A SCENE IN REAL LIFE. (continued 19)

MORNA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMEMBER ME, LOVE.

By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia.

When afar thou art roaming love, In sunny climes where maidens' eyes Beam bright as their own glowing skies, Where lofty domes and scented bowers Gleam with the golden orange flowers; And many a column and fallen fane Tell of Italia's buried fame: Oh! then remember me, love! When woo'd by the proud and gay, love, And mirthful smiles and voices sweet, As angel's lutes united meet Thy eager ear, thy raptured glance, As they pass thee by in the joyous dance, Ah pause and think of the lonely one, Whose bosom throbs for thee alone: Oh! then remember me, love! Fame's glittering wreath allures thee, love; Ah, when thou bindest it round thy brow, And heartless crowds around thee bow; When stern ambition's meed is won, Ah, think of her who urged thee on To climb the proudest height of fame, And carve thyself a deathless name: Oh! then remember me, love! And should grief or death assail me, love, While thou art o'er the dark blue wave, And carest not to soothe or save, My latest sigh shall be breathed for thee, On my fading lips thy name shall be, And my dying words shall be a prayer To heaven that thou mayest love me there: Oh! then remember me, love!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO SARAH.

When melancholy and alone, I sit on some moss-covered stone Beside a murm'ring stream; I think I hear thy voice's sound In every tuneful thing around, Oh! what a pleasant dream. The silvery streamlet gurgling on, The mock-bird chirping on the thorn, Remind me, love, of thee. They seem to whisper thoughts of love, As thou didst when the stars above Witnessed thy vows to me;— The gentle zephyr floating by, In chorus to my pensive sigh, Recalls the hour of bliss, When from thy balmy lips I drew Fragrance as sweet as Hermia's dew, And left the first fond kiss. In such an hour, when are forgot, The world, its cares, and my own lot, Thou seemest then to be, A gentle guardian spirit given To guide my wandering thoughts to heaven, If they should stray from thee.

SYLVIO.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BON-BON—A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

"Notre Gulliver"—dit le Lord Bolingbroke—"a de telles fables."—Voltaire.

That Pierre Bon-Bon was a Restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no man who, during the reign of ——, frequented the little Câfé in the Cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more especially undeniable. His Patés à la fois were beyond doubt immaculate—but what pen can do justice to his essays sur la Nature—his thoughts sur l'Ame—his observations sur l'Esprit? If his omelettes—if his fricandeaux were inestimable, what literateur of that day would not have given twice as much for an 'Idée de Bon-Bon' as for all the trash of all the 'Idées' of all the rest of the savants? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no other man had ransacked—had read more than any other would have entertained a notion of reading—had understood more than any other would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen, to assert "that his dicta evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the depth of the Lyceum"—although, mark me, his doctrines were by no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their entire self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon—but let this go no farther—it is to Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was not indeed a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian—nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a fricassée, or, facili gradu, the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic. Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned a priori. He reasoned also a posteriori. His ideas were innate—or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond. He believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphatically a—Bon-Bonist.

I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of Restaurateur. I would not however have any friend of mine imagine that in fulfilling his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in which branch of his duplicate profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the mind held intimate connection with the capabilities of the stomach. By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings—and what great man has not a thousand?—if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they were failings of very little importance—faults indeed which in other tempers have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these foibles I should not have mentioned it in this history but for the remarkable prominency—the extreme alto relievo in which it jutted out from the plane of his general disposition. Bon-Bon could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

Not that Bon-Bon was avaricious—no. It was by no means necessary to the satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected—a trade of any kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances, a triumphant smile was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.

At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity not attracted observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon reported that upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was wont to differ widely from the downright grin with which that Restaurateur would laugh at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature—stories were told of perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at leisure—and instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague longings, and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil for wise purposes of his own.

The philosopher had other weaknesses—but they are scarcely worthy of our serious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle. Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid proof of such profundity, it is impossible to say. Bon-Bon, as far as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute investigation—nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so truly classical, it is not to be supposed that the Restaurateur would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the same time, his Essais and his Omelettes. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel an argument over Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Côtes du Rhone. Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded—but this was by no means the case. Indeed, to say the truth, that trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and, however singular it may seem, appeared deeply tinctured with the grotesque diablerie of his favorite German studies.

To enter the little Café in the Cul de Sac Le Febvre was, at the period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon was a man of genius. There was not a sous-cuisinier in Rouen, who could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forbore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of this habitual respect might have been attributed to the personal appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to say, have its weight even with a beast; and I am willing to allow much in the outward man of the Restaurateur calculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped. There is a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little great—if I may be permitted so equivocal an expression—which mere physical bulk alone will be found at all times inefficient in creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of his acquirements—in its immensity a fitting habitation for his immortal soul.

I might here—if it so pleased me—dilate upon the matter of habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short, combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white flannel cap and tassels—that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fashion of those worn by the common class of Restaurateurs at that day—that the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted—that the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and color as the garment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the particolored velvet of Genoa—that his slippers were of a bright purple, curiously filagreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding and embroidery—that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like material called aimable—that his sky-blue cloak resembling in form a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like a mist of the morning—and that his tout ensemble gave rise to the remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that it was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise, or the rather a very Paradise of perfection."

I have said that "to enter the Café in the Cul-de-Sac Le Febvre was to enter the sanctum of a man of genius"—but then it was only the man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A sign consisting of a vast folio swung before the entrance. On one side of the volume was painted a bottle—on the reverse a Paté. On the back were visible in large letters the words Æuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately shadowed forth the two-fold occupation of the proprietor.

Upon stepping over the threshold the whole interior of the building presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room of antique construction was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the Café in the Cul-de-Sac Le Febvre. In a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with a canopy à la Gréque gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonally opposite appeared, in direct and friendly communion, the properties of the kitchen and the bibliothéque. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an oven-full of the latest ethics—there a kettle of duodecimo melanges. Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron—a toasting fork might be discovered by the side of Eusebius—Plato reclined at his ease in the frying pan—and cotemporary manuscripts were filed away upon the spit.

