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Transcriber's Note:

The index included at the beginning of this first issue referenced
articles in all issues of Volume 10. Corrections to the actual
published page numbers were made without comment, but published
articles not included in the original index have been added,
surrounded by [brackets].

The external references include:

  Vol. 10, No. 2, August 1837--p. 97-184.
  Vol. 10, No. 3, September 1837--p. 185-272.
  Vol. 10, No. 4, October 1837--p. 273-368.
  Vol. 10, No. 5, November 1837--p. 369-456.
  Vol. 10, No. 6, December 1837--p. 457-560.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: Yours Truly, Henry Russell.

ENGRAVED FOR THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.]




              THE

         Knickerbocker,

              OR

         [Illustration]

   NEW-YORK MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

            VOL. X.

           NEW-YORK:
 CLARK AND EDSON, PROPRIETORS.

             1837.




           NEW-YORK:
   PRINTED BY WILLIAM OSBORN,
       88 WILLIAM-STREET.




INDEX.


A.

    American Antiquities, with Drawings, 1, 116, 273, 457

    Album Sonnet, 10

    Anniversary, The, by Rev. THOMAS DALE, 115

    Anacreontic. By G. B. SINGLETON, 193

    A Farewell. By Miss M. E. LEE, (S. C.), 216

    A Mother's Grief: A Sketch from Life, 225

    An Album Fragment. By J. H. BRIGHT, Esq., 227

    A Few Thoughts on Funerals, 229

    A Few Thoughts on Phrenology, 417

    A Practitioner, His Pilgrimage, 422, 510

    Anacreontic, 436


B.

    Bristol Academy, Taunton, (Mass.), 93, 553

    Balloon Adventure, 342

    'Bianca Visconti,' By N. P. WILLIS, Esq., 353


C.

    Comfort Makepeace: A New-England Sketch, 62

    Changes of Fashion, 82

    COOPER'S 'England,' 350

    Confessions of a Catholic Priest, 449


D.

    Death of ROB ROY, 27

    Duchess de LAVALLIERE, 61

    Death-Bed Remorse, By PERCIVAL, 258

    Début of Miss HILDRETH, 266

    Death of SOCRATES, 285


E.

    EDITORS' TABLE, 87, 180, 265, 353, 450, 546

    Emblems. By W. G. CLARK, 104

    Edward Fane's Rosebud, 195

    Eyes and Lips, 225

    Editing and Other Matters, 233

    Exquisites, 317

    Example in High Places, 525

    Ernest Maltravers, 538


F.

    Francis Mitford, 12, 208

    First English Testament, 87

    Foreign Correspondence, 182

    FOURIER'S Eulogy on LA PLACE, 272

    Fatal Balloon Adventure, 342

    Floral Astrology. By Prof. LONGFELLOW, 498


G.

    Gazetteer of Missouri, 456

    Geographical Distinctions of Color, 499

    Glance at the Olden Time, 546


H.

    Heiress, The, 11

    Hunting Song. By HACK VON STRETCHER, 491

    Human Life, 105

    [Hope], 509


J.

    June. By W. H. C. HOSMER, 40

    Juba, 126

    J. HUNTINGTON BRIGHT, Esq., 265


K.

    'Knickerbockeriana,' 94

    Knickerbocker Hall, 184


L.

    LITERARY NOTICES, 68, 174, 259, 348, 447, 538

    LITERARY RECORD, 94, [184], 368, 455, 557

    Letters from Palmyra, 68

    'Live and Let Live,' 86

    Love and Reason, 116

    Life of BAINBRIDGE, 179

    Lay. By 'IONE,' 251

    Lockhart's Scott, 259, 544

    Lines. By the Author of 'Lacon,' 300

    Launch of the Neptune, 356

    Landscape Gardening, 366

    Literature of the Great West, 366

    Lines in imitation of BURNS, 386

    Lament of the Last of the Peaches, 446

    Lines to Rosalie, 479

    Life, 491

    Lay of the Madman, 516


M.

    My Mother's Grave, 67

    Memoirs, etc., of LAFAYETTE, 174

    Midshipmen's Expedients, 179

    Mark! By PATER ABRAHAM A SANCTA CLARA, 200, 296

    Mohegan Language and Names, 214

    Mr. and Mrs. TOMPKINS. By R. C. SANDS, 468

    Mirabiliæ Naturæ, [Geographical Distinctions of Color], 499

    Memoirs of BURR, 540


N.

    New-York Review, 184

    Nature: from the German, 207

    New-York Mercantile Library, 272

    Napoleon. By Rev. C. C. COLTON, 284

    Notes of a Surgeon, [106], 286

    Nahant. By J. H. BRIGHT, Esq., 320

    Newspaporial, 363

    New-York College of Physicians and Surgeons, 367

    Nurseries of American Freemen, 369, 480


O.

    OLLAPODIANA, 162, 436, 518

    Ornamental Gardening, 311

    Our Village Post Office, By Miss SEDGWICK, 425

    Old Age. By Rev. C. C. COLTON, 490

    Our Birth-days. By Hon. Judge MELLEN, (Me.), 513

    Oceola's Challenge. By J. BARBER, Esq., 527


P.

    Pocahontas: A Tragedy, 180

    PETER PARLEY'S 'Book of the United States,' 184

    Poems. By WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON, 352

    Parting Stanzas. By JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA, 480


R.

    Religious Charlatanry, 20, 136

    Random Passages of Foreign Travel, 41, 147, 240, 330, 387, 527

    Reminiscence, [Stanzas. By G. B. SINGLETON] 301

    Retrospection. By H. GATES, Esq., 347

    Reply of Mr. S. KIRKHAM to GOULD BROWN, 358

    Rory O'More. By LOVER, 545


S.

    Summer Evening. By Rev. Dr. PISE, 19

    Stories from Real Life, 92

    Stanzas. By W. G. SIMMS, Esq., 146

    Scandinavian Literature and Antiquities, 185

    Song of the Ship. By H. R. SCHOOLCRAFT, Esq., 200

    Sonnets by 'QUINCE,' [50], 228, 435

    Sonnet, 310

    Stanzas. By J. H. BRIGHT, 105, 311

    [Serenade. by J. J. CAMPBELL], 213

    Slavery in the United States, 321

    Scourge of the Ocean, 348

    Sadness, 376

    Sonnet. By W. G. SIMMS, Esq., 387

    Songs of Our Fathers. By 'IONE,' 406

    Stanzas to a Belle. By PERCIVAL, 497


T.

    The Heiress, 11

    The Poet, 33

    The Blue-Bird of Spring, 60

    The Nobility of Nature, 97

    The Backwoods, 126

    [The Soul], 135

    The Waves. By G. Z. ADAMS, Esq., 161

    To the New Moon, 173

    The American Wild Rose, 194

    The Red Man, 224

    The Sea Rover, 239

    The Chief of His Tribe, 252

    THE DRAMA, 268, 364, 554

    The Birchen Canoe, 295

    The Foster-child, 301

    The Sea, 316

    Thaptopsis, 317

    'The Times,' 329

    The Blighted Flower, 341

    'The Times that tried Men's Soul's,' 356

    The Dead Husband, 407

    [The Dying Boy], 416

    The Token, for 1838, 447

    The Encaged Bird to His Mistress, 467

    [The Soul's Trust. By G. P. T.], 468

    The Poor Relation, 491

    [To a Lock of Hair], 504

    The Coming of Winter, 526


V.

    Vanity: A Tale of Tight Boots, 29

    Vive La Bagatelle!, 126

    Vocal Music, 366


W.

    Who would be a Scholar?, 35

    Wilson Conworth, 51, 217, 378, 504

    Wild Flowers, 84


Y.

    [Yesterday], 232

    Young Love. By PERCIVAL, 377




THE KNICKERBOCKER.

VOL. X. JULY, 1837. NO. 1.




AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.

NUMBER ONE.

    'CHAOS of ruins! who shall trace the void,
    O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,
    And say 'here _was_, or _is_,' where all is doubly night?'

                                              CHILDE HAROLD.


EVERY enlightened American regards whatever relates to his native
land, with an affection as strong as it is ennobling. Conscious
of its extent and resources, he looks abroad upon its variegated
landscapes, its towering mountains, and its mighty rivers, with
a glow of noble pride and enthusiasm. Unequalled in richness,
fertility, or grandeur, each inspires him, in like manner, with
feelings of joy and exultation. He reverts to the history of his
countrymen, with emotions not less dear and animating. The early
struggles of his ancestors, their ultimate triumph over the enemies
of his country, and over obstacles well nigh insurmountable--their
onward march in social and political happiness, the freedom and
excellence of their institutions, and the high distinction now
sustained by the republic among the governments of the earth--all
dwell upon his tongue, in accents of lofty praise and patriotism.

Such sentiments are alike worthy and characteristic of an American;
but while we thus cheerfully ascribe them to our countrymen, as a
general and laudable peculiarity, we cannot avoid the reflection,
that one prominent subject among those claiming their attention--one
which should equally inspire them with pride and enthusiasm--is most
singularly overlooked, or wholly neglected. We allude to _American
Antiquities_. This subject, not immediately connected with our
national prosperity, seems strangely to have escaped observation.
Every thing else with us has been onward; but this has been left for
the inquisitive admiration of strangers. With the fresh and animating
incidents of our history we have alone been busied. Beyond these,
there exists a deep and illimitable _hiatus_, into which Curiosity
has yet but slightly peered.

Now that data are affixed to our brief historical period, and the
occurrences of yesterday, in comparison with the actual history
of our land, have settled down into a succession of well-known
events, it becomes us to look back into those of long-lost time,
and to inquire into the memorials of our country's antiquity; to
glance at what it _was_, rather than what it _is_. Here the field
opens into boundless extent, and the mind becomes bewildered by the
strange and diversified objects which it presents. Unlike any other
in the 'world's wide range,' it is seen to be crowded with unique
monumental relics, such as men of modern date had little dreamed
of. No where else do the same curious and magnificent remnants of
ancient art start into view. Britain has her antiquities, but her
archæologists find them associated with a people to whom history
had before introduced them. They are furnished with keys by which
to gain access to the relics of by-gone times. The Druids and the
Romans are known to them; but who were they who raised the tumuli of
western America, or the Pyramids of Chollula and of Papantla? The
antiquities of Egypt, wonderful as they are, point with an index well
defined, to their origin; but who can decipher the hieroglyphics of
Tultica?--who read the buried monuments of Anahuac? Egypt has her
history told--if not distinctly upon her storied columns--in language
which we are little disposed to doubt. The tablets of Rositta have
revealed to inquiring antiquarians a flood of light; and the secret
volumes inscribed upon the huge and elaborate piles of her arts, have
suddenly opened to the wondering gaze their richly-stored contents.
They said, emphatically, 'Let there be light, and there was light!'
But no revelation has burst from the tombs of our western valleys.
No Champolion, Young, Rossellina, nor Wilkinson, has preached the
mysteries of Copan, Mitlan, or Palenque. No! Thick darkness still
hangs over the vast continent of America. No voice answers to the
anxious inquiry, 'Who were the Tultiques?' no lettered tablet is
found to reveal the authors of the noble vestiges of architecture and
of sculpture at Mitlan, Papantla, Chollula, Otumba, Oaxaca, Tlascala,
Tescoca, Copan, or Palenque! The veil of oblivion shrouds, and may
perhaps for ever shroud, these relics of an ancient and innumerable
people in impenetrable obscurity. The researches of Del Rio, Cabrera,
Dupaix, Waldrick, Neibel, Galinda, nor Corroy, are yet known to have
developed the secrets of the buried cities of Central America, though
they have labored for many years, 'silent and alone,' amid these
massive fragments of ancient greatness.

    'Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown,
      Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd
    On what were chambers, arch-crush'd columns strown
      In fragments, chok'd-up vaults and frescos steeped
    In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped,
      Deeming it midnight: temples, baths, or halls?
    Pronounce, who can; for all that Learning reaped
      From her research, hath been, that these are walls:
          *   *   *  'tis thus the mighty falls!'

The train of reflections which springs from a review of these
magnificent specimens of skill, genius, and toil, is peculiarly
exciting. If, in the vast field of observation which this continent
presents, there is one subject that more than another claims
attention--if there is one which is calculated to inspire an American
with admiration and enthusiasm--it is the antiquities of his country.
It may in truth be said, that were we to pronounce what are the
great and peculiar charms of this 'new world,' we should say, at
once, its antiquities--the antiquities of its buried cities--its
long-lost relics of a great and ingenious people--the sublimity of
ages that every where surrounds us, and the strange associations
which, rush upon the mind, as we view ourselves in connection with
an unknown and extinct species of men. Which way soever we turn our
eyes, we behold the mighty remnants of their arts, and the wide
waste of their mental and physical creations. We every where see the
wonderful labors of those who, in times long gone by, gloried in
these stupendous achievements, but whose might and inventions are
told only in their far-spread destruction; a people, in short, of
whom history has not left a solitary wreck behind! To describe the
antique arts of such a people, strewed as they are over United and
Central America, or buried for thousands of years beneath venerable
forests, is a task which ages only can accomplish. An approach to
this, therefore, is all our most ardent hopes can at present realize.
Curiosity has indeed been awakened by the little which has lately
been brought to light. The ambition of the learned has been excited,
and the enthusiasm of the antiquarian enkindled; yet these are but
the things of yesterday. The most industrious research, and the
lapse of many years, are required, to develope the hidden treasures
of art with which our continent abounds. For three hundred years
have the most extraordinary of these slept in Central America, among
strangers from another, not a _newer_ world, as they had before
slept for many thousands! Even now, comparatively little is known of
their character. Sufficient, however, has recently been disclosed,
to excite our wonder and admiration. In truth, had we fallen upon a
new planet, crowded with strange memorials of a high order of genius,
that for an indefinite time had survived their unknown authors, we
should not be more amazed, than we are in gazing upon the anomalous
relics of American antiquity.

America has been called '_the new world_,' and we still designate it
by this really unmeaning title, when, in point of fact, it is cöeval
with the oldest. We are authorized, from its geological structure, to
consider it the first great continent that sprang from 'the depths
profound,' and are justified in believing, with Galinda, that it
exhibits stronger proofs of senility, as the residence of man, than
any other portion of our world. At another time, we shall speak more
definitely of these facts, and present the evidence on which they are
founded.

We have said that the subject of our antiquities has peculiar and
important claims upon every American; but that these claims have
been overlooked or disregarded. This will have appeared strikingly
obvious to those who, in Central or United America, have had the
satisfaction to examine the unique specimens of remote antiquity
which characterize our continent. While the homage of the world
has so long been paid to the monumental piles of transatlantic
antiquity, and while voyages and pilgrimages have been performed to
far distant quarters of the earth, to obtain a glance at oriental
magnificence, and the ruined arts of primitive nations, here we find
ourselves surrounded by those of a still more remarkable character.
The wondrous cities of Pompeii, Herculaneum, Elephanta, Thebes, and
Petra, are not more the subjects of just admiration than are those
of our own America. The former have acquired universal notoriety,
from the enthusiastic descriptions of numerous travellers, while the
latter are possessed of all the charms of novelty. The first are
confined to well known localities, and are intimately connected
with a distinctive people, with dynasties, events, customs, and
ceremonies, familiar to all who are acquainted with antiquarian
literature. In fact, they tell their own stories, so that he who
runs may read. Not so with the antiquities of America. These stretch
from the great lakes of the north and west, to Central America,
and the southern parts of Peru, on the south; from the Alleghany
Mountains, on the east, throughout the great valleys, to the Rocky
Mountains, on the west; and from the Pacific ocean to the Atlantic,
through all the wide transverse central range of our continent.
How immense this field of observation, and how rich in objects of
antiquarian research! With what associations does the scene inspire
us! Standing at any point in this vast space, and looking back
through the long lapse of ages, a thousand thrilling emotions crowd
upon us. If this spot, perchance, be in the midst of the massive and
almost illimitable ruins of Palenque, who so insensible as not to be
aroused by the scene around him? Here, strewed in one indiscriminate
mass, lie the wrecks of unknown ages of toil and of mind. Here dwelt
millions of people, enjoying happiness more complete than that of
any other, since man made a part of creation. Surrounded by the most
luxuriant soil, the purest air, and, in fine, by every gift of nature
that ever blessed our earth--politically and socially constituted by
laws the most mild and effective that were ever devised--this city,
unsurpassed in magnitude by any other of the eastern continent, may,
in truth, be thought the great paradise of the western world. But
the reflections arising from a glance at this part of our subject,
though now seemingly irresistible, would follow, more appropriately,
perhaps, the description; and so it may be with those arising from a
view of the extraordinary relics of antiquity which every where meet
the eye in the great western valleys of United America.

Trusting, by these preliminary observations--not, we hope, indulged
at too much length--to have awakened attention to the importance
of our subject, we shall pass to particulars, which seem to us to
possess no common interest. It should be sufficient to induce popular
research, when it is remembered, that these facts are connected with
the most interesting portions of the history of man--with great and
signal epocha of the world; that they involve the relative condition
of the intellectual and moral state of our species, with their
comparative local and general happiness, during all time.

Aside, however, from the associations which the subject of
antiquities generally excites, our own antique arts will be seen to
have peculiar and striking characteristics. They are not hackneyed,
like others, but come to us with all the freshness of romance. They
are singularly unique; and, what is not less important, they reveal
to us a hitherto unknown people, which, amid the world's alarms,
the wars and revolutions that have destroyed a great proportion of
the human population, have quietly remained for thousands of years,
if not from the origin of man, on this continent. Of these strange
people, not a scrap of recorded truth is known to have been left us.
Not a traditionary story, nor a symbol, is yet brought to light, that
clearly tells us, as we have long anxiously hoped, of the manners
and customs of this large division of our race. Their arts, it is
true, develope extraordinary facts, and, in the very language of
the people, reveal faint records of their character and origin; but
to us they are a sealed book; and so they must remain, until some
bold and gifted spirit, with untiring research, removes the veil.
This lack of historical evidence, however, does not add essentially
to the interest of this subject. It gives an additional spur to our
inquiries; it incites us to an examination of the only testimonials
which yet remain, of the numbers, character, and origin, of these
lost nations.

Aside from the _historical_ interest of American antiquities,
the ingenuity and magnitude of those specimens of art already
discovered, are well calculated to inspire national admiration. We
need only turn, in proof of this position, to the extraordinary
works on Paint Creek, and Licking River, in Ohio, Mount Joliet, in
Illinois; the Great Mounds at St. Louis, in Missouri; the ruined
walls and cities in Wisconsin and Arkansas; the three hundred
tumuli of the Mississippi, or the stupendous pyramids of ancient
Mexico and Tultica, some of which exceed in dimensions the largest
of Egypt; and the vast ruins of immense Tultican cities. Surely,
these are enough to convince us, that American antiquities are not
less worthy of admiration, and of philosophical inquiry, than those
of the eastern continent, the descriptions of which have so much
astonished the learned world. A knowledge of the principal monuments
of Egyptian antiquity is now deemed essential to a fashionable
education, particularly to a liberal one; yet few Americans,
professedly fashionable or literary, avow an acquaintance with the
antiquities of our own country. This far-fetched knowledge, at the
sacrifice of that which relates to ourselves, is ridiculous, and
ought no longer to be imputed to our countrymen. That it is a just
imputation, is sufficiently apparent, in the surprise manifested
by distinguished strangers, who make inquiries of us respecting
our antiquities, and who have made voyages across the Atlantic for
the sole purpose of examining them. Of the recently discovered
antiquities of Central America, little is known which has not come to
us through a foreign channel. The ambition displayed by scientific
men in Europe, in exploring these ruins, is worthy both of them and
of the subject. Since the first voyages were undertaken, for the
investigation of these relics, great anxiety has been manifested
by the learned in France, England and Spain, to gain a knowledge
of the facts which enthusiastic explorers might disclose. These
facts have now been before us for many years; and yet not an effort
has been made either to explore them ourselves, or to procure the
results of those ambitious inquirers, in this country. Of the three
voyages of discovery by Dupaix, the twelve years' devotion among
these antiquities by Waldrick, the archæology of Neibel, or the
discoveries of Del Rio, little or nothing is here known. Few among
us have ventured a league out of our way to obtain a sight of those
relics which more immediately surround us, notwithstanding the great
interest of the subject, the important facts which it involves, and
the local feelings which, in this country, it might be supposed
natural for us to manifest. Is not this indifference a national shame?

The first step in our inquiries is marked by peculiar developments;
and each successive remove will be seen to advance in interest. The
nature of the subject leads us first to investigate the history
of the ancient Tultiques, the most recently discovered, though
most remote, people of our continent. These are to be distinctly
understood as independent, and more ancient than the arts and the
population of Mexico. The half-buried cities, still extraordinary
fabrics, existing among the wide-spread piles of huge architectural
fragments, and the singular specimens of antique workmanship, to
which our attention is at the outset attracted, are found on the
eastern portion of Central America, and south of the Gulf of Mexico.
Surprising as is the fact, these remained unexplored by the Spanish
conquerors, until toward the close of the last century; or, if at
all noticed, they excited little attention or curiosity among the
invaders previous to that time. They were intent only on conquest
and plunder; their minds were absorbed in the treasures with which
the newly-conquered country was stored; and all inquiry was for the
buried resources of nature, or the acquired riches of the people.
Gold dazzled their eyes, bewildered their judgment, and inflamed
their passions, at every point of their unrighteous conquests.
The swarms of desperate and adventurous priests, battening on the
spoils of victory, were only content in the grossest luxuries, or in
destroying, 'for the sake of _the_ holy religion,' every vestige of
antiquity which fell in their way. The manner in which this '_holy
zeal_' was carried out, and to which we shall hereafter allude, is
revolting to reason, and sickening to humanity.

Thus in the early history of Spanish discovery, or aggression, every
nobler purpose was sacrificed by the clergy and the soldiery to their
base idols, and every Christian virtue made subservient to wanton
indulgence, or cruel bigotry. In view of this, it is not surprising
that the singular ruins of ancient Mexican and Tultican cities should
have had little attraction for the selfish and barbarous victors,
or that many curious and antique relics should have disappeared
before the superstitious phrenzy of religious zealots. It is more
than probable, that the monumental ruins of Chiapa, of Yucatan,
and particularly those of the great Palenquan city, were, in fact,
unknown to the European invaders, and to their descendants, until
about the time we have mentioned.

From Vera Cruz, the first city they built in the reputed new world,
at the head of the Mexican Gulf, they pursued their triumphant way
around a south-easterly branch of the Cordillera Mountains, directly
to the great valley and city of Mexico. Hence the antiquities spoken
of were left far on their left. The subsequent conquest of Peru,
under Pizarro, led them still farther from these scenes of ancient
greatness. In the conquered territories themselves, crowded as they
were with magnificent specimens of primitive genius and wealth,
they may be supposed to have had a field sufficiently large, and
objects numerous and valuable enough, for their cupidity, while
the innumerable vassals--before, the proud and happy lords of the
finest country under heaven--afforded them ample scope for robbery
and tyranny. These ruins, then, being removed from the first
settlements of the Spanish, is one reason why they were not made
known to Europeans at an earlier date. The natives themselves, from
a just reverence for the relics of their ancestors, and a religious
regard for the objects of their worship, withheld all intelligence
respecting them from their cruel tyrants, and the occupants of
their favored soil. At length, however, the facts in relation to
the Palenquan city were revealed by some Spaniards, who, having
penetrated into the dreary solitudes of a high and distant desert,
discovered, to their astonishment, that they were surrounded by the
remains of a once large and splendid city, the probable capital of an
unknown and immeasurably remote empire! These facts were communicated
by them to one of the governors of a neighboring province, who, on
ascertaining the truth of the representations from the natives, wrote
to his royal master, the king of Spain, to induce him to command an
exploration of these strange ruins.

Another reason why the world was kept in ignorance of the
antiquities of Tultica and Mexico, or, as the whole was anciently
called, _Anahuæ_, is attributable to the gross misrepresentations
of Robertson, the historian, who, as every one knows, wrote the
history of the conquest of Mexico. This writer says but little of
the Mexican arts that is calculated to excite astonishment; and what
_is_ said by him, plainly evinces the strangest ignorance of facts,
or an unpardonable and wilful perversion of truth. He says, in fact,
that 'there is not in all the extent of New Spain, any monument or
vestige of building more ancient than the conquest.' 'The great
Temple of Chollula,' he says, 'was nothing but a mound of solid
earth, without any facing or steps, covered with grass and shrubs!'
He also says, that 'the houses of the people of Mexico were but
huts, built of turf, or branches of trees, like those of the rudest
Indians!' Robertson, in these rank mistatements, could not, we think,
have had the plea of ignorance; for the account of the conquerors
themselves was a full contradiction of his assertions. From the facts
before him, therefore, we are compelled to conclude that prejudice,
incredulity, or a spirit of wilful perversion, dictated these
erroneous statements. Our descriptions will hereafter show _how_ wide
from truth these statements are. The high reputation of Robertson
as a historian will hardly atone for the errors here fixed upon
him. It might be thought that prejudice or incredulity caused the
Spanish inhabitants of the neighboring places to be so long silent
on this subject, inasmuch as they can hardly be considered likely
to have formed a correct opinion of the remoteness of the Tultican
monuments, if they had noticed them, or speculated at all upon their
origin. Whatever cause contributed most toward our ignorance of the
antiquities we are about to describe, nothing will appear half so
strange as the inconsistency and otherwise singular conduct of the
Spanish authorities on this subject.

Conformably to the information communicated by the Governor of
Guatemala, the King of Spain, in 1786, thirty years subsequent to
the discovery of the ruins, commissioned, under the direction of
that functionary, Don Antonio Del Rio, captain in his majesty's
cavalry service in that province, to proceed with despatch, and the
requisite means, to the exploration of the great ruins of the city
of Ciudad del Palenque--signifying the city of the desert, called
_Otulum_, from the name of a river running near it, which we shall
hereafter notice--situated in the province of Ciudad Real Chiapa.
This city was three hundred and thirty leagues, or one thousand
miles, distant from the city of Mexico, about two hundred and forty
miles from Tabasco, south of Vera Cruz, north-east of Guatemala,
and fifteen miles from the present town of St. Domingo Palenque. It
was situated on an elevated plain, now covered by an ancient and
umbrageous forest, extended for _thirty miles_ along the plain,
was _two miles wide at its terminating point_, upward of _sixty
miles in circumference_, more than _ten times larger than the city
of New-York_, and contained a population of probably near _three
millions of inhabitants_!

                 ----'There is more
    In such a survey, than the sating gaze
    Of wonder pleased, or awe that would adore,
                *   *   *  or the mere praise
    Of art and its great masters.'

The approach to the magnificent ruins of this great and ancient
city was made by Del Rio from the village of Palenque. This latter
place, we are led to conclude from Don Domingo Juarros, was an
ancient village of Tzendales, as it was within the kingdom of that
people; but of the time of its settlement by the Spaniards, we are
not informed. It has been ascertained, that the first settlement
made in the province, was by Diégo Mazariegos, as early as 1528,
when he established the village of Ciudad Real, the present capital
city of the Intendency, with the view of keeping in subjection the
inhabitants of the province, which he, with much difficulty, had
recovered from the natives. In the province were numerous Indian
villages, filled with the peaceful owners of the soil, when invaded
by the more cruel and barbarous Spaniards. St. Domingo Palenque is
on the borders of the Intendencies of Ciudad Real and Yucatan. It is
now the head of a Catholic curacy, and enjoys a wild but salubrious
air. It is distinguished from its having within its jurisdiction
the vestiges of the great city to which we have alluded, which is
now called by the Spaniards, in contradistinction to the name of
the above village, 'Ciudad del Palenque,' from which it is distant
but a few miles. This antique city is also called, by Juarros,
_Colhuacan_, probably for better reasons than any that have been
assigned by others in giving it a different appellation. Much
difference of opinion still exists as to the ancient name of this
wonderful city. Professor Rafinesque contends, with much assurance,
that he has found, beside the name of the city, the true key to all
the extraordinary hieroglyphics to be seen there. Its real name,
according to this antiquarian, was _Otulum_, from the name of the
river washing the borders of the city.

From Palenque, the last town northward in the province of Chiapa,
says Del Rio, taking a southerly course, and ascending a ridge of
high land that divides the kingdom of Guatemala from Yucatan or
Campeachy, at the distance of six miles, is the little river _Micol_,
the waters of which, flowing in an easterly direction, unite with the
great Tulija, bending toward Tobasco. After passing the Micol, the
ascent begins, and at one-and-a-half miles from them, the traveller
crosses another stream, called by the natives, 'Otulum,' which
discharges itself also into the Tulija. Immense heaps of ruins are
here discovered, in every direction, which render the travelling very
difficult for nearly two miles! At length you gain the height on
which yet stand fourteen massive stone buildings, still indicating
the condition in which they were left by the people who, at some
remote age, dwelt within them. These, astonishing as it must seem,
have withstood the ravages of time for thousands of years; and now
present to the curious a character unlike that of any structures
which have come down to the present period of the world. Some are
more dilapidated than others; yet many of their apartments are in
good condition. It was impossible for the enthusiastic explorer to
proceed to an examination even of the exterior of these singular
buildings, until the thick and heavy forest trees, the piles of
crumbling fragments, and the superimposing earth, had been removed.
Two hundred men were therefore obtained among the natives, who, with
various implements, proceeded to the laborious work of removing the
many obstructions upon, and immediately surrounding, the remaining
buildings. All the means necessary to the execution of this difficult
part of the enterprise could not be made available. In about twenty
days, however, the task of felling the forest trees, and of consuming
them by fire, was accomplished. Some of these trees, according to
Waldrick, who has since distinctly counted their concentric circles,
were more than _nine hundred years of age_! The workmen now breathed
a freer air, and viewed the massive structures, disencumbered of
the dense foliage which had enveloped them. From the summit of
the mountain, forming a ridge to the plain, these buildings were
presented at its base, in a rectangular area, three hundred yards in
breadth, by four hundred and fifty in length, in the centre of which,
on a mound sixty feet in height, stood the largest and most notable
of these edifices. During a part of the time employed in prosecuting
the work, a thick fog pervaded the plain. This may have arisen from
the retention and condensation of vaporous clouds in this region,
more than five thousand feet above the level of the sea. On the
clearing away of the forest, however, a pure atmosphere existed, and
the venerable relics stood boldly in view.

From the central temple, (for such it was,) was seen stupendous heaps
of stone fragments, as far as the eye could reach; the distance to
which they extended, being traversed, was more than eight leagues!
They stretched along the base of the mountain in a continuous range.
The other buildings, which so long resisted the devastating influence
of time, were seen upon high and spacious mounds of earth, and all
surrounding the principal _teoculi_, or temple, above-mentioned.
There were five to the north; four at the south; three at the east,
and one at the west; all built of hewn stone, in the most durable
style of architecture. The river Micol winds around the base of the
mountain, at this point of the ancient city, and was here nearly
two miles in width. Into this descend small streams, which wash the
foundations of the buildings. Were it not for the forest, a view
would here present itself, calculated to excite the beholder with
the profoundest emotions. Here and there might be seen the crumbling
remnants of civil, sacred, and military works. Walls, columns,
tablets, and curiously-sculptured blocks, fortifications, passes,
dykes, viaducts, extensive excavations, and subterranean passages,
broke upon the sight in all directions. Even now, the observer sees
many of these specimens of art diversifying the scene before him. The
bas-reliefs and hieroglyphics fill him with wonder and enthusiasm.
The field of research and of speculation seems, indeed, unbounded,
which way soever he turns his eye.

The natural beauty of the scene is also unrivalled; the waters sweet
and pure, the locality charming and picturesque; the soil rich and
fertile, beyond any other portion of the globe; and the climate
incomparably genial and healthful. Natural productions teem in wild
and luxuriant profusion. Fruits and vegetables, which, under the
hand of cultivation, undergo the happiest modifications, are every
where seen in the greatest abundance. The rivers abound with numerous
varieties of fish and molusca, and these streams being large, afford
every facility for navigation, in almost every direction. The people
are presumed to have maintained an active and peaceful commerce with
their neighbors, whose ruined cities have recently been discovered
in different directions, and which we shall hereafter have occasion
more particularly to notice. The great Tulija opens a passage for
trade to the province of Tabasco, on the sea-coast of Catasaja. The
Chacamal, falling into the great Usumasinta, presents a direct route
and easy passage to the kingdom of Yucatan, where it may be supposed
was their principal depôt of commerce. The rivers afforded them short
and uninterrupted communications east, north, and west. The primitive
inhabitants of the province of Yucatan, from the similarity of the
relics there found, and from the obvious analogy of their customs and
religion to those of Palenque, were in the closest bonds of alliance
with their Chiapian neighbors. Indeed, from all the evidence we are
enabled to collect in relation to this people, they must have enjoyed
a felicity more pure and substantial than that of any other nation on
the face of the globe.

In the opening of our next number, we shall present a brief
description of one of the principal structures to which we have
alluded, as having so long outlived their Palencian founders;
satisfied that these noble relics, which have come down to us through
gray antiquity, must possess deep interest to all inquiring minds;
connected as they are with a people, all records of whom are lost to
the world.




AN ALBUM SONNET.


      LADY! I thank thee that I here may wreathe
        My name with many whom thou lovest well;
      Though not in 'words that burn, or thoughts that breathe,'
        Can I the wishes of my bosom tell:
      But there is nothing I need ask for thee,
        Of aught to maiden's heart most deeply dear;
      Yet there is one thing I need wish for _me_--
        It is, to keep my memory fadeless here.
      This much I know thou wilt to me accord,
      Although I give thy clustering hair no flattering word,
      Nor praise the flashing of thy clear, dark eye,
      (Though praise them as I might, I should not lie;)
      Here then I leave these wishes of my heart--
    May I be unforgot, and thou just such as now thou art!

                                                    G. P. T.




THE HEIRESS.


    'THE passion which concentrates its strength and beauty upon
    one object, is a rich and terrible stake, the end whereof is
    death. The living light of existence is burnt out in an hour,
    and what remains? The dust and the darkness!'

                                                    L. E. L.

    ENDOW'D with all that heart could wish,
      With all that wealth could bring,
    I 'mov'd amid a glittering throng,'
      A vain and worshipped thing.
    From myriads who beset my path,
      My heart selected thee;
    Though lips of love thy follies nam'd,
      Those faults _I_ could not see.

    That wealth was mine, I heeded not,
      And cared not to be told;
    To one I deem'd of priceless worth,
      How mean a gift was gold!
    My beauty was a brighter dower,
      And worthier far to be
    The vain oblation of the hour
      That saw me pledged to thee!

    Thy bride--for thus was plighted faith,
      And pledge and promise kept;
    I smil'd deridingly on those
      Who look'd on me, and wept:
    I dar'd my doom; that reckless smile,
      Its memory haunts me still,
    Recurring 'mid each change to add
      Intensity to ill!

    Amid each change--and change to me
      Has been with evil fraught,
    Yet long I vainly sought to gild
      The ruin thou hadst wrought;
    Beneath the stern, unjust rebuke,
     Love's holy silence kept,
    And at a cold and thankless shrine,
      I worship'd while I wept!

    I learn'd to look upon the brow
      Where stern indifference sat,
    But love--the love a rival shared--
      I could not witness that!
    I saw thee on another smile,
      I mark'd the mute caress,
    And blush'd in agony to think
      I could not love thee less!

    The shaft has entered!--other hand
      Had vainly aimed the blow;
    With thee I had unshrinking met
      A world of want or wo;
    With thee I fearlessly had dar'd
      Each form of earthly ill,
    And 'mid the desert, bird and flower
      Had gaily met me still.

    The shaft has entered!--even thou
      Wilt weep to learn my fate;
    Oh, would that I could spare the pang
      Which then will come too late!
    Alas for life, which from the past
      No closing light can borrow,
    Whose story is a tale of sin,
      Of suffering, and sorrow!

                                                    REBECCA.




FRANCIS MITFORD.

NUMBER TWO.


LONDON!--in solid magnificence--in all that the most visionary dreams
of wealth can imagine--where is her parallel! Paris may surpass her
in grace; the never-ending sound of joy that echoes through the
streets of the French metropolis, may pleasingly contrast with the
commercial solemnity which pervades her; but she alone has achieved
that imperial crown which cities like her only can wear, and which is
only to be won by centuries of untiring enterprise.

Five thousand a year in London is no great things. A man may, to
be sure, appear among the great world, by its aid; but it can only
be in _forma pauperis_. If he seek to imitate those by whom he is
tolerated, he is ruined. Thus fared it with our hero. A desire
to appear even as a star amid the constellations by whom he was
surrounded, led him to ape, still at an humble distance, their
extravagances. But this was enough to destroy him. His house, his
horses, and his chariot, in due time came to the hammer, and for the
benefit of his creditors. But still Mitford had a thousand guineas
left. Though reduced to poverty, he did not despair; but the source
to which he looked was a delusive one. He turned to gaming, and
invoked the spirit of chance.

Oh, Gaming!--of all vices thou art the most seductive, for thou
assailest us through our avarice. What the merchant feels, when his
ship is on the seas--what the broker feels, while the rise or fall
of stocks is yet undecided--that delightful agony of suspense, which
flattering Hope whispers may be decided in his favor--all this the
gambler feels, while yet his stakes are on the table. From other
vices a man may be divorced. The bottle he may relinquish--women he
may forswear--but gambling, never!

Mitford was in the habit, since the decadence of his fortunes, of
visiting those palaces of vice which, in defiance of the severest
laws, rear their pernicious heads in the most public portions of
the British metropolis; the more seductive, because they put forth
all the blandishments of the most refined elegance--mirrors, Turkey
carpets, the most exquisite wines, and last, though not least, a
_cuisine_ over which Ude himself might have presided without a blush.

