The Rising Generation. The Deserted Children. 1841

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Jeffersonian Republican. April 14, 1841 || Sunbury American. May 8, 1841 || The Caledonian. August 17, 1841 || Daily Bulletin. December 1, 1841

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The Rising Generation

We once “visited” a country school in Pumpkinville, kept by a Mr. Obadiah Snooks, between a clump of alder bushes and a noted frog pond. The object of our visit was of course, to see what progress the “rising generation” was making in the walks of literature and science; and we can assure the reader that we came away highly gratified, and much [more] amused.

Having seated our dignified self in the master's arm-chair, we threw one leg over the other—looked as serious as a psalm book, and waited for the first exhibition.

“Fifth class take their places to read,” was the grand signal for an attack on our gravity; at which command out scampered into the middle of the floor an interesting looking lot of urchins, truly! unwashed, unshod, unshorn and uncombed was the general aspect. After they had writhed, twisted and squirmed through the reading of their monosyllables, came on the spelling! Tim Titmouse, whose tow frock and check apron ornamented the foot of the class, was a “buster” at spelling. Witness his efforts:

“Timothy, spell hoax.”

“H, o, e, ho—a, x, ax,—hoe-axe.

“The next,” &c.

“Toe the mark, Timothy, and spell goat.”

“G, o, go—i, t, it—go it.”

Next came a class in parsing.

[Master reads] “Boys are more studious than girls, Ichabod, parse boys.”

“Boys is an indefinite article—imperative mood, singular tense, objective case, and agrees with girls.”

“Give your rule.”

“Conjunctions always connect sexes and all kinds of genders.”

We sat as composedly as a keg of oysters all the while they were committing an assault and battery upon poor Lindley Murray and never uttered a word in his defence.

“Class in geography” was the next move.

“What are the chief productions of Connecticut?”

“Onions, red flannel sassengers and wooden clocks,” cried a furzy-faced goslin from a back seat.

We then began to think about making tracks; but Mr. Snooks said he should like to have us hear his first class read—and so we halted, a chapter in the New Testament was selected—and all went on smoothly and eloquently till some Johnny Raw came to a certain verse which he rendered thus: “He saw Abraham afar off and Leather-ears in Boston!”

We grabbed out hat, and shot out of the school-house like a streak; and have ever since kept clear of those places where they teach young ideas how to shoot so outrageously!—Sunday Mercury.

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The Deserted Children.

“I will record in this place,” says Mr. Flint, in his Travels of America, “a narrative that impresses me deeply. It was a fair example of the cases of extreme misery and desolation that are often witnessed on the Mississippi river.

“In the Sabbath School at New Madrid, we received three children, who were introduced to that place under the following circumstances. A man was descending the river with three children in his pirogue. He and his children had landed on a desert island on a bitter snowy evening in December. There were but two houses near, and these at Little Prairie opposite the island. He wanted more whiskey, although he had been drinking [it] too freely. Against the persuasions of the children, he left them, to cross over to these houses and renew his supply. The wind blew high, and the river was rough. Nothing could dissuade him from this dangerous attempt. He told them he should return that night. He left them in tears, and exposed to the pitiless pelting of the storm, and started for his carouse. The children saw the boat sink before he had half crossed the passage—the man was drowned.

“These forlorn beings were left without any other covering than their own scanty, ragged dress, for he had taken his blankets with him. They neither had fire nor shelter, and no other food than uncooked pork and corn. It snowed fast and the night closed over them in this situation. The oldest was a girl of six years, but remarkably shrewd and acute for her age. The next was a girl of four, and the youngest a boy of two.

“It was affecting to hear the oldest girl describe the desolation of heart, as she set herself to examine her resources. She made her brother and sister creep together and draw their feet under their clothes. She covered them with leaves and branches, and thus they passed the first night. In the morning, the younger children wept bitterly with cold and hunger. The pork she cut into small pieces [and made them chew corn with these pieces]. She then persuaded them to run about by setting them the example. Then she made them return to chewing corn and pork. It would seem as if Providence had a special eye to these [poor] children, for in the course of the day some Indians landed on the island and found them, and, as they were coming up to New Madrid, took them with them.”

Deaf, Dumb and Blind Intercourse. 1841

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The Friend. A Religious and Literary Journal. 1841, July 31

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For “The Friend.”

THE VERMONT MUTE.

It may be recollected by the readers of “The Friend,” that a little girl, a native of Vermont, like Laura Bridgman, deaf, dumb and blind, was, about six months ago, taken into the Perkins' Institute, at Boston, by Dr. Howe, with the intention of educating her, if practicable. She was then a most unpromising subject, her intellectual powers appearing to be quite dormant, while her unamiable propensities were in full activity. So bent was she on doing mischief to all who approached her, that it was exceedingly difficult to hold any intercourse with her, and the worthy doctor in his efforts to soothe her turbulent nature, even found it expedient to protect his face with a mask. Perseverance, guided by benevolence, and a happy art which the doctor possesses of winning the affections of those placed under his care, have at length been attended with success; the unruly spirit has grown gentle, and the first glimmerings of light are breaking upon the darkness in which it has hitherto been enveloped.

The following account of her progress is from the pen of Dr. Howe. Some farther particulars promised by him to his correspondent will be looked for with much interest.

“I am happy to tell you, that after nearly six months apparently vain efforts, we have at last opened the means of communication with the mind of an unfortunate deaf and blind girl from Vermont.

“You know that she was very wild—almost savage when she was brought here, and that she wore her head in a bag. For a long time she not only was sullen and unsocial, but she furiously repulsed all attempts to teach her, and would not submit to any endearments. So intractable was she that I feared she might be insane. When she grew more docile, she submitted indeed to the attempts to teach her arbitrary signs, but was entirely passive, and utterly unconscious of the process to which she submitted. Her mind, entirely unused to reflection, seemed enshrouded in darkness and stillness, as profound as that of the tomb, and only at times manifested mute amazement; but at last it seemed to seize upon the clue which was offered to it, and by that clue is now guiding itself out into the light.

“She is now manifestly aware of the nature of the process to which she is subjected; her countenance is alive with a human expression; she comprehends the signs and names of several things, and begins to ask for more. The most delightful part of it is, that little Laura is a most ardent and useful coadjutor in the work of enlightening Lucy.”

