THE

INTERNATIONAL

MONTHLY

MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Science, and Art.

VOLUME V.

JANUARY TO APRIL, 1852.

NEW-YORK:

STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.

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New-York, March 30, 1852.

CONTENTS

VOLUME V. JANUARY TO APRIL, 1852.

THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art and Science.

Vol. V. NEW-YORK, JANUARY 1, 1852. No. 1.

KOSSUTH.

On the preceding page is the best portrait we have seen of the illustrious Hungarian, whose presence in America is destined to mark one of the brightest pages in the history of Liberty. Of his personal appearance we transcribe the description in the Tribune. He is taller than had generally been supposed, and his face has an expression of penetrating intellect which is not indicated in any portrait. It is long, the forehead broad, but not excessively high, though a slight baldness makes it seem so, and the chin narrow, but square in its form. His hair is thin in front and of a dark brown, as is his beard, which is quite long, but not very thick, and arranged with neatness and taste. His moustache is heavy and rather long. His eyes are very large, and of a light blue; his complexion is pale like that of a man who is not in perfect health, and his appearance yesterday was that of the spirit bearing up against the exhaustion of the body; he was sea-sick during the passage, and had not slept for two or three nights. His manner in speaking is at once incomparably dignified and graceful. Gestures more admirable and effective, and a play of countenance more expressive and magnetic, we remember in no other public speaker. He stands quite erect, and does not bend forward like some orators, to give emphasis to a sentence. His posture and appearance in repose are imposing, not only from their essential grace and dignity, but from a sense of power they impress upon the beholder. This sense of unused power, this certainty that he is not making an effort and doing his utmost, but that behind all this strength of fascination there are other treasures of strength, other stores of ability not brought into use, possibly never brought into use, is perhaps what constitutes the supreme charm of his oratory. He speaks as if with little preparation, and with that peculiar freshness which belongs to extemporaneous speaking; there is no effort about it, and the wonderful compactness and art of his argument are not felt until you reflect upon it afterward. His every movement is perfectly easy, and he gesticulates much, equally well with either arm. Nothing could be more beautiful in its way than the sweep of his right hand, as it was raised to Heaven, when he spoke of the Deity—nothing sweeter than the smile which at times mantles his face. His voice is not very loud, but it was heard distinctly through the large pavilion. On the whole our previous impression was perfectly confirmed by hearing him. In speaking, Kossuth occasionally referred to notes which lay on the stand before him. He was dressed after the Hungarian fashion, in a black velvet tunic, single breasted, with standing collar and transparent black buttons. He also wore an overcoat or sack of black velvet with broad fur and loose sleeves. He wore light kid gloves. Generally his English is fluent and distinct, with a marked foreign accent, though at times this is not at all apparent. He speaks rather slowly than otherwise, and occasionally hesitates for a word. His command of the language, astonishing as it is in a foreigner, seems rather the result of an utter abandonment to his thought, and a reliance on that to express itself, than of an absolute command of the niceties of the grammar and dictionary. He evidently has no fear of speaking wrong, and so, as by inspiration, expresses himself often better even than one to whom the language is native and familiar. Though he often uses words with a foreign meaning, or a meaning different from that we usually give them, he does not stop to correct himself, but goes on as if there were no doubt that he would be perfectly apprehended.

The character of Kossuth has been very amply discussed in all the journals both before and since his triumphal entry into New-York. The judgment of the London Examiner is the common judgment of at least the Saxon race, that, while the extraordinary events of 1848 and 1849, afforded the fairest opportunities for the advent of a great man, the people who were ready for battle against oppression, were all stricken down on account of the incapacity of their leaders—except in one instance. The exception was in the case of Kossuth. And he was no new man, but had been steadily building a great fame from his youth; had labored in the humblest as well as highest offices of patriotism; and as a thinker, a speaker, and a writer, had been before the public eye of all Europe for years. He was born in 1806, at Monok, in Hungary, of parents not rich, yet possessing land, and calling themselves noble. His native district was a Protestant one, and in the pastor of that district he found his first teacher. On their death, while he was still young, more devoted to books than to farming, he was sent to the provincial college, where he remained until eighteen years of age, and earned the reputation of being the most able and promising youth of the district. In 1826, he removed to the University of Pesth, where he came in contact with the political influences and ideas of the time; and these, blending with his own historic studies and youthful hopes, soon produced the ardent, practical patriot, which the world has since seen in him.

According to the Constitution of Hungary, the Comitats or electoral body treated those elected to sit in the Diet more as delegates than as deputies. They gave them precise instructions, and expected the members not only to conform to them, but to send regular accounts of their conduct to their constituents for due sanction, and with a view to fresh instructions. This kind of communication was rather onerous for the Hungarian country gentleman, and hence many of the deputies employed such young men as Kossuth to transact their political business, and conduct their correspondence. Acting in this capacity for many members of the Diet, Kossuth came into intimate relations with the comitats, and acquired skill in public affairs.

He was soon himself made a member, and from the first was distinguished in the Diet as a speaker. Here he felt, and soon pointed out to his colleagues, how idle and powerless were their debates unless these were known to the public in some more efficient manner than by the private correspondence of the deputies. Influenced by his representations, the chief members of the Diet resolved to establish a journal for the publication of their discussions; and Kossuth was selected as one of those who were to preside over it; but the Archduke Palatine objected, of course, because the object was to curtail the reports and garble them. Kossuth, however, was enabled by the more liberal of his colleagues to publish the reports on his own account. He then extended the journal by the insertion of leading articles; and his counsels and criticisms on the instructions of the comitats to the deputies, so stirred the bile and counteracted the views of the Austrian authorities, that they interfered and suspended his newspaper by seizing his presses. But, even this did not stop his pen, nor those of his many amanuenses; until, at last, Metternich, exasperated by his obstinacy, caused him to be seized and condemned to three years' imprisonment in the citadel of Ofen. He was liberated in 1837; and during the years that elapsed between that epoch and 1848 the history of Hungary was that of Kossuth, who, amidst the many men of noble birth, wealth, high character, and singular talents, who surrounded him, still held his ground, and shone pre-eminent. In 1847 he was the acknowledged leader of the constitutional party, and member for the Hungarian capital. It is unnecessary to pursue this narrative. The events of 1848 and 1849 have passed too recently and vividly before us to need relation. The part that Kossuth played in those years was but the logical consequence of his previous life. The struggle was for the rights of Hungary, in all circumstances and against all foes. For these he fought along with the Hungarian aristocracy, as long as they had the courage to resist Austria; and when they wavered, he went on without them, appealing to the comitats and to the smaller landed proprietors in the absence of the greater, and to the squires instead of the nobles.

THE WIFE AND CHILDREN OF KOSSUTH—FROM A RECENT DAGUERREOTYPE.

The result thus far we all know. The final result perhaps we in America are to decide.

THE ANCIENT MONUMENTS OF GREECE.

THE ACROPOLIS.

Every one can understand the regret with which we behold the remains of ancient grandeur, and the capitals of buried empires. This feeling, so profound in Jerusalem and Rome, is even more so in Athens,—

"the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence, native to famous wits,
Or hospitable—"

a city never so large as New-York, but whose inhabitants produced within the short space of two centuries, reckoning from the battle of Marathon, as Landor says, a larger number of exquisite models, in war, philosophy, patriotism, oratory and poetry—in the semi-mechanical arts which accompany or follow them, sculpture and painting—and in the first of the mechanical, architecture, than the remainder of Europe in six thousand years.

The monuments of antiquity which still exist in Athens have been described by Chandler, Clarke, Gell, Stuart, Dodwell, Leake, and other travellers, the most recent and competent of whom perhaps is Mr. Henry Cook, of London, author of Illustrations of a Tour in the Ionian Islands, Greece, and Constantinople, who has just made, or rather is now making for the Art-Journal a series of drawings of those which are most important, representing them in their present condition. These drawings by Mr. Cook, so far as they have appeared, we reproduce in the International, making liberal use at the same time of his descriptions.

Until the sacrilegious hand of the late Lord Elgin despoiled Athens of "what Goth, and Turk, and Time had spared," the world could still see enough to render possible a just impression of her old and chaste magnificence. It is painful to reflect within how comparatively short a period the chief injuries have been inflicted on such buildings as the Parthenon, and the temple of Jupiter Olympus, and to remember how recent is the greater part of the rubbish by which these edifices have been choked up, mutilated, and concealed. Probably until within a very few centuries, time had been, simply and alone, the "beautifier of the dead," "adorner of the ruin," and, but for the vandalism of a few barbarians, we might have gazed on the remains of former greatness without an emotion except of admiration for the genius by which they were created. The salient feature (probably the only one) in the present rule at Athens is one which affords the highest satisfaction to those interested in this subject. Slowly, indeed, and with an absence of all energy, is going on the restoration of some, the disinterment of others, and the conservation of all the existing monuments; and time will probably ere long give us back, so far as is possible, all that the vandalism or recklessness of modern ages has obscured or destroyed. On the Acropolis the results of these efforts at restoration are chiefly visible; day by day the debris of ruined fortifications, of Turkish batteries, mosques, and magazines, are disappearing; every thing which is not Pentelic marble finds its way over the steep sides of the fortress, and in due time nothing will be left but the scattered fragments which really belonged to the ancient temples. "The above sketch," says Mr. Cook, "represents faithfully the present condition of this most sublime creation. The details of the partial destruction of this old fortress—founded 1556 years before the advent of the Saviour—under the fire of the Venetians, commanded by Morosini, are so well known, that I have thought it unnecessary to repeat them; but it is impossible to recall them without a shudder, as the reflection is forced on one, of what must have been their fate whose wickedness caused an explosion which could scatter, as a horse's hoof may the sands of the sea-shore, the giant masses which for ever bear witness to the power of that mighty agent we have evoked from the earth for our mutual destruction." At the west end of the Acropolis, by which alone it was accessible, stood the Propylæa, its gate as well as its defence. Through this gate the periodical processions of the Panathenaic jubilee were wont to move, and the marks of chariot wheels are still visible on the stone floor of its entrance. It was of the Doric order, and its right wing was supported by six fluted columns, each five feet in diameter, twenty-nine in height, and seven in their intercolumniation. Of the Propylæa itself Mr. Cook gives no individual drawing, the only sketch he had opportunity of making, being in its relation to the Acropolis generally; "it will, however," he says, "serve in some degree to show what has been done. Here perhaps the chief work has been accomplished; all the now detached columns were built up with solid brickwork, batteries were erected on the spot occupied by the Temple of 'Victory without wings,' and on the square which answered to it on the opposite side of the flight of marble steps; the whole of which were deeply buried (not until they had severely suffered), beneath the ruins of the fortification which crumbled away under the Venetian guns. These walls have been removed, the batteries destroyed, and the material of which they were composed taken away; the steps exhumed, and the five grand entrances, by which the fortress was originally entered, opened, although not yet rendered passable. It would be, I imagine, impossible to conceive an approach more magnificent than this must have been. The whole is on such a superb scale, the design, in its union of simplicity and grandeur is so perfect, the material so exquisite, and the view which one has from it of the Parthenon and the Erechtheum so beautiful, that no interest less intense than that which belongs to these temples would be sufficient to entice the stranger from its contemplation."

THE PARTHENON.

On the right wing of the Propylæa stood the temple of Victory, and on the left was a building decorated with paintings by the pencil of Polygnotus, of which Pausanias has left us an account. In a part of the wall still remaining there are fragments of excellent designs in basso-relievo, representing the combat of the Athenians with the Amazons; besides six columns, white as snow, and of the finest architecture. Near the Propylæa stood the celebrated colossal statue of Minerva, executed by Phidias after the battle of Marathon, the height of which, including the pedestal, was sixty feet.

The chief glory of the Acropolis was the Parthenon, or temple of Minerva. It was a peripteral octostyle, of the Doric order, with seventeen columns on the sides, each six feet two inches in diameter at the base, and thirty-four feet in height, elevated on three steps. Its height, from the base of the pediments, was sixty-five feet, and the dimensions of the area two hundred and thirty-three feet, by one hundred and two. The eastern pediment was adorned with two groups of statues, one of which represented the birth of Minerva, the other the contest of Minerva with Neptune for the government of Athens. On the metopes was sculptured the battle of the Centaurs with the Lapithæ; and the frieze contained a representation of the Panathenaic festivals. Ictinus, Callicrates, and Carpion, were the architects of this temple; Phidias was the artist; and its entire cost has been estimated at seven million and a half of dollars. Of this building, eight columns of the eastern front and several of the lateral colonnades are still standing. Of the frontispiece, which represented the contest of Neptune and Minerva, nothing remains but the head of a sea-horse and the figures of two women without heads. The combat of the Centaurs and Lapithæ is in better preservation; but of the numerous statues with which this temple was enriched, that of Adrian alone remains. The Parthenon, however, dilapidated as it is, still retains an air of inexpressible grandeur and sublimity; and it forms at once the highest point in Athens, and the centre of the Acropolis.

THE ERECHTHEUM.

To stand at the eastern wall of the Acropolis, and gaze on the Parthenon, robed in the rich colors by which time has added an almost voluptuous beauty to its perfect proportions—to behold between its columns the blue mountains of the Morea, and the bluer seas of Egina and Salamis, with acanthus-covered or icy-wedded fragments of majestic friezes, and mighty capitals at your feet—the sky of Greece, flooded by the gorgeous hues of sunset, above your head—Mr. Cook describes as one of the highest enjoyments the world can offer to a man of taste. He is opposed to the projects of its restoration, and says that, "to real lovers of the picturesque, the Parthenon as it now stands—a ruin in every sense of the term, its walls destroyed, its columns shivered, its friezes scattered, its capitals half-buried by their own weight, but clear of all else—is, if not a grander, assuredly a more impressive object than when, in the palmiest days of Athenian glory, its marble, pure as the unfallen snow, first met the rays of the morning sun, and excited the reverential admiration of the assembled multitudes."

On the northeast side of the Parthenon stood the Erechtheum, a temple dedicated to the joint worship of Neptune and Minerva. There are considerable remains of this building, particularly those beautiful female figures called Caryatides, which support, instead of columns, three of the porticoes; besides three of the columns in the north hexastyle with the roof over these last columns, the rest of the roof of this graceful portico fell during the siege of Athens, in 1827. Lately, much has been done in the way of excavation; the buried base of this tripartite temple has been cleared; the walls, which had been built to make it habitable, have been removed; the abducted Caryatid replaced by a modern copy, the gift of Lord Guildford, and the whole prepared for a projected restoration.

The Temple of Victory without wings, already mentioned is, with the exception of the pavement, entirely a restoration; for nearly two centuries all trace of it was lost, all mention omitted. In removing one of the Turkish batteries, in order to clear the entrance to the Propylæa, some fragments were found which led to a more minute investigation; and, after a short time, the foundation, the pavement, and even the bases of some of the columns were disinterred, making its reconstruction not only very easy, but extremely satisfactory. It is small, but of exquisite proportions, and now perfect, with the exception of a portion of the frieze, which is in the British Museum. A peculiarity of this temple is, that it stands at an angle slightly differing from that of the Propylæa itself,—a fact for which, as it clearly formed one of the chief ornaments to, and was certainly built after, this noble portico, it is difficult to assign any very good reason.

Such is an outline of the chief buildings of the Acropolis, which, in its best days, had four distinct characters: being at once the fortress, the sacred inclosure, the treasury, and the museum of art, of the Athenian nation. It was an entire offering to the deity, unrivalled in richness and splendor; it was the peerless gem of Greece, the glory and the pride of genius, the wonder and envy of the world.

Beneath the southern wall of the Acropolis, near its extremity, was situated the Athenian or Dionysiac theatre. Its seats, rising one above another, were cut of the sloping rock. Of these, only the two highest rows are now visible, the rest being concealed by an accumulation of soil, the removal of which would probably bring to light the whole shell of the theatre. Plato affirms it was capable of containing thirty thousand persons. It contained statues of all the great tragic and comic poets, the most conspicuous of which were naturally those of Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, among the former, and those of Aristophanes and Menander among the latter. On the southwest side of the Acropolis is the site of the Odeum, or musical theatre of Herodes Atticus, named by him the theatre of Regilla, in honor of his wife. On the northeast side of the Acropolis stood the Prytaneum, where citizens who had rendered services to the state were maintained at the public expense. Extending southwards from the site of the Prytaneum, ran the street to which Pausanias gave the name of Tripods, from its containing a number of small temples or edifices crowned with tripods, to commemorate the triumphs gained by the Choragi in the theatre of Bacchus. Opposite to the west end of the Acropolis is the Areopagus, or hill of Mars, on the eastern extremity of which was situated the celebrated court of the Areopagus. This point is reached by means of sixteen stone steps cut in the rock, immediately above which is a bench of stone, forming three sides of a quadrangle, like a triclinium, generally supposed to have been the tribunal. The ruins of a small chapel consecrated to St. Dionysius the Areopagite, and commemorating his conversion by St. Paul, are here visible. About a quarter of a mile southwest from the centre of the Areopagus stands Pnyx, the place provided for the public assemblies at Athens in its palmy days. The steps by which the speaker mounted the rostrum, and a tier of three seats hewn in the solid rock for the audience, are still visible. This is perhaps the most interesting spot in Athens to the lovers of Grecian genius, being associated with the renown of Demosthenes, and the other famed Athenian orators,

"whose resistless eloquence
Wielded at will that fierce democratie,
Shook the arsenal and fulmined over Greece,
To Macedon, and Artaxerxes' throne."

