Newspaper Page Text
BY JAMES W. JONES.
ST W
MAIL ARRANGEMENTS.
-FpHE Subscriber respectful!}’ announces to
the public, that he has in full operation a
LINE OF FOUR HORSE COACHES, from
Athens, ria Watkinsville, Madison, to Eatonton,
and back, 3 times a week, leaving ard returning
as follows :
Leaving Athens on Sundays, Tuesdays, and
Thursdays, at 6 o’clock, A. M-, and arriving at
Eatonton, at G o’clock P. M., on the same
days.
Leaving Eatonton on Mondays Wednesdays,
and Fridays, at G o’clock, A. BL, and arriving
in Athens, at 6 o’cloch P. M , same days.
11. N. WILLSON, Contractor.
March 17—4G—tf.
90” The Southern Recorder will please pub
lish the above until forbid.
BOOK BIOERY,
rg ’he subscribers would respectfully inform the
® Citizens of Athens, and the public generally,
tiiat they have united themselves in the above
business, in the Third Story of Messrs S. Ten
ney & Co’s Book Store, immediately over the j
Southern Whig Office, where work will be ,
executed in the neatest and handsomest style,
at the shortest notice.
Day Books, Journals, Ledgers, Record, and
Bank Books, &c, made to any patera of Ruling
vr Binding.
CLARK & Bvz Dink.
Athens Feb. 3, —40, —ts.
A GREAT BARGAIN.
jlißh Upß
FTVIE Subscriber determined to emigrate to
-8- the west, oilers for sale his valuable Tract
of Land, containing
300® Acres,
situate and lying in Jackson county, Ga., on the
Mulberry Fork of Oconee River, the residence
immediately on the hog mountain and main
Alabama Road, various other roads intersecting
at the same place, viz : the Milledgeville road
leading to Winns’ Ferry, on Chattahoochee,
Hurricane Shoal road, leading to Cart esville
and South Carolina. Great part of the above
land is red mulatto land, of superior quality;
100 Acres of rich river low grounds; about
800 Acres cleared, great part fresh and in good
repair, abounding with superb springs, well im
proved, with a convenient framed Dwelling
House, two story high, on a most splendid
eminence; an excellent Cotton and Threshing
Machinery, and all other necessary out houses.
No place is better calculated for public business,
otany kind, in the up country. Several con
venient settlements on the premises, not inter
fearing with each other; —the whole can be
purchased for nine Thousand Dollars, one third
in advance, the balance in two annual payments,
which is not more than two thirds of the real
value. Likely young negroes will be taken at
their value,
HARRISON THURMOND.
April 7,—49—3m
0/7* The Augusta Sentinel, will publish the
above weekly for three months, and forward
their account for payment to Braselton’s office.
NE W TAISJOR’SSHOP,
FI’HE undersigned, recently from the City of
New-York, respectfully informs the citi
zens of Athens, and the acjacent country, that
ho has opened a Shop in the House formerly
occupied as an Office by Doct. Ware, in this
place, near Ike Ulate Bank, where he will be hap
py to execute any orders with which he may
on favored in his line of business, lie has hail
many years experience in the business, and
will devote to it his personal attention. His
workmen will also he first rate; and he hopes,
by his assiduous efforts to please, to receive a
share of the patronage of a liberal public.
0/7” Cutting of all descriptions, will be done
on the shortest notice, and in the most fashion
able style.
n. F. CRANE.
Dec. 2,-31—tf
LIVEHT STABLE,
Mi b
FIIHE Undersigned has just opened a LIVE- ■
_ RY STABLE in the Town of Athens, I
immediately in the, rear of Mr. H. A. Fraser’s
Store, where he will keep on hand
VEHICLES OF
JEFEAF JfJBSCRIPTrO.V;
ALSO
&©© ID Bl£ ® E TiT ®
And well
HARNESS HORSES
To Hire.
Persons wishing to travel, can be accommo
dated with Carriages and Horses al all times
HisJVe.hicles have now arrived. He will also
take on Livery the horses of any one wishing to
place their horses under his charge.
P. M. WELLS.
Jan. 27 39 ts.
REMOVAL.
HA. FRASIER, has removed his entire
. Stock of Goods into the Brick Building,
in Front Street next door to the Rail Road
Bank, where he will be pleased to see and ac
commodate his friends.
April—2B—s2—tf.
I A ° . N Wbt 11 Bl <
■■j'rwp-er.anja ■»
From Bentley’s Miscellany.
The Reconciiiajion.
OR, THE DREAM.
A STORY FBOM REAL LIFE.
BY O_D NICHOLAS.
“Will you give a penny, sir?” said a little
ragged boy, as I passed the step of a door on
which he was sitting.
There was something so unbeggarly in the
tone and manner of the supplicant, that I stop,
ped.
“Yer,” said I, and I took one from my
pocket.
1 looked the child in the face; there was a
degree of intelligence that commanded atten
tion ; an expression, too, that for a moment I
fancied 1 had seen before.
As I put the money into his hand I asked
him where he lived.
