Newspaper Page Text
■ Tiie r.olc which carried me out, this
- rn.ng, contained a copy of the advettise
v, t we inserted in the daily papers four
v.v since, and the number of a room at
‘s Hotel; nothing more. But this
~i was quite enough to produce
: _.e in my countenance, which, f felt ,
: - rceived, and not daring to trust my
■ oicc viih commonplace words, and shrinfc
. lg from stating to you the substance of
the note, while its real design was unknown i
even to me, I hastily possessed myself of
•he fatal purse, and hurried out to trace
my crime to an end of some sort, at lat.
V.'hile I walked rapidly in the direction
of the address, I found time to bestow some
thought on the brief summons just rccci-,
ved. I wearied my brain with conjectures
as to the cause of a de'ay so strange, and
in what manner the blow l awaited would ;
fall. 1 once even paused, while debating
whether this might not be the scheme of
some sharper, by which to obtain the
purse: short reflection convinced me that
the time elapsed, since the appearance of
the advertisement, was alone sufficient to
establish the identity of the writer of the
note; and, had I not so decided, all doubt
would have been dissipated in the twink
ling of an eye, when I stood with the door
of his chamber closed behind me. and con
fix vied—Mr. Eubank !”
An exclamation rose to the wife’s lips,
hut emotion stifled its utterance, and she
;dy look his hand between both of hers.
Yes, there he was standing, buttoned
up to the chin in an overcoat, a traveling
cap drawn down over the brow, and a cane
in his right hand. Ino longer marvelled,
whr e 1 had once before beheld that masked
face—the same 1 had pressed upon, until
.t retreated under the glare of the street
lamp, on the maddest night of my life. 1
was mute with shame and anguish of spir
it : for the remembrance of my crime,
which time had softened, returned with the
distinctness of an event of yesterday, and j
but for the pride that forbids the unveiling
of the inmost soul before a fellow-mortal,
my freshly lacerated heart would have
found relief in an agony of tears. I was,;
.1 Last in some measure, prepared for any
•her interview than this: to an entire
tranger, I felt confident, I would have
op ken calmly, gravely and penitentially;
but to discover in the friend, whose timely
id and encouragement had led me from
he blink of the precipice toward which I
was again slowly tending, the man whose ;
life I had once threatened, and in whose ]
hands my fate had lain for the four past
years, was too much—too much to consid- j
(■- unmoved! Was it possible he, also,
had failed to recognize meat a glance, and, ,
ly some unknown agency, hut this day
liscovered with whom he had been deal
ing ? This thought was most intolerable
bu’ happily, the first words spoken set
aside tin misgiving. His masquerade had
endured but a moment, and, detecting my
•'1 lion, tie quickly Viimr-rH vri
surplus clothing, and made me sit down
1 drink a glass of water, while he said,
kindly:
‘ Do not be troubled ; I have known all
m the beginning, and not to condemn
a, would 1 have brought you here. Be
sides,” he resumed, after musing a mo
ment, “do you think I would sufler need
less harm, in name or person, to befall a
cl so connection ? Yes, young sir, a con
nection, for you are the nephew of my
wife.”
I had no wotds to question him with, so
great was the surprise succeeding my re
cent agitation; but he continued, with
scarce a pause :
“ I cannot approach a subject uppermost
in m) thoughts by patient steps; I am no
i plomatist, and must speak outright all I
av3 on my mind. But stay—l must not
uiry on too fast: you marvel how I
iiance to be your uncle-in-law, and that
ou shall first learn, ft is no matter for
wonder that you failed to recognize my
nne, as the utterance of it in j our house
..w absolutelj- forbidden on any plea; but
you must have learned that a sister of your
wcle, while quite young, had been cast oil’
‘ithout mercy or show of aflfoction, when
she chose to unite her fate with that of a
mart of inferior birth and insignificant
means. I would not delaj* an hour in this
city, after our final stormy interview, but,
with hate and indignation at his cold
bloodedness ruling in my breast, carried
inv • -3 Philadelphia, where the small
: a clerk scantily supplied our
r l would rather have perished
‘•plied for assistance in the quarter
ich it was due, hut never came.
