving directions and receiving explan ations of the proposed work. We had got through talking and I was about to leave the place, when I heard one of this man’s sar casms upon me—upon my pride, and even about some peculiarities of my person The boss had left, unfortunately; although the workmen were all around. I suppressed my anger, which was suddenly rising; and even turned to leave the place. I had to pass my enemy on the way. He enjoyed his triumph, and just as I was pasaingihim.he coolly and deliberately spoke to me words of still deeper and more pro voking influence than ever he had uttered before; and directly addressed them to-ma. with the evident design of cutting me to til quick. My blood was already afire in my veins; and this maddened me. I hardly remember now with sufficient distinctness what passed. I think I had gone a couple of slops beyond where the man stood ; but the fury was too much, then. 1 turned, mado one spring upon him, and, in the rage of my anger wrenched from his hand the mallet he had been working with, and dealt him a blow directly on the top of the head! My arm was unnaturally nerved by an in sane ferocity. It was the stroke of death. He fell like a log, and I stood there a mur derer ! The ensuing few hours are like a hateful and confused dream to me. 1 was neither asleep nor awake. I felt a fort of numbness, and remember closing and’ shutting my eyes incessantly. I did not stir from the spot, during the horror, and outcries, end hurry and dread of the immediate half-hour that followed the murder. I stood and looked on ’the poor follow’s body, and I thought, strangely enough, of us two, when wo were boys together; when we had often gone out fishing, and swimming, and gunning to gether. I thought of the services he had done mo, and remembered what a brave boy he was, and bow, in any trouble, ho never deserted me then, but stood as staunch as steel. Even the little incidents of our country life oamc up before mo ; our friendship—the fences where we crossed —the orchards —the shores —the old leaky scow—the hickory poles that we used for fishing rods. Could it be that I, now, was the murderer of that boy ? Even the thought of my own condition, and of my wife ana little daugh ter, were irowded aside by such remem brances as these ; they came slowly and tur gidly thaiing through the current of my mind. A wild despairing shriek—it rings in my ears nov!—roused me from my reverie. Oh, that terrible cry ; it was the agony of a bro ken hrarted wife—of a soul crushed to pow der, by one stroke! She breathed my name whispered it fainlly and lovingly. Her ghastly face, with a frightful dampness upon it, turned toward me, and yearningly in the weakness of her sinews, endeavored to reach up to my own sweating features. I lifted her, pressed one long tight kiss upon her lips, and then re signed her inanimate form to those, who bore her to the bed where she lay unconscious of life or sorrow tor twice twenty hours. Then this pure souled creature died as a flower might wilt of a chilly evening, silently, and without complaint. I made no effort to escape, aad think I did not utter a word to the officers who guarded mo to prison. An awful blank seemed to spread through the mental part of mo ; cold —oold as ice, .rithout any action, or object, or warmth It was nov painful —at least, not beyond a dull, dcadtned sense of some thing like fulness whioh oppressed my head One hour! what a change it had made for me. I was not treated with any roughness, ei ther by the crowd who gathered quickly to the spot, or by the polioeuen. Some of the work people gave a true statement of the in solence of the poor fellow I had slain, and how it was done in the Bidden fury of the moment. They made the case as favorable to me as they could, and the appearance, and overwhelmed sorrow of my poor wife, completed the work of compassionate feeling toward mo. Tears fell dowi many a weather beaten cheek, and haply mmy a silent pray er was offered up for the wretched young man whose days were darkened with even a drearier fate than had befallen the poor vic tim there. And so, I was in prison, i murderer. For my wife’s death I felt no deep regret; to die was less grief than tt live, I knew, in her case. Ah ! was it not s« in my own ? The law, which is often cruel in minor ac cusations, is seldom so in great onos. I have been treated fairly and honorably here in my prison. Whatever indulgence could pro perly bo given has not been denied me.— There is a noble pity that frequently actu ates jailers and officers of the law, toward the wretched ones who como under their charge, on their path to heavy punishment —a pity, beautiful and honorable to their characters, and showing well in them. This compassion 1 experienced throughout, and it made mo think better of my kind. Aft»r ttc fimt acHUemog numuing mgnt passed, the next morning, when the day dawned upon me hero where I am now writ ing, I was a changed man. I felt composed enough, and indeed was without any of that anxious dread which might bo supposed na tural to one in my situation. At tho same time, I was fully conscious of that situation It was all present to me, and I comprehended every point of it. The crimp, its legal pun ishment, the poor victim, my family, the lamentable violence of my former temper, the scene and incidents of the murder, the best points in my behalf—all wore clearly arrayed before my thought. My former temper, I say; for I looked back, now, upon that as pertaining to a separate existence that, under any conceivable circum stances, it was mine no longer. The ser pent had cast his slough. A legal agent whom 1 had formerly em ployed, I picked out from several whose names I turned over in my mind, and sent for him. He was an honorable man, I felt sure, from his conduct when I employed him. Much to my sorrow, he was absent on a voyage of considerable distance. An an swer to this effect has been brought me by a lawyer, who, some years ago, had studied, he tells me, in the office of tho absent attor ney. Would it not be a good thought to en gage this man, for some of my small com missions at least ? I questioned myself. His countenance is impassive; but ho is a Qua tvvl ) OUtl client- itouv i vwaiuiclltlo tv mv • * I have commissioned the