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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854, May 21, 1854, Image 1

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Jta wir putties for tlje
b this Department we design to state facts and give useful in
formation only—not to make it an oxgan of opinion. To do
this properly, requires considerable time and labor. We trust,
* therefore, that our readers will not send us questions which their
own judgment must tell them we cannot answer.]
Quick. —“ Grafting,” says Loudon, “may be
performed with both herbaceous and ligneous plants; but, in
practice, it is chiefly confined to the latter, and more especially
to the propagation of the esteemed varieties of fruit-trees. A
grafted plant consists of two parts: the stock or stem, vzhich is a
rooted plant fixed in the ground, and the scion, which is some
times, but erroneously, termed the graft, which is a detached
portion of another plant to be affixed to it. The operation of
grafting can only be performed within certain physiological
limits—but what these are science has not yet absolutely deter
mined. In genera], all species of one genus may be grafted on
another reciprocally; but this is not universally the case, be
cause the apple cannot be grafted on the pear, at least not for
any useful purpose. In general, it may be presumed that all
the species of a natural order, or at least ol a tribe, may be
grafted on one another ; but this does not hold good universally.
The reverse of this doctrine, however, viz. that the species be
longing to different natural orders cannot be grafted on one an
other, holds almost universally true. Indeed, the nearer in
affinity the species to which the stock belongs is to the scion, the
more certain will be the success.”“Grafting,” the same
author continues, “ is performed in a great many different ways,
but the most eligible for ordinary purposes is what is commonly
called splice-grafting, or whip-grafting. In executing this
mode, both the scion and the stock are pared down in a slanting
direction; afterward applied together, and made fast with
strands of bast matting, in the same manner as two pieces of rod
are spliced together to form a whip handle. To ensure success,
it is essentially necessary that the alburnum, or inner bark of
the scion, should coincide accurately with the inner bark of the
stock, because the vital union is effected by the sap of the stock
rising up through the soft wood of the scion. After the scion is
tied to the stock, the graft is said to be made ; and it only re
mains to cover the part tied, with a ma*s of tempered clay, or
any convenient composition that will exclude the air. The sea
son for performing the operation is, for all deciduous trees and
shrubs, the spring, immediately before the movement of the sap.
The spring is also the most favorable season for evergreens;
but the sap in this class of plants being more in motion during
winter than that of deciduous plants, grafting, if thought neces
sary, might be performed at that season.”
R. S. T.—Marshal Soult, and not the Em
peror Napoleon, commanded the French at the battle of Co
runna. The English forces, under Sir John Moore, although
exhausted and disorganized, succeeded in repulsing the French.
Their triumph was, however, dearly purchased, by the death of
their commander. The battle of Corunna was fought on the
16th of January, 1809 It cannot be positively said that Na
poleon promised the re organization of Poland. It was the very i
general impression, however, that he would place her once ;
more among the Nations. The Polish generals in his army sent
a proclamation to that effect to their countrymen, calling upon
them to rise to a man and sustain him: and, in a communica
tion with them, he is reported to have said, “I will see whether
you deserve to be a nation.” Koskiusco, in an address to his
countrymen, dated November 1, 1806, called upon the Poles to
arise. “ The Great Nation is before you,” he wrote; “ Napo
lean expects and Koskiusco calls upon you. We are under the
aegis of the monarch who vanishes as by miracles, and the re
surrection of Poland is too glorious an achievement not to have
been reserved to him by the Eternal.” Napoleon asks, in one
of his bulletins—“ Shall the throne of Poland be re-established;
and shall the Great Nation secure for it respect and independ
ence ? Shall she recall it to life from the grave 1 God only,
who directs all human affairs, can resolve this great question.”
If Napoleon had re-organized the fallen kingdom, he would
have preserved the prestige of constitutional liberty, for which,
until that time, he was supposed to fight: and which, in a great
measure, secured to him the respect of the ruled of Europe.
Napoleon made a great political mistake in not reconstructing
—as it cannot be gainsayed he, by a fair inference, held out he
would—the kingdom of PolandAt the time of the great fire
in the city of Philadelphia, in 1860, the mayor telegraphed to
New York for assistance, which would have been promptly
rendered had not a second dispatch been received counter
manding the first. The engines detailed for duty were at the
Jersey City depot ready to embark on the train when the second
message was telegraphed.
Joseph Greenham.—The first colony set
tied in Louisiana was composed of Frenchmen, who, guided by 1
Iberville, and his brother Bienville, and under the patronage 1
of Louis XIV., landed on its shores in 1699. This is the earliest
era in the history of Louisiana, if we except the legends of De
Soto, Marquette, and La Salle, whose daring adventures belon"
rather to the romancer than the historian. Passing over the s
celebrated “Mississippi Scheme,” the invention of a needy i
Scotch adventurer, named John Law, who obtained a charter '
to establish a bank, from the king, together with other privileges <
that, for the space of six years, kept-Franee in a financial com
motion. we come briefly to the second question: “How came
Spain into the possession of Louisiana!"’ In 1760 a war broke 1
out between England and France, the influence of which was 1
felt throughout America. Canada fell into the hands of the
English, and large numbers of its inhabitants removed to Louisi
ana. France, in her emergencies, looked to Spain, and the Due
de Choiseul, the minister, entered into a family compact with ]
the Spanish monarch, by which, on the 3d of November, 1762, a i
secret treaty was concluded between the representatives of the j
two governments, by which France ceded die territory of
Louisiana, west of the Mississippi, with New Orleans, to Spain.
In 1763, Great Britain, France and Spain entered upon the t
treaty of Paris, and terminated their difficulties. France aban- <
doned to Great Britain all her Northern possessions, the whole £
of Louisiana east of the Mississippi, except New Orleans, and
the navigation of that river was made free to the subjects of
either nation. Thus did France, by her cessions to England and <
Spain, divest herself of every fopt of territory she held in North s
AmericaWe should think it right and proper, on general <
occasions, to close the door on entering a room. There are, of
course, times ’when it would be “highly improper to close
the door on entering. ’ ’ t
Junius.—Wo should “bo temperate in all ”
things.” In our exercises, as in other duties, we should ever be
careful to remember this rule. A man whose habits are of a
sedentary character, ought not, in hls leisure hours, exercise a
himself too violently or too much. Gentle, rational exercise the a
sedentary man should always endeavor to procure : but when
he permits himself to run into excess, he is certain to be punished
for it in the reaction which, when the excitement is over, his t;
muscular and nervous systems are certain to experience. If t
“ Junius” will be moderate in his labors, he need apprehend
little danger to his health Wash your feet four or five times
every day, in warm water, and change your stockings as often. e
We would recommend you to wear cotton next the skin L
The line is by Campbell—
“ Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one,” t
and may be found in “ Lochiel’s Warning,” as follows: y
“ False wizard, avaunt I I have marshalled my clan—
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one.”
Rosa.—lt is provided in the Revised Sta- S
tutes, page 85, § 23, vol. ii., that “ a sentence of imprisonment
in a State Prison for any term less than for life, suspends all the
civil rights of the person so sentenced, and forfeits all public «
offices and all private trusts, authority or power, during the ft
term of such imprisonment; but a person sentenced to impri
sonment in a State prison for life, shall thereafter be deemed
civilly dead.” From this, we conclude, that on the expiration si
of any limited term of sentence in the State Prison, a convict b
may return to public office, and exercise the right of suffrage,
and all other rights pertaining to citizenship. Should such an
one be married, his wife is not by his sentence divorced from e
him, as we gather from § 5, page 321, vol. ii., which declares,
that “no second, or other subsequent, marriage, shall be con
tracted by any person, during the lifetime of any former hus
band or wife of such person, unless, 1. The marriage with such
former husband or wife shall have been annulled or dissolved,
for some cause other than of such person ; or, 2. Un
less such former husband or wife shall have been finally sen
tenced to imprisonment,/br life.” From these extracts our cor
respondent may gather that a lady cannot legally marry a
second time whose husband has been sentenced to a State prison
for a term less than life.
H. C. D.—-The Brooklyn ferry was the first
established on the East River ; but in what year it is difficult to
Bay. On this matter, Valentine remarks, in his “History o
New York—“ This ferry [the one between Long Island and
New York], from the earliest settlement, and for many years
afterward, was from the present landing on the Brooklyn side,
at Fulton Ferry, to the nearest point on this island, which was
at the present Peck Slip. Cornelius Dircksen was the earliest
ferryman of whom the records speak, and was, probably, the
first ferryman who regularly followed that calling. He owned
considerable land near Peck Slip in the year 1642.” The
“California,” of the Aspinwall line, was the first American
steam-vessel that plied on the Pacific between Panama and San
Francisco. She sailed from this port in 1848. George Law had
no steamship on the Pacific until the close of the year 1849 or
the commencement of 1850 Stoke Pogeis Church, where
the Poet Gray wrote his “Elegy in a Country Churchyard,” is m
in Buckinghamshire, about twenty iqjles from the city of Lon- fl
donWe cannot give space at present for the insertion of T
the Elegy.
C. A. W.—This correspondent “ comes back” w
on us with rather more of good-nature than we were to led to &<
expect, considering the asperity with which we replied to his
query, as to how Elijah got the “twelve barrels of water.” We
referred him to the brook Kishon, near the banks of which the
prophets of Baal were slain. We do not recollect that there is +i
any mention, in the chapter alluded to, made of the brook in
auestion being “dry;” and, as it was some miles nearer to St
Count Carmel than was the “Mediterranean,” it was quite h]
natural to suppose that the prophet would send the people there
for the “twelve barrels of water.” “C. A. W.” says that a (1
Mr. B. insists that the water contained in the “twelve barrels ” j] (
was taken from the Mediterranean Sea. and that until he sees
better reasons for the faith “that is in him,” he will “tficifc to US
Jfr. B.'s belief,” — which, of course, we would advise him to do. c ]
The strongest article in our “ creed” is. that every should
think for itself, and not be persuaded by the conclusions of Bl
“ Mr. 8.,” or any other commentator. d
Illinois.—By the limitation laws of Illinois, ca
judgments of any court of record of that State may be revived
by action of scire facias, or action of debt within twenty years
next after the rendition of the same; and right of entry and ac- d(
lions to recover land are waved by the lapse of twenty years. w
It is an old fogy idea the disallowing soldiers the right of "
suffrage during the term for which they are enlisted in the ser- W
vice of the United States. Sailors in the same service are per
mitted to vote, although they may have been absent from home
for years before the day of election New York already B1
“embraces the whole of Manhattan Island.” The island of w
New York has an extreme length of 13X miles, and an average ”
breadth of 13-5 milesßlackwell's Island is a little more W
than mile in length, with an average breadth of about two hun- k.
dred yards Don’t know what has become of the “flying- u
ship.” C(
Lewis Isaac.—Of the daily papers published «
in the United States, the Philadelphia Public Ledger has the tl
largest circulation. The circulation of this journal is said to ex
ceed fifty thousand copies. The London Times, among the Eng- w
lish journals, has the largest circulation—its daily editions ave- SC
rage about sixty thousand copies The alien holding real or +r
£ersonal estate is subject to taxes equally with the citizen w
' a young man contracts to learn a particular trade, his master
cannot compel him to work at any business not expressed in +T
the articles of agreement The hull of the “Great Repub- LI
lie” will be used for a propeller. The “ White Squall” will be h<
turned into a tow-boat. The “Great Republic” is lying at
Green Point; the “ White Squall” is at the dock foot of Gouver- Z1
neur st., East River. bi
Schornung.—There arc quite a number of bi
accidents that may intervene and cause a horse to lose in a race ’ m
or trotting-match. For instance, if he should throw his rider or 1 m
come home with less weight than he went out, he would be i 1
ruled by the judges as distanced. On the home stretch there is i pt
also a “distance pole” set up, which, if not passed by the last
horse before the first arrives at the judge's stand, compels the P*
beaten animal to be withdrawn, and gives to the first the race,
even if it is on the first beat, no matter if the terms are best three i
in five. Hence arises the phrase so often heard, “he has just
saved his distance. ”We have already given a full descrip- It
tion of the “ Safe Game.”
E. D. B.—Various remedies have been sag- ai
gested for the riddance of the cockroach from domicils. It is so >
voracious, active and hardy an animal, that it seems to thrive on le
anything that can be reached with its alienee. The writer of ai
this has, within the past two weeks, made various experiments
looking towards its extirpation ; and, although snuff, beer, se
molasses, etc-, have been resorted to, these, so far, have proved
failures. Perhaps the advertised preparations for the destruc
tion of house-insects will liave the desired effect If you have 111
not already tried them, we would advise you to do so at your pi
earliest convenience.
' Errata.-—Our chirography, unfortunately, m
Is none of the best; and, in consequence, many absurd errors v
occasionally find their way into ‘‘ Notes and Queries. ’ ’ In last
week’s column there were blunders enough committed to vex vi
a saint, or bring tears to the eyes of the ghost of a Lindley Mur- \
ray. We Jhall here mention only two or three, trusting to the ««
good sense of correspondents to correct the unnoticed. In the ci'
third line of the reply to “Medlcus,” for “impotent” read ‘
*‘ important;” and in the seventh line read “simple negations” P (
instead of “a simple negative.” Inthereply to “J. K.,” second th
»nd third lines, for “motives which actuate” read “motive , .
which actuates,” etc.; and in place of “apposite” substitute Di
“opposite.” u]
Querist to Leo.—“ Quaerist” will excuse pi
our delay in publishing the following note. It was, by'some
accident, mislaid —“ The diameter of the inscribed circle In
your triangle is twenty (20); the ‘ length of a right line drawn
from the right angle, to the opposite side, passing through the
centre of the circle,’ is 23,024, nearly ; the area of the parts of
the triangle not contained in the circle, is 285,84T0 Navi- tl
gator.— ln your rules for finding the side of an inscribed square
in a right-angled triangle, you say ‘ Subtract the square of the
quotient from )<, and extract the square root of the remainder. J' 1
Extract the square roots of the sum, and difference, of the above h
root and >£, &c. ’ X and %of what ?’ ’
Alonzo B.—We do not think it either ad- n
visable or profitable to engage in any “ enterprise,” so called. ai
The picture of “Wyoming,” published by the“Ameri- W
can Artists’ Union,” is worth one dollar, if worth anything. We ih
have not had the pleasure of examining the “ Wyoming” of the iU
“ Artists' Union,” and, therefore, cannot say anything as to its
merits or demerits Publishers of magazines do not cut the -tv
edges of their publications because of the loss of time and ex- ”
pense that would be incurred Cannot sav which is the best
travelling circus company; and do not know where Robinson «•
and Eldred’s menagerie is at the present time.
M. F.—Your poem is on file, and will proba- b
bly appear in the course of a few weeks. It is not our custom
io announce whether the contributions which we receive will or b‘
will not appear, although we have in one or two cases departed -it
from the rule. To insert the title alone of all the poems which ’’
we receive weekly, would require more space than we can
spare; and our correspondents must, therefore, be content to
remain in a state of glorious uncertainty, though with this assur
ance—that if what they send us contains real merit, and its sub- y
ject is not objectionable, it will appear at some time or other.
We have at the present writing at least fifty manuscript poems
under consideration, and this notice should answer for the Si
authors of all of them.
Eliza T.—We trust we are sufficiently gal- n
lant to accede, on all reasonable occasions, to the wishes of r
the sex to whom our fair correspondent belongs; but the very
particylar request which she makes in this instance cannot, we
regret to say, be complied with. Our rules are second only
in nnutterableness to those of the Medes and Persians, and rnay
Dot, even at the request of so fair and urgent a correspondent r]
as Eliza T., be broken through or repealed. Time, lady, will ,
accomplish everything, and, among the rest, the story in which "
you are so much interested. E
Menasha.—Steamers leave this port for h
Aspinwall on the Sth and 20th of each monthlt makes but J
little difference to the emigrant whether he leaves here in the 4.
Spring or Autumn. For our part, however, if we were about
visiting California, we should prefer Spring, as it is not very fi
pleasant for the one who leaves at a later period in the .
year to encounter, for some four or five months, the almost Inces-
California winter Purchase your tickets at
the ollice of the company, and depend not upon the representa
tions of self-elected outdoor agents. 1
L. C.—For our part, we cannot say " which
Is the most deserving ot popularity, Homceopathyor Allopathy.”
As the old lady remarked, when she saluted her cow. “every
one to their liking.” “ Throw physic to tire dogs,” say we : but
If compelled to choose which school should assist in removing us
from the stage of life, we would prefer homoeopathy. A man
can die much easier under infinitessimal doses of nauseous con
coctions and decoctions, than if he were thoroughly saturated
With the horrible compounds of the old system of practice.
F. C. Brown.—We have cursorily glanced
Over several works relating to the early history of New York
but can find in none of them a solution of the enigma propounded
by you. Our impression is that Sing Sing is an old Indian name,
and very probably used by the aborigines to designate the site
now flourishing town. Its orthography is modern and
English: but the sound, we presume, is as near the old pronun
ciation of the word as its reduction or translation into English
would permit. 0
George to Navigator:—“Will this mathc
matician be a little more explicit in his rule for ‘cutting off a
given area from the side of a trapezoid.’ He says: ‘Multiply
ie side adjacent by the perpendicular height, and square the
quotient. I would like to know where the ‘ quotient’ is ob
tained. We have a product, but not a quotient. • Calling it the
product does not answer the end desired. I would request
Navigator to give his rule a revision, and publish it again.”
