Yours Truly,

Henry Russell.

ENGRAVED FOR THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.

THE
Knickerbocker,
OR

NEW-YORK MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

VOL. X.

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

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

[iii]

INDEX.

A.

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

B.

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

C.

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

D.

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

E.

• Editors’ Table, 87, 180,
  265, 353,
  450, 546
• Emblems. By W. G. Clark, 104
• Edward Fane’s Rosebud, 195
• Eyes and Lips, 225
• Editing and Other Matters, 233
• Exquisites, 317
• Example in High Places, 525
• Ernest Maltravers, 538

F.

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

G.

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

H.

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

J.

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

K.

• ‘Knickerbockeriana,’ 94
• Knickerbocker Hall, 184

L.

• Literary Notices, 68, 174,
  259, 348,
  447, 538
• Literary Record, 94, [184],
  368, 455,
  557
• Letters from Palmyra, 68
• ‘Live and Let Live,’ 86
• Love and Reason, 116
• Life of Bainbridge, 179
• Lay. By ‘Ione,’ 251
• Lockhart’s Scott, 259, 544
• Lines. By the Author of ‘Lacon,’ 300
• Launch of the Neptune, 356
• Landscape Gardening, 366
• Literature of the Great West, 366
• Lines in imitation of Burns, 386
• Lament of the Last of the Peaches, 446
• Lines to Rosalie, 479
• Life, 491
• Lay of the Madman, 516

[iv]

M.

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

N.

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

O.

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

P.

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

R.

• Religious Charlatanry, 20, 136
• Random Passages of Foreign Travel, 41, 147,
  240, 330,
  387, 527
• Reminiscence, [Stanzas. By G. B. Singleton] 301
• Retrospection. By H. Gates, Esq., 347
• Reply of Mr. S. Kirkham to Gould Brown, 358
• Rory O’More. By Lover, 545

S.

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

T.

• The Heiress, 11
• The Poet, 33
• The Blue-Bird of Spring, 60
• The Nobility of Nature, 97
• The Backwoods, 126
• [The Soul], 135
• The Waves. By G. Z. Adams, Esq., 161
• To the New Moon, 173
• The American Wild Rose, 194
• The Red Man, 224
• The Sea Rover, 239
• The Chief of His Tribe, 252
• The Drama, 268, 364,
  554
• The Birchen Canoe, 295
• The Foster-child, 301
• The Sea, 316
• Thaptopsis, 317
• ‘The Times,’ 329
• The Blighted Flower, 341
• ‘The Times that tried Men’s Soul’s,’ 356
• The Dead Husband, 407
• [The Dying Boy], 416
• The Token, for 1838, 447
• The Encaged Bird to His Mistress, 467
• [The Soul’s Trust. By G. P. T.], 468
• The Poor Relation, 491
• [To a Lock of Hair], 504
• The Coming of Winter, 526

V.

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

W.

• Who would be a Scholar?, 35
• Wilson Conworth, 51, 217,
  378, 504
• Wild Flowers, 84

Y.

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

THE KNICKERBOCKER.

[1]

AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.

NUMBER ONE.

Childe Harold.

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

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

Now that data are affixed to our brief historical period, and the
occurrences of yesterday, in comparison with the actual history of
our land, have settled down into a succession of well-known events,
it becomes us to look back into those of long-lost time, and to inquire
into the memorials of our country’s antiquity; to glance at what it
was, rather than what it is. Here the field opens into boundless
extent, and the mind becomes bewildered by the strange and diversified
objects which it presents. Unlike any other in the ‘world’s[2]
wide range,’ it is seen to be crowded with unique monumental relics,
such as men of modern date had little dreamed of. No where else
do the same curious and magnificent remnants of ancient art start
into view. Britain has her antiquities, but her archæologists find
them associated with a people to whom history had before introduced
them. They are furnished with keys by which to gain access
to the relics of by-gone times. The Druids and the Romans are
known to them; but who were they who raised the tumuli of western
America, or the Pyramids of Chollula and of Papantla? The antiquities
of Egypt, wonderful as they are, point with an index well
defined, to their origin; but who can decipher the hieroglyphics of
Tultica?—who read the buried monuments of Anahuac? Egypt
has her history told—if not distinctly upon her storied columns—in
language which we are little disposed to doubt. The tablets of
Rositta have revealed to inquiring antiquarians a flood of light; and
the secret volumes inscribed upon the huge and elaborate piles of
her arts, have suddenly opened to the wondering gaze their richly-stored
contents. They said, emphatically, ‘Let there be light, and
there was light!’ But no revelation has burst from the tombs of our
western valleys. No Champolion, Young, Rossellina, nor Wilkinson,
has preached the mysteries of Copan, Mitlan, or Palenque.
No! Thick darkness still hangs over the vast continent of America.
No voice answers to the anxious inquiry, ‘Who were the Tultiques?’
no lettered tablet is found to reveal the authors of the noble vestiges
of architecture and of sculpture at Mitlan, Papantla, Chollula,
Otumba, Oaxaca, Tlascala, Tescoca, Copan, or Palenque! The
veil of oblivion shrouds, and may perhaps for ever shroud, these
relics of an ancient and innumerable people in impenetrable obscurity.
The researches of Del Rio, Cabrera, Dupaix, Waldrick, Neibel,
Galinda, nor Corroy, are yet known to have developed the secrets of
the buried cities of Central America, though they have labored for
many years, ‘silent and alone,’ amid these massive fragments of ancient
greatness.

The train of reflections which springs from a review of these
magnificent specimens of skill, genius, and toil, is peculiarly exciting.
If, in the vast field of observation which this continent presents, there
is one subject that more than another claims attention—if there is
one which is calculated to inspire an American with admiration and
enthusiasm—it is the antiquities of his country. It may in truth be
said, that were we to pronounce what are the great and peculiar
charms of this ‘new world,’ we should say, at once, its antiquities—the
antiquities of its buried cities—its long-lost relics of a great and
ingenious people—the sublimity of ages that every where surrounds
us, and the strange associations which, rush upon the mind, as we[3]
view ourselves in connection with an unknown and extinct species
of men. Which way soever we turn our eyes, we behold the mighty
remnants of their arts, and the wide waste of their mental and physical
creations. We every where see the wonderful labors of those
who, in times long gone by, gloried in these stupendous achievements,
but whose might and inventions are told only in their far-spread
destruction; a people, in short, of whom history has not left a solitary
wreck behind! To describe the antique arts of such a people,
strewed as they are over United and Central America, or buried for
thousands of years beneath venerable forests, is a task which ages
only can accomplish. An approach to this, therefore, is all our most
ardent hopes can at present realize. Curiosity has indeed been
awakened by the little which has lately been brought to light. The
ambition of the learned has been excited, and the enthusiasm of the
antiquarian enkindled; yet these are but the things of yesterday.
The most industrious research, and the lapse of many years, are
required, to develope the hidden treasures of art with which our continent
abounds. For three hundred years have the most extraordinary
of these slept in Central America, among strangers from another,
not a newer world, as they had before slept for many thousands!
Even now, comparatively little is known of their character. Sufficient,
however, has recently been disclosed, to excite our wonder and
admiration. In truth, had we fallen upon a new planet, crowded
with strange memorials of a high order of genius, that for an indefinite
time had survived their unknown authors, we should not be
more amazed, than we are in gazing upon the anomalous relics of
American antiquity.

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

We have said that the subject of our antiquities has peculiar and
important claims upon every American; but that these claims have
been overlooked or disregarded. This will have appeared strikingly
obvious to those who, in Central or United America, have had the
satisfaction to examine the unique specimens of remote antiquity
which characterize our continent. While the homage of the world
has so long been paid to the monumental piles of transatlantic antiquity,
and while voyages and pilgrimages have been performed to
far distant quarters of the earth, to obtain a glance at oriental magnificence,
and the ruined arts of primitive nations, here we find ourselves
surrounded by those of a still more remarkable character. The wondrous
cities of Pompeii, Herculaneum, Elephanta, Thebes, and Petra,
are not more the subjects of just admiration than are those of our
own America. The former have acquired universal notoriety, from
the enthusiastic descriptions of numerous travellers, while the latter
are possessed of all the charms of novelty. The first are confined[4]
to well known localities, and are intimately connected with a distinctive
people, with dynasties, events, customs, and ceremonies, familiar
to all who are acquainted with antiquarian literature. In fact, they
tell their own stories, so that he who runs may read. Not so with
the antiquities of America. These stretch from the great lakes of
the north and west, to Central America, and the southern parts of
Peru, on the south; from the Alleghany Mountains, on the east,
throughout the great valleys, to the Rocky Mountains, on the west;
and from the Pacific ocean to the Atlantic, through all the wide
transverse central range of our continent. How immense this field
of observation, and how rich in objects of antiquarian research!
With what associations does the scene inspire us! Standing at any
point in this vast space, and looking back through the long lapse of
ages, a thousand thrilling emotions crowd upon us. If this spot,
perchance, be in the midst of the massive and almost illimitable
ruins of Palenque, who so insensible as not to be aroused by the
scene around him? Here, strewed in one indiscriminate mass, lie
the wrecks of unknown ages of toil and of mind. Here dwelt millions
of people, enjoying happiness more complete than that of any
other, since man made a part of creation. Surrounded by the most
luxuriant soil, the purest air, and, in fine, by every gift of nature
that ever blessed our earth—politically and socially constituted by
laws the most mild and effective that were ever devised—this city,
unsurpassed in magnitude by any other of the eastern continent,
may, in truth, be thought the great paradise of the western world.
But the reflections arising from a glance at this part of our subject,
though now seemingly irresistible, would follow, more appropriately,
perhaps, the description; and so it may be with those arising from
a view of the extraordinary relics of antiquity which every where
meet the eye in the great western valleys of United America.

