text: K. Ik \ x/ A vX d \ A --—/th / rk.... _. jHw jtywfc^Biwstf ®. Qz 0.. ■ h.. --.’ <ll. X; ' Wli A! 3|AW|gS&— VOLUME MO. 51. RU 8 E B'o mME il v iEL E; OR, A HUSBAND’S MYSTERY AND A WIFE’S DEVOTION will; Walk WILLI Estrange Estrange F “You must promise me, Rosalia, as a further proof of your affection for me and mine,” said Albert, one day when sitting alone with her, “to extend your utmost care and tenderness to my poor, Rose, when I am gone; let her and Charles know my unhappy story, nor seek, dear Rosalia, to extenuate my guilt to them. Suffice it, that great as my sin has been, I can now feel that I am forgiven, and, were it not for the sweet innocent, I must leave behind me, should be thankful to lay down life's weary load.” “All that claims love or care, from you,” she replied, gently, “will ever be loved and cherished by Rosalia, out the one you now recommend to my care is loved and treasured, for her own sake.” “I cannot attempt,” returned Albert, “even to thank you for all the kindness I have experienced.” Rendered at your hands, but God, while he punishes the guilty, never allows virtuous deeds to go unrewarded. He, dear Rosalia, will bless, and amply repay you for all. The little I have done, replied Rosalia, deserves not such commendation as you bestow; I have Charles from his birth, as though he were my own son—indeed, is he not the child of an only, and tenderly beloved sister? And as for Rose, your young and interesting wife, none, I am sure, could be long in her company and fail to feel a strong and endearing affection for her. I am content, replied Albert, to leave her to your tender care and keeping; you have known what it is to yourself to suffer grief and anguish of heart, and consequently are capable of administering to the sorrows of another. Although Rose entertained, as we have intimated, but few fears regarding Albert, yet she often felt grieved at his apparently desiring her absence. When Charles observed her fondness and preference for these flowers, that bloomed alike in her own native land, and learned from her lips the cause, he was seized with a similar passion for them, and the breakfast-table and library were always adorned with a fresh gathered bouquet, composed entirely of these flowers. This compliment to her taste and feelings could not, of course, be otherwise than gratifying to Rose, who repaid him with smiles and thanks — not that Rose was indifferent to the beautiful sweet-scented flowers of Italy, but when absent from our own, our native land, the slightest thing that recals it to our memory is ever loved and prized. This it was that made Rose, in one of the few rambles she took from the villa, delighted to come suddenly upon a field, covered with the richest white clover, intermixed with a variety of aromatic plants, which perfumed the air for some distance; but the walk which most pleased Rose, and which she was more desirous of repeating than any other, was by the sea-shore. Here she loved to wander, especially of an evening, when she could watch the setting sun and the up-rising of the moon, and then her thoughts would fly back to England, and she would picture to herself her joyful return to the friends she had left. Charles, as we have before intimated, manifested an ardent desire to learn all he could concerning England. I think, said Rose, when they were conversing together about her native land, "I must persuade your aunt to allow you to accompany us when we return thither, she surely will not be afraid to trust you with Albert and myself." The boy's eye brightened at the suggestion, and his face gave token of extreme delight, which vanished as the thought arose, that he should not be able to obtain Donna Rosalia's present. "I am afraid," he replied, "that my aunt will object to part with me, even for a few months; we have never been separated, and much as I am desirous, dear lady, of accepting your kind offer, would not perfect my own happiness at the expense of hers." Rose rejoiced to see this excellent trait in the boy's character, and replied, "Is it impossible, Charles, think you, to prevail upon her, to go with us likewise. I can promise you both a warm welcome from kind and affectionate hearts. Supposing Albert to be your uncle, you will find in his only sister, Marian, an aunt who will love you scarcely less than Rosalia." "And have I indeed, dear lady, an aunt in England? Tell me, does she resemble you? I mean is she fair, with light hair!" Rose smiled, as she replied, "No, dear Charles, she is on the contrary, dark, and much like Albert; she loved her brother, him whose tablet we saw in the cathedral, with the most devoted affection. I have heard her speak of him, in The warmest