iiov . at was my astonishment, then,
when, about five j’ears since, l received a
hasty note from a lawyer in this city, re
questing n e to come without delay, as my
wife’s brother was no more, and had, but
a few days previous, placed in his hands a
will to his only survivings.ster, of his entire
estate, with the exception of, a frilling an
nuity to some second party. I took pas
sage that very night, hut the winds from
the first were contrary, amp after several
days of unavailing fretting, I was enabled
to hasten to my solicitor’s office, only to be
received with a blank face and a thousand
apologies for the trouble given—a will
having been found to exist of subsequent
date to ours, in which there was not the
slightest mention of his sister. There
could be no doubt of the genuineness of
the latter, as he had himself examined it,
and could testify to the autograph from be
gin aing to end. ‘An eccentric man, sir—
an eccentric man. even in death !’ was all
be eouifi say ia extenuation; and so, back
to Philadelphia I went, after, with my own i
eyes, perusing both documents, no richer,
but with a sad weight of disappointment
an heart,
Bie*f\ had I reacted home, however,
vb > , . -.’led upon to undertake a i
set*': h kutg-H journey, and one surer in its
Jesuits. A suit, ia which. I had been eu
jgag/d in jail’s, nr* uy wife t* pH:t. for a
large amount of property in the Southwest,
bequeathed to the female issue of her
! mother—that is, to your mother and hcr
‘ ..elf had been decided in our favor, and
! rny presence was judged necessary in New
Orleans. Returning from that distant city,
some months after, a man of wealth, in
passing from n y hotel to the steamer at
the wharf, I was assailpd by a young man
in a high state of excitement, and money
I demanded. Nay, J<e tranquil; I will not
probe your feelings farther than I can help.
Although I was now in circumstances,
which made the loss of a purse full no
great matter, 1 am not of a temperament to
yield at a word; and, to qualify myself to
sw ear to your identity before a magistrate,
I gradually retreated, until the lamp-light
disclosed to mj’ startled scrutinj’ a face 1
had more than once, myself unremarked,
scanned, but the open hauteur of which
had invariably recalled the countenance of
your uncle, and upset my resolve to dis
close the existence of your unknown or
forgotten aunt. Ino longer wished to de
fend my purse; and the next notice I re
ceived of it was contained in a common
place advertisement, under which I readily
perceived the true features of the case. I
had related all 1 knew to my wife; and,
mysterious as the matter appeared in our
eyes, \vc both agreed that to save you,
if possible, from threatened destruction,
| should be the immediate aim of our
| thoughts and deeds. Accordingly, after
little more than a week’s delay, I returned
here, and learned, to my increased amaze
ment, of your so-called ruin : but the ru-
I mors afloat were too scant to satisfy my
enquiries. 1 was sensible, from the verj r
fact of a different history being in the
mouth of each narrator, that no one was
really acquainted with the true details;
and the admission of all that no indebted
ness to tradcs-people of any kind existed,
perplexed me still more. While I was still ,
undecided how to act, in a conversation
with j'our former family physician, which
chanced to turn upon your uncle's last ill
ness. mj - attention was caught by a casual
mention of the dying man’s insensibility j
for more than three days previous to death :
a flash of light illumined mj’ mind on the j
instant, for I recollected the precise date of j
the last will, and could scarcely cloak the
sudden interest with which I pushed mj r j
questions. I did not rest hete: but, search- I
tng out the nurse, who had been his at- i
tendant during jour absence, by a few |
seemingly indifferent enquiries, confirmed
my most painful suspicions that the will ]
was not genuine. With this knowledge
for a basis, and the information obtained ;
from various sources of the disposal made j
of your unsold property, re-purchase of ne- ‘
groes, present style of living, and present
employment, coupled with the real tenor of
the notice regarding the purse, I began to
read your penitence, resolves and hopes,
as one would the solution of a problem fair- j
,ly written out—and this without having;
exchanged a word, or even encountered |
you once since your reform, or downfall,
as the world called it. I saw the first
painting you ofiered for sale, but refrained
from purchasing, in order to test j-our sta
bility; and, when the second was produ
ced, so great a weight of anxiety was re
moved, that I resolved only to encourage,
not try, you thereafter: and the rest you
already know.”
Dear wife, how my heart swelled with
gratitude ! But, before 1 could find speech,
he stopped me to resume.
“ Os one thing I must leave j'ou no long
er in doubt: criminal you once were in
design, but never, thank God, in verity of
deed. The property, from which your
uncle drew his income, was not his, but
yours, dishonestly withheld—derived, as
it was, from a maternal grand-father, from
whom, also, came the estate recovered at
law for the female issue; in which you, as
the child of one sister, will of course share
with ourselves; and thus, jou perceive,
even the purse lying yonder on the table,
where just now you placed it—even the
contents of that are properly your own!”