An Adopted Citizen.—Without intending
that y our interrogatories
are little short of clnl lish. Calling correspondents “rogues”
who question the policy of adopted citizens, imperfectly ac
fpiainted with our institutions, holding office, is not the readiest
way of obtaining a hearing in the columns of this or, indeed, any
other publication. We are ready to consider attentively any-
Jang g ulge BUSgeSt ’ providcd it U put in respectful
Senex.—Col. Webb was imprisoned for a
Tew hours only, after his conviction, for violating the tn
fighting, with pistols, Mr. Marshall, of Kentucky g wob’ ‘
gard to the established Church of France, every proiieriv
is required to contribute towards its support.:.. P Of the iron
we think the English are more liberal than the French in roll vi
ous matters Protestants are treated nearly or quite as liber’
ally in France as are Catholics in England. * 8 uuor ’
Ann Leary.—The officer has acted with
discretion. Should he carry out the order of the Court, he would
be held responsible, as he cannot sell more than will cover the
claim. Having some one to secure him against loss, he could
with greater assurance proceed in the collection of the debt
Your case is a hard one, Ann, but we know of no other course
open to you than the one suggested by the officerWe don’t
understand the purport of the receipt attached to your note.
Rusticus—Asks some mathematian to solvo
the following“ Within a circle, the diameter of which is
twenty, it fa required to describe three smaller circles, so that
cuinfcr ences mutually touch each other, and also the cir-
S. ®. renc s of l .‘ e circumscribed circle. Query—What fa the
1116 stnaller circles ; imso, the area of the
JmaHar ckclea 1 ” 6 laFße circle ’ bouu<J ed by the three arcs of the
Pittsfield—Sends the following problem
a tok sl'x;^?r the . n , uml ’ prof fcel of halMnch boards
inch for saw call', and no other ww'e
S eive, bls answer to “ Loo” baaVee n IP aSd
Inquisitor.- A person cannot buv or sell
with impunity obscene books in this State tia
line or imprisonment, or both, on conviction of thnnarc^i 18 1
tected dealing In such work.lt would be rXftlt 0 "
for ua to aay that ‘' nil book-venders engage in thia trafiii? TJ ICI
■ dally newa olbces.” bon m tuts traffic, eape- j
P. M. G.— The “style” is a sharp-pointed 1
instrument. It was formerly used fa writing upon uhiAa ]
waxA “pencil,” Mr. P. G. M., fa supposed to b«
posed ofiead and wood. There are officr kinds of l pen?n a ?J'
quite different from the one whose composition we here 1
for your especial consideration and information. uou
Costador.—We know not to whom the 1
verses, in which the lines ,
“ Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign.
And panting Time toiled after him in vain,”
books sa ? that in- •
WFA/xla I si 1\ ll
ii 111 111 11 fl liibl iKi ffl Ir m i
OL II Ik H
VOL. 9. NO. 26.
U. ll.—The meaning of the word “yon,” is,
that which is within view but at a distance. “Yon,” “yond,”
and “yonder,” are derived from the Saxon geond. The word,
as introduced in the line, “ I haste to meet yon weeping train,”
i is appropriately placed, and conveys a meaning quite as direct
as any other in the quotation.
J. M.— The signature of your parent or
guardian not being appended to the indenture holding you to
■ i service, the instrument is informal The minor and his guar
, dian are required to sign and seal articles of agreement holding
, the former to service for a limited term of years, to make such
agreement hold in law.
A. A. A.—lt has not been ascertained as a
fact beyond dispute “that the extraordinary implement of war
orlered to the French government some years since, and rejected
on account of its terribly-destructive nature, is now in the pos
session of the Russians.”We are afraid our sheet is hardly
large enough to republish the “Law of Nations.”
Stephen.—Watch or clock-making would
perhaps not be too laborious a trade for you to pursue
Lathe your back, on rising and on going to bed, with cold
water Letters, if properly directed, we believe, but are
not quite certain, are mailed at the risk of publishers.
Harry.—We have overlooked your note.
The mode by which the total is arrived at is by multiplying the '
chance each time with the product given in the previous result.
For "progression,” by which this rule is arrived at, see any
work on arithmetic.
Union Springs.—Brigham Young is, wc
have been told, a native of Vermont The price of a single
admission to the Crystal Palace has been reduced to twenty-five
cents Cannot accommodate you with the words of " Home,
sweet Home.”
B. L. B. to Navigator.— ll The legs of your
triangle, or, rather, my triangle, as you term it, true to four de
cimal places, are 83.6780 and 54.7548.” The signature of our
correspondent, when it last appeared in this column, was erro
neously printed “ B. S. B.”
Hominis.—lf you can procure the mami
script of the advertisement offering the reward of fifty dollars;
and can prove in court by the clerk, or other person who re
ceived it at the office of publication, you may recover the sum
offered. Not otherwise.
L. S. D.—We would not advise you to trou
ble yourself about the berth mentioned. There are at least a
hundred applicants now for every situation worth having in the
American Navy.
Selnoc.—We really cannot gratify you by
publishing Byron’s “Maid of Athens.” We should suppose
access to works so widely diffused as those of Byron could be
gained anywhere in the United States.
Clockmakeb to Leo.—“ The following is
the solution of your problem :—54 sheep at sl% come to S9O;
41 cows at S10=$410; 5 horses at sloo=ssoo. Total, 100 cows,
sheep and horses, cost $1,000.”
Privateer.—We cannot say that “Mr.
George Steers, the builder of the yacht ‘America,’ is the
smartest naval architect livingbut we are quite certain he is
one of the “ smartest.”
D. A. D.—lf our recollection of the night of
the great fire of December, 1835, is correct, there was consider
able snow on the ground ; and, from the intensity of the cold, it
was hard enough for sleighing purposes.
Mr. J. Rankin—Desires to know the where
abouts of a Dr. E. Duval, late of Albany. Mr. Rankin resides
at, or near, Cythiana, Ky.
Annie A.—lf our fair correspondent will
take the trouble to look over her file of this paper, she will find
the recipe asked for.
Glanford.—We would have inserted your
explanatory solution of Leo’s problem had not Clockmaker’s
been already in type.
Youthful Sub.—We would not advise you
“to consult any of those advertising physicians.” Introduce j
yourself to Dr. Francis.
E. C. M.—Your theory of the circulation of
the blood will be attended to in our next; and our objections to
it prefered.
Aurjcle.—We have heard those who have j
tised the instrument mentioned by you complain that it was a
failure ; and that it rather increase’d than removed deafness.
A. B. C.—Never knew of a practising phy
sician in this city of the name of George Gaylord. There may
be such an one ; but his name fa not in the Directory.
Sterling Trimmer.—We have no faith what
ever in the medical work alluded to in your note.
of Cnmt
The Cabin Boy’s Story:
AN EXCITING NARRATIVE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE PIRATE DOCTOR,” ETC.
“ Dead men, and drowned women tell no talssP
Entered according to Act of Congress, tn the Clerk’s Offlc#
of the Southern District of New York.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The morning dawned, sweetly as the summer
morning ever dawns upon the beauteous islands of
the yEgiean sea, which blessed with a fertile soil, a
beautiful and delightful climate and scenery of a
wild and savage, yet beautiful and enchanting char
acter, are doubly fascinating to the educated voyag
er, in consequence of the classical associations con
nected with them. On one of the group, says tradi
tion at least, was born the prince of poets and min
strelshe whose strains have never been equaUed--“the
blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle.” On another
(Patmos) the Apostle St. John, wrote, while in ex
ile, the inspired Revelations. All are more or less
associated with the most glorious recollections of
classical antiquity. Now the abode of poor fisher
men and desperate pirates—they were once the
cradles of genius and human progress, and he who
can sail amongst the extensive group, and navigate
the tortuous windings of their channels, or can wan
der on their now thinly peopled and neglected soil,
with a heart unstirred, must be wanting in soul—
we envy not his stolid frigidity.
Zuleika arose with the dawn of day from her
light slumbers ; the sun just risen from the deep
was casting his early morning rays through the j
window of the bed chamber; the sweet briar and
honey suckles which clambered up the side of the
cottage, and clung in graceful festoons around the ;
easement, diffused their fragrant perfume throughout
the room; the birds sang their blithe and joyous
matin songs—and the cool breeze, fresh from the <
sea, seemed to impart renewed vitality to the vege
tation and an air of gladness to the scene.
Zuleika opened the casement and gazed abroad;
the sea, calm and smooth as a mirror, lay before
her, the sunbeams dancing upon its surface, and daz- i
zling the eye with tlieir brilliancy; and the gentle
breeze is it played amongst the foliage of the trees 1 <
breathed forth a sweeter and more soul-subduing ■ .
melody than any that art is capable of producing. I <
The Greek girl turned from the window and step
ped to the couch on which Seymour was still re
posing.
“Wake love—wake,” she said, touching him light
ly with her fingers—“ see what a lovely morning!
It is a shame to be sleeping while the sun is shin
ing so brightly and the birds singing so joyously
and all nature looking so glad. Wake, dearest, and
let us stroll down to the beach and gather shells
and pebbles, and breath the pure fresh air from the
sea.”
And Seymour sprang from his couch, and snatch
ing a kiss from the lips of his lovely bride be soon
prepared himself to accompany her in her favorite
morning ramble.
“We will go to the little grotto by the sea side
beneath the cliff, where there is such a delightful
view of the gulf for miles,” said he. “ And Zuleika
darling—bring your guitar with you, and you shall
sing me the song you spoke of which was so unop
portunely interrupted last night. It will sound all <
the sweeter, love, by the sea side where the tiny
billows as tljcy break upon the pebbles and roll
up and recede from the beach, will murmur a
pleasing chorus.”
Zuleika took her guitar, and together they strolled
towards the grotto which was distant about a mil i
from the cottage, and was a natural cave worn int >
the rock, at some anterior period—perhaps centurie i
before—when the sea must have encroached far be
yond the boundary of its then high watermark; and
having reached it, they seated themselves upon a
rustic seat studded with sea-shells, and rendered soft
and elastic by carefully dried and prepared sea- ■
weed, which Seymour, assisted by Zuleika and Jane
Miller, had amused themselves with arranging.
“Now, dear, for the song you promised me—
where is Harry, though?”
“He left the cottage before us,” replied Zuleika,
“he always rises early and wanders into the wood
by himself.”
“Well, then, he’ll lose the song, though, by-the
bye, you told me you had already sung it to him.
What is its burthen, darling ?”
“It is merely an idle song relating to every day
occurrences,” answered Zuleika. “Itis a call, for
you to rise early in the morning, dear George ; such
a call as I gave you this morning—oh! you are a
sad sluggard.”
“I believe I must plead guilty to that,” said Sey
mour, gaily, but, he added to himself, “ would to
God I could sleep as soundly and calmly in the night
season as you—poor, innocent, unsuspecting child.”
Zuleika, meanwhile,had tuned the guitar, and then
she sang the following simple song in Spanish. We
have given the translation, roughly made by Sey
mour, on the following day—which Zuleika exerted
herself to commit to memory, because her husband '
delighted to-hear her sing in English—although the !
task was no light one to one who had but a short ;
time before taken her first lesson in the English i
tongue :
’Tie sweet to wake from love’s bright dreams,
And see the sunrise on the deep,
Illuming with his golden beams
Each mountain slope—each rugged steep,
To watch the shadows of the night
Recede before th’ approach of day—
The morning mist so thin and light
In feathery vapors float away.
Rise, love, and from the lattice peep,
Inhale the fresh breeze from the sea,
Come, dearest, rouse thee from thy sleep,
All Nature wakes—then why not we t
Arise, and let us stroll away
Along the margin of the shore,
Or ’midst the fields and copses stray
Or gather wild flowers on the moor.
The birds are singing in the grove,
The kids are skipping o’er the lea,
And from the cottage thatch, the dove
Coo’s forth her sweet, soft melody.
Cool from the sea, the odorous breeze,
Fraught with the perfume of the flowers,
Toys gently ’midst the rustling trees,
Scattering the dew in mimic showers.
Then come, love, ramble forth with me
Along the margin of the shore ;
Nature rejoiceth—why not we
Enjoy the glorious matin hour T
’Tis noon—high noon—the sunbeams glow
With fervent heat—the parched earth
Sighs vainly for the refreshing dew
That ushered in the morning’s birth.
Now languid droop the trees and flowers,
The jaded birds have hushed their song;
Then letv« pass the noon-tide hours
The shady glades and groves among.
The kids that in the meadows played,
Now shun the sun’s too ardent rays—
And haunt the pools, seek the shade,
Deep in the wood’s intricate maze.
Then come, love, let us seek the bowers
Whose shades invite us to repose—
Andon a couch of sweet wild-flowers
Rest, till the day draws near its close,
The balmy zephyr softly sleeps—
Stilled are the leaves on every tree—
Nature her noon siesta keeps—
Hie to the bower then, love, with me.
’Tis eve—and far across the wave
The sun hath sped his Western path,
Seeking his fiery orb to lave
Deep, in the ample ocean bath.
n ith all the prism’s various hue,
Gorgeous the many colored sky—
And in a sea of azure blue
.r ° ,er our h ea< l 8 > the moon floats by.
Forth from our bower then let us rove,
And ramble near the silvery sea •
Rise from thy long siesta, love, ’
And breathe the balmy air with me.
Zuleika ceased her song, and smilingly looked up
into Seymour’s face, awaiting bis approval. 1
“ I was not aware you were so pretty a poetess
my Zuleika,” said be. “ I may be partial; but I
think that a very pretty song. To-morrow I will
try to translate it into English, and then you will
learn to sing it in that language, won’t you dear?
But I am afraid that my humble poetic powers
will be unable to do justice to the Spanish com
position. However I will do my best. Let us re
turn to breakfast, love. The sun has been up two
hours; it must be eight o'clock. After breakfast I
have something to say to you.”
They returned to the cottage and when the sim
ple meal was finished proceeded to busy themselves,
assisted by Jbne Miller, in the cultivation of a little
plot of ground around the cottage, which Seymour
bad staked in, to form i»to a gulden. Zuleika
, however bethought herself of Seymour’s remark
' i that he had something to say to her.
' “What was it you wished to speak to me about
dear George?” she asked.
“Come Into this little summer house, darling, an
I will tell you. I have been a long time staying
with you in your new home, Zuleika.”
“Oh, it is not seemed long to me; ’tis but a few
weeks, George,” replied Zuleika, whose cheeks
flushed as she spoke in a tremulous voice, for she
anticipated what was coming, and dreaded to hear
her husband say that he was about to leave her.
“I have stayed with you longer than I ever re
mained before, dearest, since I left you at school in
Spain.”
“And you will not leave me again,” interrupted
Zuleika, placing her hand in that of her husband,
her breast heaving with suppressed agitation.
“Zuleika, I must; but I trust it will be for the
last time. When I return again I hope it will be
, to remain with you always, here; or else I shall take
i you with me to America.”
I Zuleika threw herself, weeping into her husband’s
i arms.
“Compose yourself darling,” he said “nay Zulei
ka, this is foolish—l thought you had more forti-
■ tude. I do not go immediately. I shall yet remain
here a fortnight, and I shall leave Harry still with
i you to bear you company till my return—come, dry
j your eyes, and let me see you smile—that’s right,
■ that’s a brave girl. Think dear; when we meet
again, it will be to part no more while lifere-
' mains.”
| Zuleika sat for some minutes silept endeavoring
: to subdue her emotion, her head resting'upon her
husband’s sbov.lder.
He did not speak to her but sat awaiting some
remark from her lips. At length she said:
“You said, George, that you would leave Harry
with me; are you sore that he will stay; have you
spoken to him on the subject?”
“No., dear, but I have little doubt that he will re
main, if I wish' him to do so. He is a strange boy
—little fitted to bear the hardships of a sailor’s life.
I never heard his history—it must be a singular one;
did he ever speak to you of his friends or of his past
life, Zuleika?”
“He has, George, and it is a strange history; but
I promised that until he chose to speak of it to others
himself, I would never betray his secret.”
“Be.it so, dear. Keep your own counsel if you
choose,” said Seymour, laughing. “I suppose it is
some romantic episode. The boy has been crossed
in love, or something of that sort—eh? Well, he is
young, and will get over it. Meanwhile, I don’t
think he will be happier any’ where than with you,
and when I return I will consider what I shall do
with him.”
“But you have not asked him, dear. How do you
know that he will consent to remain ? You would
not wish him to stay if he should express a desire
to return home to his friends ?”
“Certainly not; though I should have to send him
home as a passenger in some ship from Spain or the
I south of France. But I will speak to him to-day.
Now, dear, let us finish planting the flower bed
wc commenced yesterday. I must put the garden
in complete order before I leave.”
On the evening of that day, Seymour took an op
portunity of questioning Jane Miller as to her wishes
with regard to returning to America.
“Harry,” said he, “in a few days I am going to
leave the island, and shall proceed to the south of
France, and thence take passage to America. What
say you, boy—Zuleika is fond of your society; she
has no one with her but strangers, excepting your
self and Julia, her old negress attendant from An
nabon. Do you wish to return home, or will you
remain with Zuleika until my return ?”
Jane had thought much on this subject. He
heart yearned to see her poor, forsaken pareu
again ; and she grieved at the consequences of her
past conduct, all the more bitterly, since the inter
view she, unknown to him, had had with her bro
ther on the occasion of the first visit of the G
to Annabon. Still she dreaded to return as much
or more than she grieved to remain longer absent.
She felt that she had placed a gulf between herself
and her friends which, were she to seek to cross,
might overwhelm her. She had committed a breach
of the laws of society, which surrounded her with
as many difficulties to combat against, as though
she had actually been guilty of an unpardonable
crime. Deeply she deplored her past folly ; but she
knew that having strayed from the beaten path of
social conventionalities, her return was impos
sible. At all events, a longer stay with Zuleika, for
whom she felt a warm and sisterly friendship, pro
vided Zuleika herself were desirous she should stay,
would give her time to arrange a plan of future
operations ; besides she pitied, sincerely pitied Zu
leika ; and then her woman’s curiosity stepped in, and
claimed a portion of her thoughts. She was anx
ious to know what would eventually become of the
loving, unsuspicious Greek girl. She therefore re
plied : i
“I am willing to stay, Captain Seymour, if Zu- i
leika is desirous that I should remain.”