terms, and supposing him to be the father of yourself, she will, I am certain, extend her affection to you. Charles paused for a moment, and then said thoughtfully, — “I have often wished, but never, dear lady, had the courage (so fearful was I of offending you,) till now, of asking you to inform me of the particulars relating to the death of him I had convinced was my father; as Mr. Moreland’s sister spoke to you about him, she doubtless acquainted you with the manner of his death. I ask not now, for the purpose of seeking revenge; for your sake, I will forego all thoughts of such a thing; therefore, dear lady, I trust you will not deny my request. Not for an instant, dear Charles, would I, were it in my power to comply with it, but I assure you that it is not; when I left England, Marian fully believed him still living, and not the slightest intimation had I ever received of his death, till we discovered the tablet, which placed it beyond all doubt. Alas! then, replied Charles, I am convinced there is some terrible secret connected with his fate; the word? Of Mr. Moreland in the cathedral; assures me that he came by his death in an unfair manner. There is, dear Charles, said Rose, evidently affected, without doubt, a sad, and as you say, a terrible secret connected with it, but what that secret is, we cannot at present tell; has your aunt never mentioned him to you? Never, dear lady; of my mother she has spoken, and presented to me the locket containing her portrait, but when I have inquired for my father, she has answered me only with tears, and such bitter sorrow the name apparently awoke in her bosom, that I have forborne to press her on the subject. Can scarcely think, said Rose, looking earnestly on the youths that the brother of my Albert is the father of yourself, for Marian, as this moment told you, frequently spoke. Of him to me, and described him, as being fair, and light-haired as myself, while you, dear Charles, are very dark.” “So was my mother,” he replied, drawing forth the locket, and gazing on it, with tearful eyes, and pressing it to his lips, he exclaimed aloud, — “Sweet image of the sainted being who gave me birth, and in so doing, gave her own life in exchange for mine,—great indeed must thy sufferings have been, when thou wert doomed ere thy child saw the light to lose thy husband by the base hand of an assassin.” “Unfortunate being,” said Rose, “what joy she would have felt had she lived till now, and owned thee for her son.” “I was assured that my father was English, and that has ever given me an interest in the land of his birth,” replied Charles, “and if I can but prevail on my aunt to accompany you back to England, how delighted I shall be to visit that country.” “It is dear to me,” said Rose, “as being my native land, and with all that is said against its climate, I own I love it well, and though inferior in richness and beauty, for the sunny land of Italy, yet there are many sweet and pleasant spots to be found therein, which I would not exchange even for the verdure and fertility of Naples." “All you say, dear lady, but inspires me with a more ardent desire to behold it.” “And yet,” said Rose, smiling, when you notice it, will, I must no doubt, think my description partial. “You who have been accustomed from infancy to the splendid scenery of Italy, will scarcely think England otherwise than flat and uninteresting.” “I am least prejudiced in its favor, and prepared to love and admire it more than any other land on earth; and you, dear lady, will use your influence with my aunt to induce her to comply with our wishes.” “Marian would indeed be delighted to see you,” said Rose, half musingly. “But you will allow me to remain under the care of your aunt,” said Rose, half musingly. “But you will allow me to remain under the care of your aunt,” said Rose, half musingly. Same roof with you,” said the boy, while a shade of anxiety passed over his expressive countenance. “Surely,” said Rose, quickly, “if you desire it; though I know Manian will want you much.” With her, especially if you are the son of her brother Charles, to whom she was much attached, and even now, I fully believe, anticipates seeing him again," said Rose, the earliest opportunity after this conversation to mention to Albert her wish that Donna Rosalia and her nephew should accompany them, when they returned to England. "Charles has, dear Albert," said she, "a great desire to do so, and, if you persuade his aunt, I have no doubt but you would succeed in gaining her consent." Albert turned aside his head, but made no reply; Rose was surprised, but still more so on looking into his face to perceive that it was sweet with tears. "My dear, dear Albert," she exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck, "if I have offended or grieved you, pray, pray forgive me?" "There is nothing to forgive, my Rose," he replied, folding her in his arms; "heed me not, I beseech you," he added; as the tears still beewed his cheek. “I fell me, at least, the cause of your sorrow,” she returned, “that I may share it with you: you will not deny me, love, this gratification?” “I have none, dear Rose,” he replied, “and can only excuse myself on the ground of feeling weak and low this evening; do not allow it, my love to trouble you.” “I cannot help it,” replied Rose: “I thought dearest, that you had succeeded in entirely banishing melancholy from your mind.” “So I have, dear Rose, and I bless God for it, who has enabled me to feel that, great, as my guilt has been, it is, all forgiven; and you it was, my love, that first taught me to seek pardon of a God, and a merciful God; you have, my Rose, been of great service to me, more, less, than you are yourself aware of, and yet nice I wronged, deeply wronged, and suspected you, who was all purity and innocence.” “Mention it not, dear Albert, I entreat of you. Let us speak of something more cheerful than the past; you were not offended, dear est, at my proposition of taking Donna Rosalia and Charles to England with me—when we return thither.” “Certainly not, my love, but I scarcely think Rosalia will consent to do so.” “Why not, dear Albert? Charles is most desirous of going, and his aunt seldom refuses him anything.” “She has, indeed I have heard her say as much, a deep aversion to travelling, and you see yourself in what complete seclusion she lives.” “She does, dear Albert, and yet I think she might be prevailed upon, for the sake of her nephew.” “Well, my love,” interrupted Albert, “there is plenty of time to consult her on the subject; we do not propose leaving here for several months, and we know not what may occur in the interim.” “Days and weeks glided smoothly and happily along. Rose and Albert frequently heard from their relations and friends in England, and as frequently forwarded them accounts of their own welfare. Albert’s health gradually, but certainly declined, of this himself and Donna Rosalia were perfectly aware; but Rose, unfortunately, saw it not. On the contrary, it was perfectly evident that she nourished the brightest hopes for the future. "Poor child," said Donna Rosalia, one evening, when Rose, who had regained much of her own light and buoyant spirits, fondly kissed Albert's cheek, and left the room to take her accustomed walk round the grounds with Charles. "Poor child: she little dreams how ill you are, or in what danger she stands of having you snatched from her. The blow will descend the more heavily by coming upon her unprepared; it would be a kindness, Albert, to inform her of your danger." "Not for the world, dear Rosalia," he returned. "I once never thought to have seen her so well, and at the same time so cheerful again; and oh! I feel it indeed a blessing to see her thus restored to her wonted health and spirits. I am now content to die; and though I am convinced that my death will wring her heart with anguish, yet why should she be grieved before the time? Sorrow will come upon her soon enough; then force not the ten from her eye, while there is no cause for her to shed it. Consider, dear Rosalia," he continued; "that though we are both aware I never can recover from my present indisposition, yet I may live for many months, and it cheers my heart, and makes me thankful to see her happy; and though I know the fond hopes she cherishes, can never be realized, yet never by word or action will I consent to dash the cup of joy from her lips till it is inevitable, and then, I trust, she will bear my loss with resignation." To your kind and tender care, I leave her, and you must promise me, that should she desire to return to England, you will yourself accompany her, and restore her safe to the arms of my fond parents. Rosalia seemed struggling with an emotion that choked her utterance, and kept her for a few moments silent; but, even in the meantime, she answered it in her own low, silvery tones, “Your confidence in me is not misplaced; when you are gone,” and she seemed to utter the words with difficulty, “Rose shall share my kindness and affection equally with Charles, and willingly give you my promise never to lose sight of her so long as I live, if, indeed, it is (as it most naturally will be) her desire to return to her parents, I will myself deliver her to them. Nothing shall she require that love and tenderness can procure.” “I thank you,” replied Albert, “and I know I can depend on you. This is not the first time I have delegated to you