man, whose name is Covert, to see to the decent burial of my poor victim, and have given him written authority, and command of fuids, for that, aud a few other purposes. Many of my hours are occupied with the arrangement of my worldly affairs; for there has oome to me a notion, amounting to a certainty, that I am dying! Friends to whom I have mentioned this fsar, endeavor to chase it away by saying that it is the re sult of my brooding thoughts; and that such vagaries often oome into the muds of people under a groat dread. Ido not answer them, but I feel none the less the certainty of my death. Nor is it painful to me. [Here a blank, the next pari of the man uscript being on another page ] My will has been duly drawn up with minuteness. I have left the bulk of my for tune to my daughter, and a goodly portion ef it, properly secured, to the child of my victim. Covert comes to me every day. He strongly advises me to make preparations for my trial, to engage tho best legal talent, and so forth. He almost sneers at me, when I answer that nothing of the sort is needed. He is a doubtful creature—this, neither old nor young lawyer; I harlly know what to make of him. Upon the whole, however, I have concluded to trust him; he is now thoroughly advised of my intentions and affairs, lam particularly induced, to make him my friend; for his wife, much older than himself, who is gentle and good, if there bo any such qualities on earth, has shown the tendercst affection for my little child, whom sbo has consented to take charge of. She has no children, and treats my poor helpless one with all a mother’s affection. * * * The day approaches. 1 have made all my preparations, and I feel now calmer than at any time since I have dwelt in this prison. Should I think of any thing more I will add it; if not, let whoever reads this dark story know that I experience, while I write, more composure and rest than any day I recall during the years of my ordinary life, with the exception of my marriage time I do not doubt that I am dying. My little daughter; may Heaven protect her unprotected childhood. May God pity me, and may I continue to feel this soothing calm to the last. [Here was a long blank; and the para graph that follows was written evidently by another hand, at another time ] The prayer uttered in the last linos by my dear and unfortunate friend was not in vain Ho retained his equanimity, and his forebod ings were strangely verified. The day set down for his trial found him dead; that very day he was committed to tho grave. He charged me with the narrative he had writ ten, and intended for bis daughter, should she live, as he had every confidence she would, and grow to womanhood. [The remaining part of the paper, which filled several pages, in tho same hand as the last paragraph, consisted of some references, legal data, and religious advice; all of which would not be of interest.] Concluded next week. Queen Victoria.—Victoria the First is niece of William the Fourth, who was a brother of George the Fourth, who was son of George the Third, who was grandson of George the Second, who was son of George the First, who was cousin of Anne, who was the sister-in-law of William the Third, who was son-in-law of James the Second,who was brother of Charles the Second, who was son of James the First, who was the cousin of Elizabeth, who was the sister of Mary, who was the sister of Edward the Sixth, who was the son of Henry the Eighth, who was the son of Henry the Seventh, who was the cousin of Richard the Third, who was the uncle of Edward the Fifth, who was the son of Edward the Fourth, who waS- the cousin of Henry i the Sixth, who was the son of Henry the Fifth, who was the son of Henry the Fourtk, who was tho cousin of Richard the Second, who was the grandson of Ed ward the Taird, who was the son of Edward the Second, who was the son of Edward the First, who was the sou of Henry tho Taird, who was the son of John, who was the brother of Richard the First, who was the son of Henry the Second, who was the cousin of Stephen, who was the cousin of Henry the First, who was the brother of William Rufus, who was the son of William the Con queror. The Eagle. —The eagle, as an emblem is not as is generally supposed of Roman ori gin. Xenophon desoriora the sceptre of the Persian kings as “a long staff, surmounted by an eagle with spread wbgs ” According to Aristophanes the sceptres of Menclaus and Agamemnon were also surmounted with eagles. The wolf of Romulus and Re mus was the emblem of the Romms before the adop tionof the eagle. The Etruscans brought the first eagle mounted sceptre to Rome, in the time of Tarquin the Elder. The kings who succeeded him adopted tie symbol, a practice which was finally consecrated by the Emper ors. In 18:10, a bronze tagie weighingeight pounds, was discovered in a little village in Germany, among tie ruins of an old Roman fortification. The cabinet of Vienna possesses a cameo, representing on one side the head of Augustus and on the other an eagle holding in his claws a crown of oak leaves. The eagle, with one or more heads, is now the national emblem of Prussia, Aus tria, Russia France, and the United States. A white eagle was the emblem of Poland during its days of prosperity aad glory. SONGS FOII TUE SENTIMENTAL. BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOOK. So. I—“ The Secret Sorrow.” Hudson Biver! Hudson River ! By thy beauteous barks of green, With a troubled heart 1 wander, And a sad and joyless mien; Mu-ing by the glancing waters Of tby bosom, fair and wide; O’er whose surface, swifo as lightning, White sails hourly glance aad glide. River never seaward wended With a beauty half so rare, As thy faoo assumes for ever, Silver Hudson, broad and fair 1 But 1 mark not, ia my sorrow, And 1 heed not, in my woe, All the rich and varied beauties Toat tby waters houily show; Light of foot and j yoae-hearted, As of yore I do not rove Building up my airy oastles Oo a dream of hope aid love; Frion ship has net launched tho arrow That now rankles in my breast, — JglLu’s heart is still as loving, But there’s nought can give me rest. Hudson River ! Hudson River! Would that i were laid asleep, In the spring of my existence, ’Neath thy waters c lear and deep; Woo is mo 1 no mortal knowoth