Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854, 1852-04-11
CHAPTER Xxx.

ISpend an eUenlng IN the PeTusGS Of the
manuscript.
Not word from Covert Was not the
silence Ominous But any way, Martha
was out of his power; and we had that i'm
portant possession which is nine'points Of the
law
Ethraim heard from Hoboken in the course
Of the day. ALL went smoothly there. Ma
thaniel came in on his way home, to say that
the office, with the exception Of himself and
his dog, was quite deserted, he also having
received, from his master, no word or com
mand that day.
did not altogether like this stiffness, for
1 feared Covert's craft, and, that there might
be something behind, Of which was not yet
aware My reflections convinced me, how
ever, that there was no better course for
our side, than to keep quiet. and let the en-
emy make his move for himself
The hour was yet early when 1 retired to
my room that night, and placed my lamp on
the table. had been pretty seriously i'm
pressed with the occurrences Of the past few
days, and with the reflections in the grave
yard of Old Trinity. 1 took from the drawer,
where l had deposited it, the manuscript
written by the unfortunate father Of the
Quakeress; for felt that l was in a fitting
temper to read it.
When 1 had removed the envelope, and
opened it, found the manuscript written in
hasty and often scrawling manner, evident
ly under the influence Of excitement. 1t
was upon the strong stiff paper used many
years since, and still renamed in perfect
preservation.
That it interested me completely, and that
1 felt deep sympathy for the unfortunate
gentleman who had committed it to paper, is
certain. Time and his punishment obliter-
ated any thing that might otherwise have
been resentment in my feelings toward him !;
and his story came to me more like some
thing might read in book The tone Of the
narrative is morbid, but under the circum-
stances that must Of course be expected.
NARRATIVE OF 0IARTHA's FATHER.
Whoever you are, inte whose hands this
dismal story may fall-oh, let me hope that
my daughter may read it, and drop a tear
for her parent-Whoever you are, whether
daughter, friend, or stranger, begin my
narrative, written in prison, to while away
the heavy hours and leave the chance Of one
little legacy Of sympathy for myself, by
command.
Look around you on the beautiful earth,
the free air, sky, fields and streets--the peO-
pie swarming in all directions. this is
common you say it is not worth thought
1 once supposed thus, like you. But sup
pose 50 no longer. Now all these things
seem to me the most beautiful objects in the
world. To be free, to walk where you will
to look on freedom-to be free from care,
too--by which mean, not to have your soul
pressed down by the weight of horrible obi
um or disgrace not to have o dreadful pun
ishment hanging over you-O, that is hap
piness.
Happiness Alas, what absurdities pass
among men, under the name.
Happiness l am in prison, with death
perhaps waiting for me- and write some Of
my thoughts on happiness.
Is there, indeed, no specific for the enjoy
ment of life Come we here on earth but to
toll and sorrow--to eat, drink, and beget
children--to sicken and die In that world,
the heart of man, glisten no sun-rays, and
bloom no blossoms, rs in the outer world
And love, and ambition, and intellect, and
wealth--fountsins whence, in youth, VIC ex-
pect the future years to draw so much Of this
happiness--as their fruition comes, does not
disappointment also come
l would that the Devil in the garden Of
Eden had been made to tell the young man
what it was that led to felicity. That in
these modern days, the pursuits in which
men engage with SO much ardOr-the men all
around us--d0 not reach it, is evident -
Wealth cannot purchase it. The newspa-
pers every month contain accounts Of indi-
viduals, assuredly prosperous In all their Pc
cuniary affairs, and some Of them young and
healthy, who in the very midst Of what the
poor think perfect bliss, have committed
self-murder. The successful seeker after
rank and place is not happy, from that
success, at least The most learned scholars
are often the most melancholy men in the
world Beauty grieves and pines as much as
the brain which wears homely face. Ele-
CANT dress frequently covers a sick soul
and the furniture of O handsome caTrisge
may be but the trappings of misery.
Then among the buster and more laborlng
kinds of people, the same general absence Of
happiness prevails. It seems reasonable
that he whose existence is one uninterrupt-
cd struggle to keep off starvation by slavery
aud hard work at that--should see but few
bright days But the man whose labors are
effectual, fares little better. The mechanic,
tho ploughman, the literary drudge, are
alike debarred from any delicious experience
of that sweet morsel we so much prize, but
never obtain. 1 am speaking now, not Of
the goodly Qualifications Of sense or every
day tastes, which are common enough-but
Of the attainment, at any time, to that con-
dition when o man can say to himself, feel
perfect bliss, have no desire ungratiGed.
Am not philosophic, here in my grated
walls' Do you not gee how keen my sight
has become And truly it is consolation,
in this sort, to think what miserable world
il is