Transcriber's Note: The following Table of Contents has been added for the convenience of the reader.
[THE NOBILITY OF NATURE.]
[EMBLEMS.]
[STANZAS.]
[NOTES OF A SURGEON.]
[THE ANNIVERSARY.]
[LOVE AND REASON.]
[AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.]
[VIVE LA BAGATELLE.]
[THE BACKWOODS.]
[THE SOUL.]
[RELIGIOUS CHARLATANRY.]
[STANZAS.]
[RANDOM PASSAGES]
[THE WAVES.]
[OLLAPODIANA.]
[TO THE NEW MOON.]
[LITERARY NOTICES.]
[EDITORS' TABLE.]
[LITERARY RECORD.]

THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Vol. X. AUGUST, 1837. No. 2.

[THE NOBILITY OF NATURE.]

It has been asserted that all men are created equal. The learned have been called upon to support the declaration, and to furnish reasons accounting for the disparity which is manifest in the different individuals of the human race, as found in the social state. The learned have responded to this call, and said, that it is apparent, that different nations, as well as individuals of the same race, are surrounded by different circumstances, and enjoy unequal means of improvement; and as their external condition is unequal, it is but reasonable to infer, in the absence of any other known cause, that their intellectual disparity is mainly attributable to external circumstances. Now if it can be made to appear, as I think it can, that the difference in the external condition of men and nations is mainly attributable to their mental organization, it will be obvious that the learned, who have undertaken to solve this question, have been so unphilosophical as to substitute the effect for the cause.

But the many have contented themselves with the response of the learned; and are now looking forward with eager hope to the time when the vexatious differences in the external circumstances of men shall cease, and an intellectual level shall be fixed for the whole human family, upon which the Esquimaux and the European, to their mutual astonishment, shall find occasion to regard each other as equals. They delight in the expectation of beholding the Chinese standing upon the same eminence as the countrymen of Newton; worshippers of Juggernaut elevated to the altars of the true Deity, and of seeing the unhappy and debased African endowed with the same intellectual strength as his gifted and proud oppressor. Thus they pleasantly anticipate, that upon men's external condition becoming equal, their intellects and sentiments will immediately exhibit their native equality, and that the odious distinctions which now exist among men, will be known no more for ever.

But may we not as reasonably expect, that the benefit of this new arrangement will not be confined to man alone, but that the whole vegetable and animal world will participate in the advantages of this novel law of natural equality? We must hear no more of 'the king of beasts,' nor of 'the monarch of the wood.' The lion and the lamb must become a match for each other in ferocity and strength. The ivy will of course cease to entwine itself around the oak; and then what substitute will the poets have for their much-used and lovely emblem of weakness and dependence, when it shall lift aloft its branches among the huge trees of the forest, and, boastful of its newly-acquired strength, shall bid defiance to the whirlwind and the storm! The odious monarchy of the bee-hive must be done away; the queen of bees must doff her robes of royalty, and become a commoner; while the drones, the privileged order of this tribe of insects, will be compelled to assume habits of industry, and will no longer be tolerated in the enjoyment of idleness and luxury, at the expense of their industrious fellow-citizens. The aristocracy of the ant-hill must also be disturbed, and the levelling principle must be carried into a new organization of this interesting little mound of earth. Men will cease to speak of the elephant as a 'half-reasoning animal,' while the ass shall be distinguished for dulness and obstinacy, and the latter must brush up, so that this disparity shall be remedied; while, at the same time, the sagacious dog will be brought, by some nice process, to the level of the 'silly sheep,' and the acute and cruel fox to that of the dull and confiding goose; and among other things, to excite our special wonder, the much-wronged, much-eaten oyster will be regarded as a pure intelligence, consisting of nothing but brain, and its necessary covering! Men will cease to eat oysters.

It would seem to require a wonderful change in 'external circumstances,' to produce results like these; and yet it seems to me, these may as reasonably be anticipated, as that the condition of mankind will ever be equal. Those who attribute men's intellectual nature to their external condition, have never been so fortunate as to demonstrate in what manner the objectionable circumstances of an external nature produced the results which they humanely deplore. The negro is every where inferior to the Anglo-Saxon. Does the former owe his inferior intellect to his swarthy complexion and flattened nose? How can these affect the thinking part? To climate? Behold him in all climes the same! To slavery? View him in his native land a savage. To the contempt of other nations? He is the same as when first known to the European.

But grant that the difference in air, climate, or other external causes, operating for many centuries, could cause an inequality in the intellects of different nations, or tribes of men; why, in the same nation or tribe, is one inferior to another? Suppose sectional causes to account for this disparity; then why are children of the same parents, born and nurtured under precisely the same circumstances, radically different from their birth? Is the fact denied? I appeal to mothers in support of its truth.

Men are not created equal by nature. In saying this, I beg not to be understood as denying 'the Declaration of Independence.' I understand the illustrious writer of that instrument to mean no more than this; that for good reasons, operating in the social state, all men are to be regarded as equal, so far as to have equal respect paid to their rights; to be entitled to equal protection, and to be judged by one standard of legal rectitude. Or, in other words, in the eye of the law, all men are equal.

But while I do not depart from this clause of the sacred declaration referred to, I perceive that I differ widely from the vociferous patriot and over-zealous philanthropist of the present day, who have contrived to engross much more of the public attention than either their integrity or doctrines seem to warrant.

The former overwhelms the voice of reason with his varied clamor in favor of the equality of meanness with magnanimity—of vice with virtue—of ignorance with intelligence—of vulgar rudeness and barbarity, with taste and elegance; and he demands that in social intercourse, and in the administration of government, the vicious and ignorant shall be entitled to the same consideration and influence as the virtuous and enlightened citizen; because 'all men are created equal!'

The new order of philanthropists increase the clamor of the greedy patriot. They have discovered that the negroes are at least equal to, if not a little better, than the best of the Europeans; and they lead forth their colored favorites, of various hues, and demand their admittance into a well-organized society; a benevolent concession in favor of their equality; an admission that their heads are well formed, their sentiments exalted, their persons delicate, and their odor savory! They invite them to the table of the American citizen, and beckon them to his bed; and this 'because all men are created equal!'

There are distinctions among men, which neither the fierce patriot nor ignorant philanthropist can eradicate; distinctions appointed by the author of nature, and which have not failed to be acknowledged by the most enlightened observers; a brief view of which it may not be unprofitable to take, even in an imperfect effort to distinguish the false from the true nobility of nature.

I am far from asserting, that all the distinctions which exist in the social state, are so by the appointment of nature. There is an artificial aristocracy, created by the improper constitutions of some governments, and the arbitrary and unequal laws of all, of the cause of whose greatness nature is entirely innocent. For instance, a man may inherit and enjoy all his life the title and honors of nobility, who, had he depended upon his natural resources for rank and station, might never have ascended in the scale of human excellence, beyond the condition of an agile circus-rider. And it is no less palpable, that a wealthy parent, through the influence of the laws of primogeniture, may transmit to his eldest son an inheritance which may place him high among the aristocracy of wealth, who, but for the fruits of a parent's acquisitiveness, might laudably have earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, and instead of being regarded as an exquisite dandy, might have been celebrated for his mechanical ingenuity, or the excellence of his 'goods, wares, and merchandise.' The same causes may sometimes operate to deprive nature's noblemen of their just station among men. Artificial worth may assume the place of natural; wealth and fashion may displace virtue and intellect; and genius and talent may be compelled to give precedence to a titled nobility, or to the possessors of vast estates.

Again. There are good objections to some natural pretenders to rank; even dame nature has her counterfeits and false forms; her mushrooms, her empty heads and shells. The fair-pretending tree may never blossom, or if it do, may neglect to bear fruit. The highest heads of wheat in the broad field are false and empty. But a correct observer of nature may readily distinguish between her false and her genuine productions; and a close observer of men will never be at a loss to detect, nor hesitate to deny, the bold pretensions of mere self-esteem.

Instinctive self-esteem enables its possessor, without seeking to form a just estimate of his own character, to regard himself as equal to all men, and superior to most of them; to arrive at conclusions without the dull and tedious process of reasoning, to which plodding creatures subject themselves; to have and maintain opinions, without the trouble of forming, or the labor of defending them; and to look down upon his superiors, without suspecting that they despise him, or a doubt of his own insolated and extraordinary excellence. He proverbially carries his head high; and it has been remarked by phrenologists, in the direction of the single organ to whose over-manifestation they allege he is indebted for all his conscious greatness. He forms one of nature's wild experiments, by which she has wantonly demonstrated, how enormous a structure of self-complacency can be based upon—nothing at all! He is one of nature's contradictions, by which she has proved how great an effect may exist without any cause whatever! In him you behold the origin of village greatness, which is dependent upon the size of two things, to wit: the large size of self-esteem, and the small size of the place it inhabits.

There is another pretender to high rank among men, whose claims are nearly as unfounded as those last under consideration. I mean the man who claims your high regard, not for what he is, but for what he has got—who exacts your admiration, not for what he does, but for what he has the power to do; and who, while he performs no good service to mankind, does not fail to impress them with the belief, that he might, at any time, if so disposed, astonish them with a display of generosity, and a noble exercise of the means of active benevolence, and permanent usefulness. He is the creature of the acquisitive instinct, whose sole merit is based upon successful efforts at accumulation. This instinct he possesses in common with various quadrupeds. The ground-squirrel possesses the same attribute, to a limited extent. Who has not observed this interesting animal crowding his cheek with autumnal fruits, and gaily carrying them to his winter quarters? But this little creature gathers only a competence; his instinct is a moderate one, and apparently under the guidance of reason; while the accumulating biped seems not to be a judge of a competency, and grows more eager in the pursuit of wealth, as it becomes less valuable to him. No propensity of the human mind gains more in activity and strength by exercise, than that of acquisitiveness. It may begin as a good instinct of man's nature, and excite him to lay up the means of satisfying his natural, and even his artificial wants. So far, its obvious utility demands our respect. But all men do not stop here. Even so much exercise as to attain this laudable end, may so heighten the natural disposition to accumulate, that it becomes the tyrant of the soul, and takes the lead of all the other propensities. It comes in conflict with the demands of the stomach, the suggestions of taste, and paternal affection; and the victim of avarice becomes also the victim of unsatisfied hunger, ungratified taste, and unindulged kindness. To use the terms of a science just beginning to be understood, his veneration is satisfied with adoring the matériel of Aaron's idol, to the exclusion of all other gods; his conscientiousness, quickened by cautiousness, is content with forbearing to take usury, when there is reason to fear a legal forfeiture; and his adhesiveness is never more strongly manifested, than when he sticks to a debtor 'closer than a brother,' until he pays the uttermost farthing. His secretiveness is active, when the tax-gatherer is at his door; and his cautiousness is extreme when listening to the tale of distress, or to the assurances of the suppliant borrower. His locality selects places for future cities; his size divides them into lots twenty-five by one hundred feet; and he disposes of them to those endowed with large marvellousness. He getteth rich—and is reverenced, because he has never been accused of theft, nor convicted of swindling.