What this sad heart fain would tell— But from f ar of- cruel chiding It h»'h kept its secret will; But to day tne task is over. And I’ve only got to s»y — Tho :,r, watch and chain are spouted, And that this is auction day 1 TUE IRISH EMIGRANTS. Header! does it ever strike you, when you behold a noble vessel riding up your beau teous bay, crowded with human beings, with anxious looks and heavy breasts, that poor, ematiated, wretched and miserable though they appear, they have within them hearts as tender, end souls as pure as the gentle breeze of a summer eve ? Or think you even that they have left behind them, in their Eastern home, loved ones, dear ones, fond ones, for whom they sigh and who will sigh for them, for days, for weeks, forever ; or that when they snatched themselves from that land, or from those loved objects, they were guilty of shedding even a parting tear ! Few there are, it is true, who entertain such thoughts; who for a moment, allow their minds to set on such a second-rate subject, or who even stay to gaze on the care worn emigrant, unless it is to indulge their risibil ity. To prove to such individuals that-aL the—u a mono or nudity he IB still a man, I will give a brief account, from personal experience, of the departure of the emigrant from his native land, and take a glance at his arrival in New York. Being in the city of Dublin in the early part of 1848—a year of painful reminiscences to all true sons of the Green Isle —and having often heard of the affecting scenes which take place at that port on the departure of an emigrant vessel for New York, I resolved to bo not only a witness of all that might occur, but n passenger on board the first ship that would sail. With this determination, I took passage in May, on board a vessel advertised for the first of June, and having settled my affairs, made good my time in bidding fare well to my hospitable friends, and recon noitering old Dublin, from the Shades of Clontarf to the Green of Donnybrook. And such a time as I had; such a month of un alloyed pleasure; of fun, of frolic, of mirth, of laughter, of endeaiing wishes and heart felt blessings, I never more can have unless I re-visit Dublin. But I have digressed. It was Tuesday morning, June 6th, as the Blue Peter waved from the least of the Brit ish ships Juno;' 1 along the quays, from Caro line Bridge to the Custom House, one dense mass of men, women, and children, were wending their way to catch one last glance of some old endearing friend, father, son or husband. I stood on the quarter-deck, an inaotivejspcotator, when a respectable-look ing man, about middle age, approached a juuug mail) nutt iV/tUiug h -iu» in ixia »xuaO) ao the large tears rolled from his eyes, ex claimed: “My son! in a few hours you will be far away from the advice of your poor father; yet the same sun which sheds hie luster over your head, will also pour his rays over mine; and, when you think on this, remember the counsels of him whom you may never see mure. Be sober; remember your God, and your father’s prayers will unceasingly be offered up to heaven for your protection.” The young man wept bitterly —and the poor parent, unable to stand the scene longer, snatched himself from him, and in an instant was lost in the crowd. But, lo ! the first bell has tolled—the first warn ing given—and eyes which long were stran gers to tears are now swollen with grief; nearts which were reputed to be of adamant were now susceptible of feeling; and strangers as they beheld the'fond mother giving up her child to the care of the God of the main, or the lovely maiden parting with her be trothed, pledging anon their undying love, and sealing their vows with embraces which gladdened even heaven, or the old school triend—the companion of more happy hours, bidding a last farewell—could not remain unmoved. Now tolls the second bell; the cheers of men and the lamentations of women rend the air; all hands are ordered forward; the third bell tolls! —the last, the dying knell!—the gangway is removed; and the Captain’s hoarse voice is hoard above the din, as he gives the word of command : “ Man the windltss—hoist the anchor;” whilst the gallant tars, as they obey their orders, with stentorian volets merily sing : “ With a will—ho! then pall away jolly boys;* At the mercy of fortune we go, For to be down hearted—what fo ly, boys ; Then heave up, lads—yo, heave ho! Off she goes, and ff she must go, O row, we roll and go ! Brace her up, and then she must go, 0 row, we roll and go !” Now wo commenced to glide gently down the bay. Along the quay the myriads follow us; from the windows aud house-tops we are hailed with ten thousand deafening cheers; hats and handkerchiefs wave from every hand; and the rush becomes still more tre mendous, as each endeavors to behold once more some friend who is mounted in the rig ging. They can come no farther; wo have arrived at the light-house, and commence to move more swiftly on, with tho cheers and prayers of those on shore ringing in our ears as wo recede from their sight. At length wo are lost to their view, and in a few hours, with a fair wind and merry crow, are on our way for the promised land. The day has passed, and a melancholy gloom hangs over each countenance, as the bright orb of heaven is setting in tho east ern horizon. Who that has witnessed the swollen eyes and heaving breasts —who that has heard the deep sighs of anguish, or gaz ed on tho exile as he watched tho last glimpse of his fatherland, that has not recalled to his memory the soul-inspiring lines of By ron ? “ Adien, adieu! my native shore. Fades o’er the waters blue ; The night winds sigh—the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild seamew. Yen (tin that seta unon the s.a Wo follow ia hia flight; Farewell awhile to him end thee, My Native Land, Good Night!” The night flees away, the morning comes, and speed we on. The novelty of the scene, and the jests of the sailors, have made mat ters assume a more pleasing aspect, and by degrees we have buffeted both storm and en nui, have passed Cape Clear, and for the first time are in blue waters, ’mid dolphins, por poises, and Mother Cary’s Chickens. The time passes merrily on till we arrive off the Banks of New Foundland, when we become solicitous about