the office of friend and comforter, and well I know you performed the trust." “Not only for your sake,” returned Rosalia, “for I was equally interested in the file of a sister, and now I look upon Rose as my child; her sweet disposition has so endeared her to my heart, that I feel for her as if she really bore that tender relationship.” Their conversation was here interrupted by the return of Rose and Charles: the evening having turned out wet, had driven them back again to the house. Although Albert was certainly sinking under the effects of disease, yet sometimes he was so well as to be able to join Rose in her walks, while at others he was confined to his room. It could not of course escape Rose’s notice that he was frequently very unwell; but then, seeing him again so much recovered, and at all times more cheerful and talkative than had been usual with him previous to his arrival in Italy, she indulged, as we have said, in high hopes for the future, and spoke of her own, and Albert’s restoration to health in her letters to her parents and brothers with so much confidence, as to fill all their hearts with joy; and, like her, they fondly pictured the happiness of the return once more to them. Already, in imagination, they viewed her blooming in all sweet charms of health and joy. These feelings were fully participated in by Lucy, now Lady Mortimer, and her brother Henry. A melancholy had marked his demeanor ever since the departure of Rose; but now that Lucy read to him with beaming countenance, the letters she received from her friend, containing so pleasing an account of her renewed health, and which throughout breathed an air of cheerfulness that had of late been foreign to Rose, a happy and delighted surprise filled the breast of Henry. To know that, she was well and happy, constituted the greatest joy his heart could feel. It had pained him, more than any but himself ever knew, to witness the sad and melancholy change that had taken place in Rose, and which he had dispaired of ever seeing removed. It was, therefore, with a joy, in which no selfish feeling mingled, that he became sensible, through her letters, that she was once more the gay and light-hearted Rose she had been in days gone by. Charles and Rose were particularly partial to the library, and therein they spent some of the happiest hours the youth had ever known; it was such a delight to have a companion who could understand and appreciate his admiration for the best English authors, who encouraged and confirmed his taste for all that appertained to England, loved as being the native land of a father he had never known, and fondly did he cherish the idea that he should visit it in the company of her who so unconsciously won his youthful heart, and content he would have been course of the land other feet, and hear her discourse of the land of her birth; and already was the boy familiar with the names and excellent qualities of those who were dear to her, and loved them because she did the same. “Dear lady,” said Charles, as seated in the library facing a large gothic window of stained glass, which commanded an extensive view of the shrubbery, which was thickly planted with orange trees, citrons and a variety of other aromatic plants, and bordered on each side by a row of exceedingly large-American aloes, numbers of them being in full blossom—“dear lady, how pleased I should be to see the friends that had been so kind to you, especially her you call Lucy, I love her now from your description alone.” “And you would, dear Charles, much more if you came to know her, she is all that is kind, gentle and generous. Oh! none; indeed, that ever knew Lucy, could help loving her; and I, more than others, have reason to love and remember her, for she nursed me through a long and dangerous illness, and clung but closer to me in sorrow and distress.” “Dear, noble lady,” replied Charles, with an air of almost reverential affection, “I hope one day to see, to know her, and love her as you do.” Their conversation was here interrupted by Donna Rosalia, who called Rose from the room, saying she wished to speak to her for a few minutes. “Boy,” rejoined Albert, “how dare you speak thus to me?” “How dare you insult me!” replied Charles; “boy as I am, I will not bear it patiently,” and he laid his hand upon his stiletto. “It is your duty,” returned Albert, “to submit to me; you owe me duty and obedience?” “I owe it to you!” said Charles, “I understand not your words.” “I nevertheless speak plainly, and again repeat what I before said—that you owe implicit obedience to me.” “Who are you, then, that have a right to exact such from me?” replied Charles. [To be continued.] Questions in Surgery.