Transcriber's Note: The following Table of Contents has been added for the convenience of the reader.

[AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.]
[THE ENCAGED BIRD TO HIS MISTRESS.]
[THE SOUL'S TRUST.]
[MR. AND MRS. TOMPKINS.]
[ROSALIE.]
[STANZAS.]
['NURSERIES OF AMERICAN FREEMEN.']
[OLD AGE.]
[HUNTING SONG.]
[THE POOR RELATION.]
[TO A BELLE.]
[FLORAL ASTROLOGY.]
[GEOGRAPHICAL DISTINCTIONS OF COLOR.]
[TO A LOCK OF HAIR.]
[WILSON CONWORTH.]
[HOPE.]
[A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE.]
[OUR BIRTH-DAYS.]
[LAY OF THE MADMAN.]
[OLLAPODIANA.]
[EXAMPLE.]
[THE COMING OF WINTER.]
[OCEOLA'S CHALLENGE.]
[RANDOM PASSAGES]
[LITERARY NOTICES.]
[EDITORS' TABLE.]
[THE DRAMA.]
[LITERARY RECORD.]

THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Vol. X DECEMBER, 1837. No. 6.

[AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.]

NUMBER FOUR.

'Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains
Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt
The sunshine for a while, and downward go.'

In view of the reasons heretofore suggested, why it is improbable that either the Egyptians, the Carthaginians, or the Romans, were the first inhabitants of this continent, and why, from the present state of our knowledge, no other distinct nation of people is entitled to the exclusive reputation of having been the primitive discoverers of America, the reader is very naturally led to inquire for the evidences assigned by the advocates of particular theories for the sources of their origin. These evidences, although important to the antiquarian, cannot, from the brevity and popular mode proposed by us in treating this subject, be critically stated. We have, nevertheless, offered some reasons and inferences of our own, why those evidences cannot be conclusive; and we would refer others to our own or other means of information, should they feel disposed to make farther investigations. However plausible the story of Votan may have appeared, as testimony in point, the reader shall judge, from a few facts which will be here noticed, whether even that has much probability to support it. No one at least can deny the greater safety of doubting, where there is no better proof, should he not, with others, arrive at the ultimate conclusion, that the best evidence of all may be in favor of the opinion that these people originated where their relics are now found.

It has been said that the occasional resemblance observed among the ruins of Tulteca to those of the Egyptians, Romans, etc, affords no just grounds for attributing their origin to those nations, any more than to others whose remaining arts they equally resemble. Almost every ancient people might, in fact, from similar points of resemblance, claim the same distinction. Beside the particulars noticed in previous numbers, it might be mentioned, en passant, that had the Tultecans been Egyptian, they would most certainly have retained the language of Egypt, the signs, the worship, etc.; but this was not the fact. Had they been Romans, they would likewise have continued the language, the customs, and the religion of Romans; yet this was not the case; and so it would have been, had they been derived from any other nation. Above all, perhaps, would they have borne a personal resemblance to their progenitors, a circumstance far from truth. Religion, without doubt, is the last thing in which a people becomes alienated; yet we see no cöincidence in this respect between these people and their reputed originals. How then shall we account for their origin, but by supposing them, sui generis, Tultecans? Finally, it will be admitted, that unless the story of Votan presents some clue by which to solve the problem—and we do not see that it has even the claim of probability—we are not permitted, by the facts in evidence, to attribute the first American population to any other people of the earth.

The illustrious Fegjro, quoted as the best authority by the very author of Votan's story, and himself as much interested in propagating a theory favorable to popular Catholic opinions as any one of his clerical brethren, says upon this subject: 'After long study and attentive examination of so many and such various opinions, I find no one having the necessary appearance of truth, to satisfy a prudent judgment, and many that do not possess even the merit of probability.' Again, Cabrera says: 'To the present period, no hypothesis has been advanced, that is sufficiently probable to satisfy a mind sincerely and cautiously desirous of arriving at the truth.' And yet this is the man who holds forth the story of Votan as a true 'hypothesis.' It is plain, in all this writer says, by way of comment, that he himself doubts the truth of the whole matter, although he has pompously styled his treatise 'The Solution of the Grand Historical Problem of the Population of America!' The bishop, we will do him the justice to say, manifests much candor in speaking of the conduct of his brotherhood toward the relics of the people whose religion they had resolved to destroy. 'The injudicious and total destruction of the annals and records of the American nations,' says he, 'has not only proved a most serious loss to history, but very prejudicial to that religion whose progress it was supposed would thereby have been accelerated.' He asserts what is very true, in this; and also in his conclusion, that 'both in the means and the object, this practice is too frequently the result of prejudice or of ignorance.' Antonio Constantini, also cited as primary authority, declares, that 'whatsoever may be advanced upon this subject does not pass beyond the limit of mere opinion, as we have neither histories, manuscripts, nor traditions of the Americans!' And with the design farther to prevent all belief by posterity that their conquered subjects, whose admirable relics and records they had destroyed, possessed any knowledge of the arts, or the means of governing themselves, he says, 'when they were discovered, they were ignorant and uncultivated!' etc. Clavigero justly concludes, likewise, that 'the history of the primitive population of Anahuac, (Central America,) is so obscure, and so much involved in fable, as to render it not merely a most difficult matter for solution, but totally impossible to come at the truth.' These and similar declarations of the most accredited writers upon the early history of the inhabitants of Central America, one would think quite conclusive. If there had been other facts to be obtained, calculated to settle the question as to the origin of the first Americans, these, or other writers would have obtained them. Instead of this, however, they merely speak of works which 'probably' contained the facts announced as truth, without ever having seen them themselves, or stating plainly that they had, in reality, any facts within their reach. Thus numerous authors, whose means of information are said to have been complete on this subject, are mentioned by Cabrera; yet he professes to know nothing beyond conjecture or hearsay of the contents of their works. We will notice one or two instances, to show what confidence can be placed upon his assertions and gratuitous inferences in relation to Votan, and as samples of the whole.

After parading the titles of a great number of works, which may or may not exist, so far as his own knowledge of their contents is concerned, or perhaps that of any one else, he says: 'There is in the Jesuits' College of Tepozotlan,' (preserving the same particularity, as to titles, localities, dates, etc.,) 'a history of the voyages of the Aztecas to the country of Anahuac, written by a noble Mestee Mexican. The title of this manuscript,' he continues, 'shows it to be one of importance, as it very probably contains an account of the voyage of the Mexicans, who are the Aztecas, and of the primitive families of the Culebras, (snakes) who, I shall demonstrate, were from the old continent to the new, with an account of the first empire they founded in America, its duration, and their expulsion from the first settlements of Anahuac!' Again, after enumerating a list of works, to which he would have the reader infer he has had access, he says: 'The fourth is some historical memoirs of the Tultecas, and other nations of Anahuac, all of which works were preserved in the library of the college before-mentioned. It is probable, that the last production treats of their coming from the old to the new continent, of their expulsion from the first settlement at the city of Palenque, in the kingdom of Amaguemecan, and the cause thereof,' etc. Thus there is, from beginning to end, the same ambiguity, the same want of personal inspection, and yet the same display of authority. How important such works would have been to him and to the world, had they existed, in satisfactorily settling this question! The author of Votan's account does not seem to have known a solitary fact himself, which bears upon the subject matter of his story, though he proposes to 'demonstrate,' etc. The several representations, of a mysterious character, which he has so wofully distorted to an agreement with the said story, mean and represent, in fact, any thing else than the incidents of that story; indeed, this is the lamest part of the fabrication. Truly unfortunate is it for all the materials concerned in the case, 'that they were,' to use his own language, 'unfortunately lost;' 'did not appear, in consequence of his death,' etc., 'very probably,' so and so. Again he says: 'It is to be regretted, that the place is unknown where these precious documents of history were deposited, but still more that the great treasure should have been destroyed!' And, in the next paragraph he says: 'It is possible that Votan's historical tract, alluded to by Nunez de la Vega'—for he is indebted, after all, for the sum total of this now simple historical tract, to the allusions of some unknown writer—'or another,' he says, 'similar to it, may be the one now in the possession of Don Ramon de Ordonez y Aguiar,' (though before pronounced to have been destroyed!) So much for the proof of this story, good, bad, or indifferent. To have continued out these observations, we could have more clearly shown its folly and untruth; but, though necessary to satisfy the mind of the curious on so important a subject, yet we would avoid unnecessary minutia, and deem what has already been stated, quite sufficient to establish our position.

Now for the story itself. This, he says, was 'communicated' to him by some 'valuable notices,' (how, we are left entirely to conjecture,) 'by the above writer,' (Aguiar,) 'who' he says, 'is engaged at this time in composing a work, the title of which I have seen!' The said title is 'Historia del Cielo y de la Tierra!' (History of Heaven and Earth!) 'that will not only embrace the original population of America, but trace its progress from Chaldea, immediately after the confusion of tongues, its mystical and moral theology, its mythology, and most important events!' Such a work we should be glad to see, and so would all the world beside; but 'unfortunately' it has never appeared, though 'this time' spoken of, was more than forty years ago! The title of the work, and the abilities which he ascribes to its author, he says, 'lead us to anticipate a work so perfect in its kind as will completely astonish the world!' Let the reader notice the agreement between this source of 'communicated' information, and that 'alluded to' by Nunez de la Vega. 'The memoir in his possession, (Aguiar's) consists,' he continues, 'of five or six folios of common quarto paper, written in ordinary characters in the Tzendal language; an evident proof,' he farther adds, 'of its having been copied from the original in hieroglyphics, shortly after the conquest.' We do not see, in this circumstance, the 'evident proof mentioned, or 'the shadow, thereof;' but this is in keeping with all his 'proofs.'

The tract is then stated to go on by means of a painted description, on the first leaf, in different colors, of the two continents. This is declared to be characterized by the letters s and ss, with works which he made, (Votan, it is supposed,) signifying on the margin, the places he had visited on the old continent. Between these squares stands the title of his history, viz: 'Proof that I am Culebra,' (a snake) which title he proves in the body of his work, by saying, that he is Culebra, because he is Chivim.' This is 'demonstration,' of course! He then states that he conducted seven families from Valum Votan to this continent, so says Cabrera, and assigned lands to them; that he is the third of the Votans; that having determined to travel until he arrived at the root of heaven! (who can tell where the root of heaven is, and what road should be taken to get there?) in order to discover his relations, the Culebras, and make himself known to them; (mark, his relations in America,) he made four voyages to Chivim, which is expressed by repeating four times from Valum Votan to Valum Chivim, from Valum Chivim to Valum Votan; that he arrived in Spain, and that he went to Rome; that he saw the great house of God building; that he went by the road which his brethren Culebras had bored; that he marked it, and that he passed by the houses of the thirteen Culebras. He relates that, in returning from one of his voyages, he found seven families of the Tzequil nation, who had joined the first inhabitants, and recognised in them the same origin as his own, that is, of the Culebras. He speaks of the place where they built their first town, which from its founders received the name of Tzequil. He affirms that he taught them refinement of manners in the use of table-cloths, dishes, basins, cups, and napkins; that, in return for these, they taught him knowledge of God, and of his worship, his first ideas of a king, and obedience to him, and that he was chosen captain of all the united families!

Having announced all this badinage from a work not read nor even written, with as much confidence as if he had seen the narrated circumstances, he says: 'Let us now follow the progress of this celebrated chief of the first inhabitants of the American continent!' He then goes into the descriptions of Del Rio, and his ingenious but labored and wordy commentaries. How much there may be to 'demonstrate' with these premises, we shall not undertake to prove; but it would excite a smile in the reader, to notice with what avidity he seizes hold of the supposed hieroglyphical drawings of the before-mentioned explorer, and explains what they mean, from the wonderful light thrown in his path by the title of a work not then, nor yet now, written, and also from the 'allusions' of some reputed writer, unknown even to himself!

What the curious specimens of sculpture and of phonetic representation, before referred to, actually mean, is alike unknown to all inquirers, notwithstanding Bishop Cabrera's commentaries. The 'historical treasure' respecting Votan's Voyages, etc., is represented by the author first mentioned, viz. Vega, among other historical manuscripts, to state, or rather he states for Votan, that 'Votan is the third gentile placed in the calendar; that he wrote an historical tract in the Indian idiom, wherein he mentions by name the people with whom, and the places where, he had been. Up to the present time,' says he, 'there has existed a family of the Votan's in Teopizca.' He says, also, that 'he is lord of the Tapanahuasec; that he (Votan) saw the great house,' meaning, as the writer says, the Tower of Babel, 'which was built by order of his grand-father, Noah! from the earth to the sky; that he is the first man who had been sent hither to divide and portion out these Indian lands.' (How came the Indian here so soon after his grand-father Noah's flood?) We had thought himself and his seven families were the first; and that, at the place where he saw the great house, (the Tower of Babel,) a different language was spoken!' This 'historical tract,' so invulnerable to the effects of time, under the varied circumstances to which, 'it is very probable,' it had been exposed, was indeed a treasure; but the venerable prelate, not having the fear of antiquity before his eyes, and intent only on destroying all 'the means of confirming more strongly an idolatrous superstition,' says, 'he did give them up, when they were publicly burned in the square at Heuguetan, on our visit to that place in 1691!' (One hundred years before Cabrera wrote.) The Indian tradition of this treasure, says Cabrera, though he omits any reference to authority, 'was, that it was placed by himself (Votan,) as a proof of his origin, and a memorial for future ages, in the casa cabrega, 'house of darkness, that he had built in a breath!' He committed this deposite to a distinguished female, and a certain number of plebeian Indians, appointed annually for the purpose of its safe custody. His mandate was scrupulously observed by the people of Tacoaloya, in the province of Socanusco, where it was guarded with extraordinary care, until, being discovered by the prelate before-mentioned, he obtained and destroyed it.

'It 'consisted,' observes Vega, who now speaks for himself, 'of some large earthen vases, of one piece, and closed with covers of the same material, on which were represented, in stone, the figures of the ancient Pagans, whose names are in the calendar, with some Chalchihnites, which are solid, hard stones, of a green color, and other superstitious figures!' All this looks a good deal like a 'historical tract,' as Cabrera calls these earthen pots, etc. These 'historical treasures' were taken from a cave by the Indian lady herself!' Quite an accommodating and antique-looking lady, we imagine, having held in charge the venerable relics from the time of Votan, the grandson of Noah, according to the document itself, until delivered in person to the trusty and veracious bishop, and by him burned as aforesaid! This, then, is the whole of the story of Votan! Forbid, Muse of History! that we should weaken or destroy one syllable of the description, or a jot of its meaning—its force or probability!

The pious bishop, it should be said, in proof of his blind devotion, whatever may be thought of his acts by liberal-minded men, faithfully expressed his reckless bigotry and wild fanaticism, by destroying all the valuable remains of the Tultecan people, 'lest,' as he says, 'by being brought into notice, they should be the means of confirming more strongly an idolatrous superstition!' History weeps over the ruins created by such mad and superstitious zealots; and no where with more reason than in Central America. The history of man is, indeed, but a record of persecution for opinion's sake, the result only of peculiar yet mainly unavoidable circumstances; and that record is black with deeds of shame and bloodshed. Poor human Nature!—we could almost wish that oblivion had hidden for ever thy acts from posterity!

Having, as we presume, satisfied the curious in respect to the foundation of the 'hypothesis' for peopling America, as proposed by the story of Votan, we shall next notice some interesting particulars in the early history of the Tultiques, which may shed light upon our inquiries. After this, we shall describe other and not less remarkable ruins of ancient time, in the various provinces of Central America; notice their connection with the relics and people of North America, the singular works of art, and the primitive inhabitants of portions of this country.

