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manner of their teaching. All these difficulties we are laboring to surmount, but find it no easy task.

It is with pride that I inform you of the steady increase of our Order here, and also of the laudable industry which many of our younger members are exhibiting to obtain a perfect knowledge, not only of the real objests, but also of the work of our beloved Order. Nothing but the depression of the times has retarded our progress of this instances are daily occurring, and if business was better I have no doubt that numerous applications would be made of such, as when the trial of the faith and fortitude of an Odd-Fellow shall be required, would not be found wanting. I also add a list of Grand Officers, to serve until June, 1843. M. W. G. Master, JAMES CURRY,

P. G.-P. H. P.
R. W. D. G. Master, EZEKIEL Salomon, P. G.-P. C. P.
R. W. G. Warden, (Vacant)

P. G.-P. C. P.
R. W. G. Secretary,


P.G.-R. P. D.

Missouri-Extract of a letter from D. D. G. Sire Wm. S. Stewart, dated

Saint Louis, February 1, 1843. I leave here in a few days for the interior of the State to open a new lodge-on my return I shall go to Arkansas. I think between this and the annual meeting of the Grand Lodge of the United States two other Lodges and an Encampment will be in operation in Missouri, viz: eight Lodges and two Encampments.

The following is a list of the officers of the Grand Lodge of Missouri for the present year, which you will please publish. ROBERT CATHCART,

M. W. G. Master.

R. W. D. G. Master.
Robert CAREY,

R. W. G. Secretary. Conrad Fox,

R. W. G. Treasurer.

R. W. G. Warden.

W. G. Conductor.
H. C. Katz,

W. G. Guardian.
Warren C. CORLEY,

W. G. Host.

W. G. Chaplain.

Extract of a letter from Grand Secretary Robert Carey, dated Saint Louis,

January 31, 1843. At the annual communication of the R. W. Grand Lodge of Missouri, held at their hall on the 28th day of January, 1843, P. G. M. William S. Stewart offered the following resolutions, which were on motion unanimously adopted.

Resolved, That the thanks of the Grand Lodge of Missouri are due, and hereby tendered to P. G. M. James L. Ridgely and G. Chaplain I. D. Williamson, for the able and satisfactory manner in which they conducted the correspondence (as Deputies

from the Grand Lodge of the United States) with the Annual Moveable Committee of the Manchester Unity of England.

Resolved, That the Grand Secretary transmit a copy of the above resolution to the Editor of the Official Magazine.

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My first, my holiest love-her broken heart
Lies low-and I-unpardoned, I deparı!

Felicia Hemans.

It was about the middle of July, when, after many invitations and broken promises, I set out to visit an old school-fellow, who had taken unto himself a mate, and was comfortably settled at a distance from the smoke and noise of the town in which I resided. A considerable portion of my way lay through cross-country roads and straggling villages, whose deep quiet had never been broken by the rumble of a stage-coach; I therefore mounted my steed, and proceeded at an easy pace, calculating to reach the end of my journey before nightfall. I trotted on for an hour or two pleasantly enough, alternately admiring the surrounding scenery, and recalling to my memory the many boyish frolics in which the friend I was visiting and myself had of old indulged. I had been for sometime absorbed in one of these remembrances, when I was awakened from my revery by the sound of distant thunder; and the hitherto unnoticed clouds, which I perceived gathering above my head, seemed the dark heralds of a coming storm. Urging my horse to a quicker pace, I was enabled to arrive at a small village before the loaded heavens discharged their freightage. There was not any place in the village designated by the name of an inn, and I found a difficulty in procuring shelter for myself and horse. I at length succeeded in providing my steed a defence against the weather in an out-building, and took up my own quarters in an old but comfortable. looking farm-house. The rain, that now beat violently against the windows, and the increasing denseness of the clouds, afforded me the prospect of a thorough wet day, whilst the only thing on which I could congratulate myself was, that I had escaped being drenched to the skin.