New York Cabs: Abuses and Charges. 1841

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New-York Tribune. August 19, 1841

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CABS AND CAB-OWNERS.—We have on file some dozen communications complaining of impositions and abuse from Cab-drivers, and asking us to aid in securing redress. We would gladly do any thing in our power; but how? Merely pointing out individual offenders will not answer. Neither are appeals to the City authorities good for any thing. The law is bad enough which fixes the rate of fare for a one-horse vehicle the same as for a coach, but the construction is a good deal worse than the law. For instance: the law says a passenger shall be conveyed any distance less than a mile for 37½ cents; but the drivers so modify the law as to charge invariably 50 cents whenever called to take a passenger to a boat—no matter how short the distance. Again: if you are conveyed less than half a mile, make a call of an instant, and are driven straight back to the Cab-stand, the drivers claim the right to charge you seventy-five cents, but will sometimes forgive you a third of it! Their rule implies that if you hire a Cab and make ten calls, all within half an hour, they are entitled to ten fares, or the modest sum of $3.75! No wonder that Cabs abound—on the stands—at such prices.

Now it is perfectly idle to appeal to the City authorities to correct these abuses; if they had been disposed to do any thing, it would have been done long since. You might as well appeal to the modest, intelligent, and gentlemanly conductors of public vehicles themselves. But there are among the owners of Cabs and Coaches many honest and enlightened citizens, and we appeal to them for a correction of these glaring abuses. Their interest clearly demands it. At present, a man acquainted in our City very rarely calls for a Cab when he can possibly avoid it. In Philadelphia, the charge is uniformly twenty-five cents for carrying a passenger with reasonable baggage from any depot or landing to any point not more than a mile and a half distant. The consequence is that nine-tenths of the persons arriving there ride of course; while here four-fifths—we think nine-tenths—of those who have no women or heavy baggage with them, step off to their hotel or residence on foot. This is just what might be expected.

If the owners of Cabs will but hearken to us, hold a meeting, and establish a fair tariff of prices—say 25 cents for one or 37½ for two passengers conveyed any distance less than a mile, 37½ cents for two miles, and 50 cents per hour with one or 62½ with two passengers when employed over an hour, charging, as it just, for the time required to return to their stand when dismissed, they will make a great deal more money than now and give general satisfaction. They could stipulate an extra charge at unreasonable hours or for driving during a storm, neither of which contingencies is now provided for. They could establish a reasonable charge for stoppages, and for waiting the arrival of passengers before 6 o'clock A. M. if they chose. We assure them that, by coming into such an arrangement voluntarily, they may more than regain the popularity which the Cabs once had and now have not—why, it can hardly be necessary to repeat. If they do not choose to take this advice but prefer to let their Jehus treat each passenger as though they never expected to get another, the time must come when Omnibuses will run to the Steamboats, and the passengers, instead of walking up by the side of the empty Cabs as they now do, will be satisfactorily and cheaply accommodated.

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New-York Tribune. August 24, 1841 [Added: 2014-09-24]

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☞ We trust all our City friends take care to patronize the CHEAP CASH OMNIBUSES when they ride. They should make a point of so doing. To the rich, the difference in price is not an object, but it is so to others, and for their sake the affluent should mind this matter. The tickets were always an unmitigated nuisance, and what you gained by the wholesale price you lost again by losing tickets, so it came to about a shilling a ride after all. Then you generally found that the line whose stage you had got into “didn't take them,” or it was after dark, or something or other was the matter, so you would find yourself out at the elbows when you had relied on the tickets, and perhaps had no change by you. Now you take your ride, pay your sixpence, and there's an end of it, without annoyance or vexation. If our citizens will but act for the pubic good and their own, we believe the ticket nuisance and slippery prices will be abandoned within a month.

In the Name of Our Society! T. Jefferson. 1793, 1841

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New-York Tribune. August 17, 1841

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THE INDIANS.—We are often disgusted by articles in our journals moralizing over the stern necessity which is driving the Indians westward and sweeping them from the face of the Earth! 'Necessity—the tyrant's plea'—or say rather, the villain's. There is no such necessity, any more than there is necessity for Piracy, Murder or the Slave-Trade. We have wronged and robbed them because they were weak and we strong—because they had lands and we coveted them; nothing more. The history of the last ten years has been especially black with outrage and crime; and the cruel, perfidious exile of the Cherokees stands prominent among the National crimes which arrayed the moral sense of the country against the last Administration and ultimately ensured its downfall. Can the pretended admirers of THOMAS JEFFERSON read the following extract from his writings without shame and remorse:

“I considered our right of preemption of the Indian lands not as amounting to any dominion, or jurisdiction, or paramountship whatever, but merely in the nature of a remainder, after the extinguishment of a present right, which gave us no present right whatever, but of preventing other nations from taking possession, and so defeating our expectancy; that the Indians had the full, undivided, and independent sovereignty, as long as they chose to keep it, and that this might be forever; that as fast as we extend our rights by purchase from them, so fast we extend the limits of our society, and as soon as a new portion became encircled within our line, it became a fixed limit of our society.”

May Day of New York. Ignorance in USA. 1838

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The Caledonian. May 5, 1838

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The following amusing article from the New York Express, will give the reader an idea of the 1st day of May in that City, when a large portion of its inhabitants change their residence.

A WEEK OF UNHAPPINESS, NEW YORK IN TRAVAIL. May day is coming, every body knows—not the sweet May day of the Poets, known in England, or known in our Southern land, the May day of Flowers, and Balls, and Poesy,—but the May day of New York—the Rent Day—the day of whitewashing—of cleaning and scouring and trucking and removing—when wives, sisters, and sweethearts even, are cross—when there is not a place for a man's foot even in his own house, or his hat—or his coat, and when he goes hungry and wet, and torn, and ragged—the most miserable of all the days of his life. Home is topsy-turvy. The carpet is up, and is being shaken. The chairs are piled on heaps. The old chests are ransacked, and disgorged of their contents. Boots long thrown away come to light. The spiders are hunted down. The cobwebs are gathered together. The broom pursues you in every nook, and by-place, and there is no couch for your wearied body, nor resting place for your unhappy foot. The dinner is picked up, and what a dinner! The odds and ends of every thing are hashed. The calf mingles with the sheep, and the ox and the hog embrace each other. The remnants of forty days plenty eke some ten days of fast. Dishes go through all sorts of metamorphose. The boiled victuals of to-day become the baked victuals of to-morrow, and then baked is turned into fried—and the fried then goes back to the boiled, and becomes fricasseed, so that of what beast man is eating, or on what vegetable he lives, no human power can tell. Oh, save us from this week of moving.