land, and think more seri ously on our position. Nothing of more interest than is usual on a voyage across the Western Ocean occurs till, after wo have taken the pilot on board, wo first sec sight of the glorious shores of our futuro home. But who can describe the scene 1 Who can portray the unbounded joy which glows on each countenance; the heart felt prayers whioh are silently offered up to heaven; the enthusiasm which prevails; or the ebullitions of friendship whioh charac terise so strongly those pilgrims from their Island homo ? And now wo come to the close of our long and tedious journey. The good ship rides up your bay; wo have anchored; aid, with light heart, and burning patriot ism, for the first time place our feet on the shores of your Washington—“ the home of the brave, and the land of the free.” Good reader! I have endeavored, though imperfectly, for it would take an abler pen than mine, to give you some-idea of the Irish emigrant's farewell to his native land. I have proven to you that ho is not altogether an outcast; that he has feelings warm and strong; that he has love, admiration, and sympathy; and I have carried him across the blue waves of the Atlantic, and landed him on your shores, teeming with all the comforts which, from the misgovernment of his own Eastern homo, he has been, comparatively speaking, a stranger; and, moreover, I have endeavored to prove to you how ardently he loves your happy laud, and his thanks to the Almighty for enabling him to breathe pure ly the free fresh air whioh from North to South flows fragrantly over Its bosom, “Sweet as the essence from Oraby the blest!” And may I not now ask is not this eon of hope sadly min take a in the estimate he has made of our hospitality —of our philanthropy I He believes that we arc Republicans; he has • These lines, though not exactly the f&irest speoi men of nautical poetry, have a very powerful effect on the bystanders when sang by a merry crew. been taught from his tendercst years to be lieve such; he knows the price at which our liberty was achieved; the years of toil, struggling, perseverance, and endurance, it cost our forefathers to rear it up. “All men,” he moreover thicks, we believe, “are born equal”—but be thinks not so long- at least so far as Iriehmcn»arc concerned. A few days suffice to set him right; a glance at some of our city journals, and a standing look at some of our Aristocratic Republi cans, (what a name— Aristocratic Republi cans .') prove to him that we do not believe that “ all men are born equal!” Taking a review of men passing well to do, from the Wall street btoker to the ladies’ jackanapes behind a counter in a dry goods store, hp perceives that, with few exceptions, they arc as thoroughly stuffed with vanity as a coun try milliner. As time passes by, he has foriiled no better opinion of us; he cannot. He is daily insulted in the name of his coun try ; he is jeered and sneered at by those in every way bis inferior, and in many cases he is given to understand that ho to a race of hypoorit’cal cowards. And this ho is told, by men have never read a page of the history of his country, nor, for aught he knows, of any other. Yet, though thus insulted, ho ceases not to entertain the same good feeling towards the Union, and in all cases is one of its most able supporters. He has felt the stiug of despotism, and knows the value to be set on a rotten, imbecile aris tocracy ; and when he beholds the brainless, false moustached, moneyed clowns who, pea cook like, strut along Broadway, with jaws too barren to rear the down of manhood ; countenances —pardon me for calliog them such!—hard as ring-tailed monkeys, and painted red as Indian Squaws’; drum-stick legged, horse-collared, and “shoveT’-hatted ; he bitterly regrets that these foreign imita tors —these French dancing masters —these runners after every thing whioh bears a name they cannot pronounce—or who bawl some high-toned notes they cannot compre bend, nor never want to, merely because they are fashionable; —those kid gloved, lady-killing, would-be-victimising, diseased Civil Cats, had ever cursed the soil of free dom with their feet, or polluted the breeze of liberty with their breath. Yet these are the pampered creatures who unblushingly traduce the fair name of the immigrant; the pseudo-republicans; the pa rasites of courtly cxoresenc®, whose morality is drawn from Parisian life, and whom some call Gentlemen Republicans. But, let me come to the point and close. — Which of the two, the Civil Cat or the hard working Irishman, is the truest Republican ? Whioh of the most service to tbe country ? Sanj patriotism?with friend ship, and charity glowing in his bosom, :s worth one thousand of such ignis Jatuus. In every way he is of more service, take him what way you will; but though he is, and although he is universally acknowledged to be such, he is still looked on by those who deem themselves his superiors as little bet ter than a white nigger —save at the ap proach of elections, when he is, with political gamblers, the par excellence of all perfec tion. . ~ , But this, like every other prejudice, must fade away. In New York it is carried farth er—perhaps from it being the depot of immi gration—than any other place I know or; but, yet, I am happy to say, that for the number who look on them with jealousy and hatred, there is still as large a number of our finest men who hail their arrival on our shores in its proper spirit; who believe that though many of them come nude and penni less, and may not be the most pleasing ob i set to admit into the presence of a Broad way belle, yet that they bring wealth in their sinews, strength in their muscles, and with these will rear up cities where the lace of man is as yet a stranger; penetrate into regions which we know of but by name; bring forth the hidden treasure ot the bosom of our soil; raise the standard of liberty wherever they plant their feet; teach their children to reverence it, and, if need be, to sacrifice their lives in defence of the land for which so many heroes have bled; in defence of the land over which Liberty s God has showered so many blessings! Baroniub. DOUBLE MARRIAGES, AGAIN. Several letters have reached us, since the publication of the articles relating to the law of