“ Then I can tell her that you will remain with 1
her on the island.” i
“Yes, sir.” i
“ You are a good lad, Harry, and the day may i
come when 1 shall have it in my powertopusEydur i
fortunes. I will not forget the services you have
rendered me—depend upon that. Now, go and tell ]
Zuleika the determination at which you have ar- ;
rived.”
The day of Seymour’s departure was rapidly 1
drawing near. The felucca had been got in readi- (
ness for a sea voyage, and it was Seymour’s inten
tion to proceed to Valetta, in the Island of Malta,
and then to discharge his Greek crew, and after dis- ’
posing of the felucca, to take passage to the South 1
of France (Toulon or Marseilles,) and thence to i
proceed to New York and ascertain from Mr. Mor- i
dant how matters had prospered with regard to the ;
Albatross, during his temporary secession from the
command of that vessel.
He and his bride and Jane Miller often cruised ;
around in the felucca amongst the islands in the vi
cinity of Zuleika’s Isle, and occasionally he took a
trip alone to some one of the larger islands for the
purpose of procuring such articles as he required
for the promotion of Zuleika’s comfort and conve
nience during his absence, and which* could not bo
readily obtained on the islet which he had chosen
for her abode. A week had passed away since the
conversation above recorded had taken place. Dur
ing that time the old woman alluded to in a prece
ding chapter, had not been seen, and she had been
forgotten by both Seymour and his bride. One day,
however, Zuleika rushed into the cottage from the
garden, alarm depicted in her countenance. On be
ing asked by Seymour what had occasioned her
fright, she said that she had again seen the dreaded
and mysterious woman cautiously watching her
from a covert of trees in the rear of the garden.
“By heaven !” exclaimed Seymour, “this is unen
durable; I will see to it immediately, love, and cause
a stop to be put to this annoyance ; although, afte
all, 1 imagine, as. I have said before, she is som
poor foolish creature who is an object of pity rathe
than fear.”
He walked down that day to the little hamlet in
habited by the fishermen who made the island their
abode—the only hamlet the island contained —and
made enquiry regarding the woman.
“She comes'from Lemnos, excellenza,” said on
of the fishermen, “in one of the boats that occa
sionally visit this island, to dispose of mats and
such like trifles. She came here yesterday, and de
parted, in the same boat scarcely two hours since.
Poor thing ! She is mad, excellenza, the evil eye is
upon her.”
“Do you know any harm of her—is she hated or
feared by the people here ?”
“ Hated—no, Excellenza—but she is pitied by
some, and feared by others ; but there is no harm
in her, I believe. There are strange tales abroad
with regard to her. It is said she once knew better
days. Excellenza, she has the gift of prophecy.”
Seymour said no more ; but he determined to go
to Lemnos and find out the woman if possible, and
prevent any future annoyance to Zuleika. He
walked along the shore until he reached the spot
where the felucca lay at anchor, and stepping into
the cobble boat, he paddled on board, and ordered
the lateen sail to be hoisted and the anchor
weighed, and in a few minutes the little vessel was
under headway for the island of Lemnos, which was
just visible in. the distance. He had learnt from
the fishermen that the old woman was called Marca,
and that she had suffered from the reverses of for
tune to such a degree that her reason had become
impaired ; tradition said her ancestors lorded it
with sovereign rule over the larger and more fertile
islands of the Cyclades—and that she herself had
been the bride of a great free-booter chieftain. In the
course of an hour the felucca's anchor was dropped
off the small harbor of Lemnos, and Seymour went
ashore, resolved if possible to discover the abode
and seek an interview with Marca.
He learnt, by making inquiry of the inhabitants
of the island, that the object of his search resided
in solitary seclusion iu a wretched hut deeply em
bosomed in a dark wood a short distance from the
sca-sldc.
“ But, Excellenza,” asked his informant, “ what
would you seek from the dark woman of Lemnos ?
Marca hath an evil eye, and a tongue prone to pro
phesy terrible things. Beware, Excellenza, be
ware.”
“ Egou sas evxagistou (I thank you) for the ;
warning,” replied Seymour, who had addressed the
man in the Romaic dialect—the vernacular of the !
is ands ; “ but, my friend, I fear her not; never
theless I thank you.”
The fisherman inclined his head and placed his
hand upon his breast; “ Excellenza,” said he,
“Me kanctce megalen timen" (you do me too
much honor).
Following the path which he had been told would
carry him to the hnt of Marca, Seymour found
himself in the course of a few minutes deep in the
bosom of the wood, and, about half a mile from the
entrance, he discovered by the smoke that issued
from a spot where the trees grew thicker than
common, that he was in the vicinity of the abode
he sought. He approached the spot cautiously, he
did not wish to alarm the old woman, and besides,
he felt a strange sensation creeping over him that
could not actually be described as fear and which
was yet near akin to it. Brave as a lion where
danger was openly present, Seymour was still, like
most imaginative persons, a little given to super
stition, and the strange character he had heard of
the old woman, and her singular desire to
haunt the abode of his bride when he
was absent troubled him, and now the dark
solitary, savage aspect of Marca's hut, so embedded
amidst the thickest foliage of the wood that the
cheering light of the sun’s rays was almost shut
out, and the glare of a charcoal fire that was burn
ing in front of the hut and tinting the confined
landscape with its lurid hues—presented a scene
eminently calculated to awaken any latent feelings
of superstition he possessed. In front of the fire
Marca herself was seated with her back turned to
wards the intruder upon her savage solitude. She
was attired in a loose wrapper of scarlet color and
of coarse material and on her head she wore a coni
cal woolen cap from which her elfin locks escaped
in long tangled ringlets and although her appear
ance generally betokened extreme age, these tan
gled elfin locks were still untouched by the hand of
time and streamed down over her scarlet wrapper
in vivid contrast with its bright color. She was
busily occupied in weaving rushes together and at
the same time superintending some culinary opera
tion that was going forward, in an earthen pipkin
raised upon a tripod over the fire, and from the clo
sed lid of which the steam was rapidlyescaping ; at
the back of the fire a huge piece of half charred wood
was sending forth columns of suffocating smoke
and this smoke it was which had first warned
Seymour of his proximity to the hut of the Sybil.-
Marca neither saw nor heard the approach of her
visiter, or at least yije uq sign of having
k done so, for Seymour approached close to her and
watched the rapid movements of her skinny fingers
,t as she pursued her avocation, chanting as she did
so some rude Romaic rhyme, and still she neither
turned nor spoke.
g Seymour cleared his throat and coughed and stamp-
ed his foot upon the earth in hopes of attracting her at
r tention. Still she neither spoke, n<y heeded him.
s At length he addressed her with the usual Romaic
e salutation:
r “Alt zc— na ze (long life) good Marca.”
“Ti opisete kur?" (What is your pleasure, sig
nor?) she replied, still without turning her head.
i “I have sought the aged Marca,” answered Sey
mour, “to ask if she needs the assistance of a weal-
1 thy stranger ; I come from yonder small island,”
, pointing his finger in the direction of Zuleika’s Isle,
although the old woman was not looking at him.
> “I have seen Marca there, seeking to sell her wares.
‘ Such toil is unfitted for one of her years ; I would
i render her position easy—say, Marca, how can I as
sist you ?”
> “Signor, you speak with a false tongue,” replied
i the aged female, “ that is' not the object of your
' journey hither ; I knew you would come ; I have
waited many years for the appearance of you and
your young bride. Last night when the stars beto
kened that it was the hour of midnight, I had a
vision, and I knew then you would come here to
seek me to-day in my hut. It was for that reason
I hastened home so soon from the island on which
yob have fixed your bride’s abode. But, signor,
strive not to deceive one who has dealings with those
wiser and more powerful than you, and who can
penetrate into the secret mysteries of the human
soul. You came not to do me service, but because
you feared harm from me towards your dainty bride
■ —ls it not so ?” she added, with startling energy,
springing at the same moment to her feet, her
tall wiry frame stretched to its full height, and for
the first time confronting her visitor, “Is it not so ?”
I ask?”
“And if it is ?” replied Seymour, who was startled
by the woman’s strange energy.
But she did not immediately reply. She scruti
nized her visitor’s appearance from head to foot,
muttering to herself in a soliloquizing manner, as
though she were alone, and unheard by any human
being.
“Fair to look upon—goodly in stature, tall and
straight as the cedar—but though fair without,
blighted at the core by the canker worm of remorse.
Your hand, signor? I would read your destiny more 1
narrowly than the stars allow me,” she added
aloud in the startling energetic tone she had before
spoken, as she took her visitor’s hand in her skinny
fingers and intently scanned the lines upon the palm.
Then letting it drop, she muttered to herself in a i
dialect unknown to Seymour, and stood gazing va- I
cantly before her apparently heedless of his pre
sence.
Seymour felt his flesh creep as he gazed upon ;
her; and fearful that he would lose command of
himself if he gave way to the feelings of supersti- !
tion that were growing upon him, he resolved again
to address her. He repeated his question :
“ What if I have come hither for the purpose of
which you spake?” said he.
“ Nothing but this,” answered the old woman,
whom the sound of her visitor’s voice seemed to
have aroused from her reverie—“nothing but this,
that your visit has been made in vain. I seek not
to injure the harmless dove whom the falcon has
enticed to his nest. Fear no harm to your bride
hrough me ; but know this, that were I inclined to
do her evil not all your power could prevent me.
Man, you are doomed. You stand ou the verge of
a precipice and one false step will imperil your life.
You should live long on earth, signor, for ” and !
he approached her lips close to Seymour’s ear, and
hastily whispered, “ you know that hell is an eter
nity of anguish and horror. Go,” she continued
aloud, “go home to your bride. You are about to
leave her—fear' not that harm will happen to
her while you are absent. There are those watch- '
ing over her more powerful than you to protect her
from evil —once again' you will revisit her, and then
—but the fates forbid me to say what then—my !
tongue is tied. Go, signor, go ; your bride awaits I
you at your cottage. Leave Marca to her solitude,
and fear not for Bedita.”
Bcdita ! the name sounded familiarly to the ears ’
of Seymour. Suddenly the thought flashed through
his mind, “Bedita was the name that the woman of ;
whom I purchased Zuleika, gave to her—and she was ;
called Zoe—can this be she ? No, impossible. Zoe |
was at that time a young woman herself, and that :
was but ten or twelve years ago, while this vyoman,
Marca, must have numbered seventy years at least; .
besides Zoe was handsome—a model of savage beauty, I
—yet I will know more.”
The superstitious fears that had during the inter- i
view with Marca, held him in thraldrom, van
ished, now that this reaction had taken placel
He resolved, at all hazards to satisfy himself with '
regard to this fresh doubt that had arisen in his
mind, and he entered the hut into which Marca
had entered, after she hade him to return to his
bride. But it was untenanted. It consisted of one :
simple room, almost destitute of furniture, save a
rude couch and a iJece of hewn timber which served ’
for a chair. He rushed again into tho open air ; ho
sought the covert of the woods, but in vain ; Marca
was not to be found ; and after spending half an j
hour in vain search, he returned to the boat, and
going on board the felucca, returned to Zuleika’s j
Isle. He met Zuleika and Jane Miller on the beach; .
they had seen the approach of the felucca, and had I
come to meet him.
“Whither have you been this morning, wanderer ?”
playfully asked Zuleika.
“To Lemnos, darling,” replied Seymour. “ I '
have been to see that old woman who has two or
three times terrified you so much. It is as I said ; i
she is a poor simple, imbecile creature ; you must
not be so silly as to be alarmed when she comes
here.”
“I dare say it is mere folly on my part,” returned I
Zuleika; “I shall not be frightened of her in fu
ture.”
Seymour’s mind misgave him while he spoke. Yet i
he had the ancient sybil’s pledge that she intended :
no harm to his bride, and he was sufficiently super- :
stitious to believe that a pledge thus given by a wo
man such as she, would be scrupulously observed.
“ But I have strange news to tell,” said Zuleika.
“ While you have been absent, a party of fishermen
and women landed from a boat from one of the ’
islands near here, and amongst them there was a
tall, handsome woman, who regarded me very earn
estly. Her black eyes looked as though they would ;
pierce me through, so intense was their gaze. I
thought I had seen her face before ; even her tall,
upright form, seemed familiar to me. Yet, where I
had seen her, I could not tell. Strange recollec
tions—events that I have long forgotten, or only
remembered as though they had passed before me
in a dream, appeared to revive—and then the
thought passed through my mind, that this strange
woman was Zoe—the woman who, when a child, I
believed to have been my mother. I had no reason
to love her; but I felt as though I must rush into
her arms, and beg her to disclose the mystery that
surrounds my birth; but she had mingled with the '
crowd, and I did not see her again.”
“ Mere fancy, darling,” said Seymour; but he did
not feel satisfied with what he had heard. It seemed
as if some mysterious fate were gathering its folds
around him, and he felt a strange fear that he should
find himself irretrievably entangled in its meshes.
He strove, however, to shake off the alarm he
really felt, and resolved to hasten his departure
from the island, determined that this should be the
last time that he would leave Zuleika behind him.
Nay, he resolved in his own mind to make this his
last voyage, and on his return to renounce his wan
dering life, and, with the wealth he had amassed, to
live happily and peacefully on shore.
His arrangements were completed in the course
of a few days more ; and now the day arrived for
his departure. He and Zuleika were taking their
last morning walk along the sea shore.
“ How long will you be absent, George ?” asked
Zuleika.
“ Perhaps four or five months, dear,” replied
Seymour.
“It grieves me that you should be obliged to
leave me now, for you know, George, what will, in
all probability, occur before you come back,” and i
the fair girl blushed as she spoke.
“I guess what you allude to, darling,” answered j
Seymour. “I shall have a pledge of our mutual i
love, a bouncing boy or perhaps a miniature copy |
of your own dear self to welcome on my return,”
and he stooped his head and kissed the blushing
girl. “Well,” he added, “if it be a boy I suppose
I must leave his name to your choice; but, if it be
i a girl, darling, you must call her Zuleika. Keep
up your spirits, dear. .Julia will be a faithful at
tendant and when I return, recollect, we shall
not part again while we live. We shall be very
happy, Zuleika.”
“I hope so dear, I shall always be happy in the
knowledge of your love.”
This last remark was uttered by Zuleika, in a '
tone of hopeful anticipation and yet there was a '
tremor in her voice and an expression of anxiety
in her countenance strangely at variance with her ■
usual light and joyous mood. It was noticed by
Seymour.
“You are melancholy, darling,” he said
“you must not take my present parting so much to
J heart, you must shake off these low spirits, and
strive to be cheerful. Think how soon five months
' will pass away and think of our happy re-union
then.,,
“I will try to do so George, still I wish that you
were not going to leave me now.”
They returned to the cottage and the remainder
of the day was spent in making such arrangements
as Seymour thought would be necessary during his
absence, for the comfort of his wife. /
On the following morning he took a tender fare
well of Zuleika, told Harry to be a cheerful com
panion to her, and promised her attendant
—the old negro woman from Annabon, who
was devotedly attached to her mistress—that he
would abundantly reward her on his return, if she
served Zuleika well and faithfully; and then steping
into the boat that was to convey him to the
felucca, he soon reached the little craft; her lat
teen sails were loosed to the breeze, the anchor
weighed and Seymour standing on the raised quar
ter deck waved his cap as a parting salute. Zu
leika was weeping on the shore and Jane Mille
was standing by her side endeavoring to cheer an 1
comfort her with words of happy anticipation.
A crowd of fishermen, and women had assemble 1
to see the felucca get under weigh. Was it fancy?
or was it indeed the tail, slender form of the ancient
sybil, Marca, who stood conspicuous amongst tha:
crowd of women and raise,d her hand and pointe 1
her long skinny fingers toward the felucca
whether in. menace or in warning Sey
mour was unable to tell ; but again his
superstitious fears came over him and he turned
away his head and in a hurried voice, gave some
orders to the Greek seamen.
In another hour Zuleika’s Isle had nearly disap
peared from the sight of those on the felucca’s
deck and the little craft was speeding swiftly,
before a fair breeze, on her voyage to Valetta.
CHAPTER XXV.
Charlotte Herbert arrived safely in New Orleans,
after a prosperous voyage across the Atlantic from
Sierra Leone. She scarcely knew what her inten
tions were when she landed on the levee. She had
no money in her possession beyond a small sum
which Captain P —, aware that having been
saved from shipwreck, she must necessarily be in a
destitute condition, had delicately placed at her
disposal when he bade her farewell at Sierra Leone.
" She had accepted this thankfully, as a loan, to be
repaid at her earliest convenience ; but, she had
never told the captain an/thiug relating to he? ta-
yuw YORK, SUNDAY MORNIN, MAY 21, 1854.
tory, and he was not aware that the small sum he
had lent her was all that she possessed to save her
from utter destitution. He naturally imagined that
she had friends in New Orleans, or at all events in
the State of Louisiana, and the money he had lent
her, he thought would be sufficient to carry her
to them or to support her in New Orleans, until she
could hear from them ; but, unfortunately, it was
her all—and she arrived in her native country, after
her long absence, in the condition of an emigrant
who has no friends and who has to work his own
way into some means of support. Charlotte had
friends in the United States, it is true ; but she was
distant from them, and she did not wish to make
herself known to them. She almost hoped that they
thought her dead and had long since forgotten her.