It may be, gentle reader, that you may be so happy as to have a fixed home, and not a home on trucks, that the cartmen cart about the every first day of May. But of such home you cannot now sing, “sweet home, there is no place like home.” Your wife, if you have one, and if you have not, not much matter now, beyond a doubt has at least two negroes whitewashing with all their might and main. Your breakfast is mingled with whitewash, and your supper too. Every thing in your closet is put in a state of disorder. Be you invited out, you have not a vest, it may be, that you can find, or a stock, or a collar, or a shirt, that can be found till it is too late to go abroad. Do you wish to read? there is not a book to be found,—or to write? there is not a leaf of paper unsoiled, or your manuscripts are put in irrevocable disorder. The women are cleaning, you are told,—or, horror on that word, or reforming, and all mankind must be made miserable till the reform is over.—The first week before May is thus made a week of misery, and the week after, there is no peace for this misery. Your wives, or your sisters, or your sweethearts, are turned into hags almost in their dresses. They get up in their nightcaps, and keep them on till noon. They go slipshod, and have holes in their hosiery. Their curls are wild draggling things that straddle down their cheeks. The red flies from their lips, and the coal dust gathers on them. There is not a chance for a kiss even,—and as for a blush, it cannot appear thro' the thick cloud of dust they have round them. With them, it is all broom, broom, broom. They broom you as you enter the door, as you eat up the picked up dinner of unmentionable things jumbled together,—and they sweep you at morning, and they sweep you at night; and with them, it is all 'sweep, oh! sweep,' from the rising to the going down of the sun.

But then even this picture is a Paradise, compared with the fate of him, who is a moving. Three hundred thousand people all in one day a moving! Think of it, reader in the Country, and think of the sad fate of the denizen of this city. The spectacle is already beginning to be. The beds are emptied into the streets, and the straw fire is blazing. The bedsteads, and trunks, and old chests, already line the side walks. Many a head now rests itself on the carpet on the floor, with but the cloak for a covering. The whole city is like a Tartar tent. We are all Loco Focos,—all squatters now,—all wandering Arabs. We don't live anywhere,—we only stay. We have no home, or what we have, we only divide another. As our wives and children go out one side of the door, some other body's wife and children are going in. What scowling there is, from woman to woman! How the young cherubs fight over the fragments of cradles, about cats, and kittens, and pokers and shovels! How the keen eye of scandal runs wild over another's affairs domestic, and how the sharp tongue waxes warm in hitting off this woman's bedclothes, or that man's wardrobe! The secrets of sly piles are discovered,—and the concealments of a year are dragged forth to light.

Happy on a moving day, is the humble Irishman who, with his wife, can shoulder his bed and bedding, and walk off with all that is his own. The more things a man has then, the worse for him. But what is a man good for on the day of a moving, but to be the butt of his wife, and to bear her wrath with the patience of a Christian. He cannot fold bed quilts well; he cannot take care of the pots and kettles. If the mirror is broken he is held accountable. If the sofa is scratched, he is scratched too. In whatever damage is done, all the scolding falls on him. A blockhead he must be expected to be called,—and if his head is not made a block of, thrice happy he. A woman is not expected to be a woman on a day of moving. She turns Furiband,—and has its prerogative.

After all, though the people in the country do have mud and mire,—no side walks,—no theatres,—no concerts,—no steam ships,—but few Balls, and less fun and frolic than we, yet they have a home, and are not all a moving on the 1st day of May. When they die, they are not dug up as we are. When they steal, their neighbors know it, whereas we don't know those who live next door to us, and might be sent to Sing Sing, and we never find it out. There they can have scandal, and tea parties, and taste all the tit-bits of gossip going about, but the city is too big for them. For our dirt and bricks and mortar they have flowers, and mud and mire, that they wallow in, on the roads. But they don't move, all of them on the 1st day of May, and are not then all made miserable at once. They are not scoured, cleansed, and whitewashed to death by their wives, or their mothers,—for if they are, we pity them from the bottom of our hearts. And is there no way for us to escape it? Can no physician discover a state of torpor that can be returned from? Is there no medical trance in which we can sleep a fortnight, or must we take,—and if so, oh, do let us take it with philosophic devotion.

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The number of children in the U. S. is estimated at four millions—of this number it is stated that one million are growing up without being instructed in reading or writing! Many thousands of the signatures of petitions to Congress consist merely of the marks of individuals who are unable to write their names! Such deplorable ignorance ought not to exist in this country. If we wish to transmit our republican government to posterity, we must extend the opportunities for intellectual and moral instruction. INTELLIGENCE and VIRTUE are the only safeguards of our free institutions.

“Dow, Jr.” Short Patent Sermons. 1841. No.90. Old Maids and Matrimony

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NUMBER XC. ON OLD MAIDS AND MATRIMONY.

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TEXT.—There lives no goose so gray, but soon or late
Will meet some honest gander for its mate. —ANON.

MY HEARERS—It is my intention, in this present discourse, to pour the balm of consolation into those festering wounds of doubt and despondency, with which that unfortunate class of beings, called Old Maids, are so severely afflicted. If I, Dow, Jr., the high-pressure preacher, fail in affording them that consolation which they so earnestly desire, and so much stand in need of, their cases must be desperate indeed, and past medical, moral, or ministerial skill. We know very well, my friends, that women are not all geese, neither are men all ganders, however striking the analogy may be in particular instances; nevertheless, I can make an application of my text. It ought to be a source of great gratification for that portion of the female sex, whose hopes of matrimony are time-tattered and teasing, to know that every goose—no matter how old it may be—will, sooner or later, find some honest gander for its mate; and yet when I tell them that the reason why every goose finds its gander is solely because ganders are allowed a plurality of wives, I don't know but they will sink corset-deep into despair, and give up for lost. Yet it is so, my friends. Geese always outnumber the ganders; and were it not that the latter possess themselves of more than one wife each, thousands of the former would be destined to pick their grass in solitary pastures, and die mateless. Now, when we come to allow the necessary deduction for the havoc that war, intemperance and other contingencies make in the ranks of the male part of mankind, we shall always find that the petticoat tribe claims a vast majority throughout the world. How, then, are they to get married unless a plurality of wives is allowed? Now, I don't like to preach up any doctrine that is calculated to go against the popular grain; but my private opinion, publicly expressed, is, that the present artificial state of society is an outrageous encroachment upon the rights and privileges of the female sex, and that polygamy is in as perfect accordance with the laws of God and Nature as is the union between five gray geese and a white gander. It was practised in the good old primeval times, when nature ruled rather than fashion; and the women were all happy then, if they were not so wise and wicked as now.