It is not without emotions of pleasure, that I take leave of false pretension to rank and station, although it be to take up the humblest claim upon our attention made by the sons of genius. And here allow me to observe, that within the last forty years, certain individuals have claimed, that they have traced each particular demonstration of the various faculties and sentiments of the human mind to its source—which they allege to be an organ of the brain—and they have also adopted a nomenclature for the mental faculties, highly convenient, which I beg the privilege of employing, while I ask one farther favor of the reader, that, for the sake of convenience, if for no other reason, he will allow me to suppose each faculty of the mind to have its separate material organ. Even with this liberal concession on the part of the reader, it will be difficult to assign to each child of genius his appropriate rank in the scale of being. It is generally true, that the organs of the faculties and sentiments, which are not called into activity in the constitution of the man of genius, are in point of size at mediocrity or below it. The main strength of his character is derived from the striking fullness of the single organ which gives the bent to his mental inclination; but there is also a full development of certain other organs colleagued with that, which, following its lead, help out its inclinations, and conduct its work. These colleagues are few in number, and with their exception, the remaining mental organs of the man of genius are moderate, small, or inactive. His head is therefore uneven and irregular; that is, the reader is asked to suppose it to be so, for the sake of illustration. How often it is observed, that the man of genius wants that strong common sense, of which a very plain man may justly boast the possession? Does the genius lack the organ of common sense? Unhappily for many of the human family, there is no such organ! This excellent condition of the human mind seldom accompanies an irregular head. It is claimed to be the result of the equable and full development of all the organs of the human intellect and sentiments, and of the moderate and controllable size of all the organs of the passions. But it is otherwise in the man of genius. The size and activity of the main organs, by whose manifestations he is distinguished, render them the master spirits of his mind. In the admiration which genius excites, the useful attributes of the man are not generally looked for—and the most flagrant moral defects are palliated, if not forgiven; nay, oftentimes they are copied by those who, not having the power to dazzle, present the forlorn spectacle of natural dulness bedecked with the borrowed vices of genius.

Humbly among the sons of genius, is placed the individual who amuses a vacant hour by demonstrations of his imitative propensity. In some respects there exists a parallel, and in others a contrast, between him and the possessor of the acquisitive instinct. They both rely for admiration upon what they have taken from others. Both bleed their victims—one in their pocket, the other in their vanity, or love of approbation. Both accumulate—the one, the goods of this world, the other its manners. The one is a loser by people's taking themselves off—the other a gainer by 'taking off' people. One is rich in matter, the other in manner; and both are appropriated from the stores of others. The miser is chiefly the creature of two instincts—acquisitiveness and cautiousness; the actor, also, of two—imitation and secretiveness. These are all instincts of our animal nature, and do not tend to ennoble their possessor. But the first combination is contracted, and delights only in selfish gratification; while the latter cannot be fully gratified, without contributing to the amusement or instruction of mankind. Men have therefore always betrayed extensive interest in its manifestations; and the actor wiles away a tedious hour, or affords a lively gratification, which calls forth the applause of the many, though he may fail to excite the admiration of the few. One may appreciate a perfect imitation, whether grave or gay, heroic or comic; and yet assert, with truth, that fewer faculties of the mind are brought into action, even in the constitution of the most perfect actor, than in that of any other child of genius, the singer only excepted.

Above these, but in the same grade of excellence as respects each other, does nature place her more gifted children, the musical composer, the orator, painter, sculptor, and poet; creatures of variously combined faculties, sentiments, and passions, but all so constituted as to be capable of enchanting the eye, delighting the ear, or gratifying the taste. Their works exalt the feelings, interest the heart, or instruct the mind, of man. They blend the happiest influences of the passions, intellect and sentiments. They portray inanimate nature in all her creations of sight and sound, and exhibit living nature in all her varieties of action, emotion, thought, or passion. Nature is their universal theme, and the fruits of their labors compose those intellectual luxuries, to banquet upon which, forms the most characteristic feature which distinguishes polished from civilized life—the accomplished from the merely useful man. But a man may be either of these sons of genius, and come far short of being either a great or a good man. Nay, he may have followed the promptings of his genius all his life, and failed after all to benefit mankind. Whose mental vision has not Byron dazzled? Who did not admire the man? Who has not forgiven his faults, on account of the magnitude of his genius, and the power of his works? And yet who does not know that Byron lived in vain, and died without benefitting himself or his fellow men? On the other hand, it is pleasant to find, that genius, so dangerous in some, may be harmless in others, and that a poet may range through all nature's works, but so judiciously select the theme of his song, and so beautifully adorn it, as that, while he excites the admiration, he improves the heart of his fellow men. The immortal 'poet of the year' concealed all evil, and portrayed all good. His female reaper adorns the lowest field with mingled beauty, chastity, and innocence—and sweet Musidora, in her plight, is seen only by the eye of modest love, abashed and retiring from the view.

Ascending the scale of genius, for the sake of brevity, I pass the architect and mathematician, to say a word of the great mechanical inventor, whom I would place highest of all nature's eccentric and gifted sons. To that beauty or poetry of thought, sound, action, or expression, which constitutes the chief merit of the sons of genius, last under consideration, he adds utility and dignity, and furnishes the means for man's civilization. Could poetry or music be cultivated without mechanical means? Of what avail is eloquence among houseless savages, save to excite to deeds of horror? What leisure would be afforded to attend to and enjoy the efforts of genius, without the use of machinery, which has emancipated the human race from slavery to their necessities, and elevated them to the enjoyment of ease and luxury? The mechanical inventor approaches one attribute of the Divinity; he may almost be said to create; and thus to approximate to the highest exercise of power. And yet the singer, humblest of all the children of genius, oftentimes commands more of the world's admiration than the most extraordinary mechanical inventor. There are those who would listen to the song of the nightingale, although the proud monument of Fulton's genius for the first time burst upon their view, 'walking the waters like a thing of life.' Nay, there are doubtless those in whom a sonnet would excite more interest than the spectacle of a noble ship gliding swiftly into port, propelled by the lightnings of heaven. But that is the only true estimate of mental worth, which ranks highest in the scale of importance those faculties and dispositions of the human mind which best subserve the happiness of men.

Above all the sons of genius, I would rank a class of men distinguished for their talent and virtue; who together with a favorable temperament, have heads quite above the middle, but not of the very largest size; the organs of whose brain are equally and well proportioned; and whose sentiments and passions are well balanced and regulated. They are divested of the faults of the sons of genius; they have no weaknesses, except such as are incident to the best mental organization; and their passions incite to deeds of goodness, since they are under the control and guidance of noble intellectual faculties, and the higher sentiments. They avoid whatever subverts man's happiness. They are too wise to entertain schemes of dangerous ambition; too good to adopt the means of its gratification. Mankind have therefore nothing to fear from them. In the most arbitrary governments, their opinions are not disregarded even by tyrants; and under the freest constitution, their sentiments and opinions constitute the unwritten but sacred law of virtuous public sentiment, to violate which the most reckless seldom dare, and never do, with impunity. These are nature's aristocracy—and they constitute a formidable check upon the vices, and a barrier to the violences, of the mob, and overawe the daring ambition of the aspiring and desperate. The more sedulously all but these are excluded from directing the affairs of a republic, the longer will it endure.

Highest in the scale of human excellence, is the individual of the same description of character as the one last described, but with a head of the largest size. Here we have presented the highest and most perfect combination of moral and intellectual power. Here is the source of those great eras in human affairs, where the mighty intellect of one man has changed the moral and political condition of nations, perhaps of the world. Above nature's aristocracy, but with their confidence and approbation, this gifted order of men pursue the greatest good with the greatest energy—accomplish the noblest ends, by the noblest means. They belong to nature's high nobility. Human and mortal though they be, yet are they the peers of angels, and second only to the gods!

There was a man among my countrymen, who, whenever he appeared upon the theatre of human affairs, was always excellently great. He exhibited anger only in the form of virtuous indignation, and severity only in the cause of truth and virtue. The warrant of execution passed from his hand bedewed with his tears; and in the foeman whom he slew, would be found only the enemy of human happiness. He laid the foundation of a vast empire of freemen; he guided the reins of government with noble disinterestedness and virtue; he yielded them gladly to his successor, and with the blessings of millions, went into honorable retirement. Whether in emotion, thought or action, who has known one so pure, so great, and good? A distinguished British peer said of him, that 'he was the only human being, for whom he felt an awful reverence.'

Washington was, indeed, the highest of the nobility of nature.

'Greatest, noblest, purest of mankind.'

[EMBLEMS.]

I.

I ask not of the golden sun, why, when at eventide,
His last red glance is cast abroad on the green upland side;
I ask not why his radiant glow stays not to bless my sight,
Or why his yellow beams should sink behind the pall of night:
Day, night, and morn must come and go, along the changing sky,
With shadow and with grateful light, to cheer the wakening eye;
It is the change which makes them blest; all hold a tranquil power,
Whether 'tis morning's orient gleam, or evening's solemn hour.

II.

Thus should the soul in silence gaze, lit by pale Memory's star,
Over the heaving tide of life, whose wrecks but bubbles are;
And though the light of Joy be dim—though Hope's warm dream hath fled,
Though the deep wind hath mournful tones along the slumbering dead,
Still let thy spirit look abroad, and onward to the rest,
Which comes as twilight shadows steal across earth's verdant breast;
And chastened in the night of ill, amid its shadowed gloom,
Look to the holy morn which breaks the darkness of the tomb!

Philadelphia,

W. G. C.

[STANZAS.]

'There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground, yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant. But man dieth and wasteth away; yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?

Job.

I.

Born in anguish, nursed in sorrow,
Journeying through a shadowy span;
Fresh with health to-day—to-morrow
Cold and lifeless!—such is man.
Scarce produced to light, ere dying—
Like the fancied vision flying;
Scarcely budding forth, when blighted
'Dust to dust' again united!

II.

Richly shines the rainbow, glowing,
Lightly laughs the morning beam;
Sweetly breathes the flowret, blowing,
Deeply rolls the mountain stream:
But the heavenly bow hath faded,
And the morning beam is shaded;
And to earth the flower hath hasted,
And the mountain stream is wasted.

III.

Yet though passed awhile, these lie not
Ever in Destruction's chain;
Though the flowers may fade, they die not—
Spring shall wake their buds again:
Morning's smile again shall brighten,
And the storm the rainbow lighten;
And the torrent (summer finished,)
Roll its waters undiminished.

IV.

Man alone, when death hath bound him,
Moulders in the silent grave:
Of the friends who were around him,
None to succor, none to save!
Then when night and gloom assail thee,
And thy strength and glory fail thee,
And thy boasted beauty waneth,
Cold—in darkness—what remaineth?

V.

Cheering splendor yet attends us,
Mid these scenes of deepest gloom;
'Tis our 'hope in Christ' defends us
From the terrors of the tomb.
When we leave this vale of sadness,
'Tis to share unmingled gladness:
O the happy, happy greeting—
Jesus and our friends then meeting!

J. F. H.

[NOTES OF A SURGEON.][1]

NUMBER ONE.

THE DISLOCATION.

The reduction of a dislocated limb, in a person of muscular frame, is one of the most fearful and difficult operations in surgery; and in a lad or a female, there is much in the attending circumstances to excite the liveliest interest of the spectator. To hear the bone click, as it returns to its place; to behold the relief which is instantly experienced; the happiness so vividly depicted in the countenance; the inclination to immediate repose—every feather seeming to be a pillow to some over-strained and exhausted muscle—one cannot help cordially uniting in the feelings of the restored sufferer; nor can he restrain the smile which mantles his features, and is reflected in the lineaments of the surrounding surgeons.

In a strong man, where the muscles are rigid, and every fibre seems to be converted into a wire to resist the force exerted on them, the ceremony is one of distressing cruelty. The inquisition can scarcely furnish any thing more appalling, and certainly not the practice of surgery. The pain of an amputation may be more acute; but its very acuteness assures you that it will soon be over. The edge of the knife itself is an index, keen as the scythe of Time, and faithful as his march, of the progressive succession of the moments of trial; a fiëry monitor, which every instant sinks deeper, and will soon, very soon in the reality, but late, as it always must be, in the reckoning of the sufferer, reach its unswerving limits, the bone. And here the pain of the operation in a great measure ceases; for it is hardly necessary to state, that the sawing of this structure is not actually attended by any of the horrors with which vulgar apprehension has invested it. The ligature of the arteries, the dressing of the truncated member, etc., may each occasion a momentary anguish. But as to the mere pain of the operation, it is trivial, in comparison with that which an athletic man experiences in the reduction of a dislocated limb, which has been any length of time displaced.