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

Aside, however, from the associations which the subject of antiquities
generally excites, our own antique arts will be seen to have
peculiar and striking characteristics. They are not hackneyed, like
others, but come to us with all the freshness of romance. They are
singularly unique; and, what is not less important, they reveal to us
a hitherto unknown people, which, amid the world’s alarms, the
wars and revolutions that have destroyed a great proportion of the
human population, have quietly remained for thousands of years, if
not from the origin of man, on this continent. Of these strange
people, not a scrap of recorded truth is known to have been left us.
Not a traditionary story, nor a symbol, is yet brought to light, that
clearly tells us, as we have long anxiously hoped, of the manners[5]
and customs of this large division of our race. Their arts, it is true,
develope extraordinary facts, and, in the very language of the people,
reveal faint records of their character and origin; but to us
they are a sealed book; and so they must remain, until some bold
and gifted spirit, with untiring research, removes the veil. This
lack of historical evidence, however, does not add essentially to the
interest of this subject. It gives an additional spur to our inquiries;
it incites us to an examination of the only testimonials which yet
remain, of the numbers, character, and origin, of these lost nations.

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

The first step in our inquiries is marked by peculiar developments;[6]
and each successive remove will be seen to advance in
interest. The nature of the subject leads us first to investigate the
history of the ancient Tultiques, the most recently discovered, though
most remote, people of our continent. These are to be distinctly understood
as independent, and more ancient than the arts and the population
of Mexico. The half-buried cities, still extraordinary fabrics,
existing among the wide-spread piles of huge architectural fragments,
and the singular specimens of antique workmanship, to which our
attention is at the outset attracted, are found on the eastern portion of
Central America, and south of the Gulf of Mexico. Surprising as is
the fact, these remained unexplored by the Spanish conquerors, until
toward the close of the last century; or, if at all noticed, they excited
little attention or curiosity among the invaders previous to that time.
They were intent only on conquest and plunder; their minds were absorbed
in the treasures with which the newly-conquered country was
stored; and all inquiry was for the buried resources of nature, or
the acquired riches of the people. Gold dazzled their eyes, bewildered
their judgment, and inflamed their passions, at every point of
their unrighteous conquests. The swarms of desperate and adventurous
priests, battening on the spoils of victory, were only content
in the grossest luxuries, or in destroying, ‘for the sake of the holy
religion,’ every vestige of antiquity which fell in their way. The
manner in which this ‘holy zeal‘ was carried out, and to which we
shall hereafter allude, is revolting to reason, and sickening to
humanity.

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

From Vera Cruz, the first city they built in the reputed new world,
at the head of the Mexican Gulf, they pursued their triumphant
way around a south-easterly branch of the Cordillera Mountains,
directly to the great valley and city of Mexico. Hence the antiquities
spoken of were left far on their left. The subsequent conquest
of Peru, under Pizarro, led them still farther from these scenes of
ancient greatness. In the conquered territories themselves, crowded
as they were with magnificent specimens of primitive genius and
wealth, they may be supposed to have had a field sufficiently large,
and objects numerous and valuable enough, for their cupidity, while
the innumerable vassals—before, the proud and happy lords of the
finest country under heaven—afforded them ample scope for
robbery and tyranny. These ruins, then, being removed from the
first settlements of the Spanish, is one reason why they were not
made known to Europeans at an earlier date. The natives themselves,[7]
from a just reverence for the relics of their ancestors, and a
religious regard for the objects of their worship, withheld all intelligence
respecting them from their cruel tyrants, and the occupants
of their favored soil. At length, however, the facts in relation to
the Palenquan city were revealed by some Spaniards, who, having
penetrated into the dreary solitudes of a high and distant desert, discovered,
to their astonishment, that they were surrounded by the
remains of a once large and splendid city, the probable capital of
an unknown and immeasurably remote empire! These facts were
communicated by them to one of the governors of a neighboring
province, who, on ascertaining the truth of the representations from
the natives, wrote to his royal master, the king of Spain, to induce
him to command an exploration of these strange ruins.

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

Conformably to the information communicated by the Governor
of Guatemala, the King of Spain, in 1786, thirty years subsequent
to the discovery of the ruins, commissioned, under the direction of
that functionary, Don Antonio Del Rio, captain in his majesty’s
cavalry service in that province, to proceed with despatch, and the
requisite means, to the exploration of the great ruins of the city of
Ciudad del Palenque—signifying the city of the desert, called
Otulum, from the name of a river running near it, which we shall
hereafter notice—situated in the province of Ciudad Real Chiapa.[8]
This city was three hundred and thirty leagues, or one thousand
miles, distant from the city of Mexico, about two hundred and forty
miles from Tabasco, south of Vera Cruz, north-east of Guatemala,
and fifteen miles from the present town of St. Domingo Palenque.
It was situated on an elevated plain, now covered by an ancient and
umbrageous forest, extended for thirty miles along the plain, was
two miles wide at its terminating point, upward of sixty miles in circumference,
more than ten times larger than the city of New-York,
and contained a population of probably near three millions of inhabitants!

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

From Palenque, the last town northward in the province of Chiapa,
says Del Rio, taking a southerly course, and ascending a ridge
of high land that divides the kingdom of Guatemala from Yucatan
or Campeachy, at the distance of six miles, is the little river Micol,
the waters of which, flowing in an easterly direction, unite with the
great Tulija, bending toward Tobasco. After passing the Micol,
the ascent begins, and at one-and-a-half miles from them, the traveller
crosses another stream, called by the natives, ‘Otulum,’ which discharges
itself also into the Tulija. Immense heaps of ruins are[9]
here discovered, in every direction, which render the travelling very
difficult for nearly two miles! At length you gain the height on
which yet stand fourteen massive stone buildings, still indicating the
condition in which they were left by the people who, at some remote
age, dwelt within them. These, astonishing as it must seem, have
withstood the ravages of time for thousands of years; and now present
to the curious a character unlike that of any structures which
have come down to the present period of the world. Some are more
dilapidated than others; yet many of their apartments are in good
condition. It was impossible for the enthusiastic explorer to proceed
to an examination even of the exterior of these singular buildings,
until the thick and heavy forest trees, the piles of crumbling
fragments, and the superimposing earth, had been removed. Two
hundred men were therefore obtained among the natives, who, with
various implements, proceeded to the laborious work of removing the
many obstructions upon, and immediately surrounding, the remaining
buildings. All the means necessary to the execution of this
difficult part of the enterprise could not be made available. In
about twenty days, however, the task of felling the forest trees, and
of consuming them by fire, was accomplished. Some of these trees,
according to Waldrick, who has since distinctly counted their concentric
circles, were more than nine hundred years of age! The
workmen now breathed a freer air, and viewed the massive structures,
disencumbered of the dense foliage which had enveloped
them. From the summit of the mountain, forming a ridge to the
plain, these buildings were presented at its base, in a rectangular
area, three hundred yards in breadth, by four hundred and fifty in
length, in the centre of which, on a mound sixty feet in height, stood
the largest and most notable of these edifices. During a part of
the time employed in prosecuting the work, a thick fog pervaded
the plain. This may have arisen from the retention and condensation
of vaporous clouds in this region, more than five thousand feet
above the level of the sea. On the clearing away of the forest, however,
a pure atmosphere existed, and the venerable relics stood
boldly in view.

From the central temple, (for such it was,) was seen stupendous
heaps of stone fragments, as far as the eye could reach; the distance
to which they extended, being traversed, was more than eight
leagues! They stretched along the base of the mountain in a continuous
range. The other buildings, which so long resisted the
devastating influence of time, were seen upon high and spacious
mounds of earth, and all surrounding the principal teoculi, or temple,
above-mentioned. There were five to the north; four at the
south; three at the east, and one at the west; all built of hewn
stone, in the most durable style of architecture. The river Micol
winds around the base of the mountain, at this point of the ancient
city, and was here nearly two miles in width. Into this descend
small streams, which wash the foundations of the buildings. Were
it not for the forest, a view would here present itself, calculated to
excite the beholder with the profoundest emotions. Here and there
might be seen the crumbling remnants of civil, sacred, and military
works. Walls, columns, tablets, and curiously-sculptured blocks,[10]
fortifications, passes, dykes, viaducts, extensive excavations, and
subterranean passages, broke upon the sight in all directions. Even
now, the observer sees many of these specimens of art diversifying
the scene before him. The bas-reliefs and hieroglyphics fill him with
wonder and enthusiasm. The field of research and of speculation
seems, indeed, unbounded, which way soever he turns his eye.

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

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

AN ALBUM SONNET.

G. P. T.

[11]

THE HEIRESS.

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

L. E. L.

Rebecca.

[12]

FRANCIS MITFORD.

NUMBER TWO.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What an array! Three clergymen, two lords, sundry merchants
and gentlemen, indicted for a misdemeanor, subjecting them to the
discipline of the tread-mill! The usual forms were gone through;
the prisoners pleaded not guilty. What sane culprit ever does otherwise?[13]
Counsellor Phillips closes for the defence, urging the usual
clap-traps of ‘Liberty of British subjects,’ ‘violation of private
rights,’ etc. ‘Shall it be said, gentlemen,’ continued he, ‘that we
shall not transact what business, or enjoy what amusement, we please,
in our own houses, without being subject to the interference of the
armed myrmidons of the police? Gentlemen, it is the duty of every
citizen to resist such gross encroachments on his rights. For my
part, were my house assailed, I would do what I have no doubt you
would, defend my threshold to the last drop of my blood, and with a
pistol in one hand, and a dagger in the other, deal merited death to the
aggressors.’