In other respects the Café de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little from the Cafés of the period. A gigantic fire-place yawned opposite the door. On the right of the fire-place an open cupboard displayed a formidable array of labelled bottles. There Mousseux, Chambertin, St. George, Richbourg, Bordeaux, Margaux, Haubrion, Leonville, Medoc, Sauterne, Bârac, Preignac, Grave, Lafitte, and St. Peray contended with many other names of lesser celebrity for the honor of being quaffed. From the ceiling, suspended by a chain of very long slender links, swung a fantastic iron lamp, throwing a hazy light over the room, and relieving in some measure the placidity of the scene.

It was here, about twelve o'clock one night, during the severe winter of ——, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened for some time to the comments of his neighbors upon his singular propensity—that Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked the door upon them with a sacre Dieu, and betook himself in no very pacific mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of blazing faggots.

It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or twice during a century. The snow drifted down bodily in enormous masses, and the Café de Bon-Bon tottered to its very centre, with the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the wall, and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his Paté-pans and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its stanchions of solid oak.

I have said that it was in no very placid temper the metaphysician drew up his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity of his meditations. In attempting Des Æufs à la Princesse he had unfortunately perpetrated an Omelette à la Reine—the discovery of a principle in Ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew—and last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing to a successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled a degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye towards those distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming.

Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible to himself, Bon-Bon drew closer to his seat a small table covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of retouching a voluminous manuscript, intended for publication on the morrow.

"I am in no hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon"—whispered a whining voice in the apartment.

"The devil!"—ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning the table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.

"Very true"—calmly replied the voice.

"Very true!—what is very true?—how came you here?"—vociferated the metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at full length upon the bed.

"I was saying"—said the intruder, without attending to Bon-Bon's interrogatories—"I was saying that I am not at all pushed for time—that the business upon which I took the liberty of calling is of no pressing importance—in short that I can very well wait until you have finished your Exposition."

"My Exposition!—there now!—how do you know—how came you to understand that I was writing an Exposition?—good God!"

"Hush!"—replied the figure in a shrill under tone; and arising quickly from the bed he made a single step towards our hero, while the iron lamp overhead swung convulsively back from his approach.

The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of a figure, exceedingly lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century ago. These garments had evidently been intended a priori for a much shorter person than their present owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and entirely bald, with the exception of the hinder part, from which depended a queue of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses, protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color or their conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a shirt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme precision around the throat, and the ends hanging down formally side by side, gave, although I dare say unintentionally, the idea of an ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that nature. Over his left ear he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an instrument resembling the stylus of the ancients. In a breast-pocket of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with clasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned outwardly from the person as to discover the words "Rituel Catholique" in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy was interestingly saturnine—even cadaverously pale. The forehead was lofty and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The corners of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most submissive humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he stepped towards our hero—a deep sigh—and altogether a look of such utter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally prepossessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his visiter's person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted him to a seat.

There would however be a radical error in attributing this instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher to any one of those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an influence. Indeed Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely to be imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It was impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character of the personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no more, the conformation of his visiter's feet was sufficiently remarkable—there was a tremulous swelling in the hinder part of his breeches—and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact. Judge then with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself thrown thus at once into the society of a—of a person for whom he had at all times entertained such unqualified respect. He was, however, too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions, or rather—I should say—his certainty in regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all conscious of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed, but by leading his guest into conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication, enlighten the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself—ideas which, I should have added, his visiter's great age, and well known proficiency in the science of Morals might very well have enabled him to afford.

Actuated by these enlightened views our hero bade the gentleman sit down, while he himself took occasion to throw some faggots upon the fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of the powerful Vin de Mousseux. Having quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair vis a vis to his companion's, and waited until he should open the conversation. But plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of their application, and the Restaurateur found himself entirely nonplused by the very first words of his visiter's speech.

"I see you know me, Bon-Bon,"—said he:—"ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!"—and the devil, dropping at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a mouth from ear to ear so as to display a set of jagged, and fang-like teeth, and throwing back his head, laughed long, loud, wickedly, and uproariously, while the black dog crouching down upon his haunches joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent stood up on end and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.

Not so the philosopher: he was too much a man of the world either to laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the cat. It must be confessed, however, that he felt a little astonishment to see the white letters which formed the words "Rituel Catholique" on the book in his guest's pocket momentarily changing both their color and their import, and in a few seconds in place of the original title, the words Regitre des Condamnés blaze forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied to his visiter's remark, imparted to his manner an air of embarrassment which might not probably have otherwise been observable.

"Why, sir,"—said the philosopher—"why, sir, to speak sincerely—I believe you are—upon my word—the d——dest—that is to say I think—I imagine—I have some faint—some very faint idea—of the remarkable honor——"

"Oh!—ah!—yes!—very well!"—interrupted his majesty—"say no more—I see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited them in his pocket.

If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his amazement was now increased to an intolerable degree by the spectacle which here presented itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain the color of his guest's, he found them by no means black, as he had anticipated—nor gray, as might have been imagined—nor yet hazel nor blue—nor indeed yellow, nor red—nor purple—nor white—nor green—nor any other color in the heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In short Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of their having existed at any previous period, for the space where eyes should naturally have been, was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level of cadaverous flesh.

It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and to his surprise the reply of his majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.

"Eyes!—my dear Bon-Bon, eyes! did you say?—oh! ah! I perceive. The ridiculous prints, eh? which are in circulation, have given you a false idea of my personal appearance. Eyes!!—true. Eyes, Pierre Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place—that, you would say, is the head—right—the head of a worm. To you likewise these optics are indispensable—yet I will convince you that my vision is more penetrating than your own. There is a cat, I see, in the corner—a pretty cat!—look at her!—observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you behold the thoughts—the thoughts, I say—the ideas—the reflections—engendering in her pericranium?