It was a luxation of the thigh. The patient was a remarkably stout man, and bade fair to put in requisition the whole retinue of the hospital.

'Remember. Mr. F——,' said the attending surgeon, on leaving in the morning, 'be careful and have every thing ready—every thing. There must be no delay in seeking instruments while we are engaged with the patient.'

'I had better bleed him, probably?' replied I, inquiringly.

'Yes; an hour or so before twelve; and have him kept in the bath until then.'

I selected a double set of apparatus, consisting of very little else than a good strong block-and-tackle, and some padded buck-skin girths, and soon had them in their proper place in the 'theatre' of operations. This is an apartment of the hospital having very much the appearance of an ordinary theatre, but differing from it in being more especially appropriated to the enactment of tragedies; the play generally consisting in the lively representation of suffering on the part of the patient, and the exhibition of the coolest nonchalance by the officiating surgeons. If sometimes enlivened by an interlude between the chief actors and the subs, their sallies are wholly spontaneous, and usually fail to receive that applause which is the customary reward of such improvisations on other boards. The room is small, and ranges of boxes extend on the three sides of an ovoid, to the ceiling, forming an incommodious but commanding observatory for spectators. The pit is separated from the boxes by a thin partition. In this little space, lies the chief difference between the theatre of the hospital and more strictly dramatic edifices. The floor is the stage, on which those weekly representations take place, that seldom fail to draw crowds of students from the neighboring college, during its session; though it is not often that the spectacle of misery, (too purely unpoetical,) draws a tear from the lachrymal sac of the ardent and enthusiastic disciple of Hippocrates.

The audience are, in truth, mostly exceedingly phlegmatic in their manifestations of sympathy. They behold the struggles of a luckless wretch, in the clutches of the veritable Procrustes, who endeavors to make him conform to the measure of his bed, by a few inches of stretching, in the reduction of a luxated thigh, without apparently any fellow-feeling for his pitiable situation. They behold one of the lower limbs severed quite up to the hip-joint, and rivulets of blood streaming from the divided vessels of the stump, without a tremor, or a groan, or an exclamation, to evince the simultaneous racking of their own nerves; although it is true, that some youthful spectator will occasionally betray a tendency to deliquium, when he is immediately transported to a more kindred atmosphere.

The person to be operated on, was a man of vigorous constitution, and evinced great anxiety to have his body restored to its symmetry, and his limb to its usefulness. Though, as is usual in such cases, the probable severity of the operation, its duration, and the uncertainty of success, were laid before him in their true light, he was firm in his determination to have it done. Poor man! he could not bring himself to believe that there was a possibility of failure; nor did he suspect that, as strong a man as he was in resolution and bodily powers, he would be compelled, before the ceremonials of reduction were gone through with, to cry out, 'Give me some drink, Titinius, as a sick child.' Yet that such should be the case, shows that necessity is stronger than mortal resolution; and the same individual who asks you to reduce his limb, and then bids you cease your harrowing attempts, will in turn rebuke you if you obey his orders, given in the wildness of despair, and the limb thereby remain indissolubly locked in its distorted posture, an enduring monument of his own weakness, and of your culpable pliancy.

The patient was placed in a warm bath, and bled until faint. The object was to make him a sick man, as a preparatory step to rendering him whole. While superintending this necessary process, I hailed the nurse of ward No. 13, whose duty it was to attend to the regulation of the theatre.

'Nurse, have you seen that every thing is in order in the theatre?'

'I just came from there, doctor. I believe nothing is wanting.'

'We still need a bowl or two, and some warm water. You have the key?'

'Oh yes; I always carry the key of the side-doors. I shall not let any of the students in, doctor, until you say the word?'

'It will be as well to keep them out till the surgeons come. You must stand by, as we may want you to lend a hand.'

'There will be some occasion, I think, doctor, if I know any thing about a dislocation. I have been in this house fifteen years, and have seen Dr.—— try——'

'Well, be careful and have every thing ready.'

'Oh, I'll look out, doctor.'

His voice was soon heard at the farther end of the hall, summoning the nurse of one of the neighboring wards—a fellow whom Dr. D—— would have pronounced an O'Rang O'Tang, though he was neither an Irishman nor a monkey in appearance.

'I say, No. 14, have you carried that water in yet?'

'No, but I will directly,' replied the subaltern.

'Well, while I'm gone down to the old lady's after some fresh blankets, take care and have it done.'

How far this chain of rank extended downward, I can only conjecture. But it is probable that No. 14 did not consider himself the last link, and gave orders in an authoritative tone to one of his inferiors, and be d——d to him, to be careful and bring him a pail of water from the pump, while he stood on the steps to arrange his thoughts and shoe-strings.

I stepped down into the apothecary's shop, and procured a couple of drachms of tartar emetic. This I mixed up in a bowl of water, and gave a part of it to the patient, setting the remainder in a convenient place in the theatre. On a side-table, here, was spread out a pocket-case of instruments, containing scissors, scalpels, and every thing else that might be needed on an emergency.

The proper hour having now arrived, the disabled man was taken out of the bath, wrapped in a blanket, and supported into the theatre. On a table, in the centre of the pit, was placed the apparatus for reduction. The patient was extended on it, on his left side, and the young aspirants were called upon to exercise their ingenuity in attaching several silk handkerchiefs above the knee of the dislocated limb, (the right) with a clove-hitch. Surgeons are no sailors; and a knot which a cartman puts a hundred times a day over the front post of his cart, puzzles the juvenile professor exceedingly; and great is the honor bestowed on the fortunate achiever of the exploit. Phrenologists might find, in the retentive faculties of this knot, a desirable subject for investigation. The tighter you draw upon the two ends looped together, the more securely is the limb grasped; and a timber-head-hitch, as it is sometimes called, may be fixed to the tapering extremity of a slippery hacmetack log, and it will hold fast with the gripe of a drowning man, and allow you to drag it, for aught that can be averred to the contrary, half way round the globe. The mystery of this knot, unlike that of Gordian, is in the tying, not in the untying.

A broad belt was next passed along the os ischium, and up over the head, where it was fixed by a strong cord to the wall. Another was placed around the middle of the thigh. To the nooses in the end of the handkerchiefs, a small but strong pulley was attached, which was made fast at the other end to a staple on the side of the partition toward the patient's feet. In this situation, he seemed much as though stretched upon a rack, and waiting the application of the torture from his stern inquisitors; a resemblance which was more than justified in the progress of the operation.

The theatre was pretty well filled with students, and the arena of exhibition itself occupied by a sufficient number of persons either to assist, or to remain inactive spectators. The three chief surgeons stood about the feet of the patient, consulting as to the best mode of proceeding, and occasionally addressing a few words to the expecting patient. The walkers, house-surgeon, and one or two professional men, were arranged in convenient situations to afford aid. The nurse, par excellence, was also there, where his sailor-like promptness of hand in managing the rope was all important.

But as the reader does not, perhaps, know what a nurse is, hospitaliter et male loquendo, (that is, as applied to males, in hospital dialect,) it is proper that he should be made acquainted with him. I shall therefore peninsulate him briefly in this paragraph.

Nurse!—thy burly form would throw into inextricable confusion all ordinary notions of that soft and womanly occupation. To think of an advertisement like this: 'Wanted a wet-nurse, with a fresh breast of milk,' and of thy applying for it! Thy brachial extremities were far better adapted to embracing a cannon, than clasping an infant. Thou wert six feet three, leaving out the curve in thy shoulders, and wert called Featherbody, as if to show off thy unparalleled muscular development to better advantage. In fine, thy long chin, decisive mouth, nose of good magnitude, well-set eyes, rather superciliary eye-brows, low forehead, and matted hair, were sufficiently characteristic to have made thee remembered, had not thy extraordinary adaptation to thy office (so different from that which most conceive it to be) rendered thee an object of admiration to all who witnessed thy skill and prowess.

The patient thus extended upon the table, the bandages were taken from his arms; the bowl was held, and the flow of blood watched, to catch the first signs of failing strength. The vessel was already beginning to brim, when he sickened and vomited. It was now that the extension was put on. The sturdy, iron-armed nurse seized the stick around which the end of the pulley-rope was wound to give a firmer grasp to the hands, and began slowly and leisurely to bring the convolutions of the cord to a state of tension. His force, not trifling of itself, and now tripled, was not an eighth of it expended when its effects became apparent. The cord began to strain—the belt at the head tightened—the patient was lifted from the table, and became suspended between the two fastenings.

The surgeon, with his left hand upon the patient's ankle, and his right upon the upper end of the thigh-bone, while his knee, elevated by a stool, was placed under that of the culprit, as it hung over the end of the table, awaited the escape of the bone from its preternatural position. At the same time, a young Colossus stood upon the table, astride the unfortunate man, ready to lift up his thigh, and apparently tear it from his body, if it would not otherwise yield.

The man's groans now came thick and deep. He begged for a moment's intermission—rest, as he emphatically called it; and he never felt the full force of that word before, racked though his limbs had been, repeatedly, by the severest toil. The only consolation which they vouchsafed him, was in terms such as these:

'Do you feel sick—very sick?'

'Very.' His face was the picture of an emesis in embryo.

''Tis just what we want.'

The distressed man seemed to feel, gutturally, as if he could reject the comfort-drawing conclusion, ab imo pectore.

'Would you like to vomit?'

In the fulness of his stomach, he would have answered 'yes,' but restrained himself and his diaphragm after a moment's rumination.

'We don't want you to do that.'

'But I am exceedingly tired—wearied to death.'

'You will be better after it is over, my friend.'

'Give me a drink of water, doctor, for heaven's sake!'

'Take a little of this solution.'

'Do open the doors, and let in some air. I can hardly draw my breath.'

'Oh, never fear but you will breathe long enough.'

'I shall faint.'

'Faint away, and we shall soon have the bone in.'

'Doctor, I can't stand it!'

'Then lay it, friend,' a favorite expression with one of the distinguished surgeons who officiated on this occasion.

'Wont you loosen these straps, only for a moment, so that I can rest my leg?'

'One minute, my good man,' continued the speaker, while with double vigor he reiterated his efforts to pry the bone into its cavity; 'bear it a little longer—one minute—there—bear it only a little while longer——'

'O, doctor, you will break my thigh! Doctor—doctor!'

'Don't be alarmed, my man; if I do I will set it again.'

'Let me have that rope!' he exclaimed, as he made violent efforts to spring up and catch the cord that was straining his sinews; efforts ten times more hopeless and unavailing than those of Milton's giant,

'Under the weight of mountains buried deep.'

'There, lie still; you must not exert yourself. Do not try to draw your thigh up; we will take care of that.' Let it go as if you had nothing to do with it. Mr. R——, lift up a little more, as you are a true surgeon.'

'Oh, I shall die!' gasped the cruciated wretch.

'My good friend, you came here to have your thigh put back in its place, and you must be patient. You cannot expect it to be returned without pain.'

'I know; but wait till to-morrow; or let me rest myself for an hour or two, and then I shall feel refreshed, and be better able to bear it.'

'You may go to sleep, if you wish, my good fellow. I should be glad to have you.'

'But he could not well go in stays,' observed one of the walkers, in a low tone, to his neighbor.

'The cord-drawer there should unlace,' replied the other. 'But he resembles an ox triced up to be shod, more than a lady in corsets.'

'That saying is rather too ox-umorious for the occasion,' returned the éléve.

'Do you chew tobacco, my friend?' said the chief operator to the almost exhausted patient.

'I haven't chewed any lately,' he groaned.

'So much the better then. Mr. Aster, let me have a little out of your box. There—ah!'