THE ARCH OF HADRIAN.

Descending the Acropolis, the eye is at once arrested by the magnificent remains of the temple of Jupiter Olympus, and by the Arch of Hadrian. Whether from its proximity to the gorgeous monument first named, or that it is intrinsically deficient in that species of merit which appeals directly to the senses, the Arch of Hadrian attracts comparatively little notice. It is, however, a highly interesting monument, bearing unmistakable marks of the decline of art; yet distinguished for much of that quality of beauty which gives so peculiar a character to the architecture of the Greeks. The inscriptions on the sides of the entablature have given rise to much learned discussion, and have led to a far more lucid arrangement of the city and its chief ornaments, than would in all probability have been accomplished, had not inquiry and investigation been spurred on by the difficulty of comprehending their exact meaning.

TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPUS.

ANOTHER VIEW OF THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPUS.

Of two views of the temple of Jupiter Olympus, Mr. Cook chose that in which the Acropolis is seen in the distance. The three lofty Corinthian columns in the other engraving are diminished to the scale of the arch, while the Acropolis, from its greater complexity of parts, adds, perhaps, something of a quality in which the subject is rather wanting. "I am not sure," says Mr. Cook, "that the remains of the temple of Jupiter Olympus are not the most impressive which Athens offers to the eye and heart of the traveller, partly from their abstract grandeur—a grandeur derived from every element which could contribute to such an end—and partly from a position than which it would be impossible to conceive any thing more magnificent. The gigantic columns struck me with a sense of awe and bewilderment, almost oppressive; they consist, as may be seen by the engraving, of sixteen, the sole representatives of the one hundred and twenty which once formed this mightiest of Athenian temples. The least thoughtful person could scarcely avoid the question of where and how the remaining one hundred and four of these enormous masses can have vanished; and assisted by the fullest information which is to be acquired on the subject, it remains a matter of wonder to all. That time itself has had but little to answer for, the almost perfect preservation of portions is sufficient to prove; in some cases the flutings are as sharp and clean as when the hand of the sculptor left them, while, more generally, they bear disgraceful evidence of ill-usage of every kind, from that of the cannon ball to the petty mischief of wanton idleness. The proportion of these columns is quite perfect, and the mind is lost in charmed wonder, as wandering from part to part of the vast platform, it is presented at every step with combinations perpetually changing, yet always beautiful. So difficult do I find it to determine from what point of view these ruins are seen to the greatest advantage, that I have appended two engravings, from which the reader may select that which best conveys to him the magnificence of the structure which has been thus slightly described." The temple of Jupiter Olympus was one of the first conceived, and the last executed of the sacred monuments of Athens. It was begun by Pisistratus, but not finished till the time of the Roman emperor Adrian, seven hundred years afterwards.

MONUMENT OF LYSICRATES.

A proof of the varied character of the Athenian architectural genius may be found in the exquisite model, the lantern of Demosthenes, or, as it is more properly called, the Choragic monument of Lysierates. It is, in common with the greater number of the remains of which we speak, of Pentelic marble. By whomever conceived, designed, or executed, this must have been a labor of love, and the result is such as might be anticipated from the consequent development of the highest powers of one to whom a people like the Athenians would entrust the task of doing honor to those who had paid to their native land a similar tribute. It is small, and formed of a few immense masses: the roof is one entire block; the temple or monument itself is circular, and is formed of six slabs of pure white marble, the joints of which are concealed by an equal number of beautiful Corinthian columns, partly imbedded into, and partly projecting from them. These have been fitted with such exactness, that before the "fretting hand of time and change" had done its work, the whole must have appeared as if cut from one solid mass. We have this single example of a class of buildings once so numerous that they formed an entire street; but however grateful one may feel to the hospice, which, being built over, protected it from the ruin of its companions, we can scarcely regret its disappearance, through which alone this exquisite result of intellect and refined taste may be seen as represented in the engraving.

TEMPLE OF THE WINDS.

The Temple or Tower of the Winds, has been very justly termed "the most curious existing monument of the practical gnomonics of antiquity." In architecture no very elevated rank can be assigned to this edifice, nor is there, even in its ornamental portions, any very remarkable evidence of the higher order of Grecian art; the execution, indeed, can in nowise be considered equal to the conception, which, if somewhat fancifully elaborated, is at least highly to be esteemed, as uniting in a more than ordinary degree the practically useful with the poetical ideal. Near the new Agora, and consequently in the heart of the more densely populated division of the city, this indicator of the wind and hour must have been a valuable contribution to the Athenians, and must have given to its founder, Andronicus Cyrrestes, a proud position among the bene merenti of the moment. Its form is octagonal, the roof being of marble, so cut as to represent tiles; upon the upper portion of each face is sculptured the figure of one of the eight Winds; these floating in an almost horizontal position convey, either by their dress, the emblems which they bear, or the expression of their features, the character of the wind they are respectively intended to personify. Within a very recent period this building, which was more than half buried, has been exhumed, and many important facts have been discovered during the process of excavation. The interior has been cleared, and in the pavement may be seen the channels by which the water was conveyed to the machinery by whose agency the hour was indicated, when the absence of the sun rendered the dials described upon the marble faces of the tower of no avail. These dials have been tested and pronounced perfectly correct, by a no less celebrated authority than Delambre. The two arches on the left of the illustration are the only remaining portions of the aqueduct by which the necessary supply was conveyed, according to Stuart, from the spring in the grotto of Pan; it is a matter of gratulation alike to the antiquarian and the lover of the picturesque, that these have been spared. From the amount of excavation necessary to arrive at its basement, it is clear that this portion of the town must have been raised, by ruins and atmospheric deposits, at least eight or nine feet above its original level.

The temple of Theseus, apart from the present town, and in a comparatively elevated and isolated position, built by Cimon, shortly after the battle of Salarnis, is one of the most noble remains of the ancient magnificence of Athens, and the most perfect, if not the most beautiful, existing specimen of Grecian architecture. It is built of Pentelic marble; the roof, friezes, and cornices still remain; and so gently has the hand of time pressed upon this venerable edifice, that the first impression of the mind in beholding it, is doubt of its antiquity. It was raised thirty years before the Parthenon, unlike which it appears to have been but sparingly supplied with sculptural decoration; but that which was so dedicated was of the highest merit, and remaining in an almost perfect condition, is most deeply interesting to the artist and the historian: supplying to the one models of beauty, and to the other the most undeniable data, upon which to establish the identity of this with the temple raised by the Athenians to the Hero-God.

TEMPLE OF THESEUS.

After having been successively denominated the remains of the Palace of Pericles, of the temple of Jupiter Olympus (an unaccountable blunder), the Painted Portico, the Forum of the inner Ceremeicus, the magnificent wreck of which the following engraving may convey a general idea, has been finally decided to have formed a portion of the Pantheon of Hadrian. For some time after this opinion had been started by Mr. Wilkins, and sanctioned by Sir William Gell, great doubts, despite the remarkable verification afforded by the language of Pausanias, remained as to its truth; but the Earl of Guildford has at length placed the matter beyond question. Some extensive excavations made under his personal direction resulted in the discovery of the Phrygian stone so minutely described by the enthusiastic traveller.

PANTHEON OF HADRIAN.

The portico forming the next illustration was a long time considered the only remaining portion of a temple dedicated to the Emperor Augustus, but it is now clearly established as having been one of the entrances to a market-place. This idea, suggested to the mind of Stuart, by certain minute yet well marked variations in the proportion of the columns from those devoted to sacred purposes, has been sustained by research, and finally demonstrated to be correct by the discovery of an inscription which has put the question at rest for ever. In one of these the names of two prefects of the market are preserved; and another, still perfect, is an edict of Hadrian respecting the duties to be levied on certain articles of consumption, and regulating the sale of oils, &c. Nothing can be more picturesque than the present condition of this portico, the latest specimen of the pure Greek Art. Its coloring is rich and varied, while its state of ruin is precisely that in which the eye of the painter delights, sufficient to destroy all hardness or angularity, yet not so great as to rob it of one element of grandeur.

ENTRANCE TO THE MARKET-PLACE: FORMERLY SUPPOSED TO BE PART OF A TEMPLE DEDICATED TO AUGUSTUS.

The building called the Monument of Philopappus, despite its somewhat fantastic elaboration of detail, is very remarkable and interesting; it was created either during the lifetime, or as a memorial immediately after his death, to Caius Julius Antiochus Philopappus, a descendant of the royalty of Syria, and an adopted citizen of Athens. It consists of a basement supporting a pilastrade of semi-circular form, and presenting upon its concave surface three niches, containing sitting statues, and three recesses richly ornamented with the representation in strong relief of a Roman triumph. Upon the basement also were various sculptures in honor of the Emperor Trajan. These, and, indeed, all the decorative sculpture, &c., profusely lavished upon this building have suffered greatly. The two remaining statues are much dilapidated. From this point a magnificent view of the Acropolis is obtained, and few are the sights presented to the traveller, which surpass in historic interest or actual beauty that meeting his eye, to whichever point of the compass he may turn when standing at the foot of this remarkably picturesque monument.

MONUMENT OF PHILOPAPPUS.

The ages which produced these marvellous works in architecture had other and different glories. Painting and sculpture reached the highest perfection; and poetry exhibited all the grace and vigor of the Athenian imagination. And though time has effaced all traces of the pencil of Parrhasius, Zeuxis, and Apelles, posterity has assigned them a place in the temple of fame beside Phidias and Praxiteles, whose works are, even at the present day, unrivalled for classical purity of design and perfection of execution. And after the city had passed her noon in art, and in political greatness, she became the mother of that philosophy at once subtile and sublime, which, even at the present hour, exerts a powerful influence over the human mind. This era in her history has been alluded to by Milton:

"See there the olive grove of Academe,
Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird
Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long;
There flowery hill Hymettus with the sound
Of bees' industrious murmur oft invites
To studious musing; there Ilyssus rolls
His whispering stream; within the walls then view
The schools of ancient sages; who bred
Great Alexander to subdue the world,
Lyceum there and painted Stoa next; ...
To sage philosophy next lend thine ear.
From Heaven descended to the low roof'd house
Of Socrates; see there his tenement,
Whom, well inspired, the oracle pronounced
Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth
Mellifluous streams that water'd all the schools
Of Academics old and new, with those
Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect
Epicurean, and the Stoic severe."

Such is an outline of the remains of the chief Athenian edifices, which link ancient times with the present, and which, as long as there is taste to appreciate or genius to imitate, must arrest the attention and command the admiration of all the generations of mankind.

TAYLOR AND STODDARD[A]

We have placed these names together, not on account of any fancied resemblance between the two poets, but for the very opposite reason. We wish to trace the contrasts which may be exhibited by writers living in the same age, the same country, and under the same system of social relations. Mr. Stoddard's volume is dedicated with evident warmth of feeling to Bayard Taylor, and the natural conclusion is that the poets are personal friends; yet so far from the intellectual nature of the one having influenced that of the other, they are as strikingly opposed in thought, feeling, and manner of expression, as two men well can be.

The time has gone by when a volume from the pen of Mr. Taylor can be dismissed with a careless line or two. Few writers of our day have made more rapid advances into popular favor, and no one is more justly entitled to the place which he holds. If we are to trust contemporary criticism, a goodly army of what are called "promising young poets" might be raised from any state in the Union. But what becomes of them? It is one thing to promise, and another to perform, and we fear that this suggestion contains a hint at the whole mystery. It seems to be comparatively easy for educated men, blinded to their incapacity by an unwholesome passion for notoriety which is never the inspiring motive of a real poet, to reach a certain degree of excellence which may be denominated "promising." Many a feather has been shed, and many a wing broken, in attempting to soar beyond it. We shall not describe Mr. Taylor with the epithet. We see nothing to justify it in his volume, on every page of which there is actual performance. Maturity may indeed add to his powers, and further increase his poetical insight; but there is no necessity for waiting, lest we commit ourselves by a favorable opinion, and no fear that such an opinion will be falsified by succeeding efforts.

Richard Henry Stoddard doubtless has been styled a promising young poet by half the newspaper press; therefore if we venture to say that Mr. Stoddard has performed, and that the promising season is over with him, it is not because we do not think that his future poems will exhibit new and greater excellencies, but because we recognize merits in his present collection which eminently entitle him to respectful consideration.

The evident source of Mr. Stoddard's inspiration is a love for ideal beauty, in whatever form it may be manifested. Like all admirers of ideal beauty, he has a strong sensual element in his composition. He is not satisfied with the mere dreams of his imagination, but he must also attempt to realize them through the medium of imitative art. Among the various modes for expressing the same feelings and ideas, painting, poetry, sculpture and music, he has chosen poetry as the one best adapted to his purpose. We would not be understood to assert that an artist may, at will, express his emotions in any of the arts; for a man may be insensible to an idea expressed in sculpture or music, which is perfectly clear to him in poetry or painting; but we assert that all the arts are but different languages to convey the same ideas. True art addresses itself to the moral, the intellectual, or the sensual man; and by the predominance of one of these qualities in the artist, or by various combinations of the three, all the radical differences between men of genius can be accounted for, and all the seeming mysteries explained. This truth is the groundwork of genuine criticism; and the critic who busies himself about the accidental circumstances, which have influenced an artist, is only prying into his history, without sounding the depth of his nature. At least let criticism start here: it may afterward indulge in microscopic comparisons of style, and in worn-out accusations of imitation: but it is a sorry thing to see persons assuming the dignified office of the critic magnifying molehills into mountains, and similarities into thefts. All men are gifted with various faculties, but it is not in the superiority of any or all of them that we can account for the existence of the poet, who has something of the divine nature in him, having a creative energy that is not a result of the degree in which he possesses one or more of the ordinary faculties, but is a special distinction with which he is clothed by the deity.

We will proceed to examine our two poets by the principles before stated, not forgetting to compare or contrast them, as there may be opportunity. In Mr. Taylor there is a just equipoise of the moral and intellectual natures, while the sensual nature, if not so strong as the former two, is at least calmed and subdued by their united power. With fine animal spirits, he has but little taste for gross animal enjoyments; and the mischief which his unlicensed spirits might commit, is foreseen by a sensitive conscience, and checked by a mind that sees the end in the act, and provides to-day against the future. Mr. Taylor's inclinations are for scenes of grandeur. Sublime human actions, nature in her awful revolutionary states, the wild desolation of a mountain peak or a limitless desert, the storm, the earthquake, the cataract, the moaning forest—these are the chief inspirations of his powers. Whatever is suggestive of high emotions, that act upon his moral nature, and in turn are acted upon by it, forms an unconquerable incentive to his poetical exertions. Mere word-painting he has no affection for. A scene of nature, however beautiful, would be poetically valueless to him, unless it moved his feelings past the point of silent contemplation. The first poem in his volume affords a striking illustration of his apprehension of intellectual bravery. Through fasting that approaches starvation, unanswered prayers, and repeated discomfitures, the soul of the hero burns undimmed, and his eyes remain steadily fixed on his purpose. Physical suffering only strengthens his resolution, and defeat only nerves him to renewed efforts. Round these ideas the poet lingers with a triumphant emotion, that proves his sympathies to be centred less in the outward action of the poem, than in the power of human will—a power which he conceives to be capable of overcoming all things, even the gods themselves. We have before stated that nature, unless suggestive of some intellectual emotion, is nothing to Mr. Taylor. To arouse himself to song, he must vitalize the world, must make it live, breathe and feel, must find books in the running brooks, and sermons in stones, or brooks and stones are to him as if they had not been. In the "Metempsychosis of the Pine," this characteristic is finely displayed. The poet imagines himself to have been a pine, and retraces his experiences while in that state of being. The pine becomes a conscious creature, revelling in the joys of its own existence, feeling the sap stir in its veins, and pour through a heart as susceptible as man's. Many poets have recalled the memories which linger around a particular tree, or, apostrophising it, have bid it relate certain histories; but in Mr. Taylor's poem the tree speaks from within its own nature—not with the feelings of a man, not with what we might suppose would be the feelings of a common tree, but as a pine of many centuries—and no one can mistake its voice. A nobler use of the dramatic faculty, in lyrical poetry, is not within our recollection.