“In a court over tile bridge,” he replied.
“With your mother ?”
“Yes, sir; and father and sisters.”
I beckoned him from the main street to
learn more. In a few minutes I heard enough
to determine me on accompanying him home.
We crossed Blackfriars’ Bridge, and after
w inding through several courts and alleys, on
the Surrey side, and close by the river we stop
ped at a small hovel, which appeared fit onlv
lor the abode of wretchedness xnd misery.
The child pushed the door open, and We en.
tered. In the centre of the floor, upon what
appeared to be the remains of a piece of mat
ting, sat a young woman apparently five or
six and twenty. Inlier arms was an infant
of very tender age; two or three little ones
were huddled together in a little corner, whose
crying my appearance partially hushed.
Their mother raised her head from the baby ;
as I approached her. I apologised far the I
liberty I had taken in intruding upon her sor
rows. She answered not, but burst into tears.
I offered her my arm to raise her from the
floor, and looked round, but in vain, for a chair
or stool, —the walls were bare. She was (oo
weak to stand. I dropped into the adjoin
ing tenement—cottage I cannot call it, —and
putting down half-a-crown on the table, beg
ged the loan of an old chair, that was the on
ly furniture of one side of the apartment.
When the poor creature was seated, I as
ked in what way I could best serve her.
“Oh, sir?”she replied, “food—food for my
poor little ones I”
I gai e the little fellow who had been my
conductor money, and bade him get some meat
and bread. In an instant he was out of sight.
I comforted as well as I was able the appar
ently dying woman ; told her the accident that
had brought ma to her, and promised the little
assistance might be iti my power. She would
have spokon her thanks, but the strength jvas
exhausted with the few words she had already
uttered. The children, encouraged by the
kind tone of voice in which I spoae, now one
by one stole from their corner, and came round
me. They would have been fine, healthy
creatures, if misery had not “marked them
for her own ;” but the cheek was hollow, the
eye sunken, the lip thin and livid. Hunger
was fast consuming them. As I looked upon
them my heart sank within me, and I could
not drive back the tears that forced them
selves into my eyes. They fell upon the fore
head of the tallest of the group; she looked
up, seeing me weep, asked most piteously.
“Are you hungry, sir, too 1”
Poor child I with her, hunger had ever been
associated with tears ; the sight of them put
the question into her mouth.
"Nu,” said I ; “I am not hungry ; but you
are, and shall soon be ted.”
‘•And tne?’’—“And me 7 ” —“Vid tne ?” ex
claimed the others; their eyes glistening as
they spoke.
“Yes, all of yon ?’’l answered.
Some time had now elapsed, and my little
messenger did not make his appearance. I
gre w impatient; lor they needed more subslan
lial comfort than words. I moved to the door
to look for him. Taking a few steps up the
court, 1 found him leaning against the wall,
and crying bitterly: on seeing me he hid his
face iti his hands.
“What is the matter?” said I ; “and where
is the money I gave you ?”
“Father saw me, and took it away,” sobbed
he, “just as I was going into the baker’s
shop.”
“Where is your father?” I asked.
“Over in the public-house,” he continued,
“tipsy; and, because I cried, ho beat me;”
and here the poor little fellow, putting down his
hands, showed me his eyo most frightfully
cut.
My first impulse was to go over to the nub
lie house ; but, reflecting for an instant on the
state of those 1 had just left, I immediately
went tnyselfand purchased such ready-dressed
food as 1 thought would suffice for a good meal;
and then, having had the child’s wound pro
perly attended to, I returned to enjoy the lux
ury of seeing this starving family comparative
ly happy and comfortable. When I took my
departure I left what money I had about me,
and promised to renew my visit before it should
be exhausted.
It was my intention to have gone in a day
or two ; but the following circumstance pre
vented my doing so fora whole week.
On the next morning early I was sent for
by an old gentleman with whom I was-on
terms of great intimacy, although our acquain
tance was not of long standing. He was ex
tremely ill, and wished to make a disposition
of his property. I took a pen, and wailed for
I-
“‘’•l gi™ and ne.p“ th ” s , il!dtl > c "‘Valid, “all i
monies, houses, lauds ann ;'.l>atsoever else I f
may die possessed of, to—” He paused, as it
considering. Suddenly his countenance in
dicated a strong internal struggle, as if better
recollections came upon him, which he was
determined to discard. 1 put down my pen.
•‘Go on, sir! goon!” said he hurriedly.
“To—to Henry Masters—”
1 started with astonishment. It was my
—•me.
own *;-- .1.i 3 , sir!” said I. “1
“You cannot menu..- < en |
have no claim upon you to such i- 1
I—” I
“To Henry Masters,” he repeated slowly
and distinctly.
I approached his pillow. “My dear friend,
I have heard that you have a child- Ought
not—”
He put his hand upon my arm. “Uhitd ’
Olives' 1 know it ; but 1 had forgotten it
until this hour. For years I have forgotten
it! Why think of it now ? I will not think
of it!” he exclaimed violently; th n lulling
back, and exerting extraordinary selt-coiitrol.
he again repeated MOI? decisively than batore,
“to Ilcniy Musters.*”
WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.” Jefferson.