Washington Irving has well described the monotony of a rainy Sunday to one confined in an inn, but even there I am inclined to think more variety may be found than in a farm-house. A rainy day in the country is truly a dreary thing. There is certainly something to cheer and console a person in town, when confined to the house by incessant rain. Seated at our casement, what an idea of snugness comes upon us, as we contrast the dryness and warmth of our own situation with that of the poor defenceless wretches who hurry along with garments streaming with the liquid element, and hats whose opposite extremeties are converted into water-spouts. This is all remarkably gratifying, but in the country we have no such amusement. However, there I sat, determined to be as content as possible, and at least not to lack entertainment from a want of observation. So I gazed upon the trees, and watched the drops which the wind shook from the leaves; and upon the flowers, which looked as though they actually felt the agonies of drowning; and I also remarked, with no pleasant sensation, the overflowing of a large pool, which threatened shortly to inundate the house. These things met my eyes until they ached, and I turned away, devoured with spleen and ennui. My faculties of hearing were as agreeably greeted as those of vision-the ticking of an old clock, the occasional cackle of fowls, the neighing of my horse, and the lowing of cows, were the various and pleasing sounds which saluted me. I inquired for a book, and was shewn my host's collection. I found it to consist of an old folio Bible, in which the births and deaths of the family were carefully registered; two Prayer Books; Sternhold and Hopkins' elegant version of the Psalms; and a volume which seemed the type of eternity, having neither beginning nor end. I felt still more irritable and melancholy, and had come to the determination of sallying forth, and braving all the fury of the storm, when I was induced to change my resolution by an observation proceeding from my host. He had hitherto sat reserved and silent, solacing himself with a pipe, which he evidently preferred to my conversation, having answered any remarks I thought proper to address to him with nothing more than a monosyllable. Perhaps," said he, withdrawing the tube reluctantly from his lips, and speaking with an effort, in a tone of voice resembling that which one would suppose saluted the ears of Balaam, when his ass was gifted with the power of speech,—"perhaps the gentleman would like to look at the papers left by the stranger." Though these words were addressed to his wife, I eagerly caught at their import, and inquired to what he alluded. I was informed that some months ago, a stranger, apparently about five-andtwenty years of age, with nothing singular in his appearance, except the extreme paleness of his features, and the wild and restless character of his eyes, had resided under their roof for a few days. It was night, when seemingly exhausted by travel, he knocked at the door of their dwelling and earnestly craved shelter, protesting he was utterly unable to proceed further on his journey. His request was granted, and at his own wish he was accommodated with a small chamber in the most remote part of the house. He promised to remunerate them handsomely for his short stay, on condition that they preserved a strict secrecy as to his being an inmate of their habitation. Having procured paper and writing-materials, he seldom left his room for more than a few moments, and would, on the sound of an approaching footstep, immediately rush into his place of


concealment. At his departure he placed in the hands of the farmer a sealed packet, with an injunction that he should not open it until a month had elapsed. This packet, which contained the following manuscript, was now produced for my perusal. My host had broken the seal, but finding the writing unintelligible, he had thrown it aside before he had finished the first page. I sat down, determined to wade through it, and certainly found some parts of it rather dillicult to interpret. As I was permitted for a trifling consideration to retain possession of the manuscript, I have at my leisure been enabled to unravel its occasional obscurities, and now present to the reader a literal transcript.

In a few days I shall be far from England, and all who have ever felt an interest in my fate. I have no motive in writing this narrative, except that of beguiling the short period of time which I have yet to remain in my native land, ere the vessel that is to bear me hence is in readiness. Should these pages by chance meet the eyes of any of those who knew me in happier days, let me hope they will pity, if they cannot pardon, one who hath been the victim of his passions.