It may be said, 'Why are not these houses put down?' It must be
responded, that in a free country, abuses of liberty will always
take place. No good is inseparable from its concomitant evil. The
magistracy once upon a time determined to be firm. Some of the gaming
houses were attacked; the iron doors were forced; the barred windows
were escaladed. Some of the proprietors, and twenty of the votaries,
were captured, together with the guilty instruments of their
occupation.

From Bow-street they were released on bail. The case came on to be
tried at the Clerkenwell Sessions.

What an array! Three clergymen, two lords, sundry merchants and
gentlemen, indicted for a misdemeanor, subjecting them to the
discipline of the tread-mill! The usual forms were gone through; the
prisoners pleaded not guilty. What sane culprit ever does otherwise?
Counsellor Phillips closes for the defence, urging the usual
clap-traps of 'Liberty of British subjects,' 'violation of private
rights,' etc. 'Shall it be said, gentlemen,' continued he, 'that we
shall not transact what business, or enjoy what amusement, we please,
in our own houses, without being subject to the interference of the
armed myrmidons of the police? Gentlemen, it is the duty of every
citizen to resist such gross encroachments on his rights. For my
part, were my house assailed, I would do what I have no doubt you
would, defend my threshold to the last drop of my blood, and with a
pistol in one hand, and a dagger in the other, deal merited death to
the aggressors.'

The jury were wonderfully tickled. Verdict, 'Not guilty!'

On the foundation of this verdict, rose Crackford's palace, at which
in one night a million has changed hands, and the average never falls
below three hundred thousand! Whoever doubts the lamentable, nay,
hideous consequences often resulting from this fatal passion, should
ponder well on the following, too well authenticated to admit of
skepticism.

A lieutenant in the army, a most meritorious officer, strongly
attached to play, found himself suddenly plunged by this addiction
deeply in debt. His resources, save the scanty means derived from his
commission, had long been swallowed up. Nothing was left, except to
sell his commission, and then what fate awaited his lovely wife and
three children! In the horror of the thought, an idea seized him, as
guilty as it was desperate. A certain nobleman, of singular habits,
he was informed, would traverse a little-frequented part of the
country, on a stated night, bearing with him a large sum of money,
the produce of his rents. The lieutenant determined to rob him.

Lord S---- was rolling tranquilly along in his carriage, enjoying the
most placid state of mind, and felicitating the country at large and
himself in particular, on the very great security with which nightly
journeys could be made on the high roads, and which his lordship, in
no inconsiderable degree, attributed to the legislative wisdom of
his ancestors. At this moment, a horseman, enveloped in a capacious
cloak, and mounted on a heavy charger, rode against the leaders with
such force as to bring them to an instantaneous stop. To fell the
postillion and coachman, open the door of the carriage, and present a
pistol at his lordship's head, was the work of a moment.

'Your money or your life!' cried the robber, in a tone of assumed
roughness.

Lord S----, if he had all the dignity, had also inherited all the
courage, of his ancestors. He replied by pulling a trigger at the
speaker's head. The weapon missed fire.

'Such another attempt will cost your lordship your life. Deliver
instantly all the money your lordship has in your carriage.'

'On my word, young man, you are very peremptory; and though I cannot
say I admire your proceeding, yet I suppose I must comply. Here is a
purse containing fifty pounds, and here are two diamond rings, which
I have just now disengaged from my fingers, to their very sensible
inconvenience.'

'This, my lord, is not sufficient. I know you have a sum of three
thousand pounds placed under the right seat of your carriage.
Despair, my lord, has driven me to this desperate purpose. That sum
you must deliver up, or I shall stop at nothing to obtain it.'

'Really, Sir, your precise information as to my affairs is admirable.
Here, then, is the box containing three thousand pounds--as I should
be extremely sorry to embrace the alternative you insinuate.'

'Your lordship will excuse the inconvenience to which I have been
forced to subject you, and be assured I only accept this as a loan.'

'My good nature is extreme, and I will even extend it so far, on one
condition; which is, that you favor me with a meeting, this day three
months, at the entrance of the Coliseum.'

'If your lordship will pledge me your honor not to adopt any
unpleasant measures, and not to refer to this untoward event, I
certainly will.'

'My honor is pledged,' said his lordship, his hand on his right
breast.

'And I will comply,' replied the robber, riding off with his booty.

'Jasmin! Turquoise!' exclaimed his lordship to his discomfited
coachman and postillion, 'if your brains are not knocked out, pray
re-mount and proceed.'

The 'interlocked,' who happily happened not to be in the predicament
suggested by his lordship, obeyed orders, and the carriage proceeded.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE appointed time for meeting had nearly arrived. Lord S---- was
entertaining a distinguished colonel at his mansion in Belgrave
Square. His lordship related to him the event, and the robber's
promise. The colonel laughed at the idea of the meeting. 'Do you
really think,' said he, 'your highwayman is so ambitious of the
halter as to be punctual?'

'I am persuaded,' said Lord S----, 'that something extraordinary
must have driven that young man to this perilous step. My idea is to
reform him. You must come with me.' The colonel consented.

At the given day, they repaired to the entrance of the Coliseum. A
young man, in a military undress, and whose exterior announced the
gentleman, met them. Lord S---- immediately recognised him as the
interrupter of his midnight journey. They proceeded into the interior
of the Coliseum. The stranger appeared visibly embarrassed by the
presence of the colonel. In half an hour he took his leave.

'What think you of my highwayman?' said Lord S---- to the colonel.

'Think!' said the latter; 'the fellow is a member of my own regiment.
He must be apprehended and punished.'

'My dear colonel,' said Lord S----, 'you forget that I am bound to
secrecy. No such thing shall be done.'

'But the interests of society'--said the colonel, who forthwith
uttered a long chapter on that much-abused subject.

'Society, my dear colonel, will never suffer by the reformation
rather than the punishment of a criminal. I am not one of those who
think myself specially commissioned to avenge the wrongs of society.
They who do, generally use the pretence as a cloak to their own ill
nature.'

The colonel finally permitted himself to be persuaded. But it was
highly probable the young man, finding himself discovered, would be
driven to phrenzy. He was probably then with his family. Lord S----
obtained his address from the colonel, flew to his house, where he
found the wretched man's wife distracted, his children in tears, and
himself preparing to go--he knew not whither.

Lord S---- dried up their tears, assured the lieutenant of his
forgiveness, nay farther, of his assistance. The lieutenant resigned
his commission, and accepted service in a foreign land, where, by
a vigorous renouncement of play, and consequent attention to his
profession, he finally rose to distinction.

Now I would by no means seriously advise any young man, however much
inconvenienced for money, to take to the highway, for there are few
persons in the world like Lord S----, and vast numbers disposed to
avenge 'the interests of society.'

       *       *       *       *       *

MITFORD had long deserted No. 10 St. James' Square, and No. 7
Pall-Mall, for the more humble and smaller hazards of '5 Bury,' and
'10 King-street;' and though at each of these tables he could see the
spectres of ruined adventurers flitting round the scenes of their
destruction, and who were rather tolerated by the proprietors from
fear, than suffered from choice, yet example gave no lesson to our
hero, who, like thousands of others who had preceded him, hoped he
should be able to avoid the disasters which all others had found it
impossible to shun.

One fatal evening, he carried the whole of his funds with him,
determined to 'make or mar' his fortune. From five in the evening,
with various alternations of chance, he hung over the bank of _rouge
et noir_. Morning dawned, and saw him a beggar.

He quitted the pandemonium. Fevered, heart-sick, and agonized, he
rapidly traversed Pall-Mall, and plunged into Hyde-Park. The broad
and placid sheet of the Serpentine lay before him, reflecting the
early rays of the sun, and projecting back the shadows of the
thousand palaces which seemed to claim a fairy existence in its
waters.

A sudden thought struck him. Perhaps it had directed him there. Might
he not at once end all his troubles, and find quiet and a grave in
the stream on whose banks he now wandered?

But whatever might have been Mitford's other faults, that reckless
infidelity, which must always accompany the suicide, formed no
portion of his character. From the instructions of an affectionate
mother he had early imbibed those religious lessons, which, however
silent they may have remained amid the glare and gayeties of the
world, struck him with peculiar force in the midst of his desolation,
and he shrunk aghast from the thought of rushing into the presence of
his Creator, unabsolved by penitence, and bearing fresh on his soul
the impress of a mortal crime.

He turned toward his humble residence, with a throbbing brain. The
streets were already crowded, but Mitford heeded not the bustle which
surrounded him. The absolute, irretrievable, hopeless ruin into which
he had fallen, alone occupied his thoughts; and his eyes saw nothing
but the future misery to which he was doomed. The crowds turned to
gaze at him, as he rushed elbowing through them, and seemed to think
him some fugitive from a mad-house.

Arrived at home, he threw himself on his bed. The pent-up sorrows
of his nature gushed out in torrents of tears, and his agony found
a vent in audible sobs. But it has been wisely ordained that no
sorrow, however acute, no grief, however overwhelming, should prey
upon the mind with equal and continued fervency. The floodgates of
sorrow once opened, the mind, relieved from the oppression, re-bounds
from the cause in which its sorrows had their source; Pride comes to
the relief of Despair, and the siren Hope has yet another delusive
whisper to console.

Thus fared it with Mitford. Fatigued with the grievous outpouring of
his soul, he slept.

       *       *       *       *       *

WE have hitherto seen Mitford carried away by the frivolities of
fashion, and even culpably straying from the strict path of morality;
but it must not be imagined that his acquaintances consisted alone of
those giddy moths, who cease to flutter round the candle the moment
it ceases to blaze. Many of his father's friends, solid merchants
with well-ballasted heads, he still continued to cultivate; and he
formed some intimacies with families of sterling worth--whether we
count it in virtue or in pounds--among retired traders.

Let us now turn to more domestic matters. Some months had elapsed,
and Mitford had long ceased to be a desirable resident at any of
the fashionable hotels. There is no place in the world where a man
can live so long without money, as London; but it is necessary to
have a little, sometimes. Tavern-keepers, in this civilized age, are
audacious enough to expect payment for their mutton after it has been
eaten. So much for the march of democracy!

Refugiated in a suburban lodging, verging on that truly English
appellation, 'the shabby genteel,' he breakfasted at nine, and made
his exit at ten, exactly, leaving his landlady in considerable doubt
whether he was a moderate annuitant, a half-pay officer, a junior in
a banking-house, or an attorney's clerk.

While absent on one of these morning excursions, his laundress called
with his clothes. 'This makes five-and-thirty shillings as how Mr.
Mitford owes me.'

'And as how,' says the landlady, peering from the top of the stairs,
'he owes me for five weeks rent.'

'Strange he doesn't pay!' echoed the woman of suds.

That morning Mitford's evil star predominated. His tailor, his
wine-merchant, and his butcher, presented themselves together.

'We wants our money!' cries the trio in a breath.

On such occasions landladies are always curious. Ours adjusted her
hair, and asked them into her parlor.

'How much does he owe you?' asked she of the man of port and
champagne.

'Two hundred and eighty-six pounds, not to mention odd shillings and
pence.'

'My eyes! what a lot of money!' echoes the laundress; 'and all for
such outlandish stuff! I never drinks nothing but small beer, 'cept
it's a quartern o' gin.'

'And my bill,' said the Schneider, 'is three hundred pounds.'

'And mine,' cried the man of beef, 'is two hundred.'

'I tell you what, gem'men,' says the landlady, 'in my opinion you'll
never see a shiner; he owes me for five weeks rent.'

'I wish I could get my bottles back,' says the man of champagne.

'I'll never get my clothes,' says the man of measures.

'It's no use standing no nonsense,' says he of beef; 'a gem'man as
has got no money, is no gem'man, and dash my wigs! if he don't pay
me, I'll tell him so!'

'I'll seize his trunk!' says the landlady.

'And I'll keep his clothes!' said Suds, 'when I can get them again.'

'I'll have satisfaction!' says the man of beef, his hand reverting
insensibly to his steel; for in the mind of a butcher, satisfaction
is inseparable from slaughtering a sheep or lamb.

The trio finally agreed to call that evening, and not depart without
the wherewithal.

Poor Mitford unsuspectingly came home to dinner. Scarce had he
concluded, when the man of wine, of measures, and of beef, made a
simultaneous attack.

Now even when a man has money, to be dunned immediately succeeding
dinner, and forced to pay out a certain quantum of pounds, shillings,
and pence, is horridly provoking. What then must it be to a man who
has NO money? What must it have been to Mitford, who by no means
boasted the mildest of tempers--who was still more soured by recent
misfortune--and who had three of the noisiest of the genus 'dun' to
deal with?

We must not then be surprised, if the man of beef found himself with
a single leap from the drawing-room window at the street door; if the
Schneider made but two steps down the stair-case; and if the prompt
exit of the man of bottles was accelerated by an impetus to the
Hotentonian portion of his unmentionables.

That night Mitford interrupted the charitable predilection of his
landlady for his trunks, by discharging his 'little bill,' and the
following morning found him on his way to France.

       *       *       *       *       *

CALAIS is the grand resource of those English who live to eschew
bailiffs. Sufficiently near to England to admit of a quick
correspondence, it at the same time presents moderate charges.

At Desseins Mitford met the celebrated Brummel, whom he found, in
dress and manners, nothing more than a gentleman should be. Oh,
Bulwer! how could you travestie one of the most perfect gentlemen
of modern times, by adopting, in 'Pelham,' that story of the
'Ruelles?'--'Do you call that thing a coat?' Brummel told Mitford
he intended to write a book, entitled 'Characters in Calais,' who
facetiously recommended him to prefix the substantive 'bad' to the
title, being most descriptive of the English society generally met
there.

One day Brummel was seated at table with Colonel Haubrey, of the
Grenadier Guards. He had a beautiful Mosaic music-box, which he
exhibited to the latter. It presented some difficulty in opening. The
colonel was about using his dessert-knife.

'I beg you to remark, colonel,' said Brummel, gently resuming his
Mosaic, 'that my box is not an oyster!'

On this occasion, he related a curious anecdote of the tenacity of
French duns.

'A literary friend of mine,' said he, 'making a temporary sojourn in
Paris, and sadly in want of remittances, was one day beset by his
boot-maker for a trifle of forty francs. He endeavored to soothe him,
but in vain; and as a _pis aller_, told the man of sole to 'go to the
devil!'

'Ah!' cried the enraged cobbler, 'you tell me to go to the diable! By
gar, I will make de scandale--de _grande scandale_! You shall see vat
I shall do!'

Straightway he posted himself at the foot of the stair-case, where
he related to every passer-by the indebtedness of my friend for his
boots. The man of intellect felt so indignant and annoyed at this
conduct on the part of the _cordonnier_, that forthwith taking his
last forty-franc piece from his escritoire, he threw it at the honest
artizan's head, bidding him be gone--not in peace, but with his
maledictions.

Brummel was a very fervent admirer of America, and descanted
largely on what might be expected from the more extensive diffusion
of British liberty through her means. 'It is only the illiberal
and unwise,' said he, 'who apprehend that the power of America,
transcendant as it must become, will injure Great Britain. On the
contrary, as the one increases in prosperity, the other certainly
must do so likewise. What would England be now, if America had
never been discovered? At most, a second-rate power. Suppose such
an operation to be possible, as that of cutting off Great Britain
from all intercourse with the United States? How many thousands
of her artizans must go without bread! How many of her commercial
establishments decay! What destruction of wealth, ruin of palaces,
and dock-yards! Such an event would occasion a scene of desolation to
be paralleled only by that of Nineveh and Tyre of old.'

For a mere man of fashion, Brummel entertained some clear ideas on
political subjects, by which ministers might have profited. Witness
his opinions on Canada.

       *       *       *       *       *

BUT these opinions, with the remainder of Mitford's varied history,
we reserve for another number.




SUMMER EVENING.

WRITTEN AMONG THE BLUE-RIDGE MOUNTAINS.

BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE, D. D.


    Lo! it is evening: down the mountain's side
    The parting sun-beams slowly melt away:
    But, ere they fade, a lingering lustre shed,
    That loiters brilliant on the smiling peak.
    See how the horizon blushes--as the last
    Declining, lingering radiance of day
    Skirts the faint eves of heaven--while adown
    The desert mountain darkness glides apace,
    And steals the cottage from the inquiring eye!

      Hark! from the copse a plaintive murmur sighs,
    That seems to tell a tale of sympathy.
    'Tis the lone rivulet, which lately saw
    And felt the sun-beams dancing on its bosom:
    Then o'er its gentle bed it stole in mirth,
    And as it flowed, chimed to the lovely scene.

      Ah! let me hie me to the twilight stream,
    To muse the solemn, silent hour away!
    But, as I move, upon the verge of heaven
    The full broad moon, amid a host of clouds,
    That stand like broken battlements afar,
    Unveils her silvery face, and gives a beam
    Resplendent, meek, and lovely as the hour.
    Sometimes the shaggy clouds inter her form,
    And leave me to myself and darkness--yet
    Anon she bursts her prison, and looks down,
    Like one that feels her consciousness and pride.

      Here, from this eminence that tops the rill,
    My eye goes wandering to the village nigh,
    Where many a taper glimmers: there, methinks,
    Contentment cheers the bosom--peace and mirth
    Entwine the heart, and give a charm to life.
    Where now is that tall spire, which lately gleamed
    Amid the bright reflections of the day!
    Ah! it hath vanished--shaded by the night,
    It rises up unseen, and each fair mansion,
    Save by the doubtful moon, is seen no more.

      Hushed is the voice of nature: to her nest
    The solitary bird hath gone--and naught
    Save the dark whip-poor-will is heard abroad.
    The meadow, but an hour ago alive
    With grazing flocks and herds, and echoing blithe
    The gentle music of the ploughman's whistle,
    Lies cheerless and asleep--a lonely waste!

      Still resting on this mossy rock, 'round which
    The night-winds moan, let me indulge my soul--
    For to my soul 'tis sweet to linger here.
    Turn up thine eye to yon bright vaults of heaven,
    All studded o'er with gems of light serene,
    That glimmer through the mistiness of night:
    See how they travel--their unceasing round
    Weaving harmonious--and rejoiced to do
    The will of their Creator: 'Ah!' they say--
    For, to the poet's ear they speak aloud--
    They say: 'proud man is but a reptile thing,
    Lowly and dark--and still with head erect,
    Presumes to challenge his almighty Lord,
    And dares disclaim allegiance to his will.
    We, dressed in glory bright as heaven itself,
    Supremely lifted from those humble walks,
    To journey through interminable space,
    Stoop with submission to the hand that traced
    The pathway of our orbs, and love to twine
    A wreath of gratitude and praise to Him.'

      Such is the language which those stars address
    To melancholy man, while from the heath
    Accordant voices rise. Lo! it is night--
    Extinguished is the brilliant orb of day,
    And none is left, save those bright stars above,
    To cheer the solitary world. So thou,
    Unthinking man! shall one day see thy life
    Extinguished by the chilly touch of death.
    But still upon thy grave a light shall stream--
    And 'tis the torch of _Hope_ enkindled there
    By meek Religion, to watch o'er thy dust,
    Which life again shall animate and warm.

      To-morrow, and the sun shall rise sublime,
    Painting the face of nature; and each scene,
    Tinged by its golden beams, shall glow and laugh,
    Fraught with new life: so thou shall lay thee down
    Within the midnight chambers of the tomb,
    And darkness shall encompass thee awhile;
    But then the light of Immortality,
    Bursting into the cold recess, shall shine,
    And wake thee from thy slumbers: thou shall rise,
    And, robed in never-fading glory, live,
    And rest thee on the bosom of thy GOD.




RELIGIOUS CHARLATANRY.

NUMBER ONE.


EVERY age and every community have their peculiar moral and religious
symptoms, under the action of the Christian system. So also every
separate form of Christianity hath its own characteristic features.
Doth not the Roman Catholic religion differ from the Protestant?
Doth not Protestant religion in Germany differ from that which
passes under the same name in Great Britain? Presbyterianism in
Scotland from Episcopacy in England? English Episcopacy from
Dissent? Christianity in Great Britain from Christianity in America?
Congregationalism in New-England from the Presbyterianism of the
middle and southern states? The two latter from Wesleyanism? The
Baptists from all three? Unitarianism from the four? And American
Episcopalianism from each of this tribe? We might descend to other
specifications, were it needful. It is enough for our purpose, that
they are suggested.

It is interesting as well as pleasant to suppose, that the actual
experiment of the different and successive modes, or developments, of
the divine economy of redemption, as they transpire in human society,
operates as a sifting of their qualities as excellent or otherwise;
and that the good gradually combine and become permanent, while
the faulty, by the same gradual process, become obsolete. Human
frailties have ever found their way into Christian institutions, and
pervaded more or less all Christian enterprises; but the proof of
time invariably determines their character before the public, and
causes them to be severed from such connection--to be ejected from
such society--and consequently, to lose their influence, while that
which is excellent abides. Faults almost innumerable may be traced
in the history of the Church; but the candid reviewer, occupying
our present position, can separate the good from the bad. We are
more immediately concerned, however, to observe the character of
_American Christianity_--especially those parts of it which have been
most prominent and influential, and which have generated what may be
called the religious spirit of the age in our own quarter. It cannot
be denied, that there is something peculiar in American religion.
First, religion here has been uncommonly energetic. Next, it has
assumed some striking peculiarities in its modes of operation. There
has been a disposition to lay aside old forms, and to put on new
ones; to make experiments; and the business of _experimenting_ has
been pushed so far as to bring the public mind to a pause. It may be
profitable, therefore, in the temporary and comparative quiet of this
hiatus, to interpose a little philosophical inquiry.

Not to detract at all from the highly meritorious character of our
forefathers, it will be obvious to the observer of the past, that the
religious spirit of those who have had most influence in forming the
religious character of this country, was of the puritanical school.
Thus far in this statement we are innocent, and hope that no ghost
will start up before he is called. Nevertheless, we begin to imagine
a stirring in the graves. But we intend not to disturb the dead. We
revere and laud that high Providence, which transplanted so much
conscience--so much fear of himself--into these wilderness realms,
and whose spirit has made this former wild abode to bud and blossom
like the rose, morally and physically. We have some respect even for
puritanism in 'its straitest sect;' but in some of its forms, it was,
in our opinion, rather _too_ strait.

Doubtless the puritanism of England was well provoked. But it _was_
provoked. The peculiarities of its mood were the legitimate product
of oppression; and its natural offspring, Dissent, has been nourished
by the same cause. The puritans were aggrieved, and they came here
for comfort. They might have been blessed with a Cromwell for a king,
if an order from government had not thrown a barrier in his path of
emigration through the sea, and destined him for a higher and more
sublime purpose, whether for good or for evil. Certainly it was not
for good, in the estimation of those who had the ill luck to keep him
back by their own measures. They dreamed not, they were favored with
no prophecy, of the work assigned to him. The reign of puritanism
in England stands forth on the page of history as a singular and
instructive drama, not to say tragedy. Doubtless there was much
virtue in it; but the sublime of its enactments was so closely allied
to the ridiculous, that the reader who weeps must also be prepared to
laugh.

America was a better field for puritanism. It was a congenial soil.
And beyond all question, here it has earned an honorable distinction,
and won laurels. Though it believed in witches, and hung them,
(poor creatures!) it believed in God as well as in the devil.
Though it banished Roger Williams, and interdicted the Quakers, it
had this good reason: 'We came here to be by ourselves. Pray don't
disturb us, when the land is so wide!' They who had experienced
intolerance, might have some excuse for practising it--especially,
as their theory and purpose was to have a community adhering to one
catechism. They had taken and occupied vacant ground, (Indians are
not counted,) for the sake of peace; and they thought the best way
to maintain it, was to keep away dissentients from their opinions.
Nevertheless, dissentients came in, and disputes have prevailed. But
the spirit of the puritan fathers also prevailed. That spirit, with
certain modifications of time and chance, has pervaded New-England
society, and, to a great extent, our land. Like the Scotch, who are
never at home till they get abroad, the sons of New-England have
also been rather 'curious.' They have spread out to the north, to
the east, to the west, and to the far west, and sent school-masters,
as well as pedlars, to the south. They have subdued the wilderness
in all directions; they have built and peopled our great cities and
flourishing towns at the north and west; their bone and sinew have
sustained our agriculture; their enterprise built our manufactories;
and their love of gain has pushed our commerce to the ends of the
earth. First in religion, especially in the commendable quality of
zeal, and first in schools and colleges, they have been chief in
influence throughout all our borders. Alas for the Presbyterian
church! (for _their_ sakes we say it,) the Congregationalism of
New-England governs it. They must emancipate themselves as best they
can. It is not for us to say which is the better of the two.

Now be it known--such at least is our philosophy--the religious
novelties of the age, on our side of the water, owe their being
to the New-England spirit, and had their germ in puritanism. The
straitness of this excellent sect was too strait to last always.
Children, kept so close on Sunday as to run themselves out of
breath when let loose at sun-down, were very likely to relax that
kind of discipline when they came to be parents. The blue-laws of
Connecticut, once thrown off, were naturally supplanted by a more
generous code. The Saybrook Platform has been thrown into the garret,
or buried beneath the wreck and dust of some other deposit of old
rubbish. Who can find a copy? And as for the Westminster Catechism,
what pastor of New-England now assembles the children of his parish
in the old school-house once a quarter to hear them recite this
elaborate and comprehensive body of divinity, from beginning to end,
as was the universal custom of olden time? These blessed days of
New-England have gone by. The fathers are dead. A new generation, new
laws, new customs, and a different set of manners, have succeeded.

But how did this grow out of puritanism? Is it not rather an
abandonment of that high character? There may be a little, and not
a little, of truth in both. Puritanism was itself a novelty, and
novelty begets novelty. We do not mean that it never had a type;
but it was cast in an English mould--a mould that was formed at a
particular juncture of English history, by the operation of special
and peculiar agencies; and even on English ground, it could last
in all its force only while the causes which produced it continued
to take effect, and just in that proportion, allowing, indeed, a
reasonable time for its natural subsidence. In America, the causes
did not exist, and the subsidence was unavoidable. It was indeed
a high and stern character, which would require a space for its
abatement into milder forms; but it was not in man to maintain it
without its original provocations.

If we were called to give a philosophical account of its productions,
we should say briefly, that the basis of this character, independent
of religion, was that sturdy and indomitable love of liberty which
has for so many centuries characterized the English. It was only
necessary to graft religion, the strongest passion of man, on
such a stock, to render it truly sublime in its capabilities for
endurance, or daring under oppression. The natural consequence of
the annoyances and vexations of bad government with such minds,
and of encroaching on the rights of conscience, was the production
of a striking severity and determination of character--especially
among the ruder and less cultivated classes of society. The fear
of God, as every Christian is happy to record, rose above the fear
of man; all sympathy between the two great parties was divorced;
and neither could discern the virtues of the other. The indifferent
customs of the oppressors were allied to their vices in the estimate
of the oppressed, and the theory of perfection with the latter was
to eschew, repudiate, and abhor that which was done or approved by
the former. Some of the highest and most desirable attainments and
attributes of civilization were counted as sins, and inconsistent
with Christian character, simply because they were held dear by
their opponents. Refinement of manners was reckoned a snare to the
soul, and regarded as beneath the high aims of religion, because
it was the study of courtiers, and of the higher conditions of
life. To smile, was a mark of levity, or a proof of unbecoming
thoughtlessness, because it might be a stage of progress toward a
sinful mirth. All historical recollections of primitive self-denial,
and sacrifice, and earthly painfulness, were set up as the permanent
lot of Christians, and the measure of present duty. 'In the world
ye shall have tribulation,' was accepted as equally applicable to
all the conscientious, in all times and circumstances. In a word,
the theory of Christian character was moulded by the accidents of
a peculiar condition; and those accidents contributed eminently
to the formation of a lofty and vigorous character, a character
which combined the most essential elements of moral sublimity, and
oppression matured and confirmed it. There might be some acerbity of
temper under such provocations, and rusticity of manners in such a
course of training. The germ of a terrible retribution might lurk and
lower amid the loftier aspirations of a pure and heavenly piety; for
how could a deep and abiding sense of perpetual wrong fail to have
its influence over minds but partially sanctified?--and the period
of the interregnum sufficiently developed this fearful ingredient.
Nevertheless, it was, on the whole, a character to be respected, as
well as to be feared. It was compounded of the best and of the worst
elements.

But a transplantation beyond sea, in a wilderness, where all the
causes of its production and the modifying circumstances of its
growth were wanting, did not indeed at once reduce and new-create
it; for it had been too long in coming to such a maturity, to forget
its former being; it had acquired too much vigor, to bend and become
supple, even by a round of years, in a new world--in a field left
to its own sole occupation, unsupported by the blasts and storms of
its native regions. But it was morally impossible that the second
generation in such circumstances should fully sustain the character
of their fathers. The second was naturally destined to soften down
yet more; the third to experience a farther modification; and so on,
till this character should necessarily, and to a great extent, be
remodelled by the altered circumstances of a new state of existence.
That certain of the primitive features, enough for ever to identify
the race, should remain, was as natural as that any should be
effaced. And here we are, the children of our puritan fathers. Who
could mistake us?

Again, we solemnly aver, that we mean not to speak disrespectfully.
Far from it. Eternal shame on the recreant, who could libel such
a parentage! Let the princes of the earth boast of their lineage;
let the sons of a race emblazoned with the proudest heraldry, hang
out the flag that displays their arms, and prove their worth and
greatness, by deciphering the emblems of a piece of parchment,
borrowed from the remotest antiquity. Ours be the glory of descending
from a stock heaven-born by the imprint of the hand of God, who could
dispute a right with kings, embarrass the wicked counsels of their
ministers, measure weapons with their armies, and found and maintain
an independent empire, to rival equally their wealth and power.

But this high claim affects not at all the matters of fact in our
moral and religious history. For us to assert a title to perfection,
would be as foolish as untrue. He is wise who knows himself; and so
is that nation which understands its own history, and understanding,
profits by it. Human society has no where yet attained the best
possible condition. Nay, more: where is the community that has not
in its bosom portentous elements of mischief? And who will deny
that it is the part of wisdom to investigate and expose them, and
if possible, to invent and apply a remedy? We have our virtues,
doubtless, though it might be more becoming to allow the world to see
and acknowledge them, than to laud ourselves. Our fathers had their
virtues--enough for us to be proud of; and they and their children
have had their faults. Neither is it dishonorable willingly to see
and frankly to confess them. It is injudicious; it is a disease of
the mind; it may lead to fatal error, to insist on bestowing and
claiming praise for that in ourselves which is faulty.

While, therefore, we proceed to unfold yet more distinctly and
minutely the religious blemishes of our national character, in
their origin and successive modifications, we are prepared to
assert our respect, and even our veneration, for the virtues of our
ancestors. They who brought religion, and planted and nourished it
here, were men of a high order. Nevertheless, it would be allowing
more than belongs to man, in any stage of his history, or to any
set of men, to write them down as perfect. We do conscientiously
believe, that the puritanism of England, and that portion of it
which has so extensively leavened the religion of this country, was
gravely faulty, in some very essential and influential particulars.
We believe, moreover, that these faults have been, directly and
indirectly, the occasion of evil--of disaster to our religious
history.

We have said, that puritanism was itself a novelty, in the form it
assumed at the period to which we allude. It was the offspring of
circumstances peculiar to the time. We have hinted that it was the
parent of novelties in a series of changes that have come down to
our own day. Certain it is, our eyes and ears have recently been
forced to witness some strange, not to say alarming, exhibitions
of religion and moral reform, in this land. They have assumed an
aspect to challenge universal attention. Whoever feels an interest
in Christianity, cannot fail to look upon those extraordinary
phenomena of the moral world, with some concern. They demand and
must receive the most grave consideration. The press which sustains
them must be the organ to discuss them. They must be viewed
calmly and considerately, and treated philosophically as well as
conscientiously. Beyond a question, they are novel developments, but
not without cause; and as certain as there is a cause, we think it
may be sufficiently palpable to be traced. For ourselves, we have
presumed upon the essay, and will deliver our opinion.

We have intimated that the severity of the puritanical character
could not endure in all its vigor, without the continued action
of its producing causes. In correspondence with this theory, we
observe, that the growth of this portion of American society has
given birth to a gradual and uninterrupted modification. Not to
speak of others, there are two attributes very essential to give
permanency and controlling influence to any specific form of human
society: antiquity and a proof commending itself to the good sense
of the community. Puritanism, in the form now under consideration,
could not claim antiquity. True there had been things like to it;
but this particular type was well understood to have been of recent
origin. It grew out of resistance to oppression, in part, within the
memory of living witnesses. It was the product of an accident, and
the resort of a temporary expediency. Circumstances being changed,
and so far as it differed from the doom of necessity, that same
discretion which adopted the expedient in one case might and would
naturally accommodate itself to another. So far as necessity was the
cause, it was equally impossible to oppose necessity in a change of
circumstances. The force of antiquity was utterly nugatory.

As to the arbitrations of good sense, it hardly need be said, at
this time, that there were many things in puritanism which could
not long be tolerated under such an appeal. Hence almost the entire
code of its more severe customs has long since become obsolete, even
in the land of the pilgrim fathers. So far as they have not passed
from memory, they are handed down, not as authority, but simply as
an amusing, and in regard to some things, an incredible, tale. They
who had rebelled against the established usages of society once,
might do it again. They who had made a code, might amend it. Peculiar
circumstances had formed the puritanical character in the mother
country; and there was no good reason why peculiar circumstances
should not modify, or re-model it in this. The authority of precedent
in change was established.

Here, if we mistake not, is developed a practical secret of
stupendous influence over the religious destinies of our country.
That there were good reasons for rebellion against the prelacy of
England, and adequate causes for the production of a distaste for
Episcopal usages on an extended scale, can hardly be denied.

Here was the beginning of an order of things, that has come down
to us, and had more influence in this than in the parent country.
Here it has taken the lead, for the reason that this land was made
the refuge and asylum of those who felt themselves injured, and who
were injured, by the operation of a system of oppression. It is an
instructive lesson, and ought to stand up as a beacon, in all coming
time, among other historical advices of the same class, to warn those
who, clothed with legitimate authority, are tempted to abuse it, by
lording it over God's heritage. To provoke and enforce schism in the
Church of Christ, involves a most grave responsibility, and may lead
to infinite mischief.

We have sufficiently recognised the fact of the ascendancy of
puritanism in American society, and that its peculiar temperament was
the soul of a system of dissent from an Episcopal organization. Again
we say, we mean not to speak disrespectfully. Our aim is an exposé
of facts, and, if possible, to present a philosophical view of their
historical train. We respect the piety of the puritans, and desire
to do justice to all their virtues; and if we have not already shown
a satisfactory candor, we hope before we shall have done, abundantly
to appease the most sensitive partiality for our puritan ancestry. We
are not unwilling to believe, that the original elements of American
society, in so far as this particular class predominated, were on the
whole most happy, and will yet, in the long run, be overruled for the
greatest good. Their virtues were stern and lofty, and their faults
are subject to the corrective influence of time and events. It was
as impossible that the latter should not have their race, as that
the former should not come in with their balance of influence, and
finally obtain a conservative shape and commanding position. And this
end, as we opine, will the sooner be accomplished, as the public can
be made to discriminate, by the instructive career of events between
the good and the bad. Whenever society, or any portion of it, runs
off in a wrong direction, it must ultimately find itself in a false
position; and the discovery being made, there is the same certainty,
if virtue enough remains, that it will aim at a recovery.

If we do not err in our discernment of the signs of the times, there
is even now a conviction rapidly obtaining in the public mind of
this country, that we have nearly if not quite arrived at a _ne plus
ultra_ of religious radicalism; and that a conservative and redeeming
influence is being formed and growing into importance. The race of
change, which has been a long time, even ages, in the course, has
recently been so accelerated, as to set the axles of the machinery on
fire, and run off the wheels. The chariot of religious radicalism, we
think, is tumbling and falling.

In our opinion, this catastrophe is not the product of an hour, nor
of an age. We go farther back for the primal cause. As a matter of
history, we find that the leading and most influential religious
machinery of this country was composed of the dislocated fragments of
long-established European institutions, broken off by convulsions,
not wanting virtue so much as order, symmetry, and consistency.
The virtue was strong, and while its character of firmness was
maintained, it could better dispense with a fixed and well-ordered
machinery, sanctioned by time, and having a reasonable claim to
apostolic origin. But the rapid growth and the fervid condition of
our social organization, have put the new theory to a test too stern
for a felicitous development.




DEATH OF ROB ROY.

    'WHEN this chieftain was on his death-bed, a gentleman whom he
    had reason to consider as an enemy, came to see him. On being
    requested to admit him to his bed-side, he said: 'Raise me up,
    buckle on my arms, then admit him!' The guest was received with
    cold civility, and in a short time departed. 'Now,' said Rob
    Roy, 'call in the piper.' The piper came, and he expired with
    the voice of war pealing around him.'


        WITH heather pillowing his head,
          The dying outlaw lay,
        And plaided clansmen round his bed
          Stood watching in dismay.
        Wild throes of dissolution shook
          His worn and wasted frame,
        But native lordliness of look
          Distemper could not tame.

        The walls of his rude dwelling-place
          Were hung with weapons bright--
        With branching antlers of the chase,
          And trophies won in fight.
        His tall, gaunt hound, of proven worth,
          Acute of eye and ear,
        Slept idly on the lighted hearth,
          Forgetful of the deer.