I I cou d not bear to write down words that
i would shut out a child for ever without anoth
er effort: 1 commenced in a persuasive man
ner ; but lie instantly interrupted me ; and his
look and tone I shall not readily forget.
“Sir,” said he, “I made up my mind on the
most important part of this matter years ago.
when I had health, and strength, and intellect
about me. It is not honest to try and make
me waver now that I am an imbecile old
) man.”
j I could say no more. He again repeated
his instructions, and I reluctantly obeyed
them.
For some days I was his constant attendant;
indeed I scarcely ever left his bed-side. Oc
casionally his mind wandering, and then his
mutterings—for they were little baiter—had
i evidently connection with his last rational c«n-
I versaiion—the dispo ition of his property. Bit-
I ier exclamations about his child—his daup’a
| ter, plainly showed that though disowned,
she was not and could not be forgotten. Once
or twice he became calm and perfectly collect
ed, and on each opportunity I endeavored to
bring him to a reconsideration of the stop he
had taken; but in vain. It was the only sub
ject upon which he would not hear me. I
learned from the physician in attendance that
his recovery w<is perfectly hopeless: but that
he might linger some little time. I longed to
see my poor dependants again, and, one mor
ning when my patient had fallen into a deep
slumber. I took my hat, and, quietly’ stealing
from the chamber, directed my footsteps to
their abode. The family were in a state little
better than when I first saw them. The wo
man’s husband, a reckless and inveterate
drunkard, judging from the food he found at
home that from some quarter or other, assis
tance had been given, forced the fact from his
trembling partner, and then nearly’ the whole
of the little money I had left behind; since
which violence he kad not returned. Again I
supplied the poor creatures with refreshment
and attempted to soothe the only one whom !
food could not alone satisfy—the heart-broken
mother.
She briefly told ma her story. It was in.
deed a piteous one.
She was well connected ; and at tile time
of her marriage, living with her parents in
comfort and affluence in New York. They
wished her to connect herself with a man with
whom she never could be happy, and she re
fused. She was secretly plighted to another,
—secretly, for he was forbidden even her fa
ther’s house! Her father commanded, her
mother persuaded ; but it was in vain.
Hit’s was a passion that neither threat nor ar
gument could iveakcn. She married, and was
renounced, they told her, forever! Sho turn
ed to the chosen of lier heart ; and, though
the daughter wept, the wife triumphed! But
alas! she leant upon a broken reed. Her
love had glossed over faults-nay. vices-whieh
calmer judges had detected, and she had fan
cied perfection w’here all was frail. Her
husband cruelly neglected her: she was a
married widow ! Children came about her ;
they were fatherless ! Her mother tenderly
loved her, and this wretchedness broke her
heart! Her father was of stern stuff. In the
loss of his own partner, he said a murder had
been committed, and he doubly steeled him
selfagainst its unnatural author. Then it was
tl at in utter despair she left tier country,
long urged to ths step by her husband who
said he could get employment here; and who
solemnly promised that in anew land he would
lead another life ; and that, once removed from
from his haunts of ruin and dissipation, he
would forswear them for ever, and strive to
keep holy that sacred vow which bound him
to “forsake ail others, and eling only unto
her.
On his arrival in England he succeeded in
obtaining a lucrative situation, and for a brief
period all was well ; but soon the demon,
Drunkenness, again laid hold on him, and he
was lost for over.
Friendless, and alone, she struggled against
the stream of adversity hor health and strength
soon failed her, and she fell into utter destitu.
tion, —in utter destitution I had indeed found
her!
This was a slight outline of her sad history.
At its conclusion she burst into a violent par
oxysrn of tears, l i such moments words of
consolation are but causticks, keeping open
wounds they cannot cure; I attempted them
not. The violence of this fit had in some de
gree exhausted itself, and I was about to speak
of doing something for her children, when a
knocking at the door, accompanied by sever
al voices talking in a suppressed tone, made
me start from my seat. I undid the latch, and
three men entered, bearing in their arms a
fourth in a set seless state.
They laid their burden on the floor with b«t
little ceremony, and would have dt parted with
out a word
“Stay 1” said I, seizing the nrtn of one of
the party, “Who is this? and what is the
matter ?’’
“It is my husband ! my poor husband !” ex
claimed the wretched wife, springing for
ward.
“Yes ; and drunk as usual!” added the mar.
m a brutal manner as he slammed the door af
ter him.
1 cast but one look nt the face of the lost
being at my feet. It was enough ; distortion
was in every feature !
“For God’s sake !” said I, pursuing and
coming up with the party who had just left !
us, “fetch me a medical man. Here is money;
and 1 will pay you better by and by .”
Money made them Samaritans—they hur
ried off’to obey me. I returned. On the
floor, and in a state of insensibility, lay stretch
ed the lm>£-neglecting, degraded husband;
and hanging over biro in idl the agony of doubt
and fear, the neglected, long-etiJuniig wife.
