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New-York dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1854-1861, October 01, 1854, Image 1

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■to rob Entries for tlje f eogfe.
■■A thU Depsr.ineAt we de*igu i» «taib /acta aaa five aset’sl Ib
formation only— not 19 make it an organ of opinion. To do
■H f*f« properly, requires coueiJerable time and labor. Wetr*st !
tAwrafcru, that our readers will not send ua questions wfalcLtheir
Own judgment aiuit tell them we cawuot answer.l
—We can best answer the folio win;
question put to us by Senex, by quoting a passage from a
work at cur hand entitled the ‘Lives of the Governors of New
■ York.” '1 he question is : “In wnat particular did »V H Sew
ard favor ibe interests of the Catholic ~ when he was Governor
■ of New York, or at any other time Mr. Seward, I believe, is
by ihe new order of Know Moldings, as being the
friend of Archbishop Hughes; and because he is -aid o
favored the Catholics In some of tueir m.ives.” In 1810,
■fwesides advising and suggesting various reforms in the juliet-
of the State, and retrenchment. ia the expenditures Mr.
Seward in his annual message to the Legislature—the wri er of
“his Lite” goes on to say—“ urgently recoininended that the
common school law should be so amended as to per mt ad >pted
citizens to have their children educated by teachers s leasing
their own language and professing tne same faith with them;
M and share, in au equal proportion, ia the public moneys ap-
Bropriated by the state for shool purposes. This recommen-
■ aation had particular reference to tne children of Roman Ja.h
--01i36 in the ci.y of New York, who were excluded from the
M public echoo.s, because their parents and guurdians were un
-willing 10 send them, where religious doctrines were taught, or
I inculcated, inconsistent with, or opposed to those which they
I entertained. Immediately on the appearance of the govern-
■ or’B message, his vie ws upon the school question were attxck-
■ ed with great vehemence by the clergy, and by mvny of the
I -most innuential laymen, belonging to the evangelical denomi-
■ nations in the city of New York ; and they were defended with
■ equal earnestness by those who were interested in procuring
I the amendments to the school law proposed. The feelings to
■ which the cont. oversy gave rise finally extended to the country
■ ia some measure, though there was far less interest ma lifest-
■ ed there Uinn m the city and its immediate vicinity. A num
| her of loading wings, both in the city and elsewhere, assumed
■ a position of decided hostility to the governor upon this snb-
I ject, and it was one of the causes which led to subseiueut di-
■ visions in the parly. The plain and simple question at the
■ ' bottom of the whole con: roversy was, whether a portion of tea
I citzensof the stale whopontributed to the support of schools,
by the paym.-m. of faxes, aud whose children were nutn-
I bered in the allotment of the public moneys, should
be deprived of all participation ia the common fund. They
■ had conscientious scruples against sending their .children to
I schools in which a different version of the Bible from their own
■was used and read ; and, in view of the paramount impor-
I of educating all the rising generation. Governor Sew-
■ urd and those who concurred wi.h him thought it would be a
wise policy to permit them to es abiish separate schools if they
■ thought proper, and give them afalr share of the public money.
■ * * * * * Ou ihe part of those who took issue with Gov-
I Seward on the School question, it was said that he design-
I CtfFd exclude the Bible from the schools al’oge uer. To their
■ excited imaginations, the proposed amendment of the law was
. J a sort of Titus Ua.es’ plot, and the supremacy of the Pope was
■ ihe great object had in view. For two years public opinion,
■ ill 11 s controlled by unfounded fears and suspicions, operated »o
K far upon ihe legislature as to prevent the adoption of the
amendment recommended by the Governor. But, in his an-
■ nual messages in 1841 and 1842, he again referred to* the sub-
■ ject in most eloquent terms, aud warmly urged the legislature
■ to adopt his suggestions. In the latter year tne law was linal
iv amended, in pursuance of his recommends.ions, and he had
tneotlsfacdon of signing and approving the bill which passed
■ the legislature.”
V W.S K.toOlockmaker.—“ Your enclosure
fourteen thousand four hundred square feet—l4,4oo.
is a s juare, each side being 144 J inches in length,
number of brick is 5,0,3,606T0 ..ru,- four problem
is deflefent in data. There is no limit 10 the variations that may
■ be made in the circles, if they are equal, the following is their
■ aiAmeter or contents. Each 62,992; 6 u) plus rods ; area of each ’
■( Sir/, 14507 8 jdus square rods; in the three 9351,435234 phis
square rodsTo A. L F.—Hie shortest -ide of the paral
tri us.—Your horse aud man can never come ogether. The
B* man goes with only one-third of the velocity of the horse, conse-
B quently the man will describe a spiral which will co.binually
■ approach a c role whose semi diameter is 89,126769 pZu.<rfeet ...
■ F Merriman's solution is in part incorrectTo S. C.—You
■ must have a linear measure of some kind—then the opera ’.ion
K is as follows: The opposite sides of the figure must be equal
E and parallel, no matter whether .he angles are right or oblique.
B Arrange your board, and put the right band side so as to range
■ exactly with the object; observe next from tne left hand corner
nearest j.e observer, and mark the place where a right line
from this corner to die object crosses the end nearest the
aud measure ’.he dis ance from this point to the right
corner nearest the object; subtract this distance from ihe
of the end nearest the observer ; multiply the length
and bread h together and divide the product by the above men-
remainder. The quo> ent is the distance >f the point from
■ tne 4ught hand corner next the observerTo B. L. B. and
Tangent. You have divided •‘Moti erey's ” pyramid into
’’Ur parts, while he distinctly saysis required to divide it
~o three equal parts.” The aid tile oi the dr it division above
Je base, i.- 7,',6-t()3phw,'of the second, 18,22i29pb<s feet above
Bwihe has.-The contents «f similar pyrami is have the same
V jjroporiiou <o each other as the cubes of their altitudes: hence,
■ nrst complete »he pyramid, find its contents and aldtude; from
P the contents of the whole pyramid subtract one-third (or any
I Other portion)-of the given frustum’s contents: multiply this
Ifl remainder by the cube of the ahi. nde of the complete pyramid
and divide the. product by the couteirs of the whole pyramid,
and extract the cube root of the quotient; subtract the result
from the altitude of the whole pyramid-the remainder is the
height of the first division from tie base. Next,, from thi con
tents of the complete pyramid subtract two thirds (or any other
portion) of ihe contents of the given frustum; then multiply
and divide as before. The altitude of the last por ion is the
same as the altitude of the frus-um, and consequently needs no
calculation. In “Monterey’s” question it is36feet from the
base.”
'Delta to E. 0. M., and all Interested.—
** My former communication relative to the theory of E. 0. M.,
Was intended merely as a criticism of its erroneousness, and I
would take another and briefer review, inorder to satisfy the
desireof your correpondents, did I not think that too much |
valuable space had already been wasted with the unfruitful
Subject. Had the promulgate; of the Gravitating Theory, any :
liretentions to Philosophical. Anatomnical or even Pnyslo- 1
ogical knowledge, there might be some benefit derived from a
’ thorough digest of his lucubrations. Bathe seems wanting in
a Philosophical nomenclature—much less laws—that are fa- I i
miliar with every school boy. The fact is evident, bis making | i
the evaporation of Senex Medicu?, the capillary attraction, ;
V-ndabsorption Oi Prof. D.r-the e>rt o expiration of Dr. Dod; i
the fixed laws of caloric, alDnitlous cohesion —and their vari- ; ‘
ous antagonistic elements, all 1> <%u.l and assimulate In, one i
Grand foci's, and but proves, (with him) the in-erestii'g fact that j
I the blood does circulate, and all theories or facts of others that
xnay tend to show a different cans ,as Senex Me lie-ia, i'rof. '
iJraper, and Dr. Dod, he amalgamates in the same crucible,* j '
SASproof posl'ive, that he alone has discovered the cause of the ' '
circulation. I believe that he would even question tha fact if ' i
I hinted that the Creative Power was t ie first yreit cause— pro- |
vided we did not allow his accommodating me’ory of attraction I
as a conspicuous attribute Tnese views were made apparent { ]
by hisno'.c to “Senex Medicus” in ‘ Notes and Queries” of I
September 17, and to the same and Del a, ou September 21: | <
Thus making his whole theory appear in a light about as re- ! ’
diculous as ids improved treatment of lunatics, by solar, lu
nar and terestiai gravitation. Therefore you will please par- 1
don me, should 1 leave E. C. M. to the tender mercios of Senex . •
who has challenged a discussion on the subject of i t
«atlon, andif the Dr. sweats him without any beneficial re- -1
: hope some charitable physician will try upon him his
r, and bj that means, beneii - the world with the pUholo-
Iruitarum, and the herapeuH ’ eff ets o f the treatment,
the new principles appertaining to gravitation and i
»».”With this qualification, we publish the above 1
unlcation with pleasure :we protest against the se verity i
language Delta has seen fit to employ when speaking of
E.C. M. Irritation begets irritation. Let us be gentle with
i each mother. f
Samuel Auld.—-California is sometimes ' j
called alta. or upper,—though less frequently now than former
ly —to distinguish it from the country .called dajaor lower.—
-When the new state of California was part of Mexico, c
to prevent any misunderstanding, the prefixes were added.— t
Without them the same confusion would have been fell, as we j
' would now experience if we were to drop ihe prefixes north
and south fix m ihe Carolinas, and speak of them without dis
criminating...... Frequently have ve been in contact with those ’
who, abnormally excited, could give utterance to our inmost j
thoughts; or to use your words, “read our minds.” Any do- j
cile psychometric patient, when in the impressible state, can !
take from the mind its sharply defined though.s and report |
them as accurately as the person conceiving them could do— !’ <
To do so, however, the patient must be en rapport with the per- ' i
.son whose mind he reads. The philosophy of it is simple and I 1
beautiful. The patient and the manipulator', for the time i
beiiig, are placed siffjjeQtively and objectively to each other, j
When this conditloir is thoroughly established, the positive <
flows into and takes possession of the negative mind. Like a l
’mirror, the negative mind is charged as a reflector, and shad- j ‘
ows forth or projects the ihoughts of the controlling principle. ■
In other words it magnetically rec lives and magnetically irn- I
.parts. Between the spiritual essentials a magnetic line is es« I I
tablished; and over it, as it were, travsr.-e the ideals of the post- ! I
tiveinind. This mysteriousiuter-uaion or commingling of mind a
with mind we are aware is very generally denied by tne learn- j
ed; but we look upon this rather as toe result of bigotry, than
an opinion arrived at from patient and candid investigation. The (
| -biological itinerants who have scoured the county within the : c
past two or three years, aud who to a man are quite as igno- ' c
rant of the varied phenomena they present as the least erudite :
-of their listeners have done much io dissipate this prejudice ;
while it has raised another as formidable, in tiie miud of ininkers, 1
namely, that so occult a power should be entrusted to men no- ! c
I toriousiy ignorant of the simplest principles in physics. When j
men are brought to admit that thought is matter as much so as I
.the coarsest substance in nature—only more refined, or attenua- j n
ted—they will be prepared to sanction even more wonderful i
truths.
Navigator to Clockmaker.—Yoar “ prob- 1 f
1 lem is now in a tangible shape, and rejecting surplusage is as €
follows: Given the ra.io ot the area to the perimeter of a
. square (3G0): required the urea The area is universally*e qual !
. k-,the square o. four times the given ratio. Answer 2J736J0 ■
square inches or HuOfi square feet. You speak of the problem
ot alarm ‘ out West,” and say, that “ the form of the enclo- |
sure was not given”: then ton must have assumed a form in ' ,
your solution ; and on the principle of equal rights I will do r
likewise. As every foot in the perimeter equals an acre in 1
aria, the problem may be rendered as fo.lows: Given the ra- ■
' tio or the area to the perimeter of a 43560): required the :
perimeter. As the above blank may be tilled with auy known 1 t
ibrm to complete the data I will assume it a duodecagon ; then I
will the fob awing be a general rule: From 2 subtract the !
1 square ratio of 3. aud multiply the remainder by 48 times the i
? liven ratio. Answer 500249.6 feet in ihe perimeter, or acres ’
n the area. Ido not suppose the above to be the same as your . i
solution, but ii is correct nevcrthelcssiSTo A. L. F.—As
none of the readers of this paper appear to be able to solve |
your problem of the paralie ogram, will you please to publish • I
? our own solutionTo J. L. Clark. —You are mistaken. > <
‘he length of a j endulam vibrating seconds at Salineville, i
Okto, is but 39,09;6 inches ; but admitting it to be :• 9.2 inches j
(at? you s .ate,) thr-n li. 587 plus turns must be given to the bob ,
fio regulate the clock.”
8. it.—Geologists reason taat th.3 earth- ,
Trtt’st is so many miles deep, because of the sensible Increase
in the tempera:«ire as they penetrate from the circumference i
iowards ti e earth’s centre. As we descend, say they, (in dsep l '
mines, for example,), after passmg the depth at which the in- *
fluence of the so ar heat ceases io be felt, a direct proof of a I
very high temperature in the interior of the earr.ti is furnished. i
“Much uncer ainty,” remarks an English Writer, “existsas
to the rate at which this increase takes place; but the mean
results of a number of experiments made in the deep mines of i
Cornwall, and the different parts of France and Germany, give
an increase of one degree Fahrenheit's thermometer for every I
fdrty-five feet of vertical descent, after passing the stratum of
- constant temperature. Admitting this rate of increase, and
Suppose it to be continued to the centre, the intensity of heat I
at the centre will be expressed by 3,500 degrees of Wedgwoods; !
pyrometer. The temperature of 100 degrees of Wedgwood, i ;
" which is sufficient to fuse the lavas and the greater part of Ihe |
known rocks, would be found at the depth of 1:15 miles.” Mr. I
Cordier, who has collected a great number of facts relativo to '
I Uiis subject, is of opinion that the phenomena warrants the
conclusion that the mean thickness of the solid crust of the I
earth does not exceed sixty miles. In the propor'-iun of bulks— ;
the crust of the earth to its diameter is hardly thicker than the ,
shell is to the egg. . I
Phi to J. S. Cl irk.—“ You will please
turn you pendulum bob 13,6111 times up, and your clock will
keep correct time. Rule—Multiply twice the length of the pen
dulum, that will beat seconds, in the place where the clock is to
run, determined by the following formula, 1ength—3,26958 ft.
—.008318 cos of twice the latitude (by the product of the n•tra
iler of threads to the inch and the minutes of error made by the
clock in 24 hours, and divide by the number of minutes in 24 I
hours (1440)....T0 Aritmmetiokeh. —Your problem ome in re- {
ga:d to shooting up a plain, is indeterm na c: vour distance 733, ’
v illjactually Le a hyperbolic Curve which will give no initial
velocity,—the Barometical altitude the diameter of your ball i
is warning, |a -d| it« wefiht? A projectile will not give a :
pau-abol.c curve, only in a vacuum, although in prac- ;
t.ce It is usued to calculate the range approximately. No rules |
agree we) 1 with the practice, and the improvement In fire arms
( make tlie rules more faulty. The French at Bomersund, the oth« ;
<er day, j fter having tried their rules.practiced a hall' an hour to
i find the range,”
Ignoramus—Writes “in an almanac for the 1
B United States, publLhed in the city of New York, the autumnal i
■ equinox is stated for 23d September, and the equation of time !
B places the fhadow of the sun on he noon mark at llh. 32m.
B 195., or, 7m 41s. past. Then it /.ives the rising of the suirat !
" sh. 48m., the se ling th. sum. Now, as the sun is by apparen
time at theen-finox understood to rise and set at 6 o’clock, i
I suppose that by clock time it would be. at 7m. 41s. before tha ,
tim a or sh. 52m. 19s. As I’soe a number of apparent discrep-
BB^ai qies of the same kind in the almanac I conclude there is
C?<oe rule by which they are to be accounted for?” “Igno-
Bmus” is desirous that some correspondent should enlighten
11 on rna,tfe r“lgnoramus’*-” remarks on the circu-
of the blood will have, if possible, a hearing in our
Fancier. — Cock-fighting “is not allowed,”
b’4 is carried on, however, rather extensively, in tills city
It -would be difficult io trace the points in the bull-dog so as to
distinguish the genuine from the impure strain. We question
, If a full blooded bull-dog is to be found on sale. There are
tltfusandd of the ’■ bull” specie in the country, but like the
Newfoundland, a pure get is hardly lobe had. Even in Eng
land, the “bull 1 has been crossed so much of late years, that
genuine stock is held at a ijreiqium. •‘Fancier’’ will have to
content himself, if he purchases a “bull,” with “one of low
degree.” In nearly all of them the “mongrel” predominates.
.. 4b • Aubry Grieve, 44 Vesey street, occasionally imports tho
ro. gh-breds to order. Our correspondent, through Mr. Grieve,
m» y obtain from England, at an enormous price, however, a
bull-dog of pure strain.
|> -Hermon —“To get a situation as an engi
ceer on a ra'lrnad,” application must be made to the suoerin- j
tendent or chief engineer of the road The Harlem Railrqzd
does not touch Newburg, i... .Bookbinders earn from Prt to sls j
per week in this city. The earnings of this class of operatives
/deoend very much upon the quality of the work with which
they are supplied Type, according to size, is worth from
twenty cents to §1,60 per pound Steel places tor engravers
art first softened be.ore they are scratcned. Wnen a plate is
about to be used, it is bedded upon common glazier's putty, and
pared with a ground of Brunswick black ; this ground is in
ti&aed to resist me action of the aquafortis which, when the
etching is completed, is poured over the pl lie to bite in the lines
made by the graver. When the plate is ready for the press, it
13'.e hardened in the usual way.