As may be supposed, Mr. Taylor's poetry is written under the excitement of passion, and does not proceed from that laborious process of constructing effects, to which a large number of poets owe their success. The consequence is that his language is vividly metaphorical, only dealing in similes when in a comparative repose, and never going out of the way to hunt up one of those eternal likes, which have emasculated our poetic style, and are fast becoming a leading characteristic in American verse, to the utter destruction of every thing like real passion. Mr. Taylor is an instructive study in this respect. He uses ten metaphors to one simile. His ideas come forth clothed in their figurative language, and do not bring it along neatly tied up in a separate bundle. From this cause there is a sturdy strength and genuine feeling about his poems, that more than compensate for the ingenious trinkets which he despises, and leaves for the adornment of those who need them. In him imagination predominates over fancy, and the latter is always sacrificed to the former. We do not intend to say that Mr. Taylor is without fancy. Far from it—he has fancy, but it never leads him to be fanciful. His versification is polished, correct and various, but more harmonious than melodious; that is to say, the whole rhythmical flow of his verse is more striking than the sweetness of particular lines. We have not mentioned all the phases of Mr. Taylor's genius. Some of the smaller poems in his volume border on the sensuous; and in "Hylas" he has paid a tribute to ancient fable worthy of its refined inventors; but scenes of moral and natural sublimity are those in which he succeeds best, and by them he should be characterized.

RICHARD H. STODDARD.

Mr. Stoddard is the precise opposite to his friend. In him the sensual vastly outranks the moral or the intellectual quality. Let it not be supposed that we wish to hold the two latter elements as superior to the former for poetical purposes; nor do we by asserting the greater preponderance of any one, deny the possession of the other two. To the sensuous in man we are indebted for the great body of Grecian poetry, and Keats wholly, and Tennyson in part, are modern instances of what may be achieved by imbibing the spirit of the ancient classics. Shallow critics have professed to discover a resemblance between these English poets and Mr. Stoddard, and Mr. Taylor has also fallen under the same accusation, for no better reason, that we can conceive, than that all four have drunk at the same fountain, and enjoyed its inspirations.

Mr. Stoddard's sympathies are almost entirely given up to ancient Grecian art. He can scarcely realize that the dream has passed forever. He sees something vital in its very ruins. For him the Phidian friezes yet crown the unplundered Parthenon; the gigantic Athena yet gleams through sacerdotal incense, in all her ivory whiteness, smiling upon reeking altars and sacrificing priests; Delphos has yet an oracular voice; Bacchus and Pan and his Satyrs yet lead their riotous train through a forest whose every tree is alive with its dryad, and whose every fountain is haunted by its potamid; there are yet patriot veins to glow at the Iliad; Æschylus can yet fill a theatre; Pericles yet thunders at Cimon from the Cema, or woos Aspasia, or tempers the headlong Alcibiades, or prepares his darling Athens for the Peloponnesian war. These things Mr. Stoddard feels while the locomotive shrieks in his ears, while the omnibus, speeding to the steamship, rattles the glass of his window, while the newsboy cries his monotonous advertisement, or his servant hands to him a telegraphic dispatch; and he is right. The body in which Grecian art existed, is indeed dead, but the spirit which animated it is indestructible. There will be poets to worship and reproduce it, there will be scholars to admire and preserve it, when every man's field is bounded by a railway, when every housetop is surmounted by a telegraph wire, and when the golden calf is again set up amid the people, to be worshipped as the living God.

From the force of his sympathies, Mr. Stoddard can lean but in that direction. Throughout his volume there is scarcely a poem which is not the offshoot of these feelings. Some of them are confessedly upon Grecian subjects, and all of them are animated by a corresponding spirit. Even his few domestic poems are not treated after that modern manner, which moralizes in the last stanza, simply to let the reader understand how well the poet knows his own meaning. Whatever is beautiful in Mr. Stoddard's themes is distinctly brought forward, while the darker side of his subject is scarcely touched upon. Take, for example, a poem of great simplicity and tenderness, filled with a sorrow so beautiful as almost to make one in love with grief, and contrast it with a poem, on a similar subject, by Bayard Taylor:

"Along the grassy slope I sit,
And dream of other years;
My heart is full of soft regrets,
My eyes of tender tears!

The wild bees hummed about the spot,
The sheep-bells tinkled far,
Last year when Alice sat with me
Beneath the evening star!

The same sweet star is o'er me now,
Around, the same soft hours,
But Alice moulders in the dust
With all the last year's flowers!

I sit alone, and only hear
The wild bees on the steep,
And distant bells that seem to float
From out the folds of sleep!"

Stoddard, page 116.

This is very fine and delicate feeling, softened down to the mildest point of passion; but it does not at all resemble the frenzy of grief which follows:

"Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,
And fall, thou drear December rain!
Fill with your gusts the sullen day,
Tear the last clinging leaves away!
Reckless as yonder naked tree,
No blast of yours can trouble me.

Give me your chill and wild embrace,
And pour your baptism on my face;
Sound in mine ears the airy moan
That sweeps in desperate monotone,
Where on the unsheltered hill-top beat
The marches of your homeless feet!

Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain!
Your stormy sobs and tears are vain,
If shed for her whose fading eyes
Will open soon on Paradise;
The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,
Or ere ye cease, if shed for me."

Taylor, page 92.

What a desolation of wo! how the whole man is carried away in one overwhelming passion! A contrast of the opening poems of these two volumes, would be a pleasant employment, but their length forbids it. Mr. Taylor's "Romance of the Maize" we have mentioned already; Mr. Stoddard's "Castle in the Air" is its complete antithesis. The latter poem is a magnificent day-dream, abounding in luscious imagery, and unrivalled for its minute descriptions of ideal scenery and its voluptuous music of versification, by any similar creation since Spenser's "Bower of Bliss."

To sum up Mr. Stoddard's poetical character, he has more fancy than imagination, he is rather exquisitely sensitive than profoundly passionate, and oftener works up his feelings to the act of composition, than seeks it as an outlet for uncontrollable emotion. He thoroughly, and at every point, an artist. His genius is never allowed to run riot, but is always subjected to the laws of a delicate, but most severe taste. His poems are probably planned with views to their artistic effects, and are then constructed from his exhaustless wealth of poetical material, by a nice adaptation of each part to the perfect whole of his design. If he has less imagination than Mr. Taylor, he has a richer and more glowing fancy; if his figures are less apt and striking, they are more elegant and symmetrical; if the harmonious dignity of his versification is less, its melodious sweetness is more; if he has less passion, he has more sensibility; if moral and physical grandeur are not so attractive to him, ideal and natural beauty are the only elements in which his life is endurable. We might pursue these contrasts to the end of our magazine; but if we have called the reader's attention to them, we have done enough.

From "Love and Solitude," by Mr. Taylor, we extract the following picture, in order to contrast it with the handling of the same subject by Mr. Stoddard in "The South:"

"Some island, on the purple plain
Of Polynesian main,
Where never yet adventurer's prore
Lay rocking near its coral shore:
A tropic mystery, which the enamored deep
Folds, as a beauty in a charméd sleep.
There lofty palms, of some imperial line,
That never bled their nimble wine,
Crowd all the hills, and out the headlands go
To watch on distant reefs the lazy brine
Turning its fringe of snow.
There, when the sun stands high
Upon the burning summit of the sky,
All shadows wither: Light alone
Is in the world: and pregnant grown
With teeming life, the trembling island earth
And panting sea forebode sweet pains of birth
Which never come;—their love brings never forth
The human Soul they lack alone."

Taylor, page 16.

Half-way between the frozen zones,
Where Winter reigns in sullen mirth,
The Summer binds a golden belt
About the middle of the Earth,
The sky is soft, and blue, and bright,
With purple dyes at morn and night:
And bright and blue the seas which lie
In perfect rest, and glass the sky;
And sunny bays with inland curves
Round all along the quiet shore;
And stately palms, in pillared ranks
Grow down the borders of the banks,
And juts of land where billows roar;
The spicy woods are full of birds,
And golden fruits, and crimson flowers;
With wreathéd vines on every bough,
That shed their grapes in purple showers;
The emerald meadows roll their waves,
And bask in soft and mellow light;
The vales are full of silver mist,
And all the folded hills are bright;
But far along the welkin's rim
The purple crags and peaks are dim;
And dim the gulfs, and gorges blue,
With all the wooded passes deep;
All steeped in haze, and washed in dew,
And bathed in atmospheres of Sleep!

Stoddard, page 14.

Passages like these say more for their authors than could any commendation from the critic. Observe how soon mere description is abandoned by Mr. Taylor, and he begins to put life and feeling into his scene. The deep is "enamored," the island is "in a charméd sleep," the palms are "imperial," and "crowd the hills," and "out the headlands go to watch the lazy brine," &c. All nature is alive. On the other hand, Mr. Stoddard loves nature for its beauty alone, without desiring in it any imaginable animation. The man who can read Mr. Taylor's "Kubla," without feeling the blood dance in his veins, should never confess it, for he is hardening into something beyond the reach of sympathy. In "The Soldier and the Pard," a poem of curious originality, Mr. Taylor pushes his belief in the all-pervading existence of moral nature to its last extreme. It closes with the following emphatic lines:

"And if a man
Deny this truth she [the Pard] taught me, to his face
I say he lies: a beast may have a soul!"

Without drawing too much on the tables of contents, we could not enumerate the many note-worthy pieces in these volumes; and it would much exceed our limits to give them even a passing word of comment. Among Mr. Stoddard's unmentioned poems, the "Hymn to Flora," an "Ode" of delicious melancholy, full of exquisite taste and finely-wrought fancies, "Spring," "Autumn," a "Hymn to the Beautiful," "The Broken Goblet," and "Triumphant Music," give the reader a clear insight into his peculiar characteristics, and open a vision of ideal beauty that no poet has exhibited in such Grecian perfection since the death of Keats. A poem, on page 115, is one that awakens peculiar emotions; it describes a state of half consciousness, when the senses are morbidly alive, and the perceptive faculties are fettered with dreams, or inspired by a strange memory that bears within it things not of this world, and hints at a previous and different existence.

"The yellow moon looks slantly down,
Through seaward mists, upon the town;
And like a mist the moonshine falls
Between the dim and shadowy walls.

I see a crowd in every street,
But cannot hear their falling feet;
They float like clouds through shade and light,
And seem a portion of the night.

The ships have lain, for ages fled,
Along the waters, dark and dead;
The dying waters wash no more
The long black line of spectral shore.

There is no life on land or sea,
Save in the quiet moon and me;
Nor ours is true, but only seems,
Within some dead old world of dreams!"

Stoddard, page 115.

With this shadowy poem we close, begging our readers not to be terrified at the boldness with which we claim so high a place for the subjects of our review. They have that within them which will prove our commendations just, and establish them in the rank assigned by us, with a firmness that will need no critic's aid, and can be shaken by no critic's assault. We but add, let them remember that the fear of the world is the beginning of mischief. George H. Boker.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] A Book of Romances, Lyrics and Songs. By Bayard Taylor. Boston, Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 16mo. Poems. By Richard Henry Stoddard. Same publishers. 16mo.

THE UNDERGROUND TERRITORIES OF THE UNITED STATES.

ENTRANCE TO THE MAMMOTH CAVE.

The extraordinary caverns which underlie various parts of this country are of a description suitable in extent and magnificence to the general scale of nature here, in lakes, rivers, cataracts, valleys in which empires are cradled, prairies of scarcely conceivable vastness, and mountains whose bases are amid perpetual flowers and where frozen seas have never intermission of their crashing thunders. In Virginia, New-York, and other states, the caves of Weyer, Schoharie, and many that are less famous but not inferior in beauty or grandeur, are well known to travellers; but the Mammoth Cave, under Kentucky, is world renowned, and such felon states as Naples might hide in it from the scorn of mankind. Considering the common curiosity respecting that strange subterranean country, and the fact of its being resorted to in winter by valetudinarians, on account of its admirable climate—so that our article is altogether seasonable—we give, chiefly from a letter by Mrs. Child, a very full description of this eighth wonder of the world—illustrated by engravings from recent drawings made under the direction of the Rev. Horace Martin, who proposes soon to furnish for tourists an ample volume on the subject.

The Mammoth Cave is in the southwest part of Kentucky, about a hundred miles from Louisville, and sixty from Harrodsburg Springs. The word cave is ill calculated to impress the imagination with an idea of its surpassing grandeur. It is in fact a subterranean world; containing within itself territories extensive enough for half a score of German principalities. It should be named Titans' Palace, or Cyclops' Grotto. It lies among the Knobs, a range of hills, which border an extent of country, like highland prairies, called the Barrens. The surrounding scenery is lovely. Fine woods of oak, hickory, and chestnut, clear of underbrush, with smooth, verdant openings, like the parks of English noblemen.

ENTRANCE TO THE CAVE.—VIEW TAKEN FROM THE INSIDE.

The cave was purchased by Dr. John Croghan, for ten thousand dollars. To prevent a disputed title, in case any new and distant opening should be discovered, he has likewise bought a wide circuit of adjoining land. His enthusiasm concerning it is unbounded. It is in fact his world; and every newly-discovered chamber fills him with pride and joy, like that felt by Columbus, when he first kissed his hand to the fair Queen of the Antilles. He has built a commodious hotel[B] near the entrance, in a style well suited to the place. It is made of logs, filled in with lime; with a fine large porch, in front of which is a beautiful verdant lawn. Near by, is a funnel-shaped hollow of three hundred acres; probably a cave fallen in. It is called Deer Park, because when those animals run into it, they cannot escape. There are troops of wild deer in the immediate vicinity of the hotel; bear-hunts are frequent, and game of all kinds abounds.

Walking along the verge of this hollow, you come to a ravine, leading to Green River, whence you command a view of what is supposed to be the main entrance to the cave. It is a huge cavernous arch, filled in with immense stones, as if giants had piled them there, to imprison a conquered demon. No opening has ever been effected here, nor is it easy to imagine that it could be done by the strength of man. In rear of the hotel is a deep ravine densely wooded, and covered with a luxuriant vegetable growth. It leads to Green River, and was probably once a water course. A narrow ravine, diverging from this, leads, by a winding path, to the entrance of the cave. It is a high arch of rocks, rudely piled, and richly covered with ivy and tangled vines. At the top, is a perennial fountain of sweet and cool water, which trickles down continually from the centre of the arch, through the pendent foliage, and is caught in a vessel below. The entrance of this wide arch is somewhat obstructed by a large mound of saltpetre, thrown up by workmen engaged in its manufacture, during the last war. In the course of their excavations, they dug up the bones of a gigantic man; but, unfortunately, they buried them again, without any memorial to mark the spot. They have been sought for by the curious and scientific, but are not yet found.

As you come opposite the entrance of the cave, in summer, the temperature changes instantaneously, from about 85° to below 60°, and you feel chilled as if by the presence of an iceberg. In winter, the effect is reversed. The scientific have indulged in various speculations concerning the air of this cave. It is supposed to get completely filled with cold winds during the long blasts of winter, and as there is no outlet, they remain pent up till the atmosphere without becomes warmer than that within; when there is, of course, a continual effort toward equilibrium. Why the air within the cave should be so fresh, pure, and equable, all the year round, even in its deepest recesses, is not so easily explained. Some have suggested that it is continually modified by the presence of chemical agents. Whatever may be the cause, its agreeable salubrity is observed by every visitor, and it is said to have great healing power in diseases of the lungs. The amount of exertion which can be performed here without fatigue, is astonishing. The superabundance of oxygen in the atmosphere operates like moderate doses of exhilarating gas. The traveller feels a buoyant sensation, which tempts him to run and jump, and leap from crag to crag, and bound over the stones in his path. The mind, moreover, sustains the body, being kept in a state of delightful activity, by continual new discoveries and startling revelations.