The Tultecan people, or Chiapanese, being the original inhabitants of America, and having quietly dwelt within the central provinces before-mentioned for an unknown period of time, all intelligence respecting them—if, in fact, we have any thing on which to rely, save the remains of their magnificent arts—is completely disconnected from all other people prior to the destruction of their capital. At what period this occurred, we are equally ignorant, notwithstanding the assurance with which some have given dates, and attempted to establish epocha in the history of the primitive American people. It is certain that the evidences of their antiquity are coëval at least with the most ancient of the human family. Tradition, at best, is a very uncertain guide for the antiquarian; that, therefore, of the grandson of Noah coming 'from the north' to people this continent by express command of God, may be regarded as hypothetical. Still, if the first Americans were to be considered the immediate descendants of Noah, the ruins of Central America might be aptly compared with the date at which the deluge and the dispersion at the Tower of Babel are reported to have occurred. Votan, according to this tradition, is said to have been one of those who built the great tower, which was to reach to heaven, that he was selected from among those which tradition likewise made to attempt building so high a structure, and that he was commanded to travel 'off north,' with a colony of the people, for the purpose of inhabiting this unknown land. How he and his colony got here by travelling north, we shall not attempt to explain, and particularly with a trackless sea, of three thousand miles in extent, intervening. This colony, it is said, also divided on their arrival at Soconusco, South America, a part remaining in the province of Chiapa, and the others proceeding on to Nicaragua. But from what we have already stated, this colony consisted, according to Votan's records, of only seven families; each colony, therefore, comprised three whole families! The form of government of this people thereafter, until they numbered many millions, was vested in two military chiefs, chosen by the priests. So says tradition.

Humboldt thinks that there existed other people in Mexico, previous to the arrival of the Toultecs, the date of whose appearance in Mexico he has put down at 648, of the Christian era. It matters not by what name the people who first inhabited America are called; nor does this writer name the people he supposes to have preceded the Toultecs. We have called the primitive inhabitants Tultecans; and we are justified by the best authorities, certainly by the most numerous, in giving them this appellation. But we think Humboldt was mistaken in the antiquity of the Tultiques. The date assigned by him for their appearance may have been when they were driven by the northern nations of Chicemecks, or perhaps by the Olmecas, from their ancient city, and forced to mingle with the other nations that about that time made their appearance in Mexico, from the north. It is possible that the dates given by writers, and purporting to have been derived from the hieroglyphic paintings of the ancient inhabitants, may have some truth for their bases; but these, liable as they were to misinterpretation, have induced writers to come to the conclusion, that no certainty exists in the dates which have been given for the population of Central America. Whether the inhabitants of Palenque, the famous ruins of which we have noticed, are the Toultecs known at a subsequent period, or whether the name of that people is 'past finding out,' our means do not allow us to determine at present. That they had a different name, prior to the appearance of the Toultecs in 596 of Clavigero, or 548 of Humboldt, may be admitted. Still, it is not improbable that they may have left their country in 544, as thought by some, arrived in the valley of Mexico in 648, and founded the city of Tula in 670; but to suppose that this people afterward reared the monuments we have before mentioned, is not at all probable; on the contrary, the period of their origin supposed by the 'hypothesis' already mentioned and some three thousand years since, would be altogether more in accordance with their ruins. The Tultiques were evidently the first people known in Mexican history; but from whence they came, and the date of their first establishment in Central America, is unknown. Humboldt himself says, 'We do not know on what authority these dates are founded.' We shall speak of the people here mentioned as the Toultecs, and as entirely distinct from the ancient inhabitants of Palenque, though we have designated the latter by a similar name, for the sake of preserving cöincidence with others. All must be agreed, in accordance with our statement, and with Humboldt, that a people existed in Anahuac long previous to the appearance of these Toultecs we now speak of, though this distinguished traveller had no knowledge of the great ruins of Palenque.

The history of the Toultecs, like that of all the nations which have subsequently peopled Central America, is involved in fable. It is said, however, that their history relates that they were banished from their own country of Huehuetapallan, in their year 1, (Teepatl,) which is likewise said to correspond with our year 596; that proceeding southerly, under the direction of their chiefs, they arrived, after sojourning at various places on the way, for the space of one hundred and twenty-four years, on the banks of a river, where they built a city, and called it Tollan, or Tula, which, as Clavigero thinks, was the name of the kingdom they had left, situated north-west of Mexico. This then was the oldest, as it was one of the most celebrated cities in the history of Mexico, and the capital of the Toultec kingdom. This kingdom lasted three hundred and eighty-four years, which was divided into cycles of fifty-two years each; and each cycle was occupied by the reign of one king. Seven kings had thus ruled the people, when, during the twenty-eighth year of the reign of the eighth monarch, the nation was destroyed by a pestilence. If a monarch died during one of these cycles, the government was administered by the nobles. Tradition, as well also as the paintings of this people, beside Tollan and Huehuetapallan, mention Aztlan as their first residence. This fact, in connection with the remaining arts of a numerous and highly civilized people, now found in Wisconsin Territory, and near St. Louis, Missouri, have given rise to the opinion that there was their first residence. It has been contended that the Castine Ground, in the vicinity of that city, was the identical Aztlan of the wandering Toultec nation. We shall hereafter refer to the facts which induced us to announce in our first numbers that a connection existed between the inhabitants of Mexico and the original people of the western valleys of the United States.

The Toultecs, as has already been said, exhibited a high state of civilization, and an astonishing knowledge of the arts and sciences, at the earliest periods of their history. Their government was the most permanent, efficient, and happy; and to them have all succeeding nations acknowledged their indebtedness for their knowledge of the arts, and of agriculture. They were familiar with the working of metals, cutting gems, with hieroglyphical paintings, etc.; and in their divisions of time, they were much more perfect than the Greeks or Romans. 'But where,' inquires a distinguished writer, 'is the source of that cultivation? Where is the country from which the Toultecs and Mexicans issued?' If we have no evidence that they came from the United States, nor from Asia, is not the query solved, by supposing that they were the Palencians? dispersed by the pestilence which deprived them of their eighth and last monarch, with the bulk of the Toultec people. The magnificent arts still presented to the curious traveller in Mexico, are the work of this people, and they exhibit a degree of skill, industry, and intellect, which astonish those of our times. But they differed from all others in these arts. Where then shall we find their analogue? Did they come from China, as De Guignes would prove from the Chinese annals, subsequent to 458? Horn, in his 'De Originibus Americanis,' and M. Scherver, would make this by no means difficult, nay, extremely probable. They 'might have been a part of those Hiongnoux, who, according to the Chinese historians, emigrated under Punon, and were lost in the north of Siberia; or, were they the Indians of North America? The pastoral character of the Toultecs resembled that of the Asiatics, and their arts those of Egypt; but they cultivated no other gramina than maize, while the Asiatic tribes cultivated various cereal gramina, at the earliest periods of their history. To the Chinese, and particularly the Japanese, they bore a striking similarity, so far as regards the state of civilization; yet, in their facial and cranial characteristics, they differed materially. On the whole, it is much more reasonable to suppose that the people of whom we are now speaking, were of the Mongol race, than that the Palencians were any particular race now known.

Whether the last mentioned people, after their dispersion from their great capital in the province of Chiapa, were or were not the nucleus around which the many distinct tribes that afterward constituted the people of the great Mexican empire, all our inquiries are unable clearly to establish; still, there are strong evidences in favor of that opinion. Hence the name Tultecan, by which we have designated the primeval inhabitants of this continent, and the authors of the extensive arts, the ruins of which have been noticed, may be identical with the Toultecs. All agree that there was a race of people existing for an unknown period of time in Central America before the Toultecs, the Aztecs, or the Chichimecas appeared in the beautiful Mexican valley. This agreement, in connection with the antique relics found on the site of the famous Palencian city, and the indisputable evidences of the superior knowledge of the ancient Palenquans, renders the conclusion to which we have arrived inevitable.

It is also extremely probable, from the analogy observed among the arts of succeeding inhabitants of Mexico, the similarity of their manners and customs, and their knowledge of the arts and sciences, in which the original Tultecans were so highly distinguished, that a part of the latter people, after the destruction of their great capital, was united with the former. This probability, though unnoticed by writers upon the early inhabitants of Mexico, amounts, in our mind, to conviction. It forms a basis to the only conclusion which presents itself in attempting to explain the origin of the extraordinary arts now found throughout the Mexican valley, and in other parts of that once extensive empire. The inference is not less conclusive in relation to the people with whom the original Tultiques became united, and with whom they in part constituted the subsequent great nation of Mexicans. This people were clearly the previous inhabitants of our own western states. Their arts are distinctly traced from Wisconsin and Missouri Territories, all the way into the valley of Mexico. Among those which now characterize that valley, are to be seen numerous specimens so closely resembling the relics of the United States, that no other inference can be drawn from the fact, than that they were the work of the same people. Still, it will be observed that others exist in Mexico, which as plainly show the existence of a distinct and peculiar class of men. The most remarkable of these are found among the ruins of Palenque, Copan, and at other places in the province of Chiapa, Yucatan, and Guatemala. Others again exist, scattered throughout both Peru and Mexico, among the Pacific Islands, and west of the Rocky Mountains, which differ in many striking particulars from those of this country, from those of Palenque, and among themselves. This is strongly in evidence of the historical fact, that the ancient Mexicans were composed of numerous and very different tribes of people. That various tribes have also dwelt in our western valleys, is quite certain; and that our whole country has, at remote periods, been the theatre of strange events, and the residence of peculiar people, cannot admit of doubt. While some of that people were unacquainted with the use of metals, others must have possessed a very good knowledge of them, and withal the mode of working them. A well-finished steel bow, found in one of the western tumuli, and the scoria, evidently the product of forges discovered among the works which have been left by some previous inhabitants of the Ohio valley, are among the proofs of this fact. Hieroglyphical writing, long a desideratum among the remains of the primitive inhabitants of the United States, has also been discovered. Descriptive paintings similar to those executed by the Mexicans, may in like manner have been left by this people, but they would have disappeared, had they been so left, from the effects of time. No stone edifices resembling those of Mexico have however been found among us; no piles of rude masonry, stone fortifications, bridges, viaducts, etc., as at Palenque and other places. There are some traces, if recent accounts be true, of tumuli and walls in this country, which were built in part of burnt bricks, not unlike those with which the great pyramid of Chollula was built; yet there are none in the same style and magnificence. Enough, however has been noticed, among the ancient arts of this country, to satisfy us that our primitive inhabitants may have been among the builders of that stupendous structure. The same form may now be noticed in a tumulus near Cincinnati. Others have been destroyed, which had the same pyramidal form, with regular off-sets. On the tops of these, and particularly those of a large size, it has been conjectured that structures similar to those of Mexico were built. The one ruthlessly destroyed at Circleville, Ohio, affords strong evidences of its having been devoted to the worship of the sun, and to the offering of human sacrifices. But more of this anon. Subsequent remarks will tend to show, when we shall have furnished other particulars of newly-discovered ruins in Central America, how far those of our own country agree with the ancient arts of Mexico.

[THE ENCAGED BIRD TO HIS MISTRESS.]

Lady, sweet lady! let me go,
To breathe again my native air;
Where mountain streams unfetter'd flow,
And wild flowers in profusion bear;
Where mingled notes of feather'd throng
Pour forth their free, harmonious song,
In praise to Him who bids them fly,
Bound only by the lofty sky:
I pine! I pine! to stretch my wings,
And feel the sun's enlivening glow—
To join the lay the free-bird sings;
Kind lady! let thy prisoner go!

Long have I cheer'd this summer bower,
Where oft thy fairy footstep treads;
Beguiled for thee the tedious hour,
And chased the tear that sorrow sheds:
Or, when beneath these clustering vines,
Thy lovely form for rest reclines,
I charm thy spirit still, in dreams,
Wakening by music heavenly themes.
And, lady, thou hast charms that win
Even the bird encaged to love;
Without so fair, sure all within,
To meek compassion's touch must move.

Yes, thou art fair; but those blue eyes
Are not to me the azure heaven;
Nor is the food thy hand supplies,
And in such rich abundance given,
Sweet as the crumbs by labor earn'd,
Ere I of luxury had learn'd;
Nor is this splendid cage a home
Worth the free woods I long to roam:
Think'st me ungrateful for thy care—
That all thy fondness I forget?
No! songs my warmest thanks shall bear;
But, lady, I'm thy prisoner yet!

Say, is there not some kindred-one,
Absence from whom 'tis pain to bear—
And thus, when thou art here alone,
So often falls the pearly tear?
Lady, I too had once a mate,
When freedom was my happy state;
And for that mate I yet do pine,
And sorrow oft at day's decline:
God hath ordain'd that nought which lives
Should live alone, far from its kind;
Not only man the bliss receives,
Which he in fellowship doth find.

Birds of the air are paired above,
By Him who hears the raven's cry;
And shall man break the bonds of love
'Twixt harmless songsters of the sky?
No! let the little life we live
Enjoy the sweets that God doth give;
Unshackled sail the ambient air,
And carol forth our music there.
And thus, by thine own freedom blest—
By all the kindness thou canst show,
And by the love that heaves thy breast,
Lady, sweet lady! let me go!

Cedar-Brook, Plainfield, (N. J.), 1837. E. C. S.

[THE SOUL'S TRUST.]

'Why art thou cast down, O my soul, and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God; for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance and my God.'

Psalms.

Though troubles assail me, and dangers surround,
Though thorns in my pathway may ever be found,
Still let me not fear, for thou ever wilt be
My God and my guide, while I lean upon thee.

The sweet buds of promise may fade ere they bloom,
The hopes which are earth-born, lie low in the tomb;
And though my life's pathway seem weary to me,
I shall gather new strength, as I lean upon thee.

Though bound to the world by the heart's dearest ties,
Though earth's fairest scenes are outspread to my eyes,
Oh never, my Father! permit me to be
Found trusting to reeds—let me lean upon thee.

And in that dread hour when my aw'd soul may stay
No longer on earth, but is summon'd away—
Amid those great scenes which no mortal may see,
Let me know naught of fear, as I lean upon thee!

G. P. T.

[MR. AND MRS. TOMPKINS.]

A SIMPLE TALE.[1]

BY THE LATE ROBERT C. SANDS, ESQ., AUTHOR OF 'YAMOYDEN,' ETC.

In a certain village—pleasant enough to behold, as you ride or walk through it, but abominably unpleasant to remain in, on account of the unconquerable propensity of its inhabitants for scandal and tittle-tattle, which prevails to a degree infectious even among decent people—in this village, about ten years ago, a man and his wife, of plain appearance, both in person and dress, came to reside, having the fear of God before their eyes; and in that fear, I trust, they died. But they were the subjects of much speculation; and the presidential question has not, to my certain knowledge, called forth so much original argumentation among the people of that village, as did the arrival of this couple; unpretending, unquaint, and inoffensive as they were.

They came in a stage, with but small incumbrance of luggage for persons who meant to remain in one place for any long time; and according to an arrangement previously made, took up their quarters in the house of a respectable widow, whose modest mansion afforded to them the only room they wanted, and whose modest circumstances made their coming to board with her, in that single room, a decided convenience.

The fact being ascertained, in an hour's time, throughout the village, that the widow Wilkins had got two boarders who were to occupy her spare room, it became a subject of conversation at the post-office, the tavern, the grocery, the prayer-meeting, and in every domestic circle. But nobody was able, that evening, to throw light upon the question of who the new comers were; and conjecture was left free to range through the mazes of its own world of imagination.