Flora. —“ What' do we think of spiritual
knockings i” Professor Hare, one of the most cautious and
of the learned men of the United States after repeated
; experiments, has come to the concl isiou that the “ knockings
are spiritual.” In opposition to this, we have the opinion of
one of England's most thoughtful men, Michael Faradav. In
vestigations made by Faraday have led him to conclude that the
phenomena reside in the unconscious muscular contractions of
diseased “media ” In the mankes actons already before the pub
lic. we have much that is inexplalnable as yet, and a great deal |
r tbidis charlatanry of the grossest conception Certainly,
K Flora, a man Las a claim upon his wife and child, even if he [
I has served two years in State Prison. The wife of a convict |
*! m.y sue for divorce upon the plea of the nusba.id’a outlawry.
I Jessica. —Out of politeness to the young
B lady we should rather accept the averment of the father, than j
I the protestations of the daughter ; although, to disbelieve the
B statement of tne latter, is not held excusable by any rule of eti- ;
> qu«tte we have heard of. But what can we do or say, when the ■
I iadf insists that she has arrived at <he discreet age of twenty-six ‘
B yeirs,; her father on the oiheFhand, afiirming—and certainly
htCught to know his daughter’s age—that she is but eighteen.
B Ou* only recourse is io siiut our eyes and doubt her sanity.—
■ Go»d dame Naiure lias kindly provided for ladies, that,to crows
theßublcon of life they must first enter (lie State of Matrimony.
who obeys the promptings of this good mother will ever
to twenty-six years, and spiusterhood; unless between dis-
B Tr-tlon and marriage insanity supervenes.
V U. S. A.—“ Can a youug man who has en-
B ps-jd in the Un’.ted States Army under the age of twenty-one
compelled to serve after arriving at that age ?” Undoubted-
B ’ ly. The mere fact of majority does not exonerate ihe enlisted
B Iron any contract which he may have entered into with the
B Unfed States He can be held until his term of service has
B expired. The Attorney General has very recently decided
■ Hat miners are competent, in certain cases, to make binding
■ tldr enlbtme.A, and may lawfully be held untfttbe expiration
B o.ihe period for which they were enrolled“ Can a young
B 'mn who enlists In the army and deserts while yet under the
BL twenty one, be reclaimed and punished the same as any
©her deserter, after attaining his maioricy ?” Certainly. Re
cimation may be insisted on at any time.
B ’Scotchman. —We cannot say what “ will be
theprecise difference In the amount of happiness in the future
stM, between the worst saint and the best' sinner Y” Your
*• fcmula” should have been submitted to the consideration of
' the4ogians ahd professed creed manufacturers, as these as
-gure to ktfow more abo t ixistmce i i potentia, than or
dinry mortals. Our own opinlo.a on such subjects is not worth
mr.h we confess; but Hallowed to express a thought we
sho-ld say that the “ precise state of happiness to be enjoyed”
is i juestion in pure mathematics. Thus, if a man is dev clop-
B edtentally and morally to the capacity of enjoying one he
; wilbiijoy one ; if more than one aud less than two, he will
B hav<a plus of enjoyment beyond ihe person whose measure of
-papcity is less one, or one; and so on.
?. Merriman to Clockmaker.—“ The fol-
lovne an- two answers of many t’nac might be given to your
' quetion, of .1 uly the 15tb, —’4400 and U369.76square feet
’ wi) you please solve the following ; and give a general rule
fov ~ and siinilar ques ions I The arc of a circular piece of
grotid, cutp (be base or a triangular piece, into three pieces—
(wb’.h pieces) equal 36, 64 and 36 feet. Now, if 19 be subtract
td tom a second side of the triangle, the remainder wll
. if <id a square ; but if 25 be added the sum will equal a cube.
Znthc center o. ihe circle stan-ls a cylindrfoal pov, one foot in
< *T w ‘t tcr ’ 1 Y’ ,la Wound un around it: now, if I evolve
r Uds choid by always keeping It tight, and walking around the
k cst ’ I walk, t.iat the evolved part, plus
ra<)i’>s ot the post,, may equal the radios of the circle
I*. B. L.—XV islies us to say to “ Earle” that
ot 1110 " Oxonian Instrument,”
ennla DH-d li f 11 Farl!. ol^- il e,> ' rs for the same purpose ihat
ur-cii H- li Earle will afidi-,-. a T ’< I am
nv.uue, fLVIm wt. ro an inlerrtew E,’
B JSXteS 1 "'Vis abom MO X
clwoandthe Columbia'river. Th” S'^re ‘the
■ WiUiamette river. Oregon City can °?eai\ e
■ cul.vThe rainy season usually comm.n?. W “? OU !
I mNdle ot November, and con Inuea wffSS? lh '’
verity till about the middle of April, in California 6 ° r ' ” Be *
BAlbano.-N'aturatiz d citizens, before de-
Oielr ballots, can bo required Io an,wer certain „..wi
new. qa-eatlons which the Inspectors of election are aiitbo'l.i »a
■ topullolhem The rlglu to demand the
u ‘" P' rßO, ‘ Claiming to vote. If we recollect ariehL
Is rot In the list of questions that may be asked by Inspectors’
;•; J: w 0111,1 ‘ a( lvLs«’ ’ you to wait a short time if you
■ lailh Id the imegi jit of the drawer of the note. Failing to tak*
it up wi.bin a reasonable period, we woull “advise” legal Drn
for the recovery of iu face You cannot execute
sute 11 a CoUrt ln thls on a d - b ’* contract lu any
8. 8. Keese.—There are some three or four
■ „. ln lW ". ? ltv fron > v-hlch, on application, a boy •• ten
■ on A ttr “ f*.* could be had to bring up as a farmer.” By
■ Ho^l)eD:X r ' tlf .’ g n , ° I:nard of Alms"
I Wardtn Fa tEn" ’i ß i Ot “h d \i C v ly Hftll; or ,o Jon * lhar * Sfoarns,
B luf.-rmauo.. youmv dccirc
fl -Se S w d
, < I. I | J I il (t .I
#• ralJI ~ v F* 51 WIT if 5 * hr
OILU hJ L LlS.wrylwwwlW /JO IZ] h L
PUBLICATION OFFICE, NO. 22 BEEKMAN STREET.
VOL. 9. NO. 45.
To our Poetical Contributors.—Let us
once for all inform our poetical contributors that we cannot
undertake to make special mention of their favors. To do so
would require about a column of our space weekly. We have
now ou hand poetry enough to fill up a full page of our pa
per, and it shall be Inserted as fast as we can make room for it.
In the meantime our friends must “bide their time,” andif
their effusions do not “ turn up” as speedily as they could wish,
let them rest assurred that it is not in every case a want of
merit which prevents their appearance.
Sanguis.—lf we really .thought by answering
your questions we could benefit any one, we would reply to
.them with pleasure. In the preparation of sarsaparilla much
care and experience is necessary; and the utensils required for
its manufacture would hardly pay for individual consumption.
Sanguis, and all others desirous of procuring a good article of
srailax, will best consult their stomachs and their pockets by
calling at either of the stores of Rushton, Clark <t Co., and
paying a liberal price for the prinlest sarsaparrilla prepara
tions.
Difficulty to Architect.—“ You know
just what I want;and, no doubt, can give the information ask
ed for. But neither your note or diagram helps me in the
least. You say : Divide it (the cone) in 7 parts, the divisions of
which are in Geometrical proportions.” Now this is what 1
wish to learn ; give me a rule or plan whereby I may be en
abled to mark (on the cone) five sevenths or more divisions in
Geometrical proportions. The result is plain enough.”
Joseph Spinkney.—Your commission as
ensign in the regiment to which you were attached before the
changes in the miUila law, is quite as effective as it was before
those alterations were macle which deprived you of rank
You are not exhonerated from duty; you have, however, a
right to demand the rank to which the commission assigns you,
when called into service i e., you can refuse to serve in any
grade under the rank of ensign.
Harvard.—Youi expenses at Harvard or
Cambridge could not be brought by the strictest economy, un
der a year Four years is the time usually employed
in tl o:-e colleges, in order to graduate w th “.the h0n0r5.”....
We would advise Harvard to abandon his Meas about “law
and medicine” and take to the study of agriculture. A scien
tific farmer “can get along” much better than any doctor or
phys-ician.
O. W. L —The editor of the New York Al
bion devotes a column of his hebdomedal to the science of chess.
For a solution ot the problem which C. VV. L. presen’3, we re
fer him to the chess editor of the above paper. Our own know
ledge of chess is too limited to permit us to decide upon the very
intricate question of our correspondent.
Have Nothing.—Cannot say when Kan
sas and Nebraska will be surveyed, or how it is to be surveyed.
We have not the work you speak of.Your wisest
course would be topass the winter in a survey office—there you
will have an opportunity to review practically, your the
oretical studies.
F. S. G.—The order of the Cincinnati is
still in existence. Of late years, however, its numbers have
been much reduced bv death; and from the lack ef interest ta
ken in it by descendants of Revolutionary officers, there have
been few.initiates. President Pierce is a member of the Or
der.
Grammar.— Will this correspondent quote
us an example from the writings of one “of all the modern
writers” wherein an adjective of & dis or trte syllabize charac
ter is compared with words terminating iu er and est ? Cer
tainly no inan with a head on his shoulders would write the
“greater beautiful,” or the “greater beautiful.”
T. C. B.—The town of Fremont, Hancock
County, Maine, comprises the north-west part of Mount Desert I
I Island. It lies 72 miles east of Augusta. The railway trains I
• will take you to Portland; from thence oueof the steamers ply
ing between that place and Bangor will land you at Castine. Six
hours staging from Castine will bring you to Tremont.
Williamsburgil—Chauncey Schaffer, is con-
I siiered, we believe, in the denomination to which he belongs, ;
an occasional exhorter. Our impression is that he was uev- ,
i er licensed to preach by the authorities of his church 1
i The national debt of the United States is owned by native aud i
; foreign capitalists, in part.
Effie Dean.—The manuscript rtfer/ed to .
' wrs -cc dents-11 mislaid, at the tiijie it was rece ved, and was '
i only turned up” last week- The same resurrection which I
ex aimed His product on to light, also brought out several ov
ercontributions that have quietly sleet in the grave for along
tme.
8. C. P.—When you leased the dwelling
, part of the house, you ought to have had insei ted in the lease
a clause, restrictiug the letting uf the store to particular kinds j
i of business. We know of no remedy that will meet the case. ;
! The oyster saloon cannot be complained of as a nuisance.
' Yaneee.—Study that which pleasts you '
’ m05t...... Not in every instance can a lady be “compelled” j
: to marry the man who has ex.orted a promise of marriage from ,
her. .... ‘Gil Blas” is valued according toils ‘ gjitin > 1
up.”.. .. Your closing question is incomprehensible. ° 1
T. R. K.—Physicians, without diplomas,are '
not disqualified from entering upon practice in uhio. The old
law—n pealed some time since—prohibited medical men not in
allopathic standing, from collecting fees by suits at law.
O. B O.—California, we believe, is the only i
Slate in the Union in which a license to peddle books is not re- !
| quired. Fedlars, however, pay little adeution lo the law. A
license to peddle is rarely exacted by the authorities in any S ate. I
S.H.—Au alien cauuot be compelled to do j
duty in the militia. . . . . Prove to the Commissioner of Jurors
that you are an alien, and he will grant a certificate, exempting !
you from all duties imposed upon the citizen.
Country Lad.—Advertise lor the situation ; ■
you desire, if you cannot obtain It through other means 1 ■
The book'Rales of W. W. Witherbee a Co., Boston, Mass., we
presume, are lawfully conducted.
Newark.—We are reqtu sted to say to this
• correspondent that Mr. Wm. W. Lyon, 54 Houston street, is
■ interested in the “ Jenning’s estate,” now held for claimants
I by tl.e chancery of England.
Gen. Wooster—Desires some ebrrespon
! dent to accommodate him by putting twenty horses in five sta- I
l ies—each stable to have an odd number. The General says
| “this is a puzzle ;” and, protests, that it Cau be doue.
A Subscriber. —Unqualifiedly, “a man
i born in Canada is as much an American as a man born in the i
I United States and a Patagonian is as much au American as '
a Canadian.
E. D.—We do not believe the parties named I
j ever played together upon that stage. Perhaps Judge Phillips :
■ of the Marine Court may be able to furnish you th<*iaformatiou :
! desired.
Nick.—ln October you will be at liberty “to ■
hunt deer, and take other game” Can’t answer your other
| question. «
Williams.—Hayti is about as healthy as
j any oilier of the islands in the West Indies The soil of Hayti
j in richness is not surpassed by that of Cuba.
Hio.—Mr. Perham can best answer your
! first ques ionMc’Clintock and Cook’s system of study is
endorsed by many linguists.
i Crayon.—Writes to H. Herbert, that G.
j D. P. Thompson, formerly of Montpelier, Vt., is the author of
“Mary Martin.”
O. & R.—“ The Cabin Boy’s Story,” was
I ' commenced in this paper March sth, 1854. It is published in
: beck form by Garret & Co., 18 Ann-st.
Ellen-R- —Mr. Bissel, 67 Wall sheet, is
the person to be consulted. He will give you all the infor
mation necessary for the prosecution Of your claim.
A. D. S—We would advise you to purify
your stomach. You are billious: hence dizziness, failure of
I sight, and Hushes.
R. C. Chandler.—We cannot recommend
the recent optical invention to which you allude. So far as we
, can learn, its success has been partial.
Senex Medicus.—This coriespondent shall
< have place in our next.
Attention.—We cannot learn of the public
| ation of a paper in this city, entitled the “ Voice of Industry.”
B. E. B y.—The “ Cabin Boy's Story,”
we are informed, wjll be published in a few days.
P. H. Hagerman.—T. W. Strong, 98 Nas- I
sau street, is Dr. Hollicks’ publisher.
Clockmaker.—Came to hand too late for this :
number.
[Origina.l]
ORPHAN THOUGHTS.
' Suggested by reading a poem entitled “ Home,” in last week’s
> Dispatch.
BY ANNA JANE MACLEAN.
Ye who can sing of Home,
And feel its sacred tie
Around your throbbing heartsentwine—
Each link a link of joy,
. Ye scarce can realize
How truly blest ye are.
, In waklfig up so dear a theme,
Whose numbers never jar.
The homeless only know
How £weet a place Is home,
' , As 7ie alone can value rest
Who is compelled to roam.
’Tis not the stately hall—
’Tis not the pillared dome
’Tis not the widely-spread domain—
That constitute a home.
The hall Is stately still,
And fair the teeming soil,
Where once, a merry child, I played,
But—where is love’s pure smile?
„ That heart-enchaining spell
Which exorcises fear,
And shelters youth from every ill,
And sweetens every tear.
Its light hath fled, and now
No home remains for me
In East or West, or North, or South,
By land or ou the sea.
[Written for tlie Nevr York Dispatch*]
TEE LtlFWffß;
* OR, THE
Story of Estelle Grant.
I
' AN EXTRAORDINARY NARRATIVE. I
Emtr«bd, according to Act of Congress, in the Clerk’s
Office of ths Southern District of New York.
PART VI.
i
A disagreeable feeling crept over Estelle after
Kate O’Donnell had left her, for although she did
• not see how the disconnected, ambiguous and crazy
i like rigmarole of the girl could in any way apply
to her, she could not help,, thinking it strange that
the wild creature should have taken such a time to
j converse with her, especially as she had never in
, dulged iu any such remarks before. She would
c have questioned her further, had she not so sud-
, denly disappeared, and indeed she was turning over
: in her mind the propriety of calling her back, when
l | Fanny entered the room and informed her that the
; I carriages had arrived, and the party were all ready
t j to start for church. They waited only for her. She
j strove to shake off the unpleasant feeling which op
; | pressed her, and following her sister she joined the
J ! company assembled below, and an hour afterwards '
- i she stood before the altar as the bride of the unprin-
; | cipled, hypocritical, merciless, marble-hearted Eve- 1
1 ; raid Emory.
“ I The holy edifice was filled with the gay and fash
a ionable sojourners in , and a death-like silence
p followed the first words of the venerable pastor as
i- he began the impressive marriage ceremony. Every
eye was fixed upon the bridal group, and every ear
- I was strained to catch the responses as they fell
® \ from the lips of the bride and groom. Estelle was
1 j deathly pale and motionless as marble. She seemed
® i to go through the ceremony mechanically and with
d I out a knowledge of what she was doing till called
| upon to answer the important interrogatory pro
g | pounded by the minister, and then her bosom
® . heaved convulsively as she slightly inclined her
; head affirmatively. Her mind had wandered far
away from the scene in which she was then an ac
-8 | tor. She had in imagination been back again' to
® | St. Louis, and was wandering hand in hand with
>f | James Ely through the little lane skirted with sweet
“ . wild flowers which led to the old school-house,
b . She had followed up this train of thought, and in a
® ' few short moments bad reviewed her whole past
i- ! life, and at the time she was recalled to herself she
i was wondering in what part of the world the youth
>f ] she had loved—nay, did even now love—so ardently,
| might he, and whether he had wedded another. No
' wonder, then, that her cheek flushed and her bosom
” ; heaved—no wonder that a tear glistened in her
ie ! bright eye, and her heart swelled almost to burst-
i. ing when the real suddenly and rudely usurped the
t ; place of the ideal. Nor was Estelle's the only faie
upon which a shade of sorrow rested: Dejection
o- was painfully apparent upon the countenances of
e j Fanny and Florence—and old Mr. Grant, as he tot
i« i tored forward to give the bride away, was the pic
ture of woe. Emory was the only person during
" the ceremony who preserved his usual hearing.
lt Haughty and erect he stood amid the sorrowing
A , throng, with a look of triumph in his calculating
eye, and exultation in his cold, feelingless heart.
i- j At length the ceremony was ended, and the
‘f. I friends of the parties gathered around to wish them
■■l i joy, but their congratulatory remarksand flattering
s ‘ j speeches were painful to Estelle, who felt relieved
u ! when once more in her camage and on the way
j. towards home.