The wide entrance to the cavern soon contracts, so that but two can pass abreast. At this place, called the Narrows, the air from dark depths beyond blows out fiercely, as if the spirits of the cave had mustered there, to drive intruders back to the realms of day. This path continues about fourteen or fifteen rods, and emerges into a wider avenue, floored with saltpetre earth, from which the stones have been removed. This leads directly into the Rotunda, a vast hall, comprising a surface of eight acres, arched with a dome a hundred feet high, without a single pillar to support it. It rests on irregular ribs of dark gray rock, in massive oval rings, smaller and smaller, one seen within another, till they terminate at the top. Perhaps this apartment impresses the traveller as much as any portion of the cave; because from it he receives his first idea of its gigantic proportions. The vastness, the gloom, the impossibility of taking in the boundaries by the light of lamps—all these produce a deep sensation of awe and wonder.

From the Rotunda, you pass into Audubon's Avenue, from eighty to a hundred feet high, with galleries of rock on each side, jutting out farther and father, till they nearly meet at top. This avenue branches out into a vast half-oval hall, called the Church. This contains several projecting galleries, one of them resembling a cathedral choir. There is a gap in the gallery, and at the point of interruption, immediately above, is a rostrum, or pulpit, the rocky canopy of which juts over. The guide leads up from the adjoining galleries, and places a lamp each side of the pulpit, on flat rocks, which seem made for the purpose. There has been preaching from this pulpit; but unless it was superior to most theological teaching, it must have been pitifully discordant with the sublimity of the place. Five thousand people could stand in this subterranean temple with ease.

So far, all is irregular, jagged rocks, thrown together in fantastic masses, without any particular style; but now begins a series of imitations, which grow more and more perfect, in gradual progression, till you arrive at the end. From the Church you pass into what is called the Gothic Gallery, from its obvious resemblance to that style of architecture. Here is Mummy Hall; so called because several mummies have been found seated in recesses of the rock. Without any process of embalming, they were in as perfect a state of preservation, as the mummies of Egypt; for the air of the cave is so dry and unchangeable, and so strongly impregnated with nitre, that decomposition cannot take place. A mummy found here in 1813, was the body of a woman five feet ten inches high, wrapped in half-dressed deer skins, on which were rudely drawn white veins and leaves. At the feet, lay a pair of moccasons, and a handsome knapsack, made of bark: containing strings of small shining seeds; necklaces of bears' teeth, eagles' claws, and fawns' red hoofs; whistles made of cane; two rattlesnakes' skins, one having on it fourteen rattles; coronets for the head, made of erect feathers of rooks and eagles; smooth needles of horn and bone, some of them crooked like sail-needles; deers' sinews, for sewing, and a parcel of three-corded thread, resembling twine. I believe one of these mummies is now in the British Museum. From Mummy Hall you pass into Gothic Avenue, where the resemblance to Gothic architecture very perceptibly increases. The wall juts out in pointed arches, and pillars, on the sides of which are various grotesque combinations of rock. One is an elephant's head. The tusks and sleepy eyes are quite perfect; the trunk, at first very distinct, gradually recedes, and is lost in the rock. On another pillar is a lion's head; on another, a human head with a wig, called Lord Lyndhurst, from its resemblance to that dignitary.

From this gallery you can step into a side cave, in which is an immense pit, called the Lover's Leap. A huge rock, fourteen or fifteen feet long, like an elongated sugar-loaf running to a sharp point, projects half way over this abyss. It makes one shudder to see the guide walk almost to the end of this projectile bridge, over such an awful chasm. As you pass along, the Gothic Avenue narrows, until you come to a porch composed of the first separate columns in the cave. The stalactite and stalagmite formations unite in these irregular masses of brownish yellow, which, when the light shines through them, look like transparent amber. They are sonorous as a clear-toned bell. A pendent mass, called the Bell, has been unfortunately broken, by being struck too powerfully.

ENTRANCE TO THE GOTHIC GATE.

The porch of columns leads to the Gothic Chapel, which has the circular form appropriate to a true church. A number of pure stalactite columns fill the nave with arches, which in many places form a perfect Gothic roof. The stalactites fall in rich festoons, strikingly similar to the highly ornamented chapel of Henry VII. Four columns in the centre form a separate arch by themselves, like trees twisted into a grotto, in all irregular and grotesque shapes. Under this arch stands Wilkins' arm-chair, a stalactite formation, well adapted to the human figure. The Chapel is the most beautiful specimen of the Gothic in the cave. Two or three of the columns have richly foliated capitals, like the Corinthian.

If you turn back to the main avenue, and strike off in another direction, you enter a vast room, with several projecting galleries, called the Ball Room. In close vicinity, as if arranged by the severer school of theologians, is a large amphitheatre, called Satan's Council Chamber. From the centre rises a mountain of big stones, rudely piled one above another, in a gradual slope, nearly one hundred feet high. On the top rests a huge rock, big as a house, called Satan's Throne. The vastness, the gloom, partially illuminated by the glare of lamps, forcibly remind one of Lucifer on his throne, as represented by Martin in his illustrations of Milton. It requires little imagination to transform the uncouth rocks all around the throne, into attendant demons. Indeed, throughout the cave, Martin's pictures are continually brought to mind, by the unearthly effect of intense gleams of light on black masses of shadow. In this Council Chamber, the rocks, with singular appropriateness, change from an imitation of Gothic architecture, to that of the Egyptian. The dark, massive walls resemble a series of Egyptian tombs, in dull and heavy outline. In this place is an angle, which forms the meeting point of several caves, and is therefore considered one of the finest points of view. Here parties usually stop and make arrangements to kindle the Bengal Lights, which travellers always carry with them. It has a strange and picturesque effect to see groups of people dotted about, at different points of view, their lamps hidden behind stones, and the light streaming into the thick darkness, through chinks in the rocks. When the lights begin to burn, their intense radiance casts a strong glare on Satan's Throne; the whole of the vast amphitheatre is revealed to view, and you can peer into the deep recesses of two other caves beyond. For a few moments, gigantic proportions and uncouth forms stand out in the clear, strong gush of brilliant light! and then—all is darkness. The effect is so like magic, that one almost expects to see towering genii striding down the deep declivities, or startled by the brilliant flare, shake off their long sleep among the dense black shadows.

THE GOTHIC CHAPEL.

If you enter one of the caves revealed in the distance, you find yourself in a deep ravine, with huge piles of gray rock jutting out more and more, till they nearly meet at top. Looking upward, through this narrow aperture, you see, high, high above you, a vaulted roof of black rock, studded with brilliant spar, like constellations in the sky, seen at midnight, from the deep clefts of a mountain. This is called the Star Chamber. It makes one think of Schiller's grand description of William Tell sternly waiting for Gessler, among the shadows of the Alps, and of Wordsworth's picture of

"Yorkshire dales
Among the rocks and winding scars,
Where deep and low the hamlets lie,
Beneath their little patch of sky,
And little lot of stars."

THE STAR CHAMBER.

In this neighborhood is a vast, dreary chamber, which Stephen, the guide, called Bandit's Hall, the first moment his eye rested on it; and the name is singularly expressive of its character. Its ragged roughness and sullen gloom are indescribable. The floor is a mountainous heap of loose stones, and not an inch of even surface could be found on roof or walls. Imagine two or three travellers, with their lamps, passing through this place of evil aspect. The deep, suspicions-looking recesses and frightful crags are but partially revealed in the feeble light. All at once, a Bengal Light blazes up, and every black rock and frowning cliff stands out in the brilliant glare. The contrast is sublime beyond imagination. It is as if a man had seen the hills and trees of this earth only in the dim outline of a moonless night, and they should, for the first time, be revealed to him in the gushing glory of the morning sun. But the greatest wonder in this region of the cave, is Mammoth Dome—a giant among giants. It is so immensely high and vast, that three of the most powerful Bengal Lights illuminate it very imperfectly. That portion of the ceiling which becomes visible, is three hundred feet above your head, and remarkably resembles the aisles of Westminster Abbey. It is supposed that the top of this dome is near the surface of the ground. Another route from the Devil's Council Chamber conducts you to a smooth, level path, called Pensacola Avenue. Here are numerous formations of crystallized gypsum, but not as beautiful or as various as are found farther on. From various slopes and openings, caves above and below are visible. The Mecca's shrine of this pilgrimage is Angelica's Grotto, completely lined and covered with the largest and richest dog's tooth spar. A person who visited the place, a few years since, laid his sacrilegious hands upon it, while the guide's back was turned towards whim. He coolly demolished a magnificent mass of spar, sparkling most conspicuously on the very centre of the arch, and wrote his own insignificant name in its place. This was his fashion of securing immortality! It is well that fairies and giants are powerless in the nineteenth century, else had the indignant genii of the cave crushed his bones to impalpable powder.

THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.

If you pass behind Satan's Throne, by a narrow ascending path, you come into a vast hall where there is nothing but naked rock. This empty dreary place is appropriately called the Deserted Chamber. Walking along the verge, you arrive at another avenue, inclosing sulphur springs. Here the guide warns you of the vicinity of a pit, one hundred and twenty feet deep, in the shape of a saddle. Stooping over it, and looking upward, you see an abyss of precisely the same shape over head; a fact which indicates that it began in the upper region, and was merely interrupted by this chamber.

From this, you may enter a narrow and very tortuous path, called the Labyrinth, which leads to an immense split, or chasm, in the rocks. Here is placed a ladder, down which you descend twenty-five or thirty feet, and enter a narrow cave below, which brings you to a combination of rock called the Gothic Window. You stand in this recess, while the guided ascends huge cliffs overhead, and kindles Bengal Lights, by the help of which you see, two hundred feet above you, a Gothic dome of one solid rock, perfectly overawing in its vastness and height. Below, is an abyss of darkness, which no eye but the Eternal can fathom. If, instead of descending the ladder, you pass straight alongside the chasm, you arrive at the Bottomless Pit, beyond which no one ever ventured to proceed till 1838. To this fact we probably owe the meagre account given by Lieber, in the Encyclopædia Americana. He says, "This cave is more remarkable for extent, than the variety or beauty of its productions; having none of the beautiful stalactites found in many other caves." For a long period this pit was considered bottomless, because, when stones were thrown into it, they reverberated and reverberated along the sides, till lost to the ear, but seemed to find no resting place. It has since been sounded, and found to be one hundred and forty feet deep, with a soft muddy bottom, which returns no noise when a stone strikes upon it. In 1838, the adventurous Stephen threw a ladder across the chasm, and passed over. There is now a narrow bridge of two planks, with a little railing on each side; but as it is impossible to sustain it by piers, travellers must pass over in the centre, one by one, and not touch the railing, lest they disturb the balance, and overturn the bridge.

This walk brings you into Pensico Avenue. Hitherto, the path has been rugged, wild, and rough, interrupted by steep acclivities, rocks, and big stones; but this avenue has a smooth and level floor, as if the sand had been spread out by gently flowing waters. Through this, descending more and more, you come to a deep arch, by which you enter the Winding Way; a strangely irregular and zig-zag path, so narrow that a very stout man could not squeeze through. In some places, the rocks at the sides are on a line with your shoulders, then piled high over your head; and then again you rise above, and overlook them all, and see them heaped behind you, like the mighty waves of the Red Sea, parted for the Israelites to pass through. This toilsome path was evidently made by a rushing, winding torrent. Toward the close, the water not having force enough to make a smooth bed, has bored a tunnel. This is so low and narrow, that the traveller is obliged to stoop and squeeze himself through. Suddenly he passes into a vast hall, called the Great Relief; and this leads into the River Hall, at the side of which you have a glimpse of a small cave, called the Smoke House, because it is hung with rocks perfectly in the shape of hams. The River Hall descends like the slope of a mountain. The ceiling stretches away—away—before you, vast and grand as the firmament at midnight. No one, who has never seen this cave, can imagine the excitement, and awe, with which the traveller keeps his eye fixed on the rocky ceiling, which, gradually revealed in the passing light, continually exhibits some new and unexpected feature of sublimity or beauty.

One of the most picturesque sights in the world, is to see a file of men and women passing along these wild and craggy paths—slowly, slowly—that their lamps may have time to illuminate the sky-like ceiling, and gigantic walls; disappearing behind the high cliffs, sinking into ravines, their lights shining upward through fissures in the rocks; then suddenly emerging from some abrupt angle, standing in the bright gleam of their lamps, relieved against the towering black masses around them. He who could paint the infinite variety of creation, can alone give an adequate description of this marvellous region. At one side of River Hall is a steep precipice, over which you can look down, by aid of blazing missiles, upon a broad, black sheet of water, eighty feet below, called the Dead Sea. This is an awfully impressive place, the sights and sounds of which do not easily pass from memory. He who has seen it will have it vividly brought before him by Alfieri's description of Filippo: "Only a transient word or act gives us a short and dubious glimmer, that reveals to us the abysses of his being; dark, lurid, and terrific, as the throat of the infernal pool." As you pass along, you hear the roar of invisible waterfalls, and at the foot of the slope, the River Styx lies before you, deep and black, overarched with rock. The first glimpse of it brings to mind the descent of Ulysses into hell.

"Where the dark rock o'erhangs the infernal lake,
And mingling screams eternal murmurs make."

Across these unearthly waters, the guide can convey but two passengers at once; and these sit motionless in the canoe, with feet turned apart, so as not to disturb the balance. Three lamps are fastened to the prow, the images of which are reflected in the dismal pool.

If you are impatient of delay, or eager for new adventures, you can leave your companions lingering about the shore, and cross the Styx by a dangerous bridge of precipices overhead. In order to do this, you must ascend a steep cliff and enter a cave above, from an egress of which you find yourself on the bank of the river, eighty feet above its surface, commanding a view of those passing in the boat, and those waiting on the shore. Seen from this height, the lamps in the canoe glare like fiery eyeballs; and the passengers sitting there, so hushed and motionless, look like shadows. The scene is so strangely funereal and spectral, that it seems as if the Greeks must have witnessed it, before they imagined Charon conveying ghosts to the dim regions of Pluto. Your companions, thus seen, do indeed—

"Skim along the dusky glades,
Thin airy shoals, and visionary shades."

THE RIVER STYX.

If you turn your eye from the canoe, to the parties of men and women, whom you left waiting on the shore, you will see them, by the gleam of their lamps, scattered in picturesque groups, looming out in bold relief from the dense darkness around them.

When you have passed the Styx, you soon meet another stream, appropriately called Lethe. The echoes here are absolutely stunning. A single voice sounds like a powerful choir; and could an organ be played, it would deprive the hearer of his senses. When you have crossed, you enter a high level hall, named the Great Walk, half a mile of which brings you to another river, called the Jordan. In crossing this, the rocks, in one place, descend so low, as to leave only eighteen inches for the boat to pass through. Passengers are obliged to double up, and lie on each other's shoulders till this gap is passed. This uncomfortable position is, however, of short duration, and you suddenly emerge to where the vault of the cave is more than a hundred feet high. In the fall of the year, this river often rises, almost instantaneously, over fifty feet above low-water mark; a phenomenon supposed to be caused by heavy rains from the upper earth. On this account, autumn is an unfavorable season for those who wish to explore the cave throughout. If parties happen to be caught on the other side of Jordan, when the sudden rise takes place, a boat conveys them, on the swollen waters, to the level of an upper cave, so low that they are obliged to enter on hands and knees, and crawl through. This place is called Purgatory. People on the other side, aware of their danger, have a boat in readiness to receive them. The guide usually sings while crossing the Jordan, and his voice is reverberated by a choir of sweet echoes. The only animals ever found in the cave are fish, with which this stream abounds. They are perfectly white, and without eyes; at least, they have been subjected to a careful scientific examination, and no organ similar to an eye can be discovered. It would indeed be a useless appendage to creatures that dwell for ever in Cimmerian darkness. But, as usual, the acuteness of one sense is increased by the absence of another. These fish are undisturbed by the most powerful glare of light, but they are alarmed at the slightest agitation of the water; and it is therefore exceedingly difficult to catch them.

The rivers of Mammoth Cave were never crossed till 1840. Great efforts have been made to discover whence they come, and whither they go. But though the courageous Stephen has floated for hours up to his chin, and forced his way through the narrowest apertures under the dark waves, so as to leave merely his head a breathing space, yet they still remain as much a mystery as ever—without beginning or end, like eternity. They disappear under arches, which, even at the lowest stage of the water, are under the surface of it. From an unknown cause, it sometimes happens in the neighborhood of these streams, that the figure of a distant companion will apparently loom up, to the height of ten or twelve feet, as he approaches you. This occasional phenomenon is somewhat frightful, even to the most rational observer, occurring as it does in a region so naturally associated with giants and genii.