My friends—I know full well that there are thousands of old maids, covered with the mildew of age and despondency, who would rather have a half, a quarter, a fifth, or even a decimal of a husband, than no husband at all; and it is a sin and a shame that such vast quantities of heaven's most precious material should be allowed to perish in celibacy, because the matrimonial market is monopolized by the miserable minions of a corrupt and venal custom. As the world is constituted, one man can better maintain three women than one woman can provide for herself; and posterity instead of suffering in consequence, would increase like grasshoppers in the middle of August. It was intended by the all-wise Maker of the universe that every woman should have her mate, as well as every goose its gander; and that she should accomplish before death the great end for which she was created. Therefore, if there be a superfluity of the feminine gender in the world, they ought to be divided off into parcels, great and small, and every man choose for himself according to the power of his physical strength—the length and breadth of his affections—and the depth of his desires. Every unmarried female has an indisputable claim upon the love of some man; and what, allow me to ask, my friends, is the use of that love unless it be boiled down and sugared off in the golden kettle of Hymen? None at all. You might as well undertake to suck honey from the contents of a barn-yard because bees do the same, as to suppose you can taste the true spice of love till it is partaken of in the cake of matrimony.

My dear females! The chances for all of you being made happy in the holy bonds of wedlock look rather scrumptious, I must confess. My heart is full of the soothing syrup of sympathy for you; but that can never alter the decrees of fate. If it is ordained by Providence that you are to die old maids, my preaching can no more avert the doom than it can abolish the everlasting established system of future punishment. When the summer of your lives is drawing to a close—when your rosy charms are beginning to fade like the sprigs upon your calicoes—and when, like leafless, vineless squashes, you have grown withered and yellow in the dole October of existence—you will find that Cupid will disdain to frequent your autumnal bowers; and the shrubs of hope that line your pathways to the tomb, may put forth buds in abundance; but, depend upon it, they never can blossom in the frosty atmosphere of age. Nevertheless, my dear feminines, if you do but attend well to the garden of the mind, in life's early spring—plant in it the seeds of virtue, modesty and wisdom, and ornament it with the flowers of learning, it will present greater attractions for gentlemen of worth, than all the silks, kids, ivory, paint, curls, gum, whalebone and hog's bristles, that ever a nymph of the pave lugged down the lane of sin to perdition. If you only behave yourselves, and keep letting out a hem at the bottom of your frocks as you grow tall amid the vices of the world, and don't flirt too much while the feathers upon the wings of vanity are beginning to start—you will, in all probability, be lucky enough to amalgamate according to your individual desires, and put forth sprouts that shall bear sprouts to sprout again from posterity to posterity. So mote it be!

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(...if wish a goose thou be!)

“Dow, Jr.” Short Patent Sermons. 1841. No.17. Nothingness and Uncertainty of Life

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NUMBER XVII. ON THE NOTHINGNESS AND UNCERTAINTY OF LIFE.

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TEXT.—Oh how uncertain and how brief is life,
And yet how full of sweetness!

MY HEARERS—The more I reflect upon the matter the more fully am I convinced of the evanescence and the nothingness of life. What is it but a bubble floating down the stream of time? Now it glides over a placid surface—now it dashes to and fro amid the rough breakers—and now it bursts up and disappears in the dark wave of eternity! What is it but a vapor that creeps for a while along earth's checkered vale, and then rises to its native heaven? What is it but an empty dream—an imaginary entity—as void and as vacant as the deserted shell of hope? It is any thing that's fleeting, brittle or unsubstantial. And what is man? Nothing but a mass of dirt scraped up from the fallow, and destined to dance and skip for a short time, under the influence of life's exhilarating gas, then to be carried back upon death's sable cart, and emptied upon the soil from whence it was gathered.

Oh, my dear friends! when we look about us and behold what multitudes are daily entering the dark portal of the tomb—and how even the mourners themselves are hourly casting off the black habiliments of sorrow, and donning the white robes of the grave, we cannot but be impressed with the solemncholy idea that our turns must all soon come to partake of the same cold supper—which means, as my friend Shakspeare says, not to eat, but to be eaten. The worms of the clod will soon hold a festival in the skull that is now peopled with a thriving generation of ideas; and every heart, now beating with the fullness of hope, must, ere long, forever cease to throb. The thin casement that encloses the immortal spirit of man is as brittle as glass; and a gentle rap of disease, if it do not entirely demolish it, may so shatter it that all the medicated putty in the universe can't hold it together. The gossamer threads that are woven in the web of man's mortal existence are so fine in texture and so feeble in strength that the slightest breeze of physical affliction will sometimes snap them asunder, and leave them dangling in the dusky sepulchre, like so many superannuated cobwebs in the corners of a miser's hovel.

My friends—the uncertainty of life is as certain as quarter-day. I have seen new-born babes imbibe the poison of death with the very gasp that gave them existence. I have seen infancy creep into the grave, and give back its life into the hands of its Maker, unused and undamaged. I have seen childhood and youth kicked out of the world as though they were committing depredations in its flowery garden, and had no business to occupy even a niche in the broad empire of animated nature. I have seen manhood fall from the topmost cliff of ambition ker-swash into the depths of nonentity, and lie forever buried in the turbid wave of oblivion. I can now see old age knocking at the door of the tomb, and begging to rest his weary frame within its sacred walls, where no earthly jars can disturb its slumbers. Yes, my friends, old Time, in his mowing, takes a sweep from one side of creation to the other, and all that comes within the reach of his scythe must fall to fade and wither. Before it, life's fragrant posies yield up their sweetness like new-mown clover, and the incense is borne to the realms of that Almighty Power which gave it. How unwelcome the thought that life, so full of the highly concentrated compound extract of sweetness, should be so brief!—that the candle of existence should so frequently cease to burn before the tip end of the tallow is fairly consumed!—that it should so soon, at best, flicker in its socket, and the melted grease of mortality run down upon the cold clay of the grave!

