Transcriber's Note

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

The external references include:

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

The following Table of Contents for this issue has been added for the convenience of the reader.

Yours Truly,

Henry Russell.

ENGRAVED FOR THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.

THE
Knickerbocker,
OR
NEW-YORK MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
VOL. X.

NEW-YORK:
CLARK AND EDSON, PROPRIETORS.
1837.

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

[INDEX.]

A.

  • American Antiquities, with Drawings, [1], [116], [273], [457]
  • Album Sonnet, [10]
  • Anniversary, The, by Rev. Thomas Dale, [115]
  • Anacreontic. By G. B. Singleton, [193]
  • A Farewell. By Miss M. E. Lee, (S. C.), [216]
  • A Mother's Grief: A Sketch from Life, [225]
  • An Album Fragment. By J. H. Bright, Esq., [227]
  • A Few Thoughts on Funerals, [229]
  • A Few Thoughts on Phrenology, [417]
  • A Practitioner, His Pilgrimage, [422], [510]
  • Anacreontic, [436]

B.

  • Bristol Academy, Taunton, (Mass.), [93], [553]
  • Balloon Adventure, [342]
  • 'Bianca Visconti,' By N. P. Willis, Esq., [353]

C.

  • Comfort Makepeace: A New-England Sketch, [62]
  • Changes of Fashion, [82]
  • Cooper's 'England,' [350]
  • Confessions of a Catholic Priest, [449]

D.

  • Death of Rob Roy, [27]
  • Duchess de Lavalliere, [61]
  • Death-Bed Remorse, By Percival, [258]
  • Début of Miss Hildreth, [266]
  • Death of Socrates, [285]

E.

F.

  • Francis Mitford, [12], [208]
  • First English Testament, [87]
  • Foreign Correspondence, [182]
  • Fourier's Eulogy on La Place, [272]
  • Fatal Balloon Adventure, [342]
  • Floral Astrology. By Prof. Longfellow, [498]

G.

  • Gazetteer of Missouri, [456]
  • Geographical Distinctions of Color, [499]
  • Glance at the Olden Time, [546]

H.

  • Heiress, The, [11]
  • Hunting Song. By Hack Von Stretcher, [491]
  • Human Life, [105]
  • [Hope], [509]

J.

  • June. By W. H. C. Hosmer, [40]
  • Juba, [126]
  • J. Huntington Bright, Esq., [265]

K.

  • 'Knickerbockeriana,' [94]
  • Knickerbocker Hall, [184]

L.

M.

  • My Mother's Grave, [67]
  • Memoirs, etc., of Lafayette, [174]
  • Midshipmen's Expedients, [179]
  • Mark! By Pater Abraham a Sancta Clara, [200], [296]
  • Mohegan Language and Names, [214]
  • Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins. By R. C. Sands, [468]
  • Mirabiliæ Naturæ, [Geographical Distinctions of Color], [499]
  • Memoirs of Burr, [540]

N.

  • New-York Review, [184]
  • Nature: from the German, [207]
  • New-York Mercantile Library, [272]
  • Napoleon. By Rev. C. C. Colton, [284]
  • Notes of a Surgeon, [106], [286]
  • Nahant. By J. H. Bright, Esq., [320]
  • Newspaporial, [363]
  • New-York College of Physicians and Surgeons, [367]
  • Nurseries of American Freemen, [369], [480]

O.

  • Ollapodiana, [162], [436], [518]
  • Ornamental Gardening, [311]
  • Our Village Post Office, By Miss Sedgwick, [425]
  • Old Age. By Rev. C. C. Colton, [490]
  • Our Birth-days. By Hon. Judge Mellen, (Me.), [513]
  • Oceola's Challenge. By J. Barber, Esq., [527]

P.

  • Pocahontas: A Tragedy, [180]
  • Peter Parley's 'Book of the United States,' [184]
  • Poems. By William Thompson Bacon, [352]
  • Parting Stanzas. By John Augustus Shea, [480]

R.

S.

  • Summer Evening. By Rev. Dr. Pise, [19]
  • Stories from Real Life, [92]
  • Stanzas. By W. G. Simms, Esq., [146]
  • Scandinavian Literature and Antiquities, [185]
  • Song of the Ship. By H. R. Schoolcraft, Esq., [200]
  • Sonnets by 'Quince,' [50], [228], [435]
  • Sonnet, [310]
  • Stanzas. By J. H. Bright, [105], [311]
  • [Serenade. by J. J. Campbell], [213]
  • Slavery in the United States, [321]
  • Scourge of the Ocean, [348]
  • Sadness, [376]
  • Sonnet. By W. G. Simms, Esq., [387]
  • Songs of Our Fathers. By 'Ione,' [406]
  • Stanzas to a Belle. By Percival, [497]

T.

V.

  • Vanity: A Tale of Tight Boots, [29]
  • Vive La Bagatelle!, [126]
  • Vocal Music, [366]

W.

Y.

  • [Yesterday], [232]
  • Young Love. By Percival, [377]

THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Vol. X JULY, 1837. No. 1.

[AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.]

NUMBER ONE.

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

Childe Harold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[AN ALBUM SONNET.]

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

G. P. T.

[THE HEIRESS.]

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

L. E. L.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rebecca.

[FRANCIS MITFORD.]

NUMBER TWO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[SUMMER EVENING.]

WRITTEN AMONG THE BLUE-RIDGE MOUNTAINS.

BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE, D. D.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[RELIGIOUS CHARLATANRY.]

NUMBER ONE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[DEATH OF ROB ROY.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

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

Avon, May,1837.W. H. C. H.

[A TALE OF TIGHT BOOTS.]

AN AUTHENTIC FRAGMENT FROM AN UNWRITTEN HISTORY.

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

The Incensed Cockney.

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

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

Rap—tap—tap!

'Come in!'

'A note, Sir.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he did!

D.

[THE POET.]

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

Lamartine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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