She was, however, a well-educated young woman,
of interesting personal appearance, and ’she fortu
nately, soon after her arrival, read in the Picayune
an advertisement asking for the services of a young
lady to occupy the post of governess in the family
of a gentleman who held the position of guardian
to two of his brother’s children—two girls, aged re
spectively twelve and sixteen years. Happily for
her, her manners and appearance enabled her to
obtain the situation, without any other than verbal
enquiry being made as to her ability and the re
spectability of her family, and she entered upon her
duties still preserving her incognita. The Misses
Wilson, the two young ladies who were placed Un
der her charge, were amiable and beautiful girls ;
but, although they were sisters, they did not bear
the slightest resemblance to each other. Marie,the
elder,.was a tall, pale, dark-haired, black-eyed girl,
possessed of features of classical regularity, and
with a sweet and gentle expression of countenance,
although when at rest a tinge of melancholy seemed
habitually to overshadow it. She moved with the
grace of a queen ; and although she was naturally
reserved and shrunk from observation, her beauty
drew around her a host of admirers—to none of
whom she appeared to show any marked preference.
The beauty of Louise, the younger sister, was a
perfect antithesis to that of Marie. She was small
of her age, joyous in temperament, impulsive and
quick to take affront, but as quickly appeased, and
slight and agile as a fairy. Her complexion was
delicately fair—her hair light auburn—her eyes blue,
and the ruddy flush of health and spirits was called
to her cheeks, by every passing emotion. Mr. Wil
son, the uncle of the girls, was a planter of conside
rable wealth. He was, however, a man of cold,
calculating disposition ; and although, he fulfilled to
the letter, that which he considered to be his duty
towards his fair wards, he seldom mingled in their
amusements or seemed to take any interest in their
1 studies, beyond asking their young governess, at
1 stated seasons, how they got along.
Miss Herbert was not long in perceiving
that some deep-seated sorrow was preying on the
mind of the elder of her pupils. Two or three
times, entering suddenly and unexpectedly into her
apartment, she had found her in tears, which she
in vain sought to hide or even to restrain; but, al
though the young girl was evidently fond of her,
she never would explain the cause of these tears,
and firmly resisted every effort made by Miss Her
bert to induce her to confide to her the cause of her
distress.
A moTnii vi irro er.,?, hnwever and al-
though Miss Herbert herself was often
of melancholy reflections, the cause of which the
reader may have surmised, she was as happy and
comfortable in her situation as she could well expect
to be.
On her arrival at New Orleans, she had placed in
the post-office the letters and parcels entrusted to
her charge by young Miller; and Mrs. Miller had in
due time received the letters. About the same time
however, she received a letter from her boy, direc
from Sierra Leone, In which he alluded to the sin
gular story of the White Lady of Annabon, and re
lated to his mother the history of the letter and the
ring—asserting boldly that he was confident tha,
the ring she had worn on her finger on the day he
left home, and which she prized so highly in conse
quence of its being, as she supposed, a memento of
her lost daughter, had been in his possession for
several weeks, and had disappeared even more
strangely than it had come into his possession. He
concluded by asking his mother, seriously, whether,
during the period he had been absent, she hai at
any time missed the ring.
The worthy widow’ knew not what to make of
this epistle. The ring he spoke of she had con
stantly worn; never for a single moment had it
been absent from her finger even while she was
sleeping ; besides, the idea was preposterous. Tlie
poor woman became alarmed. She had heard of the
deleterious effects of the African climate, and she
naturally enough came to the conclusion that the
boy must be suffering under some derangement of the
brain, and that the whole story he told was a mental
delusion.
She showed the letter to Mr. Mordant, who told
her that he had heard of the island recluse from his
nephew, and that as he was about writing to Sierra
Leone himself, if she would leave the letter for
him to read, he would make such enquires of his
agent as should induce him to sep the boy, if the
ship still remained iu the harbor, or should again
visit that part of tho coast. He agreed with
the boy must be laboring under some extraordinary
■delusion. “But,” he added, “my dear Mrs. Miller,
some strange mania appears to have seized all my
correspondents there just now. I have just heard
from one of my sea captains, who has taken some
mad freak into his head, and gone I know not
whither, leaving the vessel to shift for itself. (The
widow had called at Mr. Mordant's office in town on
the day he had received Captain Seymour’s letter,
announcing his intention to quit the Albatross for a
time, and on tho very day tho evening of which had
been been productive—as the reader is aware—of
such a complication of annoyances.) The letter,
was left at the office, and having been mislaid by
Mr. Mordant, wasfound and perused by his son, and
subsequently became the occasion of some singular
misadventures. This, however, was not the only
difficulty that arose out of the abstraction of the
ring from young Miller’s chest, by Miss Herbert, .
under the impression that it was her own. She had
frequently worn it during the voyage home, though
she had reasons for not doing so on board the man
of-w’ar, and had never thought of looking into tha
little drawer in her trunk where her own ring had
been placed, until some time after her arrival at
New Orleans, when she came upon it accidentally,
and was perfectly bewildered with amazement ou
finding herself in possesion of two rings exactly fac
similces of each other. She puzzled her brains for
some time, endeavoring to account for the strange
discovery,but failing to do so, she carefully laid one
one of the rings aside, trusting that time would ex
plain the apparent mystery.
We will now return to Mr. Wilson and his two
nieces. About two months after the first connection
of Miss Herbert with the family, she was sent for
iuto Mr. Wilson’s study.
“I have sent for you, Miss Herbert,” said he, after
he had invited her to be seated, “to inform you that
my elder niece, Miss Marie, will soon be released
from your charge. She is shortly to be married to a
young gentleman of good family and excellent ex
pectations, in New York. lam well satisfied with
your conduct since you have been in the family, and
you will continue to superintend the education of
my youngest niece at the same salary that I have
hitherto paid you. I wish you,however, to see Miss
Marie, and to reason with her upon her
folly in objecting to the marriage I pro
pose for her. She knows that my heart is
set upon it and it is her duty to obey me, and her
interest as well,” he pronounced the two words du
ty and interest, so emphatically that Miss Herbert
could not help noticing it; but knowing the plant
er’s stern nature, she thought less of it than she
might otherwise have done.
She replied:
“I will see her as you desire, sir; I have been
pained to notice the mental anxiety under which
your elder ward appears to labor. She has never
confided the cause of it to me; but I presume, that
what you have just related to me will explain
it.”
“Perhaps it will, Miss Herbert. At all events see
Marie and endeavor to reason her into a proper
frame of mind and warn her from me to beware how
she risks the utter ruin of all her future prospects
in life.”
Miss Herbert quitted the presence of her impe
rious employer and immediately sought the chamber
of her pupil. She had not expressed her senti
ments in the presence of Mr. Wilson, but she sin
cerely pitied the girl and she resolved, if matters
were as she suspected, that her influence should
not be exerted to secure her pupil’s life-long
wretchedness—for life-long wretchedness she felt
would result from a forced union on the part of
Marie with a man whom she did not love, whom
she perhaps hated and despised.
Marie Wilson was sitting in her room by the
open window disconsolately reading a note that
her guardian had just sent her. She started and
thrust it in her bosom when Miss Herbert entered.
“I am sent here, my dear Marie, by your uncle
and guardian, Mr. Wilson. He has told me of his
intentions regarding you, and has desired me to
express to you my opinion that it is your duty not
to oppose his wishes, far be it from me, however,
to advise you to adopt a course which must result
in your lasting unhappiness. I suspect that
the intelligence I have just heard has been the
cause of the despondency which I have so fre
quently observed you to be afflicted with, though
you have never made me your confidant. Is it so?”
“Is this marriage upon which your uncle seems
so determined, so distasteful to you? If so, I coun
sel you to refuse to obey him in this respect, or at
least to temporize with him. In a few years more
you will be of ago and free from his guardianship—
I believe you have property in your own right—and
then yon can please yourself as regards one of the
most important actions of woman’s life.”
The tears were falling fast from the eyes of Marie
ere Miss Herbert had done speaking. As soon as
she could control her emotion she said :
“Itis as you suspected, Miss Herbert. Hitherto
I have kept the secret of my grief locked up in my
own bosom. It is now twelve months since I first
met the man who desires to marry me and who has
gained over Mr. Wilson to advocate his cause—nay
more, to insist upon thts sacrifice on my part. He
was then on a visit to New Orleans, and although I
do no not know the particulars of the case, I believe
that Mr. Wilson is involved in debt to his father
who is a merchant of great wealth in New York. H:
sought my hand then and was by me refused, for hi
character was bad ; I heard sad stories respecting
him, besides I loved another, and we had mutually
plighted our faith. But he was not to be thus re
pulsed. He sought Mr. Wilson and asked him to
give him my hand in marriage. I believe some in
famous covenant was entered into between them ;
hut though I suspect, I do not entirely know its
nature. It is enough that I must obey—must marry
a man I cannot love—must break my plighted word
to another—or—l shudder to contemplate my prob
able fate.” Again thq unhappy girl burst into a
paroxysm of grief.
“ My dear Marie,” said Miss Herbert, endeavoring
to console the weeping girl, “ your guardian cannot
compel you to this marriage. Yon overrate the
power his trust reposes in him. You can do as I
advise you; plead your youth, refuse to marry
at present, and when you become of age, please
yourself as to your choice of a husband.”
“Alas ! Miss Herbert, you know not all my sad
history. You know not the humiliation to which I
am exposed. You think me the niece of Mr. Wilson
and the sister of Louise; so in one sense lam ;
but the mother of Louise was not my mother. I
am the daughter—why should I blush to own it—
I am the daughter of a favorite quadroon slave who
belonged to Mr. Wilson’s wife, and who died shortly
after her mistress. It is only since I have been
urged to marry Charles Mordant that I have been
told tta—l am the property, body ami soul, of my
t guardian, as the woielieves him to be, so at least
i’ he says; and he thrns —yes, even in this letter
t he has sent me to-dwhich I was reading when
i you entered—he thrns, unless I consent immedi
-1 ately to follow his we, to declare my parentage
• to the world and to lose of me as his slave—so
i he has the cruelty til me—to the highest bidder.
I Oh! God, to what ate of wretchedness am I re-
• duced.”
; At the name of ties Mordant, Miss Herbert
had started and tid pale. For some time she
could not trust hersto speak, but with a violent
effort she subdued Emotion, and said in a husky
voice which, had Se. not been suffering “woes
all her own,” she m have noticed.
“But when Sir. yon’s brother, your father died,
did he not leave youy property ? Are yon sure
he did not during llife-time purchase your free
dom ?”
“I know not Hied suddenly. He was as fond
of me as he was ofy sister Louise, the daughter
of his wife whom hrarried, I am told, about a year
after I was bom. uise’s mother, whom I always
supposed to b; ny’iother likewise, treated me as
though 1 wer< ;er rtn daughter ; and we were led
to suppose byou- fiher, I and Louise, that his large
property was o bedivided between us in equal por
tions. Now, ij liude tells me my father left no
will, and Loufcis ( his only heiress, and that lam
subject entire 1 io his will and pleasure. He says
if I consent tmajry Charles Mordant, I shall have
my share; oti/wse , I cannot say what he
threatened mrith otherwise. It is too dreadful a
fate.”
“Poor chip said Miss Herbert, “I could not
have thoughtch iniquity existed on this earth ;
but, Marie, I n save you from this dreaded fate—
at least from arriage with Charles Mordant. He
is my husbant He gained my affections when an
artless, unsuspting girl. Not long ago,” she added
smiling mourally—“ but it appears to me that I
have grown pmaturely aged—he gained his ends
by going thro h the ceremony of what he thought
was a false mriage. I sometime afterwards, when
he taunted mevith it, thought so too, and was al
most driven tmsanity. I fled to New Orleans, and
after subsistinon the sale of my jewels for some
time, I engagi as stewardess, heedless almost what
became of mcon board avessel bound to Liverpool;
the vessel wi wrecked, but my life was, saved.
However, thais nothing to the purpose now. After
my return to hw Orleans, and not more than a month
agojlmetthcnanwho had played me false, pretend
| ing to have ten a Baptist clergyman, I recognized
and would lire avoided him. He was accompanied
by another prson, whom I also recognized as hav
ing been premt at the ceremony. They stopped
me. It waan a lonely place, and I could not es
cape them; rat they told me they wished me no
harm; on tbcontrary, what they had to say would
be to my benfit. I was compelled to listen. Then
they told m that Mr. Mordant had persuaded a
young man, ;ot the one who married us, but he who
was present vithhim,to personate a clergyman, on
the occasion rf That I thought was to be our wed
ding, and tin? cruelly to deceive me; but though a
pretended friend /this man was a secret enemy of Char
les, who hed treated him with contempt and scorn in
the presence of some of his aristocratic companions-
He therefore sought revenge by procuring the assist
another person- u. magistrate, though, I fear
me he was an unworthy one, to sign ine contract,
and on the evening when the disgraceful and cruel
trickwas to beplayecl--diaries’ friend pretendedsick
ness, and the entire ceremony was performed by the
other; since then the breach between these two men
and Chiries Mordant has widened. They would
now willingly do anything to injure his future pros
pects, aid they wished me to unite with them in
exposing him- I refused. I scarcely knew what to
do or how to act. But lam now decided. Dear
Marie, my name is not Charlotte Herbert, but Jea
nette Dixon, and Mr. Wilson cannot force this hate
ful marriage upon you—for, as I said before, Charle i
Mordant is my husband; and, thank God! when I
was cast adrift upon the ocean, the written contract,
which proves my marriage, was saved; I kept it in
a purse which I wore suspended from my neck. It
was damaged by the water, but it is still legible.”
She drew a purse from her pocket, and took thence
a torn and stained paper—almost rotten, and ready
to fall into fragments; but the marriage contract of
Charles Mordant and Jeanette Dixon, legally attest
ed and signed by a magistrate, in the presence of
witnesses, was distinctly legible.
“Thank God! I am saved,” exclaimed Marie,
throwing her arms around Jeanette Dixon’s nock.
(To be continued.)
[Original.]
POETRY,
[Suggested by reading the Life of Henry Kh'ke White.]
BY ANNA JANE MACLEAN.
Who has uot sympathised with the youthful poet and martyr
Immolated on the shrine of Poverty in his twenty-second year,
and whose fate is the more touching as it was not hastened by
any of those excesses through the medium of which so mauy sons
of genius antedated the final term of their brief span.
J seldom think of Henry Klrke White, without feeling ready to
cry out with the Prophet, “Let me die the death of the righteous,
and let my lastr./nd be like bls.” Tho details of his simple life—
the harrowing circumstances of his pecuniary trouble —the mld
. night ho»» otwfeet bait life-wasting communion with tha spir
liuai uepth «»f his gifted inmu—the sneer of the purse-proud—tha
contempt of the aristocracy (with a few exceptions) for the par
venu poet—the pure fount of warm affections ever freshly welling
up in his young heart, as evinced by his sentiments towards his
mother and brother—the faith which removed mountains of tn fi
delity, and brought peace to the pale student in his comfortless
room, even while every feeling writhed under the lash of penury—
all combine to make his memory, connected as it is, with pinion
less ambition condemned to creep, though born to soar, one of the
most sweetly pensive and instructive of youthful biographies.
When I first read his life, I thought, and think so still, that of all
the poets whose mission here has ennobled humanity, Henry Klrke
White .would be the first I should like to see in the world of spir
its, and haply smile with him there at
The heart out, like the stone, with petty cares,”
which we thought so grievous to be borne while fretting out our
short probation here.
Poverty has wrung my heart,
Poverty has touched my brain,
Poverty will not depart,
Though her presence I disclaim.
Poverty around me flits,
Poverty calls up dismay,
Poverty around me sits
Every hour of every day.
Poverty beside me lies,
Povertymy night-watch keeps;
Poverty, when I arise,
Still my soul iu sorrow steeps.
Poverty affects the muse,
Poverty disgusts her quite,
. Poverty her song subdues,
Clips her wings and mars her flight.
Poverty prevents my thoughts,
Poverty forbids them soar,
Poverty, when I would hope,
Urges me to hope no more.
Poverty affects my prayer,
Poverty benumbs my zeal,
Poverty hath dealt a wound
Time can never, never heal.
Poverty has marr’d my brow.
Poverty has made me old.
Poverty has cast her spell
On every object I behold.
Poverty has changed my heart,
Poverty has made me stern,
Poverty makes every pulse
Madly trob and madly burn.
Poverty has poisoned life.
Poverty has left me lone,
Poverty’s unequal strife
All my pleasures hath o’erthrown.
Poverty has banished trust,
Poverty unnerve* me quite,
Poverty her shadow throws
Round me morning, noon and night.
Poverty Is in my heart,
Poverty dries up my blood,
Poverty has vowed my death,
And she'll make her promise good.
Poverty my star has quenched,
Poverty my health has stole,
Poverty has only failed
When she thought to kill my Soul.
SIGHTS AND SCENES IN OUR
GREAT THOROUGHFARE.
We do not pretend to have had better opportunities of study
ing Broadway than thousands of New Yorkers; others have
seen what we have seen, no doubt, and their observations will
agree with ours. We have seen it by sunlight, moonlight,
starlight, twilight, gaslight and firelight; know the effect of a
sunbeam on any given stone, and feel on speaking terms with
every face we meet.
We have not, like many others, looked upon that varied,
gorgeous, ever-shifting panorama, as a fashionable lounge, a
mere week-day promenade. Have you never strained your
eyes to watch some sturdy personification of labor elbow his
way through rustling silk and shining broadcloth, so intent
upon his business that the figures in his path were but obsta
cles to be eluded or overcome? And then turned to look
upon his moral antipodes listlessly sauntering along in spot
less kids ?