My dear friends! on this occasion, all the lighter feelings that pertain to human nature have deserted the domain of my heart, and have left nothing instead but a vacuum of solemnity. A man is dead! he was nothing more than a man—but it is something to be a man in these degenerate days of hypocrisy, conceit and selfishness. Yes, the man whom we had but lately chosen from a body of seventeen millions to preside over, govern and direct the political affairs of this free and independent nation, is now no more! His immortal spirit has flown to join companionship with those of his five illustrious predecessors, whose souls, I have reason to believe, are in heaven—whose bodies have returned to dust—whose noble virtues are embalmed with the incense of memory—and whose names are written high upon the obelisk of fame, to be read and remembered by the children of posterity. Yes, my friends, he who but yesterday, as it were, was crowned with the costliest coronet of honor, has now gone to furnish no better food for the worm of the valley than the beggar who dies for the want of a crust. Those eyes that so lately surveyed the thronging multitude, and witnessed the sincere manifestations of a nation's respect, are now fastened together with the adhesive glue of death, to gaze no more upon the world's busy scene. Those hands, which formerly received the congratulations of thousands, are crumbling to ashes in the mouldering sepulchre; and that generous bosom, once warmed with the fires of patriotism that blazed upon the heart's living altar, is now as cold and inanimate as the marble that covers it. I hear a funeral dirge in every breeze: the sun, to me, is clothed in sackcloth: the eagle perches upon the cypress, and droops its wings in sorrow: the stars that spangled upon liberty's banner are darkened with the emblems of grief: mourners fill the streets: and a wail is heard throughout the land for the loss of one, who, through the all-wise dispensations of Providence, yielded up the trust confided to him by his fellow countrymen while the blossoms of hope were in their fullest bloom.

Such, my friends, is the frailty of life—such the insignificance of human greatness—and such the vanity of all earthly expectations. Death shows no preference for the humble tiller of the soil over the king on his throne. The high, the low, the rich, the poor, the beautiful, the ugly, the fat and the lean, are all slaughtered indiscriminately, and packed away in that turf-covered house appointed for all living. Man surely is but a shadow and life a dream!

Reflect, my friends, upon what feeble, dying insects you are, that crawl for a day along the sunny path of existence, and then are crushed into the dust to inhabit the earth no more. Oh, think of this, and live, while you live, in the daily expectation of dying, so that when you die, you may die in the expectation of living. So mote it be!

THE SMUGGLER'S DAUGHTER by Miss M. Miles. 1839, March [fiction]

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The Lady's Book. March, 1839 || The Richmond County Mirror. March 23, 1839

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Written for the Lady's Book.
THE SMUGGLER'S DAUGHTER.
BY MISS M. MILES.

STAR after star had come forth, and the clock of the old church of the village had pealed forth the midnight hour as Roland Cranstoun knelt for his mother's blessing. On the morrow he was to go forth from the familiar scenes of his boyish days, to tempt the wild waste of ocean; and the sweet spell of poesy was on his spirit as he murmured forth

“Pray for me mother, pray that no blight
May come o'er my hopes and prospects bright,
Pray that my days may be long and fair,
Free from the withering touch of care”—

And most fervently did the mother's prayer go up amidst the deep hush of the midnight.

Roland Cranstoun's step had ever been amidst lordly halls; but his father was dead, leaving him but a younger son's portion and a haughty spirit for an inheritance. The army was open to him, and soon the name of Capt. Cranstoun was read in the public papers of the day, and that his regiment was ordered abroad.

“What! though these broad lands are mine, brother, are not our hearts the same as in the days of our boyhood? Is not one home large enough for us both? Stay with your kindred, Roland, stay to witness my happiness, and my sweet Anna shall be to you a sister.”

Roland Cranstoun wrung his brother's hand with strong feeling, and there was a slight quiver of his proud lip as he answered: “I know your generous spirit Henry; I know what I sacrifice, but you must have the means of supporting the dignity of our ancient house, and I could not brook dependence. Do not tempt me my brother; I must go forth unshrinkingly.”

The mother felt he had chosen the wiser part, and strengthened him with counsel and prayer. It was his last evening in his home; and each loved haunt had been visited again and again. Each old tenant had been up to the Abbey with a tear in the eye, and a kind word for master Roland; and with much emotion had he wrung each toil-worn hand. The evening wore away, and with a kiss upon the cheek of his new sister, and a smothered God bless you, as he returned his brother's embrace, he broke from the family circle, and when all preparations were made for his departure, early the next morning sought his mother's chamber for her parting blessing.

The morning dawned fair and bright, but there was a “vacant seat at board and hearth;” and the inmates of Cranstoun Abbey felt as if one gleam of sunshine had departed from their dwelling:

Speed on, speed on, thou gallant bark!
Thy flag is waving free,
And let the ocean caves give forth,
A fitting minstrelsy!—

And Roland Cranstoun was pacing the deck of the gallant ship with a thoughtful brow but proud step, as the merry shores of England receded from view.

“Whither are those sighs wafted, Cranstoun, my good fellow?” asked a brother officer, upon whose arm leaned a young and beautiful female. “Is there any maiden fair

“Weeping in lonely bower?”

“No! I am free, but my thoughts were homeward bound, Sedley!”

“So would mine be,” replied his friend, “but that this foolish girl chose to leave home and kindred to follow a soldier's fortunes;” and the look of fondness that he cast upon the young being beside him, showed how much he felt her devoted love. “Come, I must introduce you to Mrs. Sedley.”

Roland turned to greet her, and inwardly wondered that the fragile girl before him should ever have dreamed of tempting the dangers of the sea. A feeling of pity for a moment took possession of his heart, for he as yet knew not woman's strength in her hour of need.