—“Do wounds of ten heal by the first intention?”—“Not when the patient is rich and the surgeon is poor.” “When does mortification ensue?”—“When you pop the question, and are answered no.” NEW YORK, SUNDAY THE CHILDLESS. JAMES ABDV. When I think upon the childless. How I sorrow for the gloom That pervades the silent chambers Of their still and joyless home! They do not hear the gleam of infant voices sweet. The gush of fairy laughter, Or the tread of tiny feet. Their hand the little shining head Can never fondly press, They never on the coral lip Impress a warm caress; They never hear a lisping tongue Pronounce them in prayer. O Watch beside the cradle Of a slumbering calm and fair. Their age is dull and lonely; In the solemn hour of death No fond and weeping offspring Receive their passing in death: And they feel the hollow nothingness Of honors, lands, and name, Knowing that those who love them not The heritage must claim. Thus I sorrowed for the childless, But, ere long, in happier mood, I thought how Providence overrules Such earthly thing for good: With the pleasures of the parent Their lot I had compared, I felt not upon the trials And the troubles they were spared. They know not what it is to stand An infant sufferer by— To mark the child's cheek, The bright and restless eye; And feel that in that feeble breast, That form, of fragile make, Their happiness is garnered up, Their earthly hopes at stake. They know it, as the mind unfolds. How hard it is to win The little heart to cling to good, And shun the ways of sin; They reck not of the awful charge. Amid a world of strife. To train a tenant for the skies, An heir of endless life. They see not the small coffin laid Beneath the heavy sod, Striving to school their bursting breasts To bear the stroke of God, Then turning to the dreary home, Once gay with childless mirth, To a few the silent nursery— The sad, deserted hearth. Yet, is it not a blessed thought That we have One above Who deals to us our varied gifts With such impartial love? Let not another's favored lot. Out anxious minds molest; God knows alike his need and ours, And judges, in the best. He wisely with some shadowy cloud. O'erspends our brightest day; He kindly cheers our deepest gloom. With Some benignant ray: And we may safely rest on him, Whose loving mercy lies Not only in the good he sends, But that which he denies. Was it not in the good he sends? [Original] Briefs of the Hero. NUMBERFORTY. Theophilanthropists. This name was adopted by a sect of religious philosophers, who, in Paris, in 1796, published a creed or catechism, entitled, “Manuel des Theantropiles." This creed was received with such favor, as in a short time to have many professed adherents; and its doctrines were in accordance with the name: lovers of God and man. They held that the universe is the only temple, worthy of the majesty of God—that, the fittest place to worship him was under the azure vault of heaven—and the fittest worship such adoration and gratitude, as a contemplation of the grandeur and beauty of nature must inspire. We cannot give a better idea of the principles of this creed, than by copying some of the concluding passages of the Manual to which we have above alluded. “If any one asks you what is the origin of your religion and of your worship, you can answer him thus: “Open the most ancient books which are known; seek there what was the religion, what the worship of the first human beings of which history has preserved the remembrance. There you will see that their religion was what we now call natural religion, because it has for its principle, even the author of nature. It is he that has engraven it in the heart of the first human beings, in ours, in that of all inhabitants of the earth; this religion, which consists in loving God and cherishing our kind, is what we express by one single word, that of Theophilus. Thus our religion is the of our first parents; it is yours; it is ours; it is the universal religion. “As to our worship, it is also that of our first fathers. See, even in the most ancient writings, that the exterior signs by which they rendered their homage to their Creator, were of great simplicity. They dressed for him an altar of earth; they offered him, in sign of their gratitude and their submission, some of the productions, which they held of his liberal hand. The fathers exhorted their children to virtue; they all encouraged one another, under the auspices of the Divinity, to the accomplishment of their duties. This simple worship the sages of all nations have not peased to profess, and they have transmitted it down to us without interruption. “If they yet ask you of whom you hold your mission, answer: we hold it of God himself, who, in