1 Bob Barker and Sam Slocumb were among the
™ persons present in the church. They lingered about
“■ the doors till the bridal party had departed, and
to when the sound of the wheels of the last carriage
t °' had died away, Bob remarked—
>r “ She is a glorious bride, and no mistake! I al
most felt like deserting bachelorhood myself as I
it looked at her !”
““ “ I can't say her appearance produced any such
is. effect upon me,” replied Sam Slocumb, “on the
contrary, I cannothelp thinking that Emory, shrewd
as he is, has purchased a piece of property this time
which will prove troublesome to him. Didn’t you
observe how woe-begone she looked ? Why she ac
tually shed tears as she nodded the important
‘ yes!’ ”
“ A little frightened, that’s all,” said Bob Bar
ker. <( That feeling ’ll wear off after she has been
married a week or two—but, let the case go as it
will, I’m inclined to think Emory ’ll be boss in
his own house. If he had the power to marry her
agaiifst her consent, he will certainly have the
power to control her now that she is his.”
“ Don’t be too sure of that,” said Sam Slocumb,
emphatically—“ I tell you she has that in her
which will not brook restraint, or there is nothing
in physiognomy—and if he undertakes to rule her ;
by harsh means, he’ll catEh ‘ Hail, Columby,’ with |
the variations, done up in the most approved do- i
mestic style.” s
“In that case we may look for a breeze speedily,” i
remarked Bob Barker, “for I don’t believe Emory
will ever allow any wo’nan to control him.”
“ He may indulge her till he gets tired of her,” •
answered Sam. “ I’ll give them a year to live to- '
gether, and then look out for squalls.”
“ Yes, both infantile and matronly I” replied Bob, ;
laughing at what he considered an excellent pun.
“Who knows, now,” said Sam Slocumb, after
cogitating deeply for a few moments, “ but what, if
they should fall out and separate, she might accept
the friendship and protection of a good-looking fel
low like myself ? Stranger things have happened.”
“ Why, I thought just now,” answered Bob,
“ you regarded her as such ‘ bad property!’ ”
“0, as a wife” answered Sam. “As a wife, of
course, but not as a friend! There’s a vast differ
ence, you know—a vast difference.”
“ So there is,” replied Bob, “ but, in my opinion,
there is just about as much likelihood of her becom
ing your tvife as your friend.”
“ Time will tell,” said Sam, confidently. “Of
course, I don’t look upon it as a sure thing, but I
shall keep a sharp look-out in this direction, so
that if any opportunity oilers I may embrace it.”
“ Yes, and the lady, too, at the same time,” an
swered Bob, again laughing heartily at his own
wit—“ but how will you keep yourself posted up in
matters and things around here ?”
“ By making a fast friend of Kate O’Donnell,”
answered Slocumb. “ A few shillings occasionally
will do that, and I may then know as much of their
family affairs as they do themselves. All I have to
do is to visit here semi-occasion ally, when I have
nothing better to do in New York, and that will be
rather a pleasure than a trouble.”
“ Well, success to you,” said Bob,- “ but I must
say that you can get up a very large quantity of
hope on a very small capital”—and, locking arms,
the two woithies sauntered off leisurely in the direc
tion of their hotel.
Hardly had they, disappeared when George Cant
well emerged from behind one of the pillars in front
of the church-porch, where he had, in concealment,
been listening to their conversation.
“ Ha, ha!” he chuckled, triumphantly, “is that
your game, Sammy, my boy ? Well, it would be a
£ood one if you had it all to yourself, but, unfortu- I
nately for you, I must take a hand—not to play
against you, however. O, no, I rather like your
project—but then I want to make something out of :
it myself, if possible. I don’t know that I can, but .
there is no harm in being prepared, if a qhance offers,
to take advantage of it,” and, whistling a low tune :
he took his way towards Emory’s house. Having ar
rived there, he admitted himself with his latch key, I
and, entering the drawing-room, he summoned a !
servant, and bade her inform Mr. Emory he wished
to speak with him. The servant went as directed,
and shortly afterwards the bridegroom made his
appearance.
An angry frown contracted his brow as he gazed i
at his despicable employee, and in a tone of dis- '
pleasure, but almost in a whisper, he inquired—
“ What has happened now, you bird of evil omen I
You are eternally intruding yourself upon me when i
I i.least wish to see you. What has happened,
ask ?”
“ Nothing serious,” replied Cantwell, with pro- ;
voking indifference.
“ Then what are you here for?” growled Emory, i
“ Well, I came to tell you,” said Cantwell, “ that I
a certain young lady, Jenny Mathews by name, has I
of late grown very suspicious of yoti, and if you
do not wish to see her here soon, you had better
call upon her.”
“She has no knowledge of my marriage, has
she ?” asked Emory in some alarm.
“ No,” replied Cantwell. “ I don’t suppose she
has- that is, no positive knowledge, but I know
she suspocts something of the kind, and with a
jealous woman that's about as bad as if she was j
certain of it. At all events, she says you have neg- i
lected her long enough, and now if you don’t call I
upon her, she will upon you.”
“ Fool that I was,” said Emory, bitterly, “ to let ’
her, in a momept of weakness, know anything .
about my residence.”
“ But you didn’t think of marrying then,” said
Cantwell, as though anxious to find an excuse for
his employer’s imprudence.
“ That’s very true,” rejoined Emory, “ but I had
no business to place mypelf in her power under any
circumstances. However, the mischief is done,
the thing now is to remedy it. Jenny must not
come here. At least, not at present.”
“ Then you must go there,” rejoined Cantwell.
“ Won’t money satisfy her?” snarled Emory, im
patiently.
“ I’m afraid not,” answered Cantwell, “ what she
wants is'marriage first, as per agreement, and as
much money afterwards as you please.”
“D—n her!” exclaimed Emory, furiously, “I
wish she was dead!” Then, after a moment of ,
profound thought, he continued in a tone of affect
ed friendship, “ Don’t you think, my dear George,
that she might possibly be taken very ill, and die !
before assistance could reach her? Don’t you i
think she might ?”
“No,” said Cantwell, positively, looking at the '
same time straight in his employer’s eye, “ Z’m '
sure she can’t— there was a young lady once who
fell sick and died very singularly, just after such a
conversation as the present one between us had
taken place, and after her death you seemed to
think that 1 had a hand in her sudden departure to
another world. This suspicion you have held as a
red over me to mould me to your wishes. Now,
for fear of accidents, I feel constrained to say that
I do not think Jenny Mathews can possibly be
taken sick unless you append your signature to a
paper certifying that such is your earnest wish—in
that case she might possibly be ailing.”
“ Scoundrel!” cried Emory, suddenly changing ;
his manner, “ you forget that you are in my pow
er-r- that I have evidence enough to hang you!”
“ I don’t forget anything,” replied Cantwell,
with the most impurturbable self-possession—“ I
knew that you are very rich and powerful, and that
seme time sii.ee you might have crushed me with a
word, but I also know, as well as you do, that your i
principal witness against me, Jack Jacobs, died '
some twq. weeks since, and that you would find it j
a very hard matter to make out a case against me, i
even if you felt so disposed, which you do not, for j
I am too deep in your counsels for you to make an I
enemy of me new. However, I do not wish to
take any advantage of the influence you have re- j
posed in me. The fact is we are necessary to each i
other, and may as well be friends. I want your
money, and you want my services, which you shall .
always have, but not on the same terms as ever. ■
Heretofore I have hot only transacted your busi- i
ness, but taken the sole risk of the consequences,
for you have so planned it that I could not possi- ,
bly implicate you if I wished to do so. Hereafter
we must have a different understanding. We must I
be on au equality. I am still willing to do the
work, but you must share the risk. I hope we un
derstand each other?”'
“We -do,” said Emory, decisively, “ and now
you will oblige me by leaving these premises as
speedily as possible, and never entering them again '
till you can do so with a clearer view of my true
character. What! have you been so long intimate
with me without learning that in my composition
' fear has no part ? Are you so foolish as to suppose ]
j that I who never yet knew what it was to com
mand and not be obeyed, could for a moment stoop
to make terms with such a thing as you are ? Be
gone, sir!”
“Very ’well,” said Cantwell, rising, and ap
proaching the door, “ and shall I inform Jenny
■ Mathews that you are married, and fetch her up to
visit you and your bride, and bear testimony to the
truth of her story when she swears that you first I
abducted her from home, and then seduced her by
the most solemn protestations of honorable mar- i
riage ? Shall I, eh ?” and he grinned exultingly.
“ Yes,” answered Emory, without being at all ;
disconcerted, “ but before you do so it may interest i
you to know that there is a certain document in !
existence which I can at any time cause to be ex- ’
hibited, although I am not supposed to have any
knowledge of it, which would bear rather hard !
against you if at any time you should be arrested I
on a capital charge. It is nothing less than a vol- !
untary confession of murder in which you are im- ;
i plicated made by one Jack Jacobs and witnessed by •
i two persons who can be found when wanted—that’s
I all!”
A change came over the countenance of Cant
' well and his manner altered at once.
“ I see,” he said, with 'an air of deference, “that
| it is useless for me to attempt to outgeneral you, ;
and I won’t try it again. Now, then, what !
do you wish me to do ?”
“ Prevent the woman we were talking of from, i
coming here,” said Emory, sternly, “I don’t j
' you to proceed to extreme ties if you can avoid it,
i but she must not be seen here. Use what means ■
j you please, but keep her away. If she makes her
i appearance here you shall answer it—now, begone!” !
Cantwell instantly, in the most obsequeious
i manner withdrew, and Emory returned to the party
! from the midst of which he had been so unceremo
niously called but a few moments before.
« * * * * ♦
Six months of married life passed over the head
of Estelle, and further than the disquietude some
times occasioned her by the recollection of her un
happy love for James Ely which would intrude it
self in spjte of her, she had no reason to regret the
step which she had taken. Emory was still very
kind not only to her, but to her father and sisters.
Mr. Grant and bis two elder daughters with the
servant Kate O’Donnell, still occupied the house
which Emory had prepared for them next his own
in . They had never left it for any great length
of time from the hour they first entered it. Emory
had taken his wife to New York when the fall
months set in, and had invited her relatives to ac
company them, but as there was nothing in the
way of business offering to Mr. Grant, he felt better
satisfied to stay where he was, and so indeed did
his daughters, for contemptible as were their gener
al characteristics, they still had a feeling of pride
which kept them from wishing to figure in fashiona
ble city life at the expense of one who was only
related to them by marriage. . After staying a
while in New York Emory started on a travelling
tour with Estelle, and having visited a number of
the Southern States, in doing which some four
months were very pleasantly spent, he agfain
returned hemeward, and at the request of Estelle,
Who had lost all relish for mingling with the world,
and wished, for a while, to lead a retired life, he re
moved her to , where she took up her residence
, With her father and sisters, although the winter was
not yet over, and remained himself in the city, only
> visiting her once or twice at most during each week.
It was at this time (about six months in all after
Estelle’s marriage) that one evening while Kate
O’Donnell was engaged at her ordinary avocations
in the kitchen of Mr. Grant’s residence, the door
L suddenly opened, and the head of Mr. George Cant
i well was thrust into the apartment.
[ “ How are you Kate?” he said, with a familiar
> nod.
At the time of the interruption Kate was
wiping a large-sized dinner plate, but she stopped
in the midst of her task, and while an indignant look
settled upon her face she replied—
“ It’s little the betther I am for seein’ the likes
o’ you, ye milk-faced thafe o’ the world! Get out
o’ that!”
“ Come, come, Kate,” said Cantwell, coaxingly,
“let bye-gones be by-gones. Is it possible you still
r< member a matter that happened so many years
ago?”
“ Is it possible do I remimber it?” replied Kate
in a tone of surprise, “why, ye divil’s bird, d’ye
think will I iver forgit it ? A father and mother
turned into the sthreets in the dead o’winter, an’
compelled to beg their bread from dure to dure !
d'ye think will I forgit that ? and a purty young
crather that I’d ha’ laid down me life for—though
to be sure she was no kin to me—kilt, and murd
hered, and ruinated entirely!—d’ye think will I
forgit that ? May me soul niver have a restin’ place
in glory iv I forgit it! Get out o’ that, I say wance
more, ye scum iv a scurvy pig’s lavins—there’s
pisin’ in yer two bad lookin’ ejjes, so there is!”
“I admit you’ve had some'cause to complain,
Kate,” said Cantwell, soothingly, “but it was no
fault of mine. 1 only acted by the direction of
another, you know. I turned your family into the
street, it is true, but I was forced to do so or lose
my situation, and if I had not performed the dis
agreeable task somebody else would. A s for Effie
Johnson 1 had no part in her undoing, and if she
were alive and you could have speech with her
she'd tell you so.”
“Ye-Zzc-she-wouldn’t!” exclaimed Kate in a great
passion and squeezing a whole sentence into one
word, “for I do have spache wid her every
night. She’s dead, that’s thrue for ybu—and
so is me father an’ me mother, but that don’t
sthop me sphakin to thim. They’re always
wid me
whispers in my ear whin I’m awake, and
they tells me ydur’e a liar. But fhat d’ye want
wid me, for the divil niver comes widout a pur
pose ?”
“J want to make friends with you, Kate,” re
plied Cantwell, ia a tone of assumed sincerity.
“iv that’s fhat yewant,” replied Kate, deter
minedly, “its as well for ye lave at wance, for till
ye can raise the dead its no friend o’ mine ye’ll be
affher findin' yerself.”
“You’ll think differently, Kate,” remarked Cant
well, humility, when I tell you what I
went you to do. You have no great affection for
Emory, I know, have you?”
“Affection for him,” answered Kate, a look of
malignity lighting up her wild eyes. “0, yis, its
the big affection-1 feel for him! Doyi’t I wish I
could show him how much I love hint! Don’t I,
though!”
“Does he know you are here?” asked Cant
well.
‘/He does know I’m here, in coorse,” answered
Kate, “for its a hundred times he’s seen me, bud,
big Lad luck to him, he don’t know who I am—hp
don’t recollect me.”
“There’s the difference between him and me,”
answered Cantwell, “now I knew you the moment
I sa,w you. I never forget a countenance that
interests me. I knew you at once, but I did not let
Emory into the secret, and this ought to convince
you that lam your friend. I want to serve you,
Kate.”
“Weil, thin,” said Kate, “it’s little I value the
friendship iv a servant who wears the divil’s livery.
Ye can’t be misther Emory’s friend an’ mine at the
same time, d’ye hear that now ?”
“Kate,” said Cantwell, stepping, close to the
girl, and lowering his voice to a whisper, “I’ll let
you into a secret. I hate Everard Emory as in
tensely, nay more intensely, than you do. For
years he has held me under his brutal control, and
lie has ruled me with a rod of iron. Now lam de
termined to free myself from him the first opportu
nity that offers. In the meantime I wish to gratify
my revenge a little. Here’s a letter (and at the
same time he took one from his pocket) which I
stole from Emory. It is one which he received
from his last victim, Jenny Mathews, since his
marriage. I want you to take it to his wife, and
tell her jou found it somewhere about the house.
You can hint at the same time that Emory must
accidentally have dropt it from his pocket daring
one of hL visits. As he has not recognized you,
you can run no risk in doing as I wish you to, and
Emory will doubtless himself believe that he has
actually lost it.”
“An’ d’ye think will it do him a har-m, if his
wife gets it ?” inquired Kate, anxiously.
“ Think,” answered Cantwell, “I know it will.
He would rather face the devil himself than to look
at his wife after she has read that letter. He has
had a ifce pleasant time of it thus far, and now I
am anxious to vary the scene a little for him. Will
you take the letter?”
“D’ye think wad I ate iv I was hungry?” an
swered Kate, with alacrity, “to be sure I’ll take it
to her, and iv it’ll owuly make him oncomfortable,
I don’t care iv I die afther.”
“That’s a brave'girl!”' exclaimed Cantwell ap
provingly, “and now I must go. Emory is to be
* rn . ew -YQfk r ta-mqrrpw ,afternoon ami
had better put the letter into the hands of his wife
in the morning so that she will be prepared to re
ceive him properly. Do you understand, Kate,
eh ?”
“I do !” was the laconic reply, and Cantwell took
his departure.
After he was 7 gone, Kate unfolded the letter, and -
turning it over and over, she viewed it upon all
sides, and at length muttered to herself, “It’s
little good I’ll be doin’ by lookin’ at ye, for sure I
can’t read ye at all at all—but I wish I cud, for I’d
like to know iv the poor crathur it kem from has
the power she should, have to be able to cope wid
the civil. Mrs. Emory shall have ye anyways,” she
concluded, as she refolded the letter, placed it
safely in her pocket, and resumed her work.
Tiue to her word the next morning after break
fast Kate entered the drawing-room where Estelle
sat alone, poring over the pages of the last new
novel, in which she had become apparently deeply
interested, and holding forth the letter, she re
marked—
“ Here’s a letther I found upon the stairs three
or four days ago jist afther the masther goin’ away,
an’ I forget to give it to ye till this moment, whin
it’s jist after coinin’ into me mind.”
“Wei!, throw it upon the mantle-piece,” said
Estelle carelessly, “ and he’ll get it when he comes
home.”