Sedley and he had been friends from their earliest days; but the former's duties the last two years had cast their lots in different places; and it was with all the warmth of kindly feeling that they met previous to their embarkation on board the same ship. He bad recently married his cousin, and to Roland she soon became almost as a sister; so confiding was she in her friendship for her husband's friend.

“Do you know who that young girl is, Roland,” she asked one day, just as they came in view of their “destined haven;” “I have noticed her earnest gaze more than once, fixed upon you. There is something singularly beautiful about her face.”

“I have seen those brilliant eyes before, I am sure, but where I cannot think. There, she has vanished again. They say yon dark-browed subaltern is her father, and that he has forbidden her appearing on deck. Her face haunts me like some vision of my childhood.”

“Her name is Florence, so I heard them call her,” said Sedley joining them, “but her father, Cranstoun, do you know him?” and a shade of anxiety passed over the face of the speaker.

“No! I know no one of the name of Ridgley; why do you ask?”

“Only to bid you be on your guard; I fear he means you some evil.”

“Me!” but ere he could give expression to his astonishment, the glad shout of the seamen and soldiers, as they neared the shore, called off their attention and the conversation dropped.

“Spain! sunny Spain! Oh, there is breathing beauty beneath thy skies,” murmured the young officer as he was wandering forth one evening. His regiment was stationed not far from ——, the then seat of war; though as yet they had seen no actual service. He was alone and sad, for his dreams were of the “ancient Abbey;” and the voices of his kindred seemed blent with the evening wind sighing through orange groves. The shadows of night were beginning to fall ere he turned towards his quarters. Suddenly a sweet and thrilling voice warbled close to his ear—

“There's danger when the soft winds sigh,
And stars beam out in yon sweet sky—
There's danger in the star-lit path,
The warning comes from one of earth.”

Startled, he darted forward to discover the hidden songstress, but he caught only a glimpse of a slight figure as it disappeared amidst the grove of limes. The warning was evidently intended for him; but he was perplexed and amazed. Who in this stranger land could do him injury; and who, for the voice was that of a female, should take this interest in his fate? But he was not long suffered to indulge his meditations. A bright weapon flashed before his eyes, and he found himself attacked by three ruffians. Determined to sell his life as dearly as possible, he drew his sword, and for a few moments kept them at bay. He had received a severe wound in the shoulder, and was fast losing strength from the effusion of blood; a sudden faintness was stealing over him, and he sunk to the ground; but ere the bared knife of the taller ruffian had reached his heart, a shout recalled his fleeting senses, and Sedley and a band of his gallant soldiers burst upon them. One of the ruffians was killed, but the others escaped. The body was recognized as that of a peasant, who was supposed to hold communication with a well known brigand band. Cranstoun's wound was not dangerous, but it was of such a nature as to prevent him from using his arm for many months, and he soon obtained leave of absence; though inwardly murmuring that his proud hopes of distinguishing himself in the approaching strife, were crumbled to the dust. The laurel wreath he coveted was not to grace his brow.

Home! home! was his thought; and all preparations being made, he was to start on the morrow. He was sitting with his friends beneath the sweet moonlight, that was resting on the mouldering ruins of what was once a palace, belonging to some proud grandee, whose very name had died on time's records.

“Would that I too could see the faces of mine own,” softly whispered Mrs. Sedley, through her tears. “Mother! sisters! you will see them all, and tell them that their Flora's heart is often with them.”

“But still, my Flora would follow me to share my dangers and privations,” said Sedley. “Does she now repent? The soldier's bride must give up much, but the soldier's heart feels deeply her devotion.”

“Never, Horace! Your lot is mine;” and her eye was lifted to his face, with a look he could not mistake. “But, even you sometimes long for a sight of old England; and Roland will soon see her dear shores.”

“Turn! turn! from fair England, there's death in thy path,
Tho' her bowers may smile the fairest of earth;
There's danger around thee,
Its meshes have bound thee,
And mourning shall be in the halls of thy birth.”

Every one started up as the words fell upon their ear, chanted in a low sweet voice, yet distinct enough for them to catch each sound. They searched the ruins but could find no trace of any one's having been secreted there.

“Strange!” exclaimed Cranstoun. “That I have some enemy I cannot doubt; but from whom come these mysterious warnings? I will stay and unravel this plot.”

“Do not stay, Roland,” said Sedley earnestly, “Nor seek England either. Distrust not this second warning; I will endeavour to find some clue to this labyrinth. You must leave to-morrow, but your destination must be a secret, and a chosen band shall guard you beyond the reach of danger. I suspect Ridgley has something to do with these dark doings; for I have seen such a look of scowling hate upon his dark face, when his eye has been bent upon you, as has curdled my very blood.”

“But why should he seek my destruction? I know not the man, except as one who holds aloof from all companionship with his fellows. Why should he thus pursue me!”—and his haughty brow darkened as he looked at his disabled arm. “Could I but wield my good sword,” he fiercely added, “I would soon call him to a dread account.”

Mrs. Sedley laid her hand upon his arm imploringly, “Roland, Roland, beware! there may be more listeners beneath these sweet skies than you wot of now. Hush! for pity's sake, and let us leave this spot.”

“Yes!” said her husband, “for you know mine are only conjectures. We can bring forward no proof of this man's villainy. Let us be wending to our own dwelling, and there we can form our plans.”

And they left the old ruin, with the sweet moonbeam resting peacefully on the desolate ruins of halls, where mirth and music once had been. Their forms were nearly hid from view by the embowering trees, when a dark figure came forth from behind a ruined arch, and gazed after them with a fiend-like smile upon his face.

“Ah! go forth Roland Cranstoun, with your lofty brow and stately bearing. Go forth with your sage advisers to 'scape me—Ha! ha! my coils are round thee, and I will compass sea and land for revenge. When your heart's blood is red upon my blade, then, only then shall I rest satisfied.” And he shook the bared weapon tauntingly in the direction they had taken.

Suddenly a young girl sprung forth, and knelt low at his feet. The shadows of sixteen summers could hardly have touched her fair brow, and there she knelt,

“With head upraised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art”—

but no sound broke the deep silence.

“Lelia!” and the tones of the voice were stern and low, “what do you here girl?”

“Father!” and the thrillingly sweet accents came like music on the ear. “Father! by the memory of my sainted mother, abjure this dark deed. Are we not forbidden to take vengeance?”

