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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854, April 11, 1852, Image 1

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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.

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