The jury were wonderfully tickled. Verdict, ‘Not guilty!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[14]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Society, my dear colonel, will never suffer by the reformation[15]
rather than the punishment of a criminal. I am not one of those
who think myself specially commissioned to avenge the wrongs of
society. They who do, generally use the pretence as a cloak to their
own ill nature.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[16]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[17]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’ll seize his trunk!’ says the landlady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Desseins Mitford met the celebrated Brummel, whom he found,
in dress and manners, nothing more than a gentleman should be.
Oh, Bulwer! how could you travestie one of the most perfect gentlemen[18]
of modern times, by adopting, in ‘Pelham,’ that story of the
‘Ruelles?’—’Do you call that thing a coat?’ Brummel told Mitford
he intended to write a book, entitled ‘Characters in Calais,’ who
facetiously recommended him to prefix the substantive ‘bad’ to the
title, being most descriptive of the English society generally met
there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[19]

SUMMER EVENING.

WRITTEN AMONG THE BLUE-RIDGE MOUNTAINS.

BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE, D. D.

RELIGIOUS CHARLATANRY.

NUMBER ONE.

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

It is interesting as well as pleasant to suppose, that the actual experiment
of the different and successive modes, or developments,
of the divine economy of redemption, as they transpire in human
society, operates as a sifting of their qualities as excellent or otherwise;
and that the good gradually combine and become permanent,
while the faulty, by the same gradual process, become obsolete.[21]
Human frailties have ever found their way into Christian institutions,
and pervaded more or less all Christian enterprises; but the proof of
time invariably determines their character before the public, and
causes them to be severed from such connection—to be ejected from
such society—and consequently, to lose their influence, while that
which is excellent abides. Faults almost innumerable may be traced
in the history of the Church; but the candid reviewer, occupying
our present position, can separate the good from the bad. We are
more immediately concerned, however, to observe the character of
American Christianity—especially those parts of it which have been
most prominent and influential, and which have generated what may
be called the religious spirit of the age in our own quarter. It cannot
be denied, that there is something peculiar in American religion.
First, religion here has been uncommonly energetic. Next, it has
assumed some striking peculiarities in its modes of operation. There
has been a disposition to lay aside old forms, and to put on new ones;
to make experiments; and the business of experimenting has been
pushed so far as to bring the public mind to a pause. It may be
profitable, therefore, in the temporary and comparative quiet of this
hiatus, to interpose a little philosophical inquiry.

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

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

America was a better field for puritanism. It was a congenial soil.
And beyond all question, here it has earned an honorable distinction,
and won laurels. Though it believed in witches, and hung them, (poor[22]
creatures!) it believed in God as well as in the devil. Though it
banished Roger Williams, and interdicted the Quakers, it had this
good reason: ‘We came here to be by ourselves. Pray don’t disturb
us, when the land is so wide!’ They who had experienced intolerance,
might have some excuse for practising it—especially, as their
theory and purpose was to have a community adhering to one catechism.
They had taken and occupied vacant ground, (Indians are
not counted,) for the sake of peace; and they thought the best way
to maintain it, was to keep away dissentients from their opinions.
Nevertheless, dissentients came in, and disputes have prevailed.
But the spirit of the puritan fathers also prevailed. That spirit,
with certain modifications of time and chance, has pervaded New-England
society, and, to a great extent, our land. Like the Scotch,
who are never at home till they get abroad, the sons of New-England
have also been rather ‘curious.’ They have spread out to the north,
to the east, to the west, and to the far west, and sent school-masters, as
well as pedlars, to the south. They have subdued the wilderness in all
directions; they have built and peopled our great cities and flourishing
towns at the north and west; their bone and sinew have sustained our
agriculture; their enterprise built our manufactories; and their love of
gain has pushed our commerce to the ends of the earth. First in
religion, especially in the commendable quality of zeal, and first in
schools and colleges, they have been chief in influence throughout all
our borders. Alas for the Presbyterian church! (for their sakes we
say it,) the Congregationalism of New-England governs it. They
must emancipate themselves as best they can. It is not for us to say
which is the better of the two.

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

But how did this grow out of puritanism? Is it not rather an
abandonment of that high character? There may be a little, and
not a little, of truth in both. Puritanism was itself a novelty,
and novelty begets novelty. We do not mean that it never
had a type; but it was cast in an English mould—a mould
that was formed at a particular juncture of English history, by the
operation of special and peculiar agencies; and even on English[23]
ground, it could last in all its force only while the causes which produced
it continued to take effect, and just in that proportion, allowing,
indeed, a reasonable time for its natural subsidence. In America,
the causes did not exist, and the subsidence was unavoidable. It
was indeed a high and stern character, which would require a space
for its abatement into milder forms; but it was not in man to maintain
it without its original provocations.

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

But a transplantation beyond sea, in a wilderness, where all the
causes of its production and the modifying circumstances of its[24]
growth were wanting, did not indeed at once reduce and new-create
it; for it had been too long in coming to such a maturity, to forget
its former being; it had acquired too much vigor, to bend and
become supple, even by a round of years, in a new world—in a field
left to its own sole occupation, unsupported by the blasts and storms
of its native regions. But it was morally impossible that the second
generation in such circumstances should fully sustain the character
of their fathers. The second was naturally destined to soften down
yet more; the third to experience a farther modification; and so on,
till this character should necessarily, and to a great extent, be remodelled
by the altered circumstances of a new state of existence.
That certain of the primitive features, enough for ever to identify the
race, should remain, was as natural as that any should be effaced. And
here we are, the children of our puritan fathers. Who could mistake
us?

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

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

While, therefore, we proceed to unfold yet more distinctly and
minutely the religious blemishes of our national character, in their
origin and successive modifications, we are prepared to assert our
respect, and even our veneration, for the virtues of our ancestors.
They who brought religion, and planted and nourished it here, were
men of a high order. Nevertheless, it would be allowing more than
belongs to man, in any stage of his history, or to any set of men, to
write them down as perfect. We do conscientiously believe, that
the puritanism of England, and that portion of it which has so[25]
extensively leavened the religion of this country, was gravely faulty,
in some very essential and influential particulars. We believe,
moreover, that these faults have been, directly and indirectly, the
occasion of evil—of disaster to our religious history.

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

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

As to the arbitrations of good sense, it hardly need be said, at this
time, that there were many things in puritanism which could not
long be tolerated under such an appeal. Hence almost the entire
code of its more severe customs has long since become obsolete,
even in the land of the pilgrim fathers. So far as they have not
passed from memory, they are handed down, not as authority, but
simply as an amusing, and in regard to some things, an incredible,
tale. They who had rebelled against the established usages of society
once, might do it again. They who had made a code, might
amend it. Peculiar circumstances had formed the puritanical character
in the mother country; and there was no good reason why[26]
peculiar circumstances should not modify, or re-model it in this. The
authority of precedent in change was established.

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

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

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

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

[27]

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

DEATH OF ROB ROY.

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

I.

II.

III.

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

[29]

A TALE OF TIGHT BOOTS.

AN AUTHENTIC FRAGMENT FROM AN UNWRITTEN HISTORY.

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

The Incensed Cockney.

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

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

Rap—tap—tap!

‘Come in!’

‘A note, Sir.’

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

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

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

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

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

Having made my toilet, and put on my future tormentors, I set
out for the residence of my friend. The arrival, salutations,[30]
announcement of dinner, etc., are matters of course—so I let them
pass. In due time, I found myself walking into the salon de manger,
with Miss L—— on my arm. A moment more, and I was seated
at the table beside her. I did the duties that fell to me; said to my
companion every pretty thing I could think of; sent her plate for
some turkey; carved a chicken that stood before me, and offered
the wing to the lady opposite; drank wine with my hostess, and
procured some tongue for a lady on my left, who had no gentleman
to take care of her. By the way, I wish she had eaten her own,
considering the use she afterward made of it. In fine, my mind
was so completely occupied by the pleasures of my situation, the
few good things I said to my companion, and the many she said to
me, that I was unconscious of the curse that from the first had been
developing itself.

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

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

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

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

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

If the reader has any bowels of compassion, he is now hoping
that my troubles are over; that I shall go quietly home, take off the
offending boot, enclose my foot in an easy slipper, and then, in the
evening, with an old boot well polished, pay my respects to my[32]
mistress—explain all—receive her forgiveness, and be again
happy. Would it were so! But let me not anticipate.

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

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

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

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

And he did!

D.

THE POET.

Lamartine.

Philadelphia, 1837.J. S. D. S.

[35]

WHO WOULD BE A SCHOLAR?

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

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

‘Beggar envies beggar, and bard envies bard.’

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

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

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

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

[36]

‘Are not the dramas of Æschylus quite obscure and difficult?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘As to beauties,’ said he, ‘I wrote as well as I could, and aimed
at securing the attention and gratification of my auditors, and at
nothing more. But allow me to see what you regard as ‘my beauties.’
I then read to him one of those rich and masterly notes, in which
B—— has so finely brought out the hidden sense of the poet. He
thought a moment, and then, with a smile, replied: ‘Well, that is helping
me out finely! I am sure I never thought of such a construction
as possible, but it is very good.’ To my utter astonishment, he
treated several of those ingenious elucidations in the same manner.[37]
I then pointed him to one of the important conjectural emendations
of the text, as a specimen of modern scholarship. ‘What!’ said the
wondering dramatist, ‘you have mistaken: surely, this is not in my
writings; whose is it? I hardly see what the passage itself can
mean.’ I then showed him that it was a part of ‘Prometheus Vinctus.’
‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, ‘I now understand; you have copied it
wrong.’