marriage, bigamy, etc,, that have lately appeared in our columns, asking ad ditional and more specific information. As ours is not a law office, that information cannot be given. but we have a few woijds more to say on the subject, and a couple »f instances to cite additional to the Clayton case, published in a former number. It is not safe to attempt to give anything like a general rule of law, applicable to these cases, in classes. The whole tenor of the opinions of Courts, and their decisions, seems to show, that, after all, each case de pends mainly upon its own peculiar circum stances. In the Clayton case, our own com mon-sense opinion is in favor of the view taken by Chief Justice Bronson, and Judges Gardener and Jewett. But a majority of the eight Judges of the Court of Appeals held the other way; and of course, that stands as the decision. The two following oases, which wfi have copied from the books, will furnish some ad ditional light, for those who seek illumina tion. And indeed it is by such specific sp plications of the law that any of our read rrs who take an interest in the mnttcr, can best (jisoover the bearings of it. Wo think moreover, that these cases are interesting as illustrations of the entire inefficiency of legal restrictions, when carried too far, in the relations between men and women. The first is the Cass of the People vs Hum phrey, before the Supreme Court of the Ttate of Now York. Nov 1810, »« in the7tb vol. of Johnson’s Reports, page 211: The prisoner, Humphrey, had been indict ed and tried at the Court of Oyer and Ter miner, in Ulster county for bigamy. His marriage, (claimed to be the second, and making the crime,) with A. L., in the then August last, was duly proved. Boon after ward, a person calling herself Elizabeth Humphrey, and claiming to be the previous wife of the prisoner, appeared before a Jus ties of the Peace, and charged the prisoner with bigamy. . , ... On the examination before the magistrate, Humphrey acknowledged that Elizabeth, who was then present, was his wife, and that they had been married about four y ears before The counsel for the prisoner, when, in due time the case come before the regular court, objected that the evidence of the confession of Humphrey of his first marriage, was not sufficient proof of a marriage in fact; but (in the Ulster Oyer and Terminer) the ob jection was overruled, and the prisoner was convicted. Judgment, however, having been suspen ded, Humphrey was brought up to the Su preme Court on Habeas Corpus; and the question for the consideration of the Court was, whether the prisoner could bo convict ed of bigamy on his own confession out of court, without aby other evidence of a mar riage in fact. The argument of the counsel for the pns-, oner rested on decisions of Lord Mansfield that, in prosecutions for bigamy, or actions for crim. oon. a marriage in fact must bo proved. The same doctrine was recognised in other oases And the Supreme Court rul ed that the confession of Humphrey was not sufficient evidence. The prisoner was dis charged. , _ , . . Next we have the case of Reed agains. Fenton, before the Supreme Court of the State of New York, February, 1809, as con tained in Johnson’s Reports, vol. 4 th, page This case came up from the Justices Court in New York city. The plaintiff claimed to be the lawful widow of William Reed, and, as such, entitled to an annual payment from a certain Provident Society of which Wil liam Reed had been a member. Fenton, for the Society denied that the plaintiff was such lawful widow. It appeared that, in 1785, the plaintiff was the lawful wife of John Guest. Some time in that year Guest loft the State, for foreign parts, and continued absent until 1792 ; and it was reported, and generally believed, that be had died. Accordingly, in 1792, the plaintiff marri ed William Reed But soon after Guest re turned, and continued in the State till 1800, when he died. He did not object to the con nection between the plaintiff and Reed; but said that he had no claim upon her, and ne ver interfered to disturb the harmony be tween them. Thus, after the death of Guest, the plain tiff and Reed continued to cohabit, until Reed’s death, in 1806; sustaining, mean while a good reputation in eooic.y. But no solemnization of marriage was proved to have taken place between the two, subsequent to the deatn of Guest. Upon these facts the Justices’ Court had decided that the marriage with Reed was not meretricious or void, and that the plaintiff was entitled to the annuity. Against which decision it was contended that the statute concerning bigamy only purged the felony, and did not legalize the second marriage with Reed, whioh, after the return of Guest, was meretricious; that, though the subsequent cohabitation with Reed, as his wife, after Guest’s death, was sufficient to charge him with her debts, as her husband, yet that, when the wife comes in and claims a right as wife or widow, she must prove a marriage in fast, and that the continuance of the oohab itation was not sufficient. On these facta and points, the Supreme Court held that the marriage of the plaintiff with William Kefd, during the life-time of Quest, her husband, was null and void, and of no legal avail whatever Such was the uniform and well settled rule of the common law. The statute concerning bigamy does not render the second marriage legal, not withstanding the former husband or wife may have been absent about five years, and not heard of. It only declares that the party who marries again, in consequence of such absence of the former partner, shall bo exempted from such operation of the statute, and leaves the question of the validity of the second marriage just where it found it. Elizabeth Reed, then, was really the law ful wife of Quest, aud continued so'until the death of the latter, in 1800; and the true question is, whether there was evidence suf ficient to justify the Court below in conclud ing that she was afterward married to Reed Though the court below may have decided upon erroneous grounds, yet if, upon the return, there appear to be other and tuf ficient reasons to justify their decision, the judgment ought te be affirmed. There isno proof of any subsequent marriage in fact, and no evidence of any solemnization of the ceremony