giving us two arms to aid our kind, has also given us intelligence to mutually enlighten each other, and the love of goodness to bring us together to virtue; or God, who has given experience and wisdom to the aged, to guide the young, and authority to fathers to bring up their children.” “If they are not struck with the force of these reasons, do not further discuss the subject; and do not engage yourself in controversies which tend to diminish the love of our neighbors. Our principles are the eternal truth; they will subsist, whatever individuals may support or attack them, and the efforts or the wicked will not prevail against them. Rest firmly attached to them without attacking or defending any religious system; and remember that similar discussions have never produced good, and that they have often tinged the earth with the blood of men. Let us lay aside systems, and apply ourselves to doing good: it is the only road to happiness.” Thus, the religion of the Theophilanthropists was that of Adam, and his immediate descendants—of the patriarchs, and such as we may suppose that of the Jews to have been before Moses, when there was no Bible, and when men offered their pure and simple sacrifices, upon altars of turf or stone, without temples or priesthood. But though the Theophilanthropists held the great temple of nature to be the most proper for religious service and worship, they built places convenient for assembling, to hear discourses upon the works of God and the duties of man. These were of the most simple character. Certain moral inscriptions upon the walls; a simple altar, on which was deposited baskets of fruits and vases of flowers, as tokens of gratitude to the Giver of all blessings; and a tribune for the speakers, were all their ornaments. Upon the walls of the room were five inscriptions. To constantly recall to the minds of the members of this sect the principle of their faith; and these we give in their order. FIRST INSCRIPTION. "We believe in the existence of God, and in the immortality of the soul." SECOND INSCRIPTION. "Worship God, cherish your kind, render yourselves useful to your country." THIRD INSCRIPTION. "Good is everything which tends to the preservation or the perfection of man. Evil is everything which tends to destroy or deteriorate him." FOURTH INSCRIPTION. "Children, honor your fathers and mothers; obey them with affection; Comfort their old age. Fathers and mothers, instruct your children." FIFTH INSCRIPTION. "Wives, regard your husbands as the rulers of your households. Husbands, love your wives; render yourselves reciprocally happy." We do not know whether the oct, of which these were the established maxims, now exists as a distinct and organized body, but this will be found to be the real creed of a vast number of persons in all countries, who, truly religious, adoring God, and doing good to man, yet profess no form of worship; and seeming to have no religion at all, have in reality, more than many of those who are devotees in external observances. To the Editors of the Sunday Dispatch: In your notice of the "Society of Friends" or "Quakers," I read many errors, which, in justice to them and to the public, need amendment. The first of which is contained in the assertion that this “sect is divided into two great bodies: the Orthodox, the Hicksites, the former being Trinitarians and the Latter Baptists or Socinians.” Here are two mistakes: The Orthodox, so called, are not Trinitarians, they expressly deny the term Trinity, as unscrupulous, utterly reject the word Pirson as used in that connection, and never have received the Nicene or Athanasian creeds as any part of their faith. The Hicksites or Friends have never acknowledged any other doctrine than those set forth by Fox, Penn, Barclay, and other Fathers of the Church, who while they disclaimed belief in all popular scholastic distinction in the Godhead, openly confessed their belief in, and allegiance to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, as revealed, in the Scriptures and manifested in their own hearts. It is difficult to conceive how a society acknowledging Christ in all his outward manifestations, and claiming him as their immediate leader, commander and mediator, can be denied the title of Christians, unless their general conduct should warrant the destruction. It seems wonderful in this enlightened age, that a whole society should be denied the benefit of their solemn declarations of Faith which have been before the world centuries and confirmed by recent official affirmations. L. The Pope threatens to excommunicate Austria. If so doing he can exterminate Austrian despotism, we hope he will go ahead. The revival of the power of