'Here, my good man, take that,' he continued, presenting the grateful boon to the patient. 'Eat it: if you have not been accustomed to chewing, I am in hopes it will make you sick.'

This weed, it is known, produces the most deadly nausea and exhaustion in those not addicted to its use. It is customary to employ it in cases of this nature, where habit does not intervene, to incapacitate the patient for making any voluntary exertion in opposition to the extension, which purpose it answers even better than bleeding.

The occupation temporarily relieved him by changing the current of his thoughts, and he reclined in a state of utter listlessness and évanouissement, only interrupted by occasional retchings. The surgeons perceived the favorable opportunity; but the moment a movement was made to seize it, his muscles were on the alert, and it became a struggle between the unaided energies of a desperate man, and the mechanically-exerted force of an equally hardy but less excited opponent.

'Come, be calm, and do not strain so.'

'I can't help it!' The surgeons knew it.

'Whisper to him, Parcels,' said Aster, one of the junior assistants, who made his brightness particularly apparent in perpetrating puns upon the Roman vernacular, 'whisper him, by way of consolation and encouragement,

'Non, si male nunc, et olim
Sic erit.'

'That is, I suppose, 'If you are ill now, it is no sign you will be sick by-and-by.''

'Yes; and nothing could be more inspiring.'

'Poor dog, it is true he is likely to be as much benefitted by that as any thing else; but I will not trifle with his sufferings, even in seeming.'

'Cur nodus—why not? What will you do?'

'I will help, and then——'

'Soothe him by mild language. No, let Nature speak out her agony in his cries, and let the surgeon utter his sympathy as best becomes him, and as the welfare of his patient demands.'

'In jests?'

'In imperturbable coolness and decision: or, as you say, in jests; for what is comfort, under these circumstances, but a jest?'

'I think his system will not endure much more,' said Parcels.

'It is possible,' replied the walker.

He was a brave man, and even in this painful situation, he took what was offered him to increase his prostration; he chewed up a cigar, and gulped it down; he drank swallow after swallow of tartar-emetic solution, a most nauseating and relaxing preparation. But still, though deadly sick, the sweat pouring out of his forehead in clear drops, and though seemingly stretched, on this Procrustean bed, at least three inches beyond his natural stature, his muscles showed no disposition to relinquish their grasp upon the bone. The surgeons again and again exerted all their strength upon the passive and suspended limb, but it was without effect. They spoke a few words to each other, and at length concluded to remit the extension for a few minutes, in order to rest themselves.

It was, indeed, not only necessary for them, but for the man also, whose frame, it was justly feared, would not bear such unremitted torture. He seemed reprieved, in truth, by even the trifling respite that they granted him, and looked at the Herculean tar, (that was, before he became a nurse, thinking that his tender forces might be better exerted in the sick-room than on board a ship,) as, in obedience to orders, he walked up toward the slender and elegantly-wrought brass block, with steps that might have been impressed by an infant, which yielded only inch by inch the play that he had been so long and diligently accumulating upon the rope; he regarded him, I say, with a grim satisfaction, not unmixed with a tiger-like expression about the eyes and corners of the mouth, which bespoke any thing but pure and cordial affection.

But far from gaining the so much-coveted disenthralment, to the full of his desires, the cords were only partially slackened, and he was barely allowed to catch a glimpse of that freedom which would have been to him

——'Welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land.'

He might have lain about as much at his ease as Satan on the fiëry plains of ——, when bethinking him of his late discomfiture, and planning new schemes of vengeance.

I had seen many operations and exhibitions; but in none that I assisted at, was I ever so struck with the utter inefficiency of the measures resorted to, which yet seemed all of the most appropriate and potential kind. I knew that there was no fault in the operation, and that every expedient was strictly in accordance with the rules.

'He bears that stretching well,' said Parcels, one of the young éléves. 'The dislocation must be into the ischiatic notch.'

'It is,' replied Berry. 'The thigh should be pulled up more. Rhodes, instead of sending you up there again, to straddle over this poor fellow, we'd better put you at the halyards, and let Featherbody mount the rostrum.'

'It will take nothing less than the devil or a handspike to lift it out. My handkerchief around the upper end of the thigh was a point d'appui to the bodies of four mortal surgeons, and served as a pivot to balance two of them on his extremities, and two at his head.'

'Faith, you did resemble Jupiter, weighing the ponderous merits of the adverse parties; and 'long time in even scale the doctors hung;' but —— seemed inclined to kick the beam.'

'Do you observe,' said Berry, 'the doctor himself looks a little puzzled? J—— and D—— are no better off. I thought —— would break the femur more than once.'

'That bone is just at this time encased in an impenetrable mail of rigid muscles. If you broke that, you would break an iron bar of equal size,' replied Parcels.

'In truth,' said Berry, 'the relaxing medicines and bleeding seem to have had little effect in weakening them. How much blood did you take, Parcels, before he was brought in?'

'Two pounds.'

'He has lost two here, and I should think he might spare a couple more.'

'Yes, and two more added to them, before the bone would be in its place,' remarked Parcels.

'You have no faith in nauseating mixtures, and debilitating remedies?'

'No. While they apparently reduce the strength, they seem not to take a whit from the power of the muscles to resist extension.'

'You will certainly be expelled the church.'

'There is,' continued Parcels,'a kind of galvanism residing in the muscles, which emanates from the brain; and all bodily remedies, while they leave this organ in a state of intense action and excitement, can have no beneficial effect in subduing them.'

'Ego cycnus!' said Aster, in a kind of Latin, which must be taken literally to be understood, 'I swan! this is the most untractable member that ever came under my notice. We shall have to subscribe for a high-heeled boot for the other leg, if we carry this out much farther.'

'Another trial of doctoring, I think, will shortly break off the matter in debate,' observed Berry.

They now for a second time drew him into mid-air. The nurse, who had stood looking on with his hawk's eye, and wiping the sweat from his brow with one hand, while with the other he grappled the end of the pulley-rope, again applied his strength; the blocks drew nearer together; the surgeon, using the disjointed member for a lever, and his knee as a rest, exerted his whole force upon the limb, in one strong effort to pry it out; but it gave not, although it was anticipated that the bone might snap. The assistant upon the table, drawing upward with all his might, endeavored to entice (somewhat as the Irishman remonstrated) the upper end from its hiding-place. But it would have been easier, to all appearance, to have raised the world without Archimedes' fulcrum, than to have displaced this little globe from its new socket.

The surgeons regarded each other with evident indecision and inquietude, and began to remit or grow more abrupt in their exertions. The students looked incredulous, and exhibited a disposition to depart. But, resolved not to incur the mortification or disgrace of a failure, if it could be averted by any human means, the operators determined to carry their exertions, in a final attempt, as far as was consistent with the patient's safety. They loosed the bandages from the arms, and gave him an additional dose of the nauseating solution.

In this state of things, a young man leaped cautiously over the partition into the arena, stole his way unnoticed among the surgeons, and approaching the table stealthily, took from it a scalpel, or operating-knife, of large size. With this, passing in front of the man, he suddenly started up with it before his eyes, and seemed ready to plunge it into his body. As he made this gesture, the man roused up, in horror. Although pale from the loss of blood, he blanched still whiter, at this palpable demonstration of a design to slay him.

'It is necessary, my friend,' said the young man, steadily and clearly, 'to cut down to your back-bone, in order to get out the head of the thigh-bone, which is lodged there!'

Who can tell the terror that filled the sufferer's excited imagination, during the utterance of this awful ultimatum! 'The sense of death is most in apprehension;' and in the horror of that moment, he felt with King John:

'The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd,
And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail,
Are turned to one thread, one little hair:
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered,
And then all this thou see'st is but a clod!'

The ready éléve now made as if he was about to lay open the bowels of the patient, at a single rash stroke, from the stomach to the hip. Every arm was raised to arrest him; but taken as they were by surprise, he had ample time to execute his purpose. Leaning over and pressing his hand upon the side of the abdomen, he drew the knife rapidly and violently along its naked surface, from one extremity to the other. Then hastily rising, and throwing the knife on the bloody floor, he darted from the midst of the attendants; contriving, in the course of the action, to cover up with a corner of the blanket the work he had committed.

The patient, who had at first struggled, sank back; the spectators ran to his side; the students started from their seats; and the bone slipped into its place, with an audible 'click!' They hurriedly drew off the blanket from the patient's body, when lo! there was no wound! They went up to his side, and endeavored to arouse him from his stupor, and make him sensible that he was not hurt. In this they soon succeeded. The straps, pullies, and bandages were undone, and he was laid at length upon the table.

The young operator had well observed the powerfully depressing effect of fear on the human system, and had been incited to the ingenious expedient just described, by witnessing the obstinacy with which the bone had resisted all the measures for its reduction. In a few days the patient recovered entirely from his fright, and was seen walking about the halls of the hospital.

[THE ANNIVERSARY.]

BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE, ENGLAND.

I.

A year hath lingered through its round,
Since thou wert with the dead;
And yet my bosom's cureless wound
Still bleeds as then it bled.
All now without is cold and calm;
Yet o'er my heart its healing balm
Oblivion will not shed:
If day beguiles my fond regret,
Night comes—and how can I forget?

II.

For mute are then the sounds of mirth
I loathe, yet cannot flee;
And thoughts in solitude have birth,
That lead me back to thee.
By day, amid the busy herd,
My soul is like the captive bird
That struggles to be free;
It longs to leave a world unblest,
To 'flee away and be at rest!'

III.

Rest! how, alas! shall mortal dare
Of rest on earth to dream?
The heritage of ceaseless care
May better far beseem
The child of grief, the heir of wo;
And what if mutual love may throw
A joy-imparting beam
On life's wide waste?—'t is quickly gone,
And he must wander on—alone!

IV.

It was no charm of face or mien,
That linked my heart to thee;
For many fairer have I seen,
And fairer yet may see:
It was a strong though nameless spell,
Which seemed with thee alone to dwell,
And this remains to me,
And will remain: thy form is fled,
But this can e'en recall the dead.

V.

Thine image is before me now,
All angel as thou art;
Thy gentle eye and guileless brow,
Are graven on my heart;
And when on living forms I gaze,
Mem'ry the one loved form portrays;
Ah! would it ne'er depart!
And they alone are fair to me,
Who wake a livelier thought of thee.

VI.

Oft, too, the fond familiar sound
Is present to mine ear;
I seem, when all is hushed around,
Thy thrilling voice to hear.
Oh! could I dream thou still wert nigh,
And turn as if to breathe reply,
The waking how severe!
When on the sickening soul must press
The sense of utter loneliness!

VII.

A year hath pass'd!—another year
Its wonted round may run;
Yet earth will still be dark and drear,
As when its course begun.
I would not murmur or repine,
Yet, though a thousand joys were mine,
I still should sigh for one;
How could I think of her who died,
And taste of joy from aught beside!

VIII.

Yes, dearest! though that treasured love
Now casts a gloom o'er all,
Thy spirit from its rest above
I would not yet recall:
My earthly doom thou canst not share,
And I in solitude must bear
Whate'er may still befal;
But I can share thy home, thy heaven,
All griefs forgot, all guilt forgiven!

[LOVE AND REASON.]

Gentle Lady! thy smile as the starlight is fair,
And thine eyes are as charming as ever they were;
And thy voice is the same as that love-breathing tone
Which once whispered my name in this bower alone;
But since then, that sweet voice, in this bower of thine,
Hath whispered another's as fondly as mine!

You remember the vow which you made me at eve,
When together we swore in one faith to believe;
You remember the stars that looked on from above,
And how sweetly you called them 'the sentries of love!'
Those stars, thou false maiden! were shining that hour,
When I heard that strange name in this very same bower!