It was a picture that touched me to the
quick.
“Henry! Henry !” she shrieked. Oh!
speak to me! speak! but one word/” But,
he spoke not; his mouth was frightfully dis
orted his lips livid and f’tc'J.y.
“Look at me !” she continued, pressing his
hand ; “look at me !” and she spoke with a
winning ass ctioii of tone and manner, that con
sciousness could not have withstood ; but his
were sealed, and his eyes full and fix
ed’.
A surgeon now came in; bo looked at him,
and having made so no inquiries as to the
length of lune be had been in the state he saw
at once pronounced his f.-ars tor the very
woist. He immediately bled him in the arm,
and as quickly as possible clipped I ini frqely
tn his ni ck. During the latter operation his
patient showed fur an instat4 some signs of re.
turning feeling, and this, by the lock with
which be gazed upon his agonised wife. To
attempt to d< scribe that look would be attempt.
I ing that to which no language is equal. 1
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, 3USE9, JS3B
think no pencil could have ever done it, much
less a pen. It was one which told that the
vision of his past life, concentred, flashed sud
denly before him; a life during which she
who was his ministering anjel had been a
victim to cruelty and neglect : there was an
intensity of gaze, too, as if he felt that he was
looking his last. It was a lingering spark of
affection struggling into light through the dark
horrors ot remorse. Again and again she
breathed comfort and reconciliation int» his
< ar. I know not whether her words reached
his heart. I fear that with the exception of
that gleam of reality, there
was a prostration of power and intellect which
denied him such a blesgmg. I need not, will
not go mto fuller detail. He died the same
afternoon, some few hours after he had been
brought home.
■ 1 hired a person to perform the necessary
duties to the departed, and remain with the
corpse until I could give orders for its inter
ment. The widow and children I resolved to
place with a relative ofmy own until the futier.
al should have taken place. I did so. Be
fore taking leave, I begged the heart broken
woman to tell me her family name, that I
might write to her friends in America on her
behalf.
“Friends,” yaid she, “I have none. My
mother was my only friend, and she is
gone!”
“But you have a father ?” said I.
“I know not,” she continued ; “I have not
known for years. Most likely he is gone
too !”
“At any rate I will write— ’•
“Not to America,” she replied; “for when
my poor mother died, he left it, I know, ne
ver to return.”
“And bis name?” said I, leading her to the
point upon which I wished information. “His
name was—■”
“Jackson,” said the mourner.
XV hy did I start at this single word? Why
did my words hurry rapidly on one another us
1 questioned her as to the Christian mime ?
and why, when I learnt it was Adam—Adam
Jackson—did my frame tremble, my counte
nance change its hue, my heart beat audibly ?
“Oh, God ! said I, inwardly, “ if it should be
so
I sent fora coach ; and, handing in my still
weeping companion, and the little f. How whom
I had first seen, desired the man to drive to
Mortimer-street. It was the residence of inv
dying friend. Showing the mother and her
child into a room below, I hurried up stairs
to his bed chamber. I had already been absent
several horns longer than I had intended.
When I drew aside the curtain, the old man
turned his eyes towards me ; they were deep,
sunken, and glassy ; his features, angular and
emaciated as they had long been, were now
perfectly ghastly. I was painfully struck
with the advances which death had made to
ward his victim.
My friend looked stei*d£ t gi-U*—*—-y ■
any token or sign of recog
nition. I spoke, and my voice aiding perhaps
his fast failing memory, called me to his recol
lection. He grasped my hand with a convul
sive force, so great that his bony fingers actu
ally gave me pain.
“I thought,” said he, striving, but ineffectu
ally, to raise himself in bed “that you had
neglected —left me, left me in my last trial.
Sit down, and come close to me. I have
had a sleep—a long, long sleep, and a dream
so horrible, so real, that waking though it be
to die, is happiness ! Come closer,” he con.
tinned, “and I will tell you all. I thought
that I saw my long departed wife ; she. came
to mo in sorrow, for our lost, discarded daugh
ter was on her arm. She strove to speak, but
could not ; again and again she strove, but bit
ter grief choked her utterance. She took our
child by the hand, and led her towards me:
but I turned from them. The penitent fell at
my feel, I spurned her away. I steeled my
heart ; but could not close my ears to suppli
cations. Thej’ were the outpourings of a con
trite heart; but they touched me not. She
spoke in anguish of her little ones—her help
less little ones! and I laughed—laughed at her
misery. Still she prayed on ; she bathed my
feet with tears ; she lifted her hands, and would
have touched me, but I shrunk from her ad
vances, and heartlessly commanded her to be
gone! Her voice was suddenly stilled: I
heard no sob no sigh ! I listened : but could
noteven detect the heavy breathings of sor
row For an instant I remained wrapt in
gloomy and unrelenting anger. J turned to |
gratify once more the devil that was in me;
but she was gone ! I sought for and called
aloud upon my wife ; but she too had depar
ted.
Here the old man paused ; then placing his
hand upon my shoulder, so as to bring my
hid (’.averted face towards him, “You tremble !”
said he, “you tremble, and turn pale!”