with Reed, after Guest’s death. But proof of an actual marriage is not in dispensably neoosssary. Such strict proof is only required in prosecutions for bigamy, and in actions for criminal conversation. A marriage may be proved, in other cases, from cohabitation, reputation, acknowledgment of the parties, reception in the family, and other circumstances from which a marriagi may be inferred. No formal solemnization was requisite. A contract of marriage made per verba tie presenti, amounts to an actual marriage, and is as valid as if made in facie ecclesia. In this case there existed strong circum stances from which a marriage subsequent to the death of Guest might be presumed The parties cohabited together as husband and wife, and under the reputation and un derstanding that they wore such, from 1800 to 1806, and the wife, during this time, sustained a good character in society. Those are sufficient grounds to infer an actual mar riage. Judgment of the court below, favorable to Elizabeth Reed, and ordering the payment of the annuity to her, affirmed ODD FELLOWS’ ASYLUM. The erection of an asylum for anp®rrm.>» Hid. nrctt' rr -’ -'■C *R» A i.. 1— of Odd Fellows, as well as a home for its widows and orphans, was suggested by Long Island Lodge to the Order a short time ago, and through the exertions of its members a convention of delegates from various subor dinates was a couple of weeks since held in Brooklyn. A plan which contemplated the purchasing of land within a short distance of the city, on which comfortable residences might be erected, for the reception of those who imperatively required the benefits-of the order, was predented. After considers blc discussion, a committee was appointed to draft a report and resolutions embodying the general ideas considered by the convention, and this report we give our readers. Oh Monday evening last a special committee was appointed by the Grand Lodge, to report at an early day on tnis important movement Although there arc many defects in the re port we do not think it within our province at present to point them out. The suggestions are generally very good, and with a little more consideration and pruning down, may be made to work to the advantage and honor of the Order. The Committee, in their re port, say ; That they are united in. the opinion, that the time has arrived in the life of the Ind pendent O der of Odd-Fellows, when the practical utidtj of its beneficent principles should be expanded, and made manliest as permanent; not because the Institution is now dol.g a vast amount, ol good in its present practical operations—not that it does not redeem its pbdg-s to the living ao coidirg to its Constitution—but because it hat capabilities to do more ; and many of its member have expressed desires to do more ■■ —and where there is ability and fdesiro to enlarge the sphere of Benevolence it appears to your Committee to be a duty which wo owe to God, Humanity, and our professed Principles, to he!p onward every good wot k. in considering the particular subject submitted to your Committee—the establ sament of at Asylum for aged worthy Brethren, and the Widows and Orphans bereft of tho meaoeof com fortable support—wo find it to be in harmony with the spirit, of tho age, and of the community in which we live—that it is happily adapted ti ■ upply a deficiency which has income apparent to many of our Brethren who lock forward to the time when the vicissitudes of fortune, the f-oble noss of age, or tho severance - of the f eble thread uf life, may leave themselves, their Brethren, or their dearest earthly dependents to the (at pros ent) undefined bountv of onr Order, or to the tu artless charities of the public authorities. Other Institu ion a having the same clject, in part, and supported nearly altogether by annual contributions of the charitable, continue 1 o flour ish w.thout d. oaijenco:— such a» Orphan Asy ums, Half Orphan Asylums Retreats for re speorable aged Ladies. &c , &o. The object your Committee have been in structed to consider is, tho establishment of an Asylum, on a permanent basis, f r persons hav ing recognized claims on our Order—respectable aged Brethren, Widows and Orphans. All whose views we have heard, and which your Committee have also adopted, contemplate the purchase ot a tract of good laud, in tho vicinity of tho City of New York, with buildings which mat be ex tended as required, for the accommodation ot the b nefioiaties. There ail those who desire to avail themselves of tho means provided, ere to bo placed ; —not to indulge in luxurious idleness, nor to be subjected to the reproach of pauperism; but every one according to their capacity, age and strength must aid m making their living We pow proceed to examine these points sep arately : A tract of good land in the vicinity of tho City of New York may bo, as is believed, ob tained a reasonable price—say 50 acres—(more lather than lose,) at aboat SIOO an acre. It should bo within the reach of tho Fraternity on a summer day’s excursion, that it may be in spected, and its operations understood by all its supporters audjrionds, that it may not be sub jected to miscepres ntation nor neglect It should bo made a.w. rking establishment, and, so far as possible, a self-supporting estab lishment. Many means of employment will pre. sent themselves, which do not now occur to your committee—but they may mention a Market Garden; a Nnrseryof Fruit and Flower Trees. Shrubs and Plants ;a. Da ry; tho keeping of Poultry, Pigs, Bees, &o ; and if the tract be largo enough a portion might bo sot apat for a Cemetery. Household occupations might also be provided—light manu actures, such as needle work in its varieties, wicker and straw work.