"There it is now!—you do not. She is thinking we admire the profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superfluous of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind: but to one of my profession the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance, liable at any time to be put out by a toasting iron or a pitchfork. To you, I allow, these optics are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use them well—my vision is the soul."

Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.

"A clever book that of yours, Pierre"—resumed his majesty, tapping our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter set down his glass after a thorough compliance with this injunction.

"A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own heart. Your arrangement of matter, I think, however, might be improved, and many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill temper, as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he has written, and for that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral truth I am alluding."

"Cannot say that I——"

"Indeed!—why I told Aristotle that by sneezing men expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis."

"Which is—hiccup!—undoubtedly the case"—said the metaphysician, while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.

"There was Plato too"—continued his majesty, modestly declining the snuff-box and the compliment—"there was Plato, too, for whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato, Bon-Bon?—ah! no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I bade him write down that 'o nous estin augos.' He said that he would do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the Pyramids. But my conscience smote me for the lie, and, hastening back to Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was inditing the 'augos.' Giving the gamma a fillip with my finger I turned it upside down. So the sentence now reads 'o nous estin aulos,' and is, you perceive, the fundamental doctrine of his metaphysics."

"Were you ever at Rome?"—asked the Restaurateur as he finished his second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of Vin de Chambertin.

"But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon—but once. There was a time"—said the devil, as if reciting some passage from a book—"'there was an anarchy of five years during which the republic, bereft of all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people, and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive power'—at that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon—at that time only I was in Rome, and I have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy."¹

¹ Ils ecrivalent sur la Philosophie (Cicero, Lucretius, Seneca) mais c'etait la Philosophie Grécque.—Condorcet.

"What do you think of Epicurus?—what do you think of—hiccup!—Epicurus?"

"What do I think of whom?"—said the devil in astonishment—"you cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir?—I am Epicurus. I am the same philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes Laertes."

"That's a lie!"—said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little into his head.

"Very well!—very well, sir!—very well indeed, sir"—said his majesty.

"That's a lie!"—repeated the Restaurateur dogmatically—"that's a—hiccup!—lie!"

"Well, well! have it your own way"—said the devil pacifically: and Bon-Bon, having beaten his majesty at an argument, thought it his duty to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.

"As I was saying"—resumed the visiter—"as I was observing a little while ago, there are some very outré notions in that book of yours, Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?"

"The—hiccup!—soul"—replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS. "is undoubtedly"—

"No, sir!"

"Indubitably"—

"No, sir!"

"Indisputably"—

"No, sir!"

"Evidently"—

"No, sir!"

"Incontrovertibly"—

"No, sir!"

"Hiccup!"—

"No, sir!"

"And beyond all question a"—

"No, sir! the soul is no such thing." (Here the philosopher finished his third bottle of Chambertin.)

"Then—hic-cup!—pray—sir—what—what is it?"

"That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon," replied his majesty, musingly. "I have tasted—that is to say I have known some very bad souls, and some too—pretty good ones." Here the devil licked his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.

His majesty continued.

"There was the soul of Cratinus—passable:—Aristophanes—racy:—Plato—exquisite:—not your Plato, but Plato the comic poet: your Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus—faugh! Then let me see! there were Noevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintius Flaccus—dear Quinty! as I called him when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while I toasted him in pure good humor on a fork. But they want flavor these Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep, which cannot be said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne."

Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the nil admirari, and endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although extremely indecent in his majesty, the philosopher took no notice—simply kicking the black water dog and requesting him to be quiet. The visiter continued.

"I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle—you know I am fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus—and Titus Livy was positively Polybius and none other."

"Hic—cup!"—here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded.

"But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon,—if I have a penchant, it is for a philosopher. Yet let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev— I mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long ones are not good, and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a little rancid on account of the gall."

"Shelled!!"

"I mean taken out of the carcass."

"What do you think of a—hiccup!—physician?"

"Don't mention them!—ugh! ugh!" (Here his majesty retched violently.) "I never tasted but one—that rascal Hippocrates!—smelt of asafoetida—ugh! ugh! ugh!—caught a wretched cold washing him in the Styx—and after all he gave me the cholera morbus."

"The—hiccup!—wretch!"—ejaculated Bon-Bon—"the—hic-cup!—abortion of a pill-box!"—and the philosopher dropped a tear.

"After all"—continued the visiter—"after all, if a dev— if a gentleman wishes to live he must have more talents than one or two, and with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy."

"How so?"

"Why we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know that in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless pickled immediately, (and a pickled spirit is not good,) they will—smell—you understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the spirits are consigned to us in the usual way."

"Hiccup!—hiccup!—good God! how do you manage?"

Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the devil half started from his seat—however with a slight sigh he recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone, "I tell you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing."

Bon-Bon swallowed another bumper, and his visiter continued.

"Why there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put up with the pickle. For my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in which case I find they keep very well."

"But the body!—hiccup!—the body!!!"—vociferated the philosopher, as he finished a bottle of Sauterne.

"The body, the body—well what of the body?—oh! ah! I perceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain, and Nimrod, and Nero, and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and—and a thousand others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter part of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why is'nt there A——, now, whom you know as well as I? Is he not in possession of all his faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons more wittily? Who——but, stay! I have his agreement in my pocket-book."

Thus saying he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters MACHI——, MAZA——, RICH——, and the words CALIGULA and ELIZABETH. His majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it read aloud the following words:

"In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to specify; and in farther consideration of one thousand louis d'or, I, being aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my soul." (Signed) A——² (Here his majesty repeated a name which I do not feel myself justifiable in indicating more unequivocally.)

² Quære—Arouet?—Editor.

"A clever fellow that A——"—resumed he; "but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow truly!—no such nonsense, Monsieur Bon-Bon. The soul a shadow!! ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasséed shadow!"