I had listened with attention painfully
earnest; step by step, unspeakably grate
ful joy had raised my heart higher above
the dust of sin and sorrowing: and when
at last he paused, with kind eyes regard ing
me, and then added—“ Now, will you for
give the four long years I have known all
this, and concealed it from you ?”—I for
got pride, manhood., every thing human :
my face was wetted with swift-flowing
tears, while I cried between :
“ It is the hand of God—l cannot doubt
again!”
My benefactor was much moved—walk
ed to the window, stirred the fire, anff fi
nally, bidding me stay until his return,
threw a note upon the table, drew on his
overcoat, and, taking his hat anil cane,
went out, as if remembering some sudden
engagement. Perhaps an hour elapsed,
and I had become calm again, before I be
gan to marvel at his protracted absence,
and to grow impatient to relate to you all,
as I am now doing: but another hour
passed, and still he had not returned, when,
in pacing back and forth across the room,
my eyes fell upon the note he.had left,
’ strange to relate, addressed to myself.
\\ as it possible! I glanced around'the
chamber: no, there was no baggage visi
| ble. I rang tbe bell, and demanded of the
waiter. All confirmed the sense of the
note that he had gone—was then on ship
board, as he had been this very night four
years; tune, to escape the overflowing of
my gratitude in words.
Two wishes were expressed in this short
letter: his desire that I should resume pos
session of the great painting, (as it had
j been executed in his name,) the better to
; bear in mind that in my house, by my own
unworthy fire-side, sat anew Aria, the
I truest of wives ; and that that wife would
accept float Lus Lands this little book lying
under.
And what little hook was this wrapped
maaikai© 0 wiiitLW ©aaiflffi-
in velvet ? A parchment-bound, quaint
heir-loom, with clasps of pure silver; and
\on the inner-siJe of these are engraved—
min 1, on the inner- side, so that the holy
volume had need to be opened before the
words could be read—the letters of that
promise which is itself as silver purified,
tried seven times in the furnace,
i “Be thou faithful cx ro the end, and
I WILL GIVE THEE A CROWN OF LIFE.”
u u & ibßinf os a§ *
For Richards’ Week!/ Gazette.
THE FLIT CORRESPONDENCE.
NVMB Elt 64.
New York, May 16th, 1849. 1
My Dear Sir: In alluding last week to
the re-appearance ol Mr. Macready at the
Astor Place Theatre, 1 made no mention of
the circumstance of his ill reception by a
portion of the audience, little dreaming
then of the terrible scenes which followed,
and which have wholly absorbed the pub
lic thought and interest during the past few
days. The press has already spread far
and wide the tragic particulars of the events
to which I refer, yet, in the line of my oc
cupation as correspondent, as also for the
benefit of those benighted people *’ who
don’t take the papers,” I will make a brief
review of the whole matter.
Everybody knows more or less of the
much-talkcd-of ill-feeling between those
two eminent tragedians, Macready and
Forrest; of the opposition made (in conse
quence) to the former gentleman, at his ap
pearance, last winter, on the Philadelphia
stage; and of the fears that were enter
tained in regard to his expected re-engage
ment in this City. On Monday night of j
last week, he made his Jlbiit at Astor
j Place, in Macbeth, but was interrupted and
finally compelled to leave the stage, by the
! premeditated insults and assaults of a gang
of lawless ruffians, who assailed him with
hisses, groans, and a variety of missives,
in the shape of eggs, coppers, and even
chairs. For the following night, the play
lof “Richelieu” had been announced, but
Mr. Macready declined continuing his en
gagement, and the house was closed. On 1
Wednesday it was again opened, and Air.
Hackett. one of the lessees, appeared, with
out molestation, as “ Falstaff,” in the “ Mer- j
ry Wives of Windsor.” In the meanwhile !
some fifty distinguished gentlemenaddress- j
ed a note to Air. Macready, expressing
j their sorrow and indignation at the outrage
| ofiered to him, and begging him to continue
j his engagement, with the pledge of their |
j support and that of their fellow-citizens.