“Tush, girl, have I not told you that blood alone can wash out the memory of that hour. And mark me, Lelia, I do distrust you of late. By my faith I believe you entertain some girlish affection for this same youth. Ha! do you dream one of the proud Cranstoun's race would wed a smuggler's daughter. Lelia, he dies by my hand—and you, girl, may wear the willow if you will.”

The maiden sprung to her feet: “Beware, father, or you will find your child has some portion of your own spirit. Taunt me again with my deep love, and I will say one word that shall give you to a dungeon and chains. I love you not, father; and but that I promised my gentle mother, on her death bed, to watch your dark course, I would go forth a wanderer through the world. I tell you again, that I will warn Roland Cranstoun—and the knife shall reach the heart of your daughter ere it be stained with his life blood;” and with a light step she bounded away.

“Fool! idiot that I was to trust her,” muttered the man as he slowly followed.

Cranstoun was in Venice, and two months went by without bringing any solution of the mystery; the third found him laid low with fever. In his delirious dreams he fancied that the mysterious warnings were again on his ear, and he was conscious that a gentle hand smoothed his pillow, and held the cordial to his parched lip. A long heavy sleep fell upon him; when he awoke, he saw one in the garb of a sister of mercy by his bedside; he was too exhausted for speech; but she held a cooling draught, and put her finger to her lip in token of silence. In a half dreaming state he again sunk back, but not before he was conscious of looking upon a face of exceeding beauty. A heavy step was heard outside of the door—it opened, and the dark-browed figure of the ruined palace softly entered the room. Cautiously he stole towards the table, on which was many a drink and medicine.

“Simpletons!” he muttered, “they are afraid of the fever; and laud me for braving the danger for my friend. Well friend, let it be, this powder will give him short shrift, and 'tis surer than the dagger or knife;” and he turned the contents of a small paper into a small chrystal cup that held some prescribed drink, and hastily left the room. Roland saw the whole, and knew 'twas Ridgley's form and face, but he was too weak to raise his voice or hand. But there was one other watcher, the fair being who was watching his weary couch. She sprang to the table, and with a glance at the contents of the cup dashed it to the ground, where it shivered into a hundred pieces. It was poison.

The stars looked down in their quiet beauty, and the soft air of evening, such an eve as is only met with beneath Italia's skies, was stealing gently into the sick room of Roland Cranstoun. He was reclining on a couch propped by pillows near the open window, and there with an anxious brow was Sister Theresa.

“Tell me your name, sweet lady? It is strange that one so young and fair should keep such fearful vigils by my couch.”

“'Tis my vocation to soothe the sick and sorrowful,” answered she in tones of music.

“Surely I have heard that voice before, and met a face strangely like thine. But my head is weak yet, and I cannot recollect. Surely it was not always Sister Theresa.”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and ere she could reply, it was burst hastily open, and the glad greeting of Horace Sedley fell like a tone from home upon the yearning heart of the sufferer.

“Now the blessed virgin be praised,” murmured Sister Theresa, and the shade of anxiety passed from her brow.

“Sedley, my dear friend, where do you come from?” exclaimed Roland, as he warmly wrung his hand—“I thought you still in sunny Spain.”

“No! my old uncle has departed this life, leaving me heir to his wealth and titles—a good long rent roll mine is too. I immediately sold out, and shall expect you to receive Sir Horace Sedley, and lady, with a deal of form and ceremony.”

“What, is Flora with you?”

“Yes! Nothing would do, but the silly girl must see Italy, though she has since confessed that she had a presentiment you were in some danger.”

“And so I have been, Horace, from more than one cause—Ridgley has been here, and though this gentle maiden warded off the blow, and from her lips I can gather nothing, yet I am confident he has attempted to remove me by poison.”

“Ah! I was just going to say that Ridgley deserted but a few weeks after you left. Can he be taken, his fate is certain.”

Sister Theresa laid her cold hand on Sedley's arm—“Guard well your friend—my duty calls me away, there is danger around him—and as he values life let him leave not this room till I bid.” And gathering her veil about her, she glided from the apartment.

Sedley started—“Why, Cranstoun, that surely is the same voice that I heard in the old ruin.”

Conviction flashed upon Roland's mind. Yes, he was sure he had heard those thrilling tones before, and met that sweet pale face. “Sedley—yon beautiful being is certainly a guardian angel by my side. Is it not strange that fortune should have singled me out as the hero of a romance like this—I would give my good sword to know what the end will be.”

A gondola is gliding swiftly o'er the blue waves, and the moonlight is giving a silver gleam, and the soft evening air just curling their surface—strange that evil thoughts should have place in such a scene of loveliness.

“Antonio, I tell you that twice, thrice I have failed; that girl is my bane. I verily believe that there is an evil spirit in that beautiful form to circumvent my designs. Before her only do I quail. Take her off my hands, and gold, aye, gold beyond your thought shall be yours.”

“Ridgley, I have told you I love the girl, and I will be kinder to her than her own father—but she hates me, I read it in her eye”—

“But nevertheless shall wed thee to-morrow, Antonio, she shall be yours. And then, when you have borne her afar, you, boy, shall know the depth of Ridgley's hate.

The gondola glided onward, and those dark spirits formed their plans for the morrow.

Silence was in the streets of Venice, as Ridgley entered his temporary dwelling. A young fair girl had laid her weary head upon her arm by the open window, with only her own clustering ringlets for a screen from the night air. The step roused her from her slumbers, and springing up she stood erect before him.

“Lelia, I have blithe news for you. To-morrow, ere the sun goes down, you will be the bride of Antonio Montoli; am I not a kind father to provide so well for you?”

The beautiful being before him raised her eyes to his face. The rich colour that had tinged her cheek faded away, and gave place to a marble paleness. There was a smile on her father's lip that the maiden too well understood.

In a moment her resolution was taken.

“Father, for naught have I to thank you, save for sending me to the convent where I early learned lessons of Christian love and duty. For the education there received, I do thank you; for it has fitted me to fulfil higher duties than fall to one of my station. But, father! you have reviled and tormented me. You have turned the sweet waters of affection to bitterness. I have borne all in silence, but father, henceforth our destinies are sundered for ever. I will not give my hand to your match—I will die sooner—no force shall compel me. Father, farewell for ever.” And she turned to go forth a wanderer from the home of him who should have shielded her from harm.