Perhaps you then thought it a very good game,
To sigh to one lover, till the other one came:
And now I remember, I once heard you own
That you never could sit in this bower alone;
'And so I could not,' quoth the maid, with a sneer,
'So I talked to my parrot, as you were not here!'

[AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.]

NUMBER TWO.

——'Amidst ruins; there to track
Fall'n states and buried greatness o'er a land
Which was the mightiest in its old command,
And is the loveliest.'

Byron.

In our first number, we introduced the reader to the magnificent ruins of a once great and populous city, in the Province of Chiapa, Central America. It was thought, it will be remembered, that a description of the present state of the Palencian metropolis, the character of the people who inhabited it, and the extraordinary arts by which both were distinguished, should precede other facts and conclusions, in relation to the early history of the American continent. Reasons for this will have been apparent, we trust, in the opinions expressed of the peculiarities and great antiquity of the Tultecan people. The advanced state of knowledge to which that people had arrived, at a very remote period of time, and the subsequent connection which will appear to have existed between them and that distinct class of mankind—which, at a much later, yet still very distant date, occupied the great western valleys of the United States—also require of us an early and more particular reference, in again calling attention to the subject under consideration.

A brief notice of one or two of the ancient Palencian edifices, among the few that have come down to us in the form and feature of their primitive greatness, cannot fail to interest the lovers of the antique and the curious:

——'There is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement,
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.'

The principal structure referred to, and with which it has been supposed all the others were connected, in purpose at least, if not by subterranean or other passages, presents a style of architecture resembling the gothic. It is rude, massive, and durable. As a whole, it has an appearance not unlike that of the ancient Egyptian edifices; still it is peculiar, and differs from all others hitherto known. The world nowhere exhibits the same striking characteristics, among the remains of ancient art and early genius; nor can we trace in any other structures the same peculiarities of arrangement and apparent adaptation. The great permanency of the fourteen stone buildings, standing, even to this late day, sufficiently attest their superior style and workmanship. They are called by the people Cassas de Piédras, or stone houses. Buildings of the same kind, now found in other parts of Guatemala and in Yucatan, some of which are of immense size, and of the same architectural style, are similarly named. There seems to be but one general tradition in relation to the character of the people who constructed these great and strong buildings; and we are led to infer from their internal structure and arrangement, as well as from all that can be learned from the traditions of the natives, that the principal ones were erected for like purposes, viz: for temples of worship, and for the residences of kings. The great building at Palenque was undoubtedly built for the former purpose, and occupied, from time immemorial, by numerous priests devoted to religious ceremonies.

'But thou, of temples old or altars new,
Standest alone, with nothing like to thee!'

The entrance to the Palencian temple is on the east side, by a portico more than one hundred feet in length, and nine feet broad. This portico is supported by plain rectangular pillars, without pedestals, fifteen inches in diameter. On these are laid smooth square stones, one foot in thickness, which form an achitrave. These blocks are nearly covered with stucco-work of shields, etc. On each pillar, and running from one to another, rest also plain rectangular blocks of stones, five feet long, and six feet broad. Vestiges of heads, and various other designs in stucco, are discovered on these blocks; and on the internal side, are seen numerous busts, representing, without doubt, a series of kings. Between these, there is a range of windows, along the entire length of the building, some of which are square, and others in the form of the Greek cross. Beyond the corridor, is a square court, which is approached by a series of seventeen steps. The north side of the building, though in ruins, shows very distinctly that it had a corridor and a chamber, like the other three sides. There are four chambers, with two windows on the south side: the east and west sides are alike, except in the devices. On the west side is seen a mask, with a crown, and a long beard, and under these are two Greek crosses. These specimens of workmanship resemble Roman sculpture, particularly that of Jupiter. The mask may be supposed to represent some of the deities worshipped in the temple; and very probably that of Quetralcoatl, the god of the air, and a favorite deity, as will hereafter appear.

Proceeding forward, we are ushered into another large court, similar in size and appearance to the last mentioned, having a passage around it. In this are two chambers, and an interior gallery, which looks into a great court-yard on one side, and over the adjacent country, on the other. Pillars adorn the gallery, on either side, exhibiting numerous and ingenious specimens of sculptured art. The purposes to which it was devoted, are satisfactorily explained by the character of the designs here represented; and, like all the other apartments, it may be presumed to have had a distinct and peculiar use. None, however, would seem to have had a more melancholy appropriation. Though the character of this people was mild and peaceful, yet it can hardly be supposed that, in the earliest conditions of human society, some rude and barbarous customs should not have prevailed. As with individual character, all improvements in the manners and customs of a people must be the result of experience. Hence the disgust which we feel in view of the practices of many ancient nations is not always a just estimate of the real character of that people; for they may not be more abhorrent to us, than our own may appear to those of succeeding ages. It will be understood that we allude to human sacrifices. There are, in fact, in this gallery, numerous relievos, which are supposed to represent sacrifices of the people, or of their enemies, to the manes of their favorite deities. Some of these, with others of the finest specimens of sculpture found in the building, have been mutilated or removed, and afterward conveyed to Spain, where, in all probability, they will prove of little advantage to antiquarian literature.

In the large open court before mentioned, within the centre of the temple, there is a high tower, now having four stories, to which there was, in ages past, a fifth, surmounted by a cupola; all making in height from sixty to seventy feet. The design and execution of this tower indicate great skill and ingenuity. Within it was another, having windows facing those in the exterior tower, which were intended to afford light to a series of steps leading to the top. The interior tower was plain, while the outer one was in a true and tasteful style of architecture. The principal entrance to these sacred and lofty structures, is on the north side, but the passages to both towers are now entirely filled up by fallen rubbish of stones, gravel, etc. On the south side of the building, and behind four small chambers, are two very large apartments, supposed to have been used as oratorios. These are richly ornamented, with figures in stucco, some of which are beautifully enamelled. In these rooms are numerous statues, placed along their sides, and also several Grecian heads, which were, undoubtedly, of a sacred character. They were variously ornamented with strings of jewels, which had been offered them, it may be supposed, by the people in their devotional exercises. Behind these oratorios, are still two other apartments, each of which is eighty feet in length, and nine in width, extending from north to south. Here was discovered one of the most singular and perfect specimens of sculpture yet found among the ruins of this vast city. It was one of the people's gods astride an animal. From the drawing taken of this, it is unquestionably an admirably-executed relic. The proportions are most perfect throughout, and indicative of a knowledge of the art, vastly superior to that of any ancient barbarous nation. The origin of this knowledge we are at a loss to conjecture. The animal is descriptive of the American lion, which was less powerful than either the African or Asiatic, and without a mane. The same animal is represented in some of the other apartments. From the position of the idol, it is inferred that it was worshipped as a river-god, as with the Hindoos. Indeed, in referring hereafter to the probable origin of these arts, it will be seen that similar deities were worshipped by the latter people. Analogous arts and customs will also be traced to various other nations. One of these apartments contains an elliptical stone, inserted in the wall, below which there is a plain rectangular block of stone, six feet in length, three in breadth, and seven inches thick, standing upon four feet, in the form of a table, with bas-relief figures supporting it. Numerous characters, or symbols, adorn the edges of this table, all of which had, without doubt, a significant meaning; but all knowledge of that meaning, which might now be turned to a good account, in deciphering the character and customs of the ancient occupants of this singular temple, is entirely lost; and, unless some fortunate discovery should be made, will ever remain uninterpreted. The various other hieroglyphics and symbolical designs will also, we fear, continue to be a sealed book to the antiquarian.

At the end of one of these apartments, is an opening through the stone pavement, six feet long and three broad, conducting, by a flight of stone steps, to extensive subterranean apartments. These steps have, at regular intervals, large flat landings, in each of which are openings or doorways, to other and continuous ranges of stone steps. All of these landings were curiously ornamented with sculpture work. There were several other avenues to this principal underground passage, most of which were blocked up by crumbling fragments. It is however possible, that these avenues may lead to other apartments, or, not improbably, to the other and neighboring buildings; a fact strongly suspected, both from the use to which the subterranean apartments were appropriated, and the character of their occupants. At the second landing and doorway, torch-light is required, after which the regular stairways conduct, by a gradual descent, to the great subterranean rooms. From each landing, the explorer turns to the succeeding flight of steps, until he arrives within the gloomy chambers below, to which he is admitted by a large stone door. The first room is one hundred and ninety-two feet in length! Beyond this is another chamber, of the same dimensions, which looks toward the south, by means of windows, commanding a corridor running to the extreme of the building. In these rooms are found plain horizontal stones, seven and a half feet long, by three feet three inches wide, standing upon four wrought pedestals, about two feet from the ground. These are portioned off in the form of alcoves; and hence are supposed to have been used by the priests of the temple as places for sleeping.

The accompanying outline illustration of this temple is a hasty sketch of the side partly in ruins, and is intended to show, to the best advantage, the form and general appearance of the exterior. We have by us a ground-plan, or diagram of the internal structure, which may be given on another occasion. This view will be seen to present the upper portion of the most curious and important structure yet discovered, viz., the tower, where it is supposed were preserved, with great care and veneration, the ashes of the Tultecan kings. Attempts to reach parts of these singular structures (for there were two, one within the other,) were unavailing. The avenue leading within the internal one, to the summit, is now blocked up by broken fragments and earth. Trees are to be seen growing firmly upon the towers. The entrance was on the north side, but this is now filled with heaps of rubbish. This tower exhibits far more ingenuity and good taste, than any thing yet remaining of the Tultecan buildings. Another drawing, which represents the entire external tower, with trees standing upon various projecting parts, is in course of execution.

Leaving this edifice, with the present slight description, and proceeding southerly to another, standing on an eminence one hundred and twenty feet high, the same massive and peculiar style of architecture is observed. This building is in the form of a parallelogram. It has square pillars, an exterior gallery, and a saloon sixty feet long, by ten and a half broad. This room has a large frontispiece, on which are executed, in stucco relief, female figures, with children in their arms, all of the natural size, but without heads! On each side of the doors leading to the gallery, and on each wall, there are three stones, nine feet in height, and three feet broad, all of which are covered with bas-relief and hieroglyphic figures. None of these ingeniously-executed specimens of art afford a solitary ray of light by which to arrive at their meaning, and a better knowledge of the people by whom they were executed. The gallery is paved throughout with smooth and well-fitted stones. Parts of the building are in ruins; and, in proceeding from it, masses of other ruins are seen; which lead to the conclusion that they are the remains of edifices once connected with it.

Passing on a short distance, in a southerly direction, through a small valley, another building is entered by a flight of steps leading to a gallery and a saloon, similar to those we have noticed in the other edifices. At the door of this saloon, are to be seen numerous allegorical ornaments, in stucco work, which, like the others, surprise us by their curious and grotesque character, but which yield us no additional information in regard to their origin or design. At the east of this building, three others are discovered, situated on high triangular mounds. These are small, and nearly square, being fifty-four feet long, by thirty-three feet broad. They present the same antique style of architecture, but have roofings, or turrets, covered with various ornaments and devices, in stucco. One of these has a gallery, much decayed, at the end of which is a saloon, with a chamber at each extremity. In the centre of the saloon is an oratory, nine feet square, with a stone at each entrance, having upon it a bas-relief figure of a man in full length. Other curious figures are to be seen on various stones in this room. The stone pavement is smooth, and admirably matched. This being perforated, and a hole made about eighteen inches in diameter, a round earthen vessel was discovered, one foot in size, cemented to another of the same dimension and quality. Pursuing the excavation, a circular stone was met with, which, on removal, presented a circular cavity containing a lance, made of flint, two small pyramids, and the figure of a heart, made of crystallized stone, called by the natives challa. Two other small jars, with covers, were found, containing a ball of vermilion, etc. Near the entrance to this oratory, in another cavity, was also discovered small jars, with similar contents. It is presumed that this place was devoted to the remains and memorials of heroes, and those who had distinguished themselves in the public service, and that the bas-reliefs and inscriptions were intended to commemorate their names and exploits. These relics, so securely deposited beneath the stone pavement, whether private relics of individuals, or supposed to have been possessed of some remarkable properties, sufficiently prove, by the situation in which they were found, that they were held sacred by the people, or the priests of the temples.