        Cold dew--that herald which precedes
          The winding-sheet, and wail
        Of mourning ones--in clammy beads,
          Stood on his forehead pale.
        Faint grew the swell of his proud breast,
          And dim his falcon-eye,
        But manfully his lip suppressed
          The groan of agony.

        While ran his blood with feebler flow,
          Strode in a clansman stout,
        And told the chief, in accents low,
          'A stranger waits without!'
        Then syllabled the name--a word
          Unwelcome to his ears,
        Which darkly in his bosom stirred
          The hoarded hate of years.

        'No member of a hostile clan,
          While heart or pulse can beat,
        Shall see me,' said the dying man,
          'In posture of defeat.
        Array me in the spoils I took
          From enemies laid low;
        Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook
          The presence of a foe.'

        'Bring forth the bonnet that I wore
          When blood was on the heather,
        Though in the mountain wind no more
          Will nod its eagle feather:
        Gird on my sword, of temper tried,
          Old beam of hope in danger,
        To deeds of hardihood allied,
          And then admit the stranger!'

        Attendants clad the dying man
          In garb that well became
        The leader of a martial clan,
          A warrior of fame;
        Admitted then his guest, who met
          Reception stern and cold;
        The Highland Chief could not forget
          The bloody feuds of old.

        The stranger soon withdrew. 'Now call
          The harper in, to cheer
        My passing spirit with the strain
          Most welcome to my ear!'
        The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,
          To notes of battle strung,
        And fingering its chords of fire,
          In stormy concert, sung:

    I.

    'The plaid round his shoulders our leader hath thrown,
    And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown;
    He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand
    To gather around him with bonnet and brand;
    Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag,
    We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag.

    II.

    'The dirk of our fathers in gore we must dye!
    Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh?
    The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale,
    That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale;
    That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy,
    And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy.

    III.

    'On the head of Macgregor a price hath been set,
    With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet;
    Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows,
    And loud is the song in the camp of our foes;
    But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy,
    When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!'

        Ere died the battle-song away,
          Rose up the voice of wail,
        While motionless the chieftain lay,
          With face like marble pale.
        No kindly word from him repaid
          The harper for his strain;
        The hushing hand of Death was laid
          On heart, and pulse, and brain!

_Avon, May,1837._                                W. H. C. H.




A TALE OF TIGHT BOOTS.

AN AUTHENTIC FRAGMENT FROM AN UNWRITTEN HISTORY.

    'WHAT! How's this! I told you to make one of my boots _larger_
    than t' other; 'stead o' that, I'm blow'd if you haven't made
    one SMALLER than t' other! What a hass you must be, to be sure!'

                                       THE INCENSED COCKNEY.


THE great Homer did not think it unworthy his muse to sing of boots;
why then should not I write of them?--especially as I have a tale
to tell, which, if carefully perused, will, ('though I say it, who
ought not to say it, still I _do_ say it,') tend to the edification
of the reader. I have called my story 'A Tale of Tight Boots,' hoping
that when he should see that it concerned his understanding, he would
understand the necessity of regarding it attentively.

The scene of my story is the goodly city of Boston; the time, May,
1836, 'being bisextile, or leap-year.' Business and pleasure had led
me to town--alas! I made it a 'bad business,' and my pleasure ended
in pain. I established myself at the Tremont, and began to look
around for adventures.

Rap--tap--tap!

'Come in!'

'A note, Sir.'


    'Mr. H---- requests the pleasure of Mr.----'s company at dinner
    to-day, at two o'clock, precisely.'

Mr. H---- was an old and much-loved friend; of course I accepted. I
learned that there was to be a large company, and what was of more
consequence to me, that Miss L----, whom I had addressed for the last
six months, was to be there. No one will think it strange, then, if
I devoted more than usual attention to my toilet. Finding that the
style of my boots was a little _passêe_, I resolved to treat myself
to new ones. The shop of the artizan who kept the 'crack article'
was not far off, and thither I betook myself. Having selected a pair
which came near the _beau ideal_ of a boot, in my mind's eye, I
proceeded to try them on.

'A little too tight on the instep,' said I, after I had fairly
succeeded in drawing them on.

''Bout right, Sir,' said the man of boots, rubbing his hand over the
place indicated; 'they'll give a little; fashionable cut, Sir; make
'em all so, now; fine foot, Sir, yours, to fit a boot to; high in the
instep--hollow here. They look well, Sir.'

The last part of the man's argument, or rather _gab_, had the desired
effect. He had assailed me in a tender point--almost the only one,
I believe, in which it was possible for him or any other person to
flatter me. My better judgment and understanding were overcome. I
kept the boots.

       *       *       *       *       *

HAVING made my toilet, and put on my future tormentors, I set out for
the residence of my friend. The arrival, salutations, announcement
of dinner, etc., are matters of course--so I let them pass. In due
time, I found myself walking into the _salon de manger_, with Miss
L---- on my arm. A moment more, and I was seated at the table beside
her. I did the duties that fell to me; said to my companion every
pretty thing I could think of; sent her plate for some turkey;
carved a chicken that stood before me, and offered the wing to the
lady opposite; drank wine with my hostess, and procured some tongue
for a lady on my left, who had no gentleman to take care of her.
By the way, I wish she had eaten her own, considering the use she
afterward made of it. In fine, my mind was so completely occupied
by the pleasures of my situation, the few good things I said to my
companion, and the many she said to me, that I was unconscious of the
curse that from the first had been developing itself.

Soon, however, I became aware that something prevented my being
perfectly happy. I felt as one who, in the midst of a delightful
dream, is assailed by a bed-bug--made conscious, merely, that there
is some draw-back to his pleasure--something that prevents his giving
himself entirely up to that perfect bliss which seems to beckon him
to its embrace. A few moments more, and I was fully aroused. I found
the instep of my right foot in a state of open rebellion against the
strictures that had been laid upon it, and particularly against the
act of close confinement. In truth, there was good reason; for the
instep was the seat of intense pain. I drew it under my chair; but
no rest for it was there. I thrust it back to its first place; still
its anguish was unabated. In spite of myself, I became silent, and a
shade passed over my face. The quick eye of my companion detected it,
and fearing she had said something that had wounded me, began, with a
kindness peculiar to herself, to apply a healing balsam. She had been
speaking of an article in a late number of the _Knickerbocker_, and,
in fact, commenting upon it with much severity. The thought seemed
to flash on her mind that I was in some way interested--the author,
perhaps, or a friend to the author. She passed to commendation.
'There were, notwithstanding, fine traits in the piece; redeeming
qualities in spite of its imperfections. There was evidence of much
talent--talent not all put forth,' etc. Dear girl! she mistook
my disease. It was not my vanity that was wounded. My vanity was
wounding me.[1] To gratify it, I had put on the tight boots; and now,
like an undisciplined urchin, it had become the tormentor of its too
indulgent parent.

At this moment, my Newfoundland dog, which, it seems, had followed
my steps, and waited patiently at the door, amusing himself by
calculating, from the doctrine of chances, the probability of his
being admitted, took advantage of an opening made by the egress of
one of the servants, and walked into the room. Remembering that he
had not been regularly invited, and a little doubtful as to his
reception, he came slowly forward, with his tail rather under the
horizontal, his nose thrust forward to catch the first intimation of
my presence, and eyes upturned, glancing from one to another of the
company, to see how he was to be received. He made a slight smelling
halt at each guest, until he came to my chair. Finding that he had
reached the object of his search, he without farther ceremony seated
himself on his haunches beside me, wagged his tail back and forward
on the carpet, and looked up in my face with an expression of much
dignity, mingled with a slight twinkle of self-congratulation, which
seemed to say: 'So, then, I have got along in the right time?'

I was so much occupied with my own sufferings, that I could scarcely
be civil to the fair creature at my side; it is not surprising,
therefore, that I gave little heed to the dumb beast at my feet,
however expressively he might invite me with his eyes. Poor Rover!
had he known my situation, he would never have 'done the deed' he
did. I knew the kindness of his disposition--but the truth must be
told. After waiting several minutes, and eliciting no glance from his
master, he raised his heavy foot, and placed it impressively on mine.
It rested on _the_ very spot! It was not in human nature to bear
this unmoved. I withdrew the distressed member, with a convulsive
twitch, which brought my knee in contact with the table, with so
much violence, that the attention of the whole company was drawn
on me, just in time to see the contents of my wine-glass emptied
into my plate, and that of my companion into her lap. Kind girl!
She exhibited no emotion, but slightly and unseen by the company,
shook off the wine, and continued her conversation, as if nothing
unpleasant had taken place.

Overwhelmed with mortification, I found it impossible, with all the
efforts I could make, to recover my self-possession. I could only
reply in monosyllables to her remarks; and, save when she addressed
me, I was silent in spite of myself. She touched on various subjects
which had usually interested me, in the hope of withdrawing me from
the remembrance of the accident; but finding her efforts vain, she
adopted another course, and asked me, in a counterfeited tone of
censure, when she was to have the lap-dog I had promised to procure
for her several days before. The word 'dog' was all that traversed
the passage to my mind, so thickly was that passage crowded with keen
remembrances. Thinking of my own Newfoundland, I replied, fiercely:
'He dies to-morrow!' Startled at the unusual tone, my fairest
companion cast on me a glance of surprise, almost of fear. A tear
shone in her eye, and she was silent.

       *       *       *       *       *

AT last the time of leaving the table came--oh, moment to me most
welcome! It seemed to me that we had sat an age at the board; but at
the last, my corporeal had been forgotten in my mental pain.

If the reader has any bowels of compassion, he is now hoping that
my troubles are over; that I shall go quietly home, take off the
offending boot, enclose my foot in an easy slipper, and then, in
the evening, with an old boot well polished, pay my respects to my
mistress--explain all--receive her forgiveness, and be again happy.
Would it were so! But let me not anticipate.

Before we sat down to dinner, it had been arranged, that we--that
is, my friend, wife, and sister, myself and Miss L----, should go
to the theatre in the evening, to hear, or rather see, a celebrated
little French actress, whose star was then in the ascendant. I had
no time to make new arrangements; for when we rose from the table,
it was even then time to set forth. The fresh air and the lively
conversation of my friends nearly restored me to myself; so that when
we took possession of our box, I was comfortable both in body and
mind. But for my foot there was no permanent peace. There was but a
temporary truce with pain. I had not been seated ten minutes, before
the enemy returned, rëinforced. I soon felt that to endure until
the play was over, would be utterly beyond my power. There was but
one course to pursue. I silently slipped my foot from the boot, and
sitting close to my companion, succeeded--thanks to the ample folds
of her cloak!--in securing my white stocking from observation. The
acting was superb--my foot was at ease--my companion agreeable--and I
quite forgot that I was bootless.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE last act was closed, and the curtain fell. My friends immediately
left the box. Mr. H---- offered an arm each to his wife and sister,
and--you would not expect a lady to wait for her beau!--Miss L----
walked with them, but not without 'a lingering look behind.' The
instant they were out of the box, I seized my boot, and attempted to
thrust my foot into it; but it had swollen, and the first effort cost
me excruciating pain; yet this I did not regard. But all my efforts
were vain. I could as easily have thrust an alderman through a
key-hole. I seized my pen-knife, and split the offending boot nearly
from top to toe. Then planting my foot on the sole, I tied the string
of my drawers tightly around the leg, and rushed through the crowd.
In my haste, I well-nigh overturned a fat old lady, who was leaning
on her son's arm. The old woman cried, 'Oh Lord!' and the youth,
in ire, muttered an oath, and raised his cane; but I was two quick
for him. I reached the door, amid the screams of the ladies, the
deep, though for the most part unspoken, curses of the men, and the
cry of 'Seize him!' from the police officers. But my friends and my
betrothed, where were they? Lost in the crowd, or shut up in some of
the carriages that were pressing around the door? I saw at once that
all search was useless. I waited until nearly all had left the house,
and then slowly and sadly took my way to my hotel. I went to bed; but
the visions of the day were present to my waking thoughts, or haunted
my short and troubled slumbers. How often, between sleep and awake,
did I long for the boots, and envy the comfortable estate of their
free-and-easy wearer, so felicitously described by the author of
'_Boots, a Slipshodical Lyric_,' in an early number of this Magazine.

              ----'What sprawling heels!
    And holes are cut anigh the spreading toes,
    As if the ponderous feet in that wide space
    Had still been 'cabined, cribbed,' and wanted room,--
    Or else, that doleful crops of pedal maize,
    Called by the vulgar corns, had flourished there.
    I see the wearer plainly. In public haunts
    He of his self deportment takes no heed,
    And spitteth evermore. His lips are sealed
    And juicy, like wind-beparchéd mouth
    Of ichthyophagous Kamschatkadale; and oft,
    With three sheets in the wind, in upper tier
    Midst mirthful Cyprians, he puts his feet
    Over the box's front, and leaning back,
    Guffaws and swears, like privateer at sea,
    Until the pitlings from beneath, exclaim,
    'Boots!' 'Trollope!' and he straightway draws them in.'

When I rang in the morning, the waiter brought a note. The address
was 'pleasingly familiar' to me. I broke the seal, and read:

    'Miss L---- will be excused from her engagement to ride with
    Mr. D---- to-day. Mr. D---- may spare himself the trouble of
    calling to inquire the reason.'

And he did!

                                                          D.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] 'APOPLEXY--TIGHT BOOTS.--A physician of New-York says, that he
has recently attended four cases of apoplexy, caused by wearing tight
boots. Many a grown-up man is now grieving over the effects of this
folly of his dandyism, in earlier years. Corns, toes cramped in a
heap, and tenderness of the whole foot, are the penalty which manhood
has to pay for this sin of youth.'




THE POET.


    * * * 'LE poéte est homme par les sens
    Homme par la douleur! * * *
    L'argile périssable où tant d'âme palpite,
    Se façonne plus belle, et se brise plus vite;
    Le nectar est divin, mais le vase est mortel;
    C'est un Dieu dont le poids doit écraser l'autel;
    C'est un souffle trop plein du soin ou de l'aurore,
    Qui fait chanter le vent dans un roseau sonore,
    Mais, qui brisé de son, le jette au bord de l'eau,
    Comme un chaume séché battu sous le fléau!'

                                                  LAMARTINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

    THOU dark-eyed, pensive, passionate child of song!
    Enthusiast! dreamer! worshipper of things
    By the world's crowd unnoticed, 'mid the throng
    Of beautiful creations, Nature flings
    The sunlight of existence o'er!

                                  The wings
    Of the rude tempest are not half so strong
    As thy proud hopes--thy wild imaginings:
    Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flight
            Reach a too-dazzling height!
    Venturing sunward, till the flashing eye
    Of reason, grown deliriously bright,
    Kindle to madness, and to idiocy;
            And, from excessive light
    To hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night!

            Stop! melancholy youth!
    Though bright and sparkling be the tide of song,
    And many a sunbeam o'er its waters dance
            Meanderingly along--
    Though it be heaven to quaff of--yet, in truth,
    A deadlier venom taints its gay expanse,
            More deep, more strong,
    Than to the subtlest poison doth belong!
    A very demon haunts its foetid air,
    Infatuating with its serpent glance
            The wanderer there;
    And, with a sad but most bewitching smile,
    Luring the credulous one to its desire:
    Stirring new feelings, passions, hopes awhile,
    And burning thoughts, whose mad, unholy fire,
    With its own strength illumes its own funereal pyre!

    Stop, if thou'dst live!--or hath life left for thee
    No charms, that thou its last terrific scene
    Shouldst with such passion worship? Can it be,
    That the world nothing hath thou'dst care to win?
    No gem, no flower, no loveliness, unseen?
    No wonder unexplored? no mystery,
    Still undeveloped to the eagle eye
            Of Genius, or of Poësy?

    Where are the depths of the dark, billowy sea?
    Its peopling millions--its gigantic chain
    Of gorgeous, glittering waters--wild as free?
    Where the big-orbéd sun--the blue-veiled sky?
    And its magnificent, diamond-glittering mine
    Of ever-burning stars? Oh! can it be,
    (Thou fond idolater at every shrine
    Where beauty lingers,) can it be that thou
    Hast treasured up earth's glorious things, till now
    Thou deem'st it uselessness to turn.
    Some unfamiliar object to discern,
            And so
    Her loveliest features unregarded go?

    Away, vain thought! such phrenzy ne'er were thine!
    Since, in the humblest, homeliest flower that grows--
    Thy very life-breath, as it comes and goes--
    There are a thousand things, whose origin,
    Whose secret springs, and impulses divine,
    No human art nor wisdom can disclose!

    Stop, then, sad youth! for life is not _all_ care,
    But, hath its hours of rosy-lipped delight;
    While the cold grave hath little save despair,
    The weary, world-worn spirit to invite.
    Stop! I conjure thee! bid the muse away!
    Her fatal gifts relinquish or resign;
    Her haughty mandates heed not nor obey:
    E'en _now_ thy brow hath sorrow's pallid sign--
    Thine eye, though bright, is like the flickering ray
    Of a 'stray sunbeam, o'er some ruin'd shrine,'
    Lighting up vestiges almost divine,
    In sad, yet, dimly-beautiful decay!
    Thy cheek is sunken, and the fickle play
    Of the faint smile that curls thy parted lip
    Hath something fearful in it, though so gay!
    A something treacherously calm, and deep,
    Such as on sunny waters seems to sleep,
    When hid beneath some passing shadows gray,
    The subtle storm-fiend watches for his prey.

    Stop! ere thine hour of dalliance be over;
    Ere Health abandon thee, and quench her light
    In the dark stream of death, (the faithless rover!)
            Ere Hope herself take flight
    Down to the depths of that dark-flowing river,
    Whose sombre shores are clothed in endless night;
    Ere thou be wrested from us--and for ever!
    Blotted, like some loved planet, from our sight!
            And, save the ties
    That not e'en Destiny itself can sever,
    A feeble reminiscence or a name
    Be all thou leav'st us of thee 'neath the skies--
    Or some rude stone, perchance, to greet our eyes,
    And, with its speechless eloquence proclaim:
            'Here lies
    Another victim to thy love, O Fame!'

_Philadelphia_, 1837.                            J. S. D. S.




WHO WOULD BE A SCHOLAR?


'A STRANGE question!' says one: let such a reader turn to the next
article. 'And a pretty foolish one,' mutters a second: let him do
likewise. _Who would be a scholar?_ 'Sure enough!' whispers one, in
whom the question finds an echo, (and we know there are such;) him,
and all of like sympathy, we invite to meditate a moment with us on
the trials of the scholar.

Let it not be feared that we are about to disparage learning;
although it should not be forgotten, that we have the highest
authority on our side, when we venture to speak of evil and hardship
in connection with that which is pronounced 'a weariness to the
flesh;' and the classic muse is with us, when we claim it as a
universal fact, that 'no one is satisfied with his lot, but each one
sighs for change.' The tired soldier exclaims, 'happy tradesman!' and
the tradesman, 'happy soldier!' The bard who vies with Homer, both
in antiquity and honor, places the beggar and the poet in the same
category; for it is the object of one of his noble hexameters to say,
that

    'Beggar envies beggar, and bard envies bard.'

Does not our question appear to some to border on profanity? There
are those who are wont to feel that Mind and all its achievements
are more sacred than the things of sense. And this is in some
measure true. But why is not the toil and plodding of the scholar as
earthly as any other? We must insist that it is; and we claim that
an unfounded presumption in favor of mental effort, as such, be not
suffered to face us on the threshold of our argument.

Go with us then--for our appeal shall be to actual examination--to
the chamber of the philologist. A cadaverous being dwells there; his
sepulchral voice bids us enter, and his sepulchral look--shall we say
welcomes us? No! The heart, the social principle, has perished in
this atmosphere of dusty lore. You enter. Before a table piled with
books, sits the _genius loci_. On either side of him stands a chair,
loaded with huge volumes, and others stand on end upon the floor
around. As you place your hat upon a dust-covered volume which lies
in the window, you catch the title, '---- on the Digamma.' As you
take your seat, you have in view the worn titles of other venerable
tomes; 'Scholia in Homerum,' 'De Metris Choricis,' 'De Dialecto
Ionicâ,' 'Tenebræ Lycophrontis,' etc., etc. Shall we record a portion
of the conversation? After the usual salutation, and the partial
return of the student's mind to present realities, we begin:

'Well, Sir, we find you deeply engaged in study: are you laboring
upon your edition of Æschylus?'

'I am; but for two or three days past, I have been more particularly
occupied with the investigation of some collateral topics of
considerable interest. I have been examining the accentuation of an
obsolete form used by this poet, in order to determine whether the
accent should be the _acute_ or the _circumflex_. I have read the
ancient grammarians on this point, and the invaluable discussion of
Blomfield on the accent of this particular word, which occupies four
pages in his elaborate commentary.'

'Are not the dramas of Æschylus quite obscure and difficult?'

'They are so regarded, but they are rich in the treasures of the
Greek language, and open a wide and inviting field for investigation.
I have often been richly repaid for spending a week upon a single
sentence.'

'Do you suppose that the text is generally as Æschylus left it?'

'It had become much corrupted and interpolated; but the labors of
our great critics have probably nearly restored it to its original
purity. Many of the manuscript copies were evidently erroneous. The
great German scholars have made many conjectural emendations, of
unspeakable value. Indeed, hardly any department of philological
criticism has been cultivated with more zeal, and more astonishing
results, than that of _conjectural emendation_.'

'But do you not suppose that Æschylus would object to some of the
improved readings, if he could see them?'

'Oh! you now call to mind a dream which I had last night. If I were
a believer in dreams, it would make me quite discouraged; and as it
is, my mind has been rather gloomy this morning. I dreamed that as
I was studying the 'Prometheus,' all at once Æschylus himself made
his appearance. How, or whence, I did not seem to inquire; but in
some way, (for you know dreams are incoherent and unaccountable,) I
knew it to be Æschylus. His appearance was noble and imposing. He was
past the middle age; his hair was 'of a sable-silver,' about midway
in its progress toward the whiteness of old age, and fell carelessly
over his elevated and strongly-marked forehead. His features were
strong and almost severe, and his complexion brown and hardy. His
whole appearance was not that of the pale scholar, nor of the
well-fed nobleman, but of the man of action and exposure--strongly
constituted, and sternly disciplined in the world. I told him I was
studying his dramas. He seemed astonished. 'I supposed,' said he,
'they had perished long ago, or had been laid aside as specimens of
the early and untrained efforts of the mind. I wrote them with labor
indeed, but I wrote them for my own age, and did not dream that
they would occupy the attention of posterity. You certainly must
have those which are much better.' I then told him of our labors in
the perusal of his writings, and our delight in them. In order to
convince him of the reality of such efforts, and of their success,
I opened before him the commentaries of our first scholars. He
seemed amazed. 'Can it be,' he replied, 'that so much explanation is
necessary?' My hearers never complained of obscurity.' 'But,' replied
I, 'we live in a distant age, and speak a different language; in
order, therefore, to see and feel the beauties of your writings, much
explanation is necessary.'

'As to beauties,' said he, 'I wrote as well as I could, and aimed
at securing the attention and gratification of my auditors, and
at nothing more. But allow me to see what you regard as '_my
beauties_.' I then read to him one of those rich and masterly
notes, in which B---- has so finely brought out the hidden sense
of the poet. He thought a moment, and then, with a smile, replied:
'Well, that is helping me out finely! I am sure I never thought of
such a construction as possible, but it is very good.' To my utter
astonishment, he treated several of those ingenious elucidations
in the same manner. I then pointed him to one of the important
conjectural emendations of the text, as a specimen of modern
scholarship. 'What!' said the wondering dramatist, 'you have
mistaken: surely, this is not in my writings; whose is it? I hardly
see what the passage itself can mean.' I then showed him that it
was a part of 'Prometheus Vinctus.' 'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'I now
understand; you have copied it wrong.'

'My astonishment interrupted my dream, and awoke me. Dreams are
nothing, to be sure; but how could my mind run into such a fiction?'

'You are right in saying that dreams are not to guide our conduct:
but may it not be, that some of your nocturnal suppositions come
close upon the truth?'

'Oh no! I should as soon expect to catch Wolf tripping in Homer, as
to find any such suppositions correct. I can easily account for my
discouraging dream. I had been laboring the whole day upon a passage,
of which the original was not indeed controverted, but the sense is
given by two learned commentators in direct opposition to each other.
One of them, after giving his rendering, says: '_Sensus cuique obvius
est_.' The other says of this interpretation: '_A genio linguæ Græcæ
prorsus abhorret_.' But this difference between scholars shows only
how wide is the field for investigation.'

Let us now leave the philologist to his studies; to pore over
difficulties which time has created, and scholar-like blunders
magnified; to extort sense from passages which never contained it;
to perplex himself with the attempt to form an opinion where the
greatest differ, and where evidence is wanting to the human mind;
to solve questions which are of no conceivable importance to human
knowledge, and to labor life away upon that which can at best only
serve as a monument of patient effort, like the achievement of the
monk with his scissors or pen-knife, which represents only the
expenditure of years. We would clearly recognise the value of the
study of ancient languages in youth, when mind is in its forming
state; when discipline is secured by close attention, and systematic
action of the faculties by the study of system; but we deem it quite
another thing to make the means the end; to pursue the lessons of
boyhood, when the time of them is past, and all their benefits
secured; to narrow the mind down to the perpetual investigation of
minutiæ which have no bearing on human happiness, except as they may
create a fictitious fame; to live among trifles, and for them.

Shall we be pronounced traitors to the cause of learning? Is it
the object of learning to be learned? Is it not rather to make man
a being of higher resources, and nobler action? We confess we are
giving utterance to thoughts which have forced themselves upon us,
when called to take a survey of the field of learning, to examine
its divisions, to become acquainted with its laborers, and to labor
ourselves upon its margin. If these thoughts should be derided as
proceeding from an indolent or even an ignorant view of the case, we
would reply, by asking two questions: _First_, Is there a limit to
study, of the members pursuing it, and the extent of its pursuit?
and, _second_, Where is that limit? Let it not be replied: 'We should
fix no limit to the cultivation of the mind.' We are speaking of
_study_, in its common acceptation, and in this acceptation we offer
these questions. If this be a strange course of inquiry, is it an
unreasonable one?

But let us not be too serious. The mistakes of men may sometimes be
laughed at; and if any are found to spend their lives in seeking
unprofitable knowledge--if any one delves all his days over learned
trifles,

    'And prizes Bentley's, Brunck's or Porson's note,
    More than the verse on which the critic wrote,
    This much at least we may presume to say,
    The premium can't exceed the price they pay.'

Such men might certainly be worse employed, and if time is _wasted_,
it is not mischievously abused.

A young friend came lately, in great dejection and discouragement, to
ask some advice respecting the obstacles which he had encountered in
reading the Iliad. 'I am now studying,' said he, 'the catalogue of
the Grecian fleet; and I am exceedingly puzzled to find out the exact
situation of all the places which Homer mentions, and to trace all
the nations and tribes to which the Grecian army is referred. I have
studied carefully all the notes of Heyne and Clarke, but these are
not full enough.'

'And why do you wish to trace them?'

The young student was mute with surprise: 'This is a strange
question,' muttered he to himself, 'to come from a teacher, and an
admirer of Homer!' 'What, Sir, must I not _study out_ all the proper
names? I supposed I could not be a good scholar without it.'

'_Why should you?_ If you will think of this question, and give me a
satisfactory answer, I will set myself at once to helping you.'

'But why did the commentators study so much upon these things?'

'That is another question for you to think of; and instead of
answering it myself, I will wait for you to give me your best
conjecture on the subject.'

The poor fellow was amazed. Never had he been more entirely
confounded: 'My teacher asks me, why should I learn it! How strange!'
Such were his thoughts, as he returned to his studies. In a few days
he called again. He seemed not to know how to begin the conversation.

'Well, have you made out an answer to the questions which startled
you so much?'

'Why, Sir; I cannot say that I am able to give any satisfactory
answer.'

'Well then, my young friend, I charge you not to spend time and
strength in searching for the situation of Homer's Nisyrus,
Crapathus, and Casus, until you give some valid reason for so doing.
As to the commentators, what will not men do for fame? How many
labors have men performed with this motive, which were not only
useless, but pernicious?'

Such a reply was indeed unexpected. The young pupil seemed at once
bewildered, and relieved from anxiety, by such a _paradoxical_
sentiment. His mind had imbibed the common feeling that, _mental_
labor never constitutes an abuse of time. The maxim, 'No item of
knowledge is contemptible,' had misled his mind, and he had been
accustomed to feel that _learning_ must be great and good.

There is a sense, in which it may be truly said that nothing in the
universe of God is despicable, except moral evil. The most minute
portion of matter--the slightest organization--the obscurest fact in
nature--is worthy of the notice of Mind. But are there not choices to
be made? Is EVERY man justified in spending his life in the comparing
of the blades of grass, or the pebbles of the sand? No work of human
skill is to be despised; and yet who may sit down to cut paper, or
tie knots, as the business of his life?

We once called at the study of a fine young man, who had set out to
do his best, and to make a scholar. He was pale with long and severe
study, and seemed to labor under some special dejection. On inquiring
into his course of study, he made the following statement.

'I have lately begun to read Cicero de Oratore. I have always
been accustomed to hear Cicero spoken of as the prince of Latin
writers, and I resolved to make myself master of one at least of
his treatises, and to _realize_ the whole benefit of a thorough and
scholar-like acquaintance with this author. I commenced with the
commentaries of Ernesti, Pearce, Proust, Harlessius, etc., etc.,
and resolved to know the whole. I soon came upon a passage which
was obscure. I resorted to the Notes. Here I found six different
readings proposed, and long comments on each. I read all the remarks
of my commentators, which occupied me an hour. The conclusion to be
derived from them was, that the original language of the sentence
was not to be decided upon, and that the meaning of the author was
left to conjecture. I then undertook to investigate the meaning of a
legal term used by Cicero. After reading several pages of notes, and
consulting half a dozen books of reference, I made myself master of
the suppositions of the learned on the subject. I next took up the
name of a Roman orator whom Cicero mentions. I read at great length,
and discovered that his name had been found in several instances in
the Latin writers, and that critics supposed that two persons of the
same name had been alluded to in these instances. I had commenced
the study with resolution, and had determined not to come short of
the advantages of the thorough scholar. But, for an hour before you
come in, I had been thinking, 'What am I doing, and what end am I
securing? What if I should know a thousand things of this kind? _Cui
Bono?_ I do not intend to be indolent or fickle, but these thoughts
have, I confess, made me dejected.'

The young man's honest and heart-felt account of himself was
calculated to make one pause. Here was a high-toned and vigorous mind
wearing away its energies, and narrowing its scope of vision, under
the bondage of that public opinion respecting true learning, which
took its rise and its form in the cells of the monastery, where the
mind will seize upon any aliment rather than prey upon itself, and
expend itself upon trifles, because it is shut away from the _great_
realities of life. A mind which was made to display its energies in
the highest track of thought, and on the widest field of action, is
imprisoned to count its beads, and mutter its task, in the temple
of monastic lore. Public opinion must be subjected to frequent
revision--let us not be pronounced radical--or errors will cling to
the community, with the tendency of a mill-stone about the neck. An
error, hallowed by strong and widely-connected associations, is not
easily exterminated. It passes on unharmed by those agitations which
overwhelm the errors of a lower grade and humbler origin; and while
the generation living in its shadow have never known the light which
it intercepts, they regard it as a part of the system of things, and
one of the conditions of their being. Thus has the high regard which
mankind accord to mental efforts, as distinguished from physical, had
the effect to hallow even the follies of intellect, and to prolong
the existence of those errors respecting the cultivation of the
mind, which lead us to regard it rather as a receptacle of hoarded
knowledge, than as a thing of active powers; to seek the acquisitions
of the scholar as valuable in themselves, rather than as giving scope
and expansion to the energies of a noble existence, and in the high
estimation which Education has properly imparted to the _means_ of
education, to make that mistake which comprehends so many others; to
make the means the end.




JUNE.


    THE violet peeps from its emerald bed,
    And rivals the azure in hue overhead;
    To the breeze, sweeping by on invisible wings,
    Its gift of rich odor the young lily flings,
    And the silvery brook in the greenwood is heard
    Sweetly blending its tones with the song of the bird.

    The swallow is dipping his wing in the tide,
    And the aspect of earth is to grief unallied;
    Ripe fruit blushes now on the strawberry vine,
    And the trees of the woodland their arms intertwine;
    Forming shields which the sun pierceth not with his ray--
    Screening delicate plants from the broad eye of day.

    Oft forsaking the haunts and the dwellings of men,
    I have sought out the depths of the forest and glen;
    And the presence of June, making vocal each bough,
    Would drive the dark shadow of care from my brow:
    The rustling of leaves, the blithe hum of the bee,
    Than the music of viols is sweeter to me.

    When the rose bends with dew on her emerald throne,
    And the wren to her perch in the forest hath flown;
    When the musical thrush is asleep on its nest,
    And the red-bird is in her light hammock at rest;
    When sunlight no longer gilds streamlet and hill,
    Is heard thy sad anthem, oh sad whip-poor-will!

    The Indian, as twilight was fading away,
    Would start when his ear caught thy sorrowful lay,
    And deeming thy note the precursor of wo,
    Would arm for the sudden approach of the foe;
    But I list to thy wild, fitful hymn with delight,
    While the pale stars are winking, lone minstrel of night!

    Brightest month of the year! when thy chaplet grows pale,
    I shall mourn, for the bearer of health is thy gale:
    The pearl that young Beauty weaves in her dark hair,
    In clearness can ne'er with thy waters compare;
    Nor yet can the ruby or amethyst vie
    With the tint of thy rose, or the hue of thy sky!

                                                          H.




RANDOM PASSAGES

FROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE,
SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY

NUMBER THREE.

THE HIGHLANDS--PERTH, STIRLING, ETC.


TUESDAY, JUNE 15.--At 7 o'clock, on a fine morning, I left Edinburgh
for the lakes and highlands. My route for the day was the same as
that of the Antiquary and Lovel. The coach, however, was much more
prompt than in the days of Mrs. Macleuchar, and started off while
the clock of St. Giles was striking, from Waterloo-place instead of
High-street. Arrived at Queensferry, seven miles, after a beautiful
ride, modern improvements were again visible; for, instead of having
to wait for the tide, as did Oldbuck and his friend, we drove down
a stone pier, at the end of which the water is always deep enough,
and transferring our luggage and ourselves to a sail-boat just
sufficiently large to contain the coach's company, guard, and coachee
included, the canvass was spread, and in a few minutes we were at
North Queensferry, on the other side of the Frith of Forth. Here we
breakfasted; the landlord, who could produce a dinner 'peremtorie,'
has been succeeded by one who has it already on the table at the
moment the coach drives up.

The ride from this place to Kinross is not particularly interesting;
neither is the scenery about Loch Leven. I stopped, however, of
course, at the village, and walking down to the lake, over some
marshy flats, made a bargain with a couple of fellows to row me over
to the castle, on the same side from which Queen Mary escaped. There
is a boat, it seems, kept by the cicerone of the place, who charges
five shillings sterling to each visitor--a great imposition. My men
had to keep out of sight, lest they should be fined for trespass!
The whole lake is owned by one person--Lord Somebody, who leases
the privilege of angling in it, for £500 per annum, and the lessee
charges a guinea per day for sub-privileges! It abounds with fine
trout. The castle, which is quite a ruin, only one tower remaining
entire, looks more like a prison than a place of residence.

    'No more its arches echo to the noise
    Of joy and festive mirth; no more the glance
    Of blazing taper through its window beams,
    And quivers on the undulating wave:
    But naked stand the melancholy walls,
    Lashed by the wintry tempests, cold and bleak,
    Which whistle mournfully through the empty halls,
    And piecemeal crumble down the tower to dust.'

The entrance to the chamber pointed out as Queen Mary's is not more
than four feet high, so that you have to stoop in entering it. The
gate through which she escaped, with Douglas, is on the opposite
side of the castle from her apartments, and not the usual place for
leaving the island. The spot where she landed is yet called Queen
Mary's Knoll.

After leaving Kinross, there is some fine scenery, particularly
near Perth, where I arrived about half past two. It is a large and
handsome town, on the banks of the Tay. In my first walk through it,
I noticed, as rather singular, a number of 'fair maids.' There is
one, however, an inn-keeper's daughter, who seems to bear the palm,
and is distinguished, I was told, _par excellence_, as 'The Fair Maid
of Perth.' I saw several vessels, coaches, etc., thus named; and yet
I could not find in the whole town a single copy of Scott's novel!
Wandering down to the river, I saw a steam-boat just starting for
Dundee,[2] twenty-two miles' sail on the beautiful river and Frith
of Tay, and the fare nine-pence! So, not being very particular in my
destination, I jumped on board, and was off in a trice, without my
dinner, which I had ordered at the hotel. The trip was very pleasant,
for it was a lovely day; and at six o'clock I dined in the best
style, on 'three courses and a dessert,' in a handsome parlor, at
the Royal Hotel, Dundee, for two shillings--the cheapest dinner and
trip I have had in his Majesty's dominions. Dundee is a very large
and flourishing place, and carries on more trade and commerce than
any other town in Scotland, Glasgow perhaps excepted. It is admirably
situated, and has quite a city-like appearance. The docks would be
an honor to New-York. After dinner, I walked out to Broughty Ferry,
four miles, along the banks of the Frith, to call on Dr. DICK, the
author of the Christian Philosopher, and several other very able and
popular works. He has a little of the pedagogue in his appearance
and conversation, but seems to be a very plain, kind-hearted man. He
is very much interested in our country and its literature, and had
many questions to ask respecting his correspondents here. He thinks
we are far before Great Britain on the score of education; and says
that such a work as Burritt's Astronomy would be quite too deep and
scientific to be used in schools there. Of course, he touched upon
slavery. He did not understand why the blacks should not be admitted
into society, and considered as equals in intellect with the whites!
In the little attic room, are a variety of scientific instruments,
such as telescopes, orreries, etc. Among the books were his last one,
'The Mental Illumination and Moral Improvement of Mankind,' English
and American editions. After tea, it being ten o'clock, and yet light
enough in this northern latitude to read without a candle, the doctor
kindly escorted me nearly three miles on my way back to Dundee.