It was so; in spite of every effort to appear
composed. 1 could not command my feelings.
I was about to speak. He put his finger on
his lips as enjoining silence, and continued.
“You are already affected ; you will shudder
when you have heard me out. 1 thought that
immediati 1\ on being left alone 1 was seized
with an icy chillncss, which I knew was the
touch of death. I look'd mound for help;
but could find none. I prayed tor some hand
to assist, some voice to comfort me in my dy
ing hour, but I prayed in vain. I heard but
the echo of my own lamentations; and was
left to go down to the grave unheeded and
alone.”
Again he paused; and so great were his ■
excitement and agitation,that I little expected'
he had strength to resume; but,after seme mi
nutes he did so, and in these words :
“I awoke ; but in another, world or rather,
when this world had passed away. As I rose
from the tomb, but one thought, one feeling pos.
sessed me ; I was going to be judged! Ev
ery thought, word, and action of my life had
shared my resurrection, and ylood palpably
embodied before me—a living picture. My
last interview with my child was the darkest
spot there. 1 si.uddered as I beheld it. I
strove, but oh ! how vainly, to blot it out! An
all consuming fire* was already lighted up!
within me, in the horrible conviction that this,
even in its naked self, would endanger my
salvation for ever! Suddenly a sound such
u g mortal e“f had never heard before, burst
on the trembling myriads around. It was a
sound that filled all creation,calling all those
who had ever been to bo again, and to wait
the word that should bless, or sweep them in
to endles« perdition. Millions upon millions
had passed o:i in judgment; and I thought
that tremblingly I approached the throne of
grace! Mercy smiled upon me! and I look
ed with straining eyes after those forgiven
spirits who had gone before. I was about to
[ follow, when a witness came against me, at
> | whose presence, conscience stricken, I fell
R prostrate in despair! My daughter !my spun
- ned and persecuted daughter! No voice of
s accusation was heard! No look of reproach
i for her ! Yet silent and motionless, dejected
) and wan, as when I had last beheld her, she
s told of the early orphanage into which she
f was stricken by my unnatural desertion ! the
c destitution which my savage vengeance had
r entailed! J trembled under the weight of
5 these awful charges. I tried to lift my eyes
1 to my child to win her intercession; but I
1 had no power to move them from myself. I
; tried to speak ; my tongue clove to my month,
i How—how could I plead tor mercy who had
i yielded none ? Pressed on by thronging crowds
: yet b hind, I advanced as if to enter tiiat blesr
i sod path which the happy trod ; but suddenly
it was barred against me! An angel with
frowning aspect waved me aside, among a
! countless herd as wretched as myself. A
cloud passed over us; our souls sank within
1 j us ; it shut us out for ever from even the glim
merings of hope. I thought that we fell, and
fill deeper, and yet deeper, gathering in num
bers as we fell ! Groans and blasphemies
were in my ear ; impenetrable darkness above
and hell below ! I shrieked madlj ! I was
answering but by shrieks ! A thousand times
I grasped at objects to stay my fall : I clutched
them but they yielded and helped me not !
i Hopeless and eternal perdition was before me!
Oue plunge, more, and a lake whose waves
were of fire—fire inextinguishable, would en
gulf me forever! Myriads beheld it too;
and now one universal scream of horror, en
ough to rend twenty worlds, burst upon me !”
Here the ol 1 man so excited with the rec ta I
nf these imaginary horrors, that I could with
difficulty hold him in my arms. His trame
quivered, his eyes glared with unnatural pow
ier and brightness. I spoke and soothed him.
“The sound is now in my ears!” he ex
claimed wildly. Almost instantly after, he
added, as calmly, “ I awoke ! lam awake 1”
and clasping-his withered hands together, and
raising his eyes to heaven, he said fervently,
“ 1 thank thee, God ! it was a dream !”
Almost immediately afterwar Is he fell back
on his pillow, perfectly exhausted. Anxious
as 1 was to speak to him once more, to ask
him but one question—to satisfy my more than
surmises, I could not—dared not do it. as be
then W’as. I watched, oh ! how eagerly, to
see his eyes open, his lips move, that I might
address myself lo him, but he lay in a state of
complete stupor: I trembled as I gazed, lest
he might never move again. After some lit
tle time passed in this state of painful suspense,
and still no sign of returning consciousness, I
grew more alarmed, lest when he did recover,
it might be but for a moment, as I knew to be
a unfrequent case, and that I might have no
time to inquire into the striking coincidence,
to say the least of it, that had so extraordina
rily presented itself to me. With this fear up
on my mind, I determined nt once upon Lur
rying downstairs, satisfying mvseff jp a
ed.