“ Mebbe its not for himsilf it is,” remarked Kate,
pertinaciously, still holding the letter, “ mebbe its
for some won else, an’ hadn’t ye betther look at it ’
jist?”
Estelle withdrew her eyes from the book which ,
she was reading and glanced at the superscription.
She observed that it was addressed to her husband, '
and was about to throw it aside, when the delicate
style of its chirography struck her, and she was
induced to open it. The first sentence which she
real caused a sudden tremor to seize her, and lay
ing aside her book, she said, with as much compo
sure us she could command, “ you may go, now,
Kate,” and, the girl was about moving towards the
dpcr. when she added, “ you need not mention to I
any one th-t you round this letter.”
“Indade I’ll not, mam,” was the answer, and
the next moment Estelle was alone.
With a beating heart she recommenced tlie peru
sal of the epistle, which was a rather short one,
and from the cramped and crooked style of the '
writing had evidently been penned by one suffering .
from nervous agitation. It was dated at Troy,
some time previously, and ran as follows :
Everakd Emory— Str.-’There was a time when '
T would have commenced a letter to you differently,
but your treatment of me lately has proved that
you are unworthy my slightest regard. For two
years now you have put me off with promises made
only to be broken, till at length I have discovered
that truth has no part in you—that you are a
heartless villain—a hypocrite of the very worst
stamp. Having’made this discovery, lam satisfied
that lor me there is no more happiness in this life;
but one thing yet' remains for me, and that is' re
! venge. I will unmask you to the world. Thus far
you have prevented my doing so, by removing me
I from place to place, and allaying my awakened fears
; by newly invented lies, but you shall do so no longer.
I In spite of all your pains to prevent it, I have ;
gained the information that you are married, which
of course renders it impossible for you to render
' me tha only reparation which I would accept at
your hands, and if I am ever permitted to rise foam
i the bed of sickness, upon which I now lie, your
i wife shall hear, and from my lips, too, what a
• black-hearted fiend she has married. You have
I falsely imagined all along, sir, that because you
I possessed immense wealth you could make mer
■ chandize of a friendless girl’s affections, and when
i I have urged you, as I repeatedly have done, to
| redeem your oath, solemnly sworn to in the sight
I of heaven, to make me your wife, you have either
! put me off with some lame excuse or insulted me
i with the proffer of a tithe of your ill-gotten wealth,
i Devil! can your gold restore my peace of mind ?
Can it render me virtuous, and happy, and free
from guilt, as I was before I knew you ? God of
Heaven ! when I reflect upon all that you have
urged me to it seems that reason will desert her
throne and I shall go wild! For the second time I
am lying upon a sick bed in this den of horror, the
! murderess of my own offspring! I know, I feel, that
| a terrible retribution must follow this dreadful guilt,
but I shall not suffer alone, for you it was—you,
the father of my unborn babes—who urged me, by
threats and promises, and implorations, to the
commission of the hellish crime, and you are equ
ally culpable. I may, perhaps, not live through
this last trial, but think not that you will escape
punishment, even if my guilty soul does wing its
flight to another world before I have the power to
call you to account—for be assured of this: we
I shall meet hereafter at the bar of an offended
' Deity. There, there can be no concealment, and
1 your black deeds will speak trumpet-tongued
j against you. For the present I have done, but you ;
i shall hear from me again, perhaps when you least i
expect it. My earnest prayer is now that before I !
die I may see your wife.
Once your passive victim, but now your inveter
ate enemy,
■Jeanette Matthews.
T. S.—l have heard that among your other ex
ploits you succeeded through your base tools, in
entrapping a lovely and innocent young creature,
of the name of Helen Wallace, into the infamous
den into which I was first introduced. Thank Hea
ven, she escaped from thence unspotted, and I sin
cerely hopethat at some day or other this villainous
transaction, among others, may be traced home to
yon. J. M.
It would be impossible to describe the sensations
which Estelle experienced after she had finished the
perusal of this letter. Fear, doubt, and rage took
possession of her by turns, and she knew not at
what conclusion to come. At first she was fearful
that the letter contained nothing but truth—that
she had indeed married a wretch, for whose diabo
lical crimes she could find no nwe-then it occur
red to her that perhaps it was only a plan to injure
benhusband, and then again her mind reverted to
the story of the wolf and the lamb so singularly re
lated by Kate O’Donnell on the day of her mar
riage, the application of which was now palpable, if
Emory was indeed the villain which the letter re
presented him to be, and burning with rage as she
thought of this, she summoned the girl, and striv
ing to put on an air of indifference, she said :
“ Kate, on the morning of my marriage you com
menced telling me a story which you did not finish,
:md it has just occurred to me that I should like to
bear the termination of it. Sit down and relate it
it now, won’t you?”
“ Did I tell you the story iv the wolf and the
lambs ?” questioned Kate, as though surprised.
>EW SUNPAT MORNING, OCTOBER 1 9 1854.
“ Of course you did,” answered Estelle, “surely
you cannot have forgotten it already.”
“ I didn’t you any names, did I?” asked
Kate.
“ No,” replied Estelle,” and that’s just what I
wish to inquire about, what were the wolf aijd his
victims called?”
“ Which ?” said Kate, seemingly very much puz
zled.
“ Nonsense,” answered Estelle, somewhat angri
■ ly, “ you understand me well enough. Come, tell
me at once.”
“An’, fhat ’ll I tell ye?” asked Kate, still pre
serving the same puzzled expression of counte
nance.
“ Kate,” said Estelle, impresively, at the same
time regardingjhe girl with a look of fixed scruti.
ny, “ answer me honestly—do you know anything
derogatory to my husband’s character as a man of
integrity. If you do, don’t hesitate to tell it, and
I promise you, upon my sacred honor, no harm
shall come to you in consequence.”
“ You won’t tell him who tould ye?” said Kate,
interrogatively.
“ Never,” replied Estelle, “ as lam a Christain.”
“ Then,” was the girl’s reply, “ I’ll tell ye. It’s
a hard thing to say to a lady that’s only just after |
being married, but your husband is the bloodiest '
vilyan unhung, so he is, an’ there’s more nor my-'
self knows that same.”
“ Be careful, Kate, how you make assertions,”
said Estelle, what proof have you that Mr. Emory
is a bad man ?”
“ The proof of me own eyes and ears,” answered
Kate, “ and fhat better ’udlwant? I know that
he turned me poor ould father an’ mother an’ me
silf out into the sthreet, an’ it biting, bitther win
ter at the time—l know, too, that they died from
the effects iv it—may their souls rist in glory foriver
an’ iver ’ —l know that he was the manes of
killin Thomas Gardner the shoemaker in the sama
way—l know that he led Effie Johnson and Kate
Coilins (two swate, pretty sewin’ girls, that me
mother washed for whin mesilf was a wee thing)
asthray—l know that Kate winthome to her friends
when be turned her off, and died broken hearted,
and I know that Effie wudn’t go home, bekase she
was too proud, so she wint on frim bad to worse,
till she got on Blackwell’s Island, an’ there she died.
I know that that same Effie Johnson gev me medi
cine wid her own hands and bought delicacies wid her
own money, whin I was sick and likely to die, an’
I know I’ll niver forgit her kindness (God be good
to her sowl!) nor the ill-treatment to her of the
black-hearted murdherer that caused her death
may the divil roast him at a slow fire troughout the
countless ages iv eternity, and the day afther, the
heartless vagabone!”
“0, Kate,” cried Estelle, bursting into tears, |
“ why didn’t you tell me of this before I was mar- '
ried ?”
“ Bekase,” replied Kate, “ I was afeard to—no- '
body iver crossed him yit, that he did not ruinate
thim after, an’sure I dhreaded he might find out ,
that I tould you. But I hinted to you, an’jt’s jne ■
belief that iv ye’d ’a prissed me that time as ye did I
a bit ago I’d a tould ye anyway.”
After her violent outburst of grief had somewhat j
subsided, Ertelle dismissed Kate, and then settled ;
/herself to cogitate upon the best plan to be pursued !
under the circumstances. Her first impulse was to '
take the letter to her father and sisters, and en
lighten them as to the true character of the man
she had wedded. She discarded this idea, however,
almost as’soon as it was conceived. The fact is,
she did not repose much confidence in her relatives,
and she feared they might take sides against her.
She distrusted them not without reason. Emory
had complete control over them all. They were de
pendent upon him, and were bound to think and
act' just as he wished them to, for should he take it
into his head to cut off their supplies, they were
beggars. She therefore resolved to await her hus
band’s return—then charge him in private with his
perfidy, and hear what defence he had to make.
Accordingly when Emory arrived some hours
afterwards, instead of meeting him with a smile
and a cheerful greeting as was her wont, she at
once intimated her desire for a few moments private
conversation with him, and led the way to their
own sleeping apartment.
Emory had not the remotest suspicion of the true
cause of his wife’s evident discontent. He imagined
that something of a trifling nature had gone wrong
around the house of which she was about to complain,
and as soon as they were safely in the apartment,
and the door closed, he playfully attempted to
throw his arms around her, at the same time re
marking, good-humoredly—
“ What’s the matter now, pretty one ? What has
gone wrong ? Has the dress-maker failed to fit you?
Or has your favorite bonnet been carelessly crushed?
Or has your magnificent shawl sustained a lasting
injury ? Or is your pet canary sick ? Or what ails
you?”
“ Perhaps when I have enlightened you as to the
real cause of my trpuble,” replied Estelle, in a
stern, uncompromising tone such as she had never
used before, “you will not feel in so playful a
mood. Tell me, sir, did you ever happen, in your
progress through life, to make the acquaintance nf
a vi‘~ ihLUVfcHeWS T
The interrogatory came so suddenly upon Emory,
that for a moment he was terribly startled, and Es
telle did not fail to observe it, for she was watching
purposely the effect of the question. It was but for
a moment, however, that the bold, bad man lost his
self-posses-ion, and then his brow was as placid as
though nothing had happened to disturb his serenity
of mind, and he answered pleasantly—
“No, my dear, I never knew any such person—
but why do you ask ?”
Estelle was utterly surprised at this prompt and
decisive denial of acquaintanceship, and was almost
inclined to think that she had been too fast. With
out altering her demeanor, however, she took the
tell-tale letter from her bosom, and deliberately
opening it before him, she resumed—
“ Will you tell me, then, if you please,-how you
ever came into possession of that letter ?”
Emory took the epistle, and after hastily glancing
over it, he replied without hesitation—
“lt would be hard to say how I came into pos
session of a thing which I never saw before in my
life. Why. Estelle, is it possible that you have al
lowed the miserable trick of some envious wretch to
awaken within you feelings of jealousy and doubt?
Shame upon you—shame! I had hoped better things
of you?” . e
“ Can it be possible,” thought Estelle, “ that this
man is the guilty wretch which-Kate O’Donne 1
represented him to be ? He does not start, or
change color, or show any sign of guilt, and yet I
know the girl cannot be so much mistaken.”
She stood undecided what next to say, till at
length Emory broke the silence, by asking—
“ May I' ask to whom I am indebted for this
pleasant little domestic scene? Who ia your in
formant, Estelle? What seventh son of a seventh
son has been telling your fortune, for I confess I
should like to consult the oracle myself.”
“ Some day,” replied Estelle, quietly, “you may
find the opportunity which you desire, but at pres
ent I can only say that my oracle, as far ’as you are
concerned, is an infallible one. I did not think
until now that so much cunning and hypocrisy
could exist in one person, and it is with mingled
pain, mortification and shame that I am forced to
remember that that person is my husband.”
“ Come, come, madam!” replied Emory, assum
ing a look of wounded dignity and virtuous anger,
“this abuse has gone about far enough, and I will
bear it no longer! If lamto be made the victim
of every malicious slanderer who comes along, I
shall have a pleasant life of it before I die!”
“ You are not likely to have a very pleasant one
after you die !” exclaimed Estelle indignantly, “for
the number of your crimes preclude the possibility
of your ever entering the abode of the blessed
You deny knowing* the person alluded to in that
letter. Tell me, then, can you find in any corner
of your memory the record of such names as Effie
Johnson and Catherine Collins?”
For the first time during the interview Emory
was unmistakably disconcerted. All along he had
imagined that the letter was the only proof which
Estelle had of his misdeeds, and he had hoped to be
able, by stratagem to obviate any difficulty which
might arise from that. But when he heard the
names of two of his victims of years gone by men
tioned he felt satisfied that his wife had had, in
some mysterious way, an interview with some per
son intimately acquainted with his past history.
Finding that concealment was longer useless,
therefore, he put a bold face upon the matter, and
exclaimed, while a frown dark and terrible settled
upon his brow—
“ Well, madam, you have taken considerable
pains to render yourself miserable, and if the cur
rent of your life should not, herafter, run as smooth
ly as heretofore you will have yourself to thank for
it. It is full time now, that I should take you in
hand. I have been too indulgent with you all ;
along—have allowed you too many privileges—it
has caused you some trouble, doubtless, to arrive
at the information you possess concerning my true
character, but you have more tQt learn, and the rest
will come easier—you will not be obliged to seek
for it out of the house. Gome, mistress, put by that
frown, which I consider decidedly out of place, and
endeavor to look more the character of a submissive
wife!”
The rich blood mounted to Estelle’s cheeks, and
her eyes sparkled with rage as she replied—
“ If you expect to control me as you have been
in the habit of controlling everybody else, you will
find that you are laboring under a sad mistake.—
Had you humbly acknowledged your offences, and
promised faithfully to atone for them by a life of
penitence in the future, I might perhaps have been
disposed to remain silent concerning yourmisdepds, 1
though I should never again under anycircumstances
have looked upon you as my husband—but your
impudent bearing and evident callousness of heart
make it painfuly apparent to me that nothing is to
be hoped for from forbearance, and I fear I shall be '
obliged to unmask you to the world, disagreeable i
• as the task will be to me.”
“Dare to utter one word of what you have
! learned,” said Emory, seizing her by the wrist in
: his rage, aud squeezing it till she came near crying
j out with pain, “and ten minutes afterwards a
messenger shall be on his way westward, to make
arrangements with the Governor of Missouri for a
requisition to arrest your father on the double
charge or compounding a felony and being an ac
cessory the fact in a case of murder, and you
shall be one of the principal witnesses! Ha, ha!
i Does that startle you? - You see, I never do things
i by halves!”
“ You are a villain!” said Estelle with furious
indignation, “a deeply-dyed, desperate villain!”
“lam your husband!” was the cool reply, “and
will be obeyed! Let me see the slightest indication
of displeasure upon that defiant face of yours,
; when abroad, and tremble for the consequences!
i At home, you may frown as much as you think fit,
for since we have come to understand each other
perfectly I shall like it all the better, but you must
I o) seive a respectful demeanor in public, or I shall
feel constrained to punish you in private,” and
fiercely upon his now silent wife, he
strode imperiously from the apartment.
“ And this,” sobbed Estelle, when she found her
self alone, “ this is the result of my departure from
the fixed determination never to bestow my hand
where I could not give my heart! What have lin
the future to look forward to now? Misery!
misery ! misery! lam the slave of a brutal master,
without a will of my own, and I must bear his
rebuffs, his taunts, and his acts of cruelty, without
daring to resent them—l must plod on, uncom
plainingly, day after day, the passive recipient of
his acts of petty malice and his soul-cutting sneers,
constantly, unceasingly, unrelentingly administer
ed ! No cessation, no hope of reprieve, no prospect
of rest till death comes to my relief! Oh, oh, oh 1”
SENT BY MAIL AT $2.00 A YEAR.
and she wept long and violently for some moments, ;
when suddenly she ceased, and with a great effort !
once more regaining the mastery over herself she i
exclaimed, while a gleam of savage joy shone in her i
grief bedewed eyes, “ but there is one hope left me .
yet, and I must live to compass it! The hope of
dear, darlingj. sweet revenge ! A day of retribution j
must arrive sooner or later, and then, oh, then, ’
tremble thou demi-devil Everard Emory, for it will '
be my turn to triumph !” She arose and applied I
some cool water to her burning temples, then
bathing and carefully wiping her eyes, she arranged
her hair, and shortly afterwards made her appear
ance among her relatives entirely free from all
traces of her late excitement.
Estelle had made up her mind to endure misery
after the above scene had taken place, but she had
not half calculated the extent of the troubles she
would be called upon to She had made no
allowance for what she would have to suffer inde
pendently of her husband’s ill usage. She had for
gotten that when he altered in his conduct towards
her, those over whom he had control would be
obliged to do the same, and accordingly no sooner ■
did Fanny, Florence and the old man • observe the
change in Emory’s demeanor towards her, than
j they, too, treated her more like a slave than the ;
: mistress of the house. Estelle might have retaliat
'■ cd. She might have brought destruction upon them
' all, although by so doing, she would have involved ■
herself in the general ruin, but she did not wish to
do so—she had a game to play, and was willing to
bide her time.
In the meantime Emory hateful even
than she supposed he could become. He had tried
every means to Induce hereto declare who her in
formant was, and failing in this he racked his in
genuity to discover fresh means of making her
miserable. He never once thought of Kate O’Don
nell, for he had lost all recollection,, of her, and did
not know in fact whether she was living or dead.
He suspected Cantwell at first, and taxed him with ■
being concerned in the matter, but as that indivi
dual stoutly denied the imputation, and as upon i
strict enquiry he had not been seen around the ;
premises and no letter hsd been received, he was !
forced in his own mind to acquit him, and relinquish
the hope of finding out the real informer.