This courteous request was, as it should
have been, complied with, and Mr. Ma
cready was accordingly re-announced, as
“Macbeth,” for Thursday evening. Du
ring the day, much excitement prevailed
throughout the Citj’, in respect to the se
quel of this defiance of the will and plea
sure us the mol>. Tho Oporn House was
filled at an early hour—a considerable por
tion of it by a strong police force, detailed
to quell the expected disturbances. Des
pite all precautions, quite a number of riot
ous people smuggled themselves into the
theatre, and upon the appearance of the
obnoxious tragedian, renewed the hisses
and groans of the former night. Their
voices, however, were drowned by the
plaudits of the mass of the audience, who,
as Mr. Macready entered, rose with enthu
siastic cheers, and the waving of hats and
handkerchiefs. A placard being exhibited
upon the stage, requesting the friends of
order to remain quiet, very soon nothing
was heard but the hisses and insults of the
rioters, who, thus distinguished by the po
lice, were easily arrested, and removed-to
another part of the house. The play then
continued, with no material interruption,
until the close. During all this time, a
vast multitude had assembled outside, and
early in the evening an attack was com-
menced upon the walls and windows of the
building, much facilitated by the apropos
supply of bricks and paving stones, which
were lying in piles in the immediate vicin
ity, the streets then undergoing repairs.—
Nearly all the glass and shutters were
speedily demolished, and the police inside
were actively occupied in boarding up the
windows, to protect the audience. Occa
sionally, a stone entered and produced a
temporary interruption, notin the play, but
in the attention of the hearers. As these
dangerous visitants became more and more
frequent, the ladies—there were seven of
these heroines present—began to feel their
quarters too hot for them, and sought more
retired seats. During the heat of this at
tack, Alac’oeth, in his r6le, uttered the
words:
“ Our castle walls
Are strong to stand a seige !”
amidst enthusiastic plaudits. When, in
scene, he spoke the lines—
“ I fear neither deatli nor bane,
Till Birnam forest come to D’unsinane,”
the malcontents made an ineffectual effort
to renew their groans.
Affairs at length assumed such a bellige
rent aspect outside, that it became apparent
that the civil force was quite incompetent
to restore order, and, after consultation, it
was resolved to summons the military. A
corps of cavalry, with drawn sabres, soon
arrived, and drove the utob before them un
til they reached the centre of Astor Place,
opposite the entrance of the Theatre. Here
they were stopped by the dense crowd, and
assailed with a tempest of stones and buck
hats, until their horses grew unmanageable
and they were driven from the ground.—
The cavalry was followed by a large body
of infantry, who were greeted by the riot
ers with the same hearty politesse shown
towards the horse. Many of them were
disabled and carried into the Opera House:
and their position became so precarious,
that General Sand ford announced to the
Alayor his inability to keep his ground
without defending himself, and. his deter
mination to withdraw his men unless he
’ had permission to fire. This desperate re
course was long postponed, but no alter
native was left, and he command went
forth. The first volley rang through the
air, and was answered by the mob with
taunts anl cries of decision and scorn, so
universal was the imp ession that the sol
diers had not, and would not dare to, use
other than blank cartridges. Fatal mis
-1 take! as the next moment proved, when in
various parts of the ground dead and dy
j ing men were lying. The rioters became
I infuriated at the firmness of the military, ‘
1 and, heeding no warnings, renewed their
attack with desperate ferocity ; and the
terrible roar of the musketry was again
and again heard above the shouts of the
( multitude, before the majestj of the law
was confessed.
The throng which on that dreadful night
surrounded the Opera House, must have
numbered twenty thousand souls, the great
er portion of whom were mere spectators,
attracted to the scene by curiosity—curios
ity which cost some of them their lives,
since, in several instances, the innocent,
unhappily, suffered with the guilty. One
poor man fell, as he was alighting from
the rail-cars in the Bowery; a woman was
shot, while gazing upon the scene from a
window of her house ; and another, as she
stopped for a moment, iri a walk with her
husband, to learn the cause of the tumult.
Afore than twenty were either killed on
the spot, or have since died ; and a yet
larger number were wounded. When the
mob was thus fearfully repulsed, the au
dience and the actors, including Air. Ala
cready himself, passed out of the houee
and from the ground, under the protection j
of the troops. The whole area of Astor ■
Place and all the avenues leading to it,
were then regularly guarded throughout
the night.
The feeling of the mob soon assumed
i quite a different complexion from mere pre- j
| judice against Mr. Alacready personalty.;
It became one of national antipathies.—
Americans were called upon to rally against
Englishmen : then it took a yet more dan
! gerous aspect—that of a war of castes—
of the moboeracy against the aristocracy.