My parents were respectable, and though not affluent, above the wants of the world. One circumstance destroyed their comfort. They were destined to behold their earliest offspring sink into the grave just as the mind began to unfold itself. I, more hardy than the rest, struggled with death and overcame him. Others were born after me, but they all shared the fate of my predecessors, and I—the doomed—the guilty one was alone destined to survive. It was for this reason that I was so loved, so idol. ized by my parents: they feared that I too should fall beneath the destroyer, and like some florist who finds all the flowers he prized, save one, perish, they built their sole hope on the bud which was still left them. My disposition was not naturally bad, but my passions were ever easily excited, and from my infancy I have been the victim, the slave of impulse. Still childhood was unattended with crime, and to it I can look back with feelings of unmixed delight, for even in childhood commenced that love which through my dark career has clung to my heart in its original freshness and purity. Yes, my Bertha-I cannot choose but call thee mine-amidst the clouds of guilt which overshadow my soul thou art living in my remembrance; thy image is yet unbroken. Still do I recall the time when first we met-thou, a happy child, radiant with innocence and beauty, and I, a glad and careless boy. Oh, God! when, unconscious that the world held aught of sin, our arms were entwined around each other's forms—when we gathered the daisy and the cup of gold, free from taint as themselves—when we reclined by the glassy stream, or chased the winged insects--who would then have thought that the world's sorrow and the world's shame would fall on beings so pure and sinless? Those were days of joy, of bright, unclouded joy; but I see thee as thou wert in other days-days when, if care and pain at times mingled with our bliss, it was more exquisite and intense. Well do I remember the time when first we became conscious of the deep, the undying love which was blent with our very existence, with our life's blood, never to die until life itself became extinguished. I see thee now, my

Bertha, as when in pale and dreamy beauty, thou listenedet to my vows of changeless love-the moon, the bright and blessed moon, looked down in smiles upon thee, and the pure stars above our heads shone fair and tremblingly, as though they gazed upon thy gentle breast, and throbbed in sympathy; and oh! the tears, the dewy tears that streamed upon my cheek as in my arms I clasped my first, my last, mine only love.

I shall hasten over this period of my life, this oasis in the desert of my existence, for it is not the quiet joy of my early youth, but the events of after years that I have taken up my pen to record. I have said that my love for Bertha commenced in childhood. It increased with our years, it grew more fervent as time passed over us—at its birth, a small and sparkling brook, it glided on in placid beauty, gathering fresh strength and power in its course, until it burst forth a mighty and a chainless stream. My equal in society, and the daughter of my father's dearest friend, I saw not the slightest obstacle to our union, and for awhile the future seemed as though it were only fraught with blessings. Jealousy is at once the offspring and the curse of love. I was susceptible of it to an extraordinary degree. I could not endure that she should smile, that she should look upon another. I was miserable if she stirred abroad and I was absent from her side. She never gave me the slightest reason to doubt her constancy; she knew my foible, yet never breathed a reproach against my causeless doubts. I strove to subdue, to conquer this baleful passion -in vain-if she unavoidably was constrained to leave her home, and I found her not there, I wandered near the house like an unquiet spirit, pacing with hurried steps, until I saw her return. I have lain whole nights parched and sleepless, haunted by some chance look or word bestowed by her upon another. There were moments when it was impossible to control the jealous rage that rankled at my heart, like a serpent devouring its very core, and I would start up and rush from her into the open street, cursing my miserable failing, though unable to get the better of it. Oh, how I doted on that girl! after passing hours with her, and when prudence at length told me to depart, in the darkness of night, when the blast and the rain beat upon me, I have lingered in the cold and desolate streets gazing on the small window of her sleeping chamber, until the disappearance of the light told me she sought repose, and I have then left the spot breathing blessings on her name. I never uttered that dear name save with a tongue faltering at its utterance-I never heard it casually mentioned in the cold tone of indifference, without feeling as though it were a profanation so to mention it, and yet my soul sickened when the lips of the stranger praised her loveliness. Perchance I worshipped her as a creature should not be worshipped-perchance I paid to her that adoration which ought only to be paid to the Creator. I could have bowed down before an inanimate object consecrated by her touch, as bends the devotee before his altar. I could not deem her a mere mortal-I could have prostrated myself at her feet as a divinity, and kissed the ground she had hallowed by her footsteps. If, however, I was an idolater, I sought not for proselytes—and I wished to be alone in my idolatry. I had set up an idol, and I wished to offer my vows in secret, the sole, the only one of my creed.

Indolent, irresolute, and naturally unfitted for business, it was with difficulty I was at length prevailed upon by my parents to make choice of a

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