       *       *       *       *       *

THURSDAY MORNING, at six o'clock, I mounted a coach returning to
Perth, with a fine clear sky, and the warmest day I have experienced
in Britain. The road is along the banks of the Forth, and is very
quiet and pleasant, passing several splendid seats; among them
Kinfauns Castle, (Lord Gray,) in the bosom of the hills, fronting the
water. Near this, on the banks, are found fine onyxes, cornelians,
and agates. There is a handsome stone bridge over the Tay at Perth.
This is a lovely river, the current being very swift, and the water
deep, clear, and dark. After breakfast, I walked two miles along
the banks north to the palace of Scone, where the Scottish kings
were formerly crowned. I saw the celebrated _stone_ on which they
were crowned, in Westminster Abbey, whither it has been removed. The
present palace, is a modern and very splendid edifice, the finest I
have seen of the kind, situated in an extensive park or lawn sloping
to the banks of the river. It is occupied by the Earl of Mansfield,
grand-son of the famous Lord Mansfield. The apartments on the
ground-floor are very magnificent, particularly the drawing-room,
which I imagine is the _ne plus ultra_ of modern elegance, and a
fine specimen of a wealthy nobleman's apartment. The tables and
cabinets are inlaid with brass, the ceiling carved with great taste,
and the walls covered with superb silk furniture, furnished in the
richest manner. It is as large as four or five good sized parlors.
The library is of the same size. This, and some other rooms, contain
paintings by Lady Mansfield herself, which are vastly creditable to
her ladyship, and would be to a professed artist. The gallery is
one hundred and fifty feet long, and contains a large organ. In the
chambers, are bed-curtains, etc., wrought by Mary, Queen of Scots,
when at Loch Leven.

Rode in the afternoon to Dunkeld, fifteen miles. Near this town, we
enter the grand pass to the highlands, which here commence in all
their beauty and grandeur. On the road; we passed Birnam Wood, (which
it seems has not all 'moved to Dunsinane,') a mountain twelve miles
distant, and seen from the top of Birnam. Dunkeld is beautifully
situated, in a vale on the banks of the Tay, which is here even
fairer than at Perth, surrounded by lofty and picturesque mountains,
which closely overlook the town. The scenery here exceeds any thing I
have seen; yet this is but the mere gate to the highlands; and I may
as well reserve my enthusiasm.

The principal landed proprietor in this region, is the Duke of Athol,
whose pleasure-grounds alone are said to extend fifty miles in a
strait line. We walked though the charming garden on the banks of
the river, to the half-finished palace which had been commenced by
the present duke, but now remains in _statu quo_; for the 'poor rich
man' became insane, and is now confined in a mad-house, near London.
Crossing the rapid current of the river, in a boat, we climbed up to
'Ossian's Hall,' a pretty bower on the brink of a deep precipice,
and in front of a beautiful waterfall, which comes tumbling down a
rocky ravine from an immense height, and is enchantingly reflected
in the mirrors of the bower. From this height, is a fine view of the
Grampians, where

    'My father feeds his flocks.'

       *       *       *       *       *

STIRLING, JUNE 17, P. M.--The Abbey of Dunblane and the battle-field
of Sheriff-Muir were the only objects of interest during the ride
from Perth: and there is little to excite curiosity in the old and
irregular town of Stirling, except its noble castle, scarcely second
to that of Edinburgh in fame and importance. Entering the esplanade,
I happened to meet the commanding officer, who inquired if I was a
stranger, and politely escorted me to every part of the extensive
fortification. 'In _that_ room,' said he, 'James VI. was born;'
_this_ palace was built by James V., (the 'Knight of Snowdon, James
Fitz James,') who often travelled alone in various disguises, etc.
The views from the ramparts of the castle are very extensive, and
in many respects have been pronounced unrivalled. They reach from
Arthur's Seat, on one side, to the highlands of Loch Katrine and Loch
Lomond on the other, a distance of sixty-five miles. Eleven counties,
comprising most of the places celebrated in Scottish history, may be
seen from these battlements. On the south, two miles distant, is the
memorable field of Bannockburn, where thirty thousand Scotchmen under
Bruce routed the English army of one hundred thousand men, thirty
thousand of whom were killed. During the battle, when victory was
yet doubtful, the boys ('_killies_') who had charge of the Scotch
luggage, curious to know the result of the contest, came with their
carts to the top of the hill near by, and the English, supposing them
to be a fresh army, took fright and scampered. So the place is called
'Killies' Hill,' to this day.

At five P. M., set off for Callender, fifteen miles, crossing the
Forth, and passing 'the Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doune,' (but not
Burns',) and the ruins of Doune Castle, a strong fortress, where
Waverley was confined. A little farther, we ride along the Teith,
pass the seat of Buchanan, where Scott spent much of his boyhood, and
had his taste for the sublime and beautiful in nature inflamed into a
noble passion, by contemplating the scenery spread before him.

Callender is a retired and quite a rude little village, at the
south-west entrance to the highlands, and is the usual stopping
place for tourists. The people here generally speak Gäelic, and the
children wear the highland kilt. The inn is the only decent house
in the place. Joined an agreeable party from Edinburgh, and walked
out to Bracklinn Bridge, and a beautifully-romantic waterfall. For
eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, at this place, at present,
(June) it is light enough to read without a candle; and at eleven P.
M., it is as light as our twilight.

       *       *       *       *       *

STEWART'S INN, LOCH ACHRAY, FRIDAY EVE.--This has been a most
delightful day. It was a soft and brilliant morning, and we walked
eight miles before breakfast to the celebrated Pass of Leven, one of
the grandest in the highlands. Ben Ledi, 'the Hill of God,' (where
the natives are said to have worshipped the sun,) lifts its lofty
summit on one side, and at its base are two lovely little lakes,
their glassy surface reflecting clearly the splendid picture around.

After an excellent breakfast, M'Gregor, our host, furnished us with
the 'Rob Roy' car, and we were soon ushered into the classic and
romantic region of the 'Lady of the Lake;' Ben Ledi being on our
right, Ben An and Ben Venue frowning upon us in front. Riding along
the banks of Loch Vennachar, on our left, we see Coilantogle Ford,
where was the 'Combat', in which Fitz James mastered Roderick Dhu:

    'By thicket green and mountain grey,
    A wildering path! they winded now
    Along the precipice's brow,
    Commanding the rich scenes beneath,
    The windings of the Forth and Teith,
    And all the vales between that lie,
    Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky.'

Our course was the same as that of the Knight of Snowdon, reversed;
and every turn of the road brought new beauties to view, in the
splendid landscape. On the opposite shore of Loch Vennachar, we saw
the 'Gathering Place of Clan Alpine,' where, at the shrill whistle of
Roderick Dhu, and to the surprise of Fitz James:

    'Instant through copse and heath arose
    Bonnets, and spears, and bended bows;
    On right, on left, above, below,
    Sprang up at once the lurking foe;
    From shingles grey their lances start,
    The bracken bush sends forth the dart;
    The rushes and the willow-wand
    Are bristling into axe and brand;
    And every tuft of broom gives life
    To plaided warrior, armed for strife.'

Every visitor here must remark the singular _accuracy_ of the
pictures of scenery throughout this poem. We can find the original of
every passage of local description, and I cannot help quoting some of
them.

The 'plaided warriors' are now scarcely to be seen this side of
the Braes of Balquiddar. How similar is their case to that of our
American Indians! Like them, they were the original possessors of the
soil, and roved in lawless freedom:

    'Far to the south and east, where lay
    Extended in succession gay,
    Deep waving fields and pastures green,
    With gentle slopes and groves between:
    _These_ fertile plains, _that_ softened vale,
    Were once the birth-right of the _Gäel_;
    The _stranger_ came, with iron hand,
    And from our fathers reft the land.'

And as Roderick continues, addressing the king:

    'Thinkst thou we will not sally forth
    To spoil the spoiler as we may,
    And from the robber rend the prey?'

A short distance beyond Loch Vennachar, we came to Loch Achray, about
a half mile long, and so placid and beautiful, that an Englishman
took it for a work of art, and remarked that it was 'very well got
up!' On the banks of this lovely lake, surrounded by the grand and
lofty _Trosachs_, is the rustic little inn of _Ardchinchrocan_, where
we stopped for the day. It 'takes' a Scott to do justice to this
charming spot, and the wild but majestic scenery around. It seems far
removed from the noise and trouble of the 'work-day world.'

After dinner, we took a walk to _Loch Katrine_, through the most
sublime and difficult of all the passes through the Grampians--that
formed by the Trosachs, or 'bristled territory.' All that is wild and
stupendous in mountain scenery here unites:

    'High on the south, huge Ben Venue,
    Down to the lake its masses threw;
    Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'd
    The fragments of an earlier world.'

Not a shrub nor a plant can be seen on these heights. Their rough,
gloomy sides form a strange contrast to the green vales below. The
_echo_ from them is remarkably distinct. We passed through the
shady ravine, where the green knights' gallant grey fell, exhausted
after 'the chase.' A few steps from this, the charming Loch Katrine
suddenly appears. The upper part only is visible at first, 'the
Island' obstructing the view, so that new and varied beauties are
discovered at every step. The scene is calculated to inspire and
elevate the nobler feelings of the visitor. Passing along the banks,
we came to 'the beach of pebbles white as snow,' opposite 'the
Island,' where Fitz James first saw Ellen:

    'I well believe,' the maid replied,
    As her light skiff approached the side,
    'I well believe that ne'er before
    Your foot hath trod Loch Katrine's shore.'

The 'promontory,' 'the bay,' 'the brake,' 'the pebbles,' are all
here; and to enliven the scene, there was an old man who might have
been Allan Bane, playing wildly on a flute; and he gave us some fine
old Scotch airs, which were quite a treat. We had a thunder-shower,
too, and taking shelter in a cave, we heard 'heaven's artillery'
echoed through these mighty mountains, with most impressive grandeur.
On our return, with much exertion, I at length achieved the summit
of one of the minor heights, and was amply repaid by the prospect
therefrom. It was at sunset; and the whole of the three Lochs
Katrine, Achray, and Vennachar, with the snow-capped Grampians on the
north, and the distant ocean on the west, were distinctly seen. The
cattle on the nearest mountains appeared not larger that cats.

       *       *       *       *       *

INVERARY, HEAD OF LOCH FINE, SATURDAY, 11 P. M.--With the moon-lit
lake under my window, I resume my disjointed narrative. Yesterday we
had seen the Trosachs in the clearest atmosphere, but to-day they
were encircled with the mists which rolled majestically along their
sides, while their summits were 'bright with the beams of the morning
sun.' Our hostess at Loch Achray provided us with a boat and oarsmen,
and we proceeded through the pass from which

    'Loch Katrine lay beneath us roll'd--
    In all her length far winding lay,
    With promontory, creek, and bay,
    And islands that empurpled bright,
    Floated amid the livelier light;
    And mountains that like giants stand
    To sentinel enchanted land.'

How accurate and graphic the picture! This lake is about seven miles
long, and perhaps half a mile wide. We sailed over its smooth and
brilliantly-dark, transparent surface, and touched the banks of
Ellen's Isle:

    'The stranger view'd the shore around,
    'Twas all so close with copse-wood bound,
    Nor track, nor path-way might declare
    That human foot frequented there.'

Our boatmen here gave us a specimen of the wonderful echoes.[3] His
shrill call was answered _three times_, with perfect distinctness,
and apparently from a great distance. He had a pithy way of talking,
this rower. 'Do the sun's rays,' I asked, 'ever reach that glen under
Ben An?' who here

    'Lifts high his forehead bare.'

'Yes,' he said; 'they just give it a peep, to say 'How-dye-do?' and
are off again.'

'Is it five _English_ miles across the next pass?'

'English miles, but a _Scotch road_.'

We passed the goblin cave, and enjoyed all at which 'the stranger'
was enraptured and amazed; 'that soft vale,' and 'this bold brow,'
and 'yonder meadow far away.' On landing, our boat-party found ponies
in waiting to take us over the rough and dreary pass to Loch Lomond.
Our cavalcade, with the guides, straggling along between these wild
hills and precipices, was a subject for the pencil. There were some
odd geniuses among us, too, who contributed much to our amusement.
Arrived at Loch Lomond, we descended a rocky steep, to the banks
where the steam-boat from Glasgow was to call for us. The place is
called Inversnaid; but the only habitation in sight was a little hut,
at the foot of a pretty cascade, where Wordsworth wrote:

    'And I, methinks, 'till I grow old,
    As fair a maid shall ne'er behold,
    As I do now--the cabin small,
    The lake, the bay, the water-fall,
    And thou the spirit of them all.'

The boat took us to the head of the loch to see _Rob Roy's Cave_,
(which also once gave shelter to Robert Bruce,) and then reversed her
course toward Glasgow. As we proposed to see Inverary, and some of
the Western Islands, we landed at Tarbet, opposite Ben Lomond. The
sky looked too black to warrant an ascent; but with glasses we could
see several persons on the sugar-loaf summit. A tourist wrote on the
window of the inn here, in 1777, a chapter of metrical advice to those

    'Whose taste for grandeur and the dread sublime
    Prompt them Ben Lomond's dreadful height to climb.'

From Tarbet, we took a car and rode through the grand but dreary
pass of Glencroe, Ben Arthur frowning upon us for six miles, and
went round the head of Loch Long to Cairndow, on Loch Fine, where we
again took boat for Inverary, and had a charming moonlight sail. This
is a very neat and pretty little village, belonging almost entirely
to the Duke of Argyle. The houses are mostly white, and evidently
arranged for effect, being clearly reflected in the quiet lake,
like Isola Bella, in Italy. The duke's castle, near the village, is
an elegant modern edifice, of blue granite, with a circular tower
at each corner. We had a ride through the extensive parks and
pleasure-grounds, which are filled with every variety of valuable
exotic trees. The owner of this fine estate has not been here for
fifteen years--no great argument for his grace's good taste, or
justice to his tenants. Some of the most eminent British artists have
found ample employment for their pencils in this neighborhood. The
loch is celebrated for its fine herrings, which is the chief article
of trade of Inverary.

       *       *       *       *       *

MONDAY MORNING.--At three o'clock we were awakened for the
steam-boat, and were not more than half dressed, when the steam
ceased from growling, and the bell from tolling; nevertheless, we
caught up what garments remained, leaving a few as wind-falls to the
chamber-maid, and fled to the dock. The steamer was off, sure enough,
but came to, and sent a boat for us, on seeing our signals. It is now
broad day-light, and was, indeed, at two o'clock! The sail down Loch
Fine is rather tedious. It is a salt-water lake, from thirty to forty
miles in length, and the shores are low and barren as the sea-coast.

We stopped at several places for passengers, and passing between the
isles of Bute and Arran, (celebrated in 'The Lord of the Isles,')
we entered the Kyles of Bute, where the shores are verdant and
interesting.

At the town of Rothsay, on the Isle of Bute, we saw the ruins of
the famous Rothsay Castle; and a few miles farther, we passed the
Castle of Dunoon, and several pretty summer-villas on the banks of
the water. Entering the Frith of Clyde, we stopped at the flourishing
ports of Greenock and Port Glasgow, and the strong fortress of
Dumbarton, built on a lofty and picturesque rock, at the mouth of the
river Clyde. From here, is a fine view of the Vale of Leven, and the
whole outline of Ben Lomond, about fifteen miles distant. The pretty
vale in the fore-ground is the scene of Smollet's beautiful ode:

    'On Leven's banks when free to rove,
    And tune the rural pipe to love.'

In sailing up the Clyde, the most remarkable sight was the immense
number of steam-boats which passed us in rapid succession. We met no
less than _twenty-one_, of a large class, on the river, all bound
out; and I was told that upward of eighty are owned in Glasgow alone.
We landed at Glasgow, after a voyage of twelve hours, during which
we had stopped at as many different places. I was surprised at the
extent and elegance of Glasgow, as much as at its evident importance
as a manufacturing and commercial city. It seems to be scarcely
second to Liverpool, and is certainly the third city in Great Britain
on the score of population and trade.

It is too far up the river for a seaport, so that Greenock is a
sharer in its prosperity. The buildings, like those of the _new_
town of Edinburgh, are nearly all of a handsome free-stone, which
is found in great abundance near the city, and is the cheapest as
well as the best material they can use. Loss by fire is especially
rare. Some of the private residences would do honor to the west end
of London. The streets fronting the Clyde, on both sides, are very
imposing, and are connected by four handsome stone bridges, while the
banks of the river are substantially walled with granite, surmounted
with iron railings. There is a public park, pleasure-ground, and
gymnasium, near the river. The streets, particularly the Broadway of
the town, Trongate-street, were literally thronged, quite as much
so as Cheap-side and Fleet-street in the Metropolis. In this street
I saw the remaining tower of the Tolbooth, where Rob Roy conducted
Frank, and met Baillie Nichol Jarvie. From thence I walked up
High-street to the venerable University, of which Campbell, the poet,
who is a native of Glasgow, was lately principal.[4] The structure is
very antique, and encloses three squares. I passed through college
after college, looking as learned as possible, and graduated in the
'green,' where Frank Osbaldistone encountered Rashleigh. Farther up
the street, I arrived at the old _cathedral_, one of the largest in
Britain. It is now divided into three churches for Presbyterians.
The pillars which support the great tower are immense. I measured my
umbrella twice on _one side_ of a single square pillar. The _crypt_
(basement) where Frank Osbaldistone attended church, and was warned
by Rob Roy, extends the whole length of the cathedral, and is the
most curious part of it. In the grave-yard I noticed monuments to
John and McGavin, author of the Protestant.

* * * The Merchants' Exchange is a splendid Corinthian edifice,
and contains a noble public hall, and an extensive reading-room,
where I was glad to find the _Knickerbocker_. I was surprised at
the extraordinary cheapness of rents, both here and in Edinburgh,
compared with those in our good city of Gotham. The very best
finished three-story houses, of stone, of the largest class, and
in desirable situations, may be had for four hundred and fifty
dollars per annum. Our New-York landlords would demand for a similar
residence, at least twelve hundred dollars. In Edinburgh, as it is
not a commercial place, rents are still lower. Very superior houses,
with large gardens, etc., are let for eighty pounds per year.

After seeing Langside, about two miles from Glasgow, where the cause
of the ill-fated Queen of Scots was finally overthrown, I rode to
Linlithgow, for the sake of a glance at her birth-place; the palace
once so famous and 'fair.'

    'Of all the palaces so fair,
      Built for the royal dwelling,
    Above the rest, beyond compare,
      Linlithgow is excelling.'

The walls remain nearly entire, but the interior was totally
destroyed by fire, during one of the civil feuds. The town, as well
as that of Falkirk, a few miles beyond, is dull and gloomy. Some of
the old houses in Falkirk were once occupied by the knights of St.
John, who had a preceptory near the place. The field where the great
battle was fought, in which Wallace was defeated, is a short distance
from the town. I reached Edinburgh at ten P. M., in the canal-boat
from Glasgow, which goes at the rate of nine miles an hour, and
landed under the batteries of the castle; having passed the most of
a week, of delightful weather, among the most interesting parts of
Scotland. I have been agreeably surprised at the evident marks of
industry and prosperity which are almost every where apparent. The
Scotch are notoriously shrewd, industrious, and thriving; but we
yankees, like other nations, are apt to think ourselves far before
the rest of the world in 'inventions and improvements;' and though a
foreigner would sneer at my presumption, I have really felt pleased
when I have seen any thing abroad 'pretty nearly' as good as _we_
can show at home. It is folly, at the same time, for us to flatter
ourselves that we can in no wise take profitable example from our
father-land!

FOOTNOTES:

[2] The 'Fairport' of the 'Antiquary.' Within the last twelve years,
it has doubled in size and importance.

[3]

    'Father!' she cried: 'the rocks around
    Love to prolong the gentle sound!'

[4] This office, as is well known, is now held by SIR ROBERT PEEL.




SONNETS: BY 'QUINCE.'


ADVERSITY.

    WE sometimes strike the madman to the earth,
      And mercy deals the pain-inflicting blow,
    That body's suffering may give reason birth,
      And with slight anguish mitigate much wo.
    When 'neath the surgeon's hand the patient lies,
      Whose mortifying limb requires the knife,
    With fortitude he bears his agonies,
      Nor heeds the torture that will save his life.
    Thus heaven doth strike us with adversity,
      Thus should we bow to its omniscient will;
    Then through dark clouds bright sunshine we should see
      And sweetest comfort draw from direst ill.
    All is not sad, that to us seems to be,
    Nor all adverse, we call adversity.


AGES.

    AGES! to trace thy path, my curious eye
      Pierces the vista of forgotten time:
    Ye awe me with your vast sublimity,
      Ye moving mysteries, that will consign
    The breathing form that wonders at your might,
      Like unto myriads o'er whom ye have swept,
    To the dark lethe of impris'ning night;
      Where I must sleep, and where they long have slept.
    Like the majestic ocean's waves ye roll,
      Which o'er the sweetest, fondest memories ride,
    Slow journeying toward your destined goal,
      With all of earth mysteriously allied.
    Sweep on, Time's chroniclers! yourselves shall be
    Engulphed at last in vast eternity!


ANGELS.

    THE infant sleeping on its mother's breast,
      Or seeking in her eye a sunny smile--
    The heart that boasts as calm and pure a rest,
      As spotless, and as free from earthly guile;
    The eye that weeps calamity to see,
      The hand that opens in its might to give;
    The crushed and sinking heart, that yearns to be
      Bathed in His blood who died that it might live;
    The pure out-gushings of the fervent soul,
      The God-like thoughts that raise our hearts to heaven,
    Have each an Angel's spirit; and control
      The sordid clay, to shrine our spirits given.
    This is all felt--but Nature bids us trace
    The Angel in earth's glory--woman's face.




WILSON CONWORTH.

CHAPTER XII.


I HAVE said, that owing to the aimless, reckless course of life
which I pursued, after leaving college, I lost my place in society,
and found myself without friends, and a marked man. This began
my education. I began to look about me, and to think. What! my
acquaintance slight me as unworthy their notice! What could be the
cause of this? Could I live under such a ban? I resolved to reform.
The effect upon me of this rule in society proves its excellence. I
was at first staggered. I knew not that ruin was so near at hand.
I was awakened from the trance of years. I determined to make a
desperate effort. I collected the amount of my debts, and gave
them in to my father, telling him, as coolly as I could, that I
had determined to leave the city--to retire upon the smallest sum
possible for the most secluded life. He paid my debts, enormous as
they were. Without bidding adieu to any one, for I did not think
myself of consequence enough to take leave formally, I, in a few days
after my determination, was on my way to N----.

I took with me a few books, and they were well chosen. I had Scott
and Byron, Mackenzie's works, the British Essayists, Sterne,
Shenstone's Essays, Bacon's Essays, Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living and
Dying, and Shakspeare. Yes! I took, too, Burns's poems and letters.
His letters more than his poems I admired, or loved too read, for
we feel more sympathy for Burns, on account of his hard struggles,
than because he wrote 'Tam O'Shanter,' or the 'Twa Dogs.' These
were all the books I took with me. I mention them with a feeling of
pride, that my taste was so pure at so early a day, and in spite of
my idleness and dissipated habits. If I were to select now from the
whole field of literature--throwing in the old English prose writers
by Young--I would not give up one of these books, supposing I could
have no more in number.

The pleasure I received in reading these works--the tears I always
shed over the Man of Feeling--prove to me that I was not so abandoned
as I thought myself at this time, or at least, that we all have some
good about us, however low we may stand in the estimation of the
world. I think there is a double lesson to be learned from this:
first, that all impressions, however trite and unimportant they may
appear at the time they are being made, never should be deemed of
small weight, because their effects are not seen immediately: and
second, that we should be careful lest we do the greatest injustice
to our fellow men, by looking on the surface of character only,
which, from some accidental cause, may appear rough and disgusting,
while the seeds of good feeling and honorable exertion lie hid from
our sight, and only want opportunity to command our applause.

With these few silent, voiceless friends, I took up my residence in
the village of N----, a village of New-England. The pleasantness of
the situation determined my location, for the advantages of study
can be had in any place. There was a quiet air about this village,
which enchanted me. It lay several miles from any other, on the
banks of a river, upon a table-land. One long street extended through
it, in a straight line. This street was very wide. The houses were
not crowded upon the dusty path, but placed several rods back, with
a green lawn in front, and painted white. It did not look like a
business place--this was another good point--but it seemed like the
residence of old and respectable families. There was fine scenery
about it, too; high hills, and deep valleys, watered by swift and
clear brooks. There was, and is, and ever will be, an air of easy
comfort about this place, to strike strangers and foreigners. There
is wealth without ostentation; hospitality without the appearance
of obligation; and kindness and benevolence, ever to be remembered.
Virtue is natural to a refined mind.

I entered my name in the office of a gentleman of rather retired
habits. He had an excellent library, both of law books and
miscellaneous reading, and read much himself; but he was considered
by the people as rather an oddity, and a book-worm. He rarely
appeared in court, and clients never came to his office; yet he had
made a fortune by his profession. I will venture to swear that he
made his money with clean hands and a quiet conscience. He was rarely
seen off of his own territory, and never attended a public meeting in
his life, except to hear a sermon. His history is somewhat singular.
He was a shoe-maker, until thirty years of age, and then studied
law, and supported himself, for the first years of his practice,
by making shoes in his garret, as it is said. A man of few words,
he never spoke first to any one, but always listened more than he
talked, even in the company of a fool. With the coarsest features
and roughest skin I ever saw, and the ugliest face, he had the most
benevolent smile in the world. He never killed a fly, or trod upon a
worm, though a lawyer. He was much respected by the older and better
sort of people, and by those of his profession, who were glad to find
their opinions supported by his.

Himself and wife constituted his family, and they lived as quietly
as two mice. Every thing was kept as neat as wax. The house, and
office contiguous, stood upon a slight elevation, opposite the
village church and tavern, shaded by umbrageous trees. A stray stick
or stone never remained long within ten rods of the place. He was
the pattern of order, and neatness, and regularity, in every thing
he did or possessed. I never saw an unpleasing expression upon the
face of this gentleman, except when some one of the choir got out of
key in church; and then his countenance would suddenly be drawn up
into knots, that, it would seem, could never be unravelled; for with
a coarse body, he possessed the most susceptible soul, and refined
tastes in the arts. Retirement and self-examination had made him
appear diffident; yet it was far from being an ungraceful kind of
bashfulness, but rather that drawing back, as if he mistrusted your
power fully to enter into his feelings. But to return.

I commenced the task of study, and stuck to it for a short time;
but the feeling that follows the discharge of a duty soon became no
novelty, and I began to be quite sick of being so very good. Every
thing was too smooth. I always loved contrast; and here are some
verses that I wrote, the first week I spent in the country:

    Tears are like showers, that wet the sun-burnt soil,
    And freshen quick its verdure. After toil,
          Sweet is the laborer's rest.
          Affliction gives a zest
          To joy, and tears are blest.
    For tears, if not by guilty conscience shed,
    Clear the dull channels of the brain and head;
          Our smiles are brighter,
          Our hearts are lighter;
    For memory loves to contrast joy with sorrow;
    We weep to-day, that we may laugh to-morrow.

This is the doctrine that has always swayed me; and if life at times
becomes too quiet, I set the imagination to work to conjure up some
wrong or injustice I suppose myself to have suffered, and work myself
into a state of superior wretchedness. The freak passes away, and I
am very pleased, and much excited, by what would be but sources of
common enjoyment to the equable and reasonable.

Beside, there was another obstacle to studious habits--woman. I was
among a new race of beings. Women in the country and in the city are
as different as the barn-door fowl is from the bright-plumaged bird
of the untrodden wild. In the first place, city girls are not so
handsome as those living in the country. The former excel in dress,
and the wavy lines of grace; they understand the art of showing off
their feet and ankles to better advantage; but they lack the one
thing needful--the nature. They walk upon the paved street, not the
grassy lawn, where every foot-step is in a line of poetry. They have
grown up surrounded by artificial refinements; in the sickly glare
of lamps, and a smoky atmosphere; their minds have not been tutored
by the goddess of nature. They do not so often see the setting sun,
the burnished clouds, the bright artillery of heaven. They feel not
the balmy air, the dewy freshness of the morning. They do not hear
the songs of birds; neither do they see the sparkling rivulet. How
then is it possible they can be equal to those in affections, tastes,
health, and beauty, who see, and hear, and feel all these things?

The daughters of people in moderate circumstances in the country
are well educated. They usually spend a winter in town, and acquire
all that can be learned of dress, although they depend little upon
the 'aid of ornament.' They usually understand music and drawing.
They read a great deal. The society they meet is pure; not varnished
rottenness. Their habits are simple, and their tastes elegant.

They are without doubt the most fascinating women in the world; and
are sought in matrimony by city merchants and lawyers, who have
amassed fortunes, and begin to look about for some domestic comfort,
while the city miss, who is never in public without being absorbed
in her appearance, and dress, and walk, and who is always under the
restraint of some forced prettiness, as she thinks it, is suffered to
dash the years away in idleness and folly, till her nerves are worn
out, and her health and beauty gone, beyond the arts of paint; or she
marries very young, and soon fades, and is laid on the shelf; or she
devotes herself to living her life over again in her daughter, her
counterpart.

I soon found myself, in the society of this village, visiting every
day. I could not withstand the temptation. It was all novelty.
Such fine healthy countenances, open air, engaging conversation,
offered in every house, that from law I turned to love. Blessed
exchange!--from baron and femme, and contingent remainders, to ponder
over the unwritten poetry of beauty, and the silver-tongued voices of
young, imaginative maids, who treat you as if you were their brother,
the moment their parents show, by their deportment, that they have
confidence that you are a gentleman.

How seldom is this confidence abused by an American? Who ever heard
a case of seduction, in one of our country villages, among the
better classes of society--among equals? These accidents, which our
city-calendars register in the city, are mostly the handiwork of
foreigners. Gallantry, conjugal infidelity, is not a vice of good
society here, as in France or England. Men and women can be elegant,
and happy, and contented, without the excitement of intrigue, to give
a dash of romance to the career of a fine Lady Anybody, or bewitching
Sir Nobody.

I defy the nicest art to circumvent one of our American girls,
brought up as young ladies are brought up in our opulent country
villages. Her very innocence protects her. She will not understand
your passion, if it verges to freedom; think you drunk or crazy; any
thing, but serious in your wild words and looks, and escape from you
as soon as she can, and probably go and tell her mother, who will
take care you do not see her very often. And this shall all be done,
and brought about, and no fuss be made, either.

I happened to make the acquaintance here of a fine intelligent girl
of my own age--twenty. She had found out a good deal about the world
in books, and somewhat by observation in society. Her reading had
been of a peculiar cast. She had read Byron from top to bottom, Tom
Moore, all the novels and poetry she could get hold of; and, without
any method or direction, she had studied philosophy, moral and
natural, skimmed metaphysics and logic, and knew a little Latin, and
some French. When quite young, she was called a 'smart girl;' every
body prophesied she would be a wonder of intelligence and beauty;
and she was. Her person was as remarkable as her mind. Of the medium
stature in woman, with a form finely proportioned and graceful, you
forgot every thing else about her, when you encountered her large
black eyes, of uncommon depth of expression. This kind of eye is
rare, though we sometimes find it among the inhabitants of the South.
It seems as if it reached far back into the head, and contained the
means of looking into your own heart, while the beholder is at a loss
to fix its own expression. There is passion, love, self-possession,
indifference, anger, scorn, dwelling in it; either to be called
out in an instant, as the mind varies. Her complexion was a dark
brunette; her nose and lips were nicely formed, and her teeth even
and regular; her forehead very high and broad, set off majestically
by a profusion of hair as black as the raven's wing.

The first time I ever saw her, was one evening when I called at
her father's. In the movement that followed my entrance into the
room, her hair by accident or design fell and enveloped her whole
bust. Her dark eyes gleamed through its folds, and all her striking
charms were the more enhanced, when half concealed by such rich
drapery. I was taken by surprise. I had never seen such a woman. She
reminded me of something I had read of in eastern tales--houris of
paradise--something very lovely, and passionate, and devoted.

My imagination was inflamed, and I loved her upon the instant, and
did for years after; and now I cannot say but I feel some regrets
that fate should have parted us. But we never could have been happy
together as man and wife. She had no system of thinking or acting,
and I certainly had none, and never shall have. We were then, both,
the creatures of impulse, and perhaps it is better as it is. She was
much my superior in self-control. Equally acted on by impulse, I
yielded to the whim of the moment in conduct; she felt the desire,
but sustained herself, and her feelings preyed upon her happiness.

I very soon after this first meeting saw her at a ball. We danced and
walked together. She had the reputation of being a coquette, in the
village, and I was marked as the next victim to be offered, in the
minds of all present.

Indeed I was a fit subject. I knew nothing then of the faults of
women. I had sisters, and thought all women pure and saint-like,
like my dear cousin. I never could attach an improper sentiment to
any of the sex. I cannot now think them mean and deceitful, though I
have strong proof of their being so. I am willing to be deceived in
this respect. I hope I always may be. I make it a principle to think
myself mistaken, when a woman of respectable standing in society
appears to be in fault.

I suspected nothing wrong in this case. I was excited and happy, and
I did not look to mar my own enjoyment. I was fascinated, although
Miss Clair did not appear so well in a ball-room as in a simple
dress at home--I mean not so loveable. Dressed in rich ornaments,
she looked too unapproachable, too like a queen, an Indian queen, if
you will; her high and commanding forehead, her glancing eye, her
unshrinking gaze. And then she did not dance well. She often told
me she hated the trouble. I think she was too intellectual to care
much for dancing, or her ear was in fault. She never sang; though I
believe she loved the music of the drum and fife. Do not infer, kind
reader, that she was masculine--far from it. I have seen the tears
roll out from her open eyes, when she was strongly affected by some
pathetic tale, or some choice poetry; and when in our walks and rides
we stopped to gaze upon some beautiful or grand scene of nature, she
would weep from the very excess of her delight--perhaps from some
association she did not confide to me. When at home, in a natural
state of mind, surrounded by her family, and engaged in her duties,
she was all delicate attention to the wants of others.

I had hardly become acquainted with her, when she suddenly left the
village for an absence of three months. I cannot describe the pain I
underwent during that time. I could not study or read, even novels.
She promised to correspond with me, and all I did was to write
letters to her. I wrote every day, and at night threw them into the
fire. They did not suit me. Sometimes they were too warm. What I had
written in the morning, seemed a different thing in the afternoon. I
was now angry, now penitent, and in that conflicting state of mind
which lovers, particularly young ones, know so well; and which I will
venture to say they all agree is the most unenviable state of feeling
in the world.

At last she returned. She would not see me for a week, for some cause
or other--I never could discover what. When I did see her, at last,
she received me with stately coldness. I did not know what to make of
it. It made me feel very unhappy, and I recollect I did not think of
blaming her, but supposed the fault lay in myself.

This fickleness of hers did not cool my passion, but rather inflamed
it. During these formal visits, there was always a look given, or a
flower, or some appeal to me in a matter of literature, from which I
drew encouragement that she was not indifferent to me--something I
always carried away to dwell upon with pleasure; that kept her in my
thoughts, and kept me from giving up the pursuit of such a charming
object.

Things went on in this way for weeks. At last, if my calls were not
frequent, she would ridicule my apathy to society; if I walked with
another lady, I could see her eyes flash with indignation when she
met me. She evidently considered me as her property, and I was doomed
to submit patiently to all her caprices.

I now understand her. She did love me, as the sequel will show; but
she dared hardly confess it to herself. She had seen very few young
men from cities, or of much rank. Her idea of young men of fortune
was drawn chiefly from novels. She feared I was fickle, and only bent
upon a little amusement. She acted on the defensive. She only wished
to be assured of my true affection for her, to pour out upon me all
the repressed tenderness of her nature. Her coldness was assumed to
conceal her feelings; for she was a creature of extremes. Her only
safety, she thought, was to shield herself in frowns. Easy politeness
would have been torture to her. Before I left her, she usually gave
me one kind word, enough, if I loved her, she thought, to anchor my
heart to hers. She knew the nature of the passion. Her absence was
to try me. She has told me that she loved me at first sight, as I
certainly did her.

Her father was an open-hearted man, of profuse hospitality. He liked
me, and invited me to his house whenever we met. He was an easy man,
who had married, himself, from prudent motives; he could not imagine
how there could be any romance in his family, if he understood the
true meaning of the word. I rode, walked, and sat with his daughter a
good deal of the time. We were happy; he saw we were, and supposed it
was the happiness of youth and prosperity.

He had been gay himself, when young, and loved the girls. He had no
Byron to read--no Moore to ponder over--no stories of Petrarch and
Laura to inflame his imagination. He did not see our danger. And
this, by-the-by, is a fault of no small magnitude in the education
of the young; that parents do not enough know the reading of their
children. Books change with time. The novel of the present day is
no more the novel of our father's day, than the fashion of a dandy
now-a-days is the fashion of the exquisite of the last century.