Three ladies, a widow, a widow bewitched, and a middle-aged single woman, namely, Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Hawkins, and Miss Cross, had gone immediately, on observing that the stage had dropped two passengers with the widow, to ascertain who they were, where they came from, what they had in view, and whither they were going next. All the information, however, that Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Hawkins, and Miss Cross had been enabled to obtain, (albeit they would have wormed the one secret which a man ought to keep from his wife out of him, after the Holy Inquisition had given him up in despair,) was, that Mrs. Wilkins had taken a man and his wife to board at her house; and that their name was Tompkins. They had retired to their own apartment, and had not been seen by the respectable triad; yet Miss Cross said, she thought from the looks of an old pair of boots, which were tied to one of Mr. Tompkins's trunks, which was standing in the entry, that 'they were no great shakes.' As to this point she had a right also to speak her opinion, seeing that her father had been a respectable retail shoe-maker. So, therefore, the report of Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Hawkins, and Miss Cross, did but whet the curiosity of the congregation as to the private history, present estate, and future prospects of poor Mr. Tompkins and his wife. Many supposed that his name was assumed for the occasion. So many, they urged, were indicted or sued, who had such an alias, that he must have broken out of the state prison, or run away and left his bail in the lurch. An inveterate reader of all the newspapers observed, that a Mr. Tompkins was advertised as having left his wife without any means of subsistence, who would pay no debts contracted by him. It was probable that he had a female partner of his flight; and the circumstance of his coming in such a clandestine way to the house of the widow Wilkins, was certainly a singular coincidence. It would be endless, and scarcely amusing, to mention all the suppositions broached on the subject. One, which was quite popular, was, that this Mr. Tompkins must be the man who had been hanged in Alabama some months before, and who, it was rumored, had been resuscitated.

The most speculatively benevolent hoped that these people would be able to pay their board to the widow, as she was a good sort of woman, though none of the wisest, and could not afford to lose it. The most scrupulously decorous hoped this couple were actually married, and had not come to bring disgrace into Mrs. Wilkins's house, as she had always passed for an honest woman, as had her mother before her, though there had been some strange stories about her aunt and the Yankee doctor.

The next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Tompkins came forth from the widow's house, and walked through the village to the barber's shop. His gait was that of a grave gentleman who has passed the meridian of life, and has nothing to excite him immediately to unnecessary action. There was nothing in his manner that was at all singular, nor was there even the inquisitive expression in his countenance, which would be natural in that of an entire stranger in the place. He walked as a man walks who is going over ground he has trodden all his life, in the usual routine of his occupations. His clothes were plain black, cut after no particular fashion or fancy, but such as old gentlemen generally wear. His walking-stick was plain, with a horn handle. He wore apparently no ornaments, not even a watch. Those whom he met in the street, or passed as they stood in their doors, looked hard and sharply at him; but he neither evaded nor responded to their glances of interrogation.

The barber who shaved him, extracted from him the facts that he had come last from York city, where there was no news; and that he meant to stay for some time in the village. After leaving him in possession of this valuable information, Mr. Tompkins sallied forth, and strayed, at the same leisurely pace, up a hill, the summit of which commanded a picturesque view of the village, and of the adjacent country. The barber observed something like a cicatrix, in a rather suspicious part of his neck, but he did not feel justified in pronouncing an opinion as to whether he had ever been actually hanged or not.

In the mean time, or not long after, Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Hawkins, and Miss Cross, paid a visit to the widow, to tell her not to forget to come to a charitable sewing society that afternoon, and to make another effort to relieve their minds about the case of poor Mrs. Tompkins. They found the latter lady sitting with her hostess. She was knitting cotton stockings. She was a plain middle-aged woman, forty years old or upward, attired in a dark-colored silk dress, with a cambric ruff and cap, not exactly like those worn by the straitest sects of Methodists and Friends, but without any ornament. An introduction having been effected, the ingenuity of the three ladies was immediately exercised in framing interrogatories to the stranger. She was civil, amiable, and apparently devoid of art or mystery; but never was there a more unsuccessful examination, conducted with so much ability on the part of the catechists, and so much seeming simplicity in the witness. Without resorting to downright impertinence, these ladies could extract no more from Mrs. Tompkins, than that she had come with her husband last from New-York, where they had left no family nor connexions, and that they meant to spend some time in the village.

'Had she always lived in New-York?'

'No—she had travelled a great deal.'

'Was it her native place?'

'No—she was born at sea.'

'Had her husband been long settled in New-York?'

'No—he had lived there some time,' etc., etc., etc.

With this highly unsatisfactory result, the fair inquisitors were compelled to return from their mission. Something, however, in the placid manner of Mrs. Tompkins, had produced an influence upon them which counteracted the natural effects of the irritability arising from ungratified curiosity. Their hypotheses in relation to her were by no means so uncharitable as might have been expected. Mrs. Steele actually maintained that she believed her to be Mrs. Fry, travelling incog. through the United States. Mrs. Hawkins had no doubt it was Dorothy Ripley, a woman who had a call to straggle through the country, vending her religious experience; and that her escort was no less a personage than Johnny Edwards, a lay enthusiast of great notoriety. Miss Cross, the least complimentary in her conjectures, supposed it was Mrs. Royal, a travelling authoress, and bugbear to book-sellers and editors.

After a walk of two hours or more, Mr. Tompkins returned from his perambulations, and stopped in at the tavern or stage-house, where he seated himself in an unobtrusive place, and began to read the newspapers. He perused these budgets of literature systematically and thoroughly; and the anxious expectant of the reversion of any particular journal he had in hand, waited in vain for him to lay it down. When he had finished one broad-side, and the fidgetty seeker after the latest news had half thrust forth his hand to grasp the prize, Mr. Tompkins, gently heaving a complacent sigh, turned over the folio, and began to read the next page with the same quiet fixedness of attention, and unequivocally expressed purpose of suffering nothing it contained to escape his attention. It thus took him about two hours to finish his prelection of one of the issues of that great moral engine, as it is called, by whose emanations the people of this country are made so wise and happy. Advertisements and all he read, except poetry, which he seemed to skip conscientiously, generally uttering an interjection, not of admiration. Notwithstanding he thus tried the patience of those who wanted a share of periodical light, he was so quiet and respectable a looking man, that not even a highwayman, or a highwayman's horse (supposing that respectable beast to be entitled to its proverbial character for assurance,) would have attempted to take the paper away from him by violence. His person was in nobody's way. His elbows and knees were kept in; and there was no quarrelling with his shoe or his shoe-tie. There was a simplex munditiis—a neat-but-not-gaudiness about him, which every body understood without understanding Latin.

When he had apparently exhausted the contents of all the periodicals that lay on the bar-room table, just as the village clock struck one, Mr. Tompkins asked for a glass of cider, which he drank and departed. I need make no apology to an intelligent reader for a detail of these minute particulars; because they engrossed the attention of many at the time, and were severally the subjects of conflicting hypotheses. And beside, the history of his first day's residence was so exactly that of every other which followed, that it is expedient to be particular in recording it.

He returned then to his lodgings, and after dinner was seen sitting in the porch of the widow's house, smoking a cigar, and reading in an ancient-looking volume. Toward sundown he again walked forth, with his wife (if wife she was) under his arm; and they strolled to some distance through the lanes and among the fields adjacent to the village. Thence they returned at tea-time, and at an early hour retired to their apartment.

Mrs. Wilkins had not for a long time received so many visiters as called upon her that evening, to inquire after her health, and the 'names, ages, usual places of residence, and occupations' of her boarders. For the best of all possible reasons, she was unable to satisfy them on many of these points. The appearance of Mr. Tompkins at the tavern, however, had produced a rëaction in the opinions of the men, as that of his wife had in those of the ladies; and he was supposed to be some greater character than a runaway husband, a fraudulent insolvent, or a half-hanged malefactor. They were determined to make an Æneas under a cloud out of him. One was convinced that he was Sir Gregor McGregor; another that he was Baron Von Hoffman, (a wandering High-Dutch adventurer, much in vogue at that time,) and a third ventured the bold conjecture that he was Napoleon himself. A rumor, then rife, that the most illustrious of dêtenus had effected his escape, gave greater accuracy to the last surmise than to any other. Napoleon was then in ——!

The post-master advised the speculative crowd, whose imaginations were perturbed and overwrought by this suggestion, to keep themselves quiet and say nothing about it for the present. Letters and packages must necessarily come to the mysterious visiter, which would be subject to his inspection; and from the post-marks, directions, and other indices, which long experience had taught him to understand, he assured them that he should be able to read the riddle. By this promise, the adult population were controlled into forbearance from any public manifestation of astonishment. The little boys, however, whose discretion was not so great, kept hurraing for Bonypart to a late hour, around the widow's house; for which the biggest of them suffered severely next morning at school; their master being what was called an old tory.

'Days, weeks, and months, and generations (in the chronology of curiosity) passed;' but the post-master was unable to fulfil his promise. Nothing came to his department directed to our Mr. Tompkins; nor did that gentleman ever inquire for any letters. During this period, which was about half a year, the daily occupations of Mr. T. were almost uniformly the same with those mentioned in the diary I have given. So punctual was he, that a sick lady, having marked the precise minute at which he passed before her house, on his return to dinner, set her watch regularly thereafter by his appearance, and was persuaded that it kept better time than those of her neighbors. One would have thought that she ought to have felt grateful to the isolated stranger who thus saved her the trouble of a solar observation; but whether it arose from the influence of the genius of the place, the irritability of sickness, or her association of Mr. Tompkins with ipecacuanha, certain it is, that her guesses about his identity, and his motives for coming to that town, were of all others the most unamiable.

I must mention, however, some of the other habits of Mr. Tompkins, and some of the peculiarities of his character. For, though the former were systematic, and the latter monotonous, he was yet not a mere animated automaton; and was distinguished from other male bipeds by certain traits, which his acutely observant neighbors of course did not fail to note.

Neither he nor his wife ever bought any thing for which they did not pay cash. Their purchases were few in number, and small in amount; and they generally seemed to have exactly the requisite sum about them, rarely requiring change, and never exhibiting any large surplus of the circulating medium. On Sunday, unless the weather was very bad, they attended at the Episcopal church regularly, sitting in Mrs. Wilkins's pew; and regularly did Mr. Tompkins deposite a sixpenny-piece in the plate which was handed round. They did not, however, partake of the communion in that church; why, I know not. It was in vain that Mrs. Tompkins was urged by the ladies with whom she became acquainted, to attend religious meetings of different kinds, held in the evening. It was also in vain that either her husband or she was solicited to subscribe to any charity, of whatever description. They severally answered, 'I cannot afford it,' so naturally, that the ladies and gentlemen on the several committees appointed by the several charitable meetings, gave them up in despair. They rarely accepted invitations to tea-drinkings; and yet there was nothing unsocial in their manner or conversation. They could converse very agreeably, according to the opinions of many of the people; and what was strange, was, that they neither talked about scandal, religion, or politics. Sometimes they spoke of other countries so familiarly, that the question, 'Have you ever been there?' was naturally asked; and the answer was generally 'Yes.' Avoiding, however, any communion other than what was inevitable, with those who were decidedly gross and vulgar in intellect and feeling, and forming no intimacies in the small social circle into which they were thrown, the barrier was never passed by their acquaintances, which precluded familiarity. The amusements of Mr. Tompkins, other than those I have stated—to wit, walking and reading the newspapers—were extremely limited in kind or degree, so far as they were observed. Books of his own he had none. The widow's collection was small: but he availed himself of it occasionally, when smoking, or when the weather was bad. As it was more than a quarter of a century since any of the volumes had been purchased, and they were mostly odd ones, his studies could neither have been profound nor extensive. He also very frequently played backgammon with an old Danish gentleman, Mr. Hans Felburgh, who had brought his wife from the West Indies, to reside in this village for the benefit of her health, and had buried her there. It had been a subject of much dispute why he remained; whether from regard to her memory, want of funds, or because he was afraid or too lazy to go back. My readers, I trust, are troubled with no such impertinent curiosity. No human being can long move and live in the same society, without contracting a preference for somebody or other; but the intercourse between these two gentlemen arose very naturally, as they were near neighbors and both strangers, and as the Dane was without kith or kin in the country.

Thus, as I have said, six months passed away, and the mystery which enshrouded Mr. Tompkins yet hung about him 'as a garment.' Curiosity, 'like the self-burning tree of Africa,' had almost consumed itself in its own ardors; but the vital fire yet glowed under the embers. The people had worn threadbare all the arguments on the questions who Mr. Tompkins was, and why he did not publish to them his autobiography. The all-absorbing topic of conversation now was, 'How did he live? what were his resources?' He ran in debt to no one, borrowed from no one, and kept no account in either of the four village banks; he paid his board regularly, as was regularly ascertained from the widow, who became indignant, however, at the frequent recurrence of the question. The tax-gatherer in his rounds called upon him, and found him only liable to be assessed at the same rate as those were who had neither realty nor personalty subject to taxation.

It was now suggested, and became the current report, that Mr. Tompkins and his wife were secretly connected with a gang of counterfeiters, for whom they filled up bank notes, and with whom they had means of holding clandestine intercourse. Often were they both dogged, on their rambles, by gratuitous enthusiasts in the cause of justice. Mrs. Tompkins was seen to stoop for some time, removing a stone that lay under a hedge. The observer in his eagerness, approached too incautiously, and trampled among the dry leaves. She turned her head and saw him, and went onward, making a pretext of pulling up a handful of violets. Nothing was to be found under the stone, or near it; but there could have been but little doubt, it was supposed, that she had intended to deposite counterfeit bank notes, where her accomplices knew how to find them. Mr. Tompkins was observed in his morning walks, to stop occasionally to talk to some very poor people, who lived in the outskirts of the village, and even occasionally to enter their ricketty and tumble-down habitations. Many inquiries were of course made of them, both in an insinuating and a fulminating tone, as to the object of Mr. Tompkins's visits, and the purport of his communications. But these virtuous, though impecunious democrats, made no other reply, than that Mr. Tompkins was a good man, and a better man than those who came to examine them; and, when threatened, they stood upon their integrity as individuals, and their rights as free citizens, and contrived to empty their tubs and kettles 'convenient,' as the Irish say, to the ankles of the questioners.

But now an event occurred—or rather seemed likely to occur. One afternoon, a horseman, dusty with travel, rode up to the tavern, and having alighted, inquired if a Mr. Tompkins lived in that town. Now there was also a shoe-maker of that name who had long dwelt there. But when the stranger added, that the person he sought for could not long have been a resident, all doubts vanished. Between their impatience, however, to assure him he had come to the right place, and uneasiness to get out of him the facts which were to explain the mystery, the dusty traveller had much difficulty in obtaining answers to his first question, and to his second, 'where Tompkins lived?' All the information he gave, in exchange for that which he received, was, that he had business with the gentleman. He also asked, where he could find the nearest justice of the peace? A bandy-legged individual, with a hump-back, and a strange obliquity in both his eyes, who was drinking beer, came forward immediately, and said he was the 'squire. The traveller looked as if he thought the people had a strange taste in selecting their magistrates; but, telling the crooked functionary that he might have occasion to call on him in a short time, set forth in the direction indicated to him, to find the person he was in search of.

He marched at a round pace; but not so fast that others were not on the ground before him. Several persons who had heard what had passed, scudded off in different ways for the same point, announcing as they ran, in half-breathless accents, to every one they met, that a sheriff had come for Mr. Tompkins. A party kept at no great distance behind the stranger, among whom was the justice himself, who seemed disposed not to be out of the way, should his services be demanded.