When I entered the rocm in which I had
left the widow and her child, I found the for
mer sitting on the sota, her face buried in her
hands—the boy was at her feet. As I ap
proached she looked up ; immediately on p< r
reiving me she exclaimed and her voice trem.
bled with grief and agitation “For God’s sake
sir! where am I ? Whose house is this?”
then seizing a book from the table, she cp.itiu
ued, “this book—this old book was my father's;
it was his own bible ! Here is the name,
written years past by my own hand.’’ And
turning to the first page, on which was inscri
bed “Adam Jackson, New York,” she held it
to my eyes, standing motionless as a stat-
Confirmed thus suddenly in the suspicion
that had crossed my mind on first hearing her
history and name, I was so bewildered, that I
knew not what reply to make. I feared to
tell her at once that she was under her father’s
roof, that the same walls enclosed them, lest in
her debilitated state, it might prove too much ;
I could not be evasive, for her who e being
seemed to hang on the explanation she waited
for.
Tortured by tnj silence, she seized my wrist
violently and repeated in a loud and men
acing tone, while her wild and haggard look
betokened incipient madness, “ Whose house
is this?”
“It is the house,” said I mildly, -‘of Adam
Jackson.”
“My father!” she shrieked hysterically,
and fell senseless at my feet.
After considerable difficulty I restored her to
comparative calmness; 1 was then compelled
to explain to her the situation of her parent
without disguise, for, at first, she imperative
ly insisted on seeing him. After this, she
would be governed by my wishes. I led her
to the sick chamber. As we entered I poin
ted to a chair by the bed-side, and she tottered
towards it. The slight noise we made dis
turbed the old man, and in a faint voice he cal
led me by my came. I carefully placed my
self between him and his child.
•'My dear, dear friend !” he began, “I have
been some lime dying, but I feel the struggle
is nearly over/’
At the sound of her father’s voice, the trem
bling creature by my side sprang from her
seat, —she would have rushed into his arms, —
the curtain was between them, and he was
slightly turned from her, so that the move
ment was unseen ; with one hand I forcibly
restrained her.
She sank down, but a half suppressed and
choking sob, that might have broken her heart,
escaped her.
“Do not grieve,” said be, affectionately
pressing my hand, “rather join me in thank
ful prayer to the Almighly that I have thus
] Oi) g —l, ng enough to renounce as 1 tiow do,
the deadly sinot unrelenting aog-»r against a
fellow creature; a sin which I madly hug
ged even on the brink ofthe grave!”
“Do you understand me ?” he continued,
speaking with difficulty, “My child ! my daugh
ter! God —God blt'os! as 1 forgive her!”
Had I wished to have delayed longer the
meeti g between father and child, I could not
have done it. With the greatest difficulty I
had, up to this moment, restrained the racking
impatience of the latter, until I could discover
whether or not the old man’s dream has ef
fected what I had failed in. Now that it was
obvious that it hud done so, 1 drew aside, the
curtain. On beholding the emaciated form
of him from whom she had been so long part
ed, and who. but ti few hours before, she had
never thought to behold again, she stood hor.
ror stricken, paralysed by the cm dieting fee!
ings that rushed upon her. Iler eyes Were
tearless, nil sou.id of sorrow hushed ; with
hands clasped, her head b. ut forward, her fea
tures, fixed, her form rigid and apparently
breathing she seemed a statue of despair rath
!or than a thing of life. I trembled for the
consequences when she should speak, or he
direct his looks towards her. Never, never
shall I forget the agony of that moment!
He moved ! Pie turned as if again to ad
dress me. She. whom with his dying breath
he had just blessed, and who was probably at
that awful moment the sole t bject of " his
thoughts, stood in life, if such indeed it might
be called, beside him ! His half-closed eye rest,
ed upon her; the pupil dilated, —he gazed
fixedly but wildly; he struggled to raise him
self; I supported him in the attempt. Once
or twice I heard a rattling in his throat, as if
he strove to speak but could not; then in a
piercing voice, which seemed to have strug
gled with and for an instant escaped the pow
er that was about to silence it for ever, he ex
f (aimed, “This is no dream! it is my own
Ruth!—my daughter!” and flinging open his
arms, she, thus startled from her trance, sprang
forward and fell upon his bosom.
Within a few minutes after this touching
scene. I was called to the door of the chamber-
I found it was the physician : I took him a
side and+iurriedly explained to him the events
of the lust few hours. We then approached
the bed: the old man was dead / his arms
were across his child, whose face was buried
in ths pillow. O i raising her up, a stream
of blood rushed from her mouth; a vessel had
been ruptured ! In less than half an hour her
spirit, too, had departed.
From the Knickerbocker.
Wilson Convrorlh.
Slight events sometimes make important
eras in our lite. My meeting with William
Garrets, and his subsequent hospitality, his
pains to explain to me the principles of his be
lief, my admiration of those principles, and my
impression that they would assist me to re
cover my self-control, and calm down my ex
citab.e character, all followed on in course,
and decided me upon what I was to do.
At the earnest solicitation of William, I
remained a few days in his house. We spent
the time in walking in the fields, and sittimr
down in the shade, enlightening one another
upon the doctrines in which we had been ed
ucated. He had never before seen an Unita
rian ; and when I came to explain to him our
doctrine, he wondered why he had never
heard of it before ; and could never cease from
introducing it as a topic of discourse.