Parents do not know the minds of their children, or the effects of
their reading. Not knowing their books, how can they judge? Children
are always reserved before their parents; and as a general remark,
applicable to children, we may say, that parents know less of their
own children than they do of their neighbors'. They, good easy souls!
suppose all is right. Like geese, who hide their heads, and think (if
geese do think) their bodies are safe, so parents shut their eyes,
and hope for the best. 'Well,' they say, 'we can't tell what is to
become of him,' looking at the child some one is praising to his
face; 'he may make a man: heaven, I hope, will take care of him.' And
so this pious, conscientious father attends to his business, and the
child is left to the chance of being ruined.

The effect of the books young ladies read is immense, upon their
principles. They are so much alone; taking and plausible sentiments
sink so deep into their hearts; they have so little to disturb
or counteract the impressions of injudicious books. Nay, society
oftentimes rivets the chains of a bad impression around their
very necks, and custom gives it a place in their hearts. Educate
young ladies as you will; that is, send them to what school you
please; give them the advantages of accomplishments in the arts
and society, and at the same time let them have the range of a
circulating library, and they will inevitably very often imbibe
matter and notions for severe struggles, and heart-burnings, and
shame, if not of crime. The books young people of both sexes read,
is not considered a matter of sufficient consequence. It is left to
chance--to superficial advice--to fashionable cant.

In those oil-fed hours we steal from sleep to pore over the exciting
tale, or tragic story, we do more to fix our characters, to plant the
seeds of some kind of principle, either good or bad, in our hearts,
than in all our school hours, trebly counted.

The character of this high and impetuous young lady was the effect
of books acting upon a very susceptible temperament. My own
character was quite as impetuous as her own, though not so high and
disinterested. Having been, as I thought, in love before, I had a
certain familiarity of acquaintance with emotion. ''Twas love I
loved.' She loved me. She acted from strong feeling, and so did I;
but I am ashamed to record, that my movements were tempered with a
vein of calculation, that detracted from my enjoyment.

But how much we did enjoy! Here for the first time did I fold a
woman in my arms, and impress upon her lips--giving all that lips
can give--burning kisses! I played with the rich black hair upon her
forehead. I kissed her white hand, and encircled her waist. I laid my
head upon her bosom, and felt, the heavings of her heart.

Oh God! what scenes of agonizing bliss! I never can know you again!
Age, care, and want, have come upon me, and I am dying in a foreign
land, without one tear to water my grave!

When Alice Clair first confessed her love for me, it was with
weeping, and an excess of emotion, which alarmed me. Her whole frame
was shaken, as if by an ague. I had endeavored, for a long time, to
wring the secret from her. I wished her to say the words, '_I do love
you!_' I wished her promise. I now can easily see her hesitation.
She knew me better than I did myself. She saw I was capable of any
thing, and yet insensible to every thing, but pleasure. She was
ambitious. She wished her lover--her serious and true lover--the man
she expected to marry--to possess strength. Perhaps she felt her own
weakness, and saw her need of some strong staff to lean upon. She saw
that I had not much determination in any course that interfered with
my pleasure. Hence her unwillingness to acknowledge me as her lover,
to the world. She wished to keep me in her chains--to hold me from
others--and, although she loved me, I am convinced, still at times
there was a taint of coquetry in her manner to me in public, that
made me appear ridiculous. I could not, would not, bear this, and I
determined to offer myself to her, and in case of refusal to go--I
knew not where.

I know of nothing so laughable as feigned passion. It must put people
to a world of trouble, to play extatics, to weep tears, to kiss
passionately, to embrace, while the heart is ice, and the temper
clouded; to be playing lover, while one is thinking how long it is
before dinner.

I had worked myself up into quite a passion. I thought my whole soul
was absorbed in this affair. I wished to be married forthwith. I
could not think of delay; and in these moods used to press my suit
with a mad earnestness, and ask her acknowledged love, with all my
heart, and with a temporary sincerity.

One night, we were walking late on the banks of a river, in a
beautiful meadow. The town was far above us. Every sound of labor
was hushed, and we were alone, in the stillness of a moonlight
night, with no witnesses except the stars, and the long shadows of
our figures, as we alternately walked and sat by the way. The scene
was a bewitching one; the river was calm, and reflected the heavens;
the night was balmy with new-mown hay. We were alive with health,
and youth, and love. I had been singing low, plaintive airs to her,
expressive of ill-requited affection, as we walked along. She said
but little. Her face looked pale and thoughtful, as ever and anon she
turned her large eyes full upon me, as if to search my very inmost
soul. She was deliberating upon my proposal. I was unsuspecting, but
free and open to tell her all. Suddenly she threw her arms about
my neck, and seemed fainting, by the weight that pressed upon me.
I seated her upon the bank of the river, and still she wept, and
spoke not a word, while her tears flowed, and her frame trembled. I
cried out for help, but she stopped me; and as no one came, I waited
till she recovered herself. That night we sat long by the bank of
the river, and she gave me her heart, and the compact was sealed by
the first kiss I had ever given to pure lips. She then confessed to
me all her doubts, and in a dignified manner, which confused while
it charmed me, told me the risks she incurred in yielding to her
feelings. I had nothing to boast of in the conquest, for while it
displayed to me the weakness and tenderness of woman, it told me how
weak and inferior I was, in all the essentials of a useful man. It
certainly was the most singular confession and compact that ever took
place between man and woman, since the time Adam took Eve to wife, in
the garden of Paradise.

After this, her manner changed toward me entirely. There was no
reserve. She pointed out my faults; she endeavored to excite me to
honorable exertion. Often has she ran away from me, to force me to
go and study; and if, when I returned, I bore the marks of mental
fatigue, how happy it used to make her! She was aware that I might
rise to respectability in my profession; but she did not know the
cruel negligence of my early life; she did not know the long-riveted
habits of idleness I had indulged; she did not know how hopeless and
blank my prospects really were.

If I appear indifferent and cold-blooded to the reader, he knows
nothing of human nature. There is a point to which a man sometimes
arrives, which to all intents amounts to a kind of fatality. Does the
drunkard lose his moral agency? Yes! when his faculties are deadened.
Is there a man who could resist food, if placed before his eyes just
as he was dying of starvation? Is there not a moral deadness of the
faculties, produced by habits of idleness and pleasure, equally
binding, equally calling for indulgence? Nothing is impossible to
God; but man's powers, even in his own favor, are limited; and I am
disposed to think, that the vicious man is punished, partly, in this
world. He sees, by the examples around him, his certain destiny. He
is ever, in his solitary moments, looking over the abyss into which
he knows he must fall. He makes effort after effort to escape. It is
all fruitless, unless the power of God assist him, as it sometimes
does. He is like the sailor standing upon the shattered wreck of
his good ship, and looking at the mountain wave approaching, that
he knows will engulf him in the deep. Added to this, there are the
stings of an upbraiding conscience, and the fear of everlasting
punishment.

But there were times when we forgot all unpleasant reflections;
when we talked of our prospects of happiness. I was to inherit a
fortune--to distinguish myself at the bar. We were to travel over
Europe together; perhaps find some delightful retreat in the classic
south, and there (I loving only her) we were to spend a life of love
and blessedness.

I can hardly believe that she yielded as implicitly to these
illusions as I did. I had got myself worked up into a perfect madman;
and though at times I knew how false and fleeting were all these
plans, yet in her presence, and after talking upon such subjects, my
imagination took the reins of my reason, and I made these fanciful
excursions with sincerity, and took a pleasure in the anticipation
more than equal, I am convinced, to any they could have afforded
in reality. I do not think she felt with me here. As I remember
her, with her strong sense, her conception of the ridiculous, and
exaggeration in others, her keen wit and cutting sarcasm, it seems
impossible that she should. Nevertheless, every one is conscious
of strange inconsistencies of feeling. A scene strikes us to-day
with awe and pathetic effect, which to-morrow we pass coldly by.
Every thing depends upon the state of the nervous temperament, the
attending circumstances, our previous reading, the chain of events.
And by the way, this is the chief use of philosophy, that it enables
us to look at every thing with an investigating eye, and never to
yield to impulse. The mind is taken up in sound reflection, and
it has no time to lose itself in the mazes of the imagination.
Age, necessity, torpor of the blood, experience, produce the same
effects; while youth, and romantic ardor, and the poetical parts of
life, run wild, solely from a want of habits of reflection.

It seems, no doubt, a strange inconsistency, that I did not exert
myself, if I so loved this noble girl. We must distinguish between
passion and affection. The very nature of the first admits of no
reflection. The last is all reflection, and quiet yielding of its
own convenience for the happiness of the loved object. Passion is
the lava of the volcano, which covers up and ruins all things under
it; affection is the refreshing shower, the gentle dew, making the
pastures green, and the earth glad. A good, well-regulated mind would
have done otherwise than I did, but it would likewise have loved
otherwise than I did.

I yielded to nature and my temperament. I had not two wills, one to
oppose the other; there was not in my nature any thing to oppose my
nature. I have all along described myself as a foolish creature of
impulse; and I was, and am, and never shall be any thing else.

One night, after some irregularity caused by lovers' quarrel, and the
consequent restlessness, which sought relief in pleasure, she was
representing to me the consequences of such habits of dissipation,
as tenderly as she could, and I was moved by her earnestness to
tears. She followed up her advantage, and throwing herself upon her
knees before me, she wept, herself, in sobs, for some moments. Then
raising her tearful eyes, she begged, she implored, she entreated
me, to change my course of life; not to bring ruin upon us both; not
to blight our prospects, by such cruel neglect of every honorable
pursuit. She seemed to feel that every thing depended upon me; she
saw me on the brink of a precipice; she exerted eloquence that might
have drawn tears from a statue; and I was earnest, that night, in
my resolutions, as I laid my head upon my pillow. But I did not ask
assistance from God; and herein lay my error.

I have since found, that all resolutions are futile and useless,
unless we confirm and strengthen them by prayer. The very exercise
of prayer is its own answer. Prostration of ourselves before God
produces a calm and dispassionate frame of mind, and a sense of our
accountability. As our thoughts, in such seasons, dwell upon the
truth of an eternal existence, the world and its vanities recede, and
appear in their true insignificance. We then are prepared to take
the first steps in goodness. Who that has passed out of a life of
vice into a life of virtue, ever turns back? The first step is the
important one. Let that be taken, in good faith, and each succeeding
one opens wider and wider the peace of the path of virtue.




THE BLUE BIRD.


    SWEET bird! how gladly thy cerulean wing
    Opens o'er all the loveliness of spring;
    As thy slow shadow, sailing far on high,
    Tells me the 'time of birds' is drawing nigh.
    Perchance the down of that pure azure breast
    On trees of Italy was lately prest;
    Or mid the ivy of the crumbled fane,
    Thy nest was sheltered from the sparkling rain:
    Till to thy heart a whisper, as from home,
    Told thee of melting snows, and bade thee 'come!'

                                                       G. H.




DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE.


    ''T were best that I should wed! Thou said'st it, Louis;
    Say it once more!

                        LOUIS.

                                In honesty I think so.

                        DUCHESS.

    My choice is made, then--I obey the fiat,
    And will become a bride!'

                                                     BULWER.

       *       *       *       *       *

    ''T WERE best that I should wed!' 'Tis Louis' voice
      Has sped Fate's summons to this breaking heart;
    The vassal of his will, I make my choice,
      And bid my love for earth and him depart!
    No! not my love for _him_! I will resign
      The court's gay mockery, and the courtiers' praise--
    The incense offered on a baseless shrine,
      Which truth and honor gild not with their rays.

    ''T were best that I should wed!' how strangely cold
      These few yet bitter words fall on my brain!
    The sum of life's brief day-dream has been told,
      By one who cares not what may be the pain;
    But I submit--yea, hail the sacrifice;
      And like some sleeper startled from a trance,
    I of my saddened spirit take advice--
      Asking the meaning of this strange romance.

    For Hope's the food of life, and Love its dream,
      To cheat our fancy o'er Time's rugged way:
    'Tis man's false text. 'Tis woman's holiest theme,
      And in her bosom holds supremest sway.
    She lives to love--her soul, sustained thereby,
      Makes to itself a 'green spot' on Life's sea--
    Where every feeling for repose may fly,
      And sorrow, penury, _guilt_, forgotten be.

    But man's affection's like the sun-born flower
      That gaily flaunts, to woo and to be won,
    And quickens, blossoms, ripens in an hour,
      Yet fades before the sun his race has run;
    So with man's love, a strange and wayward thing,
      Its opening, flashing in the rays of Truth;
    But oh! how brief the time, ere change will fling,
      The locks of age upon its brow of youth!

    Oh, Louis! thou art throned in majesty--
      Thy sway as boundless as thy realms are wide;
    And millions hail thee from the boundless sea,
      To where the Rhine pours down its sounding tide.
    But mighty as thou art, thou canst not scan
      That one frail thing, a woman's trusting heart;
    Thou may'st search out the purposes of man,
      But woman's truth defies thy potent art!

    Thou wert not worthy, Louis, of the love
      Which in my breast for thee hath garnered been;
    Thou wert the pole-star gleaming from above,
      Swathing my feelings in its radiant sheen:
    Thou wert my all! a mother's broken heart,
      A noble soldier's fortunes, paled by me,
    Attest too well that I have read my part
      In Misery's calends--_written there by thee_!

                                          CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.




COMFORT MAKEPEACE.

A NEW-ENGLAND SKETCH: BY THE AUTHOR OF 'MASSANIELLO, A TALE OF
NAPLES.'

    'A man severe he was, and stern to view.'--GOLDSMITH.


THERE is no employment more pleasant or profitable to the reflective
mind, than that of scanning the various characters that come within
the scope of one's acquaintance. Even though that acquaintance be
limited to the precincts of a retired village, there will be found
the same variety of character, though perhaps less strongly developed
than in the great city of the world. In its business transactions and
social relations, the same passions are found to agitate, that in a
wider sphere of action convulse entire continents, and fill the world
with wonder. Many an obscure person would have been a hero, in time
and place of heroic actions.

COMFORT MAKEPEACE was a lineal descendant from one of the original
puritans. The name of his ancestor stood recorded with those of
Carver, Winslow, Brewster, and Standish; and no lordly stem of a
noble stock ever prided himself more on the score of descent. His
father, and his grandfather, and every other descendant of the
primitive settler, that went before them, were as decided puritans
as ever trod the turf. The name, as he himself bore it, had been
transmitted from father to son, as far back as could be traced the
genealogical tree of the family. The old homestead on which he lived
had been cleared and settled by a grandson of the first Comfort that
crossed the Atlantic; it had descended regularly from thence through
every first son to the worthy owner in the time of my childhood,
and there stood, ready to take the noble patrimony, at his father's
death, a Comfort, junior, in every way worthy to connect the stout
chain with remotest posterity. Of course Comfort made proud show
of the strongly-marked characteristics for which his ancestors and
their compeers were distinguished. A follower of Old Noll himself
never walked more zealously in the rigid puritanical path, nor
could any one have kept more faithfully every observance that had
been handed down from the passengers in the good bark that first
anchored off Plymouth-rock. While in his family, one might readily
imagine himself transported back to that of some Roundhead Captain
Fight-and-Praise-God, or Colonel Smite-'em-Hip-and-Thigh, in the
service of the Great Protector.

Comfort Makepeace had married early in life, and he displayed no
ordinary depth of judgment in the selection of one, scarce if
any less than himself attached to the devotional customs of his
puritanical ancestry. Faithful was an obedient wife and managed the
household concerns with a prudence and care that would have done
credit to the noblest. She rivalled the emblematic bee in industry,
and helped her husband to make some substantial additions to the
ample means that had descended to them. She bore him sons and
daughters, in no stinted number; and under her maternal oversight,
they grew up strong and comely, the pride of both. Comfort often
spoke of her as a crown to her husband, and no one ever repeated with
more sincerity the saying of the wise man of old.

Yet Faithful would have been wanting in the common attributes of her
sex, not to have displayed some qualities less suited to the rigid
temper and habits of her spouse. She had not escaped censure for some
indications of worldly-mindedness, such as every good puritan was
in duty bound to set his heart and face against. But all the sober
teachings of a score of five-hour discourses could not eradicate
from the breast of woman the unfailing distinctions of her sex.
Faithful was in early youth, despite her rigid education, fond of
what her husband was wont to denominate worldly show. The cut of
her dress was apt to depart from some of the plain features of that
of her grand-mother, and accord itself with some of the later and
more gaudy fashions, worn by the less puritanical matrons of the
village; and Comfort was often fain to think there were more lively
colors in the ribbon with which she decked her bonnet, than comported
with the strictness of the principles which they had inherited. So,
too, he sometimes imagined his natural discernment had not failed
him in detecting a lack of heart in some of the services which were
maintained. Faithful had indeed professed her belief, that fatiguing
exertions, continued early and late during six days of the week,
formed ample excuse for nodding irregular measure to the drowsy god
during some of the services on the Sabbath.

But the good puritan was most alarmed at a foreboding that the tinge
of worldliness which affected the moral character of his wife, might
interfere with the course he should pursue to train up his children
in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. Perchance all these might
have passed unheeded in the presence of more striking fallings-off
within the limits that confined the earthly pilgrimage of the
puritan; but he was a restless being, and for want of others more
important, the trivial backslidings of his help-meet furnished ample
incentive to the wailing of spirit in which he so often indulged.

Eleven children--six sons and five daughters--blessed the union of
Comfort and Faithful Makepeace, and the expressive appellations which
they received, denoted well the vocabulary from which the names were
selected. Comfort, junior, Ezekiel, Hezekiah, Micah, Habakkuk, and
Preserved, told the males of the family, and those of the other sex
were distinguished by names of equal import; Patience, Hope, Faith,
Peace, and Charity. One after another, in regular succession, they
grew up, and with the labor of older days sought to repay the care
expended in their training. Their parents had entailed upon them no
feeble constitutions, and the rigid rules by which they were reared,
permitted of no such fashion of dress as should endanger the proper
harmony of the system. Though a connoisseur might have applied to
the features of the girls some more expressive epithet than that of
mere plainness, they boasted of ruddy cheeks, and sparkling eyes, and
healthful forms, that many a pale-looking belle might have envied.
Comfort had little faith in the teachings of later sages, who waged
war with the precepts of Solomon, and he felt no inclination to spoil
the child by spare use of the correcting rod. Many a puritanical
principle, that illy accorded with the free spirit of childhood, was
drummed into the characters of his progeny; and the same effective
engine was often put in requisition to check them from the commission
of some worldly action. One could not look upon that staid
household, from the iron-framed father down to the little tottering
urchin who, ex-officio, as youngest, claimed all the privileges of
pet, without comprehending at a glance the grave and rigid creed by
which its concerns were regulated.

The puritanism of Comfort Makepeace was not confined to the mere
matters of household regulations, or religious worship. It extended
to all his business transactions, and marked all the social relations
into which he was led. In the former, the most scrupulous honesty was
at all times professed, though there were those, such as had little
respect for the severity of his creed, who were ready to assert
that he had a conscience so nice as to distinguish between telling
a truth with intent to deceive, and absolute falsehood. A notorious
stickler for what he termed the right, he was always found ready to
drive a good bargain; and if report spoke truly, to overreach his
neighbor, where it might be done without a palpable infringement of
the rules of trade. In his neighborly intercourse, he ever preserved
the same sober demeanor, using no unnecessary language, rarely
indulging in a smile, and never in a decided laugh. Comfort could
not be called unneighborly, nor did he ever acquire the credit of
liberality. The poor went not away empty-handed, if copious meeds
of advice and exhortation counted or availed aught; and sometimes
they might rejoice in the gift of more substantial worldly aid. All
may have heard of the person who excused dry eyes at an affecting
charity discourse, by professing to belong to another parish; and
it might not have unfrequently happened, that those who appealed to
the benevolence of Comfort Makepeace, found him in a situation not
widely dissimilar. Certainly, the rigidity of his principles did not
permit him to associate with those who were denominated unsaintly,
any farther than was necessary in the transaction of his worldly
affairs. Yet Comfort lived too late in the world, to be wholly devoid
of generous feeling. Apparent distress seldom failed to moisten his
cheek with the tear of sympathy, or to touch him in that generally
less sensitive spot--the purse.

There was probably no point in his creed, upon which Comfort
insisted with more stubborn zeal, than that which poised the lance
against amusements. I have said that he was seldom seen to smile,
and never to indulge in a laugh outright. Every thing that was not
included in the stern duties laid down in his laws of morality, was
deemed frivolous and worldly, and meet to be discountenanced by all
straight-walking servants of the Lord. Of course, the ebullitions
of wit or humor were too strongly tinctured with the same unsaintly
character, to find favor in his eyes. The theatre was a sink of
pollution, and its extirpation he deemed an object worthy the prayers
of every good man; and as for the drama--if perchance it was alluded
to--he was wont to term it the distilled product of the devil's
brain. But of all, most resolutely had Comfort set his face against
dancing. It is doubtful if he esteemed the worship of the crucifix
itself, or any other heathenish form of prelatical reverence, a more
decided sin than the practice of promiscuous dancing. Despite his
reverence for his puritan ancestry, Comfort was apt to be in many
things a little peculiar, and in nothing more so than in his manner
of reasoning. All representations of witches and goblins, he said,
were agreed in their frisking and dancing; and it was certainly a
mild expression to say, that no good might arise from an exercise in
which the imps of deviltry were, from their very nature, accustomed
to indulge. But I will not attempt to follow the worthy old man
through all the reasonings of the prolix discourse which he used
so often to rehearse against the utter abomination of promiscuous
dancing.

Comfort Makepeace was not insensible to the rapid progress of
opinions and principles less rigid than those which he had inherited
from his pilgrim fathers. He mourned often and deeply over the
degeneracy of modern times, and grew more and more morose, as all
the world about him waxed more frivolous and worldly-minded. His
neighbors relaxed in the severity of the governing principles which
had been handed down to them, and the rising generation were still
more widely departing from the faith of their fathers. The land where
puritanism had bid fair to hold permanent sway, was fast relapsing
into grossest heresy, and the very evils, to escape from which his
revered ancestor fled from the land of his birth, were swallowing up
the whole people. Old men laughed and chatted, in familiar strains,
and the young obeyed the impulse of a buoyant spirit, in revelling
unchecked in the delights of social intercourse. Amusements the most
frivolous, nay impious, feasting, theatre-going, and dancing, were
creeping in apace, and leading frail human nature from her moorings.
Even his old and favorite expounder of the faith, who had led his
flock for half a century through the green pastures of righteousness,
was forced to retire before the alarming spirit of innovation and
worldliness. He had been superseded by a young man of airy habits,
who had studied the frivolous rules of empty declamation, and who
shortened, to a fearful degree, the length of his discourses; while
every other exercise of the holy Sabbath became impregnated with the
same spirit that was infecting the manners of the whole people. There
was no limit to the terrible doctrines that were destroying the land.

Comfort Makepeace groaned often and audibly, as he witnessed the
changes that had been for years going on around him. His neighbors,
despite the zealous appeals he made, were fast falling off from the
path of the faithful, and numbering themselves among the worldly
sects. Morning prayer no longer sent them forth to labor, and their
incoming from the field at night was no longer accompanied by the
same devotional exercise. Exhortations, those heavenly weapons,
were become less frequent; and even grace at meals was by very many
dispensed with altogether. One had gone so far as to treat slightly,
if not with absolute worldly ridicule, his respect for the holy
scriptures. 'Mr. Makepeace, why give your son so outlandish a name as
Habakkuk?' 'Outlandish! Why, neighbor, it is a name from scripture!'
'Pooh!' replied the worlding, 'and so is Beelzebub!' The old man
groaned from his inmost breast, but was silent.

But there were symptoms of falling off within the very household of
the faithful, that still more afflicted the worthy puritan. In face
of the solemn precepts that had been inculcated in long and frequent
lectures, his own children gave indications of imbibing the dangerous
sentiments which were abroad in the land. They were remiss in the
performance of their duties, and had even advanced to the commission
of deeds absolutely worldly. I have mentioned the conscientious
scruples of the old man on the subject of dancing. Comfort had been
accustomed to consider it as the quintessence of wickedness. What
then was his surprise, when three of his sons, in a single breath,
demanded of him his consent to their attendance upon a new-comer
in the village, who promised to instruct its youth in the very art
which he had so often had occasion to pronounce an utter abomination!
Comfort could scarce trust the evidence of his senses, until two
daughters appeared, and joined in the earnest petition. He then
clasped his hands, and sank back with a groan of intense agony, as if
yielding up his spirit. His children were alarmed at the strength of
his emotion; and though they could not give over entirely the project
which had produced it, the subject was not soon again mentioned in
his presence. But exhortations, made with all the sincerity and
fervor of a Luther or a Knox, were not sufficient to restrain his
progeny within the rigid bounds which he had established. He had not
been entirely mistaken in his forebodings of the worldliness with
which the temper and habits of his wife would taint the education
of his children. The five daughters grew up comely and fair to look
upon, and less than maternal feeling would have prompted to pride in
their healthful forms and handsome features. Nor was it womanly to
hold to faith in the maxim, that beauty unadorned is most adorned.
The father had often occasion to sigh over some newly-bought finery,
with which the Sunday dresses of the daughters would be set off;
and there were not unfrequently other decided indications of vanity
and fondness for show, meet for earnest exhortation and reproof.
It were an endless task to follow through half the mortifications
which Comfort experienced, from the turn which affairs were taking
throughout the land.

Comfort Makepeace was naturally gloomy, from his birth, and his
temperament had by no means grown lighter in his old age. He grew
daily more unhappy and austere, until the cloud on his brow became
settled and irremovable. The spirit of irreligion that was abroad,
and particularly the advances it had made within the circle of
his own family, were fast wearing upon his strength, and the iron
constitution which had resisted a thousand shocks, gave way to the
force of mental affliction.

Comfort Makepeace died lamented, and, as in a thousand other cases,
the deceased acquired more honor than the living had gained respect.
One, of his strongly-marked character, could hardly expect to
pass through life without experiencing the bitterness of enmity.
Yet his uncompromising independence and stern integrity won for
him a reverence among his fellow men, which few, devoid of those
qualities, ever receive. The confirmed austerity of his manners did
not permit him to enjoy the delights of friendship, or to appreciate
its value. The bigoted illiberality with which his religious
sentiments were marked, suited not the character of so late an age;
but the unimpeachable honesty of his faith insured it from obvious
disrespect. Long and loud were his dying lamentations over the faults
of the age, and not less particularly over the best hope that the
rites and observances of the puritans would be perpetuated in his own
family.

                                                    W. A. B.




MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.


    'If e'er the blest to earth descend,
    O come, my mother and my friend,
    And GOD by thee will comfort send,
               To cheer this gloom!

                           EPITAPH IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.


    MY Mother! o'er thy lowly grave
      The stormy winds may blow,
    And spreading branches rudely wave,
      Nor break thy rest below.
    The bird that mounts on joyous wing,
      To hail the rising day,
    Though sweet the careless warbler sing,
      Pours not for thee his lay!

    The stranger, as with pensive eye,
      He scans thy burial-stone,
    May heave, perchance, a transient sigh
      For sorrows of his own;
    But few of all the friendly band
      Who smiled thy face to see,
    Untouched by the Destroyer's hand,
      Remain to think of thee!

    Yet often, mingling with the crowd
      Who thronged yon house of prayer,
    In humble posture thou hast bowed,
      And loved to worship there.
    The solemn notes of sacred lays
      Which through those arches rung,
    Once filled thy heart with grateful praise,
      And trembled on thy tongue!

    And oft thy sympathizing breast
      The passing tribute gave,
    As lightly on the turf thou pressed,
      Which covers now thy grave!
    I stood beside the hallowed ground,
      That marks thy resting-place,
    When rolling years had soothed the wound
      Which Time can ne'er efface.

    And scenes a mother's kindness wove,
      When life and hope were new,
    Bearing the record of her love,
      Came rising to my view:
    I thought on all thy tender care,
      Thy nature sweet and mild,
    Which used my little griefs to share,
      And blessed me when a child.

    Long, long within the silent tomb
      Thy cherished form has laid,
    And other woes have chased the gloom
      That dark bereavement made;
    Yet bright to Memory's fond survey
      Each lineament appears,
    As when it shed its living ray
      On eyes undimmed by tears!

    No more the buoyant hopes of youth
      Their wonted joy impart,
    And childhood's dream of changeless truth
      Has ceased to warm my heart;
    But while its languid pulses move,
      Life's crimson tide to bear,
    The sweet remembrance of thy love
      Shall still be treasured there!

                                                          X.




LITERARY NOTICES.


    LETTERS OF LUCIUS M. PISO, from Palmyra, to his Friend MARCUS
    CURTIUS, at Rome. Now first Translated and Published. In two
    volumes, 12mo. pp. 498. New-York: C. S. FRANCIS. Boston: JOSEPH
    H. FRANCIS.

WE shall offer no apology, nor will our readers deem one necessary,
for devoting so large a portion of the review department of the
present number of this Magazine to an extended notice of the work
before us. The letters contained in the first volume have already
appeared in our pages; and the great and deserved popularity which
they have acquired, will insure eager readers for the remainder,
(the issue of which public opinion has hastened,) which advance in
interest to the very close of the work. The conception of the plan
is most felicitous--the execution masterly, beyond modern example.
The author seems, primarily, to have _saturated_ his mind with the
very spirit of the past. He has rolled back the tide of time, and
placed us in Palmyra, the magnificent capital of the East, and
caused all her glories to pass palpably before us, as if we were
gazing upon a moving panorama. Commencing with the first faint dawn
of the Christian faith, he infuses into the reader 'a soul of old
religion.' His characters are marked with great force; while a nice
verisimilitude of individual nature is combined with elegance of
fancy, and a richness of ideal coloring, wholly unsurpassed by any
kindred writer. The plot--if a succession of events converging to a
final point may be so denominated--is natural and unperplexed; while
the minor descriptive scenes, which are often interwoven, and the
inferior characters, are equally well sketched. Though fluctuating
between history and romance, the work no where fails to disguise
the presence of the latter. The reader is _with_ the characters and
_of_ them, from first to last, such is the author's happy freedom of
delineation, and the harmony and ease both of incident and style.

We proceed to justify our encomiums by liberal extracts, commencing
with a stirring picture, which our readers would readily recognise,
without consulting the _quis sculpsit_.

    "I am just returned from a singular adventure. My hand trembles
    as I write. I had laid down my pen, and gone forth upon my
    Arab, accompanied by Milo, to refresh and invigorate my frame
    after our late carousal--shall I term it?--at the palace. I
    took my way, as I often do, to the Long Portico, that I might
    again look upon its faultless beauty, and watch the changing
    crowds. Turning from that, I then amused my vacant mind by
    posting myself where I could overlook, as if I were indeed
    the builder or superintendent, the laborers upon the column
    of Aurelian. I became at length particularly interested in
    the efforts of a huge elephant, who was employed in dragging
    up to the foundations of the column, so that they might be
    fastened to machines, to be then hoisted to their place,
    enormous blocks of marble. He was a noble animal, and, as it
    seemed to me, of far more than common size and strength. Yet
    did not his utmost endeavor appear to satisfy the demands of
    those who drove him, and who plied without mercy the barbed
    scourges which they bore. His temper at length gave way. He
    was chained to a mass of rock, which it was evidently beyond
    his power to move. It required the united strength of two, at
    least. But this was nothing to his inhuman masters. They ceased
    not to urge him with cries and blows. One of them, at length,
    transported by that insane fury which seizes the vulgar when
    their will is not done by the brute creation, laid hold upon
    a long lance, terminated with a sharp iron goad, long as my
    sword, and rushing upon the beast, drove it into his hinder
    part. At that very moment, the chariot of the Queen, containing
    Zenobia herself, Julia, and the other princesses, came suddenly
    against the column, on its way to the palace. I made every
    possible sign to the charioteer to turn and fly. But it was
    too late. The infuriated monster snapped the chains that held
    him to the stone at a single bound, as the iron entered him,
    and trampling to death one of his drivers, dashed forward to
    wreak his vengeance upon the first object that should come in
    his way. That, to the universal terror and distraction of the
    gathered, but now scattered and flying crowds, was the chariot
    of the Queen. Her mounted guards, at the first onset of the
    maddened animal, put spurs to their horses, and by quick leaps
    escaped. The horses attached to the chariot, springing forward
    to do the same, urged by the lash of the charioteer, were met
    by the elephant with straightened trunk and tail, who, in the
    twinkling of an eye, wreathed his proboscis around the neck of
    the first he encountered, and wrenching him from his harness,
    whirled him aloft, and dashed him to the ground. This I saw was
    the moment to save the life of the Queen, if it was indeed to
    be saved. Snatching from a flying soldier his long spear, and
    knowing well the temper of my horse, I put him to his speed,
    and running upon the monster as he disengaged his trunk from
    the crushed and dying Arabian for a new assault, I drove it
    with unerring aim into his eye, and through that opening on
    into the brain. He fell as if a bolt from heaven had struck
    him. The terrified and struggling horses of the chariot were
    secured by the now returning crowds, and the Queen with the
    princesses relieved from the peril which was so imminent, and
    had blanched with terror every cheek but Zenobia's. She had
    stood the while--I was told--there being no exertion which she
    could make--watching with eager and intense gaze my movements,
    upon which she felt that their safety, perhaps their lives,
    depended.

    "It all passed in a moment. Soon as I drew out my spear
    from the dying animal, the air was rent with the shouts of
    the surrounding populace. Surely, at that moment I was the
    greatest, at least the most unfortunate, man in Palmyra.
    These approving shouts, but still more the few words uttered
    by Zenobia and Julia, were more than recompense enough for
    the small service I had performed; especially, however, the
    invitation of the Queen:

    "'But come, noble Piso, leave not the work half done: we need
    now a protector for the remainder of the way. Ascend, if you
    will do us such pleasure, and join us to the palace.'

    "I needed no repeated urging, but taking the offered
    seat--whereupon new acclamations went up from the now augmented
    throngs--I was driven, as I conceived, in a sort of triumph to
    the palace, where passing an hour, which, it seems to me, held
    more than all the rest of my life, I have now returned to my
    apartment, and relate what has happened for your entertainment.
    You will not wonder that for many reasons my hand trembles, and
    my letters are not formed with their accustomed exactness."

The reader would scarcely pardon an omission to record the return of
Calpurnius, the captive brother of the noble Piso, in whose fate he
must have become deeply interested. While at the palace, soon after
the adventure above recorded, the writer is interrupted by a confused
noise of running to and fro. Presently, some one with a quick, light
foot approaches:

    "The quick, light foot by which I was disturbed, was Fausta's.
    I knew it, and sprang to the door. She met me with her bright
    and glowing countenance bursting with expression: 'Calpurnius!'
    said she, 'your brother, is here'--and seizing my hand drew me
    to the apartment, where he sat by the side of Gracchus--Isaac,
    with his inseparable pack, standing near.

    "I need not, as I cannot, describe our meeting. It was the
    meeting of brothers--yet, of strangers, and a confusion of
    wonder, curiosity, vague expectation, and doubt, possessed
    the soul of each. I trust and believe, that notwithstanding
    the different political bias which sways each, the ancient
    ties which bound us together as brothers will again unite us.
    The countenance of Calpurnius, though dark and almost stern
    in its general expression, yet unbends and relaxes frequently
    and suddenly, in a manner that impresses you forcibly with
    an inward humanity as the presiding though often concealed
    quality of his nature. I can trace faintly the features which
    have been stamped upon my memory--and the form too--chiefly
    by the recollected scene of that bright morning, when he with
    our elder brother and venerable parent, gave us each a last
    embrace, as they started for the tents of Valerian. A warmer
    climate has deepened the olive of his complexion, and at the
    same time added brilliancy to an eye, by nature soft as a
    woman's. His Persian dress increases greatly the effect of his
    rare beauty, yet I heartily wish it off, as it contributes
    more, I believe, than the lapse of so many years, to separate
    us. He will not seem and feel as a brother, till he returns to
    the costume of his native land. How great this power of mere
    dress is upon our affections and our regard, you can yourself
    bear witness, when those who parted from you to travel in
    foreign countries have returned metamorphosed into Greeks,
    Egyptians, or Persians, according to the fashions that have
    struck their foolish fancies. The assumed and foreign air:
    chills the untravelled heart as it greets them. They are no
    longer the same. However the reason may strive to overcome
    what seems the mere prejudice of a wayward nature, we strive
    in vain: nature will be uppermost--and many, many times have I
    seen the former friendships break away and perish.

    "I could not be alive to the general justness of the comparison
    instituted by Isaac, between Calpurnius and Julia. There are
    many points of resemblance. The very same likeness in kind
    that we so often observe between a brother and sister--such as
    we have often remarked in your nephew and niece, Drusus and
    Lavinia--whose dress being changed, and they are changed.

    "No sooner had I greeted and welcomed my brother, than I turned
    to Isaac and saluted him, I am persuaded with scarcely less
    cordiality.

    "'I sincerely bless the gods,' said I, 'that you have escaped
    the perils of two such passages through the desert, and are
    safe in Palmyra. May every wish of your heart, concerning your
    beloved Jerusalem, be accomplished. In the keeping of Demetrius
    will you find not only the single talent agreed upon, in
    case you returned, but the two which were to be paid had you
    perished. One such tempest upon the desert, escaped, is more
    and worse than death itself, met softly upon one's bed.

    "'Now, Jehovah be praised,' ejaculated Isaac, 'who himself has
    moved thy heart to this grace. Israel will feel this bounty
    through every limb: it will be to her as the oil of life.'

    "'And my debt,' said Calpurnius, 'is greater yet, and should in
    reason be more largely paid. Through the hands of Demetrius I
    will discharge it.'