But the passions of the parent were roused, and he sprang forward and grasped her fiercely by the hand. There was a glitter of something in the moonshine—but with a powerful effort she burst away.

Mrs. Sedley was anxiously awaiting her husband's return, when her servant ushered into the apartment a muffled figure. She started up.

“Lady, fear nothing,” said a low sweet tone that thrilled to her heart. “Lady, I claim your protection;” and whilst she held one hand pressed to her side, with the other she flung up the veil, and discovered the features of Florence Ridgley.—Mrs. Sedley uttered an exclamation of wonder.

“Lady, I am alone in the wide world, and throw myself on your protection. My strength is fast failing me—I am wounded, and by my father's hand.”

She sunk upon a couch pale as death, and Mrs. Sedley saw with horror that her hand and dress were stained with the dark current that was oozing from her side. In terror she despatched a servant for her husband and medical attendance, and then applied what means she had within her reach to staunch the wound. It was not deep, and after dressing it, the English physician, who had attended Cranstoun, enjoined strict quietness; and having administered an opiate, left them.

Two days went by, and Roland was impatient to breathe the fresh air of heaven. Sister Theresa came not, and the third, in spite of Sedley's remonstrances, he determined to accompany him in his carriage to the —— Villa, which he had hired during his stay. His foot was already on the step when the click of a pistol fell on his ear, and a ball whizzed past him. Involuntarily he started back—it saved his life, for in another moment William, his faithful English servant had caught another from the hand of the assassin, and fired it; the man fell with a groan, disclosing the dark features of Ridgley. He was conveyed into the very room in which he had attempted to poison Roland.

A priest was soon sent for, at his own request, to shrive the dying man, and Cranstoun bent above him.

He raised himself up.

“The sands are running low, my son,” said the holy man, crossing himself. “Is there aught on thy conscience?”

He replied not, but turning to Roland with a look of undying hate, hoarsely cried—“Do you remember the smuggler's cave by the sea shore, near the village of A——, in merry England, Roland Cranstoun?—Aye, do you remember when a youth, you wandered to the lone spot one summer eve. One met you and warned you to depart; but you, with your fearless daring, would go on. The man laid a strong hand on you to turn you back, and your fierce spirit was roused, and with the bitter words of 'dog and smuggler,' you struck him a blow in the face. The remembrance of that hour has never been washed away, and in it was sworn a deep oath of vengeance. Look at the subaltern Ridgley, and read in his countenance the name of Matteo Levesci; a name at which you have often quailed in days gone by.

“I have followed your footsteps, and vengeance would have been mine, but that, dolt that I was, I trusted a child with the secret. She warned you well—my malison be on her head for it. I hate you with a bitter hatred”—and clenching his teeth he sunk back.

It all came back to Roland Cranstoun's memory. The sunny spot and the dark cave that had beguiled him from his home in the days of his boyhood to see what treasure it contained, and the bounding step, and bright beautiful smile in the fairy-like child who often stole away with him by the sea-shore, when the smuggler's bark was afar; and the moment of passion in which that blow had been struck, and the disappearance of Martin Walters soon after. It all come back to him like some half-forgotten dream. Now he knew where he had heard the voice, and met the eye of the young girl whose kindly warning had so often saved his life; and he turned shuddering away from the dark page of human passions which Walters' life presented. Ridgley waved them all from him, and desired to be alone with his priest. When the old man came forth from the chamber, it was to say that his soul had gone to its final account.

Gently as possible was the news of his death communicated to his suffering child. A feeling of pity and horror at his impious end was all the emotion it could excite. His own hand had torn asunder the strong ties of filial love.

“No! no! my sweet Lelia, as this is your true name, I cannot so soon part from you. Immure yourself in a convent for life—No! you shall go back with me to England, and be to me a sister.”

“But, kind lady”—and her tones were

——“Musical, but sadly sweet,
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,”

“I have none to welcome me there. I am poor and alone. Few years may go by ere I shall be as one forgotten, whilst you, and those with whose destiny mine has been so fearfully interwoven, will be in halls of gladness and mirth, surrounded by all you love.”

“Never, Lelia, never,” exclaimed Cranstoun, who stood now before the astonished girl—“never—I love you, Lelia—nay, turn not away; and it must be as my bride that you again go forth into the world that has so sorely tried your youth.”

“But I am not of your faith or country, for my mother was an Italian, and I am poor in wealth and name.”

“My kindred shall be thine, Lelia. They owe you a deep debt, it shall be repaid in affection; and though our creeds differ, our hearts worship the same being.”

Still she hesitated, and flush after flush was mantling her cheek and brow. She, the smuggler's daughter, to be the bride of the high-born Cranstoun, and carry naught of dowry to him. There was woman's strong love, and stronger pride, contending for mastery.

Lady Sedley took her hand—“You are young, Lelia, to quit the bright world, and pass years of lonely vigils and penances. Think deeply—a happy home, and affection's spells may yet be yours.”

The maiden's face was bowed down, but not before one single word had pledged her faith to her lover.

“Why, you all look in sober guise,” exclaimed the gay voice of Sedley, about half an hour after as he entered the room. “But cheer up, Cranstoun, there is blithe news from fair England. My old uncle, with the eccentric generosity that characterised him, has left you the pretty estate of Mossville, with sixty thousand pounds to support its dignity, in consideration of the affection he bore you in your childhood—so runs the will, a copy of which has just reached me. I give you joy, Cranstoun, for I have still more than I know well what to do with. So my pretty little Lelia will have almost a fairy house, for Moss-side is a little paradise.”

Home, home—the “Old Abbaye” is in sight, the gates are thrown open, and Roland Cranstoun is again in the midst of his kindred. The mother blesses her son, the brother grasps his hand, and they turn with deeper blessings upon the head of the beautiful being beside him, whom they greet as his bride. She had saved their Roland from death, she had watched him in sickness in a foreign land, and their hearts yearned towards the stranger. Never was such a joyous peal rung out, or did the old walls resound to such shouts of merriment as shook them that eve, for there were warm hearts to welcome back the wanderer; but, there was a deeper well-spring of happiness in his soul a few months after when his young wife had been converted to his creed, and knelt a humble worshipper at the same shrine of prayer with himself.