From the Jordan, through Silliman's Avenue, you enter a high, narrow defile, or pass, in a portion of which, called the Hanging Rocks, huge masses of stone hang suspended over your head. At the side of this defile, is a recess, called the Devil's Blacksmith's Shop. It contains a rock shaped like an anvil, with a small inky current running near it, and quantities of coarse stalagmite scattered about, precisely like blacksmith's cinders, called slag. In another place, you pass a square rock, covered with beautiful dog's tooth spar, called the Mile Stone.

This pass brings you into Wellington's Gallery, which tapers off to a narrow point, apparently the end of the cave in this direction. But a ladder is placed on one side by which you ascend to a small cleft in the rock, through which you are at once ushered into a vast apartment, discovered about two years ago. This is the commencement of Cleveland's Avenue, the crowning wonder and glory of this subterranean world. At the head of the ladder, you find yourself surrounded by overhanging stalactites, in the form of rich clusters of grapes, transparent to the light, hard as marble, and round and polished, as if done by a sculptor's hand. This is called Mary's Vineyard; and from it, an entrance to the right brings you into a perfectly naked cave, whence you suddenly pass into a large hall, with magnificent columns, and rich festoons of stalactite, in various forms of beautiful combination. In the centre of this chamber, between columns of stalactite, stands a mass of stalagmite, shaped like a sarcophagus, in which is an opening like a grave. A Roman Catholic priest first discovered this, about a year ago, and with fervent enthusiasm exclaimed, "The Holy Sepulchre!" a name which it has since borne.

To the left of Mary's Vineyard, is an inclosure like an arbor, the ceiling and sides of which are studded with snow-white crystallized gypsum, in the form of all sorts of flowers. It is impossible to convey an idea of the exquisite beauty and infinite variety of these delicate formations. In some places, roses and lilies seem cut on the rock, in bas-relief; in others, a graceful bell rises on a long stalk, so slender that it bends at a breath. One is an admirable imitation of Indian corn in tassel, the silky fibres as fine and flexile as can be imagined; another is a group of ostrich plumes, so downy that a zephyr waves it. In some nooks were little parks of trees, in others, gracefully curled leaves like the Acanthus, rose from the very bosom of the rock. Near this room is the Snow Chamber, the roof and sides of which are covered with particles of brilliant white gypsum, as if snowballs had been dashed all over the walls. In another apartment the crystals are all in the form of rosettes. In another, called Rebecca's Garland, the flowers have all arranged themselves into wreaths. Each seems to have a style of formations peculiar to itself, though of infinite variety. Days might be spent in these superb grottoes, without becoming familiar with half their hidden glories. One could imagine that some antediluvian giant had here imprisoned some fair daughter of earth, and then in pity for her loneliness, had employed fairies to deck her bowers with all the splendor of earth and ocean. Like poor Amy Robsart, in the solitary halls of Cumnor. Bengal Lights, kindled in these beautiful retreats, produce an effect more gorgeous than any theatrical representation of fairyland; but they smoke the pure white incrustations, and the guide is therefore very properly reluctant to have them used. The reflection from the shining walls is so strong, that lamplight is quite sufficient. Moreover, these wonderful formations need to be examined slowly and in detail. The universal glitter of the Lights is worthless in comparison. From Rebecca's Garland you come into a vast hall, of great height, covered with shining drops of gypsum, like oozing water petrified. In the centre is a large rock, four feet high, and level at top, round which several hundred people can sit conveniently. This is called Cornelia's Table, and is frequently used for parties to dine upon. In this hall, and in Wellington's Gallery, are deposits of fibrous gypsum, snow-white, dry, and resembling asbestos. Geologists, who sometimes take up their abode in the cave for weeks, and other travellers who choose to remain over night, find this a very pleasant and comfortable bed.

Cornelia's Table is a safe centre, from which individuals may diverge on little exploring expeditions; for the paths here are not labyrinthine, and the hall is conspicuous from various neighboring points of view. In most regions of the cave, it is hazardous to lose sight of the guide. If you think to walk straight ahead, even for a few rods, and then turn short round and return to him, you will find it next to impossible to do so. So many paths come in at acute angles; they look so much alike; and the light of a lamp reveals them so imperfectly, that none but the practised eye of a guide can disentangle their windings. A gentleman who retraced a few steps, near the entrance of the cave, to find his hat, lost his way so completely, that he was not found for forty-eight hours, though twenty or thirty people were in search of him. Parties are occasionally mustered and counted, to see that none are missing. Should such an accident happen, there is no danger, if the wanderer will remain stationary; for he will soon be missed, and a guide sent after him. From the hall of congealed drops, you may branch off into a succession of small caves, called Cecilia's Grottoes. Here nearly all the beautiful formations of the surrounding caves, such as grapes, flowers, stars, leaves, coral, &c., may be found so low, that you can conveniently examine their minutest features. One of these little recesses, covered with sparkling spar, set in silvery gypsum, is called Diamond Grotto. Alma's Bower closes this series of wonderful formations. As a whole, they are called Cleveland's Cabinet, in honor of Professor Cleveland, of Bowdoin College. Silliman calls this admirable series, the Alabaster Caves. He says: "I was at first at a loss to account for such beautiful formations, and especially for the elegance of the curves exhibited. It is however evident that the substances have grown from the rocks, by increments or additions to the base; the solid parts already formed being continually pushed forward. If the growth be a little more rapid on one side than on the other, a well-proportioned curve will be the result; should the increased action on one side diminish or increase, then all the beauties of the conic and mixed curves would be produced. The masses are often evenly and longitudinally striated by a kind of columnar structure, exhibiting a fascicle of small prisms; and some of these prisms ending sooner than others, give a broken termination of great beauty, similar to our form of the emblem of 'the order of the star.' The rosettes formed by a mammillary disk surrounded by a circle of leaves, rolled elegantly outward, are from four inches to a foot in diameter. Tortuous vines, throwing off curled leaves at every flexure, like the branches of a chandelier, running more than a foot in length, and not thicker than the finger, are among the varied frost-work of these grottoes; common stalactites of carbonate of lime, although beautiful objects, lose by contrast with these ornaments, and dwindle into mere clumsy, awkward icicles. Besides these, there are tufts of 'hair salt,' native sulphate of magnesia, depending like adhering snowballs from the roof, and periodically detaching themselves by their own increasing weight. Indeed, the more solid alabaster ornaments become at last overgrown, and fall upon the floor of the grotto, which was found covered with numbers quite entire, besides fragments of others broken by the fall."

A distinguished geologist has said that he believed Cleveland's Avenue, two miles in length, contained a petrified form of every vegetable production on earth. If this be too large a statement, it is at least safe to say that its variety is almost infinite. Amongst its other productions, are large piles of Epsom salts, beautifully crystallized. Travellers have shown such wanton destructiveness in this great temple of Nature—mutilating beautiful columns, knocking off spar, and crushing delicate flowers—that the rules are now very strict. It is allowable to touch nothing, except the ornaments which have loosened and dropped by their own weight. These are often hard enough to bear transportation.

After you leave Alma's Bower, the cave again becomes very rugged. Beautiful combinations of gypsum and spar may still be seen occasionally overhead: but all round you rocks and stones are piled up in the wildest manner. Through such scraggy scenery, you come to the Rocky Mountains, an irregular pile of massive rocks, from 100 to 150 feet high. From these you can look down into Dismal Hollow—deep below deep—the most frightful looking place in the whole cave. On the top of the mountain is a beautiful rotunda, called Croghan Hall, in honor of the proprietor. Stalactites surround this in the richest fringe of icicles, and lie scattered about the walls in all shapes, as if arranged for a museum. On one side is a stalagmite formation like a pine-tree, about five feet high, with regular leaves and branches; another is in a pyramidal form, like a cypress.

If you wind down the mountains on the side opposite from that which you ascended, you will come to Serena's Arbor, which is thirteen miles from the entrance of the cave, and the end of this avenue. A most beautiful termination it is! In a semicircle of stalactite columns is a fountain of pure water spouting up from a rock. This fluid is as transparent as air; all the earthy particles it ever held in suspension, having been long since precipitated. The stalactite formations in this arbor are remarkably beautiful.

One hundred and sixty-five avenues have been discovered in Mammoth Cave, the walk through which is estimated at about three hundred miles. In some places, you descend more than a mile into the bowels of the earth. The poetic-minded traveller, after he has traced all the labyrinths, departs with lingering reluctance. As he approaches the entrance, daylight greets him with new and startling beauty. If the sun shines on the verdant sloping hill, and the waving trees, seen through the arch, they seem like fluid gold; if mere daylight rests upon them, they resemble molten silver. This remarkable richness of appearance is doubtless owing to the contrast with the thick darkness, to which the eye has been so long accustomed.

As you come out of the cave, the temperature of the air rises thirty degrees instantly (if the season is summer), and you feel as if plunged in a hot vapor bath; but the effects of this are salutary and not unpleasant. Nature never seems so miraculous as it does when you emerge from this hidden realm of marvellous imitations. The "dear goddess" is so serene in her resplendent and more harmonious beauty! The gorgeous amphitheatre of trees, the hills, the sky, and the air, all seem to wear a veil of transfigured glory. The traveller feels that he was never before conscious how beautiful a phenomenon is the sunlight, how magnificent the blue arch of heaven!

There are three guides at the service of travellers, all well versed in the intricate paths of this nether world. Stephen, the presiding genius of Mammoth Cave, is a mulatto, and a slave. He has lived in this strange region from boyhood, and a large proportion of the discoveries are the result of his courage, intelligence, and untiring zeal. His vocation has brought him into contact with many intellectual and scientific men, and a prodigious memory, he has profited much by intercourse with superior minds. He can recollect every body that ever visited the cave, and all the terms of geology and mineralogy are at his tongue's end. He is extremely attentive, and peculiarly polite to ladies. Like most of his race, he is fond of grandiloquent language, and his rapturous expressions, as he lights up some fine point of view, are at times fine specimens of glorification. His knowledge of the place is ample and accurate, and he is altogether an extremely useful and agreeable guide.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] See engraving of this hotel in the International for August, 1851.

THE POEM OF THE MONTH.

The finest new poem that has fallen under our notice is the following, from Graham's Magazine for the present month. We think few who have read Miss Carey's recent poems entitled Lyra, Jessie Carol, October, and The Winds, with her prose volume just published by Redfield, will be disposed to question, that in the brief period in which she has been before the public she has entitled herself to the highest rank among the living literary women of the United States.

WINTER, BY ALICE CAREY.

Now sits the twilight palaced in the snow,
Hugging away beneath a fleece of gold
Her statue beauties, dumb and icy cold,
And fixing her blue steadfast eyes below,
Where in a bed of chilly waves afar,
With dismal shadows o'er her sweet face blown,
Tended to death by eve's delicious star,
Lies the lost day alone.

Where late, with red mists bound about his brows,
Went the swart Autumn, wading to the knees
Through drifts of dead leaves shaken from the boughs
Of the old forest trees,
The gusts upon their baleful errands run
O'er the bright ruin, fading from our eyes,
And over all, like clouds about the sun,
A shadow lies.

For, fallen asleep upon a dreary world,
Slant to the light, one late October morn,
From some rough cavern blew a tempest cold,
And tearing off his garland of ripe corn,
Twisted with blue grapes, sweet with delicious wine,
And Ceres' drowsy flowers, so dully red,
Deep in his cavern leafy and divine,
Buried him with his dead.

Then, with big black beard glistening in the frost,
Under the icy arches of the north,
And o'er the still graves of the seasons lost,
Blustered the Winter forth—
Spring, with your crown of roses budding new,
Thought-nursing and most melancholy Fall,
Summer, with bloomy meadows wet with dew,
Blighting your beauties all.

Oh heart, your spring-time dream will idle prove,
Your summer but forerun the autumn's death,
The flowery arches in the home of love
Fall crumbling, at a breath;
And, sick at last with that great sorrow's shock,
As some poor prisoner, pressing to the bars
His forehead, calls on Mercy to unlock
The chambers of the stars—
You, turning off from life's first mocking glow
Leaning it may be, still on broken faith,
Will down the vale of Autumn gladly go
To the chill winter, Death.

Hark! from the empty bosom of the grove
I hear a sob, as one forlorn might pine—
The white-limbed beauty of a god is thine,
King of the seasons! and the night that hoods
Thy brow majestic, brightest stars enweave—
Thou surely canst not grieve;

But only far away
Makest stormy prophecies; well, lift them higher,
Till morning on the forehead of the day
Presses a seal of fire
Dearer to me the scene
Of nature shrinking from thy rough embrace,
Than Summer, with her rustling robe of green,
Cool blowing in my face.

The moon is up—how still the yellow beams
That slantwise lie upon the stirless air,
Sprinkled with frost, like pearl-entangled hair,
O'er beauty's cheeks that streams,
How the red light of Mars their pallor mocks.
And the wild legend from the old time wins,
Of sweet waves kissing all the drowning locks
Of Ilia's lovely twins.

Come, Poesy, and with thy shadowy hands
Cover me softly, singing all the night—
In thy dear presence find I best delight;
Even the saint that stands
Tending the gate of heaven, involved in beams
Of rarest glory, to my mortal eyes
Pales from the blest insanity of dreams
That round thee lies.

Unto the dusky borders of the grove
Where gray-haired Saturn, silent as a stone,
Sat in his grief alone,
Or where young Venus, searching for her love,
Walked through the clouds, I pray,
Bear me to-night away.

Or wade with me through snows
Drifted in loose fantastic curves aside,
From humble doors where Love and Faith abide,
And no rough winter blows,
Chilling the beauty of affections fair,
Cabined securely there.

Where round their fingers winding the white slips
That crown his forehead, on the grandsire's knees,
Sit merry children, teasing about ships
Lost in the perilous seas;
Or listening with a troublous joy, yet deep,
To stories about battles, or of storms,
Till weary grown, and drowsing into sleep,
Slide they from out his arms.

Where, by the log-heap fire,
As the pane rattles and the cricket sings,
I with the gray-haired sire
May talk of vanished summer-times and springs,
And harmlessly and cheerfully beguile
The long, long hours—
The happier for the snows that drift the while
About the flowers.

Winter, wilt keep the love I offer thee?
No mesh of flowers is bound about my brow;
From life's fair summer I am hastening now,
And as I sink my knee,
Dimpling the beauty of thy bed of snow—
Dowerless, I can but say—
O, cast me not away!

CARLYLE ON THE OPERA.

The London Keepsake, for 1852, contains an article by Carlyle. He has not sent something that was at hand, or thrown off any thing on the spur of the moment, but set himself to write down to his company, and do his best in that way. The paper is written in the character of a travelling and philosophical American, who pours forth his thoughts on the opera; the topics being the deterioration of music as an art, the small beneficial result that follows so much outlay and such a combination of artistical skill, the amount of training bestowed on the singers and dancers, greater than that which produces great men, and the company before the curtain, together with reflections thereanent. It is a piece of forcible description, and of thoughtful though perhaps rather one-sided reflection. As we heard it remarked a few days ago by a shrewd critic, Carlyle is never so much himself as when he appears in the character of another—for examples, in that of the strolling lecturer, who left with his unpaid lodging-house keeper a denunciation of modern philanthropists, or in that of the correspondent whose letters he quotes in the Life of Sterling. In the disguise of a Yankee philosopher he thus breaks out, after some serious and highly-wrought prefatory phrases on the glories of true music, while yet true music partook of the divine:

"Of the account of the Haymarket Opera my account, in fine, is this: Lustres, candelabras, painting, gilding at discretion: a hall as of the Caliph Alraschid, or him that commanded the slaves of the Lamp; a hall as if fitted up by the genies, regardless of expense. Upholstery and the outlay of human capital, could do no more. Artists, too, as they are called, have been got together from the ends of the world, regardless likewise of expense, to do dancing and singing, some of them even geniuses in their craft. One singer in particular, called Coletti, or some such name, seemed to me, by the cast of his face, by the tones of his voice, by his general bearing, so far as I could read it, to be a man of deep and ardent sensibilities, of delicate intuitions, just sympathies; originally an almost poetic soul, or man of genius, as we term it; stamped by Nature as capable of far other work than squalling here, like a blind Samson to make the Philistines sport! Nay, all of them had aptitudes, perhaps of a distinguished kind; and must, by their own and other people's labor, have got a training equal or superior in toilsomeness, earnest assiduity, and patient travail, to what breeds men to the most arduous trades. I speak not of kings' grandees, or the like show-figures; but few soldiers, judges, men of letters, can have had such pains taken with them. The very ballet girls, with their muslin saucers round them, were perhaps little short of miraculous; whirling and spinning there in strange mad vortexes, and then suddenly fixing themselves motionless, each upon her left or right great-toe, with the other leg stretched out at an angle of ninety degrees;—as if you had suddenly pricked into the floor, by one of their points, a pair, or rather a multitudinous cohort, of mad restlessly jumping and clipping scissors, and so bidden them rest, with opened blades, and stand still, in the Devil's name! A truly notable motion; marvellous, almost miraculous, were not the people there so used to it. Motion peculiar to the Opera; perhaps the ugliest, and surely one of the most difficult, ever taught a female creature in this world. Nature abhors it; but Art does at least admit it to border on the impossible. One little Cerito, or Taglioni the Second, that night when I was there, went bounding from the floor as if she had been made of Indian-rubber, or filled with hydrogen gas, and inclined by positive levity to bolt through the ceiling; perhaps neither Semiramis nor Catherine the Second had bred herself so carefully. Such talent, and such martyrdom of training, gathered from the four winds, was now here, to do its feat, and be paid for it. Regardless of expense, indeed! The purse of Fortunatus seemed to have opened itself, and the divine art of Musical Sound and Rhythmic Motion was welcomed with an explosion of all the magnificences which the other arts, fine and coarse, could achieve. For you are to think of some Rossini or Bellini in the rear of it, too; to say nothing of the Stanfields, and hosts of scene-painters, machinists, engineers, enterprisers—fit to have taken Gibraltar, written the History of England, or reduced Ireland into Industrial Regiments, had they so set their minds to it!