During the day, inflammatory bills had
| been posted about the city, exhorting Amer
icans and working-men to defend them
selves against the contumely and oppres
; sion of the supporters of the aristocratic
; British Opera House! saying that the crew
j of the British steamer then in port, were
going that night to the Theatre, to prevent
the free expression of American opinion !
and other similar fabrications and non
sense.
“Who is Washington Irving?” (among
the gentlemen who invited Mr. Alacready
‘ to continue the engagement,) asked one
| loafer of another, (luring the riot. “Oh!
he’s ad and Englishman—keeper of the
Irving House!” was the response.
“Macready took Forrest to England,
and then would n’t let him play, and we’re
| --l-gning f© him tile foe it, vuc arc I” i
j heard a small boy observe to his diminu
tive friend, as I was passing along the
street.
“ They’ll get their blasted Opera House
knocked about their ears,” said one of the
I interlocutors in another group. “Nobody
| can’t go there without a white vest and
| white kids, aye!” ending with a volley of
threats and curses.
The rioters were unquestionably resolv
j ed to destroy the House, and many attempts
were made during Thursday night to fire
it, several even by the prisoners confined
in the building; and the utmost vigilance
of the police and military was required to
protect it. Had the mob triumphed and
| gained possession of the Theatre, the con
sequences would doubtless, have been
more fearful, and a reign ol terror would
have ensued.
Mr. Macrc-ady, as I have said, left the
; house, on foot, with theaiylience, an l hap
pily reached his quarters at the New York
Hotel, near by, unrecognized by the infu
riated rabble. He went, during the night,
j to a neighboring town on the line of the
j New Haven rail-way, and took the morn
| ing train of cars for Boston, expressing his
i sorrow at having been, in anyway, the
j cause of such terrible scenes.
On the following (Friday) morning, the
departure of the abused tragedian was re
ported, and bills were posted, announcing
■ that the Opera House was closed bj - order
of the Lessee. During the day, nothing
was talked of hut the events of the pre
vious night, and the prospects of the fu
ture. The rioters were loud in their threats
of vengeance against the theatre, the po
lice, the military, the Mayor, and all the
civil authorities, and the gentlemen who
had signed the letter to Air. Macready. A
call was published for a mass meeting, in
the Park, which was responded to in the
1 evening, when one Rynders, ex-Captain of
’ the famous Empire Club, and other kindred
spirits, poured forth eloquent strains in
harmony with the reckless sentiments of
their hearers. The Alayor issued a pro
clamation, congratulating the citizens upon
the supremacy of the Jaw, and declaring
that order must and should be maintained
at any and every cost. It was vefy gene
: rally feared that Friday night would be
more disastrous than the preceding; and
the fear would have been realized, but for
the prompt and vigorous action of the gov
ernment. Early in the evening, a large
civil force was quartered in the theatre, and
the military took possession of all the ave
nues leading to Astor Place, planting can
non in every street. The villains were
thus overawed, and the night passed off
without any serious disturbance.
On Saturday night, the police and the
troops again look and kept quiet possession
of the scene of the riot. One thousand
special constables were sworn in, and vig- !
ilant guard was kept over the Arsenal, the
residence of the Alayor, and at other places j
against which the fury of the rioters had
been excited
On Sunday night, the theatre and its j
neighbothood were guarded by a large po- (
lice force, while some seven hundred mus-1
kets of General Ewan’s brigade were quar
tered at the University, near by, ready for’
service at an instant's warning; and a sig
nal of seven strokes upon the fire-bell at
the City Hall, was announced as the sum
mons, if required, to call the whole milita
ry force into the field.
Up to this time, the Opera House re
mains closed and under the protection of
the police. All danger is now thought to
be past, and it is hoped that the excite
ment is well nigh allayed. Several days
have been spent by the Coroner, in his in
quest upon the bodies of the slain, with
the incident examinations of witnesses;
and the jury have returned a verdict ap
proving the extreme measures employed by
the authorities in quelling the rioters and
sustaining the law. This righteous deci
sion is in perfect accordance with public
sentiment, as with all the facts. Every
1 good citizen, while regretting that the peace
lias been so shamefully broken, and from
such contemptible causes, and while de
ploring the suffering and loss of life which
have ensued, yet congratulates himself upon
j the great and important fact which these
melancholy events have so fully demon
strated, that the government under which
he lives, is willing and able to protect him,
1 always and under all circumstances, in the
enjoyment of his lawful rights and liber-1
ties. The gang of desperate bullies and
scoundrels ever ready to create disturbance
and destroy the peace and order of the
City, have received a salutary lesson, which
will be remembered for good through many
long years.