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

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

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

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

Shall we be pronounced traitors to the cause of learning? Is it
the object of learning to be learned? Is it not rather to make man
a being of higher resources, and nobler action? We confess we are
giving utterance to thoughts which have forced themselves upon us,
when called to take a survey of the field of learning, to examine its
divisions, to become acquainted with its laborers, and to labor ourselves
upon its margin. If these thoughts should be derided as proceeding
from an indolent or even an ignorant view of the case, we
would reply, by asking two questions: First, Is there a limit to
study, of the members pursuing it, and the extent of its pursuit?
and, second, Where is that limit? Let it not be replied: ‘We should
fix no limit to the cultivation of the mind.’ We are speaking of
study, in its common acceptation, and in this acceptation we offer[38]
these questions. If this be a strange course of inquiry, is it an unreasonable
one?

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

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

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

‘And why do you wish to trace them?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[39]

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

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

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

The young man’s honest and heart-felt account of himself was
calculated to make one pause. Here was a high-toned and vigorous
mind wearing away its energies, and narrowing its scope of vision,
under the bondage of that public opinion respecting true learning,
which took its rise and its form in the cells of the monastery, where
the mind will seize upon any aliment rather than prey upon itself,
and expend itself upon trifles, because it is shut away from the great
realities of life. A mind which was made to display its energies in
the highest track of thought, and on the widest field of action, is imprisoned
to count its beads, and mutter its task, in the temple of
monastic lore. Public opinion must be subjected to frequent revision—let
us not be pronounced radical—or errors will cling to the
community, with the tendency of a mill-stone about the neck. An
error, hallowed by strong and widely-connected associations, is not[40]
easily exterminated. It passes on unharmed by those agitations
which overwhelm the errors of a lower grade and humbler origin;
and while the generation living in its shadow have never known the
light which it intercepts, they regard it as a part of the system of
things, and one of the conditions of their being. Thus has the high
regard which mankind accord to mental efforts, as distinguished from
physical, had the effect to hallow even the follies of intellect, and to
prolong the existence of those errors respecting the cultivation of the
mind, which lead us to regard it rather as a receptacle of hoarded
knowledge, than as a thing of active powers; to seek the acquisitions
of the scholar as valuable in themselves, rather than as giving scope
and expansion to the energies of a noble existence, and in the high
estimation which Education has properly imparted to the means of
education, to make that mistake which comprehends so many others;
to make the means the end.

JUNE.

H.

[41]

RANDOM PASSAGES

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

NUMBER THREE.

THE HIGHLANDS—PERTH, STIRLING, ETC.

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

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

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

After leaving Kinross, there is some fine scenery, particularly near[42]
Perth, where I arrived about half past two. It is a large and handsome
town, on the banks of the Tay. In my first walk through it, I
noticed, as rather singular, a number of ‘fair maids.’ There is one,
however, an inn-keeper’s daughter, who seems to bear the palm, and
is distinguished, I was told, par excellence, as ‘The Fair Maid of
Perth.’ I saw several vessels, coaches, etc., thus named; and yet I
could not find in the whole town a single copy of Scott’s novel!
Wandering down to the river, I saw a steam-boat just starting for
Dundee,[2] twenty-two miles’ sail on the beautiful river and Frith of
Tay, and the fare nine-pence! So, not being very particular in my
destination, I jumped on board, and was off in a trice, without my
dinner, which I had ordered at the hotel. The trip was very pleasant,
for it was a lovely day; and at six o’clock I dined in the best style,
on ‘three courses and a dessert,’ in a handsome parlor, at the Royal
Hotel, Dundee, for two shillings—the cheapest dinner and trip I
have had in his Majesty’s dominions. Dundee is a very large and
flourishing place, and carries on more trade and commerce than any
other town in Scotland, Glasgow perhaps excepted. It is admirably
situated, and has quite a city-like appearance. The docks would be
an honor to New-York. After dinner, I walked out to Broughty
Ferry, four miles, along the banks of the Frith, to call on Dr. Dick,
the author of the Christian Philosopher, and several other very able
and popular works. He has a little of the pedagogue in his appearance
and conversation, but seems to be a very plain, kind-hearted man.
He is very much interested in our country and its literature, and had
many questions to ask respecting his correspondents here. He thinks
we are far before Great Britain on the score of education; and says
that such a work as Burritt’s Astronomy would be quite too deep and
scientific to be used in schools there. Of course, he touched upon
slavery. He did not understand why the blacks should not be
admitted into society, and considered as equals in intellect with the
whites! In the little attic room, are a variety of scientific instruments,
such as telescopes, orreries, etc. Among the books were his
last one, ‘The Mental Illumination and Moral Improvement of
Mankind,’ English and American editions. After tea, it being ten
o’clock, and yet light enough in this northern latitude to read without
a candle, the doctor kindly escorted me nearly three miles on
my way back to Dundee.

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

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

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

‘My father feeds his flocks.’

Stirling, June 17, P. M.—The Abbey of Dunblane and the
battle-field of Sheriff-Muir were the only objects of interest during
the ride from Perth: and there is little to excite curiosity in the old
and irregular town of Stirling, except its noble castle, scarcely
second to that of Edinburgh in fame and importance. Entering the
esplanade, I happened to meet the commanding officer, who inquired
if I was a stranger, and politely escorted me to every part of the extensive
fortification. ‘In that room,’ said he, ‘James VI. was born;’[44]
this palace was built by James V., (the ‘Knight of Snowdon, James
Fitz James,’) who often travelled alone in various disguises, etc.
The views from the ramparts of the castle are very extensive, and
in many respects have been pronounced unrivalled. They reach
from Arthur’s Seat, on one side, to the highlands of Loch Katrine
and Loch Lomond on the other, a distance of sixty-five miles.
Eleven counties, comprising most of the places celebrated in Scottish
history, may be seen from these battlements. On the south, two
miles distant, is the memorable field of Bannockburn, where thirty
thousand Scotchmen under Bruce routed the English army of one
hundred thousand men, thirty thousand of whom were killed. During
the battle, when victory was yet doubtful, the boys (‘killies‘) who had
charge of the Scotch luggage, curious to know the result of the
contest, came with their carts to the top of the hill near by, and
the English, supposing them to be a fresh army, took fright and
scampered. So the place is called ‘Killies’ Hill,’ to this day.

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

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

Stewart’s Inn, Loch Achray, Friday Eve.—This has been a
most delightful day. It was a soft and brilliant morning, and we
walked eight miles before breakfast to the celebrated Pass of Leven,
one of the grandest in the highlands. Ben Ledi, ‘the Hill of God,’ (where
the natives are said to have worshipped the sun,) lifts its lofty summit
on one side, and at its base are two lovely little lakes, their glassy
surface reflecting clearly the splendid picture around.

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

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

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

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

And as Roderick continues, addressing the king:

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

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

[46]

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

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

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

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

[47]

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

‘Lifts high his forehead bare.’

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

‘Is it five English miles across the next pass?’

‘English miles, but a Scotch road.’

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

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

From Tarbet, we took a car and rode through the grand but
dreary pass of Glencroe, Ben Arthur frowning upon us for six miles,
and went round the head of Loch Long to Cairndow, on Loch Fine,
where we again took boat for Inverary, and had a charming moonlight
sail. This is a very neat and pretty little village, belonging
almost entirely to the Duke of Argyle. The houses are mostly
white, and evidently arranged for effect, being clearly reflected in the
quiet lake, like Isola Bella, in Italy. The duke’s castle, near the
village, is an elegant modern edifice, of blue granite, with a circular
tower at each corner. We had a ride through the extensive parks
[48]
and pleasure-grounds, which are filled with every variety of valuable
exotic trees. The owner of this fine estate has not been here for fifteen
years—no great argument for his grace’s good taste, or justice to
his tenants. Some of the most eminent British artists have found
ample employment for their pencils in this neighborhood. The loch
is celebrated for its fine herrings, which is the chief article of trade
of Inverary.

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

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

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

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

It is too far up the river for a seaport, so that Greenock is a sharer
in its prosperity. The buildings, like those of the new town of Edinburgh,
are nearly all of a handsome free-stone, which is found in
great abundance near the city, and is the cheapest as well as the
best material they can use. Loss by fire is especially rare. Some
of the private residences would do honor to the west end of London.[49]
The streets fronting the Clyde, on both sides, are very imposing, and
are connected by four handsome stone bridges, while the banks of
the river are substantially walled with granite, surmounted with iron
railings. There is a public park, pleasure-ground, and gymnasium,
near the river. The streets, particularly the Broadway of the town,
Trongate-street, were literally thronged, quite as much so as Cheap-side
and Fleet-street in the Metropolis. In this street I saw the
remaining tower of the Tolbooth, where Rob Roy conducted Frank,
and met Baillie Nichol Jarvie. From thence I walked up High-street
to the venerable University, of which Campbell, the poet, who
is a native of Glasgow, was lately principal.[4] The structure is very
antique, and encloses three squares. I passed through college after
college, looking as learned as possible, and graduated in the ‘green,’
where Frank Osbaldistone encountered Rashleigh. Farther up
the street, I arrived at the old cathedral, one of the largest in
Britain. It is now divided into three churches for Presbyterians.
The pillars which support the great tower are immense. I measured
my umbrella twice on one side of a single square pillar. The
crypt (basement) where Frank Osbaldistone attended church, and
was warned by Rob Roy, extends the whole length of the cathedral,
and is the most curious part of it. In the grave-yard I noticed
monuments to John and McGavin, author of the Protestant.

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

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

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

SONNETS: BY ‘QUINCE.’

ADVERSITY.

AGES.

ANGELS.

[51]

WILSON CONWORTH.

CHAPTER XII.