’Tis true the startling contrasts that shock the feelings in
European cities, where famine and luxury meet daily face to
face, cannot be found in Broadway. Our land has been too
highly favored by “ circumstance, that un-ideal God,” for such
mohstrous inequality. Seventy-six, by cutting us adrift from
the past, broke up the cherished distinctions that prevail in the
old world; and, as a consequence, left our social state more
comfortable but less picturesque. This a walk down Broad
way would at once prove and illustrate. Still there is con
trast enough for effect, social inequality enough to lead to re
flection and inquiry—but actual want and misery is not here,
as elsewhere, indicative of a class, but peculiar to au indivi
dual.
There is another point in which New York differs from
European cities. In London and Paris there is no difficulty
in discovering the native land of any given number of indi
viduals, for the garb marks the country. They are mere
birds of passage, touring it for pleasure or observation, or
temporarily attached to some diplomatic circle, apart from the
people among whom they reside, and recognizable at a glance
by some external national characteristic. Not so in this land
of promise to which people from every clime flock to find or
make a home. Here they fling aside their national customs
and peculiarities, and are only to be distinguished from the
mass of our native population by the less striking, but more
Indelible characteristics of feature and complexion. What a
zest this one circumstance gives to a stroll through Broadway.
Dark-eyed Iberians and light-hearted Franks jostle against
small-eyed Celestials. Sons of Innisfail meet us in every
block—up this side-street come swarthy Italians and phleg
matic Germans—here are Hungarians, their features reveal
ing their Tartar origin; there mobile Muscovites, Gaels, and
Anglo-Saxons, Swiss and Scandinavians, mingling with busy
New Yorkers, shrewd Yankees, stalwart Western men, and
listless Southerners. Every State la the Union from Maine to
California, has its representative in the main artery of our
city. Every quarter of the world furnishes its contingent—
Europeans, Asiatics, Africans, “guilty of a skin not colored
like our own,” and the aborigines of our insular continent.
What exercise for the intellect docs not Broadway afford when
every face we look at gives a lecture on ethnology? We can
imagine nothing more delightfully exciting -than such a walk.
In place of looking at the cut of a man’s coat, wo look at the
cast of his countenance and dub him European, Asiatic or
American, or if our perceptions are quicker and liner descend
from generalities and assign to each a nation. If as the poet says:
“ Variety’s the very spice of life.”
What marvel that Broadway is so thronged—no •ther
street in our city is so highly favored. There is not only
varieties of race but a variety of condition:—young and
old, rich and poor, handsome and homely are there.
Bright human blossoms, “ angels unawares,” flit through the
moving mass. • Delicate ladies resplendent in pride of beauty
and of place, contrast with cherry-cheeked servant-maids as
Jlies with peonies; hardworking laborers and mechanics hurry
to and from their meals; ennuyecs, twirling a cane or a mous
tache, saunter along, gazing at every pretty face “la the
Christian way ” defined by Byron—
“ Which seems to say, madam, Ido you honor— ’
And while I please to stare, you li please to stay.”
The observant pedestrian will notfail to remark that Broad
way varies in appearance with the hours of the day. The
diflerent classes have their different hours for passing through
or lounging up and down it. Broadway in the morning and
Broadway in the afternoon are as unlike as the same face can
be with a different expression; as unlike as the same landscape
n sunshine and shade. On Sunday it presents a totally different
phase from any other day in the seven. On that day, the upper
ten seek the more fashionable region of the Fifth avenue, and
eave Broadway to the workers of both sexes, with whom it is
a favorite Sunday promenade. An American looking on the
happy, comfortable groups—happier far than the dwellers in
up-town palaces, and, contrasting them with the squalid chil
dren of labor to be met in every European capital, may be
pardoned for feeling proud of his country and her institutions.
This is a nation’s true glory—better far than steam vessels and
clipper ships, warehouses and railroads. But, while we thank
Heaven that we are not as other nation’s are, let us not forget
that there are a class of workers, men and women, who are
not represented here,who must be sought in dingy rear houses
and damp unhealthy cellars. Oh, if the votaries of pleasure
the worshippers of fashion, but thought— if “consideration
would like an angel come,” and force them to think of the
hundreds who are born to poverty as an Inheritance, and ap
prenticed to vice as a profession, how soon the plague-spot
would disappear from our city. But, it is with Broadway we
have to do —Broadway, varying with every season. Can any
thing be more exhausting than a walk through it in summer.
The sunbeams fall perpendicularly on the flagged side-paths—
heating them like a furnace, and the clashing vehicles send up
a cloud of dust, that, changes the different shades of green on
the trees to one uniform grey. What a blessing a shower
would be ! And now it comes—patter, patter, falls the rain on
the pavement, and quicker fly the crowded stages. Ladies
stand under awnings with uplifted finger, throwing looks
of importunate entreaty upon flinty-hearted drivers, who are
“full inside:” and gentlemen, grown desperate, clamber to
the tops or cling to the doors of omnibuses. The shower is
short and violent; the clouds roll away—the sun shines bright
ly ou the gUsttuluj leave#) and &U U Clear again. Can any-
thing be more exhilirating than Broadway in a bright mid
winter’s day ?
“ Above, “ the sky,” blue, without a cloud,
And white without a speck, the dazzling splendor
Of the snow below.”
The frosty side-paths glisten in the sunbeams—and the
air is musical with the silver sleigh-bells, and the trees, with
their diamond branches, remind us of Aladdin and that won
drous garden, with its fruits of gold. Everything looks brighter
and the cold, clear air—the stores with their bewildering vari
ety, are more dazzling—the ladies, in their warm furs and rich
velvets, look rosier and sprightlier than they did in laughing
June; and if Boreas in passing, too prodigal of his winter
roses, has scattered them where he ought not —what matter?—
Away with the stop-watch critic, who could cavil at such a
trifle. What various colors 1 What conflicting tastes! What
different styles ! What rainbow lines! "What dissimilarity !
What monotony ! What blind submission to fashion and what
wild defiance of her.laws, you can see in the space of two or
three blocks. But hark—
“ A flood of euphony voluminiously swells,”
And in fine style marches past a company of guards with col
ors flying, and target riddled. There are the victors and their
prizes. One has a half-dozen of silver spoons fastened to his
button-hole, another a gold pencil, and see that feminine look
ing youth near the target carries a massive silver salver. With
what proud humility he bears himself, thinking all the time in
his heart that he is the cynosure of these thronging myriads,
and that William Tell was not a “circumstance” to him*
But close upon their heels, carrying all before them, and
throwing the plainly dressed guards into the shade, advances a
motley group. Crowds of men and boys accompany them, and
shouts of laughter greet them as they pass. These are the
“ Funny Fellows,” the “ Fantastical,” the “ Original
Hounds,” the men who “take everything down.” Outre
costume and ridiculous caricatures are the order of the day
among them. An Indian, gloomy and taciturn, like his race,
walks beside a gaily bedizened page with plumed hat and
slashed doublet; flaxen-haired Yankees with marvelously
short pants are in close proximity to turbaned Turks and
Spanish hidalgos; sailors, strong-minded women, old continen
tals, Chinamen and returned Californians; everything laugha
ble and grotesque, everything bizarre and whimsical, is to be
seen among the Funny Fellows.
And now “ the jingling and the tinkling of the bells” be
come incessant, and “ sliding cars indebted to no wheels ”
rush with noiseless velocity over the frozen suow, flinging a
cloud of feathery particles around. The graceful lightness of
their shape, their silver bells and buffalo robes, contrast fa
vorably with the public sleighs, which, lacking furs or skins
Of any kind, would look chilling and dreary were it not for the
rosy faces within. Nothing can be more desirable for a tete
a-tete than a single sleigh, and nothing better than a double one
for a social party; but for real enjoyment both must yield the
palm to the public sleigh. What liveliness and animation!
Here are bright eyes, merry glances, and cheeks that blush
and tingle at the rude embrace of winter; and sallies of wit
and peals of laughter, and a refreshing indifference to tossed
hair and red noses quite delightful to see. How can they be
otherwise than happy ? The snow is some inches thick upon
the ground, covered with a serviceable coating of frost, tnd
the gray wintry sky foretells a coming snow-storm. With the
snow began their jubilee, their carnival; they longed for it
more than they ever did for summer, and the prospect of its
continuance raises their spirits to the highest pitch. True lov
ers of the sport can enjoy it in any style, whether in the dash
ing cutter or the democratic public sleigh; but the soul, the
essence of the pleasure, can only be extracted by a country
ride.
A slight ride in the country. Our heart leaps up when we
behold a prospect of one. Think of it! Swift as the wind
that whistles round us, noiseless as the snow over which we
glide, we go on, on—over hills and plains, over dazzling wastes
of snow, past evergreens and deciduous trees, now strangely
alike, over imprisoned rivers, and through quiet country towns.
And still on till the sun goes down red and fiery, the lights
twinkle in the casements of solitary homesteads, and the moon
sheds radiance over the scene, making “homely fea
tured night” more beautiful than day. On, on, like a than;
der storm, or the flag of freedom against the wind, gleefully
shaking off the pearly flakes it flings about us and laughing
at its impotent malice. Can all the languid joys of summer
time, its strolls by the sea-side, or its loitering under shade
trees, compare for a moment with the bracing, invigorating,
health-giving, life-inspiring, soul-awakening sleigh-ride in the
country, with spirits wild as the scene around, and hearts as
light as the down of Heaven? But alas 1 this is Broadway,
not the country; pleasure wears a calmer, more subdued as
pevt, uutiduiiglii uuiy peeps out at the eyes, w plays tkrouiuX
*Uv Ups.
But all this is too general; and the reader who would
study the problem Broadway presents, must station himself
below Canal street, in the early morning, and watp.h hu
man tide that roils on hour after hour. He will see that each
one differs from the one that preceded, and the one that fol
lows it. Before “the poetry of heaven” has become illegible
crowds of men pour into this general thoroughfare, from the
bye-streets or feeders on either side. Some carry tools and
some dinner cans, but all have the firm step and earnest look
of men who have all their lives battled with the world, and
fate, and fortune ; their sole resource and sustainment, their
own strong hands and stout hearts. But stay; mark those
moving heaps of dirt grubbing in the mud. What are they ?
The outcasts of society, the blighted leaves, the broken branches
of the Tree of Life; senescent children, young in years but old
in suffering. They are here with the first faint gleam of light,
picking up the stray pieces of wood and coal that may have
escaped the eye of the careful gatherer of the day before. They
have but little for their toil, for there are not many Boazes now
a days. Society ignores them—beings of their own kind dis
own them. What becomes of them ?
“Pauvre feuille dessechei,
De la loge detache—
Oubas tu.”
These lines of Camille Dumoulins were ringing in our ears,
and for a time silenced every other sound. But again came
the sound of heavy feet, and we gladly turned to look upon the
sturdy sons of toil, the well drilled bands of labor as they
moved on in groups or single files, quick to do and steadfast to
endure, hopeful, earnest, energetic, self-reliant, equal to the
responsibility that rests upon them, as,the basis of society, the
foundation of the social superstructure. With what alacrity
they hurry to their various occupations 1 Broadway is reso
nant with their measured tread, disjointed bars of popular me
lodies are floating on the morning air, whose youthful fresh
ness is already tainted by the curling smoke-wreaths issuing
from “human chimneys.” The primeval curse, that “sad sen
tence of an ancient date,” under which the toiling millions of
Europe groan, has been greatly modified here in this “brave
new world;” or rather “this great antiquity,” as Sir Thomas
Browne calls it. Labor to these men is no curse; the bitter
ness of labor they do not feel; they have never implored some
“lordly fellow-worm” “to give them leave to toil,” they have
not been brought up to believe that a worker is a pariah, that
laborious means degrading, and useful means contemptible.
No!
“Thanks to Heaven that’s not the gate
They learnt their creed.”
Theirs is the noblest, manliest feeling that looks upon use
fulness as the highest patent of nobility, and the ability to con
tribute something to the common weal, by labor, intellectual
or physical, as . man’s glorious prerogative, his precious priv
ilege. Such thoughts, called forth and fostered by the spirit
of our institutions, impart that feeling of self-respect that ear
nestness of self-assertion that distinguishes American artizaas,
as a body,, from the tradesman of the old world.
For about an hour they continue crossing and recrosslug,.
some up town—some down, some east—some west, and then
Broadway swarms with a different class hurrying to their
daily labor. Clerks and shopmen armed with daily papers
press on to desks and counters—working girls with green
veils and carpet-bags containing their frugal dinners, come up
town or across town in hundreds, the number gradually les
sening as they pass the different business streets—Canal, Di
vision or Bowery—until at last the main body disappears in
printing offices, book binderies, perfumery storesand the dif
ferent down town sewing establishments. The youthful ap
prentice with the eager flush of hope illumining every fea
ture, and giving elasticity to every step must arrest your atten
tion ; there amid yonder group how slow time moves for her!
In a few weeks she will have learnt her trade, and then—she
can earn, she can help—what can she not do? Her trade—it
is the open sesame to independence, to wealth, and she dreams
aud speculates I How unselfish the objects of these mercena
ry speculations! How evanescent the dream ! How rude
the awakenings I The hope of making an independence by any
amount of labor, by any excess of self-denial passes away, she
learns in after years to smile at it as childish folly, and with
it departs that untiring energy that made a sport of toil. She
abors now, because she must, but the labor of to-day does
not lessen the toil of to-morrow, each year of her life
stands by itself, receiving no help from the past, and giving
no hope to the future. Pass over a few years and see her
working on, ’tis true, but pale, care-worn and listless, and
say could you recognize the sanguine bright looking girl, of a
few years ago, with heart as light as her step, and hopes
brighter than her eyesl
We are in the habit of speaking of working girls as if they
were all of the same calibre. There could not be a more mis
taken notion. In feeling, education, taste and habits, in all
that distinguishes one individual from another, they are as
“wide as the poles asunder.” The most superficial observer
might know this by a casual glance. In the workroom are to
be found the reduced gentlewoman and the aspiring servant
maid. Some seek it to escape from house-work, some because
they have no other resource, and some who might rest con
tented at it
“ For the glorious privilege
Of being independent.”
So there must be dissimilarity, for a difference of motives ar
gues a difference of character or circumstances, perhaps both.
During the day they are engaged in work that requires constant
sitting or standing, aud in the evening, when “stars have
oped their fashionable eyes,” they wend their way homeward
just in time to see the beauty and fashion of the city crowding
to the various places of amusement, while their more favored
sisters listen in pantomimic ecstacy to operatic gems, or attest
with swimming eyes the pathos of a dramatic scene. The
New York work girl (and we now speak of those who emphat
ically work for their living) hastens to her comfortless home or
boarding-house and begins her w'ork afresh. What, after a
hard day’s labor and an exhausting walk! Yes, even so, and
she is glad to have it to do that she may make up for bad pri
ces. Men when they find their wages inadequate to support
themselves and their families comfortably, demand and receive
an increase. What do women do when employers, rendered
reckless by impunity, make another reduction in the scale of
prices? Sit up an hour later, or rise an hour earlier, work
harder, deny themselves every little comfort, and try thus to
make both ends meet. Surely there is something rotten in
the state of society—woman an idol in one condition of life and
a drudge in another.
But “revenous a nos moutons,” we were forgetting Br oa d
way. On rolls the human tide without cessation. All ages ar 3
there from the youthful apprentice we have already spoken
of, to the grey haired woman; all countries, all creeds and all
styles of beauty, native and foreign, languid and animated,
blonde and brunette. There is beauty enough in Broadway on
work-day mornings to make. Fifth avenue grow pale with
envy. The sun is now some degrees above the horizon, and
his rays fall lovingly on the favored side of Broadway. Glance
up and down—you may, for this is a moment of reaction; there
are only a few stragglers passing that Cuvier himself would
be puzzled to classify, so free are they from any marked
characteristic. Do not mind them. While we have leisure
look at the stores, so magnificently fitted up; plate glass
windows, marble fronts, stuccoed ceilings—a competence spent
in their adornment. There, opposite, a miniature sitting-room
fitted up in Gothic style, recalls to mind the barons bold of
Europe in the feudal times, their mail-clad vassals and their
moated towers, while close beside a musical celebrity “sum
mons home the recollected powers,” and we are in the nine
teenth century again. Do not these drooping plumes of snow
white feathers bring before the mind’s eye troops of pilgrims
wending Mecca-ward through illimitable deserts, where the
ostrich loves to wander, and of which Freeligarth loves to
write ? Look at these laces, thin as a cob-web—a coarse hand
might fear to touch them—fitting shade for loveliness—lighter
and more transparent than the foam from which the Grecian
Venus emerged. Earlh, air, and ocean have sent their trib
utes ; pearls from the sea, and diamonds from the mine are
here; hyperborean furs, tropical flowers, and books that
might make us forget Alexandria, or at least forgive Omar.
An imaginative dreamer could wile away hours in Broadway,
and traverse the globe in a forenoon, fancying himself by
turns in a Parisian bontique, a Turkish bazaar, or an English
mart.
But we can gaze no more, for onward come crowds, dif
| feting essentially from any we have before observed. These
are men of money, Lilliputian Rothschilds, bankers, mer
chants, men of business, “nae sheep-shanks bane ” in their
own estimation ; and later still, with brows contracted, lips
compressed, and an air of deep abstraction, the lawyers hurry
past on their way to the City Hall, or the different courts
throughout the mefropolis.
Whoever wishes to see Broadway in its most brilliant phase
should be there at noon, when beauty and the sun are in the
zenith. Fashionable belles are there, flitting about with rest,
less vivacity, or moving up and down with languid indiffer,
ence. We set that man down as a model of prudence, who at
that hour seeks the shilling side for safety, while reckless
youths are wantonly braving fate on the two shilling side.