Nothing is to be regretted in the catas
trophe of this sad history, excepting that
the rioters accomplished their purpose,
though at such terrible cost, of unjustly
driving Mr. Macready from the stage. He
should have completed his proposed en
gagement, and have been protected therein
to the last hour. Then, again, it is a pity
that In place of the two or three innocent
| people who suffered on the occasion, some
: half hundred more of the guilty did not
meet with the just punishment of their
| crimes.
Trusting, my dear sir, that it will be very
long before 1 shall again have to address
I vou on such an ungenial theme,
I am yours, in virtuous indignation,
_ FUT.
BOSTON CORRESPONDENCE.
Boston, May loth, 1549.
My dear Sir ■ Here, as every
’ where else, tiie New York riot is the great
| topic of conversation. With many, a com
! plete reverse of feeling has taken place
within a few days. The newspapers
! which bore down so heavily upon Ma-j
cready, a few months ago, without the j
semblance of a cause, other than the mul-1
tiplicity of invectives thrown out by Mr.
Forest, seem affrighted at the scenes they
I have helped to create, and are Willing to
; acknowledge the merit of the great En-;
: glish Tragedian, ani to give him the ap
| plause which he truly deserves, for his no
j ble forbearance in this inexplicable case of
j animosity.
Mr. Forest undoubtedly felt himself
i much aggrieved, by the severity of the
j London Critics, and he may have had rea
j sons for believing that Macready had in
j stigated them. But, granting this, how
; much nobler and more manly would he
; have shown himself, had he, instead of
! throwing himself into the arena of con-
I f °
1 diet, embraced Mr. Macready as a friend ;
| thus showing the world that men of gen
| ius, contending for honors upon the same
platform, are above the petty jealosies of
i the world, which would pit them against
! each other as foes.
While the horrible tragedy was being
enacted in New York, Macready fled to
this city, and is now staying with a friend ,
in Summer st. The news of his arrival
spread rapidly and a large crowd assembled :
! around the Tremont House, but peaceably
j dispersed when informed that the Actor was
jat a private residence. lie has been solici
! ted to play in this city, but has declined.
! On the 27th he will take his departure, in
| the steamer, for Europe.
May-day was ushered in, quite unex
’ pectedly with all the glory of unclouded
! skies and bright sunshine. For weeks
I previous we had hardly dared to venture
forth unless enveloped in great coats and
wrappers. But May Morning smiled so
pleasantly, that I determined to escape
from the sickening atmosphere which sur
| rounds one in a large city; so 1 joined a
: party of friends in a trip to Brook Farm, j
once so noted in connection with the disci-1
j pies of Charles Fourier. A short ride in
I the cars brought us to Jamaica Plains,
; from whence we walked through meadow!
5 and field to the rendezvous, about four miles!
distant.
i On our arrival at the place of destina-,
: tion, I esconced my head under a straw
j covering, once the favorite chapeau of Geo.
Ripley, President of the Association. The •
rest of the party donned others of the same
j material, and we sallied forth to inhale in
spiration from beautiful Nature.
The buildings on the Farm are all va- ‘
cant now, but friends familiar with the I
place, conducted us to the principal points
of interest. First came the “Hive,” a
large old Farm House, containing the culi-1
nary departments, dining hall, reading
room &c., of the Association. Standing in t
the front door of this building, the eye
rests upon one of the most beautiful land
scapes imaginable. From the “Hive,” a
sinuous path led us, by the ruins of the
“Phalanstery,” to a cottage, used, I be
leive, as a residence for families connected
with the Association. There we enjoyed]
another glorious prospect. Hard by, is a
massive rock on whose summit our own
bid-bid the spiritual Bixcaccianti used to
warble some of her sweetest songs! Here
also Emerson, W. H Channing, llipley,
Dwight Godwin, A TANARUS?. Alcott and others
| of the same class of thinkers, paid their
homage to beatific Nature, in days gone by. \
Without visiting the other buildings our
1 party repaired to the woods. In company
with a friend I followed a bye path, in
, search of wild flowers. This path led us
to an opening in the woods, through which
we caught a glimpse of the Charles River,
j winding sluggishly on towards the Ocean,
j We soon approached a little lake, surroun
ded by hills, each of which sloped towards
a common centre ami forme.l a perfect ba
| sin for its waters. O! what a scene of
( beauty was there spread out before us!