"Only think—hiccup!—of a f-r-i-c-a-s-s-e-e-d s-h-a-d-ow!!" echoed our hero, whose faculties were becoming gloriously illuminated by the profundity of his majesty's discourse.

"Only think of a—hiccup!—fricasseed shadow!!! Now damme!—hiccup!—humph!—if I would have been such a—hiccup!—nincompoop! My soul, Mr.—humph!"

"Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?"

"Yes, sir—hiccup!—my soul is"—

"What, sir!"

"No shadow, damme!"

"Did not mean to say"—

"Yes, sir, my soul is—hiccup!—humph!—yes, sir."

"Did not intend to assert"—

"My soul is—hiccup!—peculiarly qualified for—hiccup!—a"—

"What, sir?"

"Stew."

"Ha!"

"Souflée."

"Eh?"

"Fricassée."

"Indeed!"

"Ragout or Fricandeau—and I'll let you have it—hiccup!—a bargain."

"Could'nt think of such a thing," said his majesty calmly, at the same time arising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.

"Am supplied at present," said his majesty.

"Hiccup!—e-h?"—said the philosopher.

"Have no funds on hand."

"What!"

"Besides, very ungentlemanly in me"—

"Sir!"

"To take advantage of"—

"Hiccup!"

"Your present situation."

Here his majesty bowed and withdrew—in what manner the philosopher could not precisely ascertain—but in a well-concerted effort to discharge a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the lamp.

THE UNITIES.

Aristotle's name is supposed to be authority for the three unities. The only one of which he speaks decisively is the unity of action. With regard to the unity of time he merely throws out an indefinite hint. Of the unity of place not one word does he say.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES IN REMEMBRANCE OF THOS. H. WHITE,

Who died in Richmond, Va. October 7, 1832, aged 19 years.

When nations prosper, they grow proud and vain, And give the reins to luxury and pleasure, Spurn their Creator and defy his power: To check their pride, Jehovah from his throne, Scatters his judgments o'er a guilty world. Forth from that idol land, where on the Ganges, The Mother to false Gods devotes her offspring, Or mounts the funeral pile—o'er half the earth Speedeth the Pestilence. Nor cold, nor heat, Mountains nor seasons can its course arrest. Realm after realm hath bowed beneath its power, Till o'er the vast Atlantic to our shores It brings the work of death. In early life I fell a victim to this deadly foe. Thanks to that blessed volume, which hath brought Light, Life and Immortality to Man, Death has no terror to the heir of heaven— It is the portal to his Father's throne. This world is full of care, and toil, and suff'ring; Its joys are transient, vain and fleeting all, Illusive as a shadow. Happy he At peace with God, who quits it earliest For purer bliss. Rather rejoice than mourn That I so soon have earth exchanged for heaven.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A MANIAC'S ADDRESS TO THE MOON.

Thou pale!—thou beautiful!—to thee I kneel, Watching thy wandering thro' yon dark blue sky In silent gaze—as if my heart could feel Deep adoration for thee, and was nigh To a bright being that had look'd on me Ev'n from the first days of my infancy. Is it not so? Near to those yellow shores Where roll my native streams, oh! hast thou not Seen my young pleasures, when our busy oars O'er the cool wave at dusky night would sport On that bright pathway where thy silvery beam Fell beautiful upon the glossy stream. When thou didst rise at evening's twilight hour, A mighty crescent o'er the broken tower, Then would I wander 'neath the crumbling wall, Or chase my playmates thro' the ruined hall, Nor fearing any Spectre-Knight would play His frightful gambols in thy harmless ray. Away—away!—and when we there did sweep The deep black billows of the roaring ocean, Still high amid the heavens thou didst keep Steady and bright; and with a wild emotion Guiarra trembling did look up to thee To guide him safely o'er that dismal sea, And kindly light his weary hands to spread The rattling canvass o'er his giddy head. These skies are foreign, and I tread the ground My fathers saw not: yet while thou art flinging Upon the hills, the woods, the vales around Thy gentle beam, ev'n though my heart be clinging To other lands, still it can hold most dear This stranger home since it can meet thee here. We'll climb yon hill—we'll wander o'er yon plain— We'll skim yon lake: Moon! we will roam together Till mother earth call home her child again: Then part we!—part we! fair Moon!—aye, for ever! 'Tis not for a bright thing like thee to glow In the deep shades where the departed go. Yet thou canst look upon the road that leads To my far dwelling place: there will be flowers And fresh green blades, and moss, and harmless weeds To point the passage. Oh! at midnight hours Wilt thou not smile upon those things that bloom All wild, all heedlessly above my tomb? I sit, and weave beneath thy gentle light A wreath of cypress and of roses bright, And ere it wither, or its glow be fled, I'll gaily bind it round my dying head. 'Twill still the throbbing of my fever'd brow To wear those flowers pluck'd from the tender stem Where they were springing beautiful—and thou As beautiful wast shining above them.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO AN INFANT NEPHEW IN ENGLAND.

By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia.

Tho' Ocean's pride be thy home, my boy, I have heard thy laugh of infant joy; Tho' Albion's breezes fan thy rest, I have seen thee smile on thy mother's breast. Like the forms that float in the summer heaven, Fair Fancy's dreams have often given Thy cherub beauty to my sight Than those fairy tints more soft, more bright. Yes, I have watched in sleep thine eye, More darkly blue than the starlit sky, By thy fringed lids now hid—now beaming Like harebells mid a snow-wreath gleaming. And I've longed thy ruby lip to press, And I've sighed thy sunny brow to bless, And to teach thee thy father's land to love, So come o'er the wave, my island dove! For here the sun doth brightly beam Mid the feathery foam of the mountain stream, And o'er the lake's clear beautiful face, The dark trees bend with a shadowy grace. And in rosy bowers the Eglantine With the golden blossoms of Jasmine twine, And the fruits and flowers wear a brighter hue, And the heavens look on us more cloudlessly blue; And from each hearth at the quiet even, The voice of prayer ascends to heaven; And the wild birds carol with joyous glee, In our own fair land of the happy and free. Come list to the music of every rill, Which sends through our bosoms a magical thrill; Dream not of the depths of the dark blue sea, For the heavens will surely smile on thee. Sweet scion of Columbia's race, Come to thy kindred's fond embrace! Come to the land once thy parents home, Never again from her shores to roam!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