He got hold, too. of my own historv, with
out any feslmg *f idle curiosity showing itself,
and invited me to remain in his house as lung
as I could make it agreeable and useful to my
self. It was agreed that 1 should set about
making such arrangements as pleased me,
and that I was to become an inmate of his
house.
He asked not for any letters ; it was
enough fir him to know that IJ needed quite
and seclusion—that ie could be of assistance
ifijTintenuous known. They seemed gra tiffed
with my determination, and I felt pleased, be
cause my mode of life was to be something
new and untried.
And uere, at the age of twenty, I was with,
out any fixed plan of life, after having exhaus
ted all the pleasures of the world, (meaning
dissipations,) guided by a kind Providence,
who never ceases to care for his children, to a
haven of rest, in the bosom ot the pleasantest
Qu iker family in ihe country.
William Garrets was a Hicksite, a follower
of Elias Hicks, a celebrated preacher of libe
ral opinions, claiming them as the tenets of
Penn, and Barclay, and other leaders of their
class. Hicks is too well known to need com
ment here. He opened the eyes of manv du
ring his natural life, and has now gone to test
the truth of his sentiments in eternity. With
the highest tone of honorable feeling, the most
charitable temper and disposition, the most
open-handed hospitality,and the nicest refine
nent of plain manners, he has lived and died
in the eyes of this people to the best purpo
ses.
Pr< ibably no man among their order ever did
so much good. At the time he began to preach,
there were many scattered through theirrauks,
who were dissatisfied at the leaning of the
society toward rank Hopkinsianism. Many
had become tinged with the doctrines of this
school, and the work of set revi als, a kind ot
proceeding so foreign to the whole tenor of
their creed, began to be aimed at. Dissatis
faction crept in among them, and they were
losing theii individuality as a people.
Hicks wrote, and talked, and preached up
a party to stay this backsliding ; and the quiet
meeting houses of the Friends, time out of
mind the abodes of pe ice, the sanctuaries of
holy thought, became the theatres of violent
polemical discussion. The humble receivers
of a creed and manner of worship; in which
all was plain and easily understood; from
their fathers, they began first Io reason, and
then to doubt. Confusion a;rd disorder troub
led the breasts of the old, and the young ran
astray, because their guides had become lost
from the path of their religion ; and the
strange sight was seen of Quakers openly ha
ting each other.
Elias Hicks went abroad and explained to
the bewildered multitude what were the tenets
of their founders. He collected the scattered
bauds, and they organized into a party; which
once done, with cool and deliberate determi
nation, they censed fiom their wranglings;
ceased from contention on his side, and the
meetings once more sat in silence, and offered
up pure mid secret prayers in the temples of
their souls to the one only and true God.
1 liven with Wi'liatn Garrets more than a
year, without any object as to the future. I
seemed to have imbibed a love of quiet mid so
litude, and the long, hot summer noons, when
not a sound broke the stillness, were seasons
of enjoyment to tne. The turmoil of my life,
lhe restlessness of dissipation, and the pursuit
of novelty, had wearied out my capacity for
enjoyments, which depended upon great ani.
mal spirits and bodily force, mid I craved still
ness and soberness, as the body craves rest
from fatigue.
Himself something of a philosopher, I join
ed him tn his scientific researches. We stud
ied entomology and astronomy together- We
rambled over the country in pursuit of curious
bugs and plants, canyi g our bug.box and
basket ; and in the clear summer nights, we
sat on the house-top with out telescope and
globe, mid I listened to strains of natural elo
quence, mid bursts of devout feelings, which
shame al! studi* d arrangements of words.
I could easily obtain from him, too, al! the
hooks 1 wished, upon the subject of the
Friends. 1 read dilligently, but observed
more. I adopted, in part, the Quaker garb,
utnl found it very convenient and easy. It is
ot iniprob :bl ■ hat the fashions <4 th ' woiri
may com iou idto this garb, at some distant
day. The broad hat is certainly more useful
Vol. VI—No «.
m rain or sunshine, than the narrow sugar,
loaf of the present dav.* The neckcloth is
easier than the stock. The collar of the shirt
is already discarded, as an useless incum
brance. The color of drab is more durable,
and more neat, than any other ; and the coat,
with its single iow of buttons, and large pock
ets. and standing collar, unites the conve
niences of the frock-coat, and the succinct
ness of the ‘straight-body.’ Square-toed
boots are now adopted, and so on with other
particulars. Each has soma good reason for
its adoption and continuance. Their dress
was adopted, not as a badge, as many suppose,
but it has been tbo dress of the sect from the
time ot its origin ; at .v hich time it was the
dress of all plain people, who were opposed to
the tawdnness and extravagance of tbe follow,
ers of the court of Charles. They have seen
no good reason to alter it. and if it is conspic
uous, it has become so more from the changes
of others, than of themselves.
I have ever been led to view the garb of
the Quakers us having a high moral influence
upon their lives. By it lhey are constantly
letninded of the virtue of consistency. A.
plain garb b igets ; 1 in thoughts and meek
maimers, l hey must rely upon other sour
ces, with strangers, than external effect.