— in such occupations, every one would feel and appreciate the happiness and comforts of homo, without any feeling of degradation, which, to cultivated and son itive minds would bo more grievous and hard to be borne than the struggle of Poverty. For tho Children a sound practical education should bo provided, end the school so established as to be entitled to the aid of tho State. Some of tho most noble and munificent of our public charities have failed for want of this condition of work. One cf the most inte resting may he mentioned, which wae located on the shore of Long Island, near Hell Gate. If tho public authorities had given employment to the three or four hundred boys who were placed on what was called the Long Island Farm, those Boys might have provided their own living on that beautiful retreat, instead of proving an ex pense to tho citizens; and the necessity of lend ing them out a.t tho tender age of cloven or twelve years would have boon obviated, their education would have been advanced, and their knowledge, strength, and services of greater value to Farmers and Mechanics. And if tho two thousand paupers constantly on hand wore set to work, they also might be made servicea hie to the city instead of a burthen, end thru they would be no longer paupers. Even in the In (ditutions for the Blind, and for the Deaf and Dumb, education in profitable work has accom panied their literary and moral instruction. Tho next point for oonsiiiention will bo, the amount of funds rt quisite before this pr. jec can be commenced, and the means for its atiaian ent and future supp y. Y’our committee are of opin ion that no practical ixperim-nt should be com menced without a fund of SIO,OO0 —or SO,OOO af ter the purchase and payment of the laud. The land should bo purchased a. early as possible atd If ot good quality, and at a proper p >int, might be rendered pr< fitable at on.e, by letting from year to year till required. This, or a larger emu, might bo obtalrou ny donations and annual subscriptions from indivi duals; by the professional ssivioes ot Jibe ai brethren and friends of the Order, in Conceit-, Exhibitions, Lectures, Sto ; by Summer Exour tions and Pio-Nics; Bails ia WmCr. and in a hundred ways which would present themselves after the plan had received tho sanction ot the Fraternity ; and tho fame moans mould never fail after its practical oommenoiment la view, therefore, of the imp narco tf such an cstab'iebment to tho Order, mr tho extension of its sphere of usefulness, its honor and perpe tuity your committee beg leave to propose too subjoined Resolutions for tho adoption ot this convention. All of which is rcs cotru'lv submitted. (Signed,) James Herring, Thomas Lawrence, Thomas L. i kaynaud, ■William Worts, John P. Geeuson. Committee. Tho following Refolutioes wore boparat- ly < a kou up, and on boing unanimously adopted, -'oro ordered to be tigned by tho Gtairman and Secre tary, and by the De.tgatee preoent. 1. Resolved— That the Report presented to thifl Con vention b- accepted and approved. 2 AWred - Thu t this ( nveution recommend and polioii the Grand Lrd.e, G and Encampment KDd Euoampmfnta utd*r their juxiedlctlon, and all oibere wiihla tho district thoreoi, to unit© in the Go bi? u with promptness, energy, and a hearty good will. ... f, 3. Resolved—' That for the above purpose, th*e Cor v«ntlou of l>oiegates dt-Mrw; and nquetts, each ami every organized body of the Order, without delay, to appoint one Brother ah its Representative, to unite m a Beard of Directors, with powers to make By-laws, . PRICE THREE CENTS. anl to do all other acts and things nsoeetary and proper to be done In the premises 4. Resolved —That the aboVe Keportand Resolutions as adopted by this Convention, be signed by the hairman, Secretary and Brethren present; to be printed, and immediately forwarded to the Grand Lod --. Grand Kr.campment, and to the ee,veial Lodges and Eoeampmente within the District of Southern NewYorlc 6 Resulted— That when this Convention adjourns, it will adjourn to meet on the third Wednesday in April, at .in the City of New York, for the purp se of receiving e ich representatives as may in the meantime have been appointed, and to transact such other business as may at that time seem proper. WM H TANDY. B VERPLANCK S 8. HAVF JAMES HERRING. WM BDRKEL JOUNCAMBLN JOHN CURrIS. TdOvlAS MORLKV. M A BRIGGS. BENJAMIN WILSON. S E Si BONG E U ROGERS T. L, BR YNARD. THOM AS WALKER. 8 C BARNES, S ALPHEUS SMITH. SAMUEL GKAYUAU. ROST B CHILDS. JsMEo J ACKSON. CHARLES GILBER. THOMAS LAWRENCE. JOHN a FRICK. 3 JOHN F. OOFtIN WILLIAM MAQbK GEO, C. GAYWOOD A. W 0 SPOONER. SINGULAR AVOCATION AND MODE OF LIFE. In a recent assault case brought before the darken well Police Court, an extraordinary character appeared as a witness Toie indi vidual wncse name is Smith, is notorious about the purlieus of Field Lane and Suffron Hill as “The Jumper.” The man is by pro fession a thorough subterranean rat catcher for the supply of those who keep sporting dogs. One half of Jumper’s life is spent in quest of prey from the whole range of the sewerage of London. Furnished with a bull’s eye lantern, a good sized folding trap, and a short rake, he enters the main sewer at the foot of Blackfriar s Bridge, and pursues his dangerous avocation, waist deep in mud and filth of every description. The sewers liter ally swarm with rats, which he catches by hand and places them in his cage as if they were young kittens. His underground jour neys extend for miles He has been under Newgate, and along Chcapsido to the Man sion House. He has traversed from Holborn to Islington, closely inspecting all the di verging passages or fragrant tributaries that fall into the “Cloacina mazimas of the mighty metropolis ” On one occasion, an ob struction occurred to the drain at the foot of Holborn Hill, and J umper being known in the neighborhood was applied to. Terms were speedily agreed upon; Jumper started cff to the foot of Blacktriar’s Bridge, and in half an hour his voice was heard down the gully hole. He speedily cleared away the obstruction, and received his reward, thus saving the expense of alone Tnrnr'-.