As Mr. Tompkins, who was sitting in the porch of the widow's house, reading a volume of the Gentleman's Magazine for 1749, and had just exhaled a cloud of many-colored smoke, was watching the delicate spiral curve of sapphire hue, which did not intermingle with the other vapor, but wound through it like the Jordan through the Dead Sea, (to give the coup de grace to a figure worn to tatters, and beggarly tatters too,) I say, as Mr. Tompkins lifted up his eyes and beheld the prospect before him, he was aware of a man in riding trim, lifting the latch of the widow's little court-yard; behind whom a small crowd, headed by the cross-eyed and cross-legged Coke of the parish, advanced in a huddle, all earnestly gazing upon himself. And, glancing around, through the rose-bushes, lilac-trees, and pales which surrounded the modest enclosure in which he was ensconced, he beheld, peeping and chuckling, the quaint and dirty faces of divers boys and girls, with dishevelled hair and goblin expressions; and he marvelled what in the world was the matter.

The stranger entered the court-yard, and touching his hat respectfully, asked if Mr. Tompkins was at home?

'That is my name, Sir,' said the gentleman.

'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said the stranger. 'I have been mistaken. I was looking for another gentleman.'

So saying, he again touched his hat, and retired, looking rather surlily upon the people who gathered round him, and followed in a cluster his retiring footsteps. My tale does not lead me to tell how he got along with them, nor do I know more than what I have heard, which was, that having proceeded a little distance, and feeling them treading upon his heels, he got upon a stump, and looking around him, asked if the place was a Sodom or Gomorrah, that a Christian man, dressed like themselves, could not come into it without being mobbed in that manner? Upon which he marched on at a quicker step, some of the men shouting, and a few of the little boys following and throwing stones after him, till he remounted his horse; and mingling with the clatter of the charger's retiring hoofs was heard the rider's hoarse and coarse malison upon the town, and all the people that lived in it!

——'But with Mr. Tompkins
Abides the minstrel tale.'

'Time rolled his ceaseless course,' as he does now while I write; and I shall record but one more anecdote, being an incident which happened several months after that last mentioned.

A fondness for getting up charitable societies had always prevailed, to a greater or less extent, in this village. But at this particular time it became a rage, in consequence of the organization in larger towns of associations on a grand scale; the notices of whose meetings, with the names of the several official dignitaries, as published in the newspapers, inflamed the ambition of the country folks. A society for the Suppression of Pauperism was immediately formed. Under its auspices, at the same time, was organized a society for the relief of the poor and destitute; and, subsidiary to the latter, an auxiliary branch was instituted, for the purpose of seeking out and examining the condition of such poor and destitute people, with a view of reporting their cases to the parent society. The executive committee of the auxiliary branch consisted of four ladies and three gentlemen; who met twice a week regularly, with the power of calling extra meetings, for the purpose of reporting and consulting.

It was certainly most unfortunate that a system so complicated and so admirable should be framed, without any subjects being found to try it upon. It was like a fine new mill, with a double run of stones, without any grist to be ground in it. The executive committee were not inactive; but, strange to relate, unless they patronised some of the members of one or all of the three societies, thus compacted like Chinese boxes, there was never a soul in the place upon the causes and actual extent of whose poverty and destitution they could report, without going to the gentiles whom I have mentioned before, who lived in the crazy and deciduous tenements in the outskirts.

To them, however, the three gentlemen, urged partly by their zeal in the cause, and partly by some sly intimations from the four ladies, that they were afraid of receiving injury to their clothes or to their persons, were induced to repair. Their mission was fruitless enough. While they were talking to some of the members of this small Alsatia below, others from above contrived accidentally to administer libations of ancient soap-suds and dish-water to the philanthropists, which sent them back in no amiable mood, and in a pickle by no means prepossessing, to report to the executive committee of the auxiliary branch.

What was to be done? It was necessary that some report should be made, which, having been approved by the branch and the parent institution, and laid by them before the Pauperism Society of the village, might be transmitted to the great Metropolitan Branch of the General State Association. The grand anniversary was approaching; and what a contemptible figure their returns would make. Under these circumstances Miss Cross called an extra meeting of the executive committee.

I do not intend to report the proceedings of this illustrious delegation, but merely the upshot of them. They actually appointed a sub-committee, consisting of Miss Cross, who was all of six feet high, and a pot-bellied tinman who was only four feet eleven, to wait upon Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins; and to inform them, in a delicate way, that the auxiliary branch had viewed with satisfaction their efforts to maintain a decent appearance, and had taken into very particular consideration the causes of their poverty, and the mode of applying suitable relief. It was well known, the committee were instructed to say, that they were destitute people, because nobody wrote to them, and it was a universal subject of wonder how they lived. They were growing paler and thinner under the influence of hope deferred, or more probably of no hope at all; and if they would quit Mrs. Wilkins's, whose charge for board was too high, they might yet have bright and pleasant days before them, under the patronage of the society. They might lodge with the aunt of Miss Cross, who had a nice room in her garret, and took as boarders half a dozen of the cabinet-maker's apprentices. Mrs. Tompkins could improve her time by washing and ironing; and something might be done for her husband, in the way of getting him accounts to cast up for grocers, running about to collect them, dunning, etc.

So Miss Cross and the tinman went the next afternoon; and, I believe, that with all the importance they assumed or felt, as members of the auxiliary branch, there was a little hesitation in their entrance into the demesne of Mrs. Wilkins. At any rate, I know, that in mounting the three steps before the door, Miss Cross, by a twitch of her foot, either nervous or accidental, kicked her colleague, who was behind her, on his back, or some other part; and set him a rolling with such emphasis, that he found it troublesome to stand up again fairly; or, indeed, to know the four points of the compass.

Mr. Tompkins was playing backgammon with his Danish friend, when his wife opened the door suddenly, with her face flushed, and said, 'My dear, here are a lady and gentleman, who wish to inquire into the causes of our poverty, and the means of relieving it.' She laughed as she spoke, but as she turned away and went up stairs, cried hysterically.

Mr. Tompkins, who had a man taken up, as the phrase is, and had just thrown doublets of the very point in which he could not enter, rose, and issued forth to talk to the sub-committee. I believe, most devoutly, that he was an amiable man; and as to the vulgar practice of profane swearing, I do not think he ever had indulged in it before in his life. But when he discharged this sub-committee, I am credibly informed, that he availed himself of as round and overwhelming a volley of blasphemy as ever was heard on board a man-of-war. I hope it has been pardoned him, among his other transgressions.

Time rolled on, and five years had passed away since the arrival of Mr. Tompkins and his wife at ——. Curiosity as to them had become superstition; though the vulgar imaginations of the mechanical bourgeois of the village had not enabled them to conjure up any spirit or demon, by whose assistance this inoffensive couple were enabled to exist without getting into debt. No letters had come, during all this period, through the hands of the conscientious and intelligent post-master. No deposite had been made by Mr. Tompkins in any one of the four banks; nor, to the best of my knowledge and belief, had he ever seen the inside of either of them; for he never went to a place where he had no business to transact, or was not required by courtesy to go.

Death!—which we must all expect, and meet as we can—Death came, and makes tragical the end of a narrative which I have written, perhaps, in a strain of too much levity. A fever, occasioned probably by local influences, seized Mrs. Tompkins, and after a few days' illness, unexpectedly even to the doctor, she died. Such was the fact; and if I had all the particulars, I know not why they should be given. It is hard, however, to realize that any body is dead, with whom we have long associated; still harder, if we have dearly loved the friend who has gone before us. I suppose this was the case with Mr. Tompkins, who did not long wear his widower's weeds. He died too, only eight weeks afterward.

He followed his wife to the grave, leaning on the arm of his friend, the Dane—for I may be allowed to call him his friend, as he had no other—and shed no tears that any body saw. His habits of life were ostensibly the same as before. He took his morning's walk, and his afternoon's walk, although he had no wife to accompany him then. He caused a plain white marble tomb-stone to be erected at the head of her grave, on which was simply inscribed, 'Susan Tompkins: Died in the 49th year of her age.' A fever of the same type with that which carried off his wife, seized him, and he died as I have already mentioned.

There is no difficulty in getting up a funeral procession in such country places. Those who would have cheerfully consigned their own blood connexions to Don Pedro or the Dey of Algiers, while living, will make it a matter of business to follow any body's corpse to its last home: and there is no religion, sentimentality, or poetical superstition, in their so doing. It is a mere way they have.

Therefore there was no lack of people to make up a procession, either at the funeral of Mrs. Tompkins or of her husband. There was a group of rather ragged-looking people, men, women, and children, who remained after the crowd had gone away, near the graves on both occasions. They had reason to cry, as they honestly did, for the loss of those who had been kind to them.

It was a strange circumstance, but it was actually true, that when Mrs. Wilkins, under Mr. Felburgh's inspection, came to settle up what was due for the funeral expenses of Mr. Tompkins, and to herself, they found exactly the amount required, and neither a cent more nor less. What papers he might have burned after his wife's death I know not; but the lady and gentleman above-mentioned, who acted as his legatees, did not find the smallest memorandum or scrap of paper left by him. The wardrobe of both husband and wife was not extensive, and the trunks containing their wearing apparel were preserved inviolate by the respectable Mrs. Wilkins. She has since died. Mr. Felburgh went shortly after Mr. Tompkins's death to Denmark. If any private revelations were made to him, he has never divulged them, and I know he never will. When I saw him in Copenhagen, in the summer of 1826, I did not think he looked like a man who was to stay much longer in this world of care. He had not any thing to trouble him particularly, that I know of; except that he had nobody to inherit his property, and that was not much.

There was another strange circumstance, which I must not pass over. A few weeks after Mr. Tompkins was buried, a plain tomb-stone, shaped exactly like that which had been erected by his order over his wife, appeared at the head of his grave; and on it was inscribed, 'Hugh Tompkins: Died in the 58th year of his age.' Who put it up, no one could tell, nor is it known to this day.

The burying-ground is as forlorn a place as can well be imagined. There is only a ragged fence around it, and nothing but rank common grass, dandelions, and white-weed grow in it. There is nothing picturesque in or about it; and a Paris belle would rather never die at all, than be stowed into such vile sepulchral accommodations.

These are all the facts in my knowledge, relating to my hero and heroine, as to whom and whose resources curiosity is yet so lively, in the village which I have referred to, but not named, in order to avoid scandal.

'The annals of the human race,
Its records since the world began,
Of them afford no other trace
Than this—there lived a man'

and his wife, whose name was Tompkins.

I superscribe my story 'A Simple Tale,' and 'simply,' as Sir Andrew Aguecheek has it, I believe it is such. It can possess no interest save from the mystery which hangs over its subjects; no pathos, except from their loneliness on the earth, into whose common bosom they have been consigned, leaving only such frail memorials behind them as their laconic epitaphs and this evanescent legend.

[ROSALIE.]

I seek thy pleasant bower,
My gentle Rosalie,
To win its richest flower,
And find that flower in thee.
No more, though spring advances,
I seek her shining train;
I only meet thy glances,
And my heart is young again.

Thou art the morn, fair creature,
That wakes the birds and roses,
Thine, is the living feature
Where light and joy reposes.
All day, young joy pursuing,
I've found, when caught, that she
Was the maid I had been wooing,
The wild, young Rosalie.

When first the morning's lustre
Lights up the fleecy plain,
When first the shy stars cluster,
When the moon begins to wane;
Then do I seek thy bower,
With a spirit fond and free,
To win its richest flower,
And find that flower in thee.

G. B. Singleton.

[STANZAS.]

'To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.'

Campbell.

I.

I go, my friend, thank heaven! at last I go,
Beyond yon clouds that sail, yon stars that glow,
And every thing that liveth here below
Is dead to me!
The stream on whose green bank I've often read,
The mountain-sward that felt my twilight tread,
The flowers around, the leaves above me spread—
All—all but thee!

II.

Yet, idol of my spirit! from thy heart
And memory, I shall not all depart,
And thou wilt then remain what now thou art;
And friendship's spell
Will with our pleasures people each lov'd scene,
The cascade's fount, the glade's romantic green,
The woodland with the sunset's gold between,
And classic dell.

III.

Oh! is it not a pleasure and a pride,
To think that we on earth shall be allied
With those who loved us, when we shall have died,
And sunk to rest—
And that fond aspirations will arise
To Him who ruleth earth, and sea, and skies,
That we be, by His saving sacrifice,
Among the blest!

Philadelphia, October, 1837. John Augustus Shea.

['NURSERIES OF AMERICAN FREEMEN.']

NUMBER TWO.

The preparation and selection of suitable text-books for schools is a matter of great importance. Books are the great means by which the mind acts, in the acquisition of knowledge. But it is not every thing which bears the name of a book, that is to be regarded as the means of mental improvement. Since the invention of the art of printing, an immensity of paper and ink has been wasted in giving a wide extension to works which display the ignorance and imbecility of their authors, while at the same time, this noble art has placed within the reach of all the result of the mental labors and inquiries of the most gifted minds. The choice of books is of vast moment in the business of education, and text-books for schools require to be selected with great judgment and care.

School-books constitute the only species of American literature which has hitherto met with adequate encouragement. Stimulated by the vanity of authorship, by the desire of wealth, or by a wish to be useful, or by all these principles combined in different degrees, hundreds of competitors have started in this race. American talent has been very prolific in this species of authorship; and that person must be well versed in the subject, who can give even the names of those who have produced spelling-books, reading-books, English grammars, arithmetics, geographies, astronomies, natural philosophies, and other books of school literature and science. In order to avoid the character of plagiarism, or from an ambition to produce something new, or from whim and caprice, changes have perpetually been made in text-books for schools, until there has come to be among them a confusion like that of Babel. Innovation, without substantial improvement, is the bane of school authorship.

That person has a very inadequate idea of the subject, who supposes that it requires only ordinary talents and acquirements to produce good text-books for schools. There is a great difference in these works, indeed, as it respects the ability necessary to produce them. It may require, for example, less talent to compile a good reading-book, made up merely of selections from different authors, than to compose a good text-book on natural philosophy, where the matter requires to be thoroughly digested; but the hand of a master is required to mould every species of material into a proper form. It is a high effort of genius to simplify knowledge, and to bring down the loftiness of science to the familiar comprehension of the youthful mind. A mind of a high order will generally leave its impress on whatever it undertakes; and although it may compose a primer for children, there will generally be something in its matter or form, which will show that it is not the production of ordinary talents and acquirements. Dr. Watts displays the same genius in the books which he wrote for children, as in those profound works in which he developed the philosophy of mind. When the storm of the French revolution was raging, and sending forth its lightning and its thunder, and threatened to rive the British nation in pieces, Hannah More was one of those master-spirits that rode upon this whirlwind and directed this storm. By her small 'Cheap Repository Tracts,' addressed to the common people of England, who in a mental point of view were a kind of children, she became the safe-guard of the morals of her country; and the principal men in church and in state hailed these simple publications, as most happily adapted to their purpose, and as saying that which they could not themselves have said so well.

While distinguished talents and extensive knowledge are necessary for those who would write good books for children, a familiar acquaintance with young minds, the fruit of much study or of experience in instructing them, is of essential importance. For this reason, some practical teachers have succeeded better in producing school-books than some other men, who have possessed greater talents and superior knowledge. But talents and knowledge, when combined with experience, will give superior advantages. Thomas H. Gallaudet, of Hartford, whose sermons have received high commendation from English criticism, and which are among the best specimens of fine writing which Americans have produced, if he had never engaged in the business of teaching, might have been an elegant scholar and a fine writer, but he could never have composed the 'Child's Book on the Soul.' His capacity to produce works of that description was acquired in teaching the deaf and dumb. In the institution for their instruction, over which he presided, being concerned with minds peculiarly uninstructed, he learned by experience the avenues to untaught minds, and his simple works are among the finest exhibitions of his talents. An English Review of his 'Class-Book of Natural Theology for Common Schools and Academies,' has the following remarks: 'This work has much heightened our opinion of Mr. Gallaudet's talents as a writer for the young. He has learned (by educating the deaf and dumb,) what gentle patience, and what clear and precise explanation must be used to convey instruction to, and fix correct ideas in, minds not yet unfolded, nor imbued with knowledge. A book like this is no work of chance, but is the result of great expense of time, thought, and tact, in devising and perfecting it.'