Two other buildings, examined, have the same architectural character, and are divided in a similar manner, the bas-reliefs only being different. In one of these, and under the stone pavement of an oratory, were found the same flint, lance, conical pyramids, heart, and jars; and in another was also found articles of the same character, which, with various bas-reliefs, etc., were removed. It has been thought, from some similarity in the workmanship of these fragments of art to those of the Phœnicians, Greeks, and Romans, that they were derived from the people of those nations. The same analogous character has been remarked in the various specimens of art found elsewhere in this once renowned city, as we shall have occasion to show, in speaking of the stupendous aqueducts, fortifications, etc., to be seen in various other parts of this once populous place.

In digging near these buildings, a great variety of other articles were found, which, with specimens of bricks, mortar, etc., have been removed. The remainder of the fourteen edifices do not differ materially from those described; while some of them, as may be imagined, have suffered much from the effects of time, and are now crumbling amid the sea of ruins. Why, indeed, these have baffled the effects of untold ages, and come down to us as trophies of human art, while far and near is only to be seen a general wreck of matter, it is impossible to say. The probability that they were erected and used for sacred purposes, may afford us reasonable grounds for the inference, that they were either more securely built, or that, if the causes which depopulated this vast city, arose from the ravages of a victorious enemy, their hallowed character preserved them from the hand of the spoiler. Time, and the researches of the anxious antiquarian, may disclose the causes which stripped the city of its splendor, and of its innumerable inhabitants; a circumstance much to be desired by the curious and the learned. This inquiry, in fact, is the first that suggests itself to the reader, or the observer. What could have swept so many human beings from this immensely populous city? Was it some fatal pestilence, that suddenly blotted from existence two millions of people? Did some awful convulsion of nature crush, by one overwhelming shock, all the magnificent fabrics that, for sixty miles around, adorned the plain? Or did some rude and exasperated foe, of countless numbers, fall upon the devoted city, exterminate its population, and lay its beauty and greatness in undistinguishable ruins? These are questions which naturally and irresistibly present themselves at this view of our subject; but they are those to which no satisfactory solution can yet be given. From some data within our reach, there are afforded reasons for concluding, that a fearful and destructive pestilence once devastated this fair land, and swept off its previously happy inhabitants by one common death; while there are others, said to be derived from an authentic source—the records of the people themselves, preserved from the general wreck of arts, and inscribed upon tablets—which go to prove that a great proportion of the people were destroyed by the most painful and wretched of deaths, famine. The latter, we are of the opinion, has the better claim to truth. There are also reasons for believing, that a neighboring enemy, powerful and barbarous, rushed down upon this quiet people from the north, and drove them from their magnificent city. Of the inhabitants of this wild and savage nation, who, like the Goths and Vandals in overrunning the south of Europe, came rushing upon southern cultivated plains—as in all ages of the world they are found to have done—we shall also have occasion to speak more at length. Like the people of other remote nations, it will be seen, likewise, that the most desperate and bloody struggles were here carried on, the particulars of which are preserved; and, not being generally known, will be found to possess deep interest, and to be in no respect behind those recorded of the most extraordinary of ancient eastern nations. The interest of these particulars will be much enhanced, by the connections which may be traced between the original inhabitants of the United States and those of Central America. Whether the Palencians themselves were ever engaged in deadly strife with northern barbarous people, save, perhaps, on the occasion of their being suddenly driven from their great city, remains a matter of doubt. This is considered improbable, however, from the fact that no warlike implement has yet been discovered among the ruins of the Tultecan city. And a very extraordinary fact it is, that this people had no knowledge of the use of iron; nor had they for mechanical, domestic, or warlike purposes, a solitary iron implement! The question, we are aware, will immediately suggest itself: 'How, then, did these people rear those mighty superstructures—ay, even a whole city, surpassing all others in extent, and that, too, of hewn stone, admirably fitted throughout—if they had no knowledge of iron tools?' Such was, nevertheless, the fact. The people to whom we refer, as having been engaged with surrounding nations, in long and destructive warfare, were the descendants of the primitive Tultecans, or those of their successors, the Aztiques, while the most ancient occupants of this continent, the ingenious builders of, and quiet residents within, the Palencian city, were insulated, for ages, from all other people of the earth.

The first narrative of observations made among the ruins at Palenque, to which we have referred, were mysteriously withheld from the public for nearly forty years. After having been written out by the explorer, in conformity with public orders, it can only be supposed that the extraordinary facts communicated by him exceeded belief, or that, if thought true, and they should be made public, they would induce visits from strangers which might be annoying to the Spanish authorities. Visitants from foreign countries would thus become acquainted with the internal policy, the tyrannical misrule of the government over the virtuous natives, and with the natural resources of their rich and extensive country. For these, or other reasons past conjecture, the description of the ruined city was suppressed; and it remained secreted in a convent at Guatemala, from 1786 to 1822, when, after the revolution in that ill-fated country, it was discovered thus hidden, by a foreign traveller, taken to London and published in the above last-mentioned year. Copies of this work have for many years been extremely scarce in London. To the particulars there made known were added an ingenious and learned treatise by a distinguished Catholic priest upon the origin of the Tultecan people, with many other highly interesting facts and speculations connected therewith.

This subject has since received enthusiastic attention from several individuals, whose names have been mentioned. It was from having been employed to engrave the illustrations of the above work, that Waldrick, the most indefatigable of them all, was induced to cross the Atlantic for the purpose of visiting the ruins himself. Particulars respecting the adventures and researches of this devoted man, during twelve years' seclusion among the ruins; the base and outrageous robbery committed upon him, 'by order of the Mexican government,' in wresting from his possession all the valuable drawings that he had been for years employed in making; together with other facts and illustrations collected by other adventurous inquirers; the records of the arts, the singular dresses, hieroglyphics, symbols, and particularly the great Teöculi, and other immense structures, will follow, in order of time and place.

'Ages and realms are crowded on this span,
This mountain, whose obliterated plan
The pyramids of ages pinnacled.'

From the hasty sketch here given of these remarkable people and their structures, it will be seen, that comparatively little attention was given to them by the Spanish government, or their agents. This is justly attributable to the well-known suspicion and habitual indolence of both the authorities and their subjects, either of which, on a topic like this, stamps them with disgrace, in the opinion of all enlightened men. The government itself seems not to have been satisfied with the account given of these extensive ruins by Del Rio; for, in 1805, Charles V. despatched a Captain Dupaix on the same duties; since which, two other voyages have been undertaken, by the same enterprising explorer, for the like purpose; and now, the accounts of this individual constitute the best we have of the ancient Palencian city. They were published in France about a year since, and form, with the accompanying splendid illustrations, an expensive and voluminous work. It was from this work that Lord Kingsbury gleaned the materials for his still more costly, but, it need not be said, less valuable, work. The sole effort of the noble lord, in this ponderous treatise, is to prove that the people of whom we have been speaking, were none other than the nine-and-a-half lost tribes of the house of Israel; an effort contributing as little to truth as it does to the establishment of his absurd theory. It will appear a matter of surprise, to every impartial inquirer, and to those at all acquainted with the facts in the case, that such an opinion has been endorsed by others: but it might be stated, that the character, not less than the expense, of the book in question, will effectually preclude it from general perusal. We shall elsewhere state the curious facts on which this theory is based; one of which, we may remark, en passent, is, that the temple, of which we have given a partial description, closely resembles the far-famed temple of Solomon, a fact which, though not denied, proves nothing, abstractly. Reasons exist why this isolated truth cannot be made available in a hypothesis so plainly opposed to the first principles of physiology, not to say probability. Whatever theory men may devise, to account for the origin of the Tultecans—and there have been others not less crude and chimerical than this—it is philosophically true, that they differed from all others in those distinguishing characteristics which have ever been assumed as the criteria of distinct species of men. The accompanying representation, which is an exact copy, shows in a striking manner the peculiar form of the Tultecan head, and the curious symbolical designs with which they are generally ornamented. The peculiar physiognomy of this people is not less forcibly delineated in the drawing. Both the characteristic conformation of the head and facial outline is preserved in all the specimens of sculpture hitherto found. In connection with the Tultecan peculiarities alluded to, those of their dress were not less remarkable. These, if we except perhaps the sandals worn on their feet, exhibit a strange combination of splendor, ingenuity, and oddness. So unlike were they to those of any other nation, that we can perceive no reason for supposing them derived from any prëexistent people. They were so designed and executed, as to represent the most notable data in individual and national history. This may be seen in the form and embellishments of their dress, as sculptured, and evidently described by phonetic characters, upon the various tablets found among the ruins of Tulteca. Curiously interwoven, and yet highly ornamental, are the personal achievements, civil records, and religious faith, supposed to appear in the paraphernalia of their habiliments; and these are observable in the head-dress represented below. Some, however, were much more complicated, and when exhibited on solemn religious occasions, as at the great annual ceremony on the plains of Cholula, in all the varieties of form and gorgeousness of coloring, and, as it is supposed, by millions of people at once, presented, altogether, the most grand and imposing spectacle the world has ever witnessed.

It may in truth be affirmed, that in no people have distinctive characteristics been more apparent, and more clearly defined. For the present, therefore, they must stand by themselves as a part of the human family; and they should be treated as a distinct and peculiar race of men. This fact gives to our subject, as before remarked, a romantic and unique character. Finding this people, as we do, so far advanced in a knowledge of the useful and ornamental arts as to preclude any rational inferences in respect to their derivation from previously extant people, and so completely and so widely detached, in a geographical point of view, from all other nations, bearing resemblance in their arts, their social institutions, and in many striking physical peculiarities, as to afford no plausible theory by which to trace their oriental connections, we are left entirely disenthralled from speculative opinions; and, hereafter, we may be allowed to dwell upon novel and animating truths, without being warped by prejudice, or swayed by conjecture.

[VIVE LA BAGATELLE.]

I like not your care and sorrow,
Care to-day and care to-morrow;
I like not your brows of sadness—
Give me rather tones of gladness;
A heart where laughter loves to dwell,
Exclaiming, 'Vive la Bagatelle!'

What is fame?—an empty bubble,
Nothing worth, though earned with trouble;
What are riches?—can mines of wealth
Buy happiness—contentment—health?
Nor fame nor riches own a spell,
To wean me from 'La Bagatelle!'

There is a time for every doing,
A time for working and for wooing;
A time when we can all be gay,
Cheat Sadness of her hoped-for prey,
Lock monkish Sorrow in his cell,
And hey! for 'Vive la Bagatelle!'

Then live the dance, and live the song,
And live Joy's gay and happy throng;
Then live the laugh, the joke, the pun—
Live frolic, fancy, sport and fun;
And let their song in chorus swell,
Its burthen, 'Vive la Bagatelle!'

Le Chansonnier.

[THE BACKWOODS.]

NUMBER ONE.

JUBA.