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

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

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

With these few silent, voiceless friends, I took up my residence in the
village of N——, a village of New-England. The pleasantness of
the situation determined my location, for the advantages of study can
be had in any place. There was a quiet air about this village, which[52]
enchanted me. It lay several miles from any other, on the banks of
a river, upon a table-land. One long street extended through it, in
a straight line. This street was very wide. The houses were not
crowded upon the dusty path, but placed several rods back, with a
green lawn in front, and painted white. It did not look like a business
place—this was another good point—but it seemed like the residence
of old and respectable families. There was fine scenery about
it, too; high hills, and deep valleys, watered by swift and clear brooks.
There was, and is, and ever will be, an air of easy comfort about
this place, to strike strangers and foreigners. There is wealth without
ostentation; hospitality without the appearance of obligation;
and kindness and benevolence, ever to be remembered. Virtue is
natural to a refined mind.

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

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

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

[53]

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

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

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

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

I soon found myself, in the society of this village, visiting every[54]
day. I could not withstand the temptation. It was all novelty.
Such fine healthy countenances, open air, engaging conversation,
offered in every house, that from law I turned to love. Blessed
exchange!—from baron and femme, and contingent remainders, to
ponder over the unwritten poetry of beauty, and the silver-tongued
voices of young, imaginative maids, who treat you as if you were
their brother, the moment their parents show, by their deportment,
that they have confidence that you are a gentleman.

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

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

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

The first time I ever saw her, was one evening when I called at
her father’s. In the movement that followed my entrance into the
room, her hair by accident or design fell and enveloped her whole bust.
Her dark eyes gleamed through its folds, and all her striking charms
were the more enhanced, when half concealed by such rich drapery.[55]
I was taken by surprise. I had never seen such a woman. She reminded
me of something I had read of in eastern tales—houris of
paradise—something very lovely, and passionate, and devoted.

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

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

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

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

I had hardly become acquainted with her, when she suddenly
left the village for an absence of three months. I cannot describe
the pain I underwent during that time. I could not study or read,
even novels. She promised to correspond with me, and all I did was
to write letters to her. I wrote every day, and at night threw them
into the fire. They did not suit me. Sometimes they were too warm.
What I had written in the morning, seemed a different thing in the
afternoon. I was now angry, now penitent, and in that conflicting[56]
state of mind which lovers, particularly young ones, know so well; and
which I will venture to say they all agree is the most unenviable state
of feeling in the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parents do not know the minds of their children, or the effects of[57]
their reading. Not knowing their books, how can they judge?
Children are always reserved before their parents; and as a general
remark, applicable to children, we may say, that parents know less of
their own children than they do of their neighbors’. They, good
easy souls! suppose all is right. Like geese, who hide their heads,
and think (if geese do think) their bodies are safe, so parents shut
their eyes, and hope for the best. ‘Well,’ they say, ‘we can’t tell
what is to become of him,’ looking at the child some one is praising
to his face; ‘he may make a man: heaven, I hope, will take care of
him.’ And so this pious, conscientious father attends to his business,
and the child is left to the chance of being ruined.

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

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

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

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

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

When Alice Clair first confessed her love for me, it was with
weeping, and an excess of emotion, which alarmed me. Her whole
frame was shaken, as if by an ague. I had endeavored, for a long
time, to wring the secret from her. I wished her to say the words,
‘I do love you!‘ I wished her promise. I now can easily see her
hesitation. She knew me better than I did myself. She saw I was
capable of any thing, and yet insensible to every thing, but pleasure.[58]
She was ambitious. She wished her lover—her serious and true
lover—the man she expected to marry—to possess strength. Perhaps
she felt her own weakness, and saw her need of some strong
staff to lean upon. She saw that I had not much determination
in any course that interfered with my pleasure. Hence her unwillingness
to acknowledge me as her lover, to the world. She
wished to keep me in her chains—to hold me from others—and,
although she loved me, I am convinced, still at times there was a taint
of coquetry in her manner to me in public, that made me appear
ridiculous. I could not, would not, bear this, and I determined to
offer myself to her, and in case of refusal to go—I knew not
where.

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

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

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

After this, her manner changed toward me entirely. There was
no reserve. She pointed out my faults; she endeavored to excite me[59]
to honorable exertion. Often has she ran away from me, to force
me to go and study; and if, when I returned, I bore the marks of
mental fatigue, how happy it used to make her! She was aware that
I might rise to respectability in my profession; but she did not know
the cruel negligence of my early life; she did not know the long-riveted
habits of idleness I had indulged; she did not know how
hopeless and blank my prospects really were.

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

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

I can hardly believe that she yielded as implicitly to these illusions
as I did. I had got myself worked up into a perfect madman;
and though at times I knew how false and fleeting were all these
plans, yet in her presence, and after talking upon such subjects, my
imagination took the reins of my reason, and I made these fanciful
excursions with sincerity, and took a pleasure in the anticipation
more than equal, I am convinced, to any they could have afforded in
reality. I do not think she felt with me here. As I remember her,
with her strong sense, her conception of the ridiculous, and exaggeration
in others, her keen wit and cutting sarcasm, it seems impossible
that she should. Nevertheless, every one is conscious of
strange inconsistencies of feeling. A scene strikes us to-day with
awe and pathetic effect, which to-morrow we pass coldly by. Every
thing depends upon the state of the nervous temperament, the attending
circumstances, our previous reading, the chain of events.
And by the way, this is the chief use of philosophy, that it enables
us to look at every thing with an investigating eye, and never to
yield to impulse. The mind is taken up in sound reflection, and it
has no time to lose itself in the mazes of the imagination. Age, necessity,
torpor of the blood, experience, produce the same effects;[60]
while youth, and romantic ardor, and the poetical parts of life, run
wild, solely from a want of habits of reflection.

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

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

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

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

THE BLUE BIRD.

G. H.

[61]

DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE.

Bulwer.

Charlotte Cushman.

[62]

COMFORT MAKEPEACE.

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

‘A man severe he was, and stern to view.’—Goldsmith.

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

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

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

[63]

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

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

Eleven children—six sons and five daughters—blessed the union
of Comfort and Faithful Makepeace, and the expressive appellations
which they received, denoted well the vocabulary from which the
names were selected. Comfort, junior, Ezekiel, Hezekiah, Micah,
Habakkuk, and Preserved, told the males of the family, and those
of the other sex were distinguished by names of equal import;
Patience, Hope, Faith, Peace, and Charity. One after another, in
regular succession, they grew up, and with the labor of older days
sought to repay the care expended in their training. Their parents
had entailed upon them no feeble constitutions, and the rigid rules
by which they were reared, permitted of no such fashion of dress as
should endanger the proper harmony of the system. Though a connoisseur
might have applied to the features of the girls some more
expressive epithet than that of mere plainness, they boasted of ruddy
cheeks, and sparkling eyes, and healthful forms, that many a pale-looking
belle might have envied. Comfort had little faith in the
teachings of later sages, who waged war with the precepts of Solomon,
and he felt no inclination to spoil the child by spare use of the
correcting rod. Many a puritanical principle, that illy accorded with
the free spirit of childhood, was drummed into the characters of his
progeny; and the same effective engine was often put in requisition
to check them from the commission of some worldly action. One[64]
could not look upon that staid household, from the iron-framed father
down to the little tottering urchin who, ex-officio, as youngest,
claimed all the privileges of pet, without comprehending at a glance
the grave and rigid creed by which its concerns were regulated.

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

There was probably no point in his creed, upon which Comfort
insisted with more stubborn zeal, than that which poised the lance
against amusements. I have said that he was seldom seen to smile,
and never to indulge in a laugh outright. Every thing that was not
included in the stern duties laid down in his laws of morality, was
deemed frivolous and worldly, and meet to be discountenanced by all
straight-walking servants of the Lord. Of course, the ebullitions of
wit or humor were too strongly tinctured with the same unsaintly
character, to find favor in his eyes. The theatre was a sink of pollution,
and its extirpation he deemed an object worthy the prayers of
every good man; and as for the drama—if perchance it was alluded
to—he was wont to term it the distilled product of the devil’s brain.
But of all, most resolutely had Comfort set his face against dancing.
It is doubtful if he esteemed the worship of the crucifix itself, or any
other heathenish form of prelatical reverence, a more decided sin
than the practice of promiscuous dancing. Despite his reverence
for his puritan ancestry, Comfort was apt to be in many things a
little peculiar, and in nothing more so than in his manner of reasoning.
All representations of witches and goblins, he said, were agreed in[65]
their frisking and dancing; and it was certainly a mild expression to
say, that no good might arise from an exercise in which the imps of
deviltry were, from their very nature, accustomed to indulge. But I
will not attempt to follow the worthy old man through all the reasonings
of the prolix discourse which he used so often to rehearse
against the utter abomination of promiscuous dancing.