To produce text-books for schools, such as are needed, the best talents of the country should be put in requisition. In some instances, such talents have been engaged on this subject; but there is a necessity that they should be much more extensively employed than they have hitherto been. How utterly unqualified many authors have been to produce good school-books, their crude and ill-digested works bear abundant testimony.

It cannot be expected that text-books for schools should contain treatises very much in detail on some of the sciences to which they relate, and hence they should be very select in their materials. In constructing them, it requires as much judgment to know what to omit, as what to insert. Text-books on the sciences for schools should be peculiarly simple and perspicuous in their language, and clear as day-light in their arrangement and their illustrations.

Very considerable advances are supposed by many to have been recently made in school-books. These pretended improvements have often consisted more of show than of substance, and much remains yet to be done, although it is not to be denied that some advances have been made. In works of this kind, there was, in former times, too little adaptation to the comprehension of the youthful mind. In recent times, school-books have been made more simple and more intelligible to children, and it is questionable whether the tendency be not, at present, to an unprofitable childishness. It is not necessary to adopt all the familiarities of children, in order to be understood by them; and the language used in instructing them should always be a little in advance of their present attainments, that they may be continually raised to a higher standard. The Roman women were peculiarly attentive to the language of their children, and by habituating them from early childhood to a pure and elevated diction, they prepared them, under great disadvantages for education, compared with those which are now enjoyed, to be either themselves distinguished orators, or if not, to be capable of apprehending the beauties and feeling the force of the highest efforts of their orators.

In school-books, a great deal of noise and useless parade has been recently made about the introduction of the 'Analytic Method.' Many persons seem to consider this improvement to be like the exchange of the logic of Aristotle for that of Lord Bacon. The analytic method begins with the particular parts of a subject, and after having surveyed them in detail, combines them into a systematic whole; while the synthetic method takes a general view of a subject, and then proceeds to an examination in detail of its several parts. Now it is a well-established opinion in metaphysical philosophy, that while the analytical mode is the only true method for the discovery of truth not always known, the synthetic system has important advantages in teaching well-settled truth. That person must be a novice in the business of communicating instruction, who has not learned that a summary, general view of a subject is an important preparation for a profitable consideration of its several parts, and that great confusion will result from attention to particular parts, without some general and connected views of the whole subject.

A great improvement was supposed to have been made, some years since, in geography, by a new method of classification and arrangement. The subjects on which it treats were associated according to their relation to each other, and not according to their relation to a particular country. Thus, a chapter would be devoted to colleges, and these institutions would be treated of in connection with each other, throughout the world, instead of being separately treated of, when the particular country in which they are 'located' was under consideration. The author of this system was Mr. William C. Woodbridge, and his larger work contains, perhaps, a greater variety of valuable matter than any work on the subject, of equal size, in the language. His geography has had a circulation sufficiently wide to satisfy a reasonable ambition, or even cupidity itself. But it is questionable whether his system of classification is, after all, the best. One principle of association is laid hold of, while another and more important principle of association is abandoned. Location of place is every thing in geography; and an association of particular facts with the country to which they belong, is more important than an association of these facts with similar facts, in other parts of the world. After an abundant trial of this plan, it is believed that public opinion is reverting back to the old method of classification. Other geographies, on a different plan, have in a considerable measure superseded Woodbridge's smaller geography, while as yet no work has been produced on a different plan, which has sufficient merit to occupy the place of his larger geography, unless the recent work of Bradford, taken chiefly from Balbi's Geography, be of this character. This work will be found to be exceedingly rich in its materials, and peculiarly lucid in its arrangement.

Among the attempted improvements in arithmetic, what is generally denominated 'mental arithmetic,' stands conspicuous. That arithmetics in former times were too abstract, too little applied to the business of life, is undoubtedly true. To obviate this, mental arithmetic has been introduced. This exercise the scholar generally commences at the beginning of his course. A little of it might not be unprofitable; but it is believed that the tendency, at present, is to give it too great a prominence. It would seem as if, in the view of some writers on this subject, the first efforts of the child in numbers should be to invent to himself rules of arithmetic, a work to which he is utterly unequal. In some recent arithmetics, vulgar fractions will be found mingled, with simple addition, and the child will be required to solve difficult questions in the former, before he is well acquainted with the latter. This is altogether preposterous. Mental arithmetic has much less application to the business of life, than is often supposed. Few men of business rely very extensively on mental calculations, in preference to their pen or their slate, for two reasons. The one is, that in written calculations there is more certainty of correctness, and the other is, that they are incapable of inventing shorter and better rules for arriving at their results, than the rules of a good arithmetic. As an exercise of the mind, mental arithmetic may serve to sharpen the ingenuity, and give vigor to the faculties. But there is another exercise, which has been strangely overlooked by the writers of arithmetics for schools, which would be superior to it as a mental discipline, and that is, a demonstration of the rules of arithmetic, in which the reasons for every operation, in every rule, should be scientifically unfolded. The scholar would thus be led, in the true analytical method, to unravel the mental process by which the inventor of the rule arrived at it as a conclusion. Not more than two or three arithmetics, intended for common schools, have attempted this, in a general and scientific manner.

Among the improvements in regard to text-books for schools, many familiar treatises on general science stand conspicuous. School-literature is taking a wider range than formerly. Even in common schools, by the introduction of such a work as the 'Scientific Class-Book' as a reading-book, two important objects would be secured at the same time; while youth are learning to read with propriety, their minds will also be stored with many of the principles of natural philosophy, astronomy, chemistry, botany, and political economy, with other important subjects. Reading-books for schools have extensively been of that character usually denominated 'light reading.' But too much light reading, it should never be forgotten, is exceedingly well calculated to make light heads. Works for the youth of our schools, should be filled with substantial and systematic knowledge.

Among reading-books for schools, the Bible holds a distinguished place; and there is reason to apprehend that, of late years, it has been too often excluded from these institutions. Moral instruction in schools is of equal importance with that which is intellectual; and no means of moral instruction can be compared to the Scriptures. And even aside from their sublime doctrines, their pure morality, their immense practical bearing upon the heart and the life, there is no book where grandeur of thought is equally combined with simplicity of language, and where lofty ideas are so completely brought down to the comprehension of children. It will hence be found, that the reading of the Scriptures will be to them the most easy kind of reading, and well calculated to produce that natural tone and manner which constitute its perfection. They contain no high-sounding words, introduced to give a factitious dignity, where real dignity is wanting; no inversion, for the purpose of surrounding an idea with a mist, which may magnify its importance. Whether the whole Bible is used, or the New-Testament only, or extracts from different parts of the whole Scriptures, may be safely left to the decision of those who are charged with the selection of school-books. Several volumes of sacred extracts, well fitted to this object, have from time to time been made; and among them, one was executed, some years since, with great judgment and taste, by Dr. McKean, Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory in Harvard University, and another, more recently, by Dr. Porter, President of the Andover Theological Seminary.

To undertake to discuss, at large, the subject of school-literature, or the merits of the more prominent text-books for schools, would greatly exceed the limits of this paper. But it is a subject of great importance, and one of which no person should be ignorant, who has any concern in the management of schools. Such is the ignorance of many teachers, and even of the most intelligent men in the community, in regard to school-books, that many works of this kind have obtained a circulation to which they are not entitled. No person of general information should suffer himself to be uninformed in regard to school-literature. School books need a literary censorship, very different from that to which they have hitherto been subject. If all the literati of the country were well versed in this matter, and would bring their opinions to bear on school-authors, a public opinion might be formed which would fix the seal of approbation on valuable school-books, and a mark of censure, which would help to consign them to speedy oblivion, on those of a different description. If teachers should not be suffered to instruct without having their qualifications put to a strict test, still less should text-books be introduced into schools, until they have undergone a still more rigid scrutiny, by persons competent to decide on their merits.

It has been suggested, in some of the public prints, that it should be the business of the superintendent of common schools to select text-books for the common schools in the state of New-York. It is questionable whether any single man could be found, to whom it would be safe to trust this important concern. De Witt Clinton himself, were he now living, would be unequal to the work, unless he were to qualify himself for it by an attention to the subject, such as he never gave. He, in conjunction with other distinguished literary men, recommended 'Bartlett's National School Manual,' a work containing many good things, but exceedingly defective as a whole. Like Pharaoh's lean kine, it is calculated to devour all other school-books, but after having done so, it would be a meagre skeleton still. The truth is, that a great majority of the most distinguished literary men in the country have devoted so little attention to school-literature, that on their recommendation of school-books but little reliance can be placed. But such ought not to be the case; for the subject is too important to be delivered over to less competent hands.

A systematic arrangement and vigilant inspection of schools, stands intimately connected with their prosperity. They are a complicated concern, and like all such concerns, they require great and systematic attention. School-houses must be provided, fitted up with neatness and convenience, and worthy of the names of temples of science. It is disgraceful to science, to have mean and incommodious school-houses, in the midst of commodious or splendid dwelling-houses. They should be well lighted, have convenient benches and desks, and at the proper season, be easily and comfortably warmed. Every teacher knows how important these things are to the successful prosecution of the business of a school. If the school-room be hung round with maps and charts, and scientific diagrams, it will be so much the better. According to the laws of association by which the course of thought in the human mind is regulated, these things will take a strong hold of the susceptible minds of children, awaken a scientific curiosity, and divert them from their play to the proper business of the school-room, as well as afford valuable aids to the teacher in the business of instruction.

A number of well-qualified and laborious inspectors constitute an essential part of every good school organization. It should be the business of these inspectors to examine into the qualifications of teachers, and to see in what manner the business of instruction is carried on. No teacher should be employed, until his qualifications have been put to a rigid test. In the case of public schools, this should be done by public authority; and in private schools, the patrons should select a suitable number of persons, competent to perform this work. 'Good recommendations,' as they are called, are obtained with such facility, and given, even by persons of respectability, with so much carelessness, that comparatively but little reliance can be placed on them.

Inspectors of schools should frequently visit them, see them in their every-day dress, and learn whether instruction is thoroughly and judiciously given. The competent and faithful teacher will be highly pleased with such visitation. It will show him that his work is not undervalued, and will stimulate him to greater exertion, while the incompetent teacher will be likely to expose his deficiencies in a way which will lead to their correction. Scholars, also, will be greatly stimulated to effort by the frequent and judicious visitation of schools. It will show them that they are engaged in no unimportant employment, and convince them that an education is worthy of their strenuous and persevering exertions.

Public inspectors have generally been selected from intelligent men of business; and experience has proved that, amidst their other numerous avocations, this is very likely to be neglected. Perhaps a different arrangement of this business would be more effectual. Let a thoroughly competent person, a man of large views, and general knowledge, be selected and appointed an inspector, and receive a sufficient compensation to devote a considerable portion of his time to this subject; let him have under his charge the schools of a sufficiently extensive district; let him spend a considerable time in these schools in rotation, inspect the manner in which they are instructed, suggest to the teachers any improvements in the method of instruction and government, and be, in fact, a kind of regimental school-master. In some of the states, it has been found difficult to procure men of sufficient legal attainments for judges of the county courts. To remedy the evil, a chief judge has been appointed, of extensive legal science, to travel from county to county, and to preside, with associate judges, in these courts; and the arrangement has been found eminently beneficial. The course just proposed would equally contribute to raise the character and promote the interests of common schools.

Among the improvements which have been recently introduced into schools, that of illustrating the sciences by means of simple and appropriate apparatus, deserves to be particularly noticed. Apparatus for the illustration of the sciences has long existed in colleges, and no institution of the kind would be thought worthy of patronage, which did not possess it. But apparatus is not more necessary in colleges, than is appropriate apparatus in schools. Indeed, from the nature of the case, it would seem to be more necessary in schools than in colleges. Children and youth, in the earlier stages of their education, are naturally volatile, and need something to fix their attention. They are less accustomed to abstract reflection than persons of a more advanced age, and therefore have greater need of a visible illustration of the sciences.

Apparatus for schools needs to be materially different from that usually found in colleges, which is generally so expensive, as to be altogether beyond the reach of ordinary schools. Apparatus for schools must be cheap, or it will not be generally introduced; it must be neat, or scholars will turn away from it with disgust, and science will be disgraced by its slovenly appearance; it must be scientific, or it will be good for nothing. It may be scientific without being expensive. The value of a machine for scientific illustration depends much more upon its peculiar construction, than upon its mechanical execution.

By the use of apparatus, two avenues are opened to the mind where but one existed before, and the eye becomes auxiliary to the understanding, in the acquisition of knowledge. Appropriate apparatus is alike calculated to illustrate the sciences, and deeply to impress their principles upon the memory. Some kinds of apparatus have long been found in schools. Geography has long had the aid of maps, and no teacher would use a geography which was not furnished with a respectable atlas. But maps alone are not a sufficient apparatus in teaching geography. A globular revolving map of the world, a globe, and a cylindrical revolving Mercator's chart, will furnish important aid in explaining the globular, polar, and Mercator's projections of a map of the world. Astronomy and natural philosophy can no more be successfully taught without the use of machines, than can geography without the use of maps. No text-book on these subjects would be thought fit for use, which was not furnished with plates and diagrams. But plates and diagrams are but an inferior kind of apparatus; the objects which they represent are extensively presented in perspective, and the coarse manner in which these plates are executed, as well as the intrinsic difficulties of the subject, render them but imperfect substitutes for machines and models for illustration. The great leading principles of descriptive astronomy may, by means of a cheap machinery, be made matters of ocular demonstration, and thus be rendered intelligible to children. Natural philosophy acquires a greatly increased interest, in an illustration by experiment. All that variety of labor-saving machinery by which human toil is so extensively superseded, and the arts and conveniences of life so signally advanced, are but different combinations of the mechanical powers. Mechanics, not illustrated by machinery, is a dry study, but by its use a great interest is created in the subject, and some slumbering genius may be awakened in a common school, that may originate discoveries in the arts, which will tell on the destinies of men, like the cotton-gin of Whitney, the cotton-spinning machines of Arkwright, or the steam-boat of Fulton. The time is rapidly coming, when no school will be considered well furnished, which has not a respectable apparatus for the illustration of the sciences, nor any teacher well qualified for his work, who does not understand how successfully to use it. Skill in the use of apparatus must be the result of much attention to the subject; and the teacher should labor to acquire it with the same assiduity with which he strives to make himself acquainted with the sciences which he professes to teach.

It is interesting to reflect on the cheering prospect which the advancing cause of education holds out in regard to the perpetuity of the American government, and the extension of the blessings of freedom to the civilized world. In passing over the long tract of time which authentic history discloses to the view, it is painful to observe how extensively tyranny has swayed an iron sceptre over the destinies of men; how governments, instead of being calculated to promote the interests of the people, have been artfully contrived to cause the multitude to toil and sweat for the gratification of the pampered few. How few are the green spots in the history of man, on which the friend of human rights delights to fix his contemplations! There have indeed existed some commonwealths, under the name of republics, but they have generally failed to affect, to any great extent, the purposes of a well-organized government. Greece and Rome, in their best estates, though denominated republics, were turbulent democracies, or over-bearing aristocracies, and both by turns. Deriving their notion of republics from these splendid failures, European politicians, on the commencement of the American experiment, predicted for it a disorderly course, and a speedy termination. They seemed to have overlooked the fact, that the constitution of the American government, and of American society, is wholly unlike that of the ancient republics. But while they have been watching, and waiting, and in many instances, hoping, for its downfall, their hopes have been signally disappointed. The American government has indeed been exposed to agitations. The storm of party violence and of sectional interest has beaten around it. But, like the majestic oak, instead of being prostrated by the blast, it has only caused it to strike its roots more deeply, and to obtain a firmer footing in the soil.