Reader, were you ever in Carolina?—in that part, I mean, where the long, swelling range of the Blue Ridge begins to decline gradually to the fair and fertile plain, 'et molli se subducere clivo?' I shall take it for granted you have not, and do most earnestly recommend you (if you be not prejudiced with tales of fevers dire, which attack only the stranger,) to wend your way thither, if practicable, the ensuing season. Have you been cramped over the counting-house desk till your frame pines for purer air? Seek the mountains; inhale the balmy and bracing breeze from our thousand wood-capped hills; and thank heaven that the air is free. Have you moved in the monotonous and mill-horse round of city life, either in its high or its low dissipation and frivolity, till your heart is sick within you at its hollowness and vanity? There shall you see men of Nature's own make, not starched into a precise formality, nor with souls and limbs alike fettered with artificial restraint, but with nerves, and elastic frames, that do credit to their 'raising,' with quick feeling and buoyant hopes sparkling in their eyes; in a word, Backwoodsmen. Perhaps you may see an individual of the half-horse, half-alligator tribe; but the species is nearly extinct, and physiologists will soon reckon them among the Megatheria of past ages—the Hipposaurus of America.

If pure air, glorious scenery, deep woods, the sports and pleasures of forest, field, and fell, and the assurance of full welcome, allure you not, I consign you, sans replevin, to Dyspepsia, the city demon, and leave you heartless, hopeless, stomachless, to all the horrors of indigestion.

'T was summer; not this summer, nor last summer, but the first of June, 177-.

The sun, robed in a mantle of crimson cloud, had risen some hour or more over the high hills which branch off from Table Rock. Their round and undulating tops were fast changing from azure to purple, as the light fell gradually upon them, while here and there some massy pine, standing single from his fellows, his dark form in bold relief against the glowing and gorgeous sky, seemed champion of his race, tossing defiance from his waving and mighty limbs. The glorious tint of a southern heaven, liquid and pure, spread in its intensity of hue over the wild and magnificent scenery of the distant landscape. The far summits of lofty mountains, whose rough peaks were dimmed by distance, running in long succession from the north-east, and suddenly breaking in the square and precipitous outline of Table Rock, formed the back-ground of the picture. From the back and sides of these swelling ridges, the land fell gradually in a series of hillocks, some crowned with the primeval forest, as yet untouched by the axe of the settler, some clothed with the verdure of the rising crop, and declining into deep and peaceful valleys, through which the wild mountain streams, girt with a fringe of green, rushed to the lowlands.

On one of the most beautiful of these green knolls stood, at the time of our story, the family residence of Charles Edwards. Embowered, as is the custom of the country, in the verdant embrace of wide-spreading trees, saved from the destruction of their companions of the forest, its white walls and wide piazzas gleamed through their screen, and the bright rays of the sun, reflected from the upper windows, sparkled like fire through the shade. In front of the mansion, a long and broad avenue, composed of the magnolia, pride of our woods, and the white-limbed sycamore, extended to the main road, which passed at some distance from the house.

The free mountain breeze stirred the dark green and varnished leaves, and bore away the powerful perfume of the magnolia, sighing the while among the foliage, as loath to leave so sweet a resting-place. The wild carol of the happy birds came in rich melody upon the listening ear; all was full of a deep and quiet joy; and nothing marred the tranquillity of the scene.

Suddenly, far down in the vale, through which the road wound upward to the hills, rose the notes of a bugle, faint in the distance; borne slowly by, upon the light wind, they faded away in indistinct melody. Again it rang more clear, and soon the full power of the blast passed by, awakening the mountain echoes, which repeated its brilliant tones far in their deep recesses; then the heavy and rolling sound which precedes the approach of cavalry, broke upon the ear, like the muttered growl of the gathering thunder before a storm; while at times the sharp clash of steel scabbard and stirrup, and the ring of bridle bit and chain, as the impatient steeds tossed their proud heads, came nearer and more near. The troop was still concealed by the deep copse that bordered the road; but as they wheeled into the avenue, the sunlight flashed on polished helmets and glittering equipments, and the whole air was stirred by their martial music.

At a rapid pace they advanced upon the house, and filing through the gate, divided into two parties, one of which surrounded the house and the other the 'quarter' where the negroes had their dwellings, to provide against escape. After the usual orders had been given, as to the disposition of sentinels, and the hasty refreshment of men and horses, the officers advanced to the house, and with repeated knocking, demanded admission.

Here we will leave them for awhile, and betake ourselves to better company.

Charles Edwards was the descendant of a family which early settled in the province, and had long possessed the lands on which he himself lived. His father, who died long ere the seeds of disturbance in these colonies had begun their rapid and stormy growth, was devotedly loyal to his king, had held high office under the crown, and thoroughly imbued his son in his own principles. The more effectually to insure his attachment to the mother land, he was early sent there to be educated, and in the time-honored halls of loyal Oxford, Charles received those impressions which are so apt to be our guides in future life. But he also there learned the birth-right of an English subject, and the correlative duties of a government. He had returned to America, and held high rank in the judiciary, until a few years before the revolution. He had married, and was the father of a son and daughter.

The times which tried men's souls came on, and severe as the struggle was, to rend from his heart-strings all that he had most venerated, he failed not to do it. He gave himself to his suffering country; he cast his all into the scale; and though infirmities prevented him from personally engaging in her cause, his advice and counsel were not wanting. He had sent his son, a noble youth of twenty, to join Sumpter, with such hardy spirits as would follow him, and himself retired to his family mansion, to rouse the western mountaineers.

His daughter—Maria Edwards—how can I describe her? I have seen faces more delicately fair, but never one so calculated to express the varying emotions of the soul. The eye that now slumbered under that dark and beautifully-pencilled brow, and now instinct with life and spirit, flashed with sudden light, how beautiful it was! at one time awing by its deep and pure tranquillity, at another, startling by its brilliancy. Why should I try so vain a task, as to note down the items of that spiritual loveliness which one may feel but not portray? Do you, most imaginative reader, spare me the pains of so futile an attempt; recall to your memory the vision of her who once shone in your eyes the polar star of your affections; the rich and perfect form that glided before you in your moments of purest and holiest feeling, while your rapt sight rested entranced upon her every motion, and your head was dizzy with excess of loveliness, and your full soul throbbed in your bounding pulses, as you followed the object of your idolatry. The eye, which beamed upon you with insufferable light, the brightness of whose glance was your life, and which, when it fell upon you, thrilled through blood and bone. The hand, whose light and fairy touch could bind you more strongly than that of a giant, and whose gentle pressure was more to you than all the world beside; the fair, calm brow, on whose polished surface heaven had set the impress of its own purity and innocence. Does memory recall such a being? Such, but more spiritually beautiful, was Maria Edwards. Such she was, worthy to be daughter, sister, bride, of the men of olden times. She was indeed qualified to rouse the sleeping spirit of chivalry into action—into deep, firm, and unchanging devotedness to the cause of truth and principle. Startled from a prophetic reverie of the future independence of her country, by the rude clamor and clash of steel without, she at once comprehended the horror of her situation. Her father, her idolized father, had long been the object of suspicion to the invaders, and nothing but the danger of sending a detachment into the neighborhood of the mountain fastnesses, had prevented him from being long since a prisoner; but now, after the defeat of Sumpter, at Hanging Rock, they deemed the spirit of the country broken. Now the hour of peril was come, and that fair girl braced herself to do and dare. The rich color passed from her face, but resolution enthroned itself on that high, pale brow. She descended calmly to the room where her parents were, and found her mother, with more of woman in her composition, clinging in wild terror to the arms of her husband. Fear knew no place in Mr. Edwards's mind, but the sight of his weeping and fainting wife, as she hung upon him in despair, well nigh unmanned him.

Maria gently unclasped her mother's hand, and twining her own fond arms around her, whispered, 'Mother, if you love my father, let him prepare himself for this emergency.' She felt the appeal, and with a violent effort, subduing her emotion, permitted him to leave the room, though her tearful and straining eyes followed his retreating form with an ardent gaze. Mr. Edwards turned, as he reached the door, for one more look, and for a moment stood irresolute; but the violent knocking without, roused him into action. As he turned away, the clear, calm voice of his daughter thrilled on his ear: 'Remember, my father, you have a name, a country, and a God!' 'I do, I will!' was his energetic reply, as he ordered the servant to open the door, which now rang with redoubled blows.

It opened, and the venerable form and silver hair of the old man stood in strong contrast with the inflamed features and violent gestures of the officer who commanded the party. Violent and ruthless as he was, he retreated with involuntary respect; but soon recovering his roughness of manner, he demanded why an officer of the king was forced to stand so long before the door of his subject.

'I thank heaven, Sir,' said Mr. Edwards, 'that your King has few subjects here, and among those few, you are much mistaken if you number me. You are the first, Sir, who has ever had occasion to impeach the hospitality of my house; the first whom I could not heartily bid welcome.'

'Tis very well, Sir,' replied Captain G——, 'but, by Heaven! I carry with me the means of making myself at home, and scorn to accept as a favor the forced hospitality of a hoary and ungrateful traitor, when I can command it as my due. As long as rebellion finds a place in this land, I am at free quarters. You, Sir, and your treasonable practices, are well known; and you will prepare yourself to accompany me, within this hour, to meet the doom of a traitor.'

'Show me your warrant, even from your illegal authorities, if indeed you cover your violence under the pretence of law.'

'Here is one warrant,' said the officer, touching his sword, 'and there are fifty more without, if you wish to see them.'

'A most convincing authority, Sir, and one which, as I cannot resist, I must yield to. A few minutes to prepare, and then——'

'Well, Sir, yourself and family must be ready within an hour. Collins, let the men dismount, and take care of their horses; and hark ye, put careful fellows round the house, and see if you can get any of the dark skins to join you. Promise freedom, you know, and all that; and when we get to head quarters, we will see about a shipment to Jamaica. Do you hear me, Sir?

'Yes, please your honor,' said the orderly; 'but we have tried the niggers every way, and they won't join; they say they'd rather stay in their sarvitude.'

And such was the fact. To the slaves of the southern states, the British, as a master-stroke of policy, offered their freedom. Many accepted it, joined the army, and were regularly 'divisioned' off to the West Indies, there, in the sugar plantations, to find their boasted liberty. But by far the greater number preferred their old and kind masters, and stood by them to the last. Such were the negroes on Mr. Edwards's estate, many of whom would have given their lives freely for their master, and their adored 'young missis.'

When Mr. Edwards communicated to his wife and daughter the order for their immediate departure, the one received it with tearful resignation and joy, that in weal or wo they were not to be divided, the other, with a high determination to let nothing pass which gave hope of relief. Suddenly it burst upon her mind that Sumpter could not be far off, though of late he had been concealed, she knew not where. She determined to communicate with him, well knowing that his acquaintance with the country would enable him to intercept the troop, ere they could return to camp.

In order to effect her purpose, she called Juba, her father's known and trusty servant, who had watched over her brother's boyish footsteps, and was heart and soul devoted to the family. To him she unfolded the necessity of immediate communication, with her brother, and leaving it to his ingenuity to devise a way of escape, hastened him on his journey. The poor fellow had come into the room with deep sorrow depicted on his swarthy lineaments; but as his mistress sketched her plan, and showed him how much she depended on his shrewdness and faithful attachment, his dark face rapidly changed to a joyous and happy expression, and the tears rolled down, as he vowed never to cease his exertions till his master's family were once more safe.

His first attempt to glide off unperceived, was frustrated by the sentinels, who, with presented arms, bade him stand back. He then returned to the house, and taking on his head a large water-bucket, proceeded, carelessly whistling, to a spring on the edge of the cleared land. It was situated near the crest of a small hill, which, though open and cleared upon one side, was upon the other covered with forest, interlaced with the thousand wild vines and thick bushes which form the undergrowth of our woods. Here, too, a sentinel had been placed, and our friend Juba advanced dancing up the ascent, swaying his body to preserve his equilibrium. The sharp challenge of the sentry, enforced by the rattle of his musket, as it was thrown up to his shoulder, warned him to stand.

Ki! massa; dont shoot poor nigger, Sà;' and he recoiled in well-acted fear. The soldier, laughing at the effect of his order, called to him: 'Well, my dark beauty, what are you at now? You can't pass here.'