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

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

But there were symptoms of falling off within the very household
of the faithful, that still more afflicted the worthy puritan. In face
of the solemn precepts that had been inculcated in long and frequent
lectures, his own children gave indications of imbibing the dangerous
sentiments which were abroad in the land. They were remiss in the
performance of their duties, and had even advanced to the commission[66]
of deeds absolutely worldly. I have mentioned the conscientious
scruples of the old man on the subject of dancing. Comfort
had been accustomed to consider it as the quintessence of wickedness.
What then was his surprise, when three of his sons, in a single
breath, demanded of him his consent to their attendance upon
a new-comer in the village, who promised to instruct its youth in
the very art which he had so often had occasion to pronounce an
utter abomination! Comfort could scarce trust the evidence of
his senses, until two daughters appeared, and joined in the earnest
petition. He then clasped his hands, and sank back with a groan of
intense agony, as if yielding up his spirit. His children were
alarmed at the strength of his emotion; and though they could not
give over entirely the project which had produced it, the subject
was not soon again mentioned in his presence. But exhortations,
made with all the sincerity and fervor of a Luther or a Knox, were
not sufficient to restrain his progeny within the rigid bounds which
he had established. He had not been entirely mistaken in his forebodings
of the worldliness with which the temper and habits of his
wife would taint the education of his children. The five daughters
grew up comely and fair to look upon, and less than maternal feeling
would have prompted to pride in their healthful forms and handsome
features. Nor was it womanly to hold to faith in the maxim,
that beauty unadorned is most adorned. The father had often occasion
to sigh over some newly-bought finery, with which the Sunday
dresses of the daughters would be set off; and there were not unfrequently
other decided indications of vanity and fondness for show,
meet for earnest exhortation and reproof. It were an endless task
to follow through half the mortifications which Comfort experienced,
from the turn which affairs were taking throughout the land.

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

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

W. A. B.

[67]

MY MOTHER’S GRAVE.

Epitaph in a Country Church-Yard.

X.

[68]

LITERARY NOTICES.

Letters of Lucius M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his Friend Marcus Curtius, at Rome.
Now first Translated and Published. In two volumes, 12mo. pp. 498. New-York:
C. S. Francis. Boston: Joseph H. Francis.

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

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

“I am just returned from a singular adventure. My hand trembles as I write. I had
laid down my pen, and gone forth upon my Arab, accompanied by Milo, to refresh and
invigorate my frame after our late carousal—shall I term it?—at the palace. I
took my way, as I often do, to the Long Portico, that I might again look upon its
faultless beauty, and watch the changing crowds. Turning from that, I then amused
my vacant mind by posting myself where I could overlook, as if I were indeed the
builder or superintendent, the laborers upon the column of Aurelian. I became at length
particularly interested in the efforts of a huge elephant, who was employed in dragging
up to the foundations of the column, so that they might be fastened to machines, to be
then hoisted to their place, enormous blocks of marble. He was a noble animal, and,
as it seemed to me, of far more than common size and strength. Yet did not his utmost
endeavor appear to satisfy the demands of those who drove him, and who plied without
mercy the barbed scourges which they bore. His temper at length gave way. He
was chained to a mass of rock, which it was evidently beyond his power to move. It
required the united strength of two, at least. But this was nothing to his inhuman
masters. They ceased not to urge him with cries and blows. One of them, at length,
transported by that insane fury which seizes the vulgar when their will is not done by the[69]
brute creation, laid hold upon a long lance, terminated with a sharp iron goad, long as my
sword, and rushing upon the beast, drove it into his hinder part. At that very moment, the
chariot of the Queen, containing Zenobia herself, Julia, and the other princesses, came
suddenly against the column, on its way to the palace. I made every possible sign to
the charioteer to turn and fly. But it was too late. The infuriated monster snapped the
chains that held him to the stone at a single bound, as the iron entered him, and
trampling to death one of his drivers, dashed forward to wreak his vengeance upon the
first object that should come in his way. That, to the universal terror and distraction
of the gathered, but now scattered and flying crowds, was the chariot of the Queen. Her
mounted guards, at the first onset of the maddened animal, put spurs to their horses,
and by quick leaps escaped. The horses attached to the chariot, springing forward to
do the same, urged by the lash of the charioteer, were met by the elephant with straightened
trunk and tail, who, in the twinkling of an eye, wreathed his proboscis around the
neck of the first he encountered, and wrenching him from his harness, whirled him aloft,
and dashed him to the ground. This I saw was the moment to save the life of the
Queen, if it was indeed to be saved. Snatching from a flying soldier his long spear,
and knowing well the temper of my horse, I put him to his speed, and running upon
the monster as he disengaged his trunk from the crushed and dying Arabian for a new
assault, I drove it with unerring aim into his eye, and through that opening on into the
brain. He fell as if a bolt from heaven had struck him. The terrified and struggling
horses of the chariot were secured by the now returning crowds, and the Queen with
the princesses relieved from the peril which was so imminent, and had blanched with terror
every cheek but Zenobia’s. She had stood the while—I was told—there being no
exertion which she could make—watching with eager and intense gaze my movements,
upon which she felt that their safety, perhaps their lives, depended.

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

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

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

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

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

“I need not, as I cannot, describe our meeting. It was the meeting of brothers—yet,
of strangers, and a confusion of wonder, curiosity, vague expectation, and doubt,
possessed the soul of each. I trust and believe, that notwithstanding the different
political bias which sways each, the ancient ties which bound us together as brothers will
again unite us. The countenance of Calpurnius, though dark and almost stern in its
general expression, yet unbends and relaxes frequently and suddenly, in a manner that
impresses you forcibly with an inward humanity as the presiding though often concealed
quality of his nature. I can trace faintly the features which have been stamped upon
my memory—and the form too—chiefly by the recollected scene of that bright morning,
when he with our elder brother and venerable parent, gave us each a last embrace,
as they started for the tents of Valerian. A warmer climate has deepened the olive of
his complexion, and at the same time added brilliancy to an eye, by nature soft as a
woman’s. His Persian dress increases greatly the effect of his rare beauty, yet I heartily
wish it off, as it contributes more, I believe, than the lapse of so many years, to separate
us. He will not seem and feel as a brother, till he returns to the costume of his native land.
How great this power of mere dress is upon our affections and our regard, you can
yourself bear witness, when those who parted from you to travel in foreign countries
have returned metamorphosed into Greeks, Egyptians, or Persians, according to the[70]
fashions that have struck their foolish fancies. The assumed and foreign air: chills
the untravelled heart as it greets them. They are no longer the same. However
the reason may strive to overcome what seems the mere prejudice of a wayward nature,
we strive in vain: nature will be uppermost—and many, many times have I
seen the former friendships break away and perish.

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

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

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

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

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

“‘We are all bound to you,’ said Fausta, ‘more than words or money pay.’

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

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

“‘One word, if it please you,’ said Isaac, ‘before I depart. The gentile despises
the Jew. He charges upon him usury and extortion. He accuses him of avarice.
He believes him to subsist upon the very life-blood of whomsoever he can draw into his
meshes. I have known those who have firm faith that the Jew feeds but upon the
flesh and blood of Pagan and Christian infants, whom, by necromantic power, he beguiles
from their homes. He is held as the common enemy of man—a universal
robber—whom all are bound to hate and oppress. Reward me now with your belief,
better than even the two gold talents I have earned, that all are not such. This
is the charity, and all that I would beg; and I beg it of you—for that I love you
all, and would have your esteem. Believe that in the Jew there is a heart of flesh
as well as in a dog. Believe that some noble ambition visits his mind as well as yours.
Credit it not—it is against nature—that any tribe of man is what you make the Jew.
Look upon me, and behold the emblem of my tribe. What do you see? A man bent
with years and toil—this ragged tunic his richest garb—his face worn with the storms
of all climates—a wanderer over the earth; my home—Piso, thou hast seen it—a
single room, with my good dromedary’s furniture for my bed at night, and my seat by
day; this pack—my only apparent wealth. Yet here have I now received two gold talents
of Jerusalem!—what most would say were wealth enough, and this is not the tythe
of that which I possess. What then? Is it for that I love obscurity, slavery, and a
beggar’s raiment, that I live and labor thus, when my wealth would raise me to a
prince’s state? Or is it that I love to sit and count my hoarded gains? Good friends,
for such you are, believe it not. You have found me faithful and true to my engagements;
believe my word also. You have heard of Jerusalem, once the chief city
of the East, where stood the great temple of our faith, and which was the very heart of
our nation, and you know how it was beleaguered by the Romans, and its very foundations
rooted up, and her inhabitants driven abroad as outcasts, to wander over the face
of the earth, with every where a country, but no where a home. And does the Jew,
think you, sit down quietly under these wrongs? Trajan’s reign may answer that. Is
there no patriotism yet alive in the bosom of a Jew? Will every other toil and die for
his country, and not the Jew? Believe me again, the prayers which go up morning,
noon, and night, for the restoration of Jerusalem, are not fewer than those which go up
for Rome or Palmyra. And their deeds are not less—for every prayer there are two
acts. It is for Jerusalem, that you behold me thus in rags, and yet rich. It is for her
glory, that I am the servant of all, and the scorn of all; that I am now pinched by the
winters of Byzantium, now scorched by the heats of Asia, and buried beneath the
sands of the desert. All that I have and am is for Jerusalem. And in telling you of[71]
myself, I have told you of my tribe. What we do and are, is not for ourselves, but for
our country. Friends, the hour of redemption draweth nigh!'”

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

“I did not wonder at his amazement, for I myself shared it, though I had seen her so
often. The object that approached us, truly seemed rather a moving blaze of light than
an armed woman, which the eye and the reason declared it to be, with such gorgeous
magnificence was she arrayed. The whole art of the armorer had been exhausted in her
appointments. The caparison of her steed, sheathed with burnished gold, and thick
studded with precious stones of every various hue, reflected an almost intolerable splendor,
as the rays of a hot morning sun fell upon it. She too, herself, being clothed in
armor of polished steel, whose own fiëry brightness was doubled by the diamonds—that
was the only jewel she wore—sown with profusion all over its more prominent
parts, could be gazed upon scarcely with more ease than the sun himself, whose beams[72]
were given back from it with undiminished glory. In her right hand, she held the long,
slender lance of the cavalry; over her shoulders hung a quiver, well loaded with arrows;
while at her side depended a heavy Damascus blade. Her head was surmounted
by a steel helmet, which left her face wholly uncovered, and showed her forehead like
Fausta’s, shaded by the dark hair, which, while it was the only circumstance that revealed
the woman, added to the effect of a countenance unequalled for marvellous union
of feminine beauty, queenly dignity, and masculine power. Sometimes it has been her
usage, upon such occasions, to appear with arms bare, and gloved hands; they were now
cased, like the rest of the body, in plates of steel.