A general and well-conducted education nursed American liberty in its infancy, and is destined to sustain it in its maturity. The first settlers of New-England, whose example has told so widely on the destinies of the American people, after constructing a few log-houses, for the accommodation of their families, generally proceeded to the erection of a church, and planted a school-house by its side. The cause of education has never been regarded with indifference by the people of the United States, and it is yearly taking a deeper hold of the public mind. The governors of the states recommend it in their annual speeches to the fostering care of the legislatures, as one of the most important public interests, and laws are frequently enacted for its protection and advancement. Means are in increasing operation to raise up a nation of intelligent freemen. There is no fear that the cause of education will become retrograde in the United States. The old states are laboring to supply their former deficiencies, and some of the first acts of sovereignty in the new states consist in legislating for the advancement of the interests of schools.

Every intelligent citizen of this republic cannot fail to be convinced of the excellency of the government under which he lives, and of feeling a deep interest in its stability and perpetuity. He will perceive how abundantly it secures to him the unmolested enjoyment of all his rights, and at how cheap a rate all this protection is afforded. However the great Johnson may scowl upon the sentiment of the equally great Milton, that 'the trappings of a monarchy are sufficient to set up an ordinary commonwealth,' many a man, under an oppressive monarchy, who has been taxed from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, and from his cradle to his grave, has felt the full force of its truth and importance. Education, by enabling the American citizen to compare the excellencies of his own government with the defects of different governments, in other nations, and through all time, has a tendency to strengthen his love of country, and thus tyranny itself becomes auxiliary to the support of the American constitution.

One of the greatest dangers to which the government of the United States is exposed, is party spirit, which arms one portion of the community against another, and causes measures to be approved or disapproved, not from their intrinsic excellencies or defects, but from a blind devotion, or a virulent opposition, to those by whom they are supported. This is one of the evils incident to freedom. But party spirit can never put on its most appalling form among an intelligent people. However a few men, who are seeking for stations of honor and of profit, may pursue a course which has their own advancement only for its object, the mass of the people can have no interest which is separate from that of their country. And with intelligence to understand the true interests of the republic, and to judge correctly of public men and public measures, they will be proof against the arts of ambitious demagogues, and extensively free from party violence. They will cling to the constitution of their country, as the ark of their safety, and the charter of their hopes.

Education is not only moving onward in the United States, but it is also assuming a more promising aspect in other parts of the world. In Prussia, in Great Britain, in France, in Germany, and in some other European countries, it is advancing, and in some instances with surprising rapidity. That this advancement will be favorable to civil liberty, there can be no doubt. The most intelligent nations have always been the most free, and the most difficult to be enslaved. There is not a throne in Europe, but is based, to a greater or less extent, upon the ignorance of the people, and which will not totter and fall, or be greatly modified in its structure, by the general prevalence of education. Oppression and abuses will not abide the light. The multitude are too strong for their oppressors. They need only to understand their rights, in order to assert them, and they need only to assert, in order to maintain them. They now obey despotic rulers for the same reason that the inferior animals are subject to man, because they know not how to resist, or that resistance would be availing. Education will instruct them on both these points.

Beneath the whole surface of European society are smouldering fires, which threaten to break forth in some terrible volcano, that may spread desolation and destruction far and wide. The privileged few are marshalling themselves against the oppressed many, and the many are preparing for a conflict with the few, and their several pretensions must at length be put to issue. The monarchs of Europe, supported by the prescription of ages, and surrounded by powerful aristocracies, as so many body-guards, may refuse to listen to retrenchment and reform, and set themselves in array against the rights of the people. With the means at their command, they may oppose powerful obstructions to the progress of civil liberty; but it will be like damming up a mighty river, the force of which will be augmented by the resistance with which it is opposed, and which must at length break loose, and bear all before it. Revolutions in European governments are as sure as the progress of time; and the increasing intelligence of the people affords reason to expect that their result will be the more firm establishment of human rights. A great intellectual and moral training is necessary, to prepare a people for freedom; and a great change must take place in regard to the intelligence and virtue of every nation in Europe, before an entirely free government would be to them a blessing. Lafayette, though a republican in principle, judged, and no doubt correctly, that a limited monarchy was the best government which France is prepared at present to enjoy, and to the erection and support of such a government he contributed his influence.

The advancing cause of education, however, is preparing Europe for a higher destiny; and there is reason to hope that she will not stop in her career of improvement, until the intelligence and virtue of her population shall prepare them for the full enjoyment of freedom, and put them in possession of its substantial blessings. How long it will be before such an event will occur, no human sagacity can precisely predict. The struggle of freedom may be protracted and arduous, but her ultimate triumph is certain; and even the distant prospect of it will be cheering to every friend of human rights.

H.

[OLD AGE.]

BY REV. C. C. COLTON, AUTHOR OF 'LACON.'

Thou anti-climax in life's wrinkled page,
Worst end of bad beginning—helpless Age!
Thou sow'st the thorn, though long the flower hath fled;
Alive to torment, but to transport dead;
Imposing still, through time's still rough'ning road,
With strength diminish'd, an augmented load:
Slow herald of the tomb! sent but to make
Man curse that giftless gift thou wilt not take;
When hope and patience both give up the strife,
Death is thy cure—for thy disease is life!

[HUNTING SONG.]

I.

Awake—awake! for the day-beams break,
And the morning wind blows free;
The huntsmen strain over hill and plain,
And the horn winds merrily!
'Tis the dawn of day; and the shadows play
O'er the paths in the woody glen;
And the scent lies still upon field and hill,
For the hound to thread again.
Away—away! while the morn is gray,
And the feathery mist hangs nigh;
The hound bays deep from the craggy steep,
And the horn winds merrily!

II.

Press on—press on! o'er the dewy lawn,
And through the greenwood still;
The brook is passed, and the stag breathes fast,
As he pants on yonder hill.
The sun peeps now from the mountain's brow,
And the wild bird carolls free,
While the hot steeds drink at the brook's green brink,
And the hounds lag heavily.
But hark! again through the tangled glen,
Over meadow, and wood, and lea,
The deep-mouth'd pack resume the track,
And the horn winds merrily!

Wilmington, (Del.,) Nov., 1837. Hack Von Stretcher.

[THE POOR RELATION.]

AN AUTHENTIC STORY FROM REAL LIFE.

It was in the early days of Codman county, that Eldred Worthington swung his axe upon his shoulder, and departed to seek his fortune in her almost untrodden wilds. Like thousands of others, the early pioneers of our land, he 'kept bachelor's hall,' until he had 'made an opening, and reared his rustic cot.' Then, with buoyant heart, he returned to the place of his nativity, to claim the plighted hand of Miss Abiah Perley, to become his help-mate in his future home.

To those who know any thing of the difficulties encountered by the first settlers, it will be unnecessary to portray the toils and hardships they had to overcome, before the savage was driven farther back to his forest-lair. They went forward, growing with the growth of the place; and, in a series of years, rearing a family of eight sons and four daughters. It was a natural wish of the parents that their children should not suffer for want of education, as they themselves had done in early life; and hence they yielded to their particular wishes. Benjamin, the eldest, desired to be a limb of the law; the second was for physic, and had his choice; and Thomas, the third, also, was much gratified, when arrangements were made for his departure to a neighboring sea-port, to serve a mercantile apprenticeship. His father was so fortunate as to place him in the house of an old acquaintance, Mr. John Howard, one of the first merchants of the city. This gentleman, having commenced life with nothing but his hands, had become extensively concerned in commerce. It was the very field for the mercantile propensity of Thomas. He devoted himself with unceasing assiduity; won the confidence of his employer; was made supercargo of his vessels in several voyages; and finally, as the good ship Ajax was bound on an East India voyage, he again bade farewell to his friends, and went forth upon the distant seas. He was faithful to the important trusts reposed in him. The ship was laden and ready to return; when, to the sad dismay of all on board, who were greatly attached to him, he could not be found! Every effort was made, for weeks and weeks, but the ship was finally compelled to sail without him.

Sad was the news for his disconsolate parents, and his good master, Mr. Howard. Conjecture followed conjecture, but all was mysterious and appalling. The Ajax returned again to the Indies. The strictest injunctions were made by Mr. Howard, that no efforts should be wanting in the endeavor to discover the fate which had befallen his young friend. Captain Bradshaw, a most excellent man, was indefatigable; but deeply did he deplore the day that once more compelled him to weigh anchor, without the slightest tidings to cheer the anxious parents. Though no voyage was made to the Indies for many years afterward, without all possible inquiries, yet the conviction had almost ripened into certainty, that the young man had been murdered, perhaps in the hope of booty, at his last visit to the shore, among an unknown people.

Years rolled away. The region of Codman county advanced rapidly in settlement, enterprise, and industry. Where once stood the farm of the elder Worthington, now the thriving, bustling, and enterprising village of Weckford shot up its aspiring head, with its immense factories, its capacious stores, and rich and tasteful dwellings. It was upon the banks of one of the noblest rivers in the world, where the elder Worthington had sagaciously sat himself down, relying upon his axe and his arm. But how little did he think, that ere fifty years had rolled away, the acres he then reclaimed would become the abode of thousands, and himself thereby rendered one of the wealthiest men of Codman county. Yet this is but one case of that talismanic power which has converted the forest into cities, and given to the poor great riches, in the mighty march of enterprise, industry, and intelligence, in the marvellous realm of the New World. Weckford had become a place of great note. It was a central point of trade for the surrounding country, which was peopling with astonishing rapidity; and all contributed to give an importance to the family of the Worthingtons. They were not only very rich, but were eminent in the estimation of 'all the region round about.' The sons had grown up under all the advantages which wealth and connexion could impart. They had studied learned professions, as a matter of course, and settled in Weckford, relying upon the immense wealth which the extraordinary rise of property had poured into the lap of the family. Honors thickened upon them. Benjamin was twice elected to congress, and all the brothers were at times elevated to favor in the municipality, or the honors of state partialities.

The father and mother of this numerous family were now in the vale of years. The prudence, economy, and simplicity, which won the esteem of all, and laid the foundation of their wealth, continued to shed a benign influence over their declining days. They were the very antipodes of the new races who had come upon the stage of human action; and often did they deplore, in the bosom of their own domestic circle, that heartless etiquette and cold formality, which had rendered their children so ambitious to outshine others, and to be looked up to as the exclusives of Weckford. But there was a deeper feeling still, which hung heavily over their wasting years; the painful disappearance of their son, who had ever been their favorite, but who had also been regarded by the brothers and sisters with that unnatural jealousy which such a feeling is apt to beget in the minds of mere worldlings. In October of this year, the aged veteran was forewarned, by the insidious influences of flickering mortality, that he was soon to be 'gathered to his fathers:'

'For Time, though old, is strong in flight;
Years had rolled swiftly by,
And Autumn's falling leaf foretold,
The good old man must die;'

and, with the prudence, foresight, and calmness, which had actuated him through all his well-spent life, he sent for his estimable attorney, the honorable Phillip Longfellow, and by his 'last will and testament' divided his immense estate equally among his children; but an especial provision was inserted, reserving in the hands of a trustee, during the period of twenty years, an equal portion of the whole estate for Thomas, the income of which was to be annually divided among all the children. The trustee was to use all diligence in the almost 'forlorn hope' of endeavoring to gain tidings of the long-lost son. The widow, beside her 'thirds,' had some benefices, which were to go to the lost son, should he ever be discovered; but if no intelligence should be gained, within the twenty years, then the whole reservations were to be equally divided among the other children.

Winter at length came, with its awful severity to lengthened life, and the good old Mr. Worthington, mourned by all the villagers, was followed to the family vault, in the Oaklands of Mount Pleasant, at the ripe age of ninety-eight years. There is a wedded sympathy between those who have been united in true love, that but ripens with the lapse of time. Sixty-nine years had passed away, since Miss Abiah Perley left her paternal abode, for the rude but rural cot of Weckford. She had lived, during this long period, in the bonds of holy love, a pattern of affection, kindness, and peace; and the death of her husband severed a chord which nothing on earth had power to unite. It weaned her affections from this world, and she sighed only to join him in that 'better country' to which, in the fullness of time, he had been called away; and in less than two years afterward, the last rites of earth were performed over her departed spirit, as her mortal ashes were laid beside his to whom her soul had so long been wedded.

Several years had now elapsed since the death of the parents. Weckford had continued to advance in population and wealth; and, as a consequence, the Worthingtons had grown richer and richer. They had indeed attained the apparent summit of their ambition, for none assumed to rival them in fashion, wealth, or importance. They were the leaders of the ton, and the very apex of the élite, in all things.

There were two principal streets in the village of Weckford, stretching along the banks of the river, as far as the eye could reach; and the offices, stores, dwellings, and factories of the Worthingtons, their children, and connexions, were everywhere to be seen. Many of the mansions, along Pleasant-street, were embellished with balustrades, where the residents, at the close of the labors of the day, came forth to enjoy the sweet odors from the flowers of the gardens, the ornamental trees of the walks, and the cooling breezes from off the beautiful river. It was at such an hour, that a stranger, clad in miserable tatters, with a long beard, dishevelled ringlets, and leaning upon a rough stick, cut from the woods, tottered slowly and feebly into the village.

'Will you tell me,' said the stranger, inquiring at the door of a descendant of the Worthingtons, 'where the dwelling of Thomas Worthington, Esq. is?'

'It is that noble edifice which you see yonder, beyond the long row of factories.'

The inquirer moved slowly on, apparently scarce able to sustain himself, from physical imbecility. He was met at the outer gate by a servant.

'Will you tell your master that a distant relation, from across the water, who has experienced many misfortunes, desires to see him?'

The servant returned, and ushered the traveller into the outer hall; and in a few minutes, the owner of the mansion appeared.

'I am, Sir, your supplicant,' said the stranger. 'You doubtless recollect, that a brother of your mother, residing in Scotland, had many sons. Misfortunes have thickened upon one of them. He is poor, and, from a recent loss of every thing by shipwreck, is now pennyless. He begs a lodging at your hands, and something wherewith to clothe his almost naked frame.'

'I have nothing to give to stragglers,' said the lord of the mansion. 'Most persons like you are impostors.'

'I am no impostor,' said the petitioner; 'here is proof that I am not,' taking a letter from the American consul from his pocket; 'but I am your poor unfortunate cousin; and if you will but relieve my pressing wants, Providence may put it into my power to reward your kindness.'

'I repeat, I have nothing to give; and I should advise you to get some daily work to supply your wants.'

The stranger heaved a deep sigh, and left the house. He tottered on. It was impossible to pass many dwellings, without encountering one owned and occupied by a Worthington, or his descendant. He called upon many; told his misfortunes, and solicited relief; but all were deaf to his petition, and most of them shut the door in his face.

Late in the evening, an old Quaker gentleman, who accidentally heard the 'poor relation's' story, while passing the door of one of the Worthingtons, offered him a lodging and supper. He went with the benevolent old gentleman; and on the following morning he again wandered forth, to renew his calls of the day before. It was observed that he was very particular not to neglect to call upon every son of the deceased Mr. Worthington. He expended several days in this way, but every where there appeared the same undisguised dread of a 'poor relation.'