- r n v° l -‘" attention, he frequently falls in with a rich prize, particularly in the city sewers. On one occasion ho lound a silk purse containing gold and silver; on another a gold watch and seals, numbers of silver spoons, rings, and other articles of value. A few months since Jumper took on a pupil for the profession —a person named Harris, one bred up to the horse slaughtering business — but after a month’s trial be gave it up, ob serving that ho could stand “a tidy lot,” but he couldn’t stand “that areso Jumper re mains the “monarch of all he surveys.” His right, however, has been disputed by the Lord Mayor, who threatened him with im prisonment on the ground of trespassing. Jumper, however still pursues his fragrant calling. Ho has been throe times attacked with the typhus fever, but rapidly recovered on each occasion. Strange to say, this most extraordinary character enjoys goodhealth. and follows his avocation with the greatest assiduity. HEALTH AND LIFE. With what tenacity does not man cling to life! and yet how few make the slightest temporary sacrifice to preserve health ? In his daily intercourse with tho world, each eagerly inquires after the health of his fel lows, and yet in perhaps the next half hour violates in tho most flagrant manner, the plainest laws of life. How inconsistent and reckless. On no other subject does the world prove itself guilty of such absurdities. And yet this ia the most important of all the matters on which men and women are called to think and act. Within the past century a marked change has taken piaoo ia the con dition of human life—a rapid declination in the life and health of mankind has become evident. At tho present moment. Scrofula, in some of its hydra forms, taints the life current of the race, carrying death and de solation in its train. But, thanks to a beni ficient Creator, tho means of shaking eff this monster has been presented by the agency ol Presnitz, the founder of the Water Cure treatment. Next to this, in our climate, stands consumption, a disease which noise lessly carries to the silc-nt tomb its thousands at every revolution of the earth In ninety nine cases out of every hundred this results from our own folly. We go on recklessly violating, cither ignorantly or wilfully, the laws of our own being until we arc fairly in the foils of the destroyer, and then pine away the few days that are left to us, in fruitless attempts to restore tho lost treasure by nostrums aud medicines. But we soon find that it is too late, as we stand, poor, emaciated skeletons, on the brink of the grave. “Ship fever, cholera and deysentery —dread trumviratc —have enshrouded tho globe with their victims,” writes a medical man. If men would but take a little trouble to understand these diseases, their ravages might not only be stayed, but entirely check ed But instead of this, we find them de stroying, as it were, whole nations, and strewing their victims broad oast along the highways of commerce and the boasted lo calities of oivil'titiou. In a word, nine t.nths of the whole human family are, at this moment, laboring under disrate of some form—cither chronic or of recent date It is evident that long continued violations of the physical laws of our being have weakened the vitality of the race, and to that cause oau we trace the premature decay of the present generation. The women of the pre sent day are no longer fit to become the mothers of men. They are changed from what God Almighty intenlod they should be into deformed and sickly-looking drug shops whose offspring either till an early grave, or grow up to lead a life of disease. Instead of cramping in their breasts and feet, they should be willing to appear ns they were created. If they want to go barefooted In the streets, let them dp so and dispense with the miserable apologies for shoes, which are a libel upon 8t Crispin. When tho world learns the value of air, exercise and clean liness, the proper use of food and clothing, how to govern their appetites and passions, we shall have fewer doctors and drug shops, and a better race of men and women. Kossuth’* Visions. —Kossuth’s speech in St. Louis commences with the relation of a dream, which is full of patriotism and po etry It is as follows : “ I passed the last night in a sleepless dream And my soul wandered on the mag netic wings of tho past, homo to my loved, bleeding land, and I saw in the dead of the night, dark-veiled shapes with the paleness of eternal grief upon their sad brow, but terrible in the toarlesa silence of that grief, gliding over the churchyards of Hungary, and kneeling down to the head of tho graves, and depositing tho pious tribute of green and cypress upon them, and after a short prayer, rising with clenched fists, and gnash ing teeth, and then stealing away tearless and silent ns they came; stealing away— because tho bloodhounds of my country n murderer lurked from every corner on that night, and on this day, and lead to prison those who dare to show a pious remembrance to the beloved. To-day a smile on the lips of a Magyar is taken for a crime of defiance to tyranny, and a tear in bis eye is cquiva lent to a revolt And yet I have setn with the eyes of my homo-wandering soul, thou sands performing the work of patriotic piety. “And I saw more. When the pious oilers have stolen away, I saw tho honored dead half risen from their tombs looking to the t ii'erings, and whispering gloomily, “still a cypress, and still no flower of joy ! Is there still the child of winter and the gloom of night over thee. Fatherland ! are wo not yet revenged ?” and the sky of tho cast redden ed suddenly, and boiled with bloody flames, and from tho far, far west, a lightning flash ed like a star-spangled stripe, and within its light a young eagle mounted and soared towards the bloody flames of tho cast, and as ho drew near, upon fcis approaching, the boiling flames changed into a radiant morn ing sun, and a voice from above was heard in answer to tho question of the dead “Sleep yet a short while; mine ie the re ycugc. 1 will make th© stars of tao west* the sun of the cast; and when we next awake, you will find the flower of joy upon your cold bed.” “And the dead took the twig of cypress, the sign of resurrection, into their bony hands and lay down. “Such was the dream of my waking soul, and I prayed, and such was my prayer i— •Father, if thou deemest mo worthy, take tho cup from my people, »nd give It in their stead to me.’ And there was whispers around me like the word ‘Amen.’ Such was dream, half foresight and half prophecy; but resolution all However, none of those deal whom I faw fell on tho 16 h of March. They were victims of the royal perjury whioh betrayed the 16th ot March. The anniversary of our revo ution has not the stain of a single drop of blood. ®gr- The heirs ct-aen. Lafayette have brought suit to recover ecvcral hundred acres of land, having a front of 000 yards beyond the old fortifications at New Orleans.