"Alas, and of all these notable or noticeable human talents, and excellent perseverances and energies, backed by mountains of wealth, and led by the divine art of Music and Rhythm vouchsafed by Heaven to them and us, what was to be the issue here this evening? An hour's amusement, not amusing either, but wearisome and dreary, to a high-dizened select populace of male and female persons, who seemed to me not worth much amusing! Could any one have pealed into their hearts once, one true thought, and glimse of Self-vision: 'High-dizened most expensive persons, Aristocracy so called, or Best of the World, beware, beware what proofs you give of betterness and bestness!' and then the salutary pang of conscience in reply: 'A select Populace, with money in its purse, and drilled a little by the posture-maker: good Heavens! if that were what, here and every where in God's Creation, I am? And a world all dying because I am, and show myself to be, and to have long been, even that? John, the carriage, the carriage; swift! Let me go home in silence, to reflection, perhaps to sackcloth and ashes!' This, and not amusement, would have profited those high-dizened persons.

"Amusement, at any rate, they did not get from Euterpe and Melpomene. These two Muses, sent for, regardless of expense, I could see, were but the vehicle of a kind of service which I judged to be Paphian rather. Young beauties of both sexes used their opera-glasses, you could notice, not entirely for looking at the stage. And it must be owned the light, in this explosion of all the upholsteries, and the human fine arts and coarse, was magical; and made your fair one an Armida,—if you liked her better so. Nay, certain old Improper-Females (of quality), in their rouge and jewels, even these looked some reminiscence of enchantment; and I saw this and the other lean domestic Dandy, with icy smile on his old worn face; this and the other Marquis Singedelomme, Prince Mahogany, or the like foreign Dignitary, tripping into the boxes of said females, grinning there awhile with dyed moustachios and macassar-oil graciosity, and then tripping out again;—and, in fact, I perceived that Colletti and Cerito and the Rhythmic Arts were a mere accompaniment here.

"Wonderful to see; and sad, if you had eyes! Do but think of it. Cleopatra threw pearls into her drink, in mere waste; which was reckoned foolish of her. But here had the Modern Aristocracy of men brought the divinest of its Arts, heavenly Music itself; and, piling all the upholsteries and ingenuities that other human art could do, had lighted them into a bonfire to illuminate an hour's flirtation of Singedelomme, Mahogany, and these improper persons! Never in Nature had I seen such waste before. O Colletti, you whose inborn melody, once of kindred as I judged to 'the Melodies eternal,' might have valiantly weeded out this and the other false thing from the ways of men, and made a bit of God's creation more melodious,—they have purchased you away from that; chained you to the wheel of Prince Mahogany's chariot, and here you make sport for a macassar Singedelomme and his improper-females past the prime of life! Wretched spiritual Nigger, oh, if you had some genius, and were not a born Nigger with mere appetite for pumpkin, should you have endured such a lot? I lament for you beyond all other expenses. Other expenses are light; you are the Cleopatra's pearl that should not have been flung into Mahogany's claret-cup. And Rossini, too, and Mozart and Bellini—Oh, Heavens, when I think that Music too is condemned to be mad and to burn herself, to this end, on such a funeral pile,—your celestial Opera-house grows dark and infernal to me! Behind its glitter stalks the shadow of Eternal Death; through it too I look not 'up into the divine eye,' as Richter has it, 'but down into the bottomless eyesocket'—not up towards God, Heaven, and the Throne of Truth, but too truly down towards Falsity, Vacuity, and the Dwelling-place of Everlasting Despair."

THE GRAVE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

Sir John Richardson has just published, in London, a very valuable work, embracing the results of his recent travels and adventures in the polar regions, in search of the brave navigator who is probably buried under their eternal snows. As a narrative it is not particularly interesting; it is rich rather in scientific facts and observations. It has northern landscapes, painted by an observer who combines scientific knowledge with the taste of a lover of nature; exhibitions of zeal and endurance under hardships; and incidents interesting from their rarity or their circumstances; but nothing different from other expeditions undertaken to explore the same region. A large part of the scientific matter is presented by itself. A curious account of the Indian races whose territories were travelled over forms a succession of separate chapters, and a series of elaborate papers on the physical geography of northern America occupies an appendix, which fills nearly two-thirds of the second volume. The nature of the country explored gives a freshness to every thing connected with it, and interest even to casual observation.

This is a curious fact connected with the feeling of heat:

"The power of the sun this day in a cloudless sky was so great, that Mr. Rae and I were glad to take shelter in the water while the crews were engaged on the portages. The irritability of the human frame is either greater in these Northern latitudes, or the sun, notwithstanding its obliquity, acts more powerfully upon it than near the Equator; for I have never felt its direct rays so oppressive within the Tropics as I have experienced them to be on some occasions in the high latitudes. The luxury of bathing at such times is not without alloy; for, if you choose the mid-day, you are assailed in the water by the tabani, who draw blood in an instant with their formidable lancets; and if you select the morning or evening, then clouds of thirsty moschetoes, hovering around, fasten on the first part that emerges. Leeches also infest the still waters, and are prompt in their aggressions."

The following relate to cold and mid-winter:

"The rapid evaporation of both snow and ice in the winter and spring, long before the action of the sun has produced the slightest thaw or appearance of moisture, is made evident to residents in the high latitudes by many facts of daily occurrence; and I may mention that the drying of linen furnishes a familiar one. When a shirt, after being washed, is exposed in the open air to a temperature of 40° or 50° below zero, it is instantly rigidly frozen, and may be broken if violently bent. If agitated when in this condition by a strong wind, it makes a rustling noise like theatrical thunder. In an hour or two, however, or nearly as quickly as it would do if exposed to the sun in the moist climate of England, it dries and becomes limber....

"In consequence of the extreme dryness of the atmosphere in winter, most articles of English manufacture made of wood, horn, or ivory, brought to Rupert's Land, are shrivelled, bent, and broken. The handles of razors and knives, combs, ivory scales, and various other things kept in the warm rooms, are damaged in this way. The human body also becomes visibly electric from the dryness of the skin. One cold night I rose from my bed, and having lighted a lantern, was going out to observe the thermometer, with no other clothing than my flannel night-dress, when, on approaching my hand to the iron latch of the door, a distinct spark was elicited. Friction of the skin at almost all times in winter produced the electric odor....

"Even at mid-winter we had three hours and a half of daylight. On the 20th of December I required a candle to write at the window at ten in the morning. On the 29th, the sun, after ten days' absence, rose at the fishery, where the horizon was open; and on the 8th of January, both limbs of that luminary were seen from a gentle eminence behind the fort, rising above the centre of Fishery Island. For several days previously, however, its place in the heavens at noon had been denoted by rays of light shooting into the sky above the woods. The lowest temperature in January was 50° F. On the 1st of February the sun rose to us at nine o'clock and set at three, and the days lengthened rapidly. On the 23d I could write in my room without artificial light from ten a.m. to half-past two p.m., making four hours and a half of bright daylight. The moon in the long nights was a most beautiful object; that satellite being constantly above the horizon for nearly a fortnight together in the middle of the lunar month. Venus also shone with a brilliancy which is never witnessed in a sky loaded with vapors; and, unless in snowy weather, our nights were always enlivened by the beams of the Aurora."

Few if any readers will ever be in a situation to use the knowledge of how to build a snow-house. The Arctic architecture, from a chapter on the Esquimaux, is worth reading, should it never turn out to be worth knowing:

"As the days lengthen, the villages are emptied of their inhabitants, who move seaward on the ice to the seal-hunt. Then comes into use a marvellous system of architecture, unknown among the rest of the American nations. The fine pure snow has by that time acquired, under the action of strong winds and hard frosts, sufficient coherence to form an admirable light building material, with which the Eskimo master-mason erects most comfortable dome-shaped houses. A circle is first traced on the smooth surface of the snow; and the slabs for raising the walls are cut from within, so as to clear a space down to the ice, which is to form the floor of the dwelling, and whose evenness was previously ascertained by probing. The slabs requisite to complete the dome, after the interior of the circle is exhausted, are cut from some neighboring spot. Each slab is neatly fitted to its place by running a flenching-knife along the joint, when it instantly freezes to the wall, the cold atmosphere forming a most excellent cement. Crevices are plugged up, and seams accurately closed by throwing a few shovelfuls of loose snow over the fabric. Two men generally work together in raising a house, and the one who is stationed within cuts a low door, and creeps out when his task is over. The walls being only three or four inches thick, are sufficiently translucent to admit a very agreeable light, which serves for ordinary domestic purposes; but if more be required a window is cut, and the aperture fitted with a piece of transparent ice. The proper thickness of the walls is of some importance. A few inches excludes the wind, yet keeps down the temperature so as to prevent dripping from the interior. The furniture—such as seats, tables, and sleeping-places—is also formed of snow, and a covering of folded reindeer-skin or seal-skin renders them comfortable to the inmates. By means of ante-chambers and porches, in form of long, low galleries, with their openings turned to leeward, warmth is insured in the interior; and social intercourse is promoted by building the houses contiguously, and cutting doors of communication between them, or by erecting covered passages. Storehouses, kitchens and other accessory buildings, may be constructed in the same manner, and a degree of convenience gained which would be attempted in vain with a less plastic material. These houses are durable, the wind has little effect on them, and they resist the thaw until the sun acquires very considerable power."

The following account of the formation of dry land is from an earlier portion of the journey, and refers to a region between the 50th and 55th degrees of latitude:

"The eastern coast-line of Lake Winipeg is in general swampy, with granite knolls rising through the soil, but not to such a height as to render the scenery hilly. The pine forest skirts the shore at the distance of two or three miles, covering gently-rising lands; and the breadth of continuous lake-surface seems to be in process of diminution, in the following way. A bank of sand is first drifted up, in the line of a chain of rocks which may happen to lie across the mouth of an inlet or deep bay. Carices, balsam-poplars, and willows, speedily take root therein; and the basin which lies behind, cut off from the parent lake, is gradually converted into a marsh by the luxuriant growth of aquatic plants. The sweet gale next appears on its borders, and drift-wood, much of it rotten and comminuted, is thrown up on the exterior bank, together with some roots and stems of larger trees. The first spring storm covers these with sand, and in a few weeks the vigorous vegetation of a short but active summer binds the whole together by a network of the roots of bents and willows. Quantities of drift-sand pass before the high winds into the swamp behind, and, weighing down the flags and willow branches, prepare a fit soil for succeeding crops. During the winter of this climate, all remains fixed as the summer left it; and as the next season is far advanced before the bank thaws, little of it washes back into the water, but on the contrary, every gale blowing from the lake brings a fresh supply of sand from the shoals which are continually forming along the shore. The floods raised by melting snows cut narrow channels through the frozen beach, by which the ponds behind are drained of their superfluous waters. As the soil gradually acquires depth, the balsam-poplars and aspens overpower the willows; which, however, continue to form a line of demarcation between the lake and the encroaching forest. Considerable sheets of water, are also cut off on the northwest side of the lake, where the bird's-eye limestone forms the whole of the coast. Very recently this corner was deeply indented by narrow branching bays, whose outer points were limestone cliffs. Under the action of frost, the thin horizontal beds of this stone split up, crevices are formed perpendicularly, large blocks are detached, and the cliff is rapidly overthrown, soon becoming masked by its own ruins. In a season or two the slabs break into small fragments, which are tossed up by the waves across the neck of the bay into the form of narrow ridgelike beaches, from twenty to thirty feet high. Mud and vegetable matter gradually fill up the pieces of water thus secluded; a willow swamp is formed; and when the ground is somewhat consolidated, the willows are replaced by aspens."

The volumes have all the value of an official survey, and they are the most important contributions to our knowledge of the Terra Incognita of the Lower Mackenzie, that have been published. The occupants of this region are the Loucheux Indians. Fine grown men of considerable stature, and well-knit frames, they have evidently followed the course of the Mackenzie River, from south to north. These are the Indians of whom from the scantiness of our previous data, information is most valuable. They are reasonably considered to belong to the same family as the Dog-rib, Beaver, Hare, Copper, Carrier, and other Indians, a family which some call Chepewyan, others Athabascan, but which the present work designates as Tinnè. The Esquimo and Crees, though as fully described, are better known. The chapters, illustrative of the other branches of the natural history of North America, are equally valuable.

WITS ABOUT THE THRONE OF LOUIS THE FOURTEENTH.

We copy the following paragraphs from Sir James Stephens's Lectures on the History of France. The illustrious men referred to are of course well known by educated men, but to the masses their names are familiar chiefly from their appearance in the brilliant romances of Dumas.

"The constellation of genius, wit, and learning, in the midst of which Louis shone thus pre-eminently, was too brilliant to be obscured by any clouds of royal disfavor; nor would any man have shrunken with greater abhorrence than himself, from any attempt to extinguish or to eclipse their splendor. He wisely felt, and frankly acknowledged, that, their glory was essential to his own; and he invited to a seat at his table, Moliere the roturier, to whom the lowest of his nobles would have appointed a place among his menial servants. As Francis, and Charles, and Leo, and Julius, and Lorenzo had assigned science, and poetry, and painting, and architecture, and sculpture, as their appropriate provinces, to those great master spirits of Italy, to whom they forbade the culture of political philosophy, so Louis, when he interdicted to the gigantic intellects of his times and country all intervention in the affairs of the commonwealth, summoned them to the conquest of all the other realms of thought in which they might acquire renown, either for him, for France, or themselves. The theatres, the academies, the pulpits, and the monasteries of his kingdom rivalled each other in their zealous obedience to that royal command, and obeyed it with a success from which no competent and equitable judge can withhold his highest admiration. At this day, when all the illusions of the name of Louis are exhausted, and in this country, where his Augustan age has seldom been regarded with much enthusiasm, who can seriously address himself to the perusal of his great tragedians, Corneille and Racine—or of his great comedians, Moliere and Regnard—or if his great poets, Boileau and La Fontaine—or of his great wits, La Rochfaucauld and La Bruyere—or of his great philosophers, Des Cartes and Pascal—or of his great divines, Bossuet and Arnauld—or of his great scholars, Mabillon and Montfaucon—or if his great preachers, Bourdaloue and Masillon—and not confess that no other monarch was ever surrounded by an assemblage of men of genius so admirable for the extent, the variety and the perfection of their powers.

"And yet the fact that such an assemblage were clustered into a group, of which so great a king was the centre, implies that there must have been some characteristic quality uniting them all to each other and to him, and distinguishing them all from the nobles of every other literary commonwealth which has existed among men. What, then, was that quality, and what its influence upon them?

"Louis lived with his courtiers, not as a despot among his slaves, but as the most accomplished of gentlemen among his associates. The social equality was, however, always guarded from abuse by the most punctilious observance, on their side, of the reverence due to his pre-eminent rank. In that enchanted circle men appeared at least to obey, not from a hard necessity, but from a willing heart. The bondage in which they really lived was ennobled by that conventional code of honor which dictated and enforced it. They prostrated themselves before their fellow-man with no sense of self-abasement, and the chivalrous homage with which they gratified him, was considered as imparting dignity to themselves.