O! there are many brilliant things To light this darksome life, And many bright imaginings With wild enjoyment rife. The flashing of the sparkling stream— The billows bounding free— The glittering of the sunny beam Upon the dark green sea. The lightning flash that rends the air— The meteor's dazzling light That fiercely gleams with fitful glare Amid the starless night. And there are many lovely things That grace the smiling earth— The gushing of a thousand springs— The laughing streamlet's mirth— The swift deer bounding through the wood— The merry singing bird;— Its sweet tones in the solitude Of lonely forests heard. The greenwood and the grassy plain— The silent mountain glen Where nature sways her wild domain, Far from the haunts of men. The mountain where the cedars high Bend to the passing breeze— The murm'ring pines that softly sigh— The music of the trees— The sparkling dew-drop on the grass— The river's golden sand— The flitting of the shades which pass In grandeur o'er the land. The whippoorwill's sad cry at night, Heard from some lonely dell— The streaming of the pale moonlight, Old nature's magic spell. The rainbow's arch that spans the sky— The shining stars above— The glancing of a kindling eye— The tones of one we love. The glowing kiss all fondly pressed On lips both warm and true— The beating of a tender breast, Which only throbs for you. These gild with sunshine and delight The paths of life, and throw Upon its darkling streams a bright, And never fading glow.

By what bizzarrerie does it happen that Sardanapalus is discovered in Greek literature under the name of Tenos Concoleros?

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

Visit to Tescuco—Bath of Tescusingo—Otumba—Aqueduct of Zempoala—Agave Americana—Pyramids of Teotihuacán.

DECEMBER 25, 1825. Mr. P. and myself left Mexico at half past nine this morning for Tescuco. We travelled in a Mexican coach, equipped in the usual style, and loaded with the usual encumbrances of beds, &c. Following the road which leads towards Vera Cruz as far as the little Indian town of Los Reyes, we there left it to cross the dry bed of the lake of Tescuco, upon the border of which we had been riding, to the small village of La Magdalena; and soon reached a pretty and well cultivated country, strewed thickly with villages and farmhouses (haciendas). After passing Chiquluapa and Quautlalpa, we again were in view of the lake, which an intervening ridge had intercepted. On the left, less than a league from Tescuco, is the fine hacienda of Chapingo, owned by the Marquis of Vivanco. Between this and the town, we passed what is called "El puente de los Bergantines"—a pile of strongly cemented stone, through which the road is cut, presenting not the slightest resemblance to a bridge. But this is classic ground, for here Cortes is said to have launched his vessels into the lake upon that memorable occasion which preceded the destruction and capture of the seat of the Mexican Empire. On entering a place so celebrated in the histories of the Conquest, the wretched adobe-built houses near the gate of the town, might well diminish the enthusiasm of the traveller and the antiquarian, were not his attention caught by a large artificial pile, now in ruins, without the gate to the right. Every thing connected with this remarkable people is interesting, even although the remaining vestiges are too slight to enable one to trace them distinctly and satisfactorily. Such is the nature of this ruin; but the presumption may not be altogether unfounded, that this was the site of an ancient temple, and perhaps the centre of this once great city.

We arrived at two o'clock, the distance from Mexico being seven leagues by the route we were obliged to travel, but only five across the lake. After an introduction to the ladies of the house, to which we had been kindly invited, we were conducted to the cock-pit, where we were presented to our host. We found it filled with men, women, and children, all taking a lively interest in the scene; but as we were less ardent sportsmen, we soon left the place, eager to commence our rambles in search of antiquities.

We were directed first to the Aduana—custom house—in the patio or court of which lay a coiled rattlesnake, tolerably well sculptured out of a block of gray porphyry—its head, however, appeared disproportionally large. It still wears the mark of paint, although it has been exposed many years to the weather. Several other figures were shown to us—one a female with a finely turned shoulder—another was the arms of Spain, made probably shortly after the conquest—the rest were imperfect. Thence we were conducted to a house, outside the door of which was planted for a seat, a part of a human figure, of large size. In the degraded position it occupied, we could form no opinion of its excellence.

Thence we strolled to what is called the palace of the Tescucan kings. Its site fills the western side of the Plaza. Traces of its great extent are every where visible, but not clearly defined, for the ground it covered has been long cultivated, and a part of it is planted in magueyes. Several large stones still retain the position they must have occupied in the edifice—those which no doubt formed a corner, being squared and cut nicely, in a manner which would not be discreditable to the workmen of the present day in Mexico. At regular distances of about fifteen feet were placed others, the upper surfaces of which are rounded irregularly. In an excavation distant a few paces is a portion of a column, so covered that we could not discover its dimensions. If a conjecture can be hazarded, these stones were parts of corridors, supported by stone columns—possibly an excavation may disclose apartments below. It is, however, futile to form plans upon such insufficient data. The cutting of a ditch through the western section of the ruins, has exposed to view stones curiously scooped out, as if for the use of the founder; and near the centre of the square is another of a different figure, cut apparently for the same purpose—perhaps to mould a kettle which should rest on three corners or feet—the bottom hollowed. We continued our investigations until nearly dark, when we walked to the church of San Francisco, near by, in the pavement before the door of which, are several of these anciently wrought stones—some of very large dimensions—one is circular with a carved surface, but so much worn that we could not trace its figures.