    "'We are all bound to you,' said Fausta, 'more than words or
    money pay.'

    "'You owe more than you are perhaps aware of, to the rhetoric
    of Isaac,' added Calpurnius. 'Had it not been for the faithful
    zeal and cunning of your messenger, in his arguments not less
    than his contrivances, I had hardly now been sitting within the
    walls of Palmyra.'"

Isaac, after narrating the particulars of an affray in which he
became involved in the streets of Ecbatana, by disputing the
sincerity of a Persian false prophet, who was 'speaking perverse
things, to draw away disciples after him,' closes with the following
beautiful and pathetic defence of the 'ancient covenant people:'

    "'One word, if it please you,' said Isaac, 'before I depart.
    The gentile despises the Jew. He charges upon him usury and
    extortion. He accuses him of avarice. He believes him to
    subsist upon the very life-blood of whomsoever he can draw into
    his meshes. I have known those who have firm faith that the
    Jew feeds but upon the flesh and blood of Pagan and Christian
    infants, whom, by necromantic power, he beguiles from their
    homes. He is held as the common enemy of man--a universal
    robber--whom all are bound to hate and oppress. Reward me now
    with your belief, better than even the two gold talents I have
    earned, that all are not such. This is the charity, and all
    that I would beg; and I beg it of you--for that I love you
    all, and would have your esteem. Believe that in the Jew there
    is a heart of flesh as well as in a dog. Believe that some
    noble ambition visits his mind as well as yours. Credit it
    not--it is against nature--that any tribe of man is what you
    make the Jew. Look upon me, and behold the emblem of my tribe.
    What do you see? A man bent with years and toil--this ragged
    tunic his richest garb--his face worn with the storms of all
    climates--a wanderer over the earth; my home--Piso, thou hast
    seen it--a single room, with my good dromedary's furniture
    for my bed at night, and my seat by day; this pack--my only
    apparent wealth. Yet here have I now received two gold talents
    of Jerusalem!--what most would say were wealth enough, and
    this is not the tythe of that which I possess. What then? Is
    it for that I love obscurity, slavery, and a beggar's raiment,
    that I live and labor thus, when my wealth would raise me to
    a prince's state? Or is it that I love to sit and count my
    hoarded gains? Good friends, for such you are, believe it not.
    You have found me faithful and true to my engagements; believe
    my word also. You have heard of Jerusalem, once the chief city
    of the East, where stood the great temple of our faith, and
    which was the very heart of our nation, and you know how it
    was beleaguered by the Romans, and its very foundations rooted
    up, and her inhabitants driven abroad as outcasts, to wander
    over the face of the earth, with every where a country, but no
    where a home. And does the Jew, think you, sit down quietly
    under these wrongs? Trajan's reign may answer that. Is there no
    patriotism yet alive in the bosom of a Jew? Will every other
    toil and die for his country, and not the Jew? Believe me
    again, the prayers which go up morning, noon, and night, for
    the restoration of Jerusalem, are not fewer than those which go
    up for Rome or Palmyra. And their deeds are not less--for every
    prayer there are two acts. It is for Jerusalem, that you behold
    me thus in rags, and yet rich. It is for her glory, that I am
    the servant of all, and the scorn of all; that I am now pinched
    by the winters of Byzantium, now scorched by the heats of Asia,
    and buried beneath the sands of the desert. All that I have and
    am is for Jerusalem. And in telling you of myself, I have told
    you of my tribe. What we do and are, is not for ourselves, but
    for our country. Friends, the hour of redemption draweth nigh!'"

Soon after Calpurnius's return--who has imbibed a hatred of Rome
during his long captivity, and who espouses Zenobia's cause with
great zeal--the Roman ambassadors leave Palmyra, bearing with them,
from the Queen to Aurelian, a virtual declaration of war. The busy
note of preparation for contest resounds through the city, the whole
aspect of which is changed. Even Fausta makes ready for battle, and
dons her armor. Of the latter, and how it became the noble Palmyrene
maiden, the annexed extracts speak:

    "As I descended to the apartment where we take together our
    morning meal, and which we were now for the last time to
    partake in each other's company, I found Fausta already there,
    and surveying with sparkling eyes and a flushed cheek, a suit
    of the most brilliant armor, which, having been made by the
    Queen's workmen, and by her order, had just now been brought
    and delivered to her.

    "'I asked the honor,' said the person with whom she was
    conversing, 'to bring it myself, who have made it with the
    same care as the Queen's, of the same materials, and after the
    same fashion. So it was her order to do. It will set, lady,
    believe me, as easy as a riding dress, though it will be all
    of the most impenetrable steel. The polish too, is such, that
    neither arrow nor javelin need be feared; they can but touch
    and glance. Hercules could not indent this surface. Let me
    reveal to you diverse secret and perfect springs and clasps,
    the use of which you should be well acquainted with. Yet it
    differs not so much from that in which you have performed your
    exercises, but what you will readily comprehend the manner of
    its adjustment.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

    "She was now a beautiful vision to behold as ever lighted upon
    the earth. Her armor revealed with exactness the perfection of
    her form, and to her uncommon beauty added its own, being of
    the most brilliant steel, and frequently studded with jewels of
    dazzling lustre. Her sex was revealed only by her hair, which
    parting over her forehead, fell toward either eye, and then
    was drawn up and buried in her helmet. The ease with which she
    moved, showed how well she had accustomed herself, by frequent
    exercises, to the cumbrous load she bore. I could hardly
    believe, as she paced the apartment, issuing her final orders
    to her slaves and attendants, who pressed around, that I was
    looking upon a woman reared in all the luxury of the East. Much
    as I had been accustomed to the sight of Zenobia performing the
    part of an emperor, I found it difficult to persuade myself,
    that when I looked upon Fausta, changing so completely her sex,
    it was any thing more than an illusion."

We make the following striking extract, for the purpose of
contrasting it with a kindred picture, though reversed:

    "The city itself was all pouring forth upon the plains in its
    vicinity. The crowds choked the streets as they passed out,
    so that our progress was slow. Arriving at length, we turned
    toward the pavilion of the Queen, pitched over against the
    centre of the army. There we stood, joined by others, awaiting
    her arrival--for she had not yet left the palace. We had not
    stood long, before the braying of trumpets and other warlike
    instruments announced her approach. We turned, and looking
    toward the gate of the city, through which we had but now
    passed, saw Zenobia, having on either side Longinus and Zabdas,
    and preceded and followed by a select troop of horse, advancing
    at her usual speed toward the pavilion. She was mounted upon
    her far-famed white Numidian, for power an elephant, for
    endurance a dromedary, for fleetness a very Nicoean, and who
    had been her companion in all the battles by which she had
    gained her renown and her empire.

    "Calpurnius was beside himself: he had not before seen her when
    assuming all her state. 'Did eye ever look upon aught so like a
    celestial apparition? It is a descent from other regions; I can
    swear 'tis no mortal--still less a woman. Fausta--this puts to
    shame your eulogies, swollen as I termed them.'

    "I did not wonder at his amazement, for I myself shared it,
    though I had seen her so often. The object that approached
    us, truly seemed rather a moving blaze of light than an armed
    woman, which the eye and the reason declared it to be, with
    such gorgeous magnificence was she arrayed. The whole art
    of the armorer had been exhausted in her appointments. The
    caparison of her steed, sheathed with burnished gold, and thick
    studded with precious stones of every various hue, reflected
    an almost intolerable splendor, as the rays of a hot morning
    sun fell upon it. She too, herself, being clothed in armor of
    polished steel, whose own fiëry brightness was doubled by the
    diamonds--that was the only jewel she wore--sown with profusion
    all over its more prominent parts, could be gazed upon scarcely
    with more ease than the sun himself, whose beams were given
    back from it with undiminished glory. In her right hand, she
    held the long, slender lance of the cavalry; over her shoulders
    hung a quiver, well loaded with arrows; while at her side
    depended a heavy Damascus blade. Her head was surmounted by a
    steel helmet, which left her face wholly uncovered, and showed
    her forehead like Fausta's, shaded by the dark hair, which,
    while it was the only circumstance that revealed the woman,
    added to the effect of a countenance unequalled for marvellous
    union of feminine beauty, queenly dignity, and masculine power.
    Sometimes it has been her usage, upon such occasions, to appear
    with arms bare, and gloved hands; they were now cased, like the
    rest of the body, in plates of steel.

    "'Calpurnius,' said Fausta, 'saw you ever in Persia such
    horsemanship? See now, as she draws nearer, with what grace and
    power she moves? Blame you the enthusiasm of this people?'

    "'I more than share it,' he replied; 'it is reward enough for
    my long captivity, at last to follow such a leader. Many a
    time, as Zenobia has in years past visited my dreams, and I
    almost fancied myself in her train, I little thought that the
    happiness I now experience, was to become a reality. But, hark!
    how the shout of welcome goes up from this innumerable host.'

    "No sooner was the Queen arrived where we stood, and the whole
    extended lines became aware of her presence, than the air
    was rilled with the clang of trumpets, and the enthusiastic
    cries of the soldiery, who waved aloft their arms, and made a
    thousand expressive signs of most joyful greeting. When this
    hearty salutation, commencing at the centre, had died away
    along the wings, stretching one way to the walls of the city,
    and the other toward the desert, Zenobia rode up nearer the
    lines, and being there surrounded by the ranks which were
    in front, and by a crowd of the great officers of the army,
    spoke to them, in accordance with her custom. Stretching out
    her hand, as if she would ask the attention of the multitude,
    a deep silence ensued, and in a voice clear and strong, she
    thus addressed them: 'Men and soldiers of Palmyra! Is this the
    last time that you are to gather together in this glittering
    array, and go forth as lords of the whole East? Conquerors
    in so many wars, are you now about to make an offering of
    yourselves and your homes to the Emperor of Rome? Am I, who
    have twice led you to the gates of Ctesiphon, now to be your
    leader to the footstool of Aurelian? Are you thinking of any
    thing but victory? Is there one in all these ranks who doubts
    whether the same fate that once befel Probus shall now befall
    Aurelian? If there be, let him stand forth! Let him go and
    intrench himself within the walls of Palmyra. We want him not.
    (The soldiers brandished and clashed their arms.) Victory,
    soldiers, belongs to those who believe. Believe that you can do
    so, and we will return with a Roman army captive at our chariot
    wheels. Who should put trust in themselves, if not the men
    and soldiers of Palmyra? Whose memory is long enough to reach
    backward to a defeat? What was the reign of Odenatus, but an
    unbroken triumph? Are you now, for the first time, to fly or
    fall before an enemy? And who the enemy? Forget it not--Rome!
    and Aurelian! the greatest empire and the greatest soldier
    of the world. Never before was so large a prize within your
    reach. Never before fought you on a stage with the whole world
    for spectators. Forget not, too, that defeat will be not only
    defeat, but ruin! The loss of a battle will be not only so many
    dead and wounded, but the loss of empire! For Rome resolves
    upon our subjugation. We must conquer, or we must perish; and
    forever lose our city, our throne, and our name. Are you ready
    to write yourselves subjects and slaves of Rome!--citizens of a
    Roman province?--and forfeit the proud name of Palmyrene? (Loud
    and indignant cries rose from the surrounding ranks.) If not,
    you have only to remember the plains of Egypt and of Persia,
    and the spirit that burned within your bosoms then, will save
    you now, and bring you back to these walls, your brows bound
    about with the garlands of victory. Soldiers! strike your
    tents! and away to the desert!'

    "Shouts long and loud, mingled with the clash of arms, followed
    these few words of the Queen. Her own name was heard above all.
    'Long live the great Zenobia!' ran along the ranks, from the
    centre to the extremes, and from the extremes back again to the
    centre. It seemed as if, when her name had once been uttered,
    they could not cease--through the operation of some charm--to
    repeat it again and again, coupled, too, with a thousand
    phrases of loyalty and affection."

The Queen takes farewell of her sorrowing friends, and departs at the
head of her armed ranks, while the Princess Julia and Piso ascend
the walls of the city, and from the towers of the gate observe the
progress of the army:

    "We returned to the city, and from the highest part of the
    walls, watched the departing glories of the most magnificent
    military array I had ever beheld. It was long after noon,
    before the last of the train of loaded elephants sank below
    the horizon. I have seen larger armies upon the Danube, and in
    Gaul. But never have I seen one that in all its appointments
    presented so imposing a spectacle. This was partly owing to
    the greater proportion of cavalry, and to the admixture of the
    long lines of elephants, with their burdens, their towers,
    and litters--but more, perhaps, to the perfectness with which
    each individual, be he on horse or foot, be he servant, slave,
    or master, is furnished, respecting both arms, armor, and
    apparel. Julia beheld it, if with sorrow, with pride also.

    "'Between an army like this,' she said, 'so appointed, and so
    led and inflamed, and another like that of Rome, coming up
    under a leader like Aurelian, how sharp and deadly must be the
    encounter! What a multitude of this and that living host, now
    glorious in the blaze of arms, and burning with desires of
    conquest, will fall and perish, pierced by weapons, or crushed
    by elephants, nor ever hear the shout of victory! A horrid
    death, winding up a feverish dream. And of that number, how
    likely to be Fausta and Zenobia.'"

After some delay, during which time all Palmyra is vibrating between
hope and fear, intelligence is brought of a battle before Antioch,
between the forces of Zenobia and Aurelian, in which the army of the
former is completely routed, and compelled to retreat upon Emesa.
These events are thus narrated:

    "Upon the approach of Aurelian, the several provinces of Asia
    Minor, which by negotiation and conquest had by Zenobia been
    connected with her kingdom, immediately returned to their
    former allegiance. The cities opened their gates, and admitted
    the armies of the conqueror. Tyana alone, of all the Queen's
    dominions in that quarter, opposed the progress of the Emperor,
    and this strong-hold was soon by treachery delivered into his
    power. Thence he pressed on without pause to Antioch, where
    he found the Queen awaiting him. A battle immediately ensued.
    At first, the Queen's forces obtained decided advantages, and
    victory seemed ready to declare for her, as always before,
    when the gods decreed otherwise, and the day was lost--but
    lost in the indignant language of the Queen, 'not in fair
    and honorable fight, but through the baseness of a stratagem
    rather to have been expected from a Carthaginian than the great
    Aurelian.' 'Our troops,' she writes, 'had driven the enemy from
    his ground at every point. Notwithstanding the presence of
    Aurelian, and the prodigies of valor by which he distinguished
    himself anew, and animated his soldiers, our cavalry, led by
    the incomparable Zabdas, bore him and his legions backward till
    apparently discomfited by the violence of the onset, the Roman
    horse gave way and fled in all directions. The shout of victory
    arose from our ranks, which now dissolved, and in the disorder
    of a flushed and conquering army, scattered in hot pursuit
    of the flying foe. Now, when too late, we saw the treachery
    of the enemy. Our horse, heavy-armed, as you know--were led
    on by the retreating Romans into a broken and marshy ground,
    where their movements were in every way impeded, and thousands
    were suddenly fixed immovable in the deep morass. At this
    moment, the enemy, by preconcerted signals, with inconceivable
    rapidity--being light-armed--formed; and, returning upon our
    now scattered and broken forces, made horrible slaughter of all
    who had pushed farthest from the main body of the army. Dismay
    seized our soldiers--the panic spread--increased by the belief
    that a fresh army had come up and was entering the field, and
    our whole duty centered upon forming and covering our retreat.
    This, chiefly through the conduct of Calpurnius Piso, was
    safely effected; the Romans being kept at bay while we drew
    together, and then under cover of the approaching night, fell
    back to a new and strong position.

    "'I attempt not, Longinus, to make that better which is bad. I
    reveal the whole truth, not softening or withholding a single
    feature of it, that your mind may be possessed of the exact
    state of our affairs, and know how to form its judgments. Make
    that which I write public, to the extent and in the manner that
    shall seem best to you.

    "'After mature deliberation, we have determined to retreat
    farther yet, and take up our position under the walls of Emesa.
    Here, I trust in the gods we shall redeem that which we have
    lost.'

    "In a letter to Julia, the Queen says, 'Fausta has escaped
    the dangers of the battle; selfishly, perhaps, dividing her
    from Piso, she has shared my tent and my fortunes, and has
    proved herself worthy of every confidence that has been reposed
    in her. She is my inseparable companion in the tent, in the
    field, and on the road, by night and by day. Give not way to
    despondency, dear Julia. Fortune, which has so long smiled
    upon me, is not now about to forsake me. There is no day so
    long and bright, that clouds do not sail by and cast their
    little shadows. But the sun is behind them. Our army is still
    great and in good heart. The soldiers receive me, whenever I
    appear, with their customary acclamations. Fausta shares this
    enthusiasm. Wait without anxiety or fear for news from Emesa.'"

But Zenobia is again destined to defeat, and soon after writes from
Emesa: 'Our cavalry were at first victorious, as before at Antioch.
The Roman horse were routed. But the infantry of Aurelian, in number
greatly superior to ours, falling upon our ranks when deprived of the
support of the cavalry, obtained an easy victory; while their horse,
rallying and increased by rëinforcements from Antioch, drove us in
turn at all points, penetrating even to our camp, and completed the
disaster of the day. I have now no power with which to cope with
Aurelian. It remains but to retreat upon Palmyra, there placing our
reliance upon the strength of our walls, and upon our Armenian,
Saracen, and Persian allies. I do not despair, although the favor of
the gods seems withdrawn.'

Great consternation now pervades the city, and the people, clustering
together in knots, seem paralyzed or struck dumb, finding little joy
save in again beholding their Queen, now anxiously expected, with the
remnant of her gallant army. At length, 'far off their coming shone:'

    "As I sit writing at my open window, overlooking the street and
    spacious courts of the Temple of Justice, I am conscious of an
    unusual disturbance--the people at a distance are running in
    one direction--the clamor approaches--and now I hear the cries
    of the multitude, 'The Queen, the Queen!'

    "I fly to the walls.

    "I resume my pen. The alarm was a true one. Upon gaining the
    streets, I found the populace all pouring toward the gate of
    the desert, in which direction, it was affirmed, the Queen was
    making her approach. Upon reaching it, and ascending one of its
    lofty towers, I beheld from the verge of the horizon to within
    a mile of the walls, the whole plain filled with the scattered
    forces of Zenobia, a cloud of dust resting over the whole, and
    marking out the extent of ground they covered. As the advanced
    detachments drew near, how different a spectacle did they
    present from that bright morning, when, glittering in steel,
    and full of the fire of expected victory, they proudly took
    their way toward the places from which they now were returning,
    a conquered, spoiled, and dispirited remnant, covered with the
    dust of a long march, and wearily dragging their limbs beneath
    the rays of a burning sun. Yet was there order and military
    discipline preserved, even under circumstances so depressing,
    and which usually are an excuse for their total relaxation. It
    was the silent, dismal march of a funeral train, rather than
    the hurried flight of a routed and discomfited army. There was
    the stiff and formal military array, but the life and spirit
    of an elevated and proud soldiery were gone. They moved with
    method to the sound of clanging instruments and the long,
    shrill blast of the trumpet, but they moved as mourners. They
    seemed as if they came to bury their Queen.

    "Yet the scene changed to a brighter aspect, as the army drew
    nearer and nearer to the walls, and the city throwing open her
    gates, the populace burst forth, and with loud and prolonged
    shouts, welcomed them home. These shouts sent new life into the
    hearts of the desponding ranks, and with brightened faces and
    a changed air, they waved their arms and banners, and returned
    shout for shout. As they passed through the gates to the ample
    quarters provided within the walls, a thousand phrases of
    hearty greeting were showered down upon them, from those who
    lined the walls, the towers, and the way-side, which seemed
    from the effects produced in those on whom they fell, a more
    quickening restorative than could have been any medicine or
    food that had ministered only to the body.

    "The impatience of the multitude to behold and receive the
    Queen, was hardly to be restrained from breaking forth in some
    violent way. They were ready to rush upon the great avenue,
    bearing aside the troops, that they might the sooner greet her.
    When, at length, the centre of the army approached, and the
    armed chariot appeared in which Zenobia sat, the enthusiasm of
    the people knew no bounds. They broke through all restraint,
    and with cries that filled the heavens, pressed toward her--the
    soldiers catching the frenzy and joining them--and quickly
    detaching the horses from her carriage, themselves drew her
    into the city just as if she had returned victor with Aurelian
    in her train. There was no language of devotion and loyalty
    that did not meet her ear, nor any sign of affection that could
    be made from any distance, from the plains, the walls, the
    gates, the higher buildings of the city, the roofs of which
    were thronged, that did not meet her eye. It was a testimony
    of love so spontaneous and universal, a demonstration of
    confidence and unshaken attachment so hearty and sincere, that
    Zenobia was more than moved by it, she was subdued--and she,
    who, by her people had never before been seen to weep, bent her
    head and buried her face in her hands.

    "With what an agony of expectation, while this scene was
    passing, did I await the appearance of Fausta, and Gracchus,
    and Calpurnius--if, indeed, I were destined ever to see them
    again. I waited long, and with pain, but the gods be praised,
    not in vain, nor to meet with disappointment only. Not far in
    the rear of Zenobia, at the head of a squadron of cavalry,
    rode, as my eye distinctly informed me, those whom I sought.
    No sooner did they in turn approach the gates, than almost
    the same welcome that had been lavished upon Zenobia, was
    repeated for Fausta, Gracchus, and Calpurnius. The names of
    Calpurnius and Fausta--of Calpurnius, as he who had saved the
    army at Antioch, of Fausta as the intrepid and fast friend of
    the Queen, were especially heard from a thousand lips, joined
    with every title of honor. My voice was not wanting in the
    loud acclaim. It reached the ears of Fausta, who, starting
    and looking upward, caught my eye just as she passed beneath
    the arch of the vast gateway. I then descended from my tower
    of observation, and joined the crowds who thronged the close
    ranks, as they filed along the streets of the city. I pressed
    upon the steps of my friends, never being able to keep my eyes
    from the forms of those I loved so well, whom I had so feared
    to lose, and so rejoiced to behold returned alive and unhurt.

    "All day the army has continued pouring into the city, and
    beside the army greater crowds still of the inhabitants of
    the suburbs, who, knowing that before another day shall end,
    the Romans may encamp before the walls, are scattering in all
    directions--multitudes taking refuge in the city, but greater
    numbers still mounted upon elephants, camels, dromedaries
    and horses, flying into the country to the north. The whole
    region as far as the eye can reach, seems in commotion, as if
    society were dissolved, and breaking up from its foundations.
    The noble and the rich, whose means are ample, gather together
    their valuables, and with their children and friends, seek the
    nearest parts of Mesopotamia, where they will remain in safety
    till the siege shall be raised. The poor, and such as cannot
    reach the Euphrates, flock into the city, bringing with them
    what little of provisions or money they may possess, and are
    quartered upon the inhabitants, or take up a temporary abode
    in the open squares, or in the courts and porticos of palaces
    and temples--the softness and serenity of the climate rendering
    even so much as the shelter of a tent superfluous. But by this
    vast influx the population of the city cannot be less than
    doubled, and I should tremble for the means of subsistence
    for so large a multitude, did I not know the inexhaustible
    magazines of corn, laid up by the prudent foresight of the
    Queen, in anticipation of the possible occurrence of the
    emergency which has now arrived. A long time--longer than he
    himself would be able to subsist his army, must Aurelian lie
    before Palmyra, ere he can hope to reduce it by famine. What
    impression his engines may be able to make upon the walls,
    remains to be seen."

The arrival of the Palmyrene army is soon followed by that of
Aurelian, which presently surround the city, and under cover of
shields, attempt to undermine and scale the walls. But they are
foiled:

    "It is incredible the variety and ingenuity of the contrivances
    by which the Queen's forces beat off and rendered ineffectual
    all the successive movements of the enemy, in their attempts
    to surmount the walls. Not only from every part of the wall
    were showers of arrows discharged from the bows of experienced
    archers, but from engines also, by which they were driven to a
    much greater distance, and with great increase of force.

    "This soon rendered every attack of this nature useless and
    worse, and their efforts were then concentrated upon the
    several gates which simultaneously were attempted to be
    broken in, fired, or undermined. But here again, as often
    as these attempts were renewed, were they defeated, and
    great destruction made of those engaged in them. The troops
    approached, as is usual, covered completely, or buried
    rather, beneath their shields. They were suffered to form
    directly under the walls, and actually commence their work
    of destruction, when suddenly from the towers of the gates,
    and through channels constructed for the purpose in every
    part of the masonry, torrents of liquid fire were poured upon
    the iron roof, beneath which the soldiers worked. This at
    first they endured. The melted substances ran off from the
    polished surface of the shields, and the stones which were
    dashed upon them from engines, after rattling and bounding
    over their heads, rolled harmless to the ground. But there was
    in reserve a foe which they could not encounter. When it was
    found that the fiëry streams flowed down the slanting sides of
    the shell, penetrating scarcely at all through the crevices
    of the well-joined shields, it was suggested by the ingenious
    Periander, that there should first be thrown down a quantity of
    pitch, in a half melted state, by which the whole surface of
    the roof should be completely covered, and which should then,
    by a fresh discharge of fire, be set in a blaze, the effect
    of which must be to heat the shields to such a degree, that
    they could neither be held, nor the heat beneath endured by
    the miners. This was immediately resorted to at all the gates,
    and the success was complete. For no sooner was the cold pitch
    set on fire and constantly fed by fresh quantities from above,
    than the heat became insupportable to those below, who suddenly
    letting go their hold, and breaking away from their compacted
    form, in hope to escape from the stifling heat, the burning
    substance then poured in upon them, and vast numbers perished
    miserably upon the spot, or ran burning, and howling with pain,
    toward the camp. The slaughter made was very great, and very
    terrible to behold."

Aurelian next encompasses the city with a double ditch and rampart,
in the construction of which he is often interrupted by the frequent
sallies of the Palmyrenes from the gates. These preparations and
their success are thus described:

    "The Roman works are at length completed. Every lofty palm
    tree, every cedar every terebinth, has disappeared from the
    surrounding plains, to be converted into battering rams, or
    wrought into immense towers, planted upon wheels, by which the
    walls are to be approached and surmounted. Houses and palaces
    have been demolished, that the ready hewed timber might be
    detached and applied to various warlike purposes. The once
    beautiful environs already begin to put on the appearance of
    desolation and ruin.

    "The citizens have awaited these preparations with watchful
    anxiety. The Queen has expressed every where and to all, her
    conviction that all these vast and various preparations are
    futile--that the bravery of her soldiers and the completeness
    of her counter provisions, will be sufficient for the
    protection and deliverance of the city.

    "Another day of fierce and bloody war. At four different
    points have the vast towers been pushed to the walls, filled
    with soldiers, and defended against the fires of the besieged
    by a casing of skins and every incombustible substance, and
    provided with a store of water to quench whatever part might by
    chance kindle. It was fearful to behold these huge structures
    urged along by a concealed force, partly of men and partly
    of animals, and drawing nigh the walls. If they should once
    approach so near that they could be fastened to the walls, and
    so made secure, then could the enemy pour their legions upon
    the ramparts, and the battle would be transferred to the city
    itself. But in this case, as in the assaults upon the gates,
    the fire of the besieged has proved irresistible.

    "It was the direction of Periander, to whose unequalled
    sagacity this part of the defence was intrusted, that so
    soon as the towers should approach within reach of the most
    powerful engines, they should be fired, if possible, by means
    of well-barbed arrows and javelins, to which were attached
    sacs and balls of inflammable and explosive substances. These
    fastening themselves upon every part of the tower could not
    fail to set fire to them while yet at some distance, and in
    extinguishing which the water and other means provided for
    that purpose would be nearly or quite exhausted, before they
    had reached the walls. Then as they came within easier reach,
    the engines were to belch forth those rivers of oil, fire, and
    burning pitch, which he was sure no structure, unless of solid
    iron, could withstand.

    "These directions were carefully observed, and their success at
    every point such as Periander had predicted. At the gate of the
    desert the most formidable preparations were made, under the
    directions of the Emperor himself, who, at a distance, could
    plainly be discerned directing the work and encouraging the
    soldiers. Two towers of enormous size were here constructed,
    and driven toward the walls. Upon both, as they came within
    the play of the engines, were showered the fiery javelins and
    arrows, which it required all the activity of the occupants to
    ward off or extinguish, where they had succeeded in fastening
    themselves. One was soon in flames. The other, owing either
    to its being of a better construction, or to a less vigorous
    discharge of fire on the part of the defenders of the walls,
    not only escaped the more distant storm of blazing missiles,
    but succeeded in quenching the floods of burning pitch and
    oil, which, as it drew nearer and nearer, were poured upon
    it in fiery streams. On it moved, propelled by its invisible
    and protected power, and had now reached the wall--the bridge
    was in the very act of being thrown and grappled to the
    ramparts--Aurelian was seen pressing forward the legions, who,
    as soon as it should be fastened, were to pour up its flights
    of steps and out upon the walls--when, to the horror of all,
    not less of the besiegers than of the besieged, its foundations
    upon one side--being laid over the moat--suddenly gave way, and
    the towering and enormous mass, with all its living burden,
    fell thundering to the plain. A shout, as of a delivered and
    conquering army, went up from the walls, while upon the legions
    below--such as had not been crushed by the tumbling ruin--and
    who endeavored to save themselves by flight, a sudden storm of
    stones, rocks, burning pitch, and missiles of a thousand kinds
    was directed, that left few to escape to tell the tale of death
    to their comrades. Aurelian, in his fury, or his desire to aid
    the fallen, approaching too near the walls, was himself struck
    by a well-directed shaft--wounded, and borne from the field.

    "At the other gates, where similar assaults had been made, the
    same success attended the Palmyrenes. The towers were in each
    instance set on fire and destroyed.

    "The city has greatly exulted at the issue of these repeated
    contests. Every sound and sign of triumph has been made upon
    the walls. Banners have been waved to and fro, trumpets have
    been blown, and, in bold defiance of their power, parties of
    horse have sallied out from the gates, and after careering in
    sight of the enemy, have returned again within the walls. The
    enemy are evidently dispirited, and already weary of the work
    they have undertaken."

While the Palmyrenes are indulging the hope that Aurelian, finding
his army diminishing, will propose terms which they can accept with
honor, he despatches a herald, enjoining and commanding an immediate
surrender of the city. Zenobia refuses the terms. Aurelian renews his
attacks:

    "In a few days the vast preparations of the Romans being
    complete, a general assault was made by the whole army upon
    every part of the walls. Every engine known to our modern
    methods of attacking walled cities, was brought to bear. Towers
    constructed in the former manner were wheeled up to the walls.
    Battering rams of enormous size, those who worked them being
    protected by sheds of hide, thundered on all sides at the gates
    and walls. Language fails to convey an idea of the energy,
    the fury, the madness of the onset. The Roman army seemed as
    if but one being, with such equal courage and contempt of
    danger and of death, was the dreadful work performed. But the
    Queen's defences have again proved superior to all the power
    of Aurelian. Her engines have dealt death and ruin in awful
    measure among the assailants. The moat and the surrounding
    plain are filled and covered with the bodies of the slain.
    As night came on after a long day of uninterrupted conflict,
    the troops of Aurelian, baffled and defeated at every point,
    withdrew to their tents, and left the city to repose.

    "The temples of the gods have resounded with songs of
    thanksgiving for this new deliverance, garlands have been hung
    around their images, and gifts laid upon their altars. Jews and
    Christians, Persians and Egyptians, after the manner of their
    worship, have added their voices to the general chorus.

    "Again there has been a pause. The Romans have rested after
    the late fierce assault to recover strength, and the city has
    breathed free. Many are filled with new courage and hope, and
    the discontented spirits are silenced. The praises of Zenobia,
    next to those of the gods, fill every mouth. The streets ring
    with songs composed in her honor."

The Persian army is next day seen by Fausta and Piso, from the
towers, whence the eye commanded the whole plain, to be approaching
to the relief of Zenobia. They encounter the Roman army, and terrible
slaughter ensues; while, at a signal from the Queen, who with half
the population of Palmyra are on the walls, Zabdas, at the head of
all the flower of the Palmyra cavalry, pours forth from the gates,
followed closely by the infantry, the battle meanwhile raging
fiercely between the walls and the Roman entrenchments, as well as
beyond. But the Palmyrenes are repulsed with great slaughter; the
routed army press back into the city, and the gates are closed upon
the pursuers. In the evening, at the house of Gracchus, where the
events of the day are discussed, Calpurnius, who had been in the
thickest of the fight, but had escaped unhurt, relates the fate of
Zabdas. The scene is one for the pencil:

    "Calpurnius had been in the thickest of the fight, but had
    escaped unhurt. He was near Zabdas when he fell, and revenged
    his death by hewing down the soldier who had pierced him with
    his lance.

    "'Zabdas,' said Calpurnius, when in the evening we recalled
    the sad events of the day, 'was not instantly killed by the
    thrust of the spear, but falling backward from his horse, found
    strength and life enough remaining to raise himself upon his
    knee, and cheer me on, as I flew to revenge his death upon the
    retreating Roman. As I returned to him, having completed my
    task, he had sunk upon the ground, but was still living, and
    his eye bright with its wonted fire. I raised him in my arms,
    and lifting him upon my horse, moved toward the gate, intending
    to bring him within the walls. But he presently entreated me to
    desist.

    "'I die,' said he, 'it is all in vain, noble Piso. Lay me at
    the root of this tree, and that shall be my bed, and its shaft
    my monument.'

    "I took him from the horse as he desired.

    "'Place me,' said he, 'with my back against the tree, and my
    face toward the entrenchments, that while I live I may see the
    battle--Piso, tell the Queen that to the last hour I am true to
    her. It has been my glory in life to live but for her, and my
    death is a happiness, dying for her. Her image swims before me
    now, and over her hovers a winged victory. The Romans fly--I
    knew it would be so--the dogs cannot stand before the cavalry
    of Palmyra--they never could--they fled at Antioch. Hark! there
    are the shouts of triumph--bring me my horse--Zenobia! live and
    reign for ever!'

    "'With these words his head fell upon his bosom, and he died. I
    returned to the conflict; but it had become a rout, and I was
    borne along with the rushing throng toward the gates.'"

Subsequently, an Armenian army, which had come to relieve Zenobia,
are seen from the towers to strike their tents, throw down their
allegiance to the Queen, and join the army of Aurelian. The following
picture of the besieged city affords a striking contrast to the
brilliant metropolis which our readers have seen described in the
former letters:

    "This last has proved a heavier blow to Palmyra than the
    former. It shows that their cause is regarded by the
    neighboring powers as a losing one, or already lost, and that
    hope, so far as it rested upon their friendly interposition,
    must be abandoned. The city is silent and sad. Almost all the
    forms of industry having ceased, the inhabitants are doubly
    wretched through their necessary idleness; they can do little
    but sit and brood over their present deprivations, and utter
    their dark bodings touching the future. All sounds of gayety
    have ceased. They who obtained their subsistence by ministering
    to the pleasures of others, are now the first to suffer--for
    there are none to employ their services. Streets, which but
    a little while ago resounded with notes of music and the
    loud laughter of those who lived to pleasure, are now dull
    and deserted. The brilliant shops are closed, the fountains
    forsaken, the Portico solitary--or they are frequented by
    a few who resort to them chiefly to while away some of the
    melancholy hours that hang upon their hands. And those who
    are abroad seem not like the same people. Their step is now
    measured and slow, the head bent, no salutation greets the
    passing stranger or acquaintance, or only a few cold words
    of inquiry, which pass from cold lips into ears as cold.
    Apathy--lethargy--stupor--seem fast settling over all."

The next movement of the Queen, is to go in person to the court
of Persia, to obtain the aid of Sapor and the Prince Hormisdas,
who has sought in marriage the Princess Julia, her daughter, who,
though devoted to Calpurnius, offers herself as a victim on the
altar of her country. The Queen, with attendants, leaves Palmyra,
by a subterranean aqueduct, leading beyond the Roman camp, but
is betrayed by a female slave, who is bribed to treachery by the
Palmyrene traitor, Antiochus, and carried to the camp of Aurelian.
The interview between Zenobia and the Roman general, with the account
of an attempt by the enraged army, so long foiled by a woman, to
destroy her, cannot be curtailed, and is yet too long to extract. It
is in fine unity and the strictest keeping with the whole narrative.
Antiochus, the traitor, is scourged beyond the camp of the Romans, by
Aurelius' order. Terms of capitulation are now offered and accepted,
and Palmyra, as a nation, ceases to exist. Aurelian enters the city;
the Roman army is converted into a body of laborers and artizans,
who are employed in constructing wains, of every form and size, to
transport the treasures of the rifled city, by the aid of multitudes
of elephants and camels, across the desert to the sea, to adorn the
triumph of Aurelian, and add to the splendors of Rome; while the
senators and councillors of Palmyra, among whom are Longinus and
Gracchus, are led guarded from the city, amid the vehement grief of
the people, to the camp of the Roman conqueror, and finally conveyed
to the Roman prisons, at Emesa, a Syrian town, to await death at his
hands.

The chapter which follows, details the efforts made by Piso to obtain
pardon for Gracchus; his visit to Longinus and Gracchus in their
prisons; their noble bearing in view of the near approach of death,
and their reasoning on the principles of their philosophy, upon that
event. Longinus is executed, Gracchus pardoned, and Calpurnius leaves
the captive city, by the same subterranean aqueduct through which the
Queen had escaped.