"Louis acknowledged and repaid this tribute of courtesy, by a condescension still more refined, and by attentions yet more delicate than their own. The harshness of power was so ingeniously veiled, every shade of approbation was so nicely marked, and every gradation of favor so finely discriminated, that the tact of good society—that acquired sense, which reveals to us the impression we make on those with whom we associate—became the indispensable condition of existence at Versailles and Marly. The inmates of those palaces lived under a law peculiar to themselves; a law most effective for its purposes, though the recompense it awarded to those who pleased their common master was but his smile, and though the penalty it imposed on those who displeased him was but his frown."

AMERICAN WAR-ENGINES.

The probabilities of a general war in Europe invest the subject of the following paper with an unusual interest. It is worthy of notice that America has furnished so large a proportion of the improvements in war-engines of every description. Fulton's schemes are well known; we all remember something of the guns invented by Perkins; there is a gentleman now in daily conference with Mazzini and the revolutionary committees, in London, who proposes the noiseless discharge of twenty thousand missiles in a minute, by means of a machine invented in Ohio; and we find in the Times an abstract of a paper read at the Institution of Civil Engineers, on the 25th of November, by our famous countryman Colonel Colt, "On the Application of Machinery to the Manufacture of Rotating Chambered-Breech Fire-Arms, and the Peculiarities of those Arms." The communication commenced with a historical account of such rotating chamber fire-arms as had been discovered by the author, in his researches after specimens of the early efforts of armorers for the construction of repeating weapons, the necessity for which appears to have been long ago admitted; and with the attention of such an intelligent class devoted to the subject, it is certainly remarkable that during so long a period so little was really effected towards the production of serviceable weapons of this sort. The collections in the Tower of London, the United Service Museum, the Rotunda at Woolwich, Warwick Castle, the Musée d'Artillerie, and the Hotel Cluny, at Paris, as well as some ancient Eastern arms brought from India by Lord William Bentinck, demonstrated the early efforts that had been made to produce arms capable of rapidly firing several times consecutively, without the delay of loading after each discharge. Drawings of these specimens were exhibited, comprising the match-lock, the pyrites wheel-lock, the flint-lock, down to the percussion-lock, as adapted by the author. Among the match-lock guns, some had as many as eight chambers, rotating by hand. Some of the pyrites wheel-lock guns had also as many as eight chambers, and rotated by hand; one of them, made in the seventeenth century, had the peculiarity of igniting the charge close behind the bullet, burning backwards towards the breech—an arrangement identical in principle with that of the modern Prussian "needle gun," for which great merit has been claimed. The flint-locks induced more determined efforts, but all were abortive, as the magazines for priming and the pan covers were continually blown off on the explosion of the charge. Indeed, from the earliest match-lock down to the present time, the premature explosion of several chambers, owing to the simultaneous ignition of the charges, from the spreading of the fire at their mouths, had been the great source of difficulty. In some of the most ancient specimens, orifices were provided in the butt of the barrel for the escape of the bullets in case of explosion, whilst others had evidently been destroyed by this action. In a brass model of a pistol of the time of Charles II., from the United Service Museum, there was an ingenious attempt to cause the chamber to rotate, by mechanical action, in some degree similar, but more complicated than the arms constructed by the author. The "Coolidge" and the "Collier" guns, both flint guns of comparatively modern manufacture, exhibited the same radical defects of liability to premature explosion.

The invention of Nock's patent breech, and the Rev. Mr. Forsyth's introduction of the detonating or percussion guns, which latter principle, with the necessary mechanical arrangements for the caps, was essential to the safe construction of repeating fire-arms, constituted a new era in these weapons.

Colonel Colt gave a detailed and interesting account of his experiments, which resulted in the invention of his celebrated revolvers. His communication, the first that had been brought before the institution, by an American, was received with acclamations; and in the discussion which ensued, in which our Minister, the Hon. Abbott Lawrence, Captain Sir Thomas Hastings, R.N., Captain Sir Edward Belcher, R.N., Captain Riddell, R.N., Mr. Miles, and the members of the council took part, the most flattering testimony was given of the efficiency of the revolvers in active service, and the strongest opinions as to the necessity of their use in all frontier warfare; and that without this arm it was almost impossible, except with an overwhelming force of troops, to cope with savage tribes. The discussion was resumed at a meeting of the Institution, held on the second of December.

A new, and, we understand, a very important invention, in this line, is also described in the following interesting article by a contributor to the International:

SKETCH OF THE PROGRESS OF INVENTION IN OFFENSIVE ARMS: JENNING'S RIFLE.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY W. M. FERRIS.

It may be justly considered that mechanical invention has been the most prominent characteristic of history for the last four centuries. The application of science to the useful arts has been pushed to an extent of which preceding ages never dreamed. In poetry, in painting, in sculpture, the great masters of ancient times are still the teachers of mankind. But in all those arts which administer to the necessities, increase the comforts, or multiply the enjoyments of men, the present is marvellously in advance of every former age. Prominent among those arts which have shared in this advancement, is that of war. At first sight it may appear improper to distinguish as useful, improvements in the method of taking life. But, experience and philosophy unite in teaching that every improvement in military skill tends to render war less frequent, and the nearer its operations approach to those of an exact science, the more reluctant is each nation to engage in it, and the more careful not to commit those offences which render a resort to it on the part of other nations unavoidable.

We purpose to trace a brief sketch of the progress of invention in offensive weapons, and more particularly in that class of fire-arms used either in hunting or war, by a single individual, and generally denominated small-arms, in contradistinction to artillery. Such a sketch will be interesting, not only in its subject-matter, but also as a chapter in the general history of human progress.

The learned reader who is curious in such matters, will find in the Natural History of Pliny (vol. vii. cap. 56, 67), a statement of the source whence originated most of the mechanical implements, the manners and customs, and the political and religious institutions known in the author's time. It is to be presumed that Pliny did not intend to vouch for the truth of all he has there stated. He probably meant merely to give a synopsis of the traditions most generally received, and which assigned to a divine energy almost every thing that contributed to the happiness of men. He tells us here that "the first combats were made by the Africans against the Egyptians with a kind of stick, which they called phalanges." The evident Greek origin of this word renders the story absurd enough, and doubtless most of our readers will continue to acquiesce in the account given in Holy Writ, that the origin of war was but little subsequent to the origin of the race, and that fraternal blood first stained the breast of our mother earth. But this statement of Pliny contains a grain of truth. The stick, or club, was undoubtedly the first weapon made use of by men in their combats with each other, though the spear and the sword followed at a period long anterior to any known in historical records.

But from the earliest ages men have sought to avoid hand-to-hand conflicts, and to make skill supply the place of strength. In contests with wild beasts this was indispensable. Nature had provided man with no weapon with which he could contend against the boar's tusks, the lion's teeth, or the tiger's paw. Hence, the substitution of missiles for manual weapons, has been the end towards which ingenuity has been constantly directed.

The conversion of the spear into the javelin, as it was the most obvious, so probably it was the earliest step in advance. Close upon this followed the sling, and last the arrow and the bow. The invention of the latter weapon is ascribed by Pliny, in the chapter above cited, to a son of Jupiter. In the days of Homer it was the weapon of the gods; and thousands of years after, it was the pride and glory of the English yeoman. The classical scholar will remember the description in the fourth book of the Iliad, of the bow with which Pandaros shot at Menelaus an arrow which would have sent to Hades the hero dear to Mars, had not the daughter of Jove brushed it aside with her hand, as a mother doth a fly from her sleeping child. The bow does not appear to have been extensively used in later times in either the Greek or Roman armies. The ferocious Spartan preferred the close combat with manual weapons, the Athenian won his glory upon the sea, and it was with the pike that Alexander overcame the hosts of Persia. The Cretans, who were the most celebrated archers in Europe, sometimes formed a separate division in the Grecian and afterward in the Roman armies. The Romans, however, generally preferred heavy-armed troops. But it was a peculiarity of Roman policy always to adopt every improvement in the art of war with which they became acquainted, whether it originated with friend or foe. Rome never let slip any opportunity to add to the efficiency of her legions, and they repaid her care by carrying her eagles in triumph from the Thames to the Euphrates, and from the Danube to the Nile.

It was in the west of Europe, and from about the eleventh to the fifteenth century, that archery flourished in the greatest perfection. The early chronicles are filled with the exploits of the English archers, and old and young still read with delight those ballads which tell of the wondrous achievements of "Robin Hood and his merry men." Indeed, with the name of that famous outlaw are connected all our ideas of perfect skill in the use of the bow, and in the directions which in his dying hour, he gave to his faithful man, "Little John," we seem to hear the dirge of archery itself:

"Give me my bent bow in my hand,
And a broad arrow I'll let flee,
And where that arrow is taken up,
There shall my grave digg'd be.

"And lay me a green sod under my head,
And another at my feet,
And lay my bent bow by my side,
Which was my music sweet."

We shall not stop to dwell on the defects of the bow. The great and insuperable one was its want of power. The strength of a man was the limit of its capacity, and something more was necessary to pierce the ironclad breast of the knight. But, until the invention of gunpowder, it stood at the head of missile engines.

When and where gunpowder was invented it is impossible now to ascertain. It seems to be described in the pages of Roger Bacon, while many are of opinion that the returning Crusaders brought it from the east. Certain it is that it had been known in China for many centuries, and applied to the blasting of rocks and other useful purposes, though never to the art of war. But the latter application of it was made by the Europeans almost contemporaneously with their knowledge of its properties, and for war it has been chiefly employed until the present time. The invention of cannon preceded by a century that of small-arms, and it was by a gradual reduction in the size of the former that the latter were produced. Barbour, in his metrical Life of Robert Bruce, says, that cannon were used by Edward III. in his first campaign against the Scots, in 1327. He calls them "Crakys of war." They are also supposed to have been employed by the French in the siege of Puy Guillaume, in 1338. But the first use of them which rests on unimpeachable evidence, and which seems to have been productive of much effect, was at the battle of Cressy, in 1346. It is from this epoch that it is most usual to date the employment of artillery. That day which witnessed the first efficient use of a weapon destined to revolutionize the art of war, also witnessed the most splendid achievements of the archers of England. The bowstrings of the French had become useless by the dampness of the weather, while those of the English, either on account of greater care or the different material of which they were made, were uninjured. The cloth-yard arrows of the English bowmen, directed with unerring skill, made terrible havoc in the ranks of their enemies, while four pieces of artillery stationed on a little hill contributed to their victory. The French troops had none of them ever seen, and most of them never heard of such a weapon, and the terror inspired by the noise and the smoke did more than the balls to hasten their defeat.

The first cannons were rude in the extreme. They were made of bars of iron hooped together like the staves of a barrel, and were larger at the muzzle than at the breech. The size was very soon decreased, so that two men could carry one, and fire it from a rest. The 400 cannon with which Froissart said that the English besieged St. Malo, in 1378, were probably of this kind. Nearly a century elapsed before small-arms were invented. Sir S. Meyrick, to whom subsequent writers have been indebted for most of their knowledge upon this subject, has given, upon the authority of an eye-witness, the time and place of their invention. "It was in 1430," says Bilius, "that they were contrived by the Lucquese, when they were besieged by the Florentines." A French translation of Quintus Curtius made by Vasqua de Lucene, a Portuguese, in 1468, preserved among the Burney MSS. of the British Museum, exhibits in one of its illuminations the earliest representation of hand fire-arms which has yet been discovered. The following engraving is from a copy of this illumination, contained in the Penny Cyclopædia.

B.d.E.K.

It will be observed that this gun much resembles one of those small lead cannons with which patriotic boys, upon each return of our national anniversary, manifest their appreciation of the blessings of liberty. It was fastened to a stick, and fired by a match held in the hand. We proceed to sketch the progress of improvement from this the first gun until we reach the repeating rifle.

If we analyze the manipulation of fire-arms, it will be found to consist of three principal operations—namely, to charge the piece, to direct it toward the object of attack, and to discharge it by in some manner igniting the powder; or more concisely, to load, take aim, and fire. That gun with which these operations can be performed most safely, accurately, and rapidly, is the best.

The process of loading has continued to be essentially the same from the invention of the gun to the present time. The charge is put in at the muzzle, and rammed down to the lower end of the barrel. At a very early period, efforts were made to construct guns which would load at the breech; but hitherto no such gun has been able to supplant those which load at the muzzle. The great complication of their parts, their liability to get out of repair, their insecurity, and the long practice required to learn their use, have been among the reasons which have prevented any of these inventions from being adopted. Hence it is that the muskets with which our soldiers are armed at the present day, possess no advantage in this respect over the rude little cannon fastened to the end of a stick, used by the soldiers of Europe four centuries ago. But in other respects the progress of invention has been steady and secure.

With the gun represented in the above engraving it was impossible to take aim. Being perfectly straight, it could not be brought in the range of the eye. The most that could be expected was, that by pointing it in the direction of the enemy, it might chance to hit some one, in a crowd.

The inconveniences attending the discharge of the piece were almost as great. A puff of wind, or the slightest motion of the soldier himself, would throw the priming from the touch-hole, and it is almost unnecessary to add, that in rainy or even very damp weather, such a gun was utterly useless. The first step in improvement was to place the touch-hole on the right side of the barrel instead of upon the top, and to attach a small pan which held the priming. By this means the priming was kept from being blown away by the wind, though scarce any other advantage was attained.

About the year 1475 a great advance was made by the invention of the arquebus or bow-gun. A spring let loose by a trigger threw the match, which was fastened to it, forward, into the pan which contained the priming. It was from this spring that the gun took its name.

The arquebus is mentioned by Philip de Comines, in his account of the battle of Morat, in 1476. It appears to have been used in England in 1480.

But as yet no improvement had been made by which the soldier was enabled to take aim. The butt of the arquebus was perfectly straight, and placed against the breast when the gun was fired. The danger of being knocked over by the recoil of the piece was great, that of hurting the enemy very small. The Germans first conceived the idea of bending the butt downward, and thus elevating the barrel so as to bring it in the range of the eye. They also sloped it so as to fit the shoulder instead of being held against the breast. The arquebus constructed in this manner was used in England in the time of Henry VIII., and was variously called haquebut, hakebut, hagbut, and hagbus, names all derived from the hooked shape of the butt. A small sized arquebus, with a nearly semi-circular butt, and called a demihaque, was probably the origin of the modern pistol.

JENNINGS'S RIFLE.

The musket, invented in Spain, was introduced into France in the reign of Charles IX., by De Strozzi, Colonel-General of the King's infantry, and thence into England. At first it was so heavy that each musketeer was accompanied by a boy to assist him in carrying it. It was, however, soon decreased in weight sufficiently to enable the musketeer to carry it himself, though it was still so heavy that he could only fire it from a rest. This rest, which each musketeer carried with him, consisted of a stick the height of his shoulder, pointed at the lower end, and having at the upper an iron fork in which the musket barrel was laid. In a flask the musketeer carried his coarse powder for loading. His fine powder for priming was in a touch-box. His bullets were in a leathern bag, shaped much like a lady's work-bag, the strings of which he was obliged to draw in order to get at them. In his hand were his burning match and musket rest, and after discharging his piece he was obliged to defend himself with his sword. The match was fixed to the cock by a kind of tongs. Over the priming-pan was a sliding cover, which had to be drawn back with the hand before pulling the trigger. It was necessary to blow the ashes from the match, and take the greatest care that the sparks did not fall upon the priming. After each discharge the match had to be taken out of the cock and held in the hand until the piece was reloaded; then, in order that it might come down exactly upon the priming, the greatest care and nicety were required in fitting it again to the cock. Other inconveniences attended the use of the match-lock musket. The light of the burning match betrayed the position of the soldier, and hence it could not be used by sentinels or on secret expeditions. Various contrivances were resorted to in order to obviate these difficulties. Walhuysen, a captain of the town of Danzig, in a treatise entitled L'Art Militaire pour l'Infantrie, printed in 1615, says: "It is necessary that every musketeer should know how to carry his match dry in moist or rainy weather, that is, in his pocket or in his hat, by putting the lighted match between his head and hat, or by some other means to guard it from the weather. The musketeer should also have a little tin tube, about a foot long, big enough to admit a match, and pierced full of little holes, that he may not be discovered by his match when he stands sentinel or is gone on any expedition."

The learned captain does not state whether the hair of those soldiers who carried their lighted matches between their heads and hats, was insured. These inconveniences were so great that many able military men regarded fire-arms as a failure, and recommended a return to the long-bow, which had been so terrible a weapon in the hands of the English archers. But the art of war, like every other, never goes backward, and men were not disposed to abandon the use of so mighty an agent as gunpowder, merely for the want of some weapon adapted to its use.