Rome’s curse to compel thick-headed tyranny to get out of the way of progress, would be an event well worth hailing with three cheers. Not that we regard excommunication as a very serious matter, or hold it in much favor; but the good old Pope has a great battle to fight, and he must avail himself of all the means at his disposal. His magazines are not overloaded with powder, his arsenals not too well supplied with muskets; so, until he can supply himself with these news of war, and rouse all Italy to an assertion of her rights, he is justified in resorting to excommunication. For once, we hope that his curses will tell. Let him give it to the Emperor of Austria, as Pandulph (Shakspere’s report) gave it to King John: Then, by the lawful power that I have, Thou shalt stand cursed and excommunicate: And blessed shall he be, Praxilis— From his allegiance to an impetuous; And meritorious shall that hand be called, Canonized and worshipped as a saint, That takes away by any secret course Thy hateful life. [Original.] Skilled by the Captain. NECK OR NOSTRUM. “You sail tomorrow for Hayti, Captain?” inquired a bright-eyed, dark-skinned, but good-looking man, who might have been three or four degrees removed from the pure African — as he stepped over the gunwale of my little brig, in a pleasant morning in September, sixteen years. Aged. “Yes,” I replied, “I clear today and shall drop down with the morning tide.” “Any passengers?” “None.” “If I can get ready, I will take passage with you. My baggage, which is bulky, is ten miles from the city, in New Jersey. But Captain, should I go, could you manage to land me— I don’t care where so that it is on the Island of Haiti—by night, secretly I” and the man looked me steadily in the face, as he put the question. Hayti was then, as it is now and will be, until re-occupied and governed by the whites, unsettled—revolutionary. I at once made up my mind, that my copper-colored friend, albeit he spoke excellent English, was an exile from the Island, desirous of returning on some political enterprise, and very readily expressed, my willingness to take him and quietly put him ashore, as near St. Domingo, my place of destination, as he deemed it prudent to land. The next morning my dark visaged passenger came on board followed by a dozen trunks, which if not bulky were weighty, as the efforts of my men in lifting them, gave convincing evidence. He saw me eyeing his baggage curiously, and with a careless laugh remarked— “If they weigh enough, Captain, you will soon hear of a government overturned.” “Oho!” said I to myself, “I have indeed got a political adventurer in tow. Well let the devil look after his own color— I care not who wins.” I pass over. The incidents of the voyage, during which the impression was deepened on my mind that my passenger was destined to play the part of Cataline to an astonished audience of darkies in that strong hold of darkydom, Hayti. My promise was fulfilled. I put my friend with his heavy luggage safely on shore, pocketed the passage money, and had forgotten all about him, when he again presented himself to my notice. This time, however, he was not so cool. "I'm in a hurry to get away from this island," he exclaimed. “The devil you are!—did’nt the trunks weigh enough?” He grinned diabolically, but without otherwise noticing the remark, continued, “Captain, can’t you be off to night? Impossible. I have not cargo enough on board for ballast.” “Never mind the cargo. Rail tonight and name your price.” “It can’t be done—I’m chartered.” “Break the charter.” That will not do; but keep cool. You are safe enough. The brigantine Louisa sails tonight for New York. You can get on board of her.” “Impossible,” and the man's pallid lips quivered as he spoke—“they will watch her, knowing that she is about to sail.” “But I can arrange that if your baggage is not too heavy,” and I smiled as I spoke. “Be aboard here in two hours and will see you safe in the cabin of the Louisa. But oring lightweight with you, or the risk will be greater.” He shook my hand and deft me. I went on board the Louisa, told the Captain that a poor devil of a patriot sought the means of escape, and arranged the passage. When I returned to my own vessel, the supposed patriot was there, having in a very few minutes collected his effects and made ready for the flight. The cutter was lowered, and manned, and we got into it and quietly pulled out of the harbor. As the men gave way, my friend appeared to be greatly relieved. “It’s a dangerous game I’ve been playing,” he said. “And a losing one,” I added. That depends much on the weather, he returned with a smile. "But we shall hope in New York. Then, if not before, you know all about it." We