Sandarian, a Roman general under Aurelian, is appointed Governor of
Palmyra, and the city seems tranquil. Gracchus, Piso, and Fausta,
now the wife of Calpurnius, (who has at length returned, under a
general pardon from the Emperor,) are induced, by a revolt in the
city, headed by the traitor Antiochus, who had also returned under
the general amnesty, to withdraw privately to one of the noble
Palmyrene's estates on an eminence four Roman miles from the walls,
commanding a view of the city. It was a square tower of stone,
originally built for war and defence. Aurelian, on his march to Rome,
with his army, gains tidings of the revolt of Antiochus, and returns
again to punish the traitor, who had caused all the Romans left in
Palmyra to be butchered. The result is thus given:

    "As we came forth upon the battlements of the tower, not a
    doubt remained that it was indeed the Romans pouring in again
    like a flood upon the plains of the now devoted city. Far as
    the eye could reach to the west, clouds of dust indicated the
    line of the Roman march, while the van was already within a
    mile of the very gates. The roads leading to the capital, in
    every direction, seemed covered with those, who, at the last
    moment, ere the gates were shut, had fled and were flying to
    escape the impending desolation. All bore the appearance of a
    city taken by surprise and utterly unprepared--as we doubted
    not was the case from what we had observed of its actual state,
    and from the suddenness of Aurelian's return and approach."

       *       *       *       *       *

    "After one day of preparation and one of assault the city has
    fallen, and Aurelian again entered in triumph. This time in the
    spirit of revenge and retaliation. It is evident, as we look
    on horror-struck, that no quarter is given, but that a general
    massacre has been ordered both of soldier and citizen. We can
    behold whole herds of the defenceless populace escaping from
    the gates or over the walls, only to be pursued--hunted--and
    slaughtered by the remorseless soldiers. And thousands upon
    thousands have we seen driven over the walls, or hurled from
    the battlements of the lofty towers to perish, dashed upon the
    rocks below. Fausta cannot endure these sights of horror, but
    retires and hides herself in her apartments.

    "No sooner had the evening of this fatal day set in, than a
    new scene of terrific sublimity opened before us, as we beheld
    flames beginning to ascend from every part of the city. They
    grew and spread till they presently appeared to wrap all
    objects alike in one vast sheet of fire. Towers, pinnacles,
    and domes, after glittering awhile in the fierce blaze, one
    after another fell and disappeared in the general ruin. The
    Temple of the Sun stood long untouched, shining almost with the
    brightness of the sun itself, its polished shafts and sides
    reflecting the surrounding fire with an intense brilliancy. We
    hoped that it might escape, and were certain that it would,
    unless fired from within--as from its insulated position the
    flames from the neighboring buildings could not reach it. But
    we watched not long ere from its western extremity the fire
    broke forth, and warned us that that peerless monument of
    human genius, like all else, would soon crumble to the ground.
    To our amazement, however, and joy, the flames, after having
    made great progress, were suddenly arrested, and by some cause
    extinguished--and the vast pile stood towering in the centre of
    the desolation, of double size, as it seemed, from the fall and
    disappearance of so many of the surrounding structures.

    "'This,' said Fausta, 'is the act of a rash and passionate
    man. Aurelian, before to-morrow's sun has set, will himself
    repent it. What a single night has destroyed, a century could
    not restore. This blighted and ruined capital, as long as its
    crumbling remains shall attract the gaze of the traveller,
    will utter a blasting malediction upon the name and memory
    of Aurelian. Hereafter he will be known, not as conqueror of
    the East, and the restorer of the Roman Empire, but as the
    executioner of Longinus and the ruthless destroyer of Palmyra.'"

After Aurelian has again departed with his army for Rome, the noble
Piso and Fausta re-visit the devoted capital. How horribly graphic
the description of its desolation:

    "For more than a mile before we reached the gates, the roads,
    and the fields on either hand, were strewed with the bodies
    of those who, in their attempts to escape, had been overtaken
    by the enemy and slain. Many a group of bodies did we notice,
    evidently those of a family, the parents and the children,
    who, hoping to reach in company some place of security, had
    all--and without resistance apparently--fallen a sacrifice
    to the relentless fury of their pursuers. Immediately in the
    vicinity of the walls and under them, the earth was concealed
    from the eye by the multitudes of the slain, and all objects
    were stained with the one hue of blood. Upon passing the gates
    and entering within those walls which I had been accustomed to
    regard as embracing in their wide and graceful sweep, the most
    beautiful city of the world, my eye met naught but black and
    smoking ruins, fallen houses and temples, the streets choked
    with piles of still blazing timbers and the half-burned bodies
    of the dead. As I penetrated farther into the heart of the
    city, and to its better built and more spacious quarters, I
    found the destruction to be less--that the principal streets
    were standing, and many of the more distinguished structures.
    But every where--in the streets--upon the porticos of private
    and public dwellings--upon the steps and within the very walls
    of the temples of every faith--in all places, the most sacred
    as well as the most common, lay the mangled carcasses of the
    wretched inhabitants. None, apparently, had been spared. The
    aged were there, with their bald or silvered heads--little
    children and infants--women, the young, the beautiful, the
    good--all were there, slaughtered in every imaginable way, and
    presenting to the eye spectacles of horror and of grief enough
    to break the heart and craze the brain. For one could not but
    go back to the day and the hour when they died, and suffer with
    these innocent thousands, a part of what they suffered when the
    gates of the city giving way, the infuriated soldiery poured
    in, and with death written in their faces and clamoring on
    their tongues, their quiet houses were invaded, and resisting
    or unresisting, they all fell together beneath the murderous
    knives of the savage foe. What shrieks then rent and filled
    the air--what prayers of agony went up to the gods for life to
    those whose ears on mercy's side were adders'--what piercing
    supplications that life might be taken and honor spared. The
    apartments of the rich and the noble presented the most
    harrowing spectacles, where the inmates, delicately nurtured
    and knowing of danger, evil, and wrong only by name and report,
    had first endured all that nature most abhors, and then
    there where their souls had died, were slain by their brutal
    violators with every circumstance of most demoniac cruelty.
    Happy for those who, like Gracchus, foresaw the tempest and
    fled. These calamities have fallen chiefly upon the adherents
    of Antiochus; but among them, alas! were some of the noblest
    and most honored families of the capital. Their bodies now lie
    blackened and bloated upon their door-stones--their own halls
    have become their tombs."

The next letter is from Piso, at Rome, to Fausta, at Palmyra,
descriptive of Aurelian's triumphant entry into Rome. We cannot
resist the inclination to place this magnificent picture before our
readers:

    "The sun of Italy never poured a flood of more golden light
    upon the great capital and its surrounding plains than on the
    day of Aurelian's triumph. The airs of Palmyra were never more
    soft. The whole city was early abroad, and added to our own
    overgrown population, there were the inhabitants of all the
    neighboring towns and cities, and strangers from all parts of
    the empire, so that it was with difficulty and labor only,
    and no little danger too, that the spectacle could be seen. I
    obtained a position opposite the capitol, from which I could
    observe the whole of this proud display of the power and
    greatness of Rome.

    "A long train of elephants opened the show, their huge sides
    and limbs hung with cloth of gold and scarlet, some having upon
    their backs military towers or other fanciful structures, which
    were filled with the natives of Asia or Africa, all arrayed in
    the richest costumes of their countries. These were followed
    by wild animals, and those remarkable for their beauty, from
    every part of the world, either led, as in the case of lions,
    tigers, leopards, by those who from long management of them,
    possessed the same power over them as the groom over his horse,
    or else drawn along upon low platforms, upon which they were
    made to perform a thousand antic tricks for the amusement of
    the gaping and wondering crowds. Then came not many fewer than
    two thousand gladiators in pairs, all arranged in such a manner
    as to display to the greatest advantage their well knit joints,
    and projecting and swollen muscles. Of these a great number
    have already perished on the arena of the Flavian, and in the
    sea fights in Domitian's theatre. Next upon gilded wagons,
    and arrayed so as to produce the most dazzling effect, came
    the spoils of the wars of Aurelian--treasures of art, rich
    cloths and embroideries, utensils of gold and silver, pictures,
    statues, and works in brass, from the cities of Gaul, from
    Asia and from Egypt. Conspicuous here over all were the rich
    and gorgeous contents of the palace of Zenobia. The huge wains
    groaned under the weight of vessels of gold and silver, of
    ivory, and the most precious woods of India. The jewelled wine
    cups, vases, and golden statuary of Demetrius attracted the
    gaze and excited the admiration of every beholder. Immediately
    after these came a crowd of youths richly habited in the
    costumes of a thousand different tribes, bearing in their hands
    upon cushions of silk, crowns of gold and precious stones, the
    offerings of the cities and kingdoms of all the world, as it
    were, to the power and fame of Aurelian. Following these, came
    the ambassadors of all nations, sumptuously arrayed in the
    habits of their respective countries. Then an innumerable train
    of captives, showing plainly in their downcast eyes, in their
    fixed and melancholy gaze, that hope had taken its departure
    from their breasts. Among these were many women from the shores
    of the Danube, taken in arms fighting for their country, of
    enormous stature, and clothed in the warlike costume of their
    tribes.

    "But why do I detain you with these things, when it is of
    one only that you wish to hear. I cannot tell you with what
    impatience I waited for that part of the procession to approach
    where were Zenobia and Julia. I thought its line would stretch
    on for ever. And it was the ninth hour before the alternate
    shouts and deep silence of the multitudes announced that
    the conqueror was drawing near the capitol. As the first
    shout arose, I turned toward the quarter whence it came, and
    beheld, not Aurelian as I expected, but the Gallic Emperor
    Tetricus--yet slave of his army and of Victoria--accompanied
    by the prince his son, and followed by other illustrious
    captives from Gaul. All eyes were turned with pity upon him,
    and with indignation too that Aurelian should thus treat a
    Roman and once--a Senator. But sympathy for him was instantly
    lost in a stronger feeling of the same kind for Zenobia,
    who came immediately after. You can imagine, Fausta, better
    than I describe them, my sensations, when I saw our beloved
    friend--her whom I had seen treated never otherwise than as a
    sovereign Queen, and with all the imposing pomp of the Persian
    ceremonial--now on foot, and exposed to the rude gaze of the
    Roman populace--toiling beneath the rays of a hot sun, and
    the weight of jewels, such as both for richness and beauty,
    were never before seen in Rome--and of chains of gold, which
    first passing around her neck and arms, were then borne up by
    attendant slaves. I could have wept to see her so--yes and
    did. My impulse was to break through the crowd and support
    her almost fainting form--but I well knew that my life would
    answer for the rashness on the spot. I could only, therefore,
    like the rest, wonder and gaze. And never did she seem to me,
    not even in the midst of her own court, to blaze forth with
    such transcendant beauty--yet touched with grief. Her look was
    not that of dejection--of one who was broken and crushed by
    misfortune--there was no blush of shame. It was rather one of
    profound, heart-breaking melancholy. Her full eyes looked as
    if privacy only was wanted for them to overflow with floods of
    tears. But they fell not. Her gaze was fixed on vacancy, or
    else cast toward the ground. She seemed like one unobservant
    of all around her, and buried in thoughts to which all else
    were strangers, and had nothing in common with. They were in
    Palmyra, and with her slaughtered multitudes. Yet though she
    wept not, others did; and one could see all along, wherever
    she moved, the Roman hardness yielding to pity, and melting
    down before the all-subduing presence of this wonderful woman.
    The most touching phrases of compassion fell constantly
    upon my ear. And ever and anon as in the road there would
    happen some rough or damp place, the kind souls would throw
    down upon it whatever of their garments they could quickest
    divest themselves of, that those feet little used to such
    encounters, might receive no harm. And as when other parts of
    the procession were passing by, shouts of triumph and vulgar
    joy frequently arose from the motley crowds, yet when Zenobia
    appeared, a death-like silence prevailed, or it was interrupted
    only by exclamations of admiration or pity, or of indignation
    at Aurelian for so using her. But this happened not long. For
    when the Emperor's pride had been sufficiently gratified, and
    just there where he came over against the steps of the capitol,
    he himself, crowned as he was with the diadem of universal
    empire, descended from his chariot, and unlocking the chains of
    gold that bound the limbs of the Queen, led and placed her in
    her own chariot--that chariot in which she had hoped herself to
    enter Rome in triumph--between Julia and Livia. Upon this the
    air was rent with the grateful acclamations of the countless
    multitudes. The Queen's countenance brightened for a moment, as
    if with the expressive sentiment, 'The gods bless you!' and was
    then buried in the folds of her robe. And when, after the lapse
    of many minutes, it was again raised and turned toward the
    people, every one might see that tears burning hot had coursed
    her cheeks, and relieved a heart which else might well have
    burst with its restrained emotion. Soon as the chariot which
    held her had disappeared upon the other side of the capitol,
    I extricated myself from the crowd, and returned home. It was
    not till the shades of evening had fallen, that the last of the
    procession had passed the front of the capitol, and the Emperor
    reposed within the walls of his palace. The evening was devoted
    to the shows of the theatres."

In the letter which closes the volumes, Piso, who is now married to
the noble Fausta, describes a visit to Zenobia, at a magnificent
villa on the Tiber, to which Aurelian has humanely caused to be
brought and arranged every article of use or luxury found in the
palace at Palmyra, which was capable of transportation. The exiled
Queen, however, dwells sadly 'upon glories that are departed for
ever; and is able to anticipate no other, or greater, in this world:

    "She is silent and solitary. Her thoughts are evidently never
    with the present, but far back among the scenes of her former
    life. To converse is an effort. The lines of grief have fixed
    themselves upon her countenance; her very form and manner are
    expressive of a soul bowed and subdued by misfortune. Her
    pride seems no longer, as on the day of the triumph, to bear
    her up. It is Zenobia before me, but--like her own beautiful
    capital--it is Zenobia in ruins. That she suffers, too, from
    the reproaches of a mind now conscious of its errors, I cannot
    doubt. She blames Aurelian, but I am persuaded, she blames
    with no less severity herself. It is, I doubt not, the image
    of her desolated country rising before her, that causes her so
    often, in the midst of discourse with us, or when she has been
    sitting long silent, suddenly to start and clasp her hands, and
    withdraw weeping to her apartments, or the seclusion of the
    garden."

Let no reader be tempted, from the copiousness of our extracts, to
forego the pleasure of perusing these volumes in their entire form.
We have given but the outline, merely, of that portion which has not
appeared at large in our pages; preserving, indeed, the main events,
but leaving untouched the delightful under-current of tributary
incidents, and that vein of calm philosophical and moral reasoning,
which every where pervade the work.

In conclusion, we cordially and confidently commend these volumes to
our readers, with the hope soon again to find the writer gleaning in
the great vineyard of the past; for surely, his mind is not of so
light a soil as to be exhausted by one crop, how rich soever that
product may be.

       *       *       *       *       *

    NATIONAL STANDARD OF COSTUME.--A Lecture on the Changes of
    Fashion. Delivered before the Portsmouth (N. H.) Lyceum, By
    CHARLES W. BREWSTER.

OUR thanks are due to the Portsmouth Lyceum for a copy of this very
entertaining and instructive pamphlet, in which an important topic is
ably discussed. The writer came to his task well prepared, by a great
number of facts, pertinent illustrative incidents, and anecdotes,
to do it full justice; and he has amply succeeded. Although we have
little hope that the crying evil which he exposes will ever cease to
be injuriously operative on all classes in America, we cannot refrain
from yielding our tribute of praise and admiration to the good sense
and sound reasoning of the first pioneer in a cause so commendable.

After showing that in the early days of the Jews, the fashion of
garments was fixed, and that the costumes of the Chinese, the Turks,
and the Moors, are the same now that they have been for centuries,
the writer observes:

    "How would a Chinese be surprised, on a visit to the Republic,
    who had formed his ideas of our costume from a picture drawn
    from life only half a century since! He contemplates the
    picture, and in his imagination he sees the American beaux with
    their tri-cornered hats, flowing wigs, broad-skirted coats,
    leather small clothes, pointed shoes, and broad bright buckles;
    and the beautiful belles by their side, with the long waists
    of their dresses, sleeves closely attached to their arms,
    the ample skirts distended by a butt hoop, and their heels
    elevated in such shoes as the fair heroines wore in '76, when
    they slept up bravely in the world, by adding four inches to
    their heel-taps! With this picture full before him, the Chinese
    arrives on our shore, and in vain seeks for a single article of
    dress the picture represented. He fancies the treacherous ship
    has borne him to a wrong country, or becomes distrustful of the
    painter's veracity. When told, that the _fashions change_ among
    us, the Chinese hears with wonder, and in admiration of the
    stability of his own celestial empire, exclaims: Is this the
    effect of your liberal government? If the fickle nature of your
    customs has been interwoven into your political institutions,
    while China will live for ever, the _Republic_ itself will ere
    long be laid aside as a thing _out of fashion_."

The following anecdote is given, as illustrative of the supremacy of
fashion:

    "In 1813, Sir Humphrey Davy was permitted by Napoleon to visit
    Paris. At that time it will be recollected, that every movement
    of citizens was carefully watched, and that every assemblage
    of people in public places was speedily dispersed by military
    power, to prevent riots and revolutionary proceedings. While
    the distinguished philosopher was attending the meeting of
    the Institute, Lady Davy, attended by her maid, walked in
    the public garden. She wore a very small hat, of a simple
    cockleshell form, such as was fashionable in London at the
    time; while the Parisian ladies wore bonnets of most voluminous
    dimensions. It happened to be a saint's day, on which, the
    shops being closed, the citizens repaired in crowds to the
    garden. On seeing the diminutive bonnet of Lady Davy, the
    Parisians felt little less surprise than did the inhabitants
    of Brobdignag on beholding the hat of Gulliver; and a crowd
    of persons soon assembled around the unknown exotic; in
    consequence of which, one of the Inspectors of the Garden
    immediately presented himself and informed her ladyship that no
    cause for assemblage could be suffered, and therefore requested
    her to retire. Some officers of the Imperial Guard, to whom
    she appealed, replied, that however much they might regret the
    circumstance, they were unable to afford her any redress, as
    the order was peremptory. She then requested to be conducted
    to her carriage; an officer immediately offered his arm; but
    the crowd had by this time so greatly increased, that it became
    necessary to send for a corporal's guard; and the party quitted
    the garden, surrounded by fixed bayonets!"

To the justice of the subjoined, all reflecting minds will yield
ready assent. We would make a reservation, however, in the article of
_stocks_--a truly excellent and most comfortable invention:

    "Paris is the fantastical seat of the fashions. The models
    there formed are followed in England, where they are sometimes
    improved upon--and are transferred, as regularly as articles of
    merchandise, across the Atlantic. From the principal cities,
    plates of the latest fashions, regulated by those prevailing in
    the foreign courts, are transmitted at regular intervals, by
    mail, to the principal towns throughout the United States, and
    from these towns all the neighboring villages take their newest
    fashions.

    "The immediate adoption of the French fashions by other
    nations, is not unfrequently a source of much merriment to the
    inventors of them, and is a standing topic of amusement and
    ridicule to the ladies of Paris; for it is not unfrequently the
    case, that while the prints of costume, as they are prepared by
    the French milliners and dress-makers, of the most absurd and
    fantastical models, are seized upon and imitated in the dresses
    of the English and Americans--these very prints are subjects of
    sport to the Parisian ladies for their fantastical absurdity.
    They regard them in the same light that we do the beads and
    baubles which are sent to savage nations. With such worthless
    trinkets we obtain from the savages their valuable furs, and
    with trinkets of no greater real value, do the French extract
    the hard earnings from the pockets of the American citizens.

    "Had we the capacity of vision at one view to look
    throughout the Union, and trace the course of fashion and
    its metamorphosing effects upon society, the view would be
    ludicrous indeed, and the changes no less unmeaning than
    ridiculous. At one time we should see thousands of tri-cornered
    hats thrown off, and as many heads covered with round ones--and
    their places supplied in turn with the cap maker's fabric: at
    another season, we should see a million half-worn coats laid
    aside for moths to feed upon, to give place to some fashion
    which has no higher merit than the sanction of some foreign
    court: with another breeze across the Atlantic, another slight
    commotion is seen throughout the land; and millions of cravats
    are removed from their wonted location, that the willing necks
    of American freemen, may be bound in the foreign _stocks_!

    "We will, however, give you one fact, which has no imagination
    about it. It is illustrative of what has been previously
    stated, that the villages look for their fashions to the
    principal towns in their neighborhoods, and that, however
    independent they may feel of foreign political sway, few
    Americans have ever yet had the bravery to declare independence
    of foreign fashions, but meekly submit to what is _said_ to be
    the _latest fashions_ in the place to which they look as their
    emporium--whether such fashions indeed exist, or are imposed
    upon them by cunning individuals, who 'by such craft do get
    their wealth.'

    "A few years since, a country trader in New-Hampshire, in
    making purchases of a little of every thing for his store,
    was offered, at a very low rate, a lot of coat buttons of the
    fashion of half a century since, about the size of a dollar.
    The keen-sighted trader, by the tailor's assistance, soon had
    his own coat decorated with them. At home the lads needed no
    better evidence of its being the latest fashion, than that
    the trader had just come from the metropolis. The old buttons
    went off at a great advance, and the village soon shone in
    Revolutionary splendor! If the shining beaux _thought_ they
    were dressed in the latest Parisian style, did they not feel as
    well as though they really were so? And did the supercilious
    eye with which they regarded the poor fellows who could not
    afford buttons larger than a cent, beam less with aristocracy
    than the exalted courtier's?

    "One other illustrative anecdote occurs to us, which we cannot
    forbear giving. A few years since, two young milliners, located
    in a town in the interior of New-Hampshire, found it necessary
    for their reputation to follow the example of almost every
    milliner within fifty miles of the metropolis, and to go once a
    year to Boston for the latest fashions. Among the thrown-aside
    articles in a dry goods store, worthless from being out of
    date, were about one hundred and fifty bonnets. The calculating
    damsels, who had seen enough of the world to know that any
    fashion would go with a proper introduction, and knowing
    no good reason why they should remain useless in Boston,
    kindly took them off the merchant's hands for _six cents_ per
    bonnet. Arrived at home with their large stock of the '_latest
    fashions_,' they were careful to finish and decorate a couple
    in good style, and the next Sunday, (the day on which new
    fashions are generally displayed,) the 'Boston fashion' was
    whispered through the village--and not in vain; for it was not
    long, before the whole stock was disposed of, at from nine
    shillings to two dollars apiece! The distressing epidemic of a
    _new fashion_ thus speedily swept off nearly every bonnet in
    the village, of one year old and upwards--although many were in
    good health, and showed no signs of decay, till the pestilence
    began to rage."

Mr. Brewster cites numerous instances of ridiculous aping of foreign
fashions, by Americans, such as wearing in winter the summer hats of
Paris, because they were the '_latest_ fashion,' and, while laughing
at the folly of a hump-backed court around Richard the Third,
donning the '_bustle_,' and appearing as if broken-backed! Our author
talks of the large sleeves supping libations from tea-cups, and
revelling in sauces at the table. Bless his simple heart! Does he not
know that there are no large sleeves now? Would that he could see, of
a windy day, in Broadway, a tall and lank but _fashionable_ 'olden
maiden,'

    'With form full lean and sum dele pyned away,
    And eke with arms consuméd to the bone!'

He would find another evidence, that adaptation of dress to person
and figure is of slight moment to the follower of fashion, in
comparison with being in the mode.

In reply to the objection that permanency in fashion would tend to
throw thousands of _artistes_ and artizans out of employment, our
author observes:

    "Is not the same objection raised to the introduction of
    labor-saving machinery for manufacturing purposes? Yet we find
    that although one man now, by the assistance of machinery,
    can do the work which twenty performed a few years since,
    yet we do not learn that any more are out of employment, or
    that they have any less profitable business than formerly. If
    permanent fashions should be established, some would, no doubt,
    feel their influence at first: but would they be affected any
    more injuriously than some branches of business are in every
    few years, by _changes_ in the _fashions_? Take the business
    of wig-maker, for instance. When the full-bottomed wig was
    worn by a Dauphin of France, to hide an imperfection in his
    shoulder, wigs became fashionable, and were worn by all ages
    and classes in society, not only in France but also in England
    and America--and their manufacture must have given employment
    to many thousands. But somehow or other, the people of the
    present age, not being able to discern why the imperfections
    of a foreign prince should for ever rest upon their heads,
    have with one consent thrown them off. They did not, however,
    wait till all the wig-makers were dead before the change was
    made, and of course many of them must have felt the effects
    of the change in fashion upon their business. Look too at the
    broad shoe-buckles of our revolutionary ancestors, and the
    bright buckles at their knees. Did the buckle-makers starve
    to death, when, as independent freemen, our sires resolved to
    wear pantaloons and shoe-strings? No! Nor would the interest of
    any class of the community be any more seriously affected by
    establishing permanent models of fashion, than were those of
    the wig or buckle-maker, who were compelled to seek some other
    employment for a livelihood.

    "If a careful examination is made, it will be found that a much
    larger number are annually ruined in business by attempting to
    follow the vagaries of fashion, than possibly could be injured
    by establishing fashion upon a permanent basis."

We think all will agree with the writer in this position, on another
ground, namely: that when the novelty of fashion shall be dispensed
with in society, the female circle will at once forego much useless
intercourse on the subject, and introduce in its place more rational
and profitable topics.

We close, by recommending this Lecture to readers of every class, as
containing much that is instructive, and that may be made profitable,
to all.

       *       *       *       *       *

    WILD FLOWERS, CULLED FOR EARLY YOUTH. BY A LADY. In one volume,
    pp. 257. New-York: JOHN S. TAYLOR.

WE are glad to perceive the public favor bestowed upon such works
for the moral and religious improvement of the young, as the one
now under notice. Stories, naturally related, and blended with good
advice implied, and valuable lessons adroitly disguised, or robbed
of didactic dullness, are capable of extensive good. They are well
calculated to gain those passes of the heart which are often guarded
by prejudice or indifference against the direct force of truth. We
can heartily commend both the execution and tendency of each of the
eight sketches in the volume before us. They are thus entitled:
The Young Mechanics; Anselmo, Gardener of Lyons; Adela De Coven;
My Uncle's Wand; The Friend of Olden Times; Stanmore; Glimpses of
New-England Mountaineers, from a Traveller's Memoranda; and After the
Party. As a specimen of the agreeable, unaffected style of the book,
we make the following extract from the 'New-England Mountaineers:'

    "One clear sun-shiny morning, in the month of February, some
    three or four years since, as I was travelling in New-England,
    not far from the Green Mountains, I left the stage-sleigh,
    as it drew up to the door of a village post-office, and ran
    forward to put my blood into quicker circulation.

    "A crust had been formed upon the new-fallen snow, by the
    freezing of a little rain that had followed the snow-storm, so
    that a pretty decided step was requisite to break the crust, so
    far as to walk securely, it being extremely slippery.

    "Every tree and shrub was likewise encrusted with ice, the bare
    boughs and slender twigs all standing out in full relief, under
    a sky of purest blue, glittered in the sun-beams, as if covered
    with rubies and diamonds.

    "Those who have never experienced a northern winter, can form
    no idea of the effect of sun-rise over such a scene as this.

    "The day was severe enough to require all the aids of lion
    skin, buffalo robes, and fine furs, to preserve the vital fluid
    from stagnation. I had gone about a quarter of a mile ahead
    when I met a little urchin of four or five years, carrying a
    small pail of milk.

    "'Why, my little fellow,' said I, 'where are your stockings
    this cold morning?'

    "'Aunt Nelly's ironing on 'em.'

    "'What's your name, my boy?'

    "'George Washington La Fayette Keeny.'

    "'The deuce it is!' Why, my man, your name is very like a
    jelly-bag, larger at the top than it is at the bottom.'

    "'I never seed a jelly-bag,' said the youngster, 'but that is
    exactly the shape of our Tom's kite; it's proper big at the
    top, and tapers off at the end in a _leetle_ peak.'

    "'Well, you're a smart boy for a simile. Run home and get your
    stockings, quick step, and here is a shilling toward another
    pair.'

    "On I ran, but was soon compelled to leave the faint traces of
    a road to avoid a cutter that came hurrying on at the heels
    of a frightened market-horse. One thing after another came
    bouncing out, strewing the path, and, last of all, apparently
    much against his will, out popped the driver himself, heels
    over head, his capes flying about his ears, his cap tossed into
    a gully, and his temper not a little discomposed. He sprang
    upon his feet.

    "'Now, that 'are skittish colt of our Dick's--what on
    'arth can a fellow do to stop the trollup--she goes like a
    jack-o'-lantern. Hullo there! Stop that 'are mare, will ye? My
    stars--what 'ill our Nab say?'

    "But the strong and lively perception of the ludicrous, that
    characterizes the New-Englander, even of the roughest mould,
    seemed to overpower his vexation. Springing up from the hollow,
    into which his fur-cap had rolled, he swung it round his head,
    and burst out into a fit of obstreperous laughter.

    "How the adventure ended, history does not record; the coach
    came up, and we were soon beyond the region of buttered roads."

A New-England country-wedding is admirably depicted in the subjoined
paragraphs:

    "We reined up to an old-fashioned, solitary farm-house, flanked
    by a range of barns and stables of more modern date, and their
    capaciousness spoke well for the thrift of the owner.

    "The farmer himself answered our summons at the door.

    "'Can you give us a lodging to-night, my friend? The roads are
    perilous in the dark, the storm is increasing every moment, and
    'tis fifteen miles to the nearest public house. You will really
    do us a Christian office, if you will but afford us a shelter
    until day-light to-morrow.' The old gentleman hesitated, as he
    stood with the door half open to shield himself from the rain
    and hail.

    "'Why, gentlemen, ye see, it is not quite convenient
    _to-night_. We've got a _wedden_ here. I can't tell what our
    folks would do with so many people. We shall have to keep all
    the weddeners, like enough--'tis a savage night, out, I guess.'
    At this crisis the son of 'mine host,' and heir-apparent of
    house and homestead, came forward.

    "'Father, I guess we can accommodate the gentlemen somehow. The
    young men can sit up--there will be no difficulty. We can give
    them a shelter and a warm supper at any rate.'

    "All was settled, and in we went; and after due stamping,
    shaking over-coats, and brushing up, with suitable ablutions,
    we were ushered into the presence of the bride. She was an
    interesting girl of eighteen, with a countenance bright with
    health, intelligence, and happiness, dressed with marked
    simplicity, and in charming taste. On one side she was
    sustained by her lover--I beg pardon, her husband; the knot
    had been tied a few minutes before our untimely intrusion--on
    the other by two fair girls, their white favors, I took to be
    bride's-maids.

    "The ceremony of congratulating, or saluting, the new-married
    lady, now commenced; but I perceived the young lady grew
    pale, and showed symptoms of great reluctance at receiving
    the salutations of this promiscuous company. The pretty
    bride's-maids too, were considered fair game, and after
    resisting, with very becoming shyness, they escaped from the
    room, till the odious ceremony, as they called it, was over.

    "This odd custom duly complied with, a custom now quite
    obsolete in our cities, cake and metheglin were handed about.
    An apology was made to the strangers for the absence of wine,
    on the plea of '_total abstinence_.' A question was made at
    once, whether metheglin did not come under the ban.

    "'Well, well, my friends,' said the old gentleman, 'if it goes
    agin your consciences, ye need not partake; but one thing I can
    tell ye, 'tis better than any wine. When I was a young man, I
    read a book called the Vicar of Wakefield, and I remember how
    the minister used to praise madam's gooseberry wine; now I
    don't believe it was a grain better than my wife's metheglin,
    and I don't think there's any sin in drinking on't either--_at
    a wedden_.'

    "The company seemed very well pleased with the old gentleman's
    logic, and still better satisfied with his lady's excellent
    metheglin; and the two hours that intervened between cake and
    supper were passed in cheerful conversation and music. * * *
    Supper was now announced, not by bell or gong, or even the
    whispered 'supper is ready' of some pampered son of Ethiopia.
    No, no; by the good patriarch of the household himself, who,
    with looks of real kindness, and true-hearted primitive
    hospitality, threw open the door of the large old-fashioned
    inner kitchen, and, rubbing his hands, cried out, 'Come,
    my friends, all; supper is smoking; take your seats.' Thus
    saying, he led the way, while the company followed in his wake,
    rather unceremoniously, considering the occasion. * * * We had
    venison brought in a frozen state from the Canadian borders;
    we had delicious oysters from the coast of Connecticut; we had
    salmon that had been preserved fresh in ice; we had ducks that
    surpassed the famous canvas-backs, and the most delicate of
    wild fowls and chickens, dressed in various ways. I must not
    omit to mention a famous bird of the barn-yard, fattened and
    killed, as the old gentleman asserted, 'a purpose for Clary's
    _wedden_, and if it a'nt nice,' he added, 'it is not _my_
    fault.' * * * Next came our dessert: I like to be particular.
    We had of pasties a variety--custards, sweet-meats, jellies,
    both foreign and domestic, honey rifled from the white clover
    of their meadows, and all the different products of their dairy
    in high perfection.

    "After supper a toast was proposed. 'Long life, prosperity, and
    concord to the newly-married couple;' which was drank with all
    gravity."

These 'Wild Flowers' are tastefully secured by the publisher, who has
contributed not a little to the cause of typographical reform. Two
pretty engravings, also, embellish the volume.

       *       *       *       *       *

    LIVE AND LET LIVE; OR DOMESTIC SERVICE ILLUSTRATED. By the
    Author of 'Hope Leslie,' 'The Linwoods,' 'The Poor Rich Man,
    and the Rich Poor Man,' etc. In one volume, pp. 216. New-York:
    HARPER AND BROTHERS.

A HALF page is left us, by the 'chances of type,' wherein to express
an opinion of this little volume; and we forego the pleasure of
extracts, that we may early call attention to a work which should
be in the hands of every mistress of a family and servants in the
United States. A thorough knowledge of American domestic life; a
spirit of generous kindness toward all, even the humblest, conditions
of humanity; a combination of incidents the most life-like, and all
fertile in useful lessons both to servants and those under whom
they are placed by Providence; a style simple, touching, and level
to every capacity; these are some of the characteristics of this
charming little book. We cannot doubt that the warmest hopes of
the benevolent writer, in relation to her work, may be realized;
that it _will_ rouse female minds to reflection upon the duties
and capabilities of mistresses of families, making them feel their
obligations to 'inferiors in position,' and quickening their sleeping
consciences.




EDITORS' TABLE.


WILLIAM TYNDALE'S 'NEWE TESTAMENTE.'--We have often thought how
delightfully a few hours might be passed in the London British
Museum, in examining the first translation that was ever made of the
Scriptures into the English tongue; and lo! without the expense,
trouble, or peril of journeying so far, that celebrated work, more
than three hundred years old, is before us, with a full and complete
memoir of the ever-memorable author, and eke his engraved portrait,
which whoso examines, shall forthwith pronounce, from _prima
faciæ_; evidence, to be a faithful likeness. What an expanse of
forehead!--how clear and searching the eyes!--what an air of decision
and martyr-like firmness in the compression of the lips!--forming,
in connection with the surrounding multitudinous beard, such an
expression as might be produced by a blending of Lorenzo Dow's and
Ex-Sheriff Parkins' most satirical smile. This acescent aspect,
however, may well be pardoned; for Tyndale was persecuted through
life, and finally suffered a painful martyrdom in the cause of his
Master.

Few Bible-readers are aware how much of persecution, of 'pain,
anguish, and tribulation,' they endured, who were the original
translators of the Scriptures into English, and the early defenders
of the doctrines they teach. The popish clergy charged Tyndale with
altering the sacred records, and forbade the circulation of his
Testament, under the severest penalties. The priest-ridden King of
England joined in the crusade, and by a 'constytucyon pronyneyall,'
prohibited the issue of any book of Scripture, in the English tongue;
'as though,' says Tyndale, 'it weren heresye for a Crysten man to
rede Crystes gospell.' In reply to the charge of altering the New
Testament, the martyr says, in a letter to a contemporary: 'I call
God to recorde agaynst the daye we shal appeare before our Lorde Jesu
Crist, to give rekonynge of oure doinges, that I neuer alterd one
syllable of Goddes worde agaynst my conscyence, nor wolde do thys
daye, yf all that is in earthe, whether it be honoure, pleasure, or
ryches, niyght be giuen me.' And in the preface to his first edition,
he also observes: 'I haue here translated (brethren and susters,
moost dere and tenderly beloved in Crist,) the Newe Testamente for
youre spirituall edyfyinge, consolacion, and solas: the causes
that moved me to translate, y thought better that other shulde
ymagion, than that y shulde rehearce them. Moreover, y supposed yt
superfluous, for who ys so blynde to axe why lyght shulde be shewed
to them that walke in dercknes, where they cannot but stomble, and
where to stomble ys the daunger of eternall damnacion.'

All attempts to stop the circulation of the Scriptures were of no
avail. Though they were not distributed 'withouten grete auenture
and parell,' yet they ran and were glorified. The Roman Catholic
bishop complains, that though often collected and burned, 'stil
these pestylent bokes are throwen in the strete, and lefte at mennys
dores by nyghte,' and that where they 'durste not offer theyr poyson
to sel, they wolde of theyr cheryte poyson men for noughte.' In
vain does the King issue orders, urging his subjects to 'kepe pure
and clene of all contagyon of wronge opynion in Cristes relygion,'
and warn them not to 'suffer suche euil sede, contaygyous and
dampnable, to be sowen and take roote, ouergrowinge the corne of
the Catholick fayth.' 'He that compyled the booke,' says Tyndale,
notwithstanding these warnings and edicts, 'purposyth, with Goddes
help, to mayntayne vnto the deathe, yf neede be. In brunninge the
Newe-Testamente, tha did none other thinge than I loked for; no more
shal tha doe, if tha brunne _me_ allso, if it be God his will it
shal be so.' In this spirit, did he continue, by the aid of equally
zealous cöoperators whom he raised up, to multiply editions of
the New-Testament, and to defend its doctrines, until he fell, by
shameful strategy, into the hands of his popish enemies, and was put
to a cruel death.