Two giant oaks on opposite shores bent
forward as though engaged in gentle con
verse. Sweet kisses seemed wafted from
one to the other, as the zephyr, loaded
I with the odors of Spring, swept over the
1 smiling waters of the lake. Thelittle birds
which nestled among the leaves or hopped
from branch to branch, sang in concert
with the rustling foliage, and the chords of
! our being, in harmony with the material
universe, vibrated in unison. Throwing
ourselves upon the grceen slope, with our
heads resting upon beds of grass and vio
lets, we yielded our souls to the influences
| of the scene.
The day slipped away unobserved and
; we were forced to leave the place, with
sorrow in our hearts, as one leaves anew
found friend.
Longfellow's new work, “Kavannagh,”
; has just made its appearance, from the
press of Tick nor & Cos. The critics speak
j highly of it.
The “Asthetic Papers,” edited by Miss.
E. P. Peabody, have also just been issued.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Haw
thorn, S. G. Ward, S. 11. Perkins, Samp
son Reed, John S. Dwight, Parke Godwin,
J. G. Wilkinson of London, are contribu
j tors.
Truly thine,
Bostonien.
!
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
STANZAS.
BY JACQUES K>l RHOX.
Spring ever follows Winter,
Night’s ti Prophet of the Mora—
And the hour is ever darkest,
Just before the Light is born.
O! yc who worship Beauty,
And Harmony anti Truth, _
Ilate Ugliue sand Discord,
Ands gh for L ve and Ruth, —
Take courage from these tokens :
The False must p iss away.
As piss tl.e Night and Winter
Before Spring-time and Day.
Athens , Ga.
jl -la ~J J Lt xi iS id >
A MOTHER’S LOVE.
BY THOMAS FITZGEKAI.D.
j Who is there that does not acknowledge
; and bow in reverence to a mother's love ?
What is it that causes the eye to fill ? that
refuses utterance to speech, and overwhlems
j with utter loneliness in the midst of life?
Deny it not, truant heart ; it is the sacred
ness of a mother’s love—felt through long
years it may he, yet always pure, ever sa
: cred, blessing and refreshing ! Gentle mo
j ther! tenderest, truest, best of friends!
constant in love, in weal or wo—in infirm
ity or health, in honor or shame, through
j evil and good report—thy afiection knows
no change nor the shadow of turning!
Blessings on thee! Earliest memories
| link together and throw holiness on thy
\ name.
Such were the reflections suggested by
an incident in the great drama of life. A
poor victim of imtemperance was stagger
, ing homewards—no, he knew not whither
| —when he fell heavily to the earth Stun
ned and bruised by the fall, he lay for a
moment insensible ; hut assistance soon re
stored him to consciousness and a sense ot
degradation.
“ I thank you gentlemen,” said he fal
teringly, “ it was a hard fall, but I am bet
ter now —I have had many such. It is
nothing when you get used to it,” and he
half laughed as he prepared to start again
on his way.
“ What a pity,” remarked a spectator,
“that you should thus debase your man
hood by selfish indulgence in strong drink.”
“ You’re a temperance lecturer, I sus
pect,” sneered the inebriate.
“No friend,” replied the gentleman, “I
am not a temperance lecturer—at least, not
one professedly. But I neglect no oppor
tunity to speak a word in favor of that
honest cause,”
“ You’re a preacher then, may be 1”
“ No,”
“Well 1 whatever you are, I want none
of your advice.”
“I merely meant it for your good,” mild
ly answered thegentleman. “Are you mar
ried ?”
“ No.”
“ You have sisters and brothers?”
“les—but they don’t know me now.”
“Have you a father?”
“No—he died long since.”
“A mother?”
There was a deep silence.
■ “ \ou do not answer. Have you a mo- ■
, therl” |
The silence was broken by the sobs of
the wretched man.
“Hh God! oh God!” he exclaimed. “ she,
too, is dead! I broke her heart many!
years ago by my misconduct. My poor j
mother! My poor.poor mother ISo good,’
so kind, so gentle and forgiving!” and he
smote his breast in the bitterness of his an- j
guish.