At length, he sought the magnificent dwelling of the Honorable Benjamin Worthington, which was situated about two miles from the main settlement of the village of Weckford. It stood upon a commanding eminence, which overlooked the village, and was justly regarded as one of the most delightful rural retreats that the country could boast. After going through the usual ceremonies of the door, he was introduced to the business-office of the 'Oaklands Mansion.' Presently, the Hon. Mr. Worthington appeared. The stranger repeated his solicitation for relief, and his claim as a relation; but here, too, he met nothing but coldness and neglect.

'Then,' said the stranger, 'if you will not relieve the wants of your most unfortunate cousin, perhaps I can tell you something that will move your pity. You had a brother Thomas, who, many long years ago, most mysteriously disappeared?'

'Yes,' said the honorable gentleman; 'but he is no doubt dead, long and long ago.'

'He is NOT dead!' said the stranger, 'but after an age of misery and misfortunes, he has returned in poverty and in rags; and now solicits you to clothe and feed him.'

'Impossible!' exclaimed the Honorable Mr. Worthington.

'Here is a mark upon my arm, received by a burn, when a child, which proves the truth of what I say,' said the long-lost son.

Horror seemed to convulse the frame of the lord of the Oaklands. 'Take this note,' said he; 'go to the Swan Hotel, a small tavern directly upon the road, about two miles beyond this, and I will come to you with some clothes, and money to provide you a passage over the seas.'

The stranger departed; but not to the Swan inn did he bend his footsteps. He wandered to the confines of Weckford, where he was told that a distant relation of the Worthingtons lived, in a small cottage, a few miles beyond. Here he resolved once more to make himself known. He did so; and found the inmate, the widow of a cousin who had come to this country, and settled many years before, in a neighboring sea-port. He had died, leaving a very small property to his widow, and an only child. Mrs. Amelia Perley—for this was the name of the young widow—was overjoyed to see a relative of her 'dear husband,' although in rags. She bade him welcome to her table; provided some proper clothing for him at once; and with a sweet smile, that added new pleasure to the offer, she proffered him a home beneath her humble cottage, until he should find one more congenial. The poor stranger accepted the favor of the kind-hearted widow, with becoming thankfulness, and remained under her roof a short time; but at length suddenly and mysteriously disappeared! Whither he had gone, his kind hostess knew not, and the rich Worthingtons took no pains to inquire. They were not a little delighted to be so easily rid of a 'poor relation,' who might have been a burthen, and a shame; but most of all was rejoiced the Hon. Benjamin Worthington, to whom the disclosure of his relationship had been so alarming.

Time passed on, and the disappearance of the mendicant was forgotten in the whirl of fashion, business, and pleasure; although the honorable elder brother was now and then visited by a painful recollection of the 'unfortunate' mark upon the arm of the returned wanderer.

It was a holiday in Weckford. Business was suspended, and the people were abroad, participating in the pastimes of the day. A superb carriage, with four white horses, and servants in livery, drove through Pleasant-street, and stopped at the 'Mansion-House,' the first hotel of Weckford. Parlors were taken in the name of 'Mr. Edmund Perley, and servants, from Scotland.' Forthwith it went upon the wings of rumor, that 'the rich Mr. Perley had arrived from Scotland.' As the Worthingtons were aware that the relations of their mother were reputed to be very rich in Scotland, they gathered to the hotel, in great numbers, to offer their respects, and solicit the pleasure of the Honorable Mr. Perley's acquaintance. Day after day did the Worthingtons, and all the descendants, down to the lowest contiguity of blood, pour into the 'Mansion-House,' to 'beg the honor of the rich and Honorable Mr. Perley's visits.' The carriage of the 'Hon. Benjamin Worthington' was out from the Oaklands, and the barouche of 'Edward Worthington, Esq.' from the 'Worthington Mansion.' There was neither end to the family outpouring, nor to their solicitude to bestow attentions. The stranger was polite in his replies; and at last, in return, he invited all his kind relatives to honor him at his levee, at 'the Mansion.'

There never was such an outpouring of Worthingtons. The great halls of the 'Mansion-House' were filled to repletion. All was gayety, beauty, and fashion. It was a magnificent assemblage of the richest and most respectable families of the town; and each one was most anxious to outstrip the others in doing honors to 'the rich and distinguished Mr. Perley, from abroad;' when the 'poor relation' made his appearance, in the midst of the brilliant assembly, dressed in precisely the same clothes in which he wandered through the village, and holding in his hand the same uncouth stick, cut from the wilds, which supported his feeble steps from house to house!

It would be impossible to delineate the various countenances which were there exhibited. We must leave the filling up of that picture to the imagination of the reader. It is only necessary to add, that the stranger was the long-lost Thomas, who had made an immense fortune in the Indies. He now immediately took steps to carry out the will of his beloved parent, receiving all the property it gave him. In the year following, he purchased the delightful retreat of 'Auburn Grove,' where he erected a charming residence. He soon after led to the altar the amiable and affectionate young widow, Mrs. Amelia Perley, who was not too proud to welcome him to her humble cottage, as a relative of her departed husband, even though he appeared there in the borrowed tatters of poverty and misfortune. It was a lesson which is often repeated by the villagers at Weckford, and will do no harm by being repeated elsewhere.

[TO A BELLE.]

I.

Is it a bliss to see a crowd
Gazing on thee,
Or like a gilded insect proud
In flattery sun thee?
Is not there a dearer thing,
Than when a fop, with painted wing,
Too poor to bless, too weak to sting,
Dreams he has won thee?

II.

Is it bliss to think thy charms
Are lauded ever;
That all would rush into thy arms,
And leave thee never?
O! is it not a sweeter thought,
That only ONE thy love has sought,
And in his soul that love is wrought,
So deep it cannot sever?

III.

Is it bliss to hear thy praise
By all repeated;
To dream a round of sunny days,
Then find thee cheated?
O! happier the hidden flower
Within a far secluded bower,
Whither some mind of gentle power
Has long retreated!

IV.

Is it not bliss to hear thy name
From lips so holy?
O! better than the transient flame
That circles folly.
If thou art lovely, thou wilt find
Pure worship from so pure a mind;
And love that will not leave behind
One taint of melancholy.

Written in 1828. J. G. Percival.

[FLORAL ASTROLOGY.]

'Flowrets, that shine like small blue stars in the green firmament of the Earth.'—Carové.

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he call'd the flowers so blue and golden
Stars, that in Earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As Astrologers and Seers of Eld;
Yet not wrapp'd about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowrets under us,
Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation,
Written all over this brave world of ours,
Making evident our own creation,
In these stars of earth, the golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees alike in stars and flowers a part
Of the self-same universal being
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowrets, in the sun-light shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay!

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gaily in the golden light,
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming;
Workings are they of the self-same powers,
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Every where about us are they glowing;
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born,
Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the yellow corn.

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazon'd field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield.

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,
On the mountain-top, and by the brink
Of sequester'd pools, in woodland valleys,
Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink.

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,
Not on graves of bird and beast alone;
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,
On the tombs of heroes, carv'd in stone.

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,
In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,
Speaking of the Past unto the Present,
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers.[2]

In all places, then, and in all seasons,
Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,
How akin they are to human things.

And with child-like, credulous affection,
We behold their tender buds expand,
Emblems of our own great resurrection,
Emblems of the bright and better land.

Cambridge University. H. W. Longfellow.

[GEOGRAPHICAL DISTINCTIONS OF COLOR.]

'Look through nature up to nature's God.'

Perhaps the most important benefit resulting to mankind from the study of the natural sciences, is the invention to which it leads of new arguments in favor of the being and benevolence of the Deity. And were this the only advantage arising from this study, it would render it well worthy the attention of the wisest and greatest of men. For every discovery which philosophers have hitherto made, whether of some new material element, or of some law or property of matter, has invariably disclosed fresh proof of the existence of an All-wise Intelligence. The chemical constitution and governing laws of a drop of water, even so far as they are now understood, may afford weapons, wherewith the weakest champion of religion might prevail against the most ingenious of the worshippers of the Goddess of Chance. Nay, were the atheist really in search of truth, no champion would be needed. The humblest flower, the meanest worm, even the dust beneath his feet, would seem to disclaim an origin in chance, and to warn him not to neglect the worship of their common Creator.

There can be no more interesting object of attention, than the examination of the evidences of design, as exhibited in parts of the intricate machinery of Nature. Physical principles, which, at first sight, or indeed after much philosophical investigation, have appeared of but limited importance, or perhaps wholly accidental or unnecessary, have, upon farther study, been found to rank among the number of most beautiful and convincing proofs of creative intelligence; have formed the most important links in the chain which holds together the material universe.

Such has been the train of thought suggested to the mind of the writer of this article, by an examination of the nature and physical relations of COLOR. This property of matter might appear to a superficial observer as one of inferior importance. He would admit that the differences of color add to the happiness of the human race, inasmuch as they give variety and beauty to material objects, and afford one of the most easy methods of distinguishing them from each other, but would probably deny that the existence of animal life is at all dependant upon color, and that it is essential to the present constitution of things. But let such an one reflect a little more upon this property—let him consider attentively all its relations—and he will doubtless change his opinion.

In travelling from the equator toward the poles, we cannot but be struck with the fact, that there exists a difference of color corresponding to a change of climate. Under the equator, the covering of the earth, that is, the vegetation, is darker than in any other part of the globe; and, as there is but little change of climate through the year, this dark covering does not give place either to the light tints of autumn, or to the snowy robe of winter. In advancing north, the foliage becomes lighter in proportion to the increase of latitude. In the temperate zone, the dark, rich robe of the tropics gives place to one of livelier hue, which, after covering the earth during a part of the year, assumes the light colors of decay, and is buried beneath the snow. Thus this change continues to keep pace with the diminution of temperature, till we enter the frigid zone, and reach the region of eternal frost.

From this difference of color in the north and south, and in summer and winter, we may deduce this general fact, that the earth adapts itself in color to the variations of temperature, presenting a dark surface to the heat of summer and the tropics, and a light one to the cold of winter and the frigid zone.

So much then for the fact. Let us now consider the design of such an arrangement. When a body contains more caloric than the air, or the other bodies by which it is surrounded, heat is given off from it in all directions, till the equilibrium is restored. Three, and perhaps more, physical operations take place in this case; radiation from the heated substance, reflection and absorption by the surrounding bodies. Now it has been proved, by repeated experiment, that these changes depend, as it regards their extent and rapidity, upon the color of the bodies. The more light-colored the heated substance is, the more slowly will it part with its superfluous caloric. Were it entirely black, the change would take place with more rapidity than in any other case. If the surrounding bodies were of a light color, a large portion of the heat radiated upon them would be reflected, and but little absorbed. Just the contrary would take place were they dark. The caloric would nearly all be absorbed, and but little reflected.

Similar to these are the phenomena of light. Bright substances reflect, and dark absorb, the rays from a luminous body. This, however, is hardly a correct method of expressing the fact intended. Philosophers believe that darkness of color is not the cause of the absorption of the luminous rays, but, on the contrary, that this absorption is the cause of the darkness. The fact in question then is this; some bodies are of such a chemical constitution, that they readily absorb light, and, as a consequence, little being reflected to the eye, they appear dark. Others, differently constituted, reflect nearly all the light that is thrown upon them, and, therefore, the lightness of their color bears proportion to such reflection.

Let us apply these facts to the explanation of the design of the geographical distinctions of color, of which we are treating. Suppose that the arrangement were different. Suppose, for instance, that the portion of the earth near the equator presented, throughout the year, a white surface to the sun. The rays of heat from that body would nearly all, upon reaching such a surface, be reflected back into the atmosphere, and would heat that part of it immediately bordering the earth, and most exposed to this reflection, to such a degree as to make the climate insupportable. The consequence would be, that a large portion of the earth would be rendered uninhabitable. But, by the existing provision, the rays of caloric pass directly through the air, heating it comparatively little, and are, for the most part, absorbed by the earth. The principle is similar in regard to light. Had the constitution of the covering of the earth in the tropics been such as to reflect the luminous rays, which are far more numerous and brilliant there than at the poles, the overpowering glare of light would alone have been sufficient to render those regions uninhabitable by any known species of animals.

Again: Let us suppose that the earth were clothed with a dark covering in the frigid zone. The few and oblique rays of heat, in that part of the globe would, after imparting but little of their caloric to the atmosphere, in their passage through it, be absorbed by the earth. The same effect would take place in regard to the rays of light, which are similarly few and feeble. It is easy to perceive the effect these things would have in darkening the polar regions, in greatly diminishing the temperature of the atmosphere, and, as a consequence, in contracting the extent of the inhabitable part of the globe. Thus we see, that by means of the snow, nay, by one, and as some would think, the least important of its properties, i. e., its color, man and his fellow animals are enabled to live in regions, the climate of which, without the instrumentality of this property, would destroy them.

After speaking of the change of color corresponding to change of latitude, it were superfluous to dwell at length upon the corresponding change of season, since the principle is precisely the same in each case. There can be no doubt but that in the temperate zone, the climate throughout the year is to a great extent equalized by this happy arrangement; that, without it, our winters would be much more rigorous, and our summers proportionably oppressive.

In passing, we might speak of another evil that would arise from snow being of a darker color. Upon a sudden change of temperature, it would melt very rapidly, and, if collected in any quantity, would occasion dreadful inundations, which would sweep and desolate the country. Such accidents occur even now in some parts of the world. How much more frequent and destructive they would be, in the case we have supposed, it is easy to conceive.

Who then can deny that we have, in the general principle which unites these phenomena, a well-attested instance of benevolent design? Who will assert that so beautiful and necessary a provision could be the result of chance?

But perhaps some one will say: 'It is true that there appears to be a happy adjustment of the color of the surface of the earth. It is true that this adjustment has an important influence in diminishing the difference of the temperatures of the polar and equatorial regions, and in rendering them both fit abodes of animals. But then, unhappily for the symmetry of the whole theory, no exception to the general principle is made in favor of the animals themselves. The inhabitants of the torrid zone, and man in a more marked and invariable manner than all the rest, are distinguished by the dark color peculiar to that part of the globe; so that they absorb the heat in an equal degree with, or perhaps greater than, the earth, since its color is even lighter than theirs. We find the same fact to exist as we advance from the equator toward the poles. The covering of the greater part of animals becomes lighter proportionally with the surface of the earth. In the frigid zone, the light color of man as well as of other animals, for instance the white bear, ermine, etc., must necessarily repel from their bodies by reflection a quantity of heat proportional to that which the atmosphere gains by reflection from the snow. This fact strikes us still more forcibly in the temperate zone, where the difference of climate, resulting from change of season, is greater than in any other part of the globe. Here our color is actually darkened by the heat of summer, in proportion to our exposure to it, and becomes lighter at the approach of winter. So that we are rendered by the heat itself more capable of absorbing it, and, consequently, of suffering from it. Surely, we cannot consider these things as evidences of design.'

But let us attentively examine these facts, and we shall find that the seeming difficulty disappears, and that the truths which gave rise to it, unite in a symmetrical whole with the others which we have mentioned, to form a cumulative and unanswerable argument in favor of the existence of a benevolent Creator.