The walls of the fortress which Cortes is represented to have constructed for his quarters, were next shown to us. Their height is about twenty feet—their width at the base about six or seven, decreasing towards the top. Some pronounce this the work of a more remote age, but the manner of its construction is sufficient evidence to the contrary. That it is a work of the Conqueror is a more reasonable conjecture, though even this is beset with difficulties. The time Cortes is said to have occupied the city of Tescuco, appears too short to have completed so huge a building: to this, however, it may be said, that he possessed ample means, with so many thousand Indians under his orders. But where was the necessity of raising such strong walls against adversaries so feeble, when, without so much severe labor, he might have defended himself equally well, and in the event of his being compelled to abandon it, he would have encountered less difficulty in recovering possession of it?

Thence we proceeded some distance—the moon shone brightly—to see other remains of an ancient structure, but being unsuccessful in our search, we returned to the house of our kind friends, the Camperos.

The town of Tescuco now contains about 5,000 inhabitants—the houses are of one story only—with regular but unpaved streets, not very neat. Its modern mediocrity must contrast strongly with its ancient magnificence, if the early historians of Mexico are to be credited. During the revolution a ditch was dug around it, in order to repel the attacks of cavalry. It was assailed several times, and suffered some injury. It is by no means a pretty town, but is situated amid a pretty country, and supplied with good water.

DEC. 26. We appointed to-day to visit the mountain of Tescusingo. Before setting out, we made another circuit about the town, and found on a wall in front of one of the churches, a circular stone, the circumference of which was curiously carved. Near the northwestern corner of the Plaza is a well constructed arch of tetzontli, cemented with lime, which had been discovered in opening a ditch—the extent and purpose of it are alike unknown. We next visited the house of the Most Holy Trinity, La Casa de la Santissima Trinidad, to examine an arch of stone, said to have been taken from the ruins of the palace. Its figure is beautiful—the whole is well wrought—and would do credit to any edifice. If an antique, of which there seems very little doubt, it proves beyond any thing I have yet seen, the civilized state which the Indians of Mexico had attained prior to the conquest. The arch of three pieces, and four stones which support it, believed to have once formed a portal in the palace, are perfect. The latter now are the sides of an entrance to a stable, the arch lies neglected in the yard—two stones are wanting to complete the supports to the arch.

We continued our walk to the ruins of an extensive building, upon which are growing numerous plants of the maguey. The layers of cement are seen distinctly—very smooth and hard. An old woman who lives near, has collected large pieces of this cement with which she has paved the patio of her house; so solid is it, that one of our companions believed it to be stone, until he had tested it with the hammer.

At eleven o'clock we set out in our coach for the mountain distant near two leagues to the eastward of Tescuco. About a quarter of a mile from the town, we observed two circular carved stones which we had not time to examine. After riding a league over the plain, we stopped at the Molino de las Flores—mill of flowers—a most romantic spot. Great labor has been expended upon the race for conducting the water to the mill from the natural dam of rocks, over which the stream during the rainy season, dashes in torrents into a rugged bed. The plain from thence to the foot of the mountain being broken by deep barrancas—gullies—our carriage was unable to proceed farther. We were, therefore, compelled to walk, against our inclinations, for the sun was scorching, and we were aware of the labor we must encounter in the ascent of the mountain.

A walk of two miles brought us to the foot of the mountain of Tescusingo, the steep sides of which covered with nopal,¹ we began to climb slowly. After winding about midway up on the western side, our guide conducted us to the mouth of an apparently artificial cavern, with an entrance about six feet high—descending a dozen steps it takes a new direction. Having no lights we were obliged to leave it unexplored. Continuing to ascend, we passed towards the southern declivity, and soon met with cement, which in various parts of the mountain denotes extensive remains of ancient edifices—with walls constructed of tetzontli—and particularly with a large square stone hollowed neatly like a drain; and a reservoir for water appeared to have existed below it. We were now about three-fourths of the distance up the mountain, and had attained a terrace, along which we walked to the Bath of Tescusingo—the chief object of our visit. This remarkable work is cut out of a solid rock—hard feldspar porphyry—which hangs like a bird's nest upon the steep side, which faces to the south. An irregular platform of seven feet and a half diameter appears to have been first cut into the rock—the sides of the rock forming a wall smooth on the inside, nearly two feet and a half high, the outside left as nature made it—in the centre of this platform a circular bath is cut out, with a diameter of four feet seven inches, two feet deep, with two steps to descend into it. A perforation in one part of the platform shows where the water was admitted, and it escaped from the bath by a cleft which extends from top to bottom. The bath was probably covered with a roof—cavities in the rock seeming to indicate where posts once stood.

¹ Nopal, a species of cactus.

The view from this spot is the most beautiful that could have been selected on the mountain; and warmed by the sun, and sheltered from the winds of the north, it was, also, the most delightful. The city of Mexico is seen distinctly, the lake of Tescuco and populous plains intervening, in the southwest; and to the south rise the snowy mountains of Puebla.

From the bath, we continued our walk along the terrace, upon which still exist traces of an aqueduct, which, at the eastern extremity of Tescusingo, crossed from the contiguous mountain upon an artificial pile of stone, conveying water, we were informed, a distance of seven or eight leagues. We were yet several hundred feet from the top. Ascending farther, we encountered other remains of structures, and came to a levelled surface about fifty feet square. All these are convincing proofs of the numerous edifices which once existed upon this mountain, but we must ever remain ignorant of their nature and purpose. Upon the summit, which commands a fine view of the surrounding country, is a rock of huge size, in which seats have been cut.

In our descent on the northern side, which is very rough and steep, we discovered accidentally a flight of seven steps cut out of a single rock—of these, our guide, an Indian antiquarian of Tescuco, had heretofore been ignorant. Many objects worthy of investigation will no doubt reward those who should diligently extend their researches upon the mountain of Tescusingo. We reached the foot without further incident, and rejoined our carriage at the mill, much fatigued with our ramble under a burning sun. Soon after four we were again under the roof of our kind host.