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

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

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

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

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

“We returned to the city, and from the highest part of the walls, watched the departing
glories of the most magnificent military array I had ever beheld. It was long after
noon, before the last of the train of loaded elephants sank below the horizon. I have
seen larger armies upon the Danube, and in Gaul. But never have I seen one that in
all its appointments presented so imposing a spectacle. This was partly owing to the
greater proportion of cavalry, and to the admixture of the long lines of elephants, with
their burdens, their towers, and litters—but more, perhaps, to the perfectness with which
each individual, be he on horse or foot, be he servant, slave, or master, is furnished,[73]
respecting both arms, armor, and apparel. Julia beheld it, if with sorrow, with pride
also.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Zenobia is again destined to defeat, and soon after writes from Emesa: ‘Our
cavalry were at first victorious, as before at Antioch. The Roman horse were
routed. But the infantry of Aurelian, in number greatly superior to ours, falling
upon our ranks when deprived of the support of the cavalry, obtained an easy victory;
while their horse, rallying and increased by rëinforcements from Antioch,[74]
drove us in turn at all points, penetrating even to our camp, and completed the disaster
of the day. I have now no power with which to cope with Aurelian. It remains
but to retreat upon Palmyra, there placing our reliance upon the strength of our walls,
and upon our Armenian, Saracen, and Persian allies. I do not despair, although the
favor of the gods seems withdrawn.’

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

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

“I fly to the walls.

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

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

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

“With what an agony of expectation, while this scene was passing, did I await the
appearance of Fausta, and Gracchus, and Calpurnius—if, indeed, I were destined ever
to see them again. I waited long, and with pain, but the gods be praised, not in vain,
nor to meet with disappointment only. Not far in the rear of Zenobia, at the head of
a squadron of cavalry, rode, as my eye distinctly informed me, those whom I sought.
No sooner did they in turn approach the gates, than almost the same welcome that had
been lavished upon Zenobia, was repeated for Fausta, Gracchus, and Calpurnius. The
names of Calpurnius and Fausta—of Calpurnius, as he who had saved the army at
Antioch, of Fausta as the intrepid and fast friend of the Queen, were especially heard
from a thousand lips, joined with every title of honor. My voice was not wanting in[75]
the loud acclaim. It reached the ears of Fausta, who, starting and looking upward,
caught my eye just as she passed beneath the arch of the vast gateway. I then
descended from my tower of observation, and joined the crowds who thronged the close
ranks, as they filed along the streets of the city. I pressed upon the steps of my
friends, never being able to keep my eyes from the forms of those I loved so well, whom
I had so feared to lose, and so rejoiced to behold returned alive and unhurt.

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

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

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

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

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

[76]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[77]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I took him from the horse as he desired.

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

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

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

[78]

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

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

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

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

“As we came forth upon the battlements of the tower, not a doubt remained that
it was indeed the Romans pouring in again like a flood upon the plains of the now devoted
city. Far as the eye could reach to the west, clouds of dust indicated the line of
the Roman march, while the van was already within a mile of the very gates. The
roads leading to the capital, in every direction, seemed covered with those, who, at the[79]
last moment, ere the gates were shut, had fled and were flying to escape the impending
desolation. All bore the appearance of a city taken by surprise and utterly unprepared—as
we doubted not was the case from what we had observed of its actual state, and from
the suddenness of Aurelian’s return and approach.”

---

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

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

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

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

“For more than a mile before we reached the gates, the roads, and the fields on
either hand, were strewed with the bodies of those who, in their attempts to escape, had
been overtaken by the enemy and slain. Many a group of bodies did we notice, evidently
those of a family, the parents and the children, who, hoping to reach in company some
place of security, had all—and without resistance apparently—fallen a sacrifice to
the relentless fury of their pursuers. Immediately in the vicinity of the walls and
under them, the earth was concealed from the eye by the multitudes of the slain, and
all objects were stained with the one hue of blood. Upon passing the gates and entering
within those walls which I had been accustomed to regard as embracing in their
wide and graceful sweep, the most beautiful city of the world, my eye met naught but
black and smoking ruins, fallen houses and temples, the streets choked with piles of
still blazing timbers and the half-burned bodies of the dead. As I penetrated farther
into the heart of the city, and to its better built and more spacious quarters, I found the
destruction to be less—that the principal streets were standing, and many of the more
distinguished structures. But every where—in the streets—upon the porticos of
private and public dwellings—upon the steps and within the very walls of the temples
of every faith—in all places, the most sacred as well as the most common, lay the
mangled carcasses of the wretched inhabitants. None, apparently, had been spared.
The aged were there, with their bald or silvered heads—little children and infants—women,
the young, the beautiful, the good—all were there, slaughtered in every imaginable
way, and presenting to the eye spectacles of horror and of grief enough to break
the heart and craze the brain. For one could not but go back to the day and the hour
when they died, and suffer with these innocent thousands, a part of what they suffered
when the gates of the city giving way, the infuriated soldiery poured in, and with death
written in their faces and clamoring on their tongues, their quiet houses were invaded,
and resisting or unresisting, they all fell together beneath the murderous knives of the
savage foe. What shrieks then rent and filled the air—what prayers of agony went
up to the gods for life to those whose ears on mercy’s side were adders’—what
piercing supplications that life might be taken and honor spared. The apartments of[80]
the rich and the noble presented the most harrowing spectacles, where the inmates,
delicately nurtured and knowing of danger, evil, and wrong only by name and report,
had first endured all that nature most abhors, and then there where their souls had
died, were slain by their brutal violators with every circumstance of most demoniac
cruelty. Happy for those who, like Gracchus, foresaw the tempest and fled. These
calamities have fallen chiefly upon the adherents of Antiochus; but among them, alas!
were some of the noblest and most honored families of the capital. Their bodies now
lie blackened and bloated upon their door-stones—their own halls have become their
tombs.”

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

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

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

“But why do I detain you with these things, when it is of one only that you wish to
hear. I cannot tell you with what impatience I waited for that part of the procession
to approach where were Zenobia and Julia. I thought its line would stretch on for ever.
And it was the ninth hour before the alternate shouts and deep silence of the multitudes
announced that the conqueror was drawing near the capitol. As the first shout arose,
I turned toward the quarter whence it came, and beheld, not Aurelian as I expected,
but the Gallic Emperor Tetricus—yet slave of his army and of Victoria—accompanied
by the prince his son, and followed by other illustrious captives from Gaul. All
eyes were turned with pity upon him, and with indignation too that Aurelian should
thus treat a Roman and once—a Senator. But sympathy for him was instantly lost
in a stronger feeling of the same kind for Zenobia, who came immediately after. You
can imagine, Fausta, better than I describe them, my sensations, when I saw our beloved
friend—her whom I had seen treated never otherwise than as a sovereign
Queen, and with all the imposing pomp of the Persian ceremonial—now on foot, and
exposed to the rude gaze of the Roman populace—toiling beneath the rays of a hot sun,
and the weight of jewels, such as both for richness and beauty, were never before seen
in Rome—and of chains of gold, which first passing around her neck and arms, were
then borne up by attendant slaves. I could have wept to see her so—yes and did. My
impulse was to break through the crowd and support her almost fainting form—but I[81]
well knew that my life would answer for the rashness on the spot. I could only, therefore,
like the rest, wonder and gaze. And never did she seem to me, not even in the
midst of her own court, to blaze forth with such transcendant beauty—yet touched
with grief. Her look was not that of dejection—of one who was broken and crushed by
misfortune—there was no blush of shame. It was rather one of profound, heart-breaking
melancholy. Her full eyes looked as if privacy only was wanted for them to overflow
with floods of tears. But they fell not. Her gaze was fixed on vacancy, or else cast toward
the ground. She seemed like one unobservant of all around her, and buried in thoughts to
which all else were strangers, and had nothing in common with. They were in Palmyra,
and with her slaughtered multitudes. Yet though she wept not, others did; and one could
see all along, wherever she moved, the Roman hardness yielding to pity, and melting
down before the all-subduing presence of this wonderful woman. The most touching
phrases of compassion fell constantly upon my ear. And ever and anon as in the road
there would happen some rough or damp place, the kind souls would throw down
upon it whatever of their garments they could quickest divest themselves of, that those
feet little used to such encounters, might receive no harm. And as when other parts of
the procession were passing by, shouts of triumph and vulgar joy frequently arose from
the motley crowds, yet when Zenobia appeared, a death-like silence prevailed, or it was
interrupted only by exclamations of admiration or pity, or of indignation at Aurelian for
so using her. But this happened not long. For when the Emperor’s pride had been
sufficiently gratified, and just there where he came over against the steps of the capitol,
he himself, crowned as he was with the diadem of universal empire, descended from
his chariot, and unlocking the chains of gold that bound the limbs of the Queen, led
and placed her in her own chariot—that chariot in which she had hoped herself to
enter Rome in triumph—between Julia and Livia. Upon this the air was rent with the
grateful acclamations of the countless multitudes. The Queen’s countenance brightened
for a moment, as if with the expressive sentiment, ‘The gods bless you!’ and was
then buried in the folds of her robe. And when, after the lapse of many minutes, it
was again raised and turned toward the people, every one might see that tears burning
hot had coursed her cheeks, and relieved a heart which else might well have burst with
its restrained emotion. Soon as the chariot which held her had disappeared upon the
other side of the capitol, I extricated myself from the crowd, and returned home. It
was not till the shades of evening had fallen, that the last of the procession had passed
the front of the capitol, and the Emperor reposed within the walls of his palace. The
evening was devoted to the shows of the theatres.”

