thrilling reverberation, he became frantic, and leaped into the grave, and strove to remove the lid, amid the horror of the vast assemblage. In those early years, as now, I was extremely susceptible, and as nature’s evening mantle was closing its sombre folds around us,—and, as the extraordinary spectacle of the enthusiastic lover had thrilled and chilled me to the soul, I departed for my abode, amid the overwhelming cries of a desolate man, who soon sold his interest in the “Statesman,” and published the “News,” which was the first Sunday journal established in New York. I went with John Miller, of the Providence Journal, with Hugh Brown, who printed the Providence Directory—with Mr. Congdon, of New Bedford,—with Beales & Homer, of the Boston Gazette,—with Mr. Eldridge, of the Hamden Whig, of Springfield,—with John Russell, of the Hartford Times,—with Charles King, of the New York American, whose publisher was D. K. Minor,—- with Michael Burnham, of the New York Evening Post, whose editors were William Cullen Bryant and William Leggett, whose fervent nature and jovial risibles I can never forget,—with Thomas Kite, a stingy Quaker, of Philadelphia, who would not pay me for the fat matter, and when he became so bold as to plunder the title and two blank pages, I pulled off his wig, and run for my life, with Tommy after me, but my fleetness vanquished, and I kept his wig,—with Francis Preston Blair, of the Washington Globe, whose publisher was Wm. Greer. I now learned of the sudden death of Charles Manton, of Providence, whom I had most fondly loved since rosy childhood, whose demise cast a gloom over my heart which has never been effaced. I left Washington for Philadelphia in 1830, and took a room with Edward Dodge, with whom I had been a schoolmate in Providence, and who is now a distinguished banker of Wall street, with whose recent misfortunes I strongly sympathize. I now receive a letter from father, requesting my immediate return to Providence, and on my arrival, he introduced me to James Fenner, the Governor of Rhode Island, and to Gen. Edward J. Mallett, the Postmaster of Providence, who married Gov. Fenner’s daughter. I became a clerk in the Post-office, at $400 per annum. [Gen. Mallett’s second wife was a widow of the affluent Haight family, of this city, and he was the President of the St. Nicholas Bank.—He has just been appointed by President Buchanan, Commercial Agent to Florence, where he will probably die, as he is tottering in the bleak evening of life.] I had borrowed money from Israel Post, of New York, before I went to Washington, and when he learned that I was a clerk in the Post-office, he demanded payment, and threatened to write to Gen. Mallett, if I did not immediately cancel his claim. I wrote him that I would pay him from my salary. He replied, that he would not wait. His letters were exciting, and fearing he would write an extravagant letter to Gen. Mallett, and perhaps effect my dismissal, I took the money from the till, and inclosed it in a letter, and as I was about to seal and mail it, Captain Bunker’s admonitions, and my father’s kindness in procuring my clerkship, and my horror of a thief, caused me to forbear, amid tears of joy at my victory over the demon of dishonor. Although this transpired in the Post-office at midnight, and although I boarded near the Post-office, which was a mile from father’s, yet I went home, against a winter’s tempest, and aroused him from his slumber, and told him of the horrors of my position. He stood before me in robes of whiteness, like a Roman statue, and when I told him that I had taken and instantly restored the money to the till, big drops rolled from his cavern eyes in exhaustless profusion, and after pacing the room in utter silence, he halted and said:—“Stephen, my dear son, in early years, you were dishonest, and I feared you were so now. But your firmness and integrity on this occasion, gladden my heart more than I can evince in language. It is midnight, and a storm rages with terrific fury, and I hope you will remain at home to-night, and in the morning you shall have the means to cancel the claim of Mr. Post. Take the lamp and retire, Stephen, and you will go to your repose with my most fervent blessing.” And as I was about to go, with his hand upon the latch, he gazed, and lingered, and hesitated, and advanced and embraced me as never before, and while he kissed my forehead, his copious and burning tears rolled down my pallid cheeks. We parted in silence, as neither could speak. I arose early, and went to the Post-office, and before meridian, father gave me the money, which I sent to Mr. Post, which made me the happiest being in Providence. The students of Brown University daily came for letters, with some of whom I formed the warmest friendship, and I soon discovered my superficiality through their superior intelligence, and I resolved to emerge from the ignorance and superstition that beclouded my intellect, and made me unhappy. I studied Greek and Latin very hard during my leisure hours, and recited to Hartshorn, Farnsworth, and Gay, and made rapid advances. The clerks became jealous soon after I embarked in my intellectual enterprise, and strove to prejudice Gen. Mallett against me, assuring him that I did not come to the office early in the morning, and let them go to breakfast, although I hastened to the office immediately after I closed my morning meal, and sometimes without it, to please the clerks. They also told him that I studied during office hours, and neglected those who called for letters. Gen. Mallett believed their fallacious accusations, and often severely denounced me, and I left the Post-office, with the approbation of my father, and began the study of law with Gen. Thomas F. Carpenter, one of the most eminent lawyers of Rhode Island, and a man of noble nature. Gen. Mallett soon requested me to return, by direction of Gov. Fenner, who was the constant personal and political friend of my father more than forty years. I returned, but the clerks again conspired, and apparently gave Mallett no peace—although I learned that Mallett himself, if not their instigator, was, at least, their fellow conspirator, which aroused a hundred tigers in my breast. The clerks adduced another batch of colored charges, and Mallett belched a scathing phillippic, when I sprang like a panther at his throat, and gently squeezed and hugged him like a bear, until he showed his lying and vituperating tongue, and rolled his phrenzied eyes, when he made a superhuman effort, and eluded my nails and fingers, and fled into his private office, whither I pursued him. My father was in the printing office of Wm. Simons on the floor above, and hearing my blows and awful anathema of Mallett, and scratches, and gouges, and wild cat screeches and echos, he rushed down stairs, and into the private office of Mallett, and locked the door, and put the key in his pocket, to conceal us from the public gaze; and after a desperate conflict, he dragged me from Mallett, who then seized the poker, and run behind the stove and wood and coal box. While father held, and strove to calm me, Mallett feared I would get loose, and suspended one leg from the window, and asked father if he had not better leap to the ground. Father told him that he might break his neck or legs, and that he would strive to hold me until my anger was allayed. My eyes glared like Forrest’s in one of his terrible revenges, and my tongue projected, and mouth foamed, and my cheeks and lips were of deathly pallor, and I had the strength of a small panther, and father exclaimed: “Why, Stephen, don’t you know me? I am your father,—and won’t you recognise me, and heed my friendly counsel? It is the familiar voice of your father that appeals for your restoration to serenity. Do, I implore you, tranquilise your nerves, and appease your fearful wrath, and allay your deadly fury, and gratify your aged