The reader may be curious to possess a specimen of this ancient
relic; we therefore make a few random extracts, in contrast with the
modern and approved version, commencing with St. PAUL'S eloquent
narration of his sufferings for the faith, in the eleventh chapter of
II Corinthians:

               TYNEDALE.                         MODERN VERSION.

  "Wherin soever eny man dare be       |"Howbeit, whereinsoever any is
  bolde (I speake folisshly) I dare    |bold, (I speak foolishly,) I am
  be bolde also. They are Ebrues, so   |bold also. Are they Hebrews? so
  am I: They are Israelites, even so   |am I. Are they Israelites? so am
  am I: They are the sede off Abraham, |I. Are they the seed of Abraham?
  even so am I. They are the ministers |so am I. Are they ministers of
  off Crist (I speake as a fole) I am  |Christ? (I speak as a fool,) I
  moare: In labours moare abundant:    |am more: in labours more abundant,
  In strypes above measure: In preson  |in stripes above measure, in
  more plenteously: In deeth ofte. Of  |prisons more frequent, in deaths
  the Iewes five tymes receaved I      |oft. Of the Jews five times
  every tymes xl. strypes, one excepte.|received I forty stripes save
  Thryse was I beten with roddes. I    |one. Thrice was I beaten with
  was once stoned. I suffred thryse    |rods, once was I stoned, thrice I
  shipwracke. Nyght and daye have I    |suffered shipwreck, a night and a
  bene in the depe off the see. In     |day I have been in the deep. In
  iorneyinge often: In parrels of      |journeyings often, in perils
  waters: In parrels of robbers: In    |of waters, in perils of robbers,
  ieoperdies off myne awne nacion: In  |in perils by mine own countrymen,
  ieorperdies amonge the hethen. I have|in perils by the heathen, in perils
  bene in parrels in cities, in parrels|in the city, in perils in the
  in wildernes, in parrels in the see, |wilderness, in perils in the sea,
  in parrels amonge falce brethren, in |in perils among false brethren.
  laboure and travayle, in watchynge   |In weariness and painfulness, in
  often, in honger, in thirst, in      |watchings often, in hunger and
  fastynges often, in colde and in     |thirst, in fastings often, in cold
  nakednes.                            |and nakedness.
                                       |
  "Besyde the thynges which outwardly  |"Besides those things that are
  happen vnto me, I am combred dayly,  |without, that which cometh upon
  and care for all congregacions. Who  |me daily, the care of all the
  is sicke: and I am not sick? Who is  |churches. Who is weak and I am not
  hurte in the fayth: and my hert      |weak? who is offended, and I burn
  burneth not? Yf I must nedes reioyce,|not? If I must needs glory, I
  I will reioyce of myne infirmities." |will glory of the things which
                                       |concern mine infirmities."

The affecting farewell taken by PAUL of his disciples, as he was
about to 'depart for to go into Macedonia,' is thus recorded:

  "Then toke we shippynge, and departed|"And we went before to the ship,
  vnto Asson, there to receave Paul.   |and sailed unto Assos, there
  For soo had he apoynted, and wolde   |intending to take in Paul: for so
  hym silfe goo be londe. When he was  |had he appointed, minding himself
  come to vs vnto Asson, we toke hym   |to go afoot. And when he met with
  in, and cam to Mittilenes, and sayled|us at Assos, we took him in, and
  thence, and cam the nexte day over   |came to Mitylene. And we sailed
  agaynst Chios. And the day folowinge |thence, and came the next day over
  we aryved at Samos, and taryed at    |against Chios; and the next day we
  Trogilion. The nexte daye we cam to  |arrived at Samos, and tarried at
  Mileton. For Paul had determined to  |Trogyllium; and the next day we
  leave Ephesus as they sayled, because|came to Miletus. For Paul had
  he wolde not spende the tyme in Asia.|determined to sail by Ephesus,
  For he hasted to be (yff itt were    |because he would not spend the time
  possible) at Jerusalem in the feaste |in Asia; for he hasted, if it were
  off pentecoste.                      |possible for him, to be at
                                       |Jerusalem the day of Pentecost.
                                       |
  "From Mileton he sent to Ephesus,    |"And from Miletus he sent to
  and called the seniours of the       |Ephesus, and called the elders of
  congregacion. When they were come to |the church. And when they were come
  hym, he sayde vnto them: Ye knowe    |to him, he said unto them, Ye know,
  from the fyrst daye that I cam vn to |from the first day that I came into
  Asia, after what manner I have bene  |Asia, after what manner I have been
  with you at all ceasons, servynge God|with you at all seasons, serving
  with all humbleness off mynde, and   |the Lord with all humility of mind,
  with many teares, and temtacions,    |and with many tears and temptations
  whiche happened vnto me by the       |which befell me by the lying in
  layinges awayte off the iewes, and   |wait of the Jews: And how I kept
  howe I kepte backe nothynge thatt    |back nothing that was profitable
  myght be for youre proffet: but that |unto you, but have showed you, and
  I have shewed you, and taught you    |have taught you publicly, and from
  openly and at home in youre houses,  |house to house, testifying both to
  witnessynge bothe to the iewes and   |the Jews, and also to the Greeks,
  also to the grekes, the repentaunce  |repentance toward God, and faith
  tawarde god, and faith tawarde our   |toward our Lord Jesus Christ.
  lorde Jesu.                          |
                                       |
  "And nowe beholde I goo bounde in    |And now, behold, I go bound in the
  the sprete vnto Ierusalem, and knowe |Spirit unto Jerusalem, not knowing
  nott what shall come off me there,   |the things that shall befall me
  butt that the holy gost witnesseth in|there: Save that the Holy Ghost
  every cite, sayinge: that bondes and |witnesseth in every city, saying
  trouble abyde me: but none of tho    |that bonds and afflictions abide
  thinges move me. Nether is my lyfe   |me. But none of these things move
  dere vnto my silfe, that I myght     |me; neither count I my life dear
  fulfill my course with ioye, and the |unto myself, so that I might
  ministracion which I have receaved   |finish my course with joy, and the
  of the lorde Jesu, to testify the    |ministry which I have received
  gospell of the grace of god.         |of the Lord Jesus, to testify the
                                       |gospel of the grace of God.
                                       |
  "And nowe beholde, I am sure that    |"And now, behold, I know that ye
  henceforthe ye all (thorow whom I    |all, among whom I have gone
  have gone preachynge the kyngdom of  |preaching the kingdom of God,
  god) shall se my face noo moore.     |shall see my face no more.
  Wherfore I take you to recorde this  |Wherefore I take you to record
  same daye, that I am pure from the   |this day, that I am pure from the
  bloud of all men. For I have kepte   |blood of all men. For I have not
  nothynge backe: butt have shewed you |shunned to declare unto you all
  all the counsell off god. Take hede  |the counsel of God. Take heed,
  therfore vnto youre selves, and to   |therefore, unto yourselves, and
  all the flocke, wher of the holy gost|to all the flock over the which
  hath made you oversears, to rule the |the Holy Ghost hath made you
  congregacion of god, which he hath   |overseers, to feed the church of
  purchased with his bloud. For I am   |God, which he hath purchased with
  sure off this, that after my         |his own blood. For I know this,
  departynge shall greveous wolves     |that after my departing shall
  entre in amonge you, which will not  |grievous wolves enter in among you,
  spare the flocke. And off youre awne |not sparing the flock. Also of
  selves shall men aryse speakynge     |your own selves shall men arise,
  perverse thynges, to drawe disciples |speaking perverse things, to draw
  after them. Therfore awake and       |away disciples after them.
  remember, that by the space of iij.  |Therefore watch and remember, that
  yeares I ceased not to warne every   |by the space of three years I
  one of you, both nyght and daye with |ceased not to warn every one night
  teares.                              |and day with tears.
                                       |
  "And nowe, dere brethren, I commende |"And now, brethren, I commend you
  you to god, and to the worde of his  |to God, and to the word of his
  grace, which is able to bylde        |grace, which is able to build you
  further, and to geve you an          |up, and to give you an inheritance
  inheritaunce amonge all them which   |among all them which are
  are sanctified. I have desyred no    |sanctified. I have coveted no man's
  mans silver, golde, or vestur. Ye,   |silver, or gold, or apparel. Yea,
  ye knowe well that these hondes have |ye yourselves know that these hands
  ministred vnto  my necessites, and to|have ministered unto my
  them thatt were with me. I have      |necessities, and to them that were
  shewed you all thynges, howe that soo|with me. I have showed you all
  laborynge ye ought to receave the    |things, how that so laboring ye
  weake, and to remember the wordes off|ought to support the weak; and to
  the lorde Jesu, howe that he sayde:  |remember the words of the Lord
  It is more blessed to geve, then to  |Jesus, how he said, It is more
  receave.                             |blessed to give than to receive.
                                       |
  "When he had thus spoken, he kneled  |"And when he had thus spoken, he
  doune, and prayed with them all. And |kneeled down, and prayed with them
  they wept all aboundantly, and fell  |all. And they all wept sore, and
  on Pauls necke, and kissed hym,      |fell on Paul's neck, and kissed
  sorrowynge, most of all, for the     |him; sorrowing most of all, for the
  wordes which he spake, thatt they    |words which he spake, that they
  shulde se his face noo moore."       |should see his face no more."

There is not a little similarity between the character of Tyndale,
in some particulars, and that of St. Paul. Like the apostle, he was
meek, single-minded, and in all things, he 'persevered unto the end.'
Persecutions, stripes, buffettings--'none of these things moved him,
neither counted he his _life_ dear unto himself, so that he might
finish his course with joy,' in defence of the gospel of the grace of
God.

The parable of the ten talents must close our examples of this rare
work:

  "Lykwyse as a certayne man redy to   |"For the kingdom of heaven is as a
  take his iorney to a straunge        |man travelling into a far country,
  countree, called hys servauntes to   |who called his own servants, and
  hym, and delyvered to them hys       |delivered unto them his goods. And
  goodes. And vnto won he gave v.      |unto one he gave five talents, to
  talentes, to another ij. and to      |another two, and to another one; to
  another one: to every man after his  |every man according to his several
  abilite, and streyght waye departed. |ability; and straightway took his
  Then he thatt hadde received the fyve|journey. Then he that had received
  talentes, went and bestowed them, and|the five talents went and traded
  wane other fyve. Lykwyse he that     |with the same, and made them other
  receaved ij. gayned other ij. but he |five talents. And likewise he that
  that receaved one, went and digged a |had received two, he also gained
  pitt in the erth, and hyd his masters|other two. But he that had received
  money. After a longe season, the     |one, went and digged in the earth,
  lorde of those servauntes cam, and   |and hid his lord's money. After a
  reckened with them. Then came he that|long time the lord of those servants
  had receaved fyve talentes and       |cometh, and reckoneth with them.
  brought other fyve, sayinge: master, |And so he that had received five
  thou deliveredes vnto me fyve        |talents came, and brought other
  talentes, lo I have gayned with them |five talents, saying, Lord, thou
  fyve moo. His master said vnto him:  |deliveredst unto me five talents:
  well good servaunt and faythful, Thou|behold, I have gained besides them
  hast bene faythful in lytell, I will |five talents more. His lord said
  make the ruler over moche, entre in  |unto him, Well done, thou good and
  into thy masters ioye. Also he that  |faithful servant; thou has been
  receaved ij. talentes cam, and sayde:|faithful over a few things, I will
  master, thou delyveredes vnto me ij. |make thee ruler over many things:
  talentes, lo I have wone ij. other   |enter thou into the joy of thy lord.
  with them. His master saide vnto hym,|
  well good servaunt and faythfull,    |"He also that had received two
  thou hast bene faythefull in litell, |talents came and said, Lord, thou
  I woll make the ruler over moche; go |deliveredst unto me two talents;
  in into thy masters ioye.            |behold, I have gained two other
                                       |talents besides them. His lord
  "He which had receaved the one talent|said unto him, Well done, good and
  cam also, and said: master, I        |faithful servant; thou has been
  considered that thou wast an harde   |faithful over a few things, I will
  man, which repest where thou sowedst |make thee ruler over many things:
  not, and gadderest where thou        |enter thou into the joy of thy
  strawedst not, and was affrayd, and  |lord. Then he which had received
  went and hyd thy talent in the       |the one talent came and said, Lord,
  erthe; lo, thou hast thyne awne. His |I knew thee that thou art a hard
  master answered, and sayde vnto hym: |man, reaping where thou hast not
  evyll servaunt and slewthfull, thou  |sown: and gathering where thou hast
  knewest that I repe where I sowed    |not strewed: And I was afraid, and
  nott, and gaddre where I strawed     |went and hid thy talent in the
  nott: thou oughtest therefore to     |earth; lo, there thou hast that is
  have had my money to the chaungers,  |thine. His lord answered and said
  and then at my commynge shulde I     |unto him Thou wicked and slothful
  have receaved my money with vauntage.|servant, thou knewest that I reap
  Take therefore the talent from hym,  |where I sowed not, and gather where
  and geve hit vnto him which hath     |I have not strewed; Thou oughtest,
  x talentes. For vnto every man that  |therefore, to have put my money to
  hath shalbe geven, and he shall have |the exchangers, and then at my
  aboundance. And from hym that hath   |coming I should have received mine
  not, shalbe taken awaye, even that   |own with usury. Take, therefore,
  he hath. And cast that vnprophetable |the talent from him, and give it
  servant into vtter dercknes, there   |unto him which hath ten talents.
  shalbe wepynge, and gnasshinge of    |For unto every one that hath, shall
  theth."                              |be given, and he shall have
                                       |abundance: but from him that hath
                                       |not, shall be taken away even that
                                       |which he hath. And cast ye the
                                       |unprofitable servant into outer
                                       |darkness: there shall be weeping
                                       |and gnashing of teeth."

It is indeed surprising, as is remarked by the patient, diligent
biographer, how little obsolete the language of this translation is,
even at this day; and in point of perspicuity, noble simplicity,
propriety of idiom, and purity of style, no English version has yet
surpassed it. The effect of the publication of this volume will
be, we think, to cause Tyndale's persecutors to be lashed by all
posterity; for he was a man of kind and inoffensive nature, and in
all the evils which he was called to bear, seems to have endured them
meekly, and to have thought, with a contemporary poet, that

    'As threshing separates from straw the corn,
    By trials from the world's chaff are we born;'

that the world was only made troublesome to him, that he should
not be delighted by the way, and forget whither he was going. The
hundred-necked snake of criticism which assailed the Bible-martyr
three centuries ago, has long been dead; and Christians will preserve
his memory in holy keeping, so long as the Scriptures are read, and
found 'profitable for reproof, instruction, and sound doctrine.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.'--We have received the first number of a
new monthly publication, thus entitled, from the press of Mr. CHARLES
ALEXANDER, Philadelphia. The form is somewhat after the model of
'The Lady's Book,' although scarcely so neat in the externals of
paper and printing. The editorial direction is confided to WILLIAM
E. BURTON, Esq., the comedian, whose popularity as an actor is very
general, and whose ready humor finds vent as well from a facile
pen, as from lips and gesture. Such of our readers as remember 'An
Actor's Alloquy'--and all who have _read_ the series, must be of the
number--may well believe, that an easy style, and a keen sense of the
burlesque or ridiculous, will characterize the Editor's contributions
to the Magazine, which, in the issue before us, predominate both
in number and attraction. Puns abound in 'The Schuylkill Pic-Nic,'
'Cosmogonical Squintings,' etc., while 'The Convict and His Wife'
will win encomiums for fine description and pathetic incident. In
these, and other portions, the hand of the editor is discernible. We
subjoin two extracts from 'Sailors, an Anecdotal Scribble,' evidently
from the same pen:

    "Three sailors, anxious to rejoin their ship, and unable to
    procure seats in the stagecoach, hired a horse and gig. The
    vehicle was a large, old-fashioned article, mounted on a pair
    of very high wheels, and having endured many years of hard and
    painful service, grumbled most audibly at every jerk or jingle.
    The horse fortunately was steady, for the sailors were totally
    unacquainted with the management of 'the land craft.' Upon
    starting, one of the crew picked up the reins, and said to his
    mates, 'Well, strike me lucky, if this ain't a rum go. Look'ye
    here; some lubber has tied the tiller ropes together!' A knife
    was procured, and the reins separated, when the spokesman,
    who sat in the middle, handed them right and left to his
    comrades. 'Dick, hold on here to larboard. Jack, you here, to
    starboard, while I look out ahead.' The pilot's directions ran
    something in this shape. 'Larboard--put her nearer the wind,
    Dick. Larboard a _pint_ more, or we shall foul the small craft.
    She answers the helm well. 'Bout ship. Give her a long leg to
    starboard, Jack, just to weather that flock of mutton. Keep her
    a good full--she jibes!--port your helm, or you'll run down
    the bloody wagon. (_A crash and a general spill._) I told you
    so--and here we are.'"

    "The drama of the Battle of Waterloo was about to be produced
    at a theatre in an English sea-port town. Numbers of
    supernumeraries were wanted to fill the ranks of the French
    and the English forces; and some of the sailors belonging
    to the numerous ships in the harbor were mustered for the
    required purpose. At rehearsal, each supernumerary received a
    numbered ticket, and was expected to answer when that number
    was called, that he might be instructed in the duties of the
    station assigned to him. No. 7 was named, but an answer was not
    forthcoming. 'You are No. 7, I believe,' said the stage-manager
    to a big-whiskered, long-tailed tar. 'Exactly.' 'Why did you
    not answer to the call!' 'Bill Sykes, is No. 4. You've shoved
    him in the enemy's squad; now we've sailed, messed, and _fout_
    together, for twenty years, and we're not going to be enemies
    now.' Remonstrance was useless; the holder of No. 8 was induced
    to change numbers with Bill Sykes, and the messmates were not
    divided.

    "When a portion of the jolly tars were told that they were to
    represent Frenchmen, they, one and all, indignantly refused.
    'It was disgrace enough to _hact_ as soldiers, but they'd be
    blessed if they'd pretend to be Mounseers at any price, or put
    on the enemy's jackets.' The manager was compelled to procure
    landsmen for Napoleon's army; but the night ended in a row; the
    sham-fight broke into a real battle; muskets were clubbed, and
    heads broken, and Nos. 7 and 8 were given into the custody of
    the police, as ring-leaders of a dangerous riot.

    "No. 7, when before the magistrate, thus defended himself:

    "'Why, your honor, these here sky-larking players gets
    half-a-dozen old muskets, two or three fowling-pieces, and a
    pair-and-a-half of pistols, with half a pound of powder in a
    paper, and they calls it the Battle of Waterloo--gammoning
    Bill Sykes and me to put on a lobster's jacket apiece, and
    fire, off two o' these 'ere muskets, what an old one-eyed
    purser in a corner had been loading with a 'bacca pipe full o'
    powder. Well, Bill Sykes, and I, and Joe Brown, and six more,
    were the British army; and opposite us was some six or eight
    land-lubbers, a hacting the Mounseers. The skipper of the show
    people told us, when we'd squibbed off our muskets over the
    Mounseers' heads, to retire backerds, as if retreating from
    the French. In course, this here was hard work for jack tars
    what had sarved their country for twenty years, to be told to
    run away from half-a-dozen land-lubbers a pretending to be
    French. Well, it war'nt o' no use kicking up a row then, but at
    night, Bill Sykes and I argufied the matter over a can o' grog,
    and we concluded not to disgrace our flag, but to stand up
    for the honor of Old England. Well, when the scrimmage begun,
    the land-lubbers called out to us to retreat. 'See you damned
    first!' says I, and Bill werry quietly said he wished they
    might get it, which I didn't think they would. Bill Sykes, in
    slewing round to guard his starn, put his foot on a piece of
    orange peel, and missing stays, came on his beam ends. One of
    the imitation _parley woos_ made a grab at him, to captiwate
    Bill, when, in course, I covered my friend, and accommodated
    the sham Mounseer with a hoist as didn't agree with him; he was
    one o' them mutton-fed chaps as can't stand much; for he landed
    among the fiddlers, and squealed blue murder. Well, arter a row
    begins, you never know nothing till its over. Bill Sykes and
    I cleared out the French army in no time, and then we tipped
    the player people a broadside, and took their powder magazine
    prisoner. The cabin passengers interfered, and Bill Sykes and
    I got surrounded--but if I'd had a bagginet at the end of my
    musket, if I wouldn't have cleared the decks like 'bacca, damn
    my sister's cat.'"

Mr. BURNS, at 262 Broadway, is the New-York agent for 'The
Gentleman's Magazine.' _Appropos_: Why exclude the better sex? As
POWER would say: 'The ladies, you dog--you wouldn't lave out the
ladies, would you?'

       *       *       *       *       *

'STORIES FROM REAL LIFE.'--We have before spoken of this admirable
series, designed to teach true independence and domestic economy;
and the third of the five numbers, now before us, is worthy its
predecessors. It is entitled 'The Harcourts; Illustrating the
Benefits of Retrenchment and Reform,' and is from the pen of a lady.
It well enforces the lesson conveyed in the motto, from IRVING: 'It
is not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses the mind. Have
the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest
sting.' We are struck, in perusing this little book, with the nice
tact at _contrast_ of scene and character which the writer displays,
not less than with the plain good sense which marks her reflections
and deductions. 'The Harcourts' exemplify the correctness of the
position assumed in the well-written introduction, which we copy, in
part, below:

    "In searching out the causes of the present deranged state
    of the times, there is one which should not be overlooked.
    Whatever the merchant or the politician may assign as the
    immediate agent, we are persuaded that the fearful increase
    of luxury and ostentation in our houses, our equipages, and
    our dress, is the remote and secret cause, to a great extent,
    that has been stealing the blood from our vitals, until it
    has left us in so enfeebled a state as to fall ready victims
    to the prevailing epidemic. If the healthful occupation and
    the simple living, the free air and honest independence of
    republicanism, have been exchanged for luxurious indolence and
    French cookery, for the stifling marts of manner and fashion,
    and the tinkling chains of European bondage; can we wonder that
    our whole community should be in the condition spoken of by the
    prophet when describing the Jews? 'The whole head is sick and
    the whole heart faint. From the sole of the foot, even unto
    the head, there is no soundness in it.' We have engrafted the
    gorgeous and costly vanities of Europe upon American fortunes,
    and these have not been able to bear their heavy expense. We
    need domestic retrenchment and reform in all the departments
    of home. If we cultivate intellectual refinement and 'true
    independence,' our tastes will become simple, and the glitter
    of fashion will have no power to attract us. In less spacious
    mansions, by more judicious household arrangements, and when
    our daughters are taught to be useful, there will be more home
    comfort, more hearth-side happiness. We need a reformation,
    and the present time is favorable for commencing one. We
    should all learn wisdom from the distress now prevailing.
    If our men become convinced there was more honor and safety
    in their forefathers' mode of transacting business; if our
    females become ashamed of their folly in making our parlors
    'show-rooms' for the upholsterer, the cabinet maker, and the
    importer of fancy articles; if we are forced to acknowledge
    our criminal oversight in making our sons spendthrifts, and
    our daughters walking advertisements of the fashions; then the
    pressure of which we complain, though so hard to bear now, will
    become a source of grateful feeling in the retrospect; for
    its result will then be, a safe and speedy return to American
    feelings, republican simplicity, and honest independence."

The following little sketch shows some of the difficulties
encountered by a scheming parvenue, in her ridiculous attempts at
'living like other people:'

    "'There is one way in which I can save ten or fifteen dollars
    at least. It is now nearly two weeks from the evening we have
    fixed on, and if we can continue to do without buying any
    meat or poultry, which are now so very high-priced, and live
    on light dinners until that time, we can take the money your
    father allows for marketing, and add it to the sum he has
    given us. He has a great deal of business to attend to for
    several weeks, and told me that he would not be able to dine at
    home; and as there will be no one here but ourselves and the
    servants, we can live upon any thing.'

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The following week, Mrs. Harcourt, her two daughters, and the
    servants were busy in the work of preparation. Cakes were to
    be made, candle papers had to be cut and spermed; the rooms
    must be decorated, and a thousand other little matters were
    obliged to be performed. One servant was sent to borrow plate,
    another cut-glass and china. The regular routine of household
    employments was broken in upon, every thing turned up side
    down, and many vexatious trials endured, merely for the sake
    of making a show for a few hours, and in the vain attempt 'to
    reconcile parade with economy, and to glitter at a cheap rate.'
    It is a folly for the wealthy to waste their hundreds and
    thousands in entertaining guests who either satirise them from
    envy of their prosperity, or ridicule them for some outward
    imitation of style; but for those who are obliged to practise
    self-denial and parsimony in order to make such displays, it is
    worse than folly--it is madness.

    "Mrs. Harcourt, during the course of their preparations, having
    reproved one of her servants for her carelessness in breaking a
    glass dish, she insolently replied, 'You may take the pay for
    it, madam, out of my wages, and then give me the remainder;
    for my month is up this evening, and I cannot think of staying
    where I have to do double work on half-feeding. At other
    'quality' ladies' houses I was accustomed to get meat three
    times a day, and I cannot live on slops;' and then slamming the
    door violently after her, she did not give Mrs. Harcourt an
    opportunity to make any reply.

    "'What an insolent creature,' exclaimed Anna; 'I would not
    permit her to stay in the house another instant.'

    "Mrs. Harcourt, who had been more accustomed to the
    impertinence of hirelings, had more self-command than Anna.
    She regretted that it had happened just at this time, when
    they had so much to do. She thought it was shameful for her
    to take advantage of this opportunity, when she knew that her
    services were most needed. 'But,' she added, 'her insolent
    language should not be borne; I will pay her, and discharge
    her, although it does put me to great inconvenience.'

    "'You can send for Sally White to assist us,' said Anna; 'she
    is always very willing to help when we expect company.'

    "'Yes, I know she is willing enough, but she generally carries
    away with her treble what her services are worth; but we must
    have some one in Betsey's place, so we will send Nathan for
    Sally White, as we can do no better now.'

    "Among all the mortifications and irritations which those who
    are striving to keep up appearances without means are forced to
    submit to, there are none more galling than the impertinence of
    servants, and the consciousness that they see the _reality_,
    and will make the struggle between our pride and our poverty a
    favorite subject of gossip with the servants of other families,
    who, of course, will find _opportunities_ to make it known to
    their mistresses."

       *       *       *       *       *

BRISTOL ACADEMY, TAUNTON, (MASS.)--We take pleasure in calling public
attention to this establishment, the preceptorship of which has
but recently been assumed by J. N. BELLOWS, ESQ., a ripe scholar,
a gentleman of pure taste, possessing the requisite feelings, and
all proper endowments, for such an undertaking. The institution is
one of the oldest in the state, and is endowed with liberal funds.
The town is a charming _rus in urbe_, being but an hour or two from
Boston and Providence, by the rail-road. The Academy has a female
department, under the charge of an able instructress, in which the
accomplishments of music, drawing, and all the 'elegant humanities'
of similar establishments, are taught. We can confidently commend
this institution to the numerous families under whose eyes this
paragraph will fall, as one in which boys and girls will receive, in
addition to a good education, those pleasant attentions which can
only spring from such as delight to renew that 'childhood of the
soul' which prompts a love of the young, and a community of feeling
with the joys and sorrows of that tender yet fertile period--fertile
in good or ill--of human existence.




LITERARY RECORD.


THE ALBION.--We know of no weekly periodical in America, which
combines so many literary attractions as this. The editor, by an
arrangement abroad, obtains, at an advance period, the choicest
magazines, and periodicals of all descriptions, published in British
Europe. From these he selects, with practised judgment, the best
articles, and such as are calculated to suit the tastes of all his
readers; giving, occasionally, a superb engraving. The whole is
presented in the imperial quarto form, upon beautiful types, and
paper of the finest texture and color. The best productions of
Captain MARRYAT, 'Boz,' and others--indeed of all the most popular
periodical writers in Europe--appear in the Albion, before they can
be issued elsewhere in America; and the work is forwarded with great
promptitude, by the earliest mails, to every part of the United
States and of British America. Its success, during a long career,
has been most ample; and this has been obtained, not by reverberated
puffs of extraordinary attraction, but by MERIT alone. To such a
journal we gladly render an unsolicited meed of praise, and commend
it to public favor. A new volume has been but recently commenced.


PRACTICAL RELIGION.--We commend to the attention of our readers,
a handsome volume, of some three hundred pages, recently issued
from the press of Mr. JOHN S. TAYLOR, entitled 'Practical Religion,
Recommended and Enforced, in a Series of Letters from EPSILON to his
Friend.' There are thirty-three of these letters, and they embrace,
among others, the subjoined themes: To the careless, awakened, and
backsliding sinner; formation of devotional habits; the passive
virtues of Christianity; proper manner of studying the doctrines
of the gospel; duty of religious profession; doing good, and the
right use of property; personal efforts for sinners; choice of a
profession; practical dependence on divine aid; love of popularity,
Christian politeness, and political duty; the choice of a wife;
to a Christian on his marriage, in affliction, and on recovery
from sickness; on his removal to new settlements, his duty to his
minister, in revivals of religion, and in trusting to GOD for
temporal provision, etc. The letter on the choice of a partner in
conjugal life, and those on a cognate topic, are full of excellent
advice. The style is fluent, and occasionally rises to eloquence.


'TROLLOPIAD.'--The Trollopiad, or Travelling Gentleman in America,
is the title of a satire in verse, from the press of Mr. C. SHEPARD,
Broadway. The writer has assumed an appropriate _nom de guerre_, in
'Nil Admirari;' and walking underneath this cloud, he encounters,
and does wordy battle with, Trollope, Fiddler, Hall, Hamilton, and
others of the journeying, book-making tribe, from the other side of
the water. There are certainly many good hits in the poetical text,
together with not a few blemishes. The notes, however, are more
spicy, and in the way of contrast, arranged with the eye of an artist
who understands situation and effect. In short, for 'brief must we
be,' the 'Trollopiad' will agreeably beguile a dull hour at home, or
on board a steam-boat; and, if such a thing be possible, may serve
to enhance the contempt which is now generally felt among us for the
misrepresentations of foreign tourists.


COLUMBIA COLLEGE.--Through some inadvertancy, the account of the
celebration of the first semi-centennial anniversary of Columbia
College, with the Oration and Poem delivered on that occasion, did
not reach us until nearly a month after its publication. It is not
too late to say, however, after a perusal of both the literary
efforts referred to, that they were worthy the occasion, and highly
honorable to their authors. In the oration, Mr. EASTBURN recalls
to the memory of his auditory some of the distinguished sons of
Columbia, as CLINTON, MASON, SANDS, GRIFFIN, and EASTBURN, and
indulges in a brief but eloquent tribute to each. In the poem, also,
Mr. BETTS has felicitously interwoven harmonious measures in praise
of the venerable _alma mater_, and the choice spirits who have drank
at her fountains of knowledge.


NEW-YORK IN 1837.--The present is the fourth year of publication of
this very useful work, which has received important improvements with
every successive issue. In addition to a general description of the
city, a list of its officers, public institutions, etc., as well as
those of Brooklyn, there is a General Classified Directory, embracing
all the principal firms and individuals transacting mercantile,
professional, or manufacturing pursuits in New-York and Brooklyn,
alphabetically arranged, under their respective kinds of business.
The whole is a convenient manual for citizens and strangers, prepared
with great care, and complete in all essential respects. It is
accompanied by a correct map, and embellished with a clever engraving
of the New-York University, drawn and engraved by HINSHELWOOD. J.
DISTURNELL, Courtland-street.


'CHRIST AND HIM CRUCIFIED,' is the title of an eloquent and
well-reasoned discourse, from the pen of Rev. C. W. DENNISON,
of Wilmington, Delaware, sent us by an attentive friend and
correspondent. It was preached to the Second Baptist Church of
Delaware, in September last, from PAUL'S words: 'For I determined not
to know any thing among you, save JESUS CHRIST, and Him crucified.'
Published by request. J. P. CALLENDER, 141 Nassau-street.


'LECTURES TO CHRISTIANS.'--This volume contains twenty-five Lectures,
delivered by Rev. CHARLES G. FINNEY, in 1836 and 1837, reported by
the Editor of the New-York Evangelist, and revised by the author,
who has chosen to present them in the condensed and laconic style
in which they were delivered. 'As my friends wish to have them in a
volume,' says Mr. FINNEY, 'they must take them as they are.' Such
as they are, therefore, they are before the public. JOHN S. TAYLOR,
publisher.


'THE ISSUE,' PRESENTED IN A SERIES OF LETTERS ON SLAVERY.--This is
a small volume, of an hundred and ten pages, from the pen of Rev.
RUFUS WM. BAILEY, of South Carolina. It contains fifteen letters,
originally published in a religious newspaper, and widely copied and
circulated through the religious journals of the United States. Their
object was and is, to induce slavery-agitators to 'let the South
alone.' JOHN S. TAYLOR, Brick Church Chapel, Park.


'THE FAMILY PREACHER, or Domestic Duties Illustrated and Enforced,'
is the title of a work by the same author, and from the same press,
as 'THE ISSUE.' It consists of eight discourses upon the duties of
husbands, wives, females, parents, children, masters, and servants.
We have given the volume but a cursory perusal, yet we have read
enough to enable us conscientiously to recommend it to the reader,
as well calculated to do good--to make all conditions of social life
better and happier.


CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN.--The former edition of Mrs. JAMESON'S
'Characteristics of Women, Moral, Poetical, and Historical,' was
noticed at length in this Magazine. In the present issue, numerous
errors and omissions have been corrected and supplied; we are sorry,
however, to perceive that not a few typographical inaccuracies are
still permitted to mar the volume. The work contains several pretty
etchings by the gifted authoress.


WILLIS'S POEMS.--Messrs. SAUNDERS AND OTLEY have issued 'Melanie,
and Other Poems, by N. P. WILLIS.' The volume, which is tastefully
executed, and embellished with a fine portrait of the author,
contains little, if we do not mistake, upon which the judgment of the
public has not already been passed. The same house has published 'The
Star of Seville,' a new Drama, by Mrs. FANNY KEMBLE BUTLER.


'CHRIST HEALING THE SICK.--A copy of this celebrated painting, by our
countryman WEST, has attracted much attention at the American Museum.
But for a little hardness and dryness in the coloring, the effect of
the original would be well preserved; and as it is, it is well worthy
of examination.


RISE AND FALL OF ATHENS.--The Brothers HARPER have published, in
two volumes 12mo., 'Athens: Its Rise and Fall. By E. L. BULWER,
author of 'Pelham,' 'The Disowned,' etc. The object of the author
is, to combine an elaborate view of the literature of Greece, with
a complete and impartial account of her political transactions. The
present volumes are to be followed by others, containing a critical
analysis of the tragedies of Sophocles.


ADDRESS.--We have received an Address, delivered in the Cathedral of
St. Finbar, before the Hibernian Society, the St. Patrick Benevolent
Society, and the Irish Volunteers, at Charleston, (S. C.,) on the
17th March, 1837. By A. G. MAGRATH, Esq. Saving a style somewhat
too involved and redundant, this Address has impressed us with a
favorable idea of the author's talents. We had marked one or two
passages for insertion, which lack of space compels us to omit.


'NATURE.'--A thin, handsome volume, thus entitled, is before us.
It is the work of a calm, contemplative mind, capable of analyzing
thought, and tracing the influence of outward upon inward nature;
of one who feels deeply, and in whom the 'poetry of the spirit' is
ever active. Some affectation there may be of the German style, 'but
that's not much.' The work has pure thoughts and beautiful; and it
will commend itself to the heart.


PHRENOLOGY.--'An Examination of Phrenology; in two Lectures,
delivered to the Students of the Columbian College, District of
Columbia, in February last. By THOMAS SEWALL, M. D., Professor of
Anatomy and Physiology.' We propose, should leisure serve, hereafter
to refer to this production, which seems mainly dictated by a spirit
of wholesome examination and research, although, in our judgment, it
is occasionally marred by disingenuous inferences.




'KNICKERBOCKERIANA.'


WE cannot permit the first number of a new volume to go before our
readers, without acknowledging our gratification at the continued
favor bestowed upon this Magazine by the public. It is a source of
pleasure and pride to us, in this season of general depression,
when retrenchment is the order of the day, with all classes of our
countrymen, that the erasures from our subscription-list have been
few indeed, and far between; while the accessions have been more
numerous than at any previous period. We cannot fail to perceive in
this, an evidence of a strong hold upon the regards of our readers,
and a proof that our exertions are widely appreciated. This bond
of union, and this good opinion, it will be our untiring endeavor
to strengthen and enhance. That this endeavor will be even more
successful than heretofore, we are too well fortified with the best
matériel, and a large, yet still increasing, corps of the ablest
cöoperators, to doubt.

The numbers for August and September are both passing through
the press. The first will soon be published, and the next and
subsequent issues will be prompt. 'Ollapodiana,' 'Odds and Ends of
a Penny-a-Liner,' 'Notes of a Surgeon,' 'Nobility of Human Nature,'
'American Antiquities,' (Number Two,) 'Wilson Conworth,' 'Religious
Charlatanry,' (Number Two,) 'The Backwoodsman,' 'Notes of Travel,'
with articles of poetry, by W. G. SIMMS, Esq., W. G. CLARK, and
others, are filed for insertion. A number of papers from several
other writers, (favorably regarded, from a slight examination,) are
also under advisement.


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Note:

Obvious typographical errors were repaired. Valid archaic spellings
were retained.