“ Shine on, I’ll bear the blaze,” say these modern Icaruses
in every look and gesture. But the lune soon changes to
“Woe is me e’er to see
Beauty so shining,
Ever since, hourly,
Have I been pining.”
Sometimes there is a shadow on the sunlight, a grub-worm
among the butterflies; and a seamstress, poorly clad and hea
vily laden, hurries home with her work. . What to her are
the moving and stationary splendors around? She does not
see them. “ The walk that costs a meal ” affords no time for
sight-seeing. But this class generally return their work in
the early morning, as the curtain Is beginning to rise slowly
and disclose that brilliant scene; in plain prose, as clerks are
taking down shutters, dusting windows, and arranging their
goods in the most alluring manner. Or sometimes in the dusk
of evening, before the glare of innumerable gas-lights imparts
to it a brilliancy rivaling that of day ? they cojqe &ut gncc
tral things, with “faces W Speak eiatolnale hearts,” mor
mg in an atmospho'ro bf Isolation. Mark how studiously they
avert their eyes from the theatres and public buildings, and
how they shiver as loving words addressed to others reach
their ears, and then return to Broadway at noon, and discover
if you can, which is most strange—th© indifference of the one
class or the endurance of the other. You will have time
enough for speculation, for they continue to promenade for
some hours. Then comes the daily ebb of the Broadway tide.
The promenaders disappear; the stores are empty, and for
a short space of time the east and west side of the street are on
an equality. But this does not last long; about five the west
side asserts its superiority; and from that until seven it is lite
rally blocked up with men and women returning from their
various occupations. After that hour the street is given up to
pleasure-seekers, segar smokers and idlers. Fancy stores and
drygoods stores close up, and ice-cream saloons and oystcr
cellars do a thriving business. From ten to twelve omnibus
drivers and hackmen besiege the doors of every lecture-room
and place of amusement, from Hope Chapel to Barnum’s, and
by the time the last has received his load Broadway is deserted
—given up to solitude and the stars. Q.
SELLING THE LANDSHARKS.
[EXTP.ACT FROM A WHALEMAN’S JOURNAL.]
A majority of the evils experienced during a voyage, origi
nate in the deception used by keepers of shipping oilices and
ship owners. Young men, who leave their homes in the
sparsely populated parts of the country, with their “ hair full
of hay seed,” as Jack expresses it, and entering into our large
cities for the purpose of obtaining employment, are often at
traded by the flaming handbills, in glaring letters, which are
paraded at the windows of shipping offices—setting forth the
ease and certainty with which a large sum of money may ba
had, by enlisting in the whaling service, where all are repre
sented as sharing equally the sure gains of the voyage. En
tering the office, the smooth-tongued clerk—he was never at
sea—enchants them with a description of the merry lives
whalemen lead; well fed, well clad, free from care, often in
port, and returning home at the expiration of eighteen months
or two years, with a full ship, their share of which will amount
to a small fortune. He enlarges on the liberality of the gene
i-QU4 who provide rava with ft cheat welHWjd
with ready-made clothing, and all the et cetera* which tend to
comfort—forgetting, however, to speak of the exorbitant per
centage to be paid at the close of the voyage, for the out
fit. He even offers to procure them a passage direct to the
“ splendid new ship, that is just ready to sail,” waiting merely
to decide who they shall select from the many likely young
men who wish for a berth. Of course, he will give them the
preference, if they will present him with a small bonus. In
many cases the bait is swallowed, and when on visiting the
“ splendid new ship,” (which the wily owner takes good care
is not done till they have signed the articles and received a
fitting out, with two or three dollars to clinch the nail,) they
begin to suspect foul play—they find the hook so firmly fixed
in their gills, that there is no release.
If they are discontented, the owner or captain promises them
situations as boat-steerers before the voyage is up; but if they
are still bent on backing out, threat of prosecution, confine
ment in jail, Ac., are resorted to; so that they are glad to sub
mit. Such men, no matter how smart they may naturally be,
are usually “not worth their salt” on ship-board. Everything,
from the time lhe ship sails, increases the conviction that they
have been wretchedly deceived. Those on beard whose “eye
teeth have been cut,” render them more and more dissatisfied,
by informing them of the real state of things—that if they
should fill the ship, the small share that would fall to them
would scarcely pay for their chest and contents, for stowing
and unloading the ship, for wharfage, medicine-chest, cooper
age, guaging the oil, insurance, (which in case of loss would
benefit none but the owners,) board previous to sailing, and
last, but not least, their • passages from the city to the port
where the ship belonged, and a fee of five dollars each for
shipping them. They listen to the exaggerated stories of boats
crushed and men killed; and now their eyes are wide open,
and the dangers to be encountered in a manner realized. Is
it strange if such individuals become perfectly reckless, “dodg
ing Pompey” whenever they can, and laying plans to desert
at the first port where the ship drops her anchor ?
When about to return home from my last voyage, we ship
ped one of that sort, as an ordinary seaman, .in Payta: and he
was ordinary enough—scarcely able to distinguish between
the main-top-bowline and jib-down-haul. He was born in a
■ country town in New York State, about 150 miles from the
city, which he visited for the first time to obtain a situation as
clerk in a store. Finding no vacancy, he was about to return
home, when a shipping-office shark met him, and after making
strong protestations of friendship, decoyed him to the theatre.
At the close of the performance, his new friend informed him
that he knew of a “slick chance,” where a young man of good
moral character might make his fortune in a few months, with
but little trouble and no expense. He listened—believed the
story—was on his way to New Bedford the next day r and on
the wide ocean—which he had never seen before—ere a week
had elapsed. Before the ship reached Payta, he became aware
of the manner in which he had been deluded, and determined
to return home as soon as possible; but not poorer than when
he left.
At P, he contrived to desert, and carry with him every
thing he called his own. The next week we entered port,
and he shipped on board the A , at fourteen dollars per
month. When we arrived at Nantucket, the sharks, suppo
sing that he owned a part of the ship’s full cargo, were
officious in offering clothes, money, anything, everything in
fact he wanted.
Johnson went on shore, received his wages, forty-nine
dollars from tlje owners—graciously accepted a watch worth
thirty-five dollars —a suit of clothes, worth one hundred more,
and cash to the amount of twenty-five dollars from one of
the benevolent land sharks—with the understanding that they
were to be paid for when he settled his voyage. This busi
ness was brought to a close about half an hour before the
steamer started for New Bedford. Giving his creditor, agree
able to his request an order on the owners of the A—he quiet
ly stepped on board the boat, w’here a shipmate bad placed
his baggage, and before the next evening was at his father’s
house, genteelly dressed, with more than one hundred dol
lars in cash, besides his watch and chest containing a potion
of his original fittings, as well as a large number of whale’s
teeth and other curiosities picked up during his absence. One
’ fact is worth mentioning, viz; that lie had not seen a whale
during the time he was at sea, nor the spout of one.
G * *.
IMPRISONING WITNESSES—STORY
OF LILY BELL.
I looked one morning, many years ago, into a low drinking
house not far from the Five Points. It was a bright, balmy
May morning among the fresh fields and waving woods, where
flowers, were springing and birds were carolling their loudest
and most joyful songs. But here, in this locality, it
was far diflerent. BrirM lhe sunlight came
toxtv me wide, unshaded window, and was reflected
from the numberless decanters and glasses till the room
seemed all ablaze; but from the noisome gutters and the filthy
streets its heat raised clouds of steaming, unsavory vapors,
that filled the air with the direful seeds of disease and death.
Within the room were three persons—two, who were bandy
ing various opprobrious epithets, mixed with oaths, and a little
child who sat, perched among the bottles upon the bar, watch
ing her noisy companions with distended eyes. One of these
was an old man with white hair but a Herculean and appar
ently unbowed frame; the other was many years younger, a
hardened looking man, athletic and vigorous though rather
small. The child was a little, fair-haired girl of three or four
summers, at most, with great blue eyes and skin of pearly
whiteness. It was a strange sight, that angel-child,, amid as
sociations of such wretchedness and crime.
Directly I saw the elder man strike the younger, and then
the two closed in a hand-to-hand conflict. Now their oaths
came thick and fearful, and still lhe child looked on with her
great blue eyes. In their struggle the men approached the
bar. The younger snatched a heavy decanter, which stood
there, and then the two whirled away. At this moment ano
ther person appeared upon the scene. A young, tawdrily
dressed woman, still beautiful despite the traces of sin upon
her fair face, and her bold shameless eyes, ran hastily from
another apartment and seized the child as if to convey her from
her perilous position. The young man swung the heavy bottle
round his head and aimed a blow at his companion. It slipped
from his hand, and flew, with the force-which his motion had
given it, across the room. It struck the head of the unfortu
nate woman, crushing her skull as if it had been an egg-shell,
and she sunk with a heavy groan upon the floor, with her
child—the child of sin and shame—still clasped in her uncon
scious arms. In an hour she was dead, aud next day they
laid her to rest in her last, long home.
The young man was arrested ; he went to prison, had his
trial, and was pronounced guilty, of manslaughter—and then
shut for ten years within the towering-walla of Sing Sing State
Prison.
Those ten years passed on—ten winters’ snows fell on the
grave of the murdered mother, and ten times the grass sprang
green and rustled in the breeze above that humble mound
ten years of sin were added to the life of that aged, white
haired man, and ten years had brought to the verge of open
ing womanhood that beautiful child, growing like a fair and
graceful lily amidst the filth and corruption of her wretched
home. Ten years, too, had the criminal toiled and suffered
within the gloomy walls of a prison—years of dogged, solemn
obstinacy—years full of brooded vengeance, with no ray of
penitence or sorrow to lighten their gloom. And now he is
free 1 The majesty of the law is satisfied, and he is free to go
where he may choose—free for'good or for evil—let loose again
upon society no whit a better man.
Again.l looked into that room. It was a sultry summerday,
and the sun poured into the great uncurtained window, as it did
that day, it looked upon the corpse of the murdered woman.
The old man sat by the door, smoking his pipe, and within the
bar was the beautiful girl, his grand-daughter. Bad as the old
man was, he had jealously guarded the child from wrong. She
never came into that place except sometimes in mornings,
when customers were few, to arrange the bar, and make all
things brighter, and clean and attractive.
Amidst the atmosphere of moral pollution which surrounded
her, she had grown up pure as her namesake the fragrant,
white Illy. Lily Bell was the sweet name she bore, and well
indeed, she graced it.
As I looked a man approached the door. Many threads of
silver were mingled with his brown locks, but I knew him for
the man whom I had seen once before in that very room. I
knew him for the murderer and the released convict. His
brow grew dark as he saw the old man, but he passed in and
approached the bar calling loudly for some drink. The old
man rose up and crossed the room to attend his call saying as
he did so:
“ Go in now, Lily; you can finish your work by-and-bye.”
The girl turned to obey, and, coming out of the bar, would
have passed the newcomer, but he laid his great hand heavily
upon her white shoulder and ordered her, with a vulgar jeer,
to get him the brandy. The old man’s ire was roused and he
struck that ruffian hand from the shoulder of the shrinking girl.
There, precisely upon the spot where they had met ten years
before, these two men struggled again in deadly conflict. But
the old man was feebler now, and the girl stayed to help him.
But in vain. The ruffian stabbed him many times to the heart,
with a large knife he had concealed about his person.
The girl screamed for aid and hung over the prostrate form
of her grandfather. The murderer would have left the place
but passers-by arrested him upon the threshold, and once
more he was conveyed to prison.
The old man lingered on a few days and then he died of his
wounds, and sweet Lily Bell was left alone, the only relatives
she had ever known, both murdered by the same hand.
The murderer was arraigned for indictment, and Lily Bell
was the only witness to the crime—though others had seen
him with the reeking knife in his hand, and the old story of his
former crime went far to strengthen the testimony and to fix
upon him the charge of malice aforethought. The Indictment
was found and the murderer convicted—and then, because
sweet Lily Bell was friendless and homeless, and no one
would answer for her appearance on the trial, they shut her
up in the gloomy prison walls amongst the vilest of her sex,
away from the sunlight and the pure air of heaven.
Poor Lily had never been in so dark and gloomy a place
before. She shuddered as she followed the matron to the cell
assigned her; but when the kind woman had retired how the
child’s heart sunk within her, at sight of the hideous creatures
among whom she was herded. How they gathered round her
and in spite of her tears and entreaties, banded their cruel and
obscene jests! How they filled her pure ears with words
such as she had never before listened to ! How unrelentingly
they hunted her innocence to its destruction!
Mighty is the wisdom of law-makers, and who shall gainsay
it! A man has taken the life of his fellow and, that he may
be hunted to judicial murder, they plunge innocence into the
leprosy of sin, and condemn a pure soul to death. By their
act the innocent suffers more than the guilty, whose punish
ment is the short death-struggle; while to the innocent unac
cused, it 100 often assigns, by the enforced companionship of
vice, that death in life—the destruction of the moral nature
progressing and perpetuated through the entire existence.
Six months Lily Bell remained imprisoned among criminals
and the abandoned—women grown old in sin, and girls of her
own tender years already lost and ready to drag others down
to their own abyss of misery. Her mind, when she entered
the prison, was like an unwritten page, ready to receive cha
racters of good or evil; for the policy of her grandfather had
been the negative one of keeping her secluded from evil com
munications, while he took no care that she should receive
good. Of course the class of influence which now surrounded .
her made the readier impress. When her long imprisonment
was ended, and the trial passed, in which her evidence con
victed the murderer, she went forth free, but oh! how changed.
The same glorious and rare beauty of form and feature—the
same innocent and Madonna-like expression upon her face—
the same radiant eyes—the same rippling curls framing the
exquisite contour of her countenance—the same graceful child
ish figure—but not the same pure spirit. It was a blackened
and distorted soul that now dwelt in this fair casket.
A Hide money was hers now—the hoardings of the old man’s
life of sin, but she had neither home nor kindred. Her history
became like that of too many young girls who are exposed to
the temptations, and surrounded by the influence of a great
city. When scarcely more than a child in years, she married
a young man of her own class, whose only recommendation
was his handsome face and figure. He had been probably at
tracted by her beauty and her money, for his mind was of the
lowest order—his head as devoid of brain as his soul of man
liness. No happiness could result from a marriage formed
upon such a basis. Riot ‘and dissipation followed, with all
their evils.
Five years after the marriage of Lily Bell, her husband, for
some fearful crime, was incarcerated for life in the State Prison.
She was cast destitute upon the world, her money gone, her
beauty faded, and two feeble children wailing at her knee for
bread. Her whole life, since she left the prison walls had been
one of vice—was she suddenly to become virtuous, now, when
the only alternatives were vice or starvation for herself and
babes? Let me display a few pictures of such a life as law
and custom, in this Christian land, doom women like her to
follow.
Two years after her husband’s incarceration, her home was
a cellar in a house swarming with creatures like herself, vile
and abandoned. The house like many others in the same
neighborhood, was owned by a rich and good man, whose
benefactions to all benevolent objects were immense, and
whose praises were in the mouth of the people. But he knew
nothing of his wretched tenants. His rents were collected by
an agent who patterned after his master in a small way.
While he stretched forth one hand to grasp the sum demanded
for the shelter of those filthy walls, with the other he offered
good books and tracts, and with his lips much good advice.
Thus he came one morning to Lily Bell’s cellar where, after
a night of debauchery, she slept off the fumes of intoxication.
Her fair-haired, pale children, for whom she cared as well as
she was able, and whom she loved as her own sinful mother
had loved her, when she periled her life to save her child’s,
lay sleeping beside her, when the man entered. His entrance
aroused her, and he at once perceived her state and felt it an
opportunity not to be lost of offering advice. He told her she
must stop drinking, that she must be industrious and honest,
must provide a better home for her children and send them to
day and sabbath schools; and he threatened her with a future
of endless suffering unless she at once changed her whole
course of life. Then he gave her a bible and some tracts and
bade her read them, and learn there her duties as a mother.
Lily had listened in sullen silence to many a like tirade, but
to-day she was in no wood to do She poured forth upon
the astonished agent a flood of bitter sarcasms, mingled with
oaths and horrid words, that drove him from the room.
“ Here,” said she, “ take your money and go—it is the
wages of sin—no matter’twill de to build churches, and to
print bibles, and to send missionaries to the heathen! Ido
not want your bibles or your tracts I Do I not know that I
am vile? Do I not know that God is just? Why will you
orture me before my time? You tell me to work and be
honest. Who will give work to such as me? Will you, or
will your wife, or him who sends you here to take, for the
right to live in this wretched hole, the money that I earn, or
beg, or steal in my own vile way? Who would believe me
honest if I tried, and who would give me bread? What church
would admit me or my children within its doors—what teacher
would receive my poor babes ? I tell yon there is no turning
point for such as me, and I will drink to drown my misery—
to die if I may before I see my children treading the path they
ifiust tread and living as I live.”
The man cowered before her fierce eloquence, and speedily
withdrew. When he had gone, Lily Bell sat down and
covered her face and wept. Conscience would yet thunder in
the soul of that woman who saw no way to escape from her
life of infamy except to die.
A few days after I saw Lily Bell creep down the area of a
noble up-town mansion. She asked for alms, at the door, and
the servant gave her bread. Then she begged to see the mis
tress of the house. Mrs. A. was one of the many noble and
truly Christian women of our city, who give time, and sympa
thy, and wealth, to the suffering poor. Lily thought an appeal
to her would be answered. She asked for work, telling her
sad story straight-forwardly and simply;—asked for work that
she might escape starvation and its alternative—infamy. Mrs.