Unhappy man—oh ! how unhappy at
that moment’ Through all the vicissitudes
of life, a mother’s love had followed him—
entreating, urging and imploring him to
forsake evil, aitd cling only to that which
is right. In vain hal she striven—he had
! gone on blindly, perversely, recklessly, till
now he was broken down in health, for
tune and reputation, an outcast from socie
ty, disowned by ilia own flesh and blood !
Yet in the midst of this accumulation of
wretchedness, there came reproachfully,
though full of love, across the weary waste
of years, a mother’s voice, sweet nnd sad,
and the heart bowed in grief to its mute ap
peal.
Honor to woman ! Without her smiles
the world would lose its brightness—soci
ety's charm would exist no longer--Chris
tianity would languish without heraidand
approval. “In whose principles,” said
the dying daughter of Ethan Allen, to her
sceptical father, “in whose principles shall I
die—yours, or those of my Christian mo
ther? The stern old hero of Ticonderoga
brushed a tear from his eye as he turned
away, and with the same rough voice
which summoned the British to surrender,
now tremulous with deep emotion, said
“In your mother’s child, —in your mo
ther’s !”
Sacred to the heart is the memory of a
mother’s love!—AWs Gazette.
.aunOnn iUalmtflS—for Ltlnn XXVtiI),
THE SACRIFICE OF CHRIST.
“ For by one offering he hath perfected for ev
er them th it are sanctified.”—lfeb. x. i4.
The law was only the shadow of good
things to come; all its services and cere
monies formed but the threshold of that
magnificent building of the Gospel temple,
which is consecrated with richer blood, and
more costly sacrifices, and associated with
nobler designs. Paul argues the superior
ity of the Gospel to the law in a most mas
terly manner; and, among other consider
ations, he adduces t.ie variety of sacrifices
that were offered by the priests under the
law, whereas Jesns our great High Priest
has rendered a perfect atonement by one
offering.
A gracious cause. The sacrifice of
Christ.
It was absolutely necessary. Sin render
ed it so : it hid from us the Divine counte
nance, and shrouded our prospects in the
darkest gloom and despair; anil nothing
could reconcile God to us but the death of
his Son.
It was dearly prefigured. An impor
tance is attached to the Jewish rites an 1
ceremonies, only as they typified the grand
atonement of Calvary. The church of God
was then in its infancy, and these things
were as so many pictures and hieroglyph
ics, which served but for that period : when
our Saviour came, it had arrived at mere
mature years, and required no more those
types, because it had a clearer manifesta
tion of the Divine glory and grace: ere
long its hall attain unto the stature of a per
fect man, all childish things shall be put
away, and the Deity shall no more be seen
through clouds of incense and pillars of
smoke, or the dark glass of ordinances, but
face to face, without a veil between.
It was willingly made. He saw in dread
array all the sufferings and agonies he was
about to endure; yet he moved onward
with firm step and steady purpose, exclaim
ing, “ I have a baptism to be baptized with, •
and how am I straitened till it be accom
plished !” When in agonies in the gar
den, he said, “Not my will, hut thine be
done.” When apprehended, he did not re
sist. When he suffered, he threatened not;
and when reviled, he reviled not again. He
laid down his life for the world
It was infiinitely sufficient. The God
head of the Saviour made it so. Now was
the sword ol justice put again into its
scabbard, only to be uplifted against those
who despise the great salvation; mercy
and truth now smile on the brow of the
Great Eternal, and the way tog’ory is con
secrated ; the gates of paradise are opened,
and the voice of the Father is heard, “This
is my beloved Son, in whom I am well
pleased.”— Christians Treasury.
ffl is i Ail 4s B
LATIN POEM.
Mane veni; erat ver,
Atquo riti.
Meadiano tempore,
Verde ambul ivi,
Krat ajstas;
Atque gavisus Sum.
Cor.sedi vespert;
lirat autumnua;
Atque tristitia affectus Sum,
Node, quieii me didi;
Erat hyoms;
Atque dormivl.
W.m. Alexander.
teiy Young ladies should never object
to being kissed by editors; they should
make every allowance for the freedom of
the press!
The race of mankind would per
| ish, did they cease to aid each other. From
the time that the mother bathes the child's
head, till the moment that some kind assis
j tant wipes the death-damp from the brow
of the dying, we cannot exist without mu-
J tual help. Therefore, we have a right to
ask aid of our fellow mortals —Sir T 1 af
ter Siutt.
Elegance of manner frequently
supplies deficiences in character caused by
the absence of mental worth. Therefore,
no one should underate the polite and
graceful accomplishments which intercourse
with society imparts.