Emory had reduced the business of torturing any
body in his power when lie once set about it to a
science, but Le found? that iu attempting to break !
down the spirit of his wifeand to render her humble
and submissive, he had altogether a harder task '
before him than he had calculated upon. One of
his favorite modes of tortire was to taunt her with ,
her z poverty, and to regret that he had so far honor
ed her as to marry her, when he might (so he ;
averred) without trouble have procured her as a
j mistress—then he would speak of the indebtedness j
! of her father to him, and boast of having kept the ■
i whole family from starvation—occasionally he al- '
! luded to the fact that she had a felon for a brother
in-law, and that more than likely her once very
I dear friend, young Ely, was also a felon—he.was at j
' least a fugitive and a vagabond upon the face of i
' the earth.
! And yet, with all his diabolical power to wring a
! proud heart like- ihat which beat in Estelle’s bosom, ■
j he could not succeed in forcing from her a single i
, tear, or groan, or even a sigh. She bore it all with ■
i stolid indifference, and a person would have thought I
to look at her immovable countenance that she was i
past feeling, but this was a mistake, and Emory i
knew it well. In secret she gave vent to the feelings ■
which she smothered in the presence of her husband,
who felt satisfied that such was the case and greedily ,
gloated oyer her sufferings. Emory did not. sue- ■
ceed in conquering her, but he did succeed in 1
souring her disposition, and killing every noble, :
generous feeling which she-had possessed before she >
knew him. He did succeed in rendering her distrust- ,
ful, hypocritical, savage and untameable. He did
succeed in making her the most implacable enemy
he had in the world, and more dangerous than all '
the rest combined.
Kate O’Donnell, too, had changed with Estelle. .
They were never seen together, but they often met !
and talked long and earnestly when nobody was i
aware of the fact. They made common cause j
against a common enemy. Kate hated Emory with ;
a bitter, lasting hatred, and her wild, uncultivated i
nature—although it had once possessed the ingredi- :
ents’ df humanity and good feeling—was easily
changed by Estelle’s master-spirit into the nature '
of a demon.
Such was the state of things when Estelle be- ■
came the mother of a boy, an event which gave ,
Emory the most complete satisfaction, inasmuch as
it was another chain upon the limbs of his already
overloaded captive—another subject of splenetic
remark and biting inuendo. His triumph in view
of the new accession to his family, however, was j
shortlived, for Estelle had but fairly recovered from
the sickness consequent upon the birth of her child,
when she suddenly, together with her infant, and
the servant Kate O’Donnell, disappeared. They
took with them between two and three thousand
dollars in bank notes, and*left behind them some
thing of a far different nature, for in the week fol;
lowing, while Emory (who left immediately) was
in Nbw York searching for some
glass of wine which she had procured from a
private bottle belonging to Emory.
(To be continued.;
«WBtnnaaetfa-mwit'CTnr
[Original.]
«AUTUMM’S EVE.”
BY J. S. B.
Autumn has come, with her shadowy pall;
And orange and gold tints are cast
O’er the forest leaves Wliich quivering fall,
And are borne on the moaning blast.
The birds, which sing their sweet songs in the glade,
Now sing in more mournful notes;
For the Autumn’s gloom has cast iis shade
Where the sound of their music floats.
The Western clouds are still wearing the tinge
Which the summer sunsets wore ;
But their edges are bordered with paler fringe
Than the sunsets of summer bore.
The Evening Star, which still shines bright,
Now shines with a colder gleam ;
As the gathering shades of the coming night
Grow darker o’er hill and stream.
The young, crescent moon, just sinking to rest,
.W'here the last ray of daylight has gone,
Shines out on the brow of the radiant West
As the summer’s pale moon never shone.
The eve of the Autumn, though colder its light,
Still wears on her face a soft glow;
Which the eve of the Summer, though shining and bright,
Has never yet- matched on her brow.
New York, Sept. 25,1854.
ffi ata for gdertfoii.
CONFESSIONS OF A CALIFORNIA
WIDOW.
The following letter from a Brooklyn Grass Widow may
i erve to open the eyes of the verdant of both sexes. We give ■
it a place in the hope that the Adventure of the writer may
especially have the effect of opening the eyes of unprotected
women to the snares that surround them. Suffice it to say
that this is no fancy sketch :
I am woman, and possess a woman’s curiosity, as It is
termed, though I think it purely a love for learning, and a i
most commendable trait. Women are too much cooped up i
by custom, and their education is too theoretical.
A practical man is considered a valuable member of so- !
ciety—he is justly looked up to and trusted as a leader. Let j
any new Invention come up, or any important improvement I
be suggested, and the first inquiry is, “What do practical
men think of it?” Ifthey deem it feasible, everybody is iu
favor of it, and the experiment is tried forthwith. * This is as
it should be—men, in public matters and in private enterpris- '
es of a new and doubtful character, should be governed by
the judgment of the practical members of their own sex.
And why not women do the same? I think there ia as
much of practical women as practical men. But whoever !
hears anything said about practical women? Who ever wants ■
to know what either practical or theoretical women think of !
any question beyond how they can make themselves most
agretable to ths beaux? It is a shame that we are kept in
such close surveillance and ignorance that is never thought
woi th while to consult us on auy important topic,and our opini
ons go for naught when w e volunteer them. We are never
trusted anywhere nor allowed to see anything unless soma
brother, or husband, or father, or other interested male party,
is constantly at our side, to wUch every look and action, and
catch every word. We are never allowed to peep into the
retreats of the men, nor join any of their secret societies. We
see nothing but just what they are willing to let us see; we
hear nothing but what, they elect we may hear. Talk about
the secrets of Jesuits I So far as we are concerned, all men
are Jesuits, and we are literally Know Nothings.
If we express a desire to know anything about how men
spend their evenings, which are almost sure to consume half
the night,—where they go, what they do, who and what they
see, if they pass the time happily while we are laying
awake at home, almost dying for their company, and then,
sighing heavily, exclaim, “ Oh, dear 1 I wish were a man I”
they laugh at us, and talk of our whims, and spleens, and
curiosity—always winding up by saying something about Eve
and the apple. I declare, it is too bad, and I sometimes al
most burst with indignation, when I think of it.
Men seem to think women good for nothing but playthings,
pretty pets and docile slaves, whose happiness is complete if
they are permitted, now and then, to entertain a husband who
can’t, for the time being, find any one else more interesting
to him because less understood. For this poor comfort, the
wife is expected to always be at home, to keep her household
neat and tidy, wash the children and prevent their crying,
mend rents and sew on buttons, <and always be dressed up
and sitting in the parlor ready to receive her lord, and dissi
pate his sourness and sadness by her kind looks, sweet words
and tender caresses. He must be excused for his moodiness,
because he has to work so hard, or business goes so badly,
or—pshaw, he has drunk too much wine, or been jilted,
probably 1
I used to think these things right, and I put up with all
sorts of treatment and inconveniences, which sometimes
nearly broke my poor 'beart. But lam resolved to do it no
more—l have got my eyes open to the rascality of these
husbands, now. It was an accident—a common concurrence
of circumstances, however—and I will tell you how it hap
pened.
My husband, like many other good husbands, thought too
1 much of me to stay here with me and live in moderate cir
cumstances. He resolved to go to California, make a fortune,
and then come home and make me—his own dear wife—a
lady—yes, a lady. I protested that I did not want to be a
lady—that I had much rather live as I was, and have him
with me, than to have him brave the dangers of a long
journey and a new country, and perhaps never oome back.
; I almost cried my eyes out, and made myself down sick,
brooding over the coming separation, (fool that I was) but it ,
I seemed to have eo effect on his mind—he loved me too well
to be deterred from ultimately making me a lady by any sub
sequent misery and sorrow that might befal me. I hope I
appreciate his affection !
W ell, he left me, and went te California. He blubbered a
little on leaving, and I believed he really felt bad. I suffered
moreth’.nl ever will allow my love for any man to make
me suffer lor the next six months, I almost wore my
legs off running to the post-office for a letter—but no letter
came. I watched the papers. The ship he sailed in arrived
safely at San Francisco. He must be dead, or he certainly
would write.
At length, I received a letter, dated from away up the Sa
cramento, somewhere. He had been absent over nine
months, spent a month on the Isthmus, and two or three in
Sau Francisco, and this was his first letter, according to his
own acknowledgement contained therein. I suppose he would
net have writti n this if he had had auy other way of spend
ing his time. Nothing was doing in the mines, for lack of
water, and he had been idle for more than a month, and had
missed one opportunity of sending to San Francisco. Would
I lave neglected so long to write to him? Wpuld I not have
, written by every steamer while on the Isthmus and iu San
Francisco? And would I not have availed myself of every
opportunity to write from the mines—and written long letters ?
' H>s letter was short, covering anly two pages, and written in
a hurried, horrid scrawl. It was full of professions of love—
; he often thought of me. and lelt very lonely off there, away
from the abodes of civilization—but a third of a page, and that
, the best and most carefully written of Lis letter, was devoted
1 to the praises of the Mexican beauties ! It was insufferable—
J I tore it to tatters and threw it into the fire, and then sat down
and cried a full hour.
It was just in the edge of the evening, and mechanics,
clerks, sewing girls, milliners, Ac., were coming home to sup
-1 * per—a hungry crow d, no doubt. But what cared I for them—
-1 they seamed far happier than I, who had no relish for sup-
! per. They laughed and chatted as they passed beneath my
, v. indow, and some of the mercurial young gentlemen ran and
* whooped like so many wild Indians. J rose from the sofa,
, in the back part of the room, and took a seat at the window.
S I looked out upon the moving throng, and tried to forget my
£ troubles. But it was all in vain—l felt lonely, desolate. I
longed for companionship—but propriety forbade, and I jnust
do nothing improper—thought I’d die of loneliness. Now and
f then I bad spent an afternoon at some of the neighbors, which
afforded me a little relief, for the time being ; but I relapsed
into my heart-forsaken melancholy as soon as I returned
home. Now that I had received such an unsatisfactory letter,
* I felt worse than ever. Wortjs cannot describe the utter,
” hopeless loneliness that pervaded my bosom. It seemed as if I
could rot live unefer such a terrible oppression of feeling;
and as I watched the passers by, my elbow resting on the
window-sill and my cheek lying in my hand, the words of the
poet of the passions came vividly to my mind :
“Midst the crowd, the hum, the shriek of men,
To hear, to see. to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired deiKzen,
With none to bless us, none whom we can bless,
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress, —
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile ihe less,
Of all that flattered, followed sought and spied—
This is to be alone—this, this is solitude !”
My afleciionate husband, on the banks of the Sacramento,
could not have suffered more in spirit and mind thau I did.
I could not remain quiet any longer. I must move or die.
So I put on my bonnet and shawl for a short walk, thinking
that when I returned I would pen a spicy letter to my dis
consolate husband—unexceptionable in chirography. and fall
of stirring passages that would quicken his remembrance of
home-for I knew from experience how to touch his feelings.
Instinctively I turned my steps toward Fulton Ferry, mo
ving ir. the face of the tired and hungry throng. I ccul 1 but /
notice the varied expressions of countenance that met me on
my way. The melancholy seamstress, the laughing book
folder, the staid vest maker, the coquettish milliner, the proud,
shop-tender, and the saucy minx who works steadily at no
thing—the aristocratic merchant, the sober usurer, the dandy
clerk, the plodding laborer, the wiry politician, the pallid
printer, and the inquisitive man of ho business in particular
—all passed in rapid review,
I reached the gate, paid my penny (the fare then had not
been raised) and passed iu. Almost unconsciously I walked
down the bridge, stepped on the boat, entered the empty
cabin, and took a seat. I was in a listless, dreamy state, and
hardly noticed anything going on around me—the gentlemaaly
chairman passed by me unheeded, and I did not awak-*. from
my stupor till I heard the rattling of the chains on the bridge,
and the cabin was darkened by the rushing crowd of passen
gers that came pouring in.
Wiib difficulty! made my w'ay through the crowd to the
“Ladies Room,” and took a seat atone of the windows, where
I could plainly scan the features and figures of the multitude
of people passing within a few feet. Why I should take that
seat, cr any seat at all. I cannot say—aud. doubtless, if you,
dear xesder, should keep close watch oi' your actions, you
would find it difficult to account for a great many of them.
We are strange beings—at least, we women—aud often
wake to a bitter consciousness that our destiny is not in our
own bands. Circumstances make us slaves, aud men are our
task-masters. We are so much in the habit of looking up to
them and obeying them, that we do not even feel that, our
souls are our own, and would not dare say it, if we did. It
seems the height of impudence io claim that we have souls,
notwithstanding there is no Turk to contradict the innocent
claim. At least, so I felt. My lord aud master, it was true,
was on the opposite side of the continent, and knew not whe
ther I was at heme, in the ferry house, or, as for that matter,
‘ on the other side of Jordan”—and, indeed, I was not quite
sure that he cared. No more could I tell whether he was ia !
his tent, pining in loneliness, or receiving the caresses of some
greasy squaw—or, suspended in an airy cradle after the man
ner of the natives, his decomposed dust was whistling down
the wind—nor can I truthfully say it gave my mind much
trouble as to which it might be, though the last would have
been ratber more agreeable o my feelings than the second—
the most probable condition, as I now' think. It was enough
for me that I was alone, and miserable, and saw no prospect
of a spec dy relief. My h<art was big aud heavy, and would
not allow me to think much of anything else. I sat staring at
the jostling passengers, but saw nothing, and I suppose my
face looked as long as the moral law and as blank as a poor
man’s luck in the lottery.
Whether there (vas anything particularly interesting in my
appearance, I am not vain enough to say, if I knew. Whe
ther. by any attraction on my part, or any inherent impulsion
on tis own, or a fortuitous train of converging circumstances,
I will nor pretend to decide. But, for some reason, which. I
never took the pains to inquire into, a tail, well-dressed gen- :
tieman, in a ’Uhitc hat, halted opposite me, gazed at me for a
moment, smiled, then bowed, and bid me good evening. I
was indignant at the insult/, and; turning my face away with
an air of dignity and scorn, I commenced adjusting my chemi
sette —a trick, I venture to say, no lady was ever guilty of be
fore, when accosted by a gentleman, under any circum
stances 1
After a minute or so, I gave a furtive glance in the direc
tion where the stranger stood, to see if he had the impudence
to maimain his post. He had disappeared. I then took a full
survey, but he was nowhere to be seen. I felt an anxiety to
scan him more closely, as I had but a glimpse of him, and his
figure was but imperfectly impressed upon my mind. He '
had, doubiless, stepped on to'the boat, which was about leav
ing, and I should neither see nor hear anything more of him,
I turned my eyes in that direction, hoping to see him among
the crowd that stood on the stern. No one answering to my
idea of him could be discovered. He had vanished as effec
tually, and almost as suddenly, as if. he had dropped straight
down through a trap door in the bridge
It was singular that a stranger should accost me thus. Per
haps he was an old acquaintance, whom I had forgo,ten. If
so, how meanly I had treated him 1 I hoped he would return,
that I might learn the truth of the matter. But the signal to :
cast off was given, the chains clinked on the bridge, and the j
boat moved out.
I began to bitterly relent my conduct. If he was a stran- ;
ger, his air was very bland, and he must certainly have had (
some motive for addressing me. Good or bad, 1 might have :
heard what he had to say—and there surely could have oeen 1
no harm in that. Besides, he was not bad looking, and a few i
moments’ chat with any one, though he were positively ugly,
would have afforded me pleasure. Why was I such a silly 1
fool?
This, and much more of ihe same sort, passed rapid y
through my mind. I had gradually worked myself almost
into a fever. My heart thumped heavily against my chest—
(who can control the heart ?)—and I felt the blood gathering
warm about my temples. There were several ladies in the ;
loom, all too anxiously watching for something or somebody ■
to no'e my emotions, if I betrayed any—so I felt perfectly ;
secure in my singularly-embariassing condition.
Suddenly the figure of some one darkened the door. I
looked—it was the gentleman in the white hat? What could I
do ? My face was suffused with blushes—l dare not, speak to
him, nor look him in the face. He noticed my embarrass
ment and, doubtless, wrongly interpreted it, for he ap
proached me with but little hesitancy.
“Goed evening, madam 1” again said he, in a persuasive
tone, and he quietly took a seat by my side. ,
“What means this rudeness, sir?” I demanded, in a firm
undertone, at the same time moving away from him a Utile,
and ciistin£ my eyes about the room to see if we were
noticed. »
“ Beg your pardon, ma’am !—no offence, I hope.”
I scowled, and turned round so as to look him square ia ‘
the face. He was handsome, and, I thought sincere.
“ I inferred from your manner that you wished to speak
with me, and so I made bold to address you as I did. Was I
mistaken ?”
“Ah-yes—no matter, sir—no harm done!” I stammered
out in reply. “I thought it rather strange that you should
a casua? *° s P ealc t 0 me without ever having had so much as
I cuurrß3 l iß?¥Sfe^- Jj ]v’6ft r upon my heart by n!B Kina anl '
gentlemanly bearing, and I was fearful he would make his
.bow, and leave me. But be quietly kept his scat, much to
my satisfaction, though I would not have had him known it,
for worlds. Why should Ibe so much interested in an im
pudent stranger, but a perfect gentleman in everything save
his first presumption ?
“Yes—yes—it was rather strange ; but we must not always :
take exceptions to a thing because it is strange or uncustemat- ,
ry. We, all of us, sometimes are impelled to do things
which we can’t account for, as you must be aware, being a
woman of observation, as you appear. it will not
do for sensible people to always be chained down by fash-' j
ionable forflis and ceremonies, as if they dare not trust them- j
selves ”
He leoked inquiringly in’o my face. I thought he talked
very rationally, but I could not exactly understand what he
was driving at. At all events, he said netting bad, and there
could be no harm in listening to him. I was not afraid to
trust myself, however others might feel.