A. hesitated. A shade of perplexity and of sadness came
across her fair and gentle face. She thought of her children,
and of her stern, unyielding husband, and replied:
“ I cannot take you into my family, poor woman, for my
children’s sake, whom I must guard from the approach of vice.
No, I cannot do that. Is there nothing else I can do for you?”
“ No, lady, unless you will give me the coarsest sewing to
take to my home. I will do it for the merest pittance that will
save myself and children from starvation.”
Again the lady pondered.
“ I cannot even do that,” she said, <l for I do not know that
I can trust you, and I do know what your associates must be.
You would pawn the garments for rum.”
“■No, lady, never I If you will trust me, they shall be
returned to you safely.”
“ I wauQt trust /ou, I kawr n>f husband wsuljilwp-
PRICE FOUR CENTS.
prove of it, and he allows me the means of doing so much
good, I must not anger him. But here is money, and I will
come and see you, in a few days, if you will tell me vi here
you live. Then perhaps I can aid you more and better.”
“I thank you, lady,” said Lily Bell, as she turned away,
“ this will give us bread for many days, but when this is gone
I must go upon the street again and drink brandy to drown
my mysery. ’Twould be a better charity to give me work.”
Mrs. A. went in and pondered the matter as she sat in her
splendid rooms. She thought ®f the woman’s words that
“ work given would be a better charity than alms,” and reason
told her that they were true. She resolved to save this one by
opening to her the way to honest industry, if she should find
her story true on visiting her. But next day she unexpectedly
left home, and was absent, many weeks.
During her absence, she often thought of the poor woman
who had asked for work—a thing that beggars seldom ask for-
As soon as she reached home again she sat out to visit her.
It was with difficulty that she thridded her way among the
dirty streets and narrow lanes that led to this abode of vice.
At length she reached the place, and gathering her costly gar
ments about her, she descended the filthy, broken steps which
led.to the cellar whieh Lily Bell had named as her home. But
as she entered, she saw at a glance, that her errand- would be
fruitless. The woman lay dead upon her couch of rags upon
the floor, and her little children sat beside her and played with
the tangled curls of her long, fall- hair. Upon the face of the
dead had come back something of the pure and peaceful ex
pression of childhood, and in its rigid lines there was no trace
of the history of her fife of sin. There lay the victim of legal
oppression, and of social wrong ! There lay the withered
lily on which the iron heel of-"social laws had trodden—its
petals crushed, and its perfume scattered!
Mrs. A. learned from, the inmates of the house—vile and
abandoned. women, yet not wholly lost to all womanly feeling,
that Lily Bell had resolutely refused to return to her life of
infamy after the generous donation received from herself was
expended. She had begged and been spurned from many a
door. She had asked for work to be driven away with taunts
and contumely, and at length when strength and hope yielded
she lay down to die.
Mrs. A. took away those children. They, at least, will be
saved a life of shame. The mother’s sacrifice has redeemed
them from the pit that yawned before them. And as she |
struggled bravely in the toils that bound her soul and body,
and died that she might burst them, may we not hope that
her penitence and her struggles for a better life, will have
gained her that mercy from a God of justice and love, which
his erring creatures so resolutely refuse to their fallen fellow
beings ? Were not God’s law more tender and pervading than
hopeless would be the fate of all who err. Man
is merciless in his judgment, but God is merciful.
Peerings from Trinity Steeple.
—CBT—
A BEGGAR FOR A DAY.
My guardian lived in Broomeorn, one of the prettiest villages
n the world. There he had a noble house, with a garden and
orchard attached to it. Aunt Keizah, his maiden sister was
his housekeeper, and, when after four years spent at a popu
lar boarding school were past, I returned to Broomcorn, the
great, still house, with its scrupulous neatness and comfort
seemed to me the very perfection of luxury. I confess it I
forgot for the first few weeks, the dear friends to whom I had
promised to write; and did nothing but enjoy the home com*
forts, which one fresh from a boarding so well appre
ciate. Uncle Oliver had surprised me with a new piano on my
return,' and practising music was also a luxury, for I had to
sing all my songs to unwearied and interested listeners. Then
there was such a nice library of old books. I terrified myself
with Mr. Radcliff's wonderful stories, or buried both past
and present in Percy’s Reliques. Several times my uncle
had rallied me on my quietness, asking if I Intended to sit in
the house always, and at length he insisted on dragging me
out to walk with him. Riding or walking, I soon accompa
nied him in all his excursions, and it was not long before I had
a pretty large circle of acquaintances in Broomcorn. Calls,
visits aud invitations, followed each other in quick succes
sion, and my school correspondents can tell, I dare say, all
the parties I attended, and my exact opinion of the people I
met. Howl disliked Frank B.—what handsome eyesFd
ward H. had—what a screech-owl Lucy Bell was—and how
Mary McJ—danced. Uncle Oliver used to laugh at my des
criptions, but aunt Keziah, never. She was too kindhearted,
and I always felt reproved, when she said so softly—“ Thee
must not be too unjust, dear Anna.”
“To bo sure,” uncle Oliver would reply, “itjs only a little
laughing about Fred Trevor. He is such a coxcomb and is so
Sroud of his pretty curls and white hands. Let Anna laugh
imm u si.„ ijv os ii
“Aye, but not so scorniuny, Tor <—— »-•—. r
noble traits. Wait a little while and thee may love him;”
“Fie, aunt, he don’t wish to be loved, he wishes to be ad
mired—this pretty Mr. Trevor.”
The ladles of Broomcorn had long ago organized a sewing
society, and I was soon a prominent member. But here I
must confess that I did not like sewing, I never could endure
worsteds and canvass, and crochet was my especial aversion.
Neither could I make those important pincussions, needle
works, and watch pockets so peculiar a feature of sewing so
cieties. I did not like to expose myself before the society,
who. evidently looked upon me as a valuable acquisition, so
after making a great parade with my thimble and
needles, I offered to take some work home with me. In my
simplicity I selected a dozen children’s aprons, of grey linen,
all cutin the same fashion. One was enough and I inwardly
resolved to be wiser another time. After stitching on the in
terminable rows of bobbin, I went back to my books, disgust
ed with sewing for charitable purposes.
I was reading Campbell’s Poems then, after reading
“O’Conner’s Child,” I resolved to go over it again for the
benefit of aunt Keziah’s pretty Irish girl, Bridget. She was
busy in the kitchen making herself an apron, whieh her mis
tress had cut and basted for her, so I called to her.
“Come here with your work, Bridget; I want to read you
something pretty about Ireland.”
“Is it about poor Ireland you’ll be readin’ to me? Troth
and I will then,. Miss.”
She came into the dining-room and sat down before me while
I read. ’To judge from her exclamations, she was all attention,
and deeply interested in the story.
“Well, now, wasn’t that a burnin’ shame in them, that
wouldn’t let the two marry decently, like Christiansl”
When I came to the flight of the lovers, she exclaimed—
“o dear, dear! how well she loved him, to be sure, and of
course she took all the fine clothes and jewels with her?”
“Campbell forgot to tell us whether she did or not,” I re
plied, and then went on with the poem, describing.,(he roman
tic life the lovers led in their “shealing” by the lake. In the
midst of it, Bridget asked, with the most innocent gravity—
“ And what did they do for tea and coflee all that time, do
you think?”
I could not answer, and therefore went on reading until
Bridget started.
“Whisht, Miss! there’s some one at the kitchen door.”
She went out and soon returned, to say that a poor woman
wanted to see the “misthress.” Aunt Keziah was absent, and
I desired Bridget to show her into the dining-room. She was
a pale, thin, elderly woman, with an old and faded mourning'
bonnet and shawl drawn so closely to her face and about her
shoulders, that one could see at a glance they were too thin
to keep her warm. I involuntarily drew an easy chair up to
the fire for her, and begged her to sit down. She complied
with a smile, a painful,- hopeless smile, that made me wretch
ed even after she had gone. After warming herself, she ask
ed if I could.give her some work to do. Plain sewing she
preferred, for her eyes were bad. Poor woman, they looked
as though she had been crying for a week.
“How fortunate,” I thought, “there are those tedious aprons
for the Society, I’ll get her to make them, and they never will
! suspect that I hired it done.”
j Another faint smile overspread her face as I produced the
I eleven little rolls 6f linen, and the. apron I had made as & pat
i tern.
“I wish these made nicely,” I said.
“Are they for yourself, Miss?”
! “0 no, they are for the sewing society; but you must not
let any ore see them, for I—l—in truth they think I intend to
do it myself, and I don’t wish them to know that I hired it
j done.”
“Be assured, Miss, I will not speak of it.”
After asking her price for the work, which, indeed, I thought
; very cheap, I promised, if they pleased me, to procure more
i work for her. It was not until after she had left the house
' that I remembered I had neglected io ask her name and place
: of residence.
“What signifies that?” said Bridget; “sure she’s an honest
I craythur, and maybe ’twas that she was wantin’ to tell ye
\ when she stopped so long between her chair and the door. It
: was not for the likes of her to tell you until she was asked.”
I dare say Uncle Oliver thought me a young lady of leisure,
• for I never was at work when he was in the house, and he
; never asked me to ride, but I was ready in a moment. There
i is an old saying about idle hands and idle brains, which I am
afraid my dear aunt and my discreet friends would have thought
of, had they known what a plan for amusement my unoccupied
mmd had conjured up. I did not ask their opinion, but when
; I made a confidant of Bridget, she clasped her hands together
I with an exclamation expressive of wonder and delight.
{ “Will you go begging with mo, Bridget?”
“ Troth, and I will, to the world’s end if you wish it.”
Aunt Keziah was still absent, and Uncle Oliver engaged to
i dine at Judge Brampton’s, so we were at liberty to come aud
i go as we pleased. Bridget took me up to her room and.
brought out of her trunk the faded linse.y dress she wore when
; she landed in New York. It was whole and clean and fitted
; me, I dare say, as well as it did her. Over that I put her
! frayed rag of a Scotch shawl, and from a whole magazine of
i bandboxes belonging to Aunt Keziah, we selected bonnets that
. were so old, and partook so much of her Quakerish taste that
‘ I defy any one to tell to what particular era of fashion they
' belonged. Two pairs of stout shoes and an old cloak for
I Bridget completed our disguise; and armed with enormous
i baskets we sallied forth, taking our way from the back yard,
through the orchard, and so into a secluded lane where we
, should not be observed. From them we made our way di
’ rectly to the most aristocratic house in Broomcorn, for the
I : ewing society met there that day, and I felt a secret curiosity
to see how the ladies would behave to beggars. Bridget was
to be spokesman, and we were to be sisters, begging our way
I to our brother who lived at the West.
i 1 heard laughing, and merry voices, as we passed around to
1 the back door, which was opened for us by a black girl.—
; We, or rather Bridget, told her story, and Diana ran to call
; “missis.” Pretty soon Mrs. Farwell entered and Bridget went
on to tell our trials and wants with such pathos and energy
that I really began to feel myself footsore and hungry, and
“heart-sinking among strangers.” Mrs. Farwell listened in
credulously and asked why we did not go to work and get
money to,take us to the “ State of Buffalo” by railroad or
j packet.
“God bless you, ma’am,” whined Bridget, “it’s glad I’ll
; be to work for yees; and me poor sister, (she’s innocent, the
craythur) ye’ll be wantin’ her to work for ye too, will ye?”
“Not I,” replied Mrs. Farwell, indignantly, “I don’t pick
i my help out of the street.”
j “If you please thin, ma’am, will ye give a thrifle to help us
1 on our way?”
! “ I don't believe in encouraging beggars, but I’ll see w’hat
i can be done for you.”
She went into the parlor and shut the door. Diana stood
with her back toward us all this time, her jaws busily at work
upon a large lump of Burgundy pitch. She now looked round
slyly, and when she saw us lookixg at her she rolled up her
eyes, spread out her hands, and went through with a grotesque
panton ime of hypocrisy, after which she winked and nodded
towards the parlor door. When Mrs. Farwell appeared again
she was apparently unconscious of our presence.
I “A sociely of ladies meet here to-day to sew for charitable
1 purposes,” began Mrs. F., pompously, “and they are kind
; enough to give you this,” and she gave Bridget three cents.—
If it were not against their rules to give to strangers we might
! do mere for you, but our own poor teed all we have to be
■ stow.”
“Charity,” muttered Diana, “Mr. Smith’s church will be
very much obliged, for them new cushions, carpet and lamps,
they’re going to get with the money they ’spect to coax out of
‘ folks. Guess poor folks don’t stand much chance when it
! takes so many fixins to make a meetin house comfortable.”
: Then wheeling round she asked—“ Got any pockets?” Bridg.
! et displayed a capacious pocket for answer. Diana was
, down cellar and back in a moment with her apron full of
apples, which she crammed into both our pockets until they
' could hold no more. “Missis counts everything except apples
i and ’taters, and so on, I b’lieve; but you must take half a
| dozen ’taters, may-be you’ll get a chance to roast em some
' where.” So saying shejnit the “taters” into Bridget’s basket,
and then covered them with a checked apron which she took
i off for that purpose.
“Its mine,” said she, “and I can give it away if I like,
j Now you’d better go, for Missis will be pokin’ back here before
long, or that proud yaller girl be cornin’ home to tell on me.’
' -‘We went out, calling down most fervent blessings upon
i Diana for her kindness. Once in the street, I asked Bridget
1 (for I had been dying with curiosity,) why she told Mrs. Far
i well that I was “innocent.”
j “Its natural I mean darlin’; one of them God pleases to
i make without senses, though goodness knows they’re often
i nearer to Him than ourselves.”
i There, was a compliment for me, but I saw the wisdom
j fit, and admired her shrewdeness.
I “Faith, we’d fare hard if wc was beggin’,” said Bridget as
'■ we turned from door to door, without a word except of denial.
Several limes we were called in and a trifle bestowed. Mrs.
■ Smith, the minister’s wife, a little woman who looked as though
tired to death with the noise and trouble of her six boys, who
i were making the most of a holiday, spoke kindly to us. When
; we left her door, our baskets were heavier by the weight of
half a fowl, some beans, and a small pie. At last we come to
a back street Inhabited principally by French and Irish la
borers. We called at two or three of these houses. One Irish
woman gave us a small bag of meal, another a few onions,
and a French woman gave us a piece of ham and some
parsnips. We counted our money and found we hid fifteen
cents besides Mrs. Farwelis three cents, which we kept sep
eratcly. We resolved to make one more call and then return
home ; and then we intended to send some present to each one
who bad given us something, just in proportion to the gift.
A rickety flight of stairs ran up the side of a shabby house.
“Somebody lives up yonder,” said I, “let’s go and see them.”
We crossed the street, and climbed up the creaking stairs,
Bridget knocked, and a “wee bit child” opened the door,
and said in a low, sweet voice, “ Come in, mama is in the
other room.” This room was little else than a garret, and
what that “other” was I soon saw. The woman who came
to meet me was the one who took my aprons to make. She
was paler than ever, and her miserable dress seemed thinner
and more worn than before. But I did not look at her. On
which occupied nearly half the room, lay a young
girl, so thin, so wasted, that she seemed scarcely alive, and
but for the flushed cheek and bright eyes, we might have
thought her dead. Heavy clusters of pale, chesnut-colored
hair purled r °und her neck and shoulders. She
was propped up Id Uie bod with pillows and as we entered
turned languidly toward the doof. i took the stool the child
offered me, and sat down, for a slrangS fueling of sor ™ w au d
despair came over me when I looked upon the face QI WO suf
fering girl. Her mother resumed her work—one of thosd
hateful aprons I had given hej to make, and stitched away
with a desperation in her trembling fingers that spoke plainly
of necessity to nerve the weak hand to toil.
“ It is cold the day?” said Bridget.
“ Yes, it is cold; have you walked far ?”
“ Only from the other side of the town,” replied Bridget,
drawing an apple from her pocket and holding it out to the
child. She took the apple with a pretty “thank you,” put it
to her mouth, but instantly drew it back and carried it to the
sick girl. The trembling eagerness with which she held out
her thin hand to take the cool fruit, brought tears Into my eyes.
The child’s mother rose to get a knife to cut the apple, and
while her back was turned, Bridget beckoned to me to empty
my pocket into the basket. It was soon done. When the
poor woman resumed her work, she said with a sigh—
“My daughter has been sick a long time, and she does not '
slways relish the food I,set before her. She is thankful for
your apple.”
Here the poor girl broke in with her husky, broken voice,
“ I hope nobody in the world will ever long for fruit as I do.”
I remembered the dainties which I had seen prepared for
the aick, and thought of them in comparison with the cold
mush and molasses I could see in the cupboard. I wondered
if -there was nothing else. There surely was not, unless it
was in that kettle under the shelf, and that was hardly possible.
“ Have you no husband?” I asked.
“My husband was drowned in the canal three years ago.
It was a dark Right, and as hq ftU t it was supposed that b«
struck his head against a boat passing at the time, and sanfc
and drowned,”
uO, dear I God pity ye !” exclaimed Bridget. “ Ana your
poor girl—has she been ailin’ ever since ?”
“ Ellen has been sick twelve months.”
“ You take in sewing, I_see. Do you get enough to support
you ?”
“ I have until recently; but the people who used to employ
me get a great many things done at the Sewing Society, or
rather, buy the articles at the Fair, which they say helps the
church, and saves them trouble.”
“ Can you earn two shillings a day?”
“ Not while Ellen is so feeble as she has been this week. I
pay three shillings a week for this room, and wood and lights
cost me a dollar every week. Some weeks Ido not earn half
that, and others I earn more. At present I owe a great deal.
,“ Poor mother,” fiftirhidfcd Ellen, “she spends it all on me.