lay off, at a distance of six miles, for the brigantine, which did not reach us until after midnight. The supposed patriot, the again exiled unfortunate, was handed over to the protection of the captain of the Louisa, and I returned to town with that pleasant feeling about my heart, which rises from the consciousness of a generous act performed. The next morning on visiting a coffee house, much frequented by merchants and captains, an unusual excitement attracted my attention. "What is the matter, now?" I enquired of an acquaintance. "Why have you read the proclamation of the government? Five thousand dollars for the head of a half-blooded African, who has covered the Island with spurious coin. There's the proclamation." I read the document: it offered a reward of five thousand dollars for—my passenger, the man had recently landed with his base coin on the Island, and as secretly aided in his escape. I felt exceedingly comfortable, of course, but said nothing. When I returned to New York, we met; but I did not renew the acquaintance. I have looked with suspicion on my political adventurers, especially tawny ones, ever since. The fellow made thirty thousand dollars by the operation; he risked his head, and but for me, he would have paid the forfeit. TOO3TAIN EASILY THE EQUIVALENT DE GREES OF THE CENTIGRADE AND FAH RENHEIT THER MO METERS. BY Mt. BRAILLY. In France, at the present day, they use the Centigrade thermometer exclusively—whilst in England and the United States they habitually employ that of Fahrenheit. The gravity of the scales of these two thermometers is very different. For the sake of brevity, let C designate the Centigrade, and Fahrenheit’s thermometer. The temperature of the melting of ice and that of boiling water 0.5 deg. and 100 deg. C. The corresponding points of F are 32 deg. for the melting of ice and 212 deg. for boiling water; so that the space from Odeg. to 100 deg. C, is equal to the space from 32 deg. to 212 deg. F—or 100 deg. C equals 180 deg. F; thence 1 C equals 95 F. One Centigrade degree equals nine-fifths of F degrees, and vice versa 1 F equals 5.9 C; one Fahrenheit degree equals five minutes degree C. With those proportions, one must multiply by 9 and divide by 5, or multiply by 5, and divide by 9—then adder subtract 32. So that to find the equivalent of Fdegrees in C, and reciprocally, one must go through the principal arithmetical calculations—such as addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. I have discovered a method by which the equivalents of these two thermometers can be easily attained. It will be very useful both to the French and English, who often have to account for that difference. The following is the way I arrive at it: 0.5 deg. C is the temperature of melting of ice—the corresponding temperature on the scale is 32 deg. One compares these degrees of the same kind, when one takes them at 32 F and upwards, to compare them with those of C. On the two scales it can be seen that the 50th F degree corresponds exactly with the 10th C. One must not think, however, that 50 F is equal to 10 C, for this is not the case—these two points correspond, express the same temperature, but they do not express degrees of the same nature, —they are not equal. On the contrary they express degrees of the same kind, and these can be compared: when one commences to count at 32 F, which is the temperature of melting ice, and the beginning of the C scale—thus 32 to 50, or rather 50—32, that is to say, 15 F equals 10 C. It can also be proved in this way: we have seen above that 100 deg. C equal 180 deg. F; this rapport, 100 equal 180, is not changed in dividing it so—10,000 is equal 180 less 10: these 10 deg. Cis equal to 18 deg. F. We can yet change so: 15 deg. F is equal to 10 deg. C, equals 9 multiplied by 1, equals 9 multiplied by 18-18ths. Now 9 deg. C multiplied by 18-18, is the half of 18 multiplied as many 1-18 as there are units in 18. Making a general rule from this, we say, to change F to C degrees, it is sufficient to count the F degrees from 32, which is the melting of ice, above or below: then take the half of the number and add to it as many 18ths as there are units in this number. For instance: let the temperature be 68 degrees F, one must say from 32 to 68, or 0.32 equals 30, the half of 36 is 18, plus 36, 18, or 2 make 20; thus: 68 degrees F equals 20 degrees C. Again, let 77 degrees F be the number, 77 degrees F is equal to 45, the half 221, plus 15, 18, or 21 gives 25 degrees C. Again, let it be 11 degrees F, from 32 to 11, there are 18, the half is 9 plus, 18, or 1 equals 10. But as these degrees are below 32, or the melting of ice, which is 0.62 degrees F. so 14 degrees F equals 10 degrees C. 