“True enough, sir,” I answered, adjusting my gloves, and
it may be I patted the floor a little with my foot—for I confess,
I began to feel a slight degree oftimidiiy, and a wish to make
a favorable impression, slyly crept into my heart. Thera
is no denying that an affable, fine-looking man has charms
for a drooping grass widow—and husbands ought to know it.,
if they don’t already. If then theyg© off and leave their
wive, for loug periods of time, it wili be good enough for them
if, \shen they return, they find nobody at home. Thu is my
henest opinion, as a woman of experience, and I may as
well express it here as anywhere else.
“Seeing you alone,” continued he, “and impressed by
your manner that I might be of scme’hervice to you—we can’t
alwaj s tell wby we receive certain impressions—£ have placed
myself at your command, being ever ready to do what I can
consistently for those whom I deem worthy. There are few
whom I would in any v. ay discommode myself to favor; but ,
those choice spirits of the world, whom we so seldom m-iet, ■.
are worthy of our attention everywhere, and we should not
allow trifles to prevent our becoming acquainted with each ,
others that we may indulge in that mutual interchange of
thought and sentiment which is so essential and agreeable to
superior intellects and pure hearts, wherever their lot may be
cast, and whatever their condition may be. Wealth and
poverty have nothing to do with the nobility of heart aud intel
lect ; and, if beauty be added to these insignia of Nature’s
arlstocrcy, even the king on h’s throne Is not impervious to
their cha/ms. Pray, my dear madam, are you married or ■
single?” z
“ S—married—that is, my husband is in California,” I re- ‘
plied, before I thought.
“ Have you auy children?”
“ No, sir.”
Of course, I did not swallow his flattery, knowing that men j
«lways deal largely in that commodity ; and, therefore, it Is
the duty of us women to overlook that fault. But his voice
was sweet and musical, and I was delighted with his eloquence '
and good'sense. He was evidently a mtn who had seen
much of the world, and one capable of Imparting instruction.
I liked his company for that reason. I had always been a
novice, notwithstanding my strong desire to pick up know
ledge ; and here was a man, whom a strange freak of fortune
had thrown in my way, who talked like a philosopher. But
I could not ask him to call on me—scandal would instantly be
on the wind if I should do that. I must let him go after this
short interview—our first and last.
Much more he said, all so apropos, and betraying such a
good heart and cultivated mind I The more he talked, the
more I became interested—not in him, but his conversation. ;
It was charming, and I am sure I could have sat and listened
till the coming of. the dawn. I had forgotten all my loneliness ;
in fact, I had nearly forgotten myself. I speak frankly, for I '
have risen above such folly. lam now a practical woman,
having learned the ways of the world in the school of expert- I
ence, which the weaker sex, as they are termed, and perhaps
rightly, never enter, except by stealth, unless their husbands
happen to be in California, or some other place where there
is metal more attractive.
I sufficiently kept command of myself to make intelligent
replies to his questions. I had little opportunity to do
Talk about the tongue of a woman 1 It is nothing to be com
pared with the tongue of an intriguing man for uninterrupted
actual service. If his is not hung in the middle, and has not a
rotaiy motion, it must play between the jaws like a trip-ham
mer, adjusted to strike a blow both ways. ■
I began to think seriously of starting for home as soon as
his conversation came to a halt. But there was no halt about ;
it—it ran ou as smoo hly as a stream of honey between banks i
of polished silver overhung with roses. At length, however, I [
pulled my shawl up around my shoulders, and, by a desperate
effort, rose to my feet. He gradually left his seat, and, step
ping to my side, gently and familiarly drew my arm through
bis. Still the stream of talk ran on, and still; like a simpleton,
as I was, I delighted to listen. The door reached —
“ Come,” says he, “let’s go to Taylor’s and have an ice
cream.”
“ I must go home,” was my hesitating reply.
“ Oh, never mind your home,” he carelessly rejoined.
There is no husband there to scold you if you don’t happen to
be in at just such a time. An ice cream will do you good—
and perhaps you would like something more substantial or
exhileraiing ? Cemealong!”
And I suffered him to lead me to an omnibus. I had never
been to Taylor’s Saloon, but had heard much said about it,
and on paselng by, had peeped in through' the door. I had
conceived it to be a perfect palace, and had often wished to
see it, but had nobody to take me there. Here was an ex
cellent opportunity—agre able company and no expense.
Nobody would know anything about it, and 1 might go just as
well as no —and I did go.
On our way there, my new companion was less tonguey,
doubtless owing to the close proximity of others aud the clat
tering of the stage. He set very close, and took occasion to
squeeze my hand quite warmly, two or three flmes. But ihe
stage was crowded, and all had to sit close. As to his squeez
ing my hand, that did no barm, and I was rather pleased than
otherwise with this token of good feeling. I wished to make 1
a fivorable-Jmpression on him, and this, together with his ‘
invitation, made believe I had succeeded. It was a mere j
freak of mine to desire such a conquest—but then it gratified ;
me to find I had triumphed almost without effort. It was au i
innocent little diversion, this adventure, and would soon ter
minate agreeably to both parties. At least, these were my
pleasant reflections, as we whiled along up Broadway.
Arrived at the Saloon, the gentleman pulled the strap, for
the stage to stop, and quickly passing up the shilling to the
driver, he politely helped me from the stage, and led me
into the dazzling glare of gaslight reflected from ten thousand
points. I must say that the blazing splendor of the place
completely turned my head and threw me into a sort of waking
trance—a dreamy state, in which I saw everything, heard
everything, and understood everything, but remembered
1 little, and could not convince myself that anything was real.
It seemed to me that I was in the company of a genii who, by
some magic stroke, had reared this Aladdin’s Palace for my ,
woutfer and admiration. And as we walked along down
through the centre, by the crystal fountain, the conviction that
I was rn some fairy retreat became irresistible.
I felt little inclination to converse—for my new sensations
were too overwhelming to allow of my thinking much of any
thing else but them. The now seemingly supernatural being
by my side poured a flood of sweet words iu my ear, aud
still further entranced me with his sunny smiles. I had
never before been in such agreeable company, nor in such a
palace of burning beauty. Visions of the gardens of the
East floated through my mind. Everything spacklod with
delight; fainting airs were dying on the perfumed breezes,
and loving hearts were breathing their sighs in bowers of
roses.
“The light wings of zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Waxed faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom.”
Our seat was at the further end of the room on the first
Coor, and as I looked down through the long vista, toward the
entrance—taking in the group oi' visitors, the hurrying visi
tors, and the long row of flashing chandeliers—the view was
imposing and magnificent. But I bestowed but a passing
glance, and a vague thought on these, as I now indistinctly
remember. My palate was pleased with delicious delicacies;
I and the soothing voice of my liberal entertainer sounded in
j my ears like the music of bubbling waters.
We sat thus, I know not how long, when he took mv hand,
' and we rose and walked slowly, arm in arm toward the crys
. tai fountain. It seemed to spring from a cool cave beneath,
i and I fey an impulse to descend Into this grotto of soothing
’ pleasures—the only shadow of a mind I had felt since enter
j Ing the saloon. W’e walked partly round the fountain, and
! then descended a pair of stairs, which brought us at the bot
tom facing the basin.. Could anything be more enchanting?
In perfect bewilderment, I suffered myself to be led to a side
table, where we took our seat on beautiful crimson plush
cushions with etufled backs covered with the same. A sort of
box like seat surrounded the marble table, and formed in its
corners most luxurious places for the repose of loungers.—
The palaces of the Turks could contain nothing more conve
nient and delightful. I threw myself into one of these cor
ners, and yielded my senses to a most delicious repose. Call
ing for some cooling drink, my kind companion leaned gently
against my side, and tenderly pressed my hand, at the same
time delicately pitying my lone condition. I felt a thrill of
gratitude for bls words of moving sympathy and readily for
gave his unthinking fondness, deeming his generous heart was
overflowing with commiseration, and he had not entire con
trol of his actions. I would not rudely check him, for I never
eould forgive myself for such an act of wanton cruelly, ri
sing as it must frdm nothing but mawkish modesty.
SOLD BY ALL NEWSVENDERS.
Repeatedly bypassed me the cooling beverage, and imper
ceptibly my senses became steeped in the most exquisite ely.
slum. Gradually I lost all knowledge of surrounding ob
jects—the image of my loving commfserator alone possessed
my mind. That seemed burning into my brain. My heart,
at first slightly inclined toward him, now clung to him ,as if
Its existence depended on his. I knew nothing above or be
. yond him, nor did I wish 1o know. I had lost all power over
i myself, and had do desire to recover it if I could. He was
generous, noble, kind, handsome, divine. What could I wish
j more ? To live in such a presence for but one short hour
was worth a life of struggles. There could be no bliss more
perfect—more transcendental and holy. If I thought at all, I
thanked the good fortune that gave me this taste of Paradise.
Poor fool! the bird was completely charmed by the serpent,,
and was fluttering helplessly and piteously around the jaws of
death. Ruin was before my eyes, but it fascinated me—death,
immediate and damnable, would have had no terrors for me I
One being only had possession of my heart, one thought only
was burning in my brain. I was a consuming fire—my black
ening dream must be realized, or my heart would be reduced
. to ashes!
I have little recollection beyond this—save that the scene
changed from the saloon to an elegantly furnished.room. I
have an indistinct impression of getting in and out of a car
riage : but how far we rode, or in what direction, I have not
the faintestidea. I knew I felt happy—supremely happy—
had no disposition to question the intention of my companion,
nor canvass my own conduct. If mortal was ever insane. I
was then stark mad—wild with a delirium of passion. My
education had not in any way prepared me for such a trial. I
knew nothing of it, had heard nothing of it, and was therefore
lost, like a wanderer in the wilderness. If I essayed to find
my way out, of the surrounding danger, I but circuited round
back again to whence I started. I had no guide, no compass, ,
and was consequently lost. Had I been educated ration illy, i
and taught the ways of the world—taught the truth, the whole j
truth, and nothing but the truth—l should understood the mean- ;
mg ot what I saw and beard, and should have been ou my !
guard and escaped unsullteJ.
Half of the misery of the world is attributable to the crimi- :
nal igm rance of themselves in. which most parents rear their '
children—especially their girls. They have little idea of their [
own naiure. feelings and capacities, until they are fully de- z i
veleped in body, and accident calls them into play, to heir 1
great asionishment, and perhaps ruin. Even married wome>, ;
mo’hers of large families, frequently go down to the grave I
without understanding anything of the workings of human j
passion, and perhaps never have their own—ewen the passion j
of love, which is the easiest awakened—fully aroused. They ,
marry for—they know not what, unless it be fashion—and. !
henceforth they are shut out from the world aud all rational i
intercourse with society—which, by the by, they are unfittel !
to enjoy—and it. ig well they are circumscribed, having grop- i
ed to maturity in ignorance aud darkness, else a ray of truth '
mihgt make them miserable, orMead to their ultimate ruin, j
Shallow draughts of knowledge are dangerous. Woman must i
“ DnnkNieep, or taste not the Fyerean spring.”
Ot leaving the house, something like a shudder of despair ■
crept, through my frame. My reason had somewhat returned. [
I felt an uaeasy depression of spirit and a feverish anxiety I
to reach home. I could not conyinbe myself that my husband {
was not there in waiting for me; and as we turned from [
Broadway (’own Fulton street, tfee solemn notes of St. Paul’s, :
tolling the hour of midnight fell upon my ear like the knell of !
a dead soul—my own. I shuddered, and drew my shawl |
more closely round my shoulders.
We parted at the ferry, he bowing gracefully and bidding j
me a lew, sweet “ Good night!” to which I scarcely made .
any reply, but hurried on to the boat, which was just leaving,
as fast as my legs would carry me. I passed through the :
: cabin to ihe bow of the boat, and stood and gazed vacantly !
on the dark waters, as they quivered in the cold rays of the ;
rising moon. But my reflections were confused and indis
tinct, a sharp pain at intervals darted through my head, and !
my misery was growing deeper every moment.
Scarcely had the boat touched the bridge, when I stepped !
quickly from It and ran* nearly all the way home. I reach id 1
tbe steps out of breath, and tremblingly oppned ihe door with
my night key. The darkness and silence within filled me I
with overwhelming terror; and rushing to my room, I ,
dropped'my bonnet ahd shawl on tbe floor and jumped into
bed with my clothes all on. Covering myself up head and j
ears with the bedclofbes I burst into tears, and not until I i
almost died from suffocation did I dare to uncover my head to ;
take a breath of fresh air.
For a while, I was in a fit of the most excrutiatlng agony. 1
But, finally, through sheer exhaustion, I fell into a fitful slum- !
her, full uf wild dreams of dark deeds and shadowy advea- '
i tures. . J
When I awoke the uexf morning, I was down sick. I had
a raging fever, and it seemed as if my head would split open •
every time I stirred. But I dared not call in assistance; so '
I managed as best I could, slaking my- thirst with cold water :
and vainly trying to eat a cracker fi>r which I hal no appe
tite. It was indeed a sorry time, and one well calculated to
keenly remind me of tbe treachery of the impudent gentle
man in a white hat. If the recital of this adventure of dis
grace will warn others of the dangers that surround them, I
shall at b ast have one good action recorded in tha great book j
on ihe credit side, E. M. L.
.Brooklyn, Sept. 28.
' I
Blackwood and Mrs.' Stowe.—An article
of some sixteen and a half pages, in the last No. of Black- .
wood, written, as we should judge from its style, by the high- !
ly gifted and able successor and son-in-law of the late Chris’ :
topher Nonh, reviews Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s “Sunny 1
Memories” with a genial but unsparing hand. The writer in i
, the first place passes judgment upon the c*se of “a party .
deliberately penning letters, in his\or her own name, not for
I the private gratification of a selec’ circle, or :ha information ;
: of those to Whom they are addressed, but directly for the ‘
press and the public,”—stately letters, elaborate details, not |
' of pleasant gossip, such as the most gifted would indulge in :
when addressing a mother, sister or a child, “ but these for- '
mal epistles which she has now given to tbe world under the ■
collective title Of ‘ Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands,’ bear j
! falsity in their very face, and, in all human probability, the I
printer’s pevil was the first person that perused them. They |
are all piiched in one key. Her dispatches to the home nur- !
eery are as elaborate efforts as those which are nominally :
addressed to her father, or to ‘ Dear Aunt E.;? and, as a ne- ’
cts-ary consequence they are frigid in the extreme.” To the
‘ gen us that inspired her former work, the author gives all due ,
j honor, but chapter by chapter, page by page of the “ Sunny I
1 Memories,” he probes and dissbets with a gentle, gentlemanly :
: hand, but'one none the less severe and certain. The high- '
toned vein of veiled satire with which the writer speaks of 1
her attempts and uiter failure to portray the national Scottish
character, is kept up also when he alludes to the high
pressure enthusiasm of Sir Walter Scott, with which she en- '
tered his native country, and the sudden cooling off of thai
entuusiasm no response, arguing that the entire nation had
forgotten him. “ Very little indeed does the lady know off the I
beating of the national heart of Scotland,” continues Black- I
wood, “or the veneration in which the memory of oar
greatest poet Is held by his countrymen. But it is not at '
soirees, or meetings such as she • witnessed or at- j
j tended, that the national feeling finds a voice;
'• nor have the writings of Sir Walter Scott been ever
favorably regarded by the rigid sectarians among whom she
moved. * * * We cannot expect Mr. Sturge to take much
delight In the ‘ Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ or a sleek member
: of the Peace Society io feel his spirit moved by the chaunt of
; the ‘ Field of Flodden.’” The reviewer conclusively show
i that the author of Sunny Memories had but a narrow chance
' of viewing Scotland and its people as they really exist. In :
all her attempts at critickms upon art, poetry, or scenes iu
Nature, be thinks she takes a humdrum narrow view. He :
i condemns in toto tbe “ violent abjurgations” in which she in- ;
dulges against her own country for not having long since I
abolished slavery. The reviewer thinks no violent measures |
; will answer, or ought to be used to abolish an evil so long j
i exis'ant and so in wrought with all the peculiar characteristics :
of our country. The author of Firmillian ‘speaks very '
wittily upon the dootrine of ‘ Woman’s Rlgh!s,’ looking upon ,
Mrs. Stowe as a sort of Generalisi/na of the “Strong Minded.” :
The Reviewer comments upon Mrs. Stowe’s expressed tastes
. in literature. She avowedly prefers Dr. Ha‘to to Dryden or i
Pope, criticises Milton, points to “some rubbish of Mr. |
Whittier’s” as excelling, she expressly saying:—“ there is '
more poetry in the works of the writers of the last fifty years ,
than in all the rest put together,” feebly, however, excepting
Shakespeare and Milton. The reviewer seems to think her
i Sbakesperian remarks neither novel or profound and decid
edly common place. In short he seems to come to the con
clusion that the book is a total failure, and of the manner iu
which she was received, as depicted by herself, as well as
'•the papers of the day,—the public show of deputy-mobs,
I town-councils, &c., receiving her at railways, addresses, un
measured speeches, Ac , poured upou her “as though she
had been a Boadicea or Joan d’Arche ridicules as being
1 got up for sectarian glorification and as unbecoming to the
: womanhood and modesty of her whom they were, intended to
i honor.