They feel themselves shut out from the empty
vanities of the world, and bearing with them
in their dress a sign to that effect.
Oue can hardly moot a more interesting
character than a Quaker jeiifleman ofeasy
fortune, who lives upon the estate of his father,
in the cou .try. His house and grounds are
the pattern of neatness. There is a venera
ble and respectable air in the large shade
trees, and well-trodden walks that surround
bis antique dwelling. He rides i i a square
topped chaise, drawn by a sleek, fat horse,
which has never been abused, and looks as
contented, and patient, and well satisfied, as
his master- His salutation is cordial and ir,
dependent. He has a dignity of depnrtnient
which flows from an internal peace of mind.
You may rely in perfect confidence upon what
he says. You will find him well acquainted
with agriculture and with general science.
He rends more than men of his rank among
the world’s people, and is better versed in
governments. Isis children, being constantly
surrounded by such examples, are well educa
ted by the mere act of keeping their eyes
open ; for every point of conduct is a bright
lesson to them of what is right. If this char
acter does not approach to the true dignity
and honor of man, I should like to know what
does.
Thu Quakers read but little poetry. They
worship nature. Their poetry is •unwritten.’
i hey drink in their inspiration from lhe foun
tain head. They worship God in the stars
and in the sun. They regard him in lhe
storm. They see him in his majesty, and
glory, and bounty, spreading the e.’ rth with
pure streams, and pleasant postures. In the
shads they thank Him ; by lhe way side, and
in the woods. In peace, is his home to them;
and they retire to think, alone, upon his good
ness. This is their poetry, and they teach it
to their children. It is not a well-spring of
bitterness to them, as high-wrought poetry of
ten is to the sensitive scholar ; filling his
heart full of dreams of imaginary bliss; a bliss
he can never possess or realize in this world ;
rnaki « his life, as he lives on, one series of
disappoint merit: fur
’charm by charm unwinds
Which robed our idols, and we see to sure
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the rairrd'i
Ideal shape of such ”
I kuow something about this sentiment, for I
have felt it. It is not a ridiculous subject; its
victims are not common men; but they are
cursed with tow nice a sensibility, and they
yield to the influences of u literature, n >w com
mon in all the towns and villages in our coun.
try —thanks to our patriotic booksellers !— as
common us the Bible.
Young men and young woman get thoughts
that belong to the age of chivalry, and the
land of»>ng, and poetry, and romance; the
plains of Italy theorauge groves of Spain, and
lh& ‘ vine.clad hill’s of France, and they ex
pect an Edea will spring up about themselves,-
iu this every-d iy working country. They are
ushered into the world with these high hopes,
uud Uu ir airy castles full, and they are deso
late. Educated out of, and away from, the
standard ot things as they are, they arc not cal
culated to excite the sympathies ofthe people
among w horn they live. They belong either
to the age gone by, or the one to come, or to
none at all, ai d they look in vain fur lhe reali
zation of their hopes.
( To be Continued.)
A Sister. He who has never known a sit
ter’s kind ministrations, nor felt his heart
warming beneath her endearing smile and loro
beaming eye, has been unfortunate indeed.
It is not to be wondered if the fountains of
pure feelings flow in his b som but sluggishly,
or if the gentler emotions of his nature be lost
in the sterner attributes of manhood.
“That man has frown up among kind and
affectionate sisters,” I once heard a lady of
much observation and experience remark.
“And why do you think so?” said 1.
“ Because of the rich development of all the
tenderer and more refined feelings ofthe heart,
which ire so apparent in every word.”
“ A sister’s influence is f It, even in man.
hood’s l iter yean ; and the heart of him who
has grown cold in its chilling contact with the
world, will warm and thrill with pure enjoy,
meet, as some incident awakes within him th >
soft tones and glad melodies of his sister’ e
voice. And he will turn from purposes which
a warped and false philosophy has reasoned
i.ito expediency, and oven weep for the gen
tle influences which moved him in his earluf
years. ,
The terms of seventeen United States Sen
ators expire on the fourth of March next vit.
Messis. M’Kean of Pennsylvania, Webster
of Massachusetts Swift of Vermont Rabbi:
of Rhode Island Southard ofN Jersey Bayaid
of Del iware, Merrick. of Md. Riv.*s of Vn>
ginia, Tallmadge of New York. Norvell of
Michigan, Benton of Missouri, Tipton of Ind;-
ana Shepley of Maine. Niles, ot Connecticut
Trott- r of -Mississippi Grundy of Feimessr ,
and Morris of Ohio. Whig. 6; Conservatives,
3 ; Van Buren men ; S.
Marriaof. Extraordinary.- We learn ftom
our Philadelphia correspondent that Miss K.
Grimkn, formerly es Charleston was marri. I
<>n the 16 h mst. in that city, to tho famous p. i.
f cti.rii.st, ..nd abe’itio >ist \V eld, witho it p; i t
or magistrate ! by taking each other as husb ; :<|
and wiw in the presence of thoir invited gtiA.s.