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

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

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

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

[82]

National Standard of Costume.—A Lecture on the Changes of Fashion. Delivered
before the Portsmouth (N. H.) Lyceum, By Charles W. Brewster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Paris is the fantastical seat of the fashions. The models there formed are followed
in England, where they are sometimes improved upon—and are transferred,
as regularly as articles of merchandise, across the Atlantic. From the principal
cities, plates of the latest fashions, regulated by those prevailing in the foreign[83]
courts, are transmitted at regular intervals, by mail, to the principal towns throughout
the United States, and from these towns all the neighboring villages take their
newest fashions.

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Brewster cites numerous instances of ridiculous aping of foreign fashions, by
Americans, such as wearing in winter the summer hats of Paris, because they were
the ‘latest fashion,’ and, while laughing at the folly of a hump-backed court around[84]
Richard the Third, donning the ‘bustle,’ and appearing as if broken-backed! Our
author talks of the large sleeves supping libations from tea-cups, and revelling in
sauces at the table. Bless his simple heart! Does he not know that there are no
large sleeves now? Would that he could see, of a windy day, in Broadway, a tall
and lank but fashionable ‘olden maiden,’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wild Flowers, culled for Early Youth. By a Lady. In one volume, pp. 257.
New-York: John S. Taylor.

We are glad to perceive the public favor bestowed upon such works for the moral
and religious improvement of the young, as the one now under notice. Stories,
naturally related, and blended with good advice implied, and valuable lessons adroitly
disguised, or robbed of didactic dullness, are capable of extensive good. They are
well calculated to gain those passes of the heart which are often guarded by prejudice
or indifference against the direct force of truth. We can heartily commend both the
execution and tendency of each of the eight sketches in the volume before us. They
are thus entitled: The Young Mechanics; Anselmo, Gardener of Lyons; Adela De[85]
Coven; My Uncle’s Wand; The Friend of Olden Times; Stanmore; Glimpses of
New-England Mountaineers, from a Traveller’s Memoranda; and After the Party.
As a specimen of the agreeable, unaffected style of the book, we make the following
extract from the ‘New-England Mountaineers:’

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Why, my little fellow,’ said I, ‘where are your stockings this cold morning?’

“‘Aunt Nelly’s ironing on ’em.’

“‘What’s your name, my boy?’

“‘George Washington La Fayette Keeny.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The farmer himself answered our summons at the door.

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

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

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

“All was settled, and in we went; and after due stamping, shaking over-coats, and
brushing up, with suitable ablutions, we were ushered into the presence of the bride.
She was an interesting girl of eighteen, with a countenance bright with health, intelligence,
and happiness, dressed with marked simplicity, and in charming taste. On one
side she was sustained by her lover—I beg pardon, her husband; the knot had been tied[86]
a few minutes before our untimely intrusion—on the other by two fair girls,
their white favors, I took to be bride’s-maids.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live and Let Live; or Domestic Service Illustrated. By the Author of ‘Hope
Leslie,’ ‘The Linwoods,’ ‘The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man,’ etc. In
one volume, pp. 216. New-York: Harper and Brothers.

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

[87]

EDITORS’ TABLE.

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

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

All attempts to stop the circulation of the Scriptures were of no avail. Though they
were not distributed ‘withouten grete auenture and parell,’ yet they ran and were
glorified. The Roman Catholic bishop complains, that though often collected and
burned, ‘stil these pestylent bokes are throwen in the strete, and lefte at mennys dores
by nyghte,’ and that where they ‘durste not offer theyr poyson to sel, they wolde of
theyr cheryte poyson men for noughte.’ In vain does the King issue orders, urging his
subjects to ‘kepe pure and clene of all contagyon of wronge opynion in Cristes relygion,’
and warn them not to ‘suffer suche euil sede, contaygyous and dampnable, to be sowen
and take roote, ouergrowinge the corne of the Catholick fayth.’ ‘He that compyled the
booke,’ says Tyndale, notwithstanding these warnings and edicts, ‘purposyth, with[88]
Goddes help, to mayntayne vnto the deathe, yf neede be. In brunninge the Newe-Testamente,
tha did none other thinge than I loked for; no more shal tha doe, if tha
brunne me allso, if it be God his will it shal be so.’ In this spirit, did he continue, by
the aid of equally zealous cöoperators whom he raised up, to multiply editions of the
New-Testament, and to defend its doctrines, until he fell, by shameful strategy, into the
hands of his popish enemies, and was put to a cruel death.

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

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

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

[90]

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

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

that the world was only made troublesome to him, that he should not be delighted by[91]
the way, and forget whither he was going. The hundred-necked snake of criticism
which assailed the Bible-martyr three centuries ago, has long been dead; and Christians
will preserve his memory in holy keeping, so long as the Scriptures are read, and found
‘profitable for reproof, instruction, and sound doctrine.’

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Why, your honor, these here sky-larking players gets half-a-dozen old muskets,
two or three fowling-pieces, and a pair-and-a-half of pistols, with half a pound of powder
in a paper, and they calls it the Battle of Waterloo—gammoning Bill Sykes and me
to put on a lobster’s jacket apiece, and fire, off two o’ these ‘ere muskets, what an old
one-eyed purser in a corner had been loading with a ‘bacca pipe full o’ powder. Well,
Bill Sykes, and I, and Joe Brown, and six more, were the British army; and opposite
us was some six or eight land-lubbers, a hacting the Mounseers. The skipper of the[92]
show people told us, when we’d squibbed off our muskets over the Mounseers’ heads,
to retire backerds, as if retreating from the French. In course, this here was hard work
for jack tars what had sarved their country for twenty years, to be told to run away
from half-a-dozen land-lubbers a pretending to be French. Well, it war’nt o’ no use
kicking up a row then, but at night, Bill Sykes and I argufied the matter over a can o’
grog, and we concluded not to disgrace our flag, but to stand up for the honor of Old
England. Well, when the scrimmage begun, the land-lubbers called out to us to retreat.
‘See you damned first!’ says I, and Bill werry quietly said he wished they might get it,
which I didn’t think they would. Bill Sykes, in slewing round to guard his starn, put his
foot on a piece of orange peel, and missing stays, came on his beam ends. One of the
imitation parley woos made a grab at him, to captiwate Bill, when, in course, I covered
my friend, and accommodated the sham Mounseer with a hoist as didn’t agree with
him; he was one o’ them mutton-fed chaps as can’t stand much; for he landed among
the fiddlers, and squealed blue murder. Well, arter a row begins, you never know nothing
till its over. Bill Sykes and I cleared out the French army in no time, and then we
tipped the player people a broadside, and took their powder magazine prisoner. The
cabin passengers interfered, and Bill Sykes and I got surrounded—but if I’d had a
bagginet at the end of my musket, if I wouldn’t have cleared the decks like ‘bacca,
damn my sister’s cat.'”

Mr. Burns, at 262 Broadway, is the New-York agent for ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine.’
Appropos: Why exclude the better sex? As Power would say: ‘The ladies,
you dog—you wouldn’t lave out the ladies, would you?’

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

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

[93]

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[94]

LITERARY RECORD.

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

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

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

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

[95]

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

‘Christ and Him Crucified,’ is the title of an eloquent and well-reasoned discourse,
from the pen of Rev. C. W. Dennison, of Wilmington, Delaware, sent us by
an attentive friend and correspondent. It was preached to the Second Baptist Church
of Delaware, in September last, from Paul’s words: ‘For I determined not to know
any thing among you, save Jesus Christ, and Him crucified.’ Published by request.
J. P. Callender, 141 Nassau-street.

‘Lectures to Christians.‘—This volume contains twenty-five Lectures, delivered
by Rev. Charles G. Finney, in 1836 and 1837, reported by the Editor of the New-York
Evangelist, and revised by the author, who has chosen to present them in the
condensed and laconic style in which they were delivered. ‘As my friends wish to have
them in a volume,’ says Mr. Finney, ‘they must take them as they are.’ Such as they
are, therefore, they are before the public. John S. Taylor, publisher.

‘The Issue,’ Presented in a Series of Letters on Slavery.—This is a
small volume, of an hundred and ten pages, from the pen of Rev. Rufus Wm. Bailey,
of South Carolina. It contains fifteen letters, originally published in a religious newspaper,
and widely copied and circulated through the religious journals of the United
States. Their object was and is, to induce slavery-agitators to ‘let the South alone.’
John S. Taylor, Brick Church Chapel, Park.

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

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

Willis’s Poems.—Messrs. Saunders and Otley have issued ‘Melanie, and Other
Poems, by N. P. Willis.’ The volume, which is tastefully executed, and embellished
with a fine portrait of the author, contains little, if we do not mistake, upon which the
judgment of the public has not already been passed. The same house has published
‘The Star of Seville,’ a new Drama, by Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler.

‘Christ Healing the Sick.—A copy of this celebrated painting, by our countryman
West, has attracted much attention at the American Museum. But for a little
hardness and dryness in the coloring, the effect of the original would be well preserved;
and as it is, it is well worthy of examination.

[96]

Rise and Fall of Athens.—The Brothers Harper have published, in two volumes
12mo., ‘Athens: Its Rise and Fall. By E. L. Bulwer, author of ‘Pelham,’
‘The Disowned,’ etc. The object of the author is, to combine an elaborate view of the
literature of Greece, with a complete and impartial account of her political transactions.
The present volumes are to be followed by others, containing a critical analysis of the
tragedies of Sophocles.

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

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

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

‘KNICKERBOCKERIANA.’

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

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