Palestine.—An aiticle entitled “ The Holy
Land,” being a review of Lieutenant Van De Velde’s “ Jour
| ney through Syria and Pales’ine,”t>ccupies the leading pages
j of the September No. of Blackwood's Magazine. After com
' menting upon the charm of association, which one spot of
j ear,th has for us over another, —the scene of our birth and
early associations, the soil which we call “ our country,” Ac.,
i and the land distinguished from all others as the “ Holy Land”
I must also ever possess the title to our deepest reverence, —
' the author enters upon thfe general merit of the numerous
books which purport to be a history of that country which
[ clusters around the sacred shores of the River Jordan.
Ihe work oi Van De Velde he represents as graphic and
clear in its descriptions, full of rapid aud vivid landscapes
with little or no pretention od the part of the artist. “ From
first to last, indeed Lieut. Van De Velde never sees hl's own
' shadow between himself and the sunshine, never is oppressed
by his own claims to be looked at—in fact is not troubled
whether you look at him at all, but demands of you, most
distinctly to look at bis picture, and claims from you
! an Interest in it equal io his own.” Lieutenant M. Van
De Velde throughout his book seem to lament pie Mo
hammedan rule throughout Palestine and longs for a new
Crusade to restore the Jews to their old inheritance. He
I speaks with great enthusiasm of the enterprise of a small
American colony which, established at Bethlehem, have pro
' fessed an intention to prepare ihe soil (the soil that strikes
' the traveller by the evident tokens every where of long-re
| strained and dormant fertility) for the return of the banished
: Israilites. Van De Velde adheres to the idea that the cities of
the plain, Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, and Zeboim, those
guilty objects of the Dixine wrath, are swallowed up under
the waters of the Dead Sea, itself the gloomiest and most ap
palling object In creation, which was called into existence by
the same miracle which annihilated the condemned cities, its
deadly waters sweeping out every trace of them forever.
M. De Saulcy, whose book was published previous to M.
Van De Velde’s, affirms on the contrary to have discovered
extensive ruins at a place called Rharbet Sdoum, (ruins of
Sbdom,) at the foot of Djebel Sdoum, or Mountain of Sodom,
and on the end of this submerged plain are the ruins of Se
' baan (Zeboim) and Zouera (Zoar.) This plain lies near the
i end of tbe present Dead Sea on the western side, but the ex
i istencebf the “stupendous ruins” discovered by De Saulcy
are denied by Van De Velde.
The Smelt.-—Fratk Forrester in an article
entitled “ The Smelt of the Passaic River,” in the October
npmber of Graham, enters into a very minute and readable
disquisition, which embraces tbe whole Smelt family. He
clearly proves that the justly famed European Smelt, the
osmerus perlanus, and the smelt of the Passaic—so infinitely
superior to the New England smelt —are one and the same.
Whilst the New England smelt and the smelt ot the St. Law
oence, Ac. (the owner us viridiscens) belong to a totally different
branch of the smelt family. *Or.e peculiarity of tbe Passaic
and European smelt is that it not only never takes bait through
the ice, but is never known to run under the ice, whilst a fa
vorite method of taking the American smelt is with bait through
the ice.
Party Cognomens.—The Yankees beat the
world in the invention of party names ; and the
democrats beat the whigs two to one in the same
thing. About twenty years ago the term Loco
Foco, applied to the seceding democrats fromTam
' many Hall, spread over the country with great ra
i pidity. Foreigners laughed, and every body inquir
ed the origin of so singular a phrase. It never
would have been circulated had it not been for the
prior invention of the Loco Foco match. When
darkness pervaded Tammany Hall in the midst of
one of their county ratification meetings, suddenly
there came a light. Every man who expected trou
ble that evening had provided himself with a loco
foco match and a tallow candle. Hence the Loco
Foco partu. Hard Shells, and Soft Shells, are
j terms also of Tammany Hall authority; but the
peculiarities of the origin are too recent for explana
tion.
In the State of Maine the democrats have adopt
ed equally euphonius names, “ Wild Cats, “ Wool
ly Heads,” “ Simon Pure Regulators” “Liberals,”
“ Haddocks,” and “ Hookand Ladder Democracy.”
The “ Wild Cats” have three general divisions, or
subdivisions, “speckled,” “striped,” and “jet
black.” i
The Sandwich Islands Coming. — Mr.
Gregg, our Commissioner to these islands has, it is
reported, actually sent home a project of a treaty
by which the Sandwich Islands are to form a part
of this great confederacy of states. It has, how
ever, to be sanctioned by a vote of the people of
the islands, as well as by our government, before
we acquire the rich possessions, Some suppose
this news is all fabricated. This may be so, but
the California papers speak confidently as to the
truth of this rumor and seem to be preparing for a
rapid emigration there. It is the opinion on the
Pacific coast that these islands will be of immense
importance to us. Enterprising men and abun
dance of capital will soon flow there from all parts
of the Union, as soon as they become our property.
King Kamehameha may yet be sent to Congress.
Who knows what a free government like that of
this Union may yet accomplish ? Our destiny is
the trade of the world; andtho Sandwich Islands
will afford our vessels a resting place on the way
I from one extremity of the globe to the other.
PRICE FOUR CENTS.
• [Original.]
’TIS THE GOLDEN DOLLAR.
BY RONALD GRAHAM.
’Tis the last golden dollar,
Left cheerless and lone,
All her yellow companions
Are faded and gone.
No coin of her color—
Ah ! no coin is cigh,
Not even a quar er ✓
For cigars and “ old rye.”
I’ll rot keep thee, yellow one,
My last one “ pro torn,”
Since thy chums have vamosed,
Go-go thou like them.
Those blindly I’ve scattered,
Ev’n to the last “red,”
And the friends I have treated
Have, vanished and lied.
So soon may I “ peg out,”
When resources decay,
And I'rom my light pocket
The dust Illes away.
When fifties have mizzled,
And X’s are floWn.
What one would inhabit
My purke nil alone.
- ' ,
[Original. (
X THE SVN THAT OKC3S IN SPLENDOR
ROSE.
BY • WILL.”
Air— Gramachree.”
The Sun that once in ‘splendor rose,
Where, where uow has it lied?
It hides its face—weeps o’er its woes —
And sinks into its W.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So genius e’er must fail—
And they who've felt its cheering rays,
Won’t take it now at ail.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright,
The N. K Sun m-w sells;
The column-rules ("Jed dowueaeh night),
Its tale of npn tells.
Its genial rays ne’er warm our homes,
The only news it give*,
a Is when rodif foreign steamer comes—
' To show that, still it lives.
New York, Sept. 26, 1854. *
©rijinal Cmitributions.
ADVENTURES IN A GAMBLING
ISOUSE.
The following sketch of a visit to a London gambling house,
will convey a useful lesson to the frequeu'ers of this class of
houses on either side of the Atlantic: /
About two years age I was travelling In England. While
in London I became, acqv ;.i: d with th.-, ‘ lions” of the me
tropolis. One evening a.< i waj seated in my room reading
James’ last novel, Raeigh •entered.
“Come, R ,” &id he, throwing himself into a-chair,
“ put aside that book and come with me. I’ve got something
new to show you.”
“’Rbat is it?” I asked, as I drew on my coat.
“ Oh, I wish to show yo•: one of the London gambling
houses. No doubt you've often heard of them in the States.”
To tell you the truth, reader, i had often heard of the Lou
den “hells’” and I hud a great desire to visit one of them.
As this was a fine opportunity, L rt solved to go.
In five minutes I was prepared, and taking my friend’s
arm,. o docaGixdod ■<>.. ’ Arter'a
short walk we stopped hi front of a low, mean-looking build-
W-
“ This is the place,” said Raleigh,
I was surprised. I had often heard of ’he splendor of the
London helis, and, as Raieigh had informed me that the one
we were about to vis.t was of lhe first class, I had expected
to gee a house built of marble, etc. The reader, therefore,
cannot wohder at xny surprise.
“And now,” siLid Raleigh, “a word before we enter: it is
a piece of advice ;if you are asked to play, refuse. Do not
be tempted by the glittering bait—promise m
I promised, and we ascended the steps. Raleigh touched
a secret spring iu the wall and gave three taps on the door.
Instantly a panel was slipped aside, and a face appeared.
“ Who is it?” asked a voice. .
“Me—Raleigh,” was the reply. The door opened and we
entered the house. The hall was so dark that nothing could
be seen. Seizing my hand, Raleigh led me along the hall un
till we reached the back door. Tins he opened and we de
scended 1 a flight of steps. Passing through the yard, Raleigh
opened a gate, and we eniered the next yard. A few steps
more brought us to the back door of another house. Raleigh
opened the door and we passed into a hall. We then ascend
ed a pair of stairs to the next story. Raleigh touched a
spring in the wail and a door flew open.
Oil entering the room 1. was surprised—astonished at the
scene (hat thus buist, as it were, upon my view. The room
was about silty ieet long and thirty wide. From the centre
there hung a large chandelier tweluing about thirty-six wax
candles. The floor was covered with •. very beautiful and
thick 1 carpet. The furuitu and in fa n. every- thing in the
room, was of the richest description. Large mirrors hung
from the ceiling down to me floor on the four sides of the
room, making it appear Lnger than it really was. Statues,
flowers, etc., were strewed about with a lavish prodigality.
To my great surprise the room was tenantless.
“ They are in the other room,” said Raleigh, pouring out a
glass of wine from one of several bottles which stood on a
s.de table. “ Come,” said be as fie replaced the glass, “we
Will go into the other room,” and he opened the door.
The room was furnished like the others with the exception
ol the mirrors. At the upper end of the room was a rouge et
noir table, and standing around it was a number of men.
“Come,” said Raleigh, throwing himself, upon a sofa;
“ come, set down, and I’ll give you the history of some of
these men.”
“ Speak lower, they may hear you,”, said I.
“Oh, no danger of that,” said Raleigh; “they are too
d.-eply engaged In u> yJd'gj.etM ytlffig
man—the one with the large gold chain and breast-pin ?”
“Do you mean the dm? that, looks so pale and, mel-r— ?’t-,
“ Yes ; look at him. He is covered with jewels, and yet I
wouldn’t give five pounds for the whole Jut. The jewels are
made of paste, and the gold is bia«s galvanized ; Jut the poor
fellow thinks that no one knows it but himself.’’.
“Are you acquainted with his history?” I asked.
“ Yes,” replied Raleigh, drawing fofih a cigar case. “His
name is Roscommon—.ake a cigar- -his father was one of the
richest lai dholders in England. But one day the old man
died, bequeathing to Henry his blessing, and, what was of
more consequence, his fu-. tuii'j. A friend persuaded Henry
to visit London. There some kind friend undertook to show
him the “ lions.” Henry was delighted. In a few months
they had visited everything that was worth seeing, and both
longed for something new.
“ ‘lf you wish,’ said bis kind friend, one evening, ‘l’ll
take you to one of tbc famous—nut no matter.”
“ ‘What is it?’ asked Henry. After a good deal of persua
sion, his kind friend informed him >hnt be was about to visit
a club that evening, uiid tha , if he wished, he would take
Henry with him..
“Henry had never visited a chib, and he was curious to
know what sort of a place u was. »
“‘Oh, its merely j. place wk.re gentlemen meet to talk
politics and play cards.’ was the reply.
“Evening came and tfiey smarted. Now where do you
suppose the friend took him
■‘To the club,” I rrplit-a.
•‘Green,” replied Raleigh, smiling, “no, he took him to a
gambling house— o ibis one. Lwo gentlemen were playing
cards; they wished lo muko it a four-handed game. They
requested Henry and h>s friend to jqin them. Of course
they did not ilkeeio refuse, more especially, as they were
doing nothing. They jomvd tn; and two hours afterwards
they left the house eight-hundred pounds richer than when
they entered.
“‘A good night’s work,’ said Henry, gleefully; ,‘let,s go
there K to-moriow night.’ ihe friend agreed—but, my dear
E , you can imagine the rest. Henry’s friend was a
sharper; the two gentlemen whom they met at the gambling
house were his friends. In 'he short of three months
Henry had gambled away ail ol ins immense property.”
“But the sharper—”
“Do you see that tall, looking gentleman standing
by bis side? that’s Wm. See how he smiles. Ah, he little
thinks that death is near him.”
“What—how ?”
“Look! look at Henry; see how fiercely he eyes his friend.
Be quiet and watch bun.”
“Gentlemen,” saia Henry, in a deep, impressive voice;
allow me to say a few words.” Ail eyes were turned
-owards him. “Gcntlt-men,” fie continued, “three months
ago I was worth twenty-ihuusand pounds a year. Now, thanks
to my friend here,” pointing to die sharper, “all I have left
is just one hundred pounds, which 1 s’ati.j un the red.”
The friend io whom Henry alluded attempted to assume an
easy attitude, but the effort was fruitless.
“Black wins, red loses !” .
“Thank you,” said Henry calmly. “I am now a beggar;
but who made me so?” and he looked at the sharper as
though he expected him to repiy. /
“If you have lose,” returned ibe other, “have I not lost
too ? ’
“No,” replied Henry, a strange smile stealing over his
features, and.speaking in a poli.e yet freezing tone. “All
the money you have lost has been returned to you by your
friends here. Instead of winning my money fairly, you
have cheated me out of it.”
“You are a liar I” cried the sharper, clenching his fist.
“Ami?” said Henry calmly, “i'hese gentlemen know
whether I speak the truth or no’.”
The sharper dealt Henry a blew with his fist which caused
him to stagger back several paces lo the surprise of every
one present, Henry calmly folded his arms and smiled.
“Mr. Arnold,” said he, “you shall hear from me to-mor
row. For several days pA&t I have been practicing at a
shooting gallery, and now I can suulf a candle at ten yards.
Good l ight,” and with a mucking bew he left the room.
“Well Arnold,” said one *1 me men,* “you are done for.”
‘ Don’t be too sure of that,” said Arnold. “If he w a good
shot, I’m a better.”
“Arnold,” said another, “wha. are you worth?”
“Forty-thousand pounds,” was the reply.
“Any debts?”
“Not over forty pounds.”
*Well,” said the other “I’ll bet you forty-thousand pounds
that if you meet him you will not return alive.”
“Done,” said Arnold, instantly. Let’s go to a lawyer.”
“For what?”
“Why to make out a will. If I fall, you are to have forty
thousand pounds. If I return alive you are to pay me the
like sum.”
“A strange affair,” said I, when Arnold left the room.
“Very,” returned my companion quietly.
Three days after as I subsequently learned, the parties
met and both fell mortally wounded.
In a few minutes the door opened, and three gentlemen
entered, arm in arm. The one in the middle immediately
attracted my attention. He was a young man, about twenty
two years of age. His features were formed in the classic
mould, and his skin was 01 a pure white; his hair was of a
chestnut shade, and his eyes of a deep black. He was dress
ed in a plain yet fashionable scyie; and in ail his movements
there was a gracefulness that could not be imitated. There
was something in his handsome face and figure that made me
like him, and I determined, if possible, to win his acquaint
ance. z
“Who is he—the middle one, I mean?” I asked.
“lhe Marquis of ,” replied Raleigh. “His companions,
are sharpers. The one on the right hand side is a professed
duellist; the one on the left a major. They have cheated the
marquis out of ten or tweb t housand already.”
“Why do you not warn him ? ’ I asked.
“I ?” returned my companion; ‘I have no wish to die.”
“But there are many ways to do it without being known,”
I said. “An anonymous note, for instance.”
“He would take no notice 01 it,” said Raleigh. “But hush,
he iS'speaking.”
“Come, come, gentlemen,” said the marquis, “a game of
roege et noir. u
“In a few minutes,” said the major, leaving the room. He
was immediately followed by the duellist.
“No doubt they are making up some plan together,” said
Raleigh.
“I should like to become acquainted with the marquis,”
said I.
“Nothing more easy,” said Raleigh. “I will introduce you
to him.”
We walked to the place where the marquis was standing.
“Mr. , allow me to Introduce you to Mr. R .”
“Very glad to make your acquaintance,” said the marquis,
extending his hand. “I like your looks,” added he, frankly;
and after a short conversation, he added, “I hope to see you
at my rooms to-morrow; here is my card.”
The major and the duellist now entered the room.
“Gentlemen, game’s about to commence,” said a short;
thick-set man, who was standing behind the rouge et noir
table.
An hour afterwards the marquis left the house, minus two
thousand pounds. We al.-o l«fc at the same time.
“Well, what do yon think of it)” asked Raleigh, alluding
to the house we had just left.
“Thlik of it,” I replied, my thoughts being wholly engross
ed with the young marquis; “I thiik that, come what will, 1
will make an atiernntto rescue him from those hell-hounds.”
“I advise you to let h.m alone,” said Raleigh. “You will
only get yourself into trouble: and besides, what good will it
do you?”
“The satisfaction of saving a fellow-being from destruc
lon.”
“Pshaw I” said Raleigh. “I have done all I could to dis
suade you from it, but if you still persevere in thrusting your
self into danger, the consequences rest with you alone. Good
night.” • .
“Heartless fellow,” I muttered, as I entered my room.
It was teiv o’clock the next morning when I reached the
marquis’ bouse. On my asking the servant if his master was
in, I received the reply, “that be was not yet up.”
“Is your business very important?” asked the servant, who
no doubt took me to be a lawyer.
I hesitated a moment ere I replied, “My business is very
important;” and I handed him my card and a crown piece.
The servant left me. In a few minutes he returned. '
“The marquis will see you,” he said.
A few minutes after and I.stood in his room. He was at
tired In a magnificently embroidered silk dressing-gown. As
I entered, he greeted me with a “good morning,” and extend
ed bis band, which I she ok warmly.
“I am delighted to see you,” he said; wad after a short con
versation about the weather, etc., I opened my subject.