After dinner, our friend, Don Nicolas Campero, conducted us to the ruins which I have already mentioned to be just without the gate of the town. Their structure and extent are marked by the revolutionary trenches which surround them. The occasional layers of cement are perpendicular as well as horizontal, and between them are laid adobes—unburnt bricks—which compose the work. Judging from appearances, it would not be rash, perhaps, to conjecture that this was the site of the Great Temple, which, we are assured, was always constructed upon eminences like this. Its distance from the palace amply proves the extent of the ancient city of Tescuco to have been very great.

DEC. 27. After breakfast, we rode a league to see the ahuahuetes²—cypress trees—of large dimensions, some of them are not less than fifty feet in circumference. A large edifice, it is believed, stood once in the midst of them. There are traces of buildings. The regularity with which these trees are disposed, proves, beyond a doubt, that they were planted. They are so regular, that in order to enclose three sides of a square it was necessary to lay a few adobes only between them. Two rows of these trees form a long street. This grove of ahuahuetes is seen distinctly from the city of Mexico, their deep green contrasting strongly with the dry and open plain which surrounds them.

² Cupressus disticha. The largest tree known of this description is at the village of Atlixco, in the state of Puebla. It is in circumference 23.3 metres, or 76½ English feet.—Humb. New Spain, l. 3. c. 8, p. 154. Ed. of 1827.

We employed the afternoon in revisiting the antiquities of Tescuco. We were also conducted to the garden belonging to the convent of San Francisco, where a remarkable carved stone lies neglected under a tree. It is round and represents a man, whose nose is prodigious, in a kneeling attitude, holding something—what it is we could not discover—in his hands; behind him is another figure, which defied all our efforts to decipher it.

At night, we accompanied the young ladies of the house to a ball given by the principal merchant of the town. The room was filled with men, women, and cigar smoke. This compelled us to make an early retreat, for our eyes were not yet insensible to its effect.

DEC. 28. After an early breakfast, and the completion of some repairs to our coach, we took leave of the excellent family who had entertained us most hospitably. We now directed our steps towards Otumba. Passing several small villages—some of them are very picturesque, with their enclosures of the cactus cylindricus, which grows to the height of fifteen or eighteen feet—the country became barren and uninteresting, until we reached the fine hacienda of San Antonio. Here we deviated from the direct route, but were compensated for the loss of time by the sight of an extensive stone wall, built to contain water for the purpose of irrigating the estate, and for the use of the cattle. This large presa—or pond—was the work of the Jesuits, who formerly owned the finest property in New Spain, and who were sagacious and industrious in improving their possessions. Retracing our steps, we passed the extensive buildings of San Antonio, leaving immediately upon our left its beautiful wheat fields, which the laborers were then engaged in watering. This is the dry season, and wheat will grow only where it can be irrigated frequently.

Beyond the village of San Pedro, we ascended the tepetate³ lomes—lomas—of the eastern side of the plain of Mexico, upon which soil the roads are always worn deep and rough. On arriving at the summit of a low ridge which we were crossing, the Pyramids of Teotihuacán unexpectedly presented themselves to our view. Though ignorant that we were so near to them, yet we could not mistake them, their figure is still so well preserved, whilst centuries have rolled away since their construction.

³ A hard white clay peculiar to the plains of Mexico, devoid of vegetation, and very painful to the eyes under a burning sun. The lomas are the rising ground between the plains and the mountains.

Leaving the pyramids and village of San Juan de Teotihuacán to our left, we travelled on two leagues farther to Otumba, where we arrived at three o'clock, having been six hours on the road from Tescuco. We were told the distance was only seven leagues. It is true we once lost our way, and our kicking mules occasioned some detention, but I think another league may be safely added.

A gentleman of Otumba, to whom we had brought a letter of introduction, being unfortunately absent, we were directed to the only meson—public house—in the place, where we took a hasty meal in the kitchen, having, in the mean time, sent our letter to the gentleman's brother, who might, we thought, aid us in our research for antiquities. But this man sent us an uncourteous answer, and we sallied out in quest of the curate, who was absent also; but we found what perhaps was better—a remnant of an ancient column in the churchyard. We met a well dressed man, from whom we expected to glean some information. He proved to be a stupid lay-priest, who knew nothing of the existence of any antique in Otumba, but he undertook to inquire at a store near the plaza. Those he asked were as ignorant as himself; but our foreign appearance having by this time excited some curiosity, several of the inhabitants collected around us, and learning our wish to find an ancient column which we understood to exist there, conducted us to the centre of the plaza, where the object of our search was lying prostrate. It is a column of reddish sand stone, the base, and a portion of the shaft only remaining, the entire length of which is eight feet two inches. The shaft is an octagon of unequal sides, and carved with diamond figures interchained with each other. The lower part of the shaft, one foot and a half next the base, is of a bulbous figure, also carved. The diameter of the column is one foot and three quarters. In another spot, a cleft fragment was shown, seven feet two inches long, said to have formed a part of the column above described—if so, augmenting its entire length to fifteen and a half feet, without the capital, of which we could discover no traces. We were told that this column, previously to the revolution, was standing in the plaza, supporting the arms of Spain. During the war it was thrown down—has been broken for various purposes, and its remains now lie neglected, an object of interest to the curious traveller only.

All our new friends now volunteered to show us something, and we had nearly seen nothing in the contest of each to carry us to different places. At length, we effected a compromise, and were carried to search a corral or cattle yard for the capital of the column. We looked in vain in yard and stable, notwithstanding one present assured us he had seen it. We abandoned the pursuit of the evanescent block, and were conducted by an old man (who was called Cortés, and who affected to be of pure Indian blood, and to despise all others who were not,) to his house, in a corner of which was worked a carved stone—evidently an antique, but it was a work posterior to the conquest, for it represented an armed man on horseback. Cortés then carried us to the rear of the church, to see another carved stone, but it was placed so high in the wall that we could scarcely distinguish it, but enough appeared to convince us that it bore the arms of Spain. These instances prove how cautious we must be in adopting the opinions of the natives on antiquarian matters.