'No, Sà; on'y want lilly water, Sà, for the buckra won't drink none, Sà, but from dis 'ere spring?'

'Oh, well, if that's all, come, and fill your tub, there; and be quick, d' ye hear?'

Juba soon filled his tub, and apparently struggled to lift it, but failing to do so, applied very respectfully to the good-natured soldier to help him. This he readily consented to do; and holding his firelock in one hand, and grasping the handle of the tub with the other, raised it to the height of his shoulder. This was what the wily Juba wanted; and rapidly turning the whole contents over the dragoon, he saluted him with the bottom of the tub upon his head, with such force as to drive out the boards, and leave the hoops and staves dangling round his neck, a new order of merit; and then gaining the woods, by a succession of rapid bounds, he sped away with the quick and light steps of the mountain deer. The soldier, who was somewhat staggered by the blow, rapidly recovering his carbine and presence of mind, pulled trigger on him before he reached the covert. But the powder, thoroughly wetted, refused to ignite; and before he could re-prime, Juba was far out of reach and sight. 'Well,' said the Englishman, 'here's a pretty go! I may as well fire, though, and when the guard comes out, make the best of my story. The cursed cucumber-shinned rascal! How his bandy legs twinkled, as he ran!'

Upon the discharge of his piece, he was immediately relieved, and conducted to the captain, who, after many an oath, ordered to sound to horse instantly, and make the best of their way back. The prisoners were placed in the centre, the files formed, and at a rapid trot they entered on the long, rough, and mazy road by which they came. To one alive to the beauty of forest and mountain scenery, every part was in the highest degree interesting. Here, they passed along the side of the mountain, bearded and rough with pine and cedar; there, in the deep declivity, welled calmly out the clear and peaceful stream, which, after its tossing and troubled course down its rocky bed, seemed glad to be at rest. The sighing of the wind among the tree tops, and the indescribable murmur which proceeds from a deep forest, even when the winds are at peace, grew more full and loud, as the wild breeze increased, waving aside the lofty and matted branches, and startling the sombre retreats of the dark woods with rare glimpses of sunshine. Now and then the antlered deer bounded from the thicket, and clearing the road with high and curving leap, noiselessly glanced away on the mountain side; or the black snake, the racer of his tribe, roused from his basking in the sun, rapidly wound his way among the dry and rustling leaves, his brilliant eye flashing and beaming in his swift and tortuous course. Here the creeper of the southern woods, having mastered, in its parasitic grasp, some tall and stately tree, flung out its crimson, trumpet-shaped flowers, and fantastic drapery, across the rough path. All was hushed in noon-day silence, save the occasional note of the mocking-bird in the wild jessamine, or the harsh cream of the lordly and lonely eagle, as he circled, on broad vans, high in the quiet air.

The party had just descended into one of the verdant dells which issued from the mountain side, and the leading files gradually mounted the ascent. The officer in advance turned in his saddle, raised his arm, and was about to speak, when the sharp crack of a rifle rang upon the silence. He struggled a moment to retain his seat, but vainly, and fell to the earth, with a deep groan. His followers fell back, and watched in anxiety the spot from which the report had come. Captain G——, who by no means wanted courage, instantly ordered them to unsling their carbines, and fire upon the first suspicious movement. Some seconds passed by in perfect stillness, when a slight rustling in the brushwood drew the attention of the troopers; but ere they could come to a 'present,' again, from the top of the bank, streamed the deadly shot of the backwoods rifle; and as the slight smoke cleared away, the vacant saddles and bloody forms below, told of their dreadful accuracy of aim.

'First and second files! to the front! charge!' shouted the captain. 'On them, my boys! Give them your carbines, and then cold steel!'

The brave fellows dashed forward, under cover of their own fire, and spurred for a close encounter, knowing well that their only hope was to dislodge their half-armed antagonists. But of the bold and brave men who rushed up that trifling ascent, how few reached the top! The deadly aim, and rapid and continuous discharge of the countrymen, presented an insurmountable obstacle.

They recoiled once more, in confusion and dismay. Again and again their undaunted captain brought them to the charge, and with a last desperate effort, he and some of his bravest attained the top, though with terrible loss. Then the wild faces and rough hunting-shirts of the backwoodsmen appeared, as with heavy rifles, clenched in their sun-burnt and sinewy hands, they rushed with a loud shout to the close. The broad-swords of the troopers flashed over their heads, and descended with full sway, only to shiver on the solid breech of the rifle. One by one they fell, struck down by blows which no skill could parry, and the captain himself, with blade shivered to the hilt, only escaped to his rear-guard, close followed by the exulting mountaineers.

'Stand firm, my lads!' said he; 'I know how to keep off their cursed bullets.' So saying, he seized Miss Edwards, and placing her on the saddle before him, called to his men to retreat as fast as possible, and keep him between them and the enemy; and thus reining back his managed steed upon the narrow path, and with pistol pointed at the fair girl's head, he shouted, with loud and scornful tone: 'Now, dogs, one step nearer, one bullet more, and this ball passes through her brain.' 'Fire, for heaven and your country's sake!' shrieked the noble girl; 'rid the world of this miscreant, though I perish with him!'

Many an arm which might have matched that of Hercules, trembled and quivered like an infant's; many an eye, which could mark down the squirrel from the loftiest pine, was dimmed and dazzled by unwonted emotion. Often was the unfailing rifle raised, but with slow and tremulous hand, which precluded any certainty of aim; for the most daring marksman felt a dread lest his ball might, by some slight deviation, lodge in the bosom of that fair maiden.

Deep was the gloom and anguish on the brows of the countrymen, as the stern Englishman, laughing in scorn, slowly retreated toward the mouth of the defile. He well knew, that if once clear of the woods, he would have little to fear, as a few hours' hard riding would put him out of reach. To this was added a feeling of revenge, in bearing away that fair prize; for her elevated beauty had raised a deep passion in his licentious bosom; and he resolved that nothing but death should make him resign her. Full of these wild and varying emotions, triumph, revenge, and love, alternately raging in his bosom, he proudly looked defiance on his baffled enemies, as his well-managed steed stepped slowly back to the entrance of the dell. He had now nearly attained the open and clear glade, and was already enjoying in anticipation the security won by his daring attempt, when he was most disagreeably interrupted by a sudden jerk, and felt himself falling from his saddle, his arms close pinioned in a powerful grasp.

It was our faithful friend Juba, who, when he perceived the purpose of the Englishman to interpose his young mistress as a shield between the parties, stood for a moment aghast at the attempt: then turning to his young master, who was looking on in despair, he exclaimed:

'Ki! he t'ink he tote off young missee so! Please God, he don't d'ough!' And bounding into the brush, on the side of the mountain, he passed rapidly, and unperceived by the retreating troopers, and ascending a large and spreading oak, whose huge branches overhung the road, he ensconced himself directly over the path, and crouching like the catamount, waited his opportunity. The dragoons passed at a rapid pace, and as they attained the open ground, halted at some distance, to await their officer. He came slowly on, his proud lip curled with scorn; when, as he passed under the low limb, Juba dropped upon the crupper of his horse, and grasping his wrists with the energy of intense passion, they both rolled over to the ground, the pistol going off in the fall. The dragoons, on seeing their officer fall, rushed forward to liberate him, while the mountaineers dashed onward to the rescue of the fair girl, led by her fiery-footed brother. She, in the mean time, faint and dizzy-headed, extricated herself from the horse, and staggering to the side of the road, was relieved by insensibility from the horrors of the new combat.

One of the troopers, perceiving her situation, rushed suddenly forward, at full speed, to consummate a life of villany by the deep guilt of her murder. He careered rapidly on, and there was every prospect that he would complete his fiendish purpose, before the woodsmen could come up. But his doom was sealed. One who had watched her budding infancy, was there; and as his steel waved in the air, and his arm was raised to strike the fatal blow, the ball which never missed its mark, passed though his heart!

The dragoons, unwilling to abide that storm of fire, and hopeless of success, fled. Still the English captain and Juba rolled upon the earth, in deadly contest, till at last the Englishman, with a desperate exertion of his great strength, shook off the grasp of the black, and rose to his knees. Juba, well-skilled in ground-fighting, instantly caught him by the collar, and suddenly drawing up his knees to his bosom, as he lay upon his back, and placing his feet upon the Briton's breast, with a violent exertion, sent him whirling over the edge of the precipice which bordered the road.

The black bounded upon his feet, and with a loud shout of triumph, watched the rapid descent of his antagonist. Helpless, and stunned with the violence of his fall, the body of the Englishman rolled over rock, and through the thin bushes, the rapidity of the descent momentarily increasing, till at last he soused into a bed of the blackest and softest mud on the edge of the mountain stream. There Juba left him, and turned to his adored mistress, whom he found insensible in the arms of her brother. In inarticulate and trembling grief, the poor fellow watched the slow return of life; and many a swarthy face worked with emotion, when they heard his joyful exclamation, as the blood returned to her cheek, and her eyes opened on her father, mother, and brother.

'Are we then safe? Am I indeed once more in your arms, my dear parents? Oh, it was a fearful vision!' murmured the poor girl.

'You are safe, my own dear sister!' said her brother; 'and that you are so, you must thank Juba.'

'It is to you, then, my good Juba,' said her father, 'that we all owe so much. Come here, not to your master, for you are free, but to your friend.'

Juba approached, and kneeling before his former owners, murmured in broken voice, that he did not wish to be free, if he could not stay with his master and mistress.

'You shall, Juba; we all owe you too much, ever to part with you. But where is your captain?'

'He gone rollin' down, head-ober-heel, till he 'tick in de branch. Ki! he black now as eber was a nigger; and he fine red coat an't much ob it lef.'

Several of the woodsmen descended, and fished the poor officer out of the mud, though not, perhaps, in the most gentle manner; and having restored him to his senses, by a copious ablution 'in flumine vivo,' they left him under guard, to digest his rage and mortification as best he might.

An opportunity of exchange soon occurring, he returned to his chief; and there was no name more dreaded and hated, except that of Tarleton himself, in the latter part of the war, until his career of violence was cut short, with that of many of his comrades, by Morgan's mounted riflemen, at the battle of the Cowpens. The younger Edwards returned with his brave associates, and after the war, the family circle once more united, enjoyed that happiness, the universal fruit of peril and danger firmly met and gallantly overcome.

Our friend Juba flourished for many a long year, in undiminished warm-heartedness to the last; and when time had powdered his head, and deadened the ebony lustre of his hue, he would tell of the perils of his youth, among which the above made no small figure.

Maria Edwards, the beautiful and true-hearted, met with one who appreciated her; and the bliss of a long life was enhanced by the recollections of her early sufferings in the backwoods.

A. H.

[THE SOUL.]

Our thoughts are boundless, though our frames are frail,
Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay;
Though darkened in this poor life by a veil
Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play
In truth's eternal sunbeams; on the way
To heaven's high capitol our car shall roll;
The temple of the power whom all obey,
That is the mark we tend to, for the soul
Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal.

I feel it—though the flesh is weak, I feel
The spirit has its energies untamed
By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal
The wounds which it has suffered; folly claimed
Too large a portion of its youth; ashamed
Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly,
And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed
Elijah, when the chariot rushing by,
Bore him, with steeds of fire, triumphant to the sky.

We are as barks afloat upon the sea,
Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled,
The spirit, whose strong influence can free
The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead,
Cold night of moral darkness; from the bed
Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call,
And kindling in the blaze around him shed,
Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall.
And gives to God his strength, his heart, his mind, his all.

Our home is not on earth; although we sleep
And sink in seeming death awhile, yet then
The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap
To life, and energy, and light, again;
We cannot slumber always in the den
Of sense and selfishness; the day will break,
Ere we for ever leave the haunts of men;
Even at the parting hour, the soul will wake,
Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey take.