When I hail concluded, lhe marquis xAiained for a few
moments ijj. dsep thought.
“Fool 1500 l that I was, not to perceive this before,” he
said. “Mr. B , allow me to thaaik you for the deep inter-
est you have taken in my affair . Would that I had met you
before. The money I have lost at play has nearly ruined me.
My ewate is mortgaged, and by what means ? the gaming ta
ble. oh, cursed be the hour taa: I first touched a card I But,”
continued he, suddenly, “I will yet make them disgorge their
prey.”
The door opened and the servant entered with a card.
“Tell Major Soum that I’m engaged; also, that I will meet
him ai Sheldon’s this evening.”
Sheldon was the name of the gambling house.
“ Surely,” said I, after lhe servant had left the room, “you
are not going thero again?”
“ I am,” he said; “ but not for the same purpose ! was fhere
last evening. No, it is to make them return m<i my muiiey.”
“ Impossible,’’ said I, head.
“ At any rate I’ll try it,” he said; “ but first I must to Bow
street. My une’e Is magistrate there. I will send you a note
io the course of the day.”
See ng tha: he wished to be alone, f took my leave. At 4
o’clock, I received the following note from him: —
“Frtend R..—Meet me at the door of Sheldon’s house this
evening at 7 0 clock, precisely. Come armed and come alone.
In baste. Yours, .”
“ Is there any answer?” asked the bearer.
'Seizing the pen, I wrote, “ I will be there,” and handed it
to h m.
Fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, I stood in a
small alley-way next to the bouse, and impatiently awaited
the coming of the marquis. Suddenly I heard a low whistle.
Thinking it was tbc marquis, I aiepped out from my conceal*
men'. Instantly 1 was seized by at least a dozen men, and
that too before I could give the least c?y for help.
“ Keep silent or I’ll give you the Contents of this,” said a
vo.ee ; atd I felt the cold barrel of a pistol against my cheek.
“ Who and what are jon?” I asked.
“Nq matter who we ar?.. Keep silent.”
“ Ytu may as well tell him,” said another vole®, “it will
i do no harm ; and perhaps h<- knows where he is.”
I “We are policemen. Are you acquainted with the Mar
quis of ?”
“lam,” I replied.
“ Where is he ? ”
: “I do not know,” I replied, “ I promised to meet him at
1 seven.”
1 “ Oh, you are the friend he was telling us about,” and the
; man released his hold.
“ And do you not know where he is?” I asked.
“ No ; he premised to meet us here at seven.”
“ And I am punctual *0 the moment.” said a voice near us.
VrV turned and saw the marquis.
“ J ollcw me,”, he said ; and springing up the steps he gave
three taps on the door.
“Who is it?” asked a voice.
“The Marquis of was the reply, and the door
opened. In an instant the doorkeeper was felled to the floor
and we entered. , •*
- “Two of you remain Imre,” said the marquis. no
one to enter, and permit ntroue to leave lhe house.”
Noiselessly we groped oar way along until we reached the
yard.
“Remain here,” ea’d the naarquts “I shall soon send for
you. Come, R and we entered the htnue. The room
appeared to be less crowded than usual.
“What, here again !” said ther major.
“Yes,” said the marquis, “I am' going to make a bold
j-troke to-night. Major, can you teft’me how much I have lost
here?”
“ I don’t know exactly,” said the Major, V between twenty
and thirty thousand pounds, I believe'.”
“Thirty thousand pounds exactly,” raid the marquis, “and
I am going to try and win it back to-night.”
“How lucky,” said the broker, coining forward and
making a sign to the major, “ I’ve go’, just that sum on band.
See 1 ” and he threw back the door of a» iron safe. Inside
was a number of buckskin bags filled with gold.
The marquis felt in his pocket. “My pocket-book,” said he,
“ what did Ido with it ? , Ah, I remember now. I left it in
my bedroom. Will you go to my house, R— , and get it?”
“ With pleasure,” was rny reply.
“Make haste then,” be said; and coming near me he
slipped bis pocket-book into my hand, giving me at the same
time a meaning look.
Understanding' what he meant, I left the room. On reach
ing the yard I ordered the policemen to follow me, and again
entered the house. We ascended lhe stairs without making
any noise, and entered the back room,
“ When I give the signal you will o en the dcors,” I said,
and I entered the o’ller room. The marquis was counting
over the money. As I emeied, he swept it with his hand
into his nat.
“ Ydu are rather quick,” he said.
“Yes. I found the pocket-book lying on the stairs,” was
my reply.
“ Well, gentlemen,” said the marquis, “ I have counted
over the money and find it correct.”
“All is right on our part,” said the major; “and now we
will count yours.”
“Have I not just counted it?” said the marquis, smiling.
“Eh! no!” cried ail. “That money is ours.”
“Excuse me,” said the marquis; “you are mistaken.
This money is mine. It has been in your hands long enough,
and now I take it back again.”
“ The marquis is generous,” said I, “for he is kind enough
to take the principal without the interest.
Al this sally the marquis smiled.
“ What do you mean?” cried the major.
“Ehl gentlemen, can’t, you understand? I will explain.
Suppose I were playing with a man, and he should cheat me,
and thereby win a large sum from me, and 1 should discover
the cheat afterwards ; would I nor, have a right, to get that
money back, and when I did get it back io keep it?”
“ Certainly,” said the major ; “but what has that got to do
with us?” ,
“ A greet deal,” said the marquis! “ Yoii won this moner
frem me not by fair means I no, you cheated me out of it. I
came here to-night for the purpose of getting it back. I have
succeeded Good night,” and the marquis turned to leave the
room. On seeing this several of the gamblers placed them
selves between him arid the door so as 10 bar his passage.
- “ Return that money,” shouted the major.
“Will you take it now, or .wait till you get it?” asked the
marquis. •
“ Now ! now !” was the reply. ,'
“Take it then,” said the marquis, clapping his Hands. The
folding doors Cew*open, and the gamblers, to-their great as
tonishment and dismay, beheld a dozen policemen drawn up
in a line.
“Now will you let me pass?” asked the marquis.
Before any one could reply, the lights were extinguished,
and a noise like ihe opening and shutting of panel doors was
heard.
“ They have escaped us,” said one of the policemen. Men.
your lamerts.”
“Nevermind,” said the marquis; “I’ve got what I came
for. Look out for trap doors in the hall.
We reached the street in safety.
“The last;game had be.en played in that house,” said one
of the policemen.
The marquis handed him a small bag of gold. “Divide
this among you,” he said ; and we left them. '
Six weeks from that lime I trod the shores of my native
land, which I hope never again to leave.
Thus ended my- first and last gambling house adventure in
London. Russell.
JTcfMi cf aff sails Sf Items,
Okigin of Newspapers.—D israeli, in the
first volume of “ Curiosities of Literature,” gives a very
interesting and minute account of the origin of newspa
pers, with historical facts concerning ’heir imrod'tiction into
various European nations. He states that we- are indebted to
tlm Italians for the idea of newspapers. The first paper was
a X enetian one, and only monthly ; but it was merely the
newspaper of the government. Tfie ti-le of the Gtzzc&w, was
perhaps derived from gazzqra, a magpie, or chatter, or more
probably from a fanhlDt,'coin peeniiar to the city of Venice,
called gazetta, which was ’.he comm|»i price of the newspa
pers. These early newspapers were not allowetL by a jea
lous government to be circulated in printed form, but the Ve
netian Gazette continued long after the m ven.iou of printing
to be distributed in ma a’.script. la a library at Florence are
thirty volumes of the Vene iar» all in manuscript*—
Mr. George Chalmers states’'fiat mankind are Indebted to the
wisdom of Queen Elizabeth, and the prudence of Burleigh
for the first genuine newspaper. In th-', British Museum are
several newspapers which were in the English Channel, dur
ing the year 1588. Popular zeal against the Sounisii Armada
was inflamed in these early news-ap -rs. Burleigh, in order
to rouse the national feeling, publish-d extract,? of a letter
from Madrid which speaks of putting the English Queen to
death, and the instrument of torture on the Spanish fleet I
These early copies of newspapers are in Roman, not black
letter. They are entitled the “ English Merciuie;' reriodieal
papers were first general y used In England during the civil
wars at the period of the Commonwealth. De Saint Folx, in
his curious historical essays, gives the origin of newspapers
in France. Renaudot, a physician of Paris, to amuse his pa
tients, was a great collector of news ; and he found by those
means that he was more sought after than his more learned
brethren. But as he had much leisure and was quite fondvof
collecting news, he obtained a privilege from the Government
in 1632, to publish a summary of the news of the various
countries, to distribute am< ng his patients. It. is almost need
less lo add that his patrons were soon found in all ranks, and
his written sheets were ,in greater demand than his written
prescription.
Chinese Bride.—A modern traveller de
scribes the dress and appearance of a Chinese bride, as fol
lows : “ lhe son of our host having been married
u> lookGt h lB wife,’
as she stood at the door of the apartment, while we were
passing out. The lady was surrounded by several old wo
men, who held tapers and lamps above and about her, that
we might, have a more complete view of her figure.and at
tire. She was a yoqng person, apparently about seventeen
years of age, of middling stature, .with very agreeable fea
tures and light complexion, though she seemed to have Used
paint. She wore a scarlet robe, superbly trimnyed with gold,
which completely covered her from the shoulders to the
ground : the sleeves were very full, and along the bottom was
, a/beautiful fringe of small balls. Her headdress- sparkled
with jewels, and was elegantly beaded with rows of pearls,
encircling it. like a coronet; from the front, of which a brill
iant angular ornament hung over her forehead and between . ■'
her eyebrows. She stood in a modest and graceful attitude,
having her eyes fixed on the floor, though she occasionally
raised them, with a glance of timid curiosity, towards her
face, and then lowered iliem very slowly. Iler attendants,
presuming that the ft"" "oul • be gra'ffied with a view
of. what the Chinese consid/r as the consummation of female
i eauty, raised the hem of the mantle from her feet for a
moment or two; they were of the most diminutive kind, and
reduced to a mere point at the toe. The shoes, like the rest
of her bridal apparel, were scarlet, embroidered with gold.
Her demeanor during this exhibition was natural and becom
ing, and once or twice, a sm le for an instant showed that she
was not unconscious of the admiration which her appearance
excited.”
-
A Yarn for the Teetotallers.—Doctor
Guthrie’s Old Year's Warning records the following interest
ing anecdote which shows the wisdom of some brutes above
that of some men. The'story relates to a monkey owned by
a Mr. Pollard. “Jack, as he was called, seeing his master
and some companions drinking, with those imitative powers
for which his species is remarkable, finding half a glass of •
whisky left, took it up and drank it off. It flew, of course,\to
his head. Amid the roars of laughter, he began lo sk’p, hop,
and dance. Jack was drunk. Next day when they went,
with the intention of repeating the fun, to take the poor mon
key from his box, he was not to be seen. Looking ins/le,
there he lay, crouching in a coruen ‘ Come out,’ said his
master. Afraid to disobey, he came walking on three legs ;
one forepaw was laid on his forehead, saying, as plain as
words could do, that, he had a headache. Having left him
some days to get well, and resume his giyety, they carried,
him off to the old scene of revel. On entering, he eyed the
glasses with manifest terror, skulking behind the chairs ; and.
on his master ordering him to drink, be belted, and was on
the housetop in a twinkling. They sailed him down. He
would not come. His mas*er shook a whip at him. Jack,
astride on the ridge-pole, grinned defiance. A gun, of which
he was always afraid, was pointed at this disciple of tem
perance ; he ducked bis head, and slipped over to the back of
the house. Two guns wete now levelled st him—one from
each side of the bouse—upon which, seeing his predicament,
and less afraid apparently of the fire than of the lire water,
the monkey.leaped atone bound on the chimney-top, and get
ting down into the line, held on with his forepaws. He would
rather be singed than drink. He triumphed, and although
his master kept him for twelve years after that, he could
never persuade the moiHtty to taste another drop of whisky.”
Lafayette’s Opinion of Olay.—Lafayette
passed through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware and
Maryland, on his way to Washington, and it was there that
the then speaker of the house, the late Henry Clay, intro
duced him, on the 10th of December, into lhe Hall of Repre
sentatives, and presented him to both hfiuses there’n assem
bled. The room and richly decorated hall held on this occa
sion 2,000 persons, with all the foreign ministers, except the
Franch ambassador or the Bourbons. The Marquis after
wards said, that although he had witnessed ver/ many
assemblies in his own country, never had he received such
an impression as from this one; and that he never had been
as thoroughly moved by the eloquence of any man, no : even
by that of Mirabeau, as by the clear and spirited ring of the
voice of Henry Clay. “It was,” said he, “ the of a
nation, making Itself heard by the mouth of a great man.”
The whole house, as if stricken by the wand of an enchanter,
had risen to their feet as Clay entered, leading Lafayetie by
the hand. They sat. down at the conclusion of the welcoming
speech, but ar«se again ai the nrst signs of a reply. They
expected him to take his spectacles and a written answer from
his pocket; but after a moment’s pause he spoke, excempor-i
aneously, and in English. To Clay’s remirk, that ha was
the wi'ness of his own future, he replied, that when he there
found, in the sons of his former and now departed friends,
the same spirit for ihe general weal, as well as the sama per
sonal friendship for him, no future spread itself before him.
Beavers.—The beavers which inhabit th
northern parts of Europe, are said to be essentially ihe same
as those which establish their republican dwellings along the
course of our North American streams. In an article which
appears in the Noith British lieview it is stated that these in
teresting animals still exist in some abundance in certain sec
tions of Sweden and Norwav. The number of the tribe has
diminished so much latterly, that its members are now rigor
.ously protected by law for a considerable term of years.
The great requirements of ihe beaver, are a thinly peopled
country, with abundance of wood and wa'er. In the Ameri
can and Ar.c’ic region their nor'liern extension seems to be
res’ricted solely by the deficiency of wood, and they ara
known to have occurred as far south as the parallel of 30 de
grees—or almost to ihe Gulf of Mexico. “ The flesh of the
animal is greatly prized by hunters and voyagers, especially
when roasted in tbt skin after the hair is singed off. This of
course is an expensive luxury and is frowned at by the fur
traders.” The demand for beaver skins has decreased with
in a few years, owing to the different materials which are
now used in the manufac ure. of hats. In 1808, no fewer than
126,227 beaver skins were exported to England from Quebec
alone.
To the last Musquito.—Since thou art the
last of thy race, and thy evil example can be of no injury to
otheMs, we will Jet thee go, on penalty of depriving thee of
thy bill, and giving thee a bad name. Thou can’st have no
further care for either now, for winter is coming soon, in
which thou can’st not use the one, nor suffer injury from the
other. We forgive thee for thy music in times past, though it
has cost us dearer than nacketl's Opera, for he does not, like
thee, require our blood, which is one’s life; but gently con
tents himself with taking only one’s means of living. We
know* what thou wouldst say in thy defence—that thou helpest
thyself only to a pait of what w r e have robbed the lamb and
ox of; but we are the stronger, and will not listen. Farewell,
musquito ! We are rather sorry, on the whole, to part with
thee, because summer will bear thee company. When the
frost of January gives us a bite, we shall tenderly think of
thine, as the less unpleasant of the two ; almost wish thee
back again. Farewell once more ! Mend thy ma iners and
thy music, and thou shalt, after all, be welcome, If thou
bxingest warm wea'ber with thee.
Commencement of Lotteries.--A paragraph
in the New York Journal informs us that the Romans invented
lotteries to embellish their Saturnalia. This fite commenced'
with a distribution of tickets, by which might be gained a few
prizes. The lotteries of Angus’us consisted of articles of very
little value ; but Nero established them on a plan advantage
ous to the people, consisting of a thousand tickets a day, by
which several, whom fortune favored, acquired great wealth.
The lotteries of Heliogabalus were o£ a very singular kind.
The lota or prizes were either very important or very insig
nificant. For instance, there w’ould he a prize of six aTavea,
and another of six flies. One man might gain a precious
vase, and another a common earthen, jar. This lottery, thus
composed, was a very just picture of the inequality with
which Fortune distributes her favors. In 1685, Louis XIV.,
surpassed in this respect the Roman emperors. The magnifi
cent lottery which was drawn at Marie, on the occasion, of the
marriage of Mademoiselle de Nantes with M. le Due, waa
fil'ed with all the precious jewelry which wealth'could pur
chase, ingenuity invent, or talent execute, in perfection
Individual.Respom>ibility. —The celebra
ted Dr. Channing remarks that: “The moment a man parts
with moral independence;: the moment he judges of duty,
not from the inward voice,, but from the interests and will of
a parly; the moment h* commits himself to a leader or a
body, and winks at evil because division would hurt tha
cause: the moment he shakes off bis particular responsibility,
because he is but on* of the thousand or million by whom
the evil is done—ibal moment he parts with his moral power.
He is shorn of the energy of a single hearted faith In tha
right and true. Be hopes from man’s policy what nothing
but loyalty to Gai can accomplish. He substitutes coarse
weapons, forged by man’s wisdom, for celestial power.
Native and Foreign Office Holders.—
We learn from the New Hampshire Patriot (an administra
tion organ) that the relative number of American and foreign
born office holders under the present order of government isaa
foßows: In the departments at Washington, 1320 American,
104 foreign; ministers and consuls, 206 American, 51 foreign;
custom house officers, 1837 Ameridan, 215 foreign; coast sur
vey, 45 American; U. S. mint, 225 American, 12 foreign; light
house board, inspectors and keepers, 392 American, 31
foreign; revenue marine, 65 American. Total, 3902 Ameri
eans, 401 foreign. Theau figures ara Wu fm tfw Qlue

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