It was now dark, and we returned to our meson, as miserable and cheerless a house of entertainment as traveller ever entered. We made, nevertheless, a good supper of eggs, frijoles (beans), and wine, of which we partook in the kitchen.

On making inquiries respecting a celebrated aqueduct which we understood to exist in the vicinity of Otumba, we learned that it was distant nearly five leagues. We had intended to return to Mexico on the morrow, but we now determined to visit this work. During the evening, one of our lately formed acquaintances called to introduce one of his friends, who politely offered us horses, a favor which we gladly accepted.

DEC. 29. We rose early, and joined by three of our new acquaintances, were soon on horseback. One of those who attended us, was manager of two fine haciendas, which we visited on our way to the arches of Zempoala. The first, Soapayuca, owned by the Conde de Tepa, a Spanish nobleman, is about a league from Otumba. Having been burnt during the revolution it has been rebuilt on an extensive scale. Our road ran along the lomes of the mountains, through fields of the maguey. About two leagues and a half from Otumba, we were shown, on our left, the plain of San Miguel, where Cortes is represented to have gained his celebrated victory, in the retreat from Mexico to Tlascala. A ride of three leagues brought us to the hacienda of Ometusco—an estate from which pulque only is made, which gives to its owner, Don Ignacio Adalid, of Mexico, a nett profit, as we were informed, of $15,000 a year. Here we took breakfast, and after viewing the buildings, pursued a narrow path through the magueyes to the Arcos de Zempoala.

These arches are sixty-eight in number, crossing a deep valley from north to south, and are eleven hundred paces in length. The greatest height is one hundred twenty-two and a half feet, where two arches, one supported above the other, are thrown across the deep barranca. The width above is four feet and a half, with a narrow, and shallow channel in the centre for the conveyance of the water. This is a work of great antiquity, constructed about the year 1540, under the direction of a Franciscan Monk, to supply Otumba with good water, of which it is sadly in want. Though made at an immense expense, the aqueduct is now wholly useless, but the arches are in an excellent state of preservation⁴

⁴ Torquemada relates—Monarquia Indiana, l. 20, c. 63—that a Franciscan Friar, Francisco de Tembleque, undertook and accomplished this work, achieving an exploit "which great and powerful kings would scarcely have undertaken to accomplish, nor would he have engaged in such a work (although the poet says, fortune favors the bold) if he had not been inspired by heaven, and aided especially by divine grace, which overcomes all obstacles and provides the means of easily surmounting the greatest difficulties." The time taken to execute this work was 16 or 17 years, five of which were consumed on the principal arches; "which," our author says, "may be regarded as one of the wonders of the world." According to his statement, there are sixty-seven arches (we counted sixty-eight) extending 1059½ varas—about 975 yards. The middle arch is 42½ varas, about 118 feet high—and 23½ varas, about 21½ yards wide, "which fills with astonishment and wonder those who see so marvellous a work." There are two other ravines, one crossed by thirteen the other by forty-six arches. The entire length of the aqueduct was 160,496 Spanish feet—more than fifteen leagues. Torquemada gives no dates, but this work appears to have been constructed soon after Tembleque arrived from Spain, which was in 1538; and our author mentions, that though built seventy years (he wrote about 1610 or 12) it had not sustained the smallest injury.

As a specimen of Torquemada's credulity, I extract the following "most pure truth"—purisma verdad. He says that "the good Father Francisco de Tembleque, had no other companion during this long and painful work than a large yellow cat, which hunted in the fields by night, and at daybreak brought to his master the fruits of his hunt, hares or partridges, for the day's subsistence, which may seem incredible, but it is a most pure truth: many clergy witnessed this wonderful thing, who, passing by, stopped at the hermitage at night for the sole purpose of seeing the fact, and of convincing themselves of the care of the cat, for it was commonly reported through the land, how he sustained himself and his master."

After taking a rough measurement of this magnificent work, we retraced our steps to the hacienda of Ometusco, where our kind host showed us the entire process of making pulque. A good plant of the Agave,⁵ under the most favorable circumstances, reaches maturity in eight years. This state is indicated by a disposition in the central leaves to throw up a stalk, which, when permitted to grow, rises to the height of twelve or fourteen feet, branching at the top not unlike a chandelier. In this critical state a large incision is made with a sharp iron bar in the heart; a large basin, as it were, is scooped out with much care, and being then filled with dry leaves or rubbish, is permitted to rest unmolested for about six months, when it begins to yield juice in abundance and of good quality. On being taken from the plant, which operation an Indian performs morning and evening with a long gourd acting as a syphon, the agua miel, or honey water, as it is then called, is of a sickening sweetness; but after being poured into large vats—made of untanned hides, with the hair inside—in one week it effervesces; but when poured, as in common, upon the lees of old pulque, it is prepared in one or two days, and is carried to market in hogs' skins. After yielding during six months, from 200 to 250 gallons, and sometimes more, the plant dies, and a young sucker is planted to succeed it. A plant ready to yield, is worth from eight to twelve dollars, and produces three or four cargas, or mule loads: a carga is sold in market at four dollars.

⁵ The American aloe.

Pulque is intoxicating to those who use it too freely. The taste is far from pleasant to me, and the odor of it is sickening; but it improves with use, and when taken moderately is thought to be wholesome.

The Agave Americana is a most valuable plant. Independently of its agricultural profits upon barren soils where little else would grow, it serves a great variety of uses. From pulque, a strong brandy is distilled. This and pulque are the common drink of the people. The fibres of the leaf of the maguey are manufactured into coarse cloths, which are used for bagging, as saddlecloths, and for the aparejos, packsaddles; they form thread of every texture, twine, and rope of the largest size; and the juice of the leaf is efficacious in the cure of ulcers, especially of the galls and sores of brute animals: the leaf itself acts in place of gutters and spouts for the cabins of the Indians, and makes a roof to their rude dwellings: its prickle or thorn, is a needle in case of necessity; and at