The fire-lock, named from its producing fire by friction, was the first improvement upon the match-lock. Its earliest form was that known as the wheel-lock, which is mentioned in a treatise on artillery by Luigi Collado, printed at Venice in 1586. He says that it had been lately invented in Germany. This lock consisted of a solid steel wheel, with an axle, to which was fastened a chain. The axle was turned by a small lever, and thus winding around it the chain, drew up a very strong spring. By pulling the trigger the spring was let go, and the wheel whirled around with great velocity. The cock was so constructed as to bring a piece of sulphuret of iron down upon the edge of the wheel, which was notched, and touched the priming in the pan. The friction produced the sparks. It was from this use that the sulphuret of iron derived the name of pyrites, or fire-stone. Afterwards a flint or any common hard pebble was used. The complicated nature of this lock, and its uncertainty, prevented its general adoption. The next improvement was due to the Dutch. About the year 1600 there was in Holland a band of marauders known as snaphausen, or poultry-stealers. However free they were in using the property of others, they were yet unable to incur the expense of the wheel-lock, and the match-lock, by its burning light, exposed them on their nightly expeditions. The wit which had been sharpened by laying "plots" and "inductions dangerous" against unoffending hens and chickens, was turned to the invention of a gun-lock better adapted to their purposes. The result of their cogitations was the lock which, after its inventors, was called the snaphause. It consisted of a flat piece of steel, furrowed like the edge of the wheel in the wheel-lock, which was screwed on the barrel beyond the priming-pan in such a manner as to be movable. By bringing it over the pan, and pulling the trigger, the flint in the cock struck against the steel, and the spark was produced. The simplicity and cheapness of this lock soon rendered it common, and the transition from it to the ordinary flint-lock followed almost as a matter of course. The last improvement which we shall notice was the percussion-lock. This is due to the Rev. Mr. Forsyth, of Belhelvie, in Scotland, though the original form of the lock has been entirely changed by the introduction of the copper cap.

INTERIOR OF JENNINGS'S BREECH.

Whilst these improvements were being made in locks, the other parts of the gun were gradually approaching in lightness, strength, and accuracy of finish, to the modern standard. The most valuable improvement was the invention of the rifle barrel. It is mentioned by Pere Daniel, who wrote in 1693, as being then well known; but the time and place of its origin has never been ascertained. It was first employed as a military weapon by the Americans, in the Revolutionary war, and it is in their hands that it acquired its world-wide reputation.

It would be impossible, in an article like the present, to detail all the various attempts which have been made, during the last half century, to increase the efficiency of the rifle. The efforts of scientific men and mechanics have been constantly directed towards the invention of a gun which should fire, with the greatest possible rapidity, a number of times without reloading, and which should possess the indispensable requisites of safety, durability, and simplicity, both in construction and in use. Hitherto no invention has combined these advantages in a sufficient degree to supplant the common rifle.

In our opinion, these ends are all most simply and beautifully attained by the invention of Mr. Jennings. But of this our readers will be able to judge for themselves, by the above engravings and the directions for its use.

CARTRIDGES AND MACHINERY OF JENNINGS'S RIFLES.

Fill the magazine, on the top of the breech, with percussion pills or primings, and the tube, under the barrel, with the hollow cartridges containing gunpowder. Of these cartridges the tube will hold twenty-four. Place the forefinger in the ring which forms the end of the lever, e, and the thumb on the hammer, elevating the muzzle sufficiently to let the cartridge nearest the breech slip, by its gravity, into the carrier d; swing the lever forward, and raise the hammer which moves the breech-pin back, and the carrier up, placing the cartridge level with the barrel; pull the lever back, and thus force the breech-pin forward, and shove the cartridge into the barrel, by which motion a percussion priming is taken from the magazine by means of the priming-rack c, revolving the pinion which forms the bottom of the magazine, and it also throws up the toggle a, behind the breech-pin, thus placing the piece in the condition to be discharged by a simply upward pressure of the finger in the ring. After the discharge release the pressure and repeat the process.

In conclusion, the reader is invited to look at the engraving we have given of the first gun, and to compare it with the offspring of American ingenuity we have just described.

Fire-arms are the great pioneers which have opened a way for the progress of civilized man, and given him victory over the savage beasts and still more savage men who have opposed his course. Civilization has in its turn reacted upon fire-arms, and brought them to their present state of wonderful efficiency.

The heavy match-lock of three centuries ago was almost as dangerous to him who used it as to the enemy against whom it was directed. It would be almost impossible for a person to injure himself by the repeating rifle except by deliberate intention. Skilful military men advised the abandonment of the match-lock for the bow. A good marksman with the repeating rifle would kill a score of bowmen, before they could approach near enough to reach him with their arrows. The practised musketeer, in the reign of Elizabeth, could hardly fire his piece once in twenty minutes; the merest novice can fire the repeating rifle twenty times in one minute.

CLOVER'S COLONIAL CHURCHES IN VIRGINIA.

ST. JOHN'S CHURCH, HAMPTON.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY REV. JOHN C. M'CABE,

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DRAWINGS BY REV. LEWIS P. CLOVER

"Regarded as a building what is there to engage our attention! What is it which in this building inspires the veneration and affection it commands? We have mused upon it when its gray walls dully reflected the glory of the noontide sun. We have looked upon it from a neighboring hill when bathed in the pure light of a summer's moon, its lowly walls and tiny towers seemed to stand only as the shell of a larger and wider monument, amidst the memorials of the dead. Look upon it when and where we will, we find our affections yearn towards it; and we contemplate the little parish church with a delight and reverence, that palaces cannot command. Whence then arises this? It arises not from the beauties and ornaments of the building, but from the thoughts and recollections associated with it."—Molesworth.

ST. JOHN'S CHURCH.

The region of country in lower Virginia, bordering, or near the James River, from the head of tide water to the sea-board, is rich in the possession of memorials of gone-by days, now turned up from the bosom of the earth, in the shape of arrow-heads, and broken war-hatchets—monuments, fragmentary monuments, of a race of forest-born monarchs: now appealing to the antiquary in the mouldering records of the County Court offices, and now, silently but eloquently, looking out imploringly in the ruins of churches and tombs, which meet the eye of the traveller, as he muses upon the faith and fortunes of generations long departed.

Rapid as is the progress of steam upon those waters, which, in giving up their Indian patronymies, gave up the bold hunter and his lithe canoe to the progress of "manifest destiny," few are those who pass the venerable site of the first colony in Virginia, Jamestown, without paying a tribute of a sigh, and perchance a tear, to that solitary tower which is still standing a mute watcher amid the few almost illegible tombs,—all that are left of a busy population long departed;—the germ, however, of a great nation, whose name is even now "a watchword to the earth."

The rank grass waves above those mouldering stones—the green corn of summer rustles in the breeze, which seems, it its "hollow, solemn memnonian, but saintly swell," to have "swept the field of mortality for a hundred centuries,"[C] and that lone, ruined, vine-crested tower, stands, the only memorial of the house, and the Temple of God. Gone are the altars where knelt the adventurer and the exile—high-born chivalry and manly beauty—gentle blood and noble pedigree,—and where rose "humble voices," and beat "pure hearts," approaching the throne of the heavenly grace! Jamestown is a city of the dead, and precious is the dust of its pathless cemetery!

When we turn "from the wreck of the past that has perished," and stand beside those monuments which have withstood the "corroding tooth of time," and still stand invested with the sacred and solemn beauty of antiquity, we approach in the venerating spirit of worshippers, and render our thank-offerings at their base. Such is likely to be the feeling with the pilgrim antiquary, as he stands for the first time beneath the shadows of that venerable cruciform pile, St. John's Church, Hampton, which has braved "the battle and the breeze" of nearly two centuries; and then, when he crosses its worn threshold, and treads its echoing aisles, the wish must arise, involuntarily, to know something of the history of a spot "so sad, so fair."

With the exception of Jamestown, there is no portion of Virginia possessing as much historic interest as Hampton, and its vicinity. Hampton is the county seat of Elizabeth City County, which is one of the eight original shires in which Virginia was divided. The town is doubtless the oldest Indian settlement in Virginia, and it is a matter of historical verity that it was the first place visited by Captain John Smith after he had cast anchor in these waters. We learn from Burke, the historian, that while Smith and his company were "engaged in seeking a fit place for the first settlement, they met five of the natives, who invited them to their town, Kecoughtan, or Kichotan, where Hampton now stands. Here they were feasted with cakes made of Indian corn, and regaled with tobacco and a dance. In return, they presented the natives beads and other trinkets."

We have no occasion to go specially into the history of this expedition, as it is well known to the student, that it was the result of a successful application on the part of a company, succeeding that of the ill-fated Sir Walter Raleigh, and for which a charter was obtained from James the First, in the year 1606, for the settling of Virginia. "The design," says Stith, the historian of Virginia, "included the establishment of a northern and southern colony, and among the articles, instructions, and orders," of the charter, provision was made for the due carrying out of that which is the highest end of every Christian colony, for it is expressly ordered, that "the said president, council, and ministers, should provide that the true word and service of God be preached, planted, and used, according to the rites and doctrines of the Church of England; not only in the said colonies, but also as much as might be amongst the savages bordering upon them, and that all persons should kindly treat the savages, and heathen people, in those parts, and use all proper means to draw them to the true service and knowledge of God."[D] This expedition left the shores of England, December 19, 1606, and, after a protracted voyage, occasioned by unpropitious winds, which kept them in sight of home for more than "six weeks," reached the capes of Virginia. The southern cape was christened "Henry," and the northern, "Charles," after the King's sons. This was on the 26th day of April, 1607. Accompanying this expedition was Rev. Robert Hunt, of the English Church, as the first chaplain of that colony, which, though few as the grains of mustard seed scattered by the morning wind, was the first planting of that tree which was destined, in coming time, to strike its roots deep down into the centre of empire, and to shelter beneath its strong branches, and wide-spread shadows, the exile and the oppressed, and to furnish home and altar for the pilgrim of civil and religious freedom.

When we look around now and behold our country, "the observed of all observers," exalting her "towering head," and "lifting her eyes," the mind instinctively turns to the colony of Jamestown; and we cannot but exclaim, in the words of the Psalmist, "Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt; Thou hast cast out the heathen and planted it. Thou preparedst room before it, and didst cause it to take deep root; and it filled the land. The hills were covered with the shadow of it, and the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs unto the sea, and her branches unto the river." But a sad memory for the days of toil, and struggle, and blood in that little colony, will remind us that this tree was not "transplanted from Paradise with all its branches in full fruitage." Neither was it "sowed in sunshine," nor was it "in vernal breezes and gentle rains that it fixed its roots, and grew and strengthened." Oh, no! oh, no! In the mournfully beautiful words of Coleridge, "With blood was it planted; it was rocked in tempests; the goat, the ass, and the stag gnawed it, the wild boar whetted its tusk upon its bark; the deep scars are still extant on its trunk, and the path of the lightning may be traced among its higher branches!" The first communion of the body and blood of our Lord was administered by the pious Hunt, May 4, 1607, the day after the debarkation of the colonists: and, "here," says the Bishop of Oxford, "on a peninsula, upon the northern shore of James River, was sown the first seed of Englishmen, who, in after years, were to grow and to multiply into the great and numerous American people." It was an offering, this first sacrament, of the "appointed sacrifice of prayer and thanksgiving;" and we have an evidence of the pervading spirit of Hunt in that little band, when we remember that among their very first acts after rearing their straw-thatched houses for protection from the weather, was to erect the church of the colony. Hunt was succeeded, after his death, in 1610, by Master Bucke (the chaplain of Lord de la Ware), whose services were called forth the very day of his arrival at Jamestown. According to Purchas, "He (that is Lord Delaware) cast anchor before Jamestown, where we landed, and our much grieved Governor, first visiting the church, caused the bell to be rung; at which all such as were able to come forth of their house, repayered to church, which was neatly trimmed with the wild flowers of the country, where our minister, Master Bucke, made a zealous and sorrowful prayer, finding all things so contrary to our expectations, and full of misery and misgovernment." This state of things had been brought about by the treacherous conduct of their neighbors, the savages, domestic feuds, fluctuations in the quantity and quality of their food, bad water, and severe climatic diseases. While "Master Bucke" was toiling with the little band at Jamestown, Whitaker (son of Master Whitaker of St. John's College, Cambridge) was in Henrico, whose deeds of love and patience in his noble work we would gladly record, but for the desire of approaching, as speedily as possible, the beginning and planting of the church in Elizabeth City County. The first legislature of Virginia was convened under the administration of Governor Sir George Yeardley, in the year 1626; but before this we find, during the first administration of Governor Wyatt, nay, before that, during that of Sir Thomas Yeardley, in 1619, a starting point for our inquiries and investigations in regard to the Hampton Church. By reference to the histories of the period, we find that the pay of their clergy was fixed at £200 worth of corn and tobacco. One hundred acres were marked off for glebes in every borough, for each of which the company at home provided six tenants at the public cost. They applied to the Bishop of London to find them a body of "pious, learned, and painful ministers,"—"a charitable work," says Wilberforce, "in which he readily engaged." Two years subsequent to this occurred the massacre at Jamestown, and two years after that, we find, amongst thirty-five provisions, the following, for the promotion of religious knowledge and worship: That there shall be erected a house of worship, and there shall be a burial ground on every plantation; that the colonists, under penalty, shall attend public worship, and that there shall be uniformity in faith and worship, with the English Church—prescribing also the observance of the feasts of the Church, and a fast upon the anniversary of the Jamestown massacre; not forgetting, by the way, to enjoin "respectful treatment, and the payment of a settled stipend to the colonial clergy." In the instructions given to Sir William Berkeley, Governor-General of Virginia, after the return of the royal exile, Charles the Second, to the throne of his murdered sire,—passing over, as we do, for the sake of brevity, much that might interest the reader during the closing period of the reign of James, that of Charles the First, and also that of the psalm-singing blood-hunter Cromwell,—we find the recommendation of the duties of religion, the use of "the booke of Common Prayer, the decent repairs of Churches, and a competent provision for conforming ministers."[E] These suggestions, we learn, were at once acted upon by the colonial legislature, and provision was made for the building and due furniture of churches, &c., &c. This was in 1660. The oldest records in the County Court office date as far back as 1635. In 1644, I find the churchwardens presenting two females for offences, to the Court; and in 1646, I find that Nicholas Brown, and William Armistead, churchwardens, present one of their body to the Court, requesting that Thomas Eaton be compelled to collect the parish levy, and make his returns. This fixes the fact, then, that this was a parish, and that there was a church somewhere in this region in 1644, for, from the English laws respecting the clergy, the object of the creation of churchwardens is "to protect the edifice of the Church, to superintend the ceremonies of public worship, to promote the observance of religious duties, &c., &c.[F]" I find, in 1644, the following on record—"To paid Mr. Mallory for preaching 2 funeral sermons, 800 pounds of tobacco." The next year I find the Rev. Mr. Justinian Aylmere, who continued to officiate until the early part of 1667. We now find, in those same records, the first mention of the church immediately under consideration, and it is as follows, being an extract from a will, and bearing date December 21, 1667:

"I, Nicholas Baker, being very sicke in body, but of perfect memory, doe make, constitute, and ordaine this my last will and testament, revoking and disclayming all other wills by me made. Imprimis, I give my soule unto God my redeemer, and my body to bee decently buried in ye new church of Kighotan. Item, I give and bequeathe unto Mr. Jeremy Taylor, minister,[G] my cloath cloak, to bee delivered to him after my corpse carrying out of ye house."

From these extracts I learn these two facts, that there was a new church, already built, and that Mr. Jeremy Taylor was the minister, and the inference is a legitimate one, taking into consideration the instructions given to Governor Berkeley, and acted upon by him, to which reference is made above, that the old church now standing in Hampton, built in the form of a cross, and of brick, a drawing of which, accompanies this communication, was erected at some period about 1660, or between that and 1667. That it was not built before 1660, we have strong reasons to presume; and that it was built between that and 1667, we hope to show hereafter. In the time intervening between the murder of Charles the First and the restoration, there would have been no churches built, we presume, in the form of the cross—this the minions of Cromwell would not have allowed; nor for the worship and ritual of the Church of England, for the same reasons; and, moreover, the will above referred to, speaks of the church as being "ye new church of Kighotan."

The tower was an after thought, as we find from the vestry-book, now in the possession of the writer. The following bears date 2d day of March, 1761:

"Charles Cooper came into vestry, and agreed to do the brick work of the steeple, with good and well burnt bricks and mortar of lime, at least fifteen bushels of lime to every thousand bricks so laid. The said Cooper to find all materials necessary for building the said steeple, and all expenses what kind soever at his own proper cost. The said Cooper to give bond for the performance, agreeable to a resolve of the said vestry on the 6 day of February last."