How I wish I could repay her.’*
She turned her face to the wall. She was no! n 0» ’
her eyes were too bright. Tears were a luxury td W,
There was an uncomfortable silence. Bridget was sitting up
right, with great tears chasing each other down her cheeks.
All at once she sprang to her feet and exclaimed—
“ What’ll Ido if master comes home before ns? Don’t lets
be idling here. The misthress sent us to bring you some scat
terin’ bits for the poor girl, and may-be she’ll be comin in her
self some day.”
Here she lifted the apron from her basket, and put its con
tents upon the table, while I laid by their side the pie and.
buns, rolled in a clean cloth, and the contents of our pockets—
in all, eleven beautiful apples. Bridget gave the startled,
child our little cloth purse, containing oUr collection of coppers,
and Mrs. Farwell’s gift.
“ Please, ma’m, tell us your name,” said Bridget.
“Myname is Mary Dean,’? replied the widow, “and now
tell me who has God moved to be so kind and merciful to me
and my suffering child?”
“ Miss Silvernail, up at Broad street,” replied Bridget.
“I don’t know such a lady,” said Mrs. Dean, “but from
I thank her, and pray God to reward her.”
An inarticulate murmur from Ellen called her mother’s at
ention, and we let ourselves out, and flew down the shaking
stairs as though we had been committing burglary upon the
yoor widow’s premises.
“ O, praise be to goodness, Miss,” said Bridget, the moment
we ’.were in the street; “ is’nt it wonderful how they never
thought of begging? Well, I’ll never believe but it was Go<l
sent us there.” .
“ Bridget, I am going to buy some things and send them this
very, uight, whether uncle Oliver has his tea or not. Look,
here is the baker’s shop; I must have a loaf.”
We had little time to spare, and therefore I did not spend
many minutes in the shop, I had my purse in my pocket—l
< annot tel? why I brought it,, but fortunately I did. In a few
moments I joined Bridget aX the door, and we dashed across
the street to a grocer’s, and a dozen lemons, some sugar, and a,
j oil of butter lay beside the loaf in my basket. The grocer
seemed to guess at my lhoughts r for he silently laid upon the
counter some beautifnl papers of cocoa. I paid for them and
left the shop.
“ Where are yees goln’ now, Miss?”
“To the bank, Bridget. I’ll tell old Sanderson who I am, and
he will be delighted to do my errand. He will never tell of it
either, for uncle Oliver says he is honesty itself.”
We were just coming into the quietest street in Broomcorn,
when one of a crowd of boys clustering on the sidewalk,
caught hold of my arm.
“ Hallo! mother Noah, where have you kept yourself since
the flood ? How are the boys, Shem, Ham and Japhet, and
that jolly old covey that built the ark?”’
I tried to shake him off, and Biddy remonstrated in choice
Irish, but the insolent young scamps only pressed closer about
us, and yelled and whistled at the vulgar wit of our first as
sailant, whom*l now recognized as a promising son of Mrs.
Farwell’s. One of them caught at my basket, and seizing a
lemon, held, it up to view.. A shout followed, which so terrified.
Bridget that she fled up the street, toward home, like a deer.
I would have followed, but! could not escape. One held my
arm, and another my basket; while Master Farwell stood be
fore me mocking and jeering. I looked around, and over the
way I saw a gentleman just alighting from a dashing sleigh. I
screamed for help, and it seemed to me but the work of an in
stant, for him to spring across the street, knock down a couple
of the boys, and seizing Master Farwell by the collar, to shake
him into an ague fit. Then picking up my basket he replaced
the diflerent articles which had rolled out upon the snow. I
had. lost one of my ragged mittens in the hustle, and as I was
j afraid my hand might betray me, I made a great pretence of
I its being cold, and muffled it in my shawl. In an instant his
furred glove was offered—and his peremptory “Put it.on,”
was not to be disobeyed. All this time I had not dared to look
in his face, for I felt conscious that his eye was upon me.
• “ Where are you going ?” said he.
“To the bank.”
“ For what purpose?”
“To get some one to take this basket down to the widow
Dean, below Avery Mills.”
“ Come over here, I will carry you to the widow Dean’s,
and home again, if you wish it.”
I looked up : I could hardly believe myself waking; I never
thought Fred Trevor so handsome before—for Fred Trevor It
’certainly was. He looked as self-possessed and unconscious
as possible, and I trusted to the dark stain of my face withits
abundant counterfeit freckles, and my horrible dress to keep
my secret—so I replied, confusedly, “ Well, I’ll go.”
Behold us dashing along the gay street—Mr. Trevor, the
beau, the admired of all the ladies, sitting by the side of a
woman in rags, with a weather-worn, freckled face and rusty
locks’ of reddish hair, and a great basket in her lap. He sat
up and seemed to feel as proud as though I had been the
belie of Broomeorn. He even gave me the reins to hold,
while he carried the basket up to the widow’s room. When
he returned, I asked him to drive to the lane where I had left
the orchard, and in a few minutes I was standing by the gate,
uttering most fervent thanks to my knight, for his kindness-
Not until he was out of sight did I venture to enter the or
chard, and I flew up the path, and in at the kitchen door, with
all possible speed. Bridget was there and almost overwhelmed,
me with kisses and exclamations of delight.
• “O, but I thought I’d lost ye. The dirty rascals, to use ye
so—wouldn’t I bate them boys if I was their mother.”
Poor Bridget, she had been crying her eyes sore, and ire
spite of her previous coolness and wit, she knew no better way
to help me, than to tell “Misther Silvernail” all about it, and
have him hunt me up. I made her promise not to tell our
secret to any one, and then ran up stairs to change my dress.
When I returned, there was a nice fire in the dining-room,
and the tea table was set with its glittering china. I felt a
warm glow at my heart, for the faint, heart-sick vyidow had
to-night, something better than mush and molasses. And that
might not have*been but for my wild prank of going begging.
While Uncle Oliver and I sat sapping our tea, I heard the
stage bells at the door. I was in the hall soon enough to open,
the door for a great bundle of shawls and furred cloaks, out
of which we brought Aunt Keziah, as one unfolds a choice
parcel—one wrapper at a time, from her drab satin hood and
littlp. whiio waa! 'top, tn h/»»» fin- ohocs. Dear Aunt
Keziah; how much more like home seemed the house, where
her lovely smile beamed upon us.
“But, sister,” said Uncle Oliver, “where is Rachbl ? she
was to have returned with you.”
“Rachel is married,” replied my aunt, “and what we are
to do without her I don’t see.”
I thought to myself that Aunt Keziah would not long suffer
Rachel’s place in the household to be vacant, and nobody but
Bridget and I could guess who her successor would be.
The next morning, very early, I went into Aunt Keziah’a
loom. Presently Uncle Oliver was called. Thera was a great
deal of sighing and not a few tears, and when we went down,
to breakfast, uncle put his arm about my neck and kissed me,
and called me a “dear little beggar.” Aunt Keziah’s cloak,
hood, and shoes were in use all day, and many were the
budgets that went away from our door in Uncle Oliver’s hand
some sleigh. I had put everything in order in the room which.
he had hired for the widow’s use. There was the bed for
poor Ellen, her easy chair, brought from Aunt Keziah’s own
room, and a neat sofa-bed for her mother and tfic child.
Bridget had come over with a basket of grapes, and I laid a.
few tempting ones upon a plate beside the vase of fresh flowers
which<l.had culled from half the plants in Broomcorn.
At last they come. Aunt Keziah, first, softly opening the
door, and then Uncle Oliver, bearing in his arms the slender
form of poor Ellen, which her mother followed; still pale and.
silent, but looking resigned and cheerful. When Ellen could,
look up and speak, her expressions of delight and gratitude
were so child-like and innocent, that I could not refrain from
tears. She kissed the flowers, over and over again, and just
as we were going away, she said to Uncle Oliver:
“O, please, sir, let me kiss you too.”
e I heard him say as we went down ptairs—“Too late, too late
—charity always comes too late.”
Ellen died just three weeks from that day, and after the fu
neral, Mrs. Dean was installed in Rachel’s place, and her
child, Julia, became thoz-especial pet of Uncle Oliver, and, in
deed, of us all, for she was a beautiful and amiable child. Ra
chel had been for years Aunt Keziah’s house-maid, and her
marriage would.have made aunt miserable, but for the new
objects of care and love which.phe found in Mrs. Dean and her
child.
Not long ago Uncle Oliver said to me one evening—
“ Anna, what does Fred. Trevor come here so often for?
Almost every evening of late, he has been here, to sing with
you, or talk politics with, me, and read to your aunt. What
dc®s it mean?”
“Why, I fancy he finds our cheerful parlor a pleasanter
place than his office, with nothing but dusty law books, and
prosy clients for company. Mr. Oliver Silvernail is a verjr
agreeable man, and his sister is a noble woman, so, I dare say
he likes to come here.” .
“And Mr. Oliver Silvernail’s niece, Anna, likes to see him
here, I dare say—is that not so, dear?”
“Well, perhaps it is, uncle.”
“And he is coming to escort you to the fair of the Sewing
Society to-night—is he ?”
“Yes, he promised to come.”
“Why don’t you have a table and play saleswoman with the
rest, Anna. I thought you belonged to the Society.”
“So I did, but Mrs. Farwell discovered that I had no talent
for business, and declined giving me a place at the fair. Nre
doubt she wishes me to buy instead of selling.
“What shall you buy?”
“There is a silk apron most elaborately embroidered, which.
I intend to buy and give to Mrs. Farwell’s black girl, Diana;
and another of plainer material which I shall give to Bridget,
with this enclosed in it,” and I held up a paper.
“Good; well thought of; the Savings Bank is the thing,
Anna.”
Several days after the fair, Fred. Trevor did what I had long
expected he would do. He offered me his hand and heart."
What do you suppose I answered?”
“Wait here a moment, and I will tell you,” and I ran up
stairs and donned the handsome fur glove which he gave me,
and the ragged mitten I had worn at that time, and coming
down to the parlor I held them up before him. “Did you ever
see these before, dear Fred?”
He looked at me in amazement.
“Was that you, Anna?”
“It was—will you take me, now?”
Do not think, dear reader, that I shall tell you more. Such
conversations interest none but the parties concerned. It is.
enough for you to know that a pretty golden-haired girl, in &
pale lilac dress sits in my room with a cloud of snowy muslin
about her, and her busy fingers are stitching away, to shape it
into a wedding dress. And—but I see Fred coming across the
street, so good bjre 1 Anna.
LETTER FROM ROSE DARLING.
Mr. Editor :—Our folks have had several letters from aunt
Whackstaff since she’s been in Paris, and I’ve had one too.
She has seen the Emperor and says he’s a love of a man, and
that the Empress dresses in the very height of fashion, but
isn’t fco uncommonly (or “ tearing ” as she expresses it) hand
• some after ail. Aunt thinks if Uncle Whackstaff could only be
come a monarch, like Louis Napoleon—Czar of America, for
instance—she wouldn’t be at all afraid to show caps with Euge
nie, herself. Aunt is certainly a good looking woman; but on
arriving at Paris she seems to have been greatly shocked with
her hat. She bought it at X ’s on Broadway, for the la-
test Parisian style, but declares it wasn’t the thing at all, and.
proved a dead loss. She has had one made as near as pos
sible after the fashion of the Empress Eugenie’s.
Aunt appears to be quite anxious for my improvement, and
gave me a great deal of excellent advice. She says I’ll never
amount to anything until I learn to look down on my inferiors
and treat them with contempt. Her letters to father and mo
ther are full of anxiety for our beloved country. Aunt is very
patriotic. She wants every body to go for Nebraska. She
says it will turn the whole country into a Paradise, and make
New YorX a second Paris. There, Louis Napoleon has only
to say the word, and disagreeable people are put out of the
way at once, saucy editors imprisoned, and their papers
stopped. She says she isn’t quite sure that white people
would stand this in America, but it would be a great comfort
to have blacks plenty in New York, who couldn’t help them
selves. If we buy them with our own money, of course,
aunt says, its nobody’s business what we do with them.
I wish, Mr. Editor, you’d tell me something about Nebras
ka, for I can’t understand it. Are President Pierce and Mr.
Douglas going to put slaves into Nebraska, and then into New
York and New England again? Are they going to send the
old frigate Constitution and other ships to Africa after some
more slaves? Father had a South Carolina paper the other
day, which said something like this; and father thought it
would be a capital thing—that it would start up trade again.
But I felt sorry for the poor negroes, and told father so : and
then he said that it would enable us to Christianize them. I
think this must be the great object that President Pierce, Mr.
Douglas and the Charleston paper, have- in view.
A favorite song with father, which he has to have sung vvitlt
the accompaniment on the piano, almost every evening, is, one
of oui - national airs, with the following refrain:
“ O say. does that star-spangled banner yet wave,’
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!”
Last night after the song had been sung as usual, I told fa
ther I didn’t ever remember to have seen a reply to the ques
i Won in the chorus, and should feel greatly obliged to have one.
He inquired what question; and I told him the question con
tained in the two lines I have quoted. Father was silent for
several minutes, when, to relieve the stillness, I remarked
that a reply would also seem to be due to the poet who had
put the inquiry; and that for my part I didn’t know whether
our land was still “the land of the free and the home of the
brave,” or not, but would like very well to be informed. Fa
ther continued silent for some time longer, aud then got up
and left the room without giving me any answer whatever. I
suppose of course it is, Mr. Editor—that our land is still, “the
land of the free and the home of the bravebut I would very
much like a reply from some responsible quarter, and per
haps you can give it.
I felt hurt that father did’nt furnish me the information ( I
asked for, but suppose I must have vexed him with my ques
tions of late, which I did not intend, and regret extremely. T,
must make peace with him when he comes to dinner—l will
throw my arms about his neck and kiss him, and ask his for
giveness, as a dutiful daughter should, for he is a good father,
and I love him with my whole soul; and had no thought of
offending him. The questions were simple enough, I suppose;
only I didn’t know how to answer them; and I thought it
wouldn’t take him a minute. I was reading one day in the
Constitution, and came across this passage : “No person shall
be deprived of life, liberty or property, without due process of
law;” and I asked father how slaves were made under the
Constitution. I think it was on the very same day, on looking
in my geography, that I noticed the blacks in South Carolina,
were more numerous than the whites, and I remembered hav
ing seen in the Constitution that a republican government is
guaranteed to each separate State. Here was something I
couldn’t understand, and can not. . I asked father if South
Carolina was a Republic? He said of course it was, and.
wanted to know why I made the enquiry. I told him, and he
called me a queer child, and dropped the conversation.
“Queer !” that is aunt Whackstaff’s word, and I’m.sorry to :
have father use it. I’d like to know, Mr. Editor, if lam queer;
for I l ave always bad a horror of queer people. Heigh-ho I
K may be even so; and queer people, I’m told, never get mar
ried. If lam so—if you so decide, I must indeed make a.
desperate effort to reform. Rose Darling.
The Ikon Tkade. —The Philadelphia Ledger
says: The Iron Men are doing a good business, so good, that they
say not a word about a tariff - . There are thirteen thousand mile»?
of "railroad in operation; three thousand miles additional.it is
estimated, will be built this year. For double tracks, one hun
dred thousand tons will be required this year. The quantity of
railroad iron, therefore, in use by the end of this year, allowing
one hundred tons to the mile, will be one million seven hundred,
thousand tons, which, at $65 per ton, the present price, gives a.
total of $110,500,000 invested in railroad bars now in use. Eight
per cent, is estimated by the Railway Times to be.the wear and
tear of the rails in use, which would require an outlay for thia
item alone, of more than eight millions of dollars annually, or
in the course of ten years over eighty millions of dollars. By
January, 1860, there will, in all probability, be in operation in
he United States 30,000 miles of railway. Between now and
hat period, there will have to be furnished by our manufactu
rers, the iron for some nineteen thousand miles oi new trace,
and as much as eight per cent, per annum oi the amount now ire
use. This magnificent amount, with the multiplied uses for
iron, cars, locomotives, steam engines, machinery, stcambaaL%
iion sailing vessels, iron buildings. &c., gives to the iron trade
the most flattering prospects, if nothing intervenes to stop the
progress of railroad construction.
Gambling in 6ai.ifo ß niA.--Tlw Marysville
(Cal.) Herald publishes sn article which shows p. 2’ w v enou Sa
tbe kind of chance that the “ green ’uns” in that ilk have to wire
at gambling. That paper says that recently a gambler ab
sconded from that place, leaving behind him a roulette wheel,
which, on being taken apart, was found to be so constructed
that, by touching a spring, the bottom of every box painted red
would be made to rise, presenting a smooth surface, and loav
iug the ball no alternative but to drop into the black. Should
the heaviest betting be upon the black, the screw might b®
pressed a little harder, whereupon the bottoms of all the black
boxes would come up, and the ball must go into the red. Mov
ing with the smoothness of clockwork, die machinery would
never fail. With it a child might play against the world and wire
every game. Doubtless many a young man who has gone out
from our Eastern States to the land of promise, buoyant with
health and energy, and has there earned by the sweat of hire
brow, an amount sufficient to render him independent for life,
lias, in a moment of excitement or forgetfulness, been induced
to stake his hard earned gains at the table of a gambler, per
haps on such an instrument as this, and has thus been robbed
not only of his wealth, but of his hope, his energy, aud of hia
elf-rospect. .
Pugnacious Disputants.—Charles Irving,
of the Lvn''bburg (Va.) Republican, has challenged the Hon.
Philip S.'White, the great Temperance lecturer, to fight a duel,
in consequence of some remarks which Mr. White had made in
a public address in that city. Mr. W. replied thathe was under
engagements until the 10th of June, but should be happy to
meet Mr. Irving on tfie 12th Of J M US ViliivU State* Hotel
in Philadelphia.

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