Animal bodies do not depend for the quantity of caloric necessary to their existence upon the sun. By chemical changes, not yet well understood by philosophers, depending upon that subtle ethereal principle which we call life,[3] a sufficient quantity of animal or vital heat, as it is called, is evolved within the body itself. As this heat is constantly generated, it is necessary, in order that the body may not acquire too high a temperature, that it be as constantly conducted or radiated off. When the atmosphere contains too little caloric, its power of absorbing heat is so great as to deprive the animal body of it more rapidly than it is generated; thus producing the sensation of cold. On the contrary, when the weather is too warm, the air and other surrounding bodies, having less attraction for caloric, do not withdraw it as fast as it is generated; thus producing the feeling of heat. Perhaps, however, this is scarcely a scientific method of stating the fact in question. It is generally supposed by philosophers, that all bodies, whether in equilibrium, as it regards temperature, with surrounding substances, or not, are constantly radiating and absorbing caloric. When equally heated, the cause of their continuing so is, that they receive as much as they give off. When unequally heated, that which contains most caloric radiates more than the rest, and, of course, absorbs less than it parts with. By this means, an equilibrium of temperature is after a time brought about. Now, in cold weather, the heat which an animal body radiates is greater in quantity than the sum of what it generates itself, and absorbs from the sun and other bodies. The consequence is, it experiences the feeling of cold. In warm weather, the caloric radiated is less than that absorbed and generated; in which case, the animal suffers from heat. The vital heat of the generality of quadrupeds and other warm-blooded animals is several degrees greater in intensity than that of the atmosphere, during the warmest season in the tropics. The temperature of the human body is about ninety-eight degrees. The mean equatorial temperature Humboldt proved by repeated experiment to be eighty-one and a half degrees. It is evident, therefore, that in warm regions it is more important that the physical state and constitution of animal bodies should be adapted to the radiation of internal, than to the reflection of external heat, since the intensity of the former exceeds that of the latter.

Now we have before mentioned the fact, that the rapidity of the radiation of caloric from a heated body is in proportion to the darkness of its color. This then, taken in connection with the facts just stated, readily explains the reason why the color of animals varies with the temperature. The negroes of Africa, for example, are provided with a dark complexion, in order that the great quantity of heat which the warmth of their climate causes them to absorb, may be compensated for by an increased radiation. These unfortunate people, when they come to the north, as might be supposed, suffer at first extremely from the cold. They in time, however, become somewhat inured to it. Nature provides for them by another species of adaptation, which we cannot stop minutely to describe, but which may be proved to take place. The effect of it is to increase the evolution of animal heat, and thus to make up for the excessive radiation. Natives of high latitudes, however, are white, as has been said, and consequently their limited absorption of heat is compensated for by an equally limited radiation. We see, also, from this general principle, the design of the skin being so formed as to become tanned by exposure to the sun.

It is needless to dwell longer upon these facts. Taken in connection, they present perhaps one of the most interesting and harmonious arrangements that are to be met with in any of the departments of natural science. But it is by no means one of a few evidences of design, by which the advocate of religion may strengthen and confirm his faith. The whole universe is full of such examples. We have reason to believe, too, that we have but a very imperfect insight into the philosophy of Nature; that beyond the veil which separates the conquests of the human intellect from the vast tracts of knowledge, the possession of which yet remains to be acquired, there are myriads of beautifully-ordered systems, far surpassing in extent and grandeur any thing which the fancy of the wildest schemer has ever suggested to his mind. A few pebbles only have been gathered from the shore of the great ocean of truth. No wonder that the poet, impressed with this belief, should exclaim:

'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.'

B. R. W.

[TO A LOCK OF HAIR.]

Thou'st played upon that cheek full oft,
Thou shining tress of golden hair!
And wreathed thy curl in dalliance soft
Around that neck so dazzling fair:
Whence hast thou caught that amber gleam,
Soft as a fading autumn-sky?
Part from the sun's enamoured beam,
Part from that full refulgent eye.

I fear thou'dst murmur, couldst thou speak,
And curse the fate that bade thee part
From thy bright home, a lady's cheek,
E'en to be pillow'd on my heart:
And I would give, thou wavy tress!
To thee earth's warmest, purest breast,
If thou in turn my lot wouldst bless,
And give to me thy place of rest.
Not Zephyr's breath could woo like me,
Nor sunbeams there so warmly play;
Nor wander o'er that cheek so free,
Those wanton curls in sportive play.

Δ.

[WILSON CONWORTH.]

NUMBER EIGHT.

Although I joined Collins in much of his dissipation, yet I persuaded myself that I had his good at heart; and thinking a change of scene might have a beneficial effect, I proposed a jaunt to the Falls of Niagara. It was the month of June; we were in possession of a handsome equipage, and plenty of money; we had all the means of making the journey pleasant.

C—— got wind of this project, and although we had not spoken for weeks, he came to my room the evening before our departure, and told me I was a ruined man, unless I gave up this journey. He explained to me the reasons of his coldness, and the reserve of others; it was to induce me to give up my association with Collins. He said all were interested for me, and besought me to listen to his advice; that some things had leaked out respecting Collins, which he was not at liberty to tell me. I knew I ought to hear him. I was convinced he was disinterested; but I remained fixed, for I intended to pass through N——, and was in hopes to see Alice once more; and this, after once getting into my heart, I could not get out. We departed upon our excursion of pleasure, which proved one of pain. With whom is hope more faithful?

Following the river, we soon emerged from the level meadow country, and began to ascend the hills of Vermont. The moon was at her full, and we rode mostly in the night-time. Collins could not bear the day, and I was willing to give in to his caprices, for the night gave a calmness and amiable tone to his feelings. His heart was open to the influences of nature, though he pretended to hate mankind.

The Connecticut river, in the north, has a swift and sparkling current, so that it makes music as it flows. Tall trees bend over it, all along its course, as if inclining to kiss its nimble waters. These trees are of one kind, and resemble the graceful elm. To the lover of nature, I know of no scene so fitted to call out his enthusiasm. After toiling up an ascent of three or four miles, as you stop to breathe your panting steed, which, if bred in the country, toils so faithfully for you, your eye is filled with all kinds of scenery. Here on your right reposes a village, with its neat white houses, in a rich valley, the land rising in hills in every direction from it, partly wooded, with here and there a wide pasture of close-cropped green, dotted with the fleecy flock and lowing kine. The river bounds it, on one side of which is a circle of meadow land, and on the other a steep rocky precipice, falling abruptly to the water.

It was twelve o'clock at night—a clear moon-light night—when we gained one of these elevations of land. No sound broke the stillness, save the voice of the 'solemn bird of night' marking by contrast the depth of the solitude of silence. Collins wept like a child. He had associations he would not communicate to me. Possibly he had been there before. He refused to speak. We stopped at the first public house, and he retired to his room without uttering a word.

Until this evening, I had never spoken to Collins of my own love affair. I had never told him of my difficulties, nor let him know that I had had any. My object was to divert his melancholy, not to find relief from my own sorrows. That night, as we sat in silence contemplating the scene, some lines of poetry had escaped me, which Alice Clair had been fond of repeating. I felt Collins start as he listened, and soon after, he gave vent to a torrent of tears, the first I had ever seen him shed.

The next morning we rode and travelled on in moody silence. Not a word was exchanged between us. Collins's whole manner toward me had changed. Now and then I discovered a black look upon his face, as he glanced toward me. I treated him with my usual kindness. I had, in the relation of my own unhappy attachment, concealed the name and personal appearance of Miss Clair, and the place, too. I was free from suspicion, supposed his reserve was a freak, and waited patiently for the recovery of his usual manner.

We now left the river, and struck off to the Green Mountains, taking the road to N——, where we arrived about dark. All the town knew of our arrival, almost as soon as we were settled in our apartment. I found that Collins was known there as well as myself, though under a different name. He was greeted as 'Mr. Cowles,' by every one, and the people stared at him as they would at a spectre.

When I asked the explanation of this mystery, after we had retired to a private room, he stared at me for some moments, with the glare of a maniac in his eyes, and then sprang upon me, drawing his dagger from his bosom. This was no time for parley. I flung him from me, wrested the dagger from his hand, and then allowed him to rise. Seeing that he intended no violence, I sat upon the bed while he walked the room, gnashing his teeth, and mumbling to himself 'curses not loud but deep;' then stopping suddenly opposite to me, he said:

'You, fiend!—why did you seek me? Can you be the friend who feels an interest in me? Why have you proved a traitor to my peace?

I assured him his words were inexplicable to me.

'Where,' said he, 'did you learn those words you quoted last night? Do you know her too? Have you, too, been a victim to those super-human charms? I am a slave; she bound me; I am helpless. Oh, God!—but I have wronged you; you could not know; you are not to blame. I had better destroy myself. I am crazed—mad! I know not what I say. Oh! leave me, if you value your life or mine!'

This was all strange. What could he mean? He had no acquaintance with Alice. She had told me that she never had an attachment before the one she confessed for me. What other lady in town could there be to excite affections so refined as his? It could not be Alice; this was a vagary too wild to be listened to. However, determined to solve the difficulty, I went immediately to the house of Mr. Clair, and asked for his daughter; 'she was out of town;' for Mrs. Clair; 'she was sick;' for any of the family; 'I could not be admitted.' This was as unceremonious as I could bear; so I walked back to the hotel, and calling the inn-keeper aside, asked him what had become of Miss Clair. Inn-keepers in a country village know all the small news that any one does, for they hear the same story assume so many different shapes over the grog they deal out, that by night they become perfectly saturated with a piece of scandal, and give forty readings of the same event to suit the customer.

Mr. Shuffle gave me a full account of the affair. He said that Alice was with her sister in Albany; that she had been very sick, and not expected to live. After I had been out of town for a few months, she returned to her father's; used to go moping about, and people thought her mind was affected; he wondered that people could be so unreasonable, as to keep young folks that loved each other separate; if he had been me, he would have run away with her.

I did not wait to hear farther, or even to inquire about Collins, but ordered a horse, left a note for Collins, in which I advised him to return, as important business required my presence at Albany for a few days; and that I could not undertake our contemplated journey, after what had happened.

That very night I started across the mountains for Albany, and did not sleep until I saw the house that contained all I thought I loved on earth. The visit to old scenes had renewed all the fervor of my affection. Not wishing to be recognised, I stopped at a dwelling in an obscure part of the town, and sent a little boy to the house with a note, directing him only to give it into Miss Clair's own hand. If her health permitted, I requested an interview; but certainly some token of recognition by the bearer. She was well enough to meet me, and we agreed to take a walk that afternoon.

I pass over the agonizing bliss of meeting. All was forgiven in an instant. She had been sick indeed—sick at heart. She had heard of my disgraceful course of life in the city, after parting from her, and then again of my relapse at L——. She had supposed that I had given up all thoughts of her, and she said that she had tried to banish me from her thoughts; but, smiling through her tears, her words were: 'You know, Conworth, you were my first and only love. I had determined to run the risk of what I feared would happen. I was willing to risk something for one who might be so much, if he did truly love me in return as I did him. I have been forsaken, and forgotten, and disregarded; but the fault was in me in the first instance in trusting to you. I could hardly expect you to change your character for one like me.'

I could not bear this; I implored her to accuse me, to upbraid me—any thing but such words; and then I endeavored to palliate my faults, and in doing so, I told the exact truth. I led her back to motives, and temptations, and despairing states of mind, through which I could distinctly trace my own lapses; convincing her that all resulted from my separation from her; that 'could I have her with me to guide, comfort, and encourage me, I should, I felt confident, do every thing to make her happy.'

The idea of marriage had not crossed my mind until this instant. In consoling her, and drawing the picture of our union, I was so charmed with the notion, that I began to speak in earnest, and did, upon the spot, adopt the resolution of making the attempt to persuade her to unite herself to me on the instant.

I succeeded. She consented. We were to be married on the next morning. By good luck, her brother-in-law was absent from home, and I knew her sister possessed rather a romantic turn of mind. The devil lent me cunning and eloquence, and I persuaded her it was the only way to save Alice's life and mine.

To bring this about, I had, without premeditation, to invent plans which should have the appearance of having been well-digested. I told her 'that I came authorized from my father to bring Alice to his house, if I could do so as my wife.' I then showed her the wealth that I possessed—for beside my own money, Collins, on starting, had constituted me his banker—and the whole story was so well got up, that she seemed delighted with the novelty of the scheme.

Behold me then on the eve of perpetrating marriage. Every thing was prepared. My carriage, (one I had hired, and called mine,) was at the door; the trunks were lashed on, and we were standing before the minister, in her sister's parlor; the justice's daughter, and a friend I had picked up, acting as witnesses. The ceremony began. Hardly had a word been spoken, when the door flew violently open, and Collins, wild and haggard, with his dress torn and soiled, and without a hat, rushed into the room. He looked about him for a few moments in triumph, and then said, slowly: 'I am come in time, false woman!' He stepped toward Alice, who, pale and trembling, was sinking to the floor. A dagger gleamed in the madman's hand. I rushed forward, and taking the blow aimed at her, I fell senseless to the earth.

When I awoke from my delirious dream, which followed the wound I had received, I found myself in a small private house. My father was standing by my bedside, and my sister was wiping the cold sweat from my forehead. I had been thus for a fortnight. My father and sister had arrived upon the earliest intelligence after the accident. They imagined they were journeying to attend my funeral. Would it had been so!

My father took my hand, as my eyes closed, upon meeting his anxious gaze, and said: 'It is all well—all is forgiven. Be calm; you are better, God be praised! I ask no more.'

I could not speak. His kindness, his affection, wounded me worse than ten thousand daggers. I covered my eyes with my hand, and wept. When I was strong enough to bear it, my sister told me all that had happened. Alice had confessed to her every thing. The substance was this.

'Collins had some years before met Alice Clair at a boarding-school in the city, and he fell violently in love with her. He was then an exile from home for his vices, and was living in the city, without plan or object. His assumed name was Cowles, to prevent his friends from hearing of his pranks. Alice had been pleased with his manners, and received his attentions, in walking in the street, to hold an umbrella over her when caught in a shower, and to bow with a smile when she met him; to be at home when he called to see her; as far as a school miss can go, in a love matter, she had been; which is just no way at all. The word love never had entered her head; she was gratified in being noticed and admired, and felt grateful for his kindness and attentions in bringing her new books and music. But with the playful coquetry of a child, she had impressed the heart of Collins with a lasting devotion. She did not know how much he loved her. The principal of the school had always allowed his visits, until ascertaining the knowledge of his true character, and seeing some instances of his misdemeanor one night at the theatre, he was dismissed from the acquaintance of the ladies, and Alice thought no more of him.

Soon after, she returned home, and was continually persecuted with letters, which were returned unread. At last, he went to N——, and behaved like a madman; threatened to kill himself in the presence of her father and mother, and committed other extravagances, which would have subjected him to arrest, had he not left town. All these facts were never hinted to me, during my stay at N——. Probably they were forgotten, except by the parties more immediately interested.

No wonder some surprise was manifested at seeing myself and Collins ride into town together. Well, after I had left Collins, and departed for Albany, he by a bribe found out my object in going thither, and immediately followed me on the next day. With a mind already shattered by excess, and stimulated to insanity, he imagined himself the victim of treachery, and determined on consummate vengeance on both of us. The reader knows the rest. The wound I received nearly proved fatal. My father was summoned, perhaps to attend my funeral. Mr. Clair followed us, so soon as he got wind of our intended visit, to protect his daughter from two madmen, and arrived the day after the result. Alice was taken home with difficulty. Mr. Clair was inexorable. Some gratitude was expressed in a letter written to me by him after he heard of my recovery, for saving the life of his child.

'When you are older and more settled,' it said, 'in your views, if you ever are, I shall be glad to show you how much I am willing to forget, for the sake of your happiness and that of my child. You have perhaps unwittingly destroyed the peace of my family. You do not know the pain you have inflicted. Time must elapse. Your case is not hopeless. All depends upon yourself.'

My sister in a few days gave me a lock of black glossy hair, tied with a blue ribbon. It needed not to tell me where it came from. I have worn it next to my heart ever since that fatal morning. It is now placed before me, and tears course down my cheeks as I record this passage in my history, and look upon all that is left in this world of one who might have made this earth a heaven to any man, but one incapable of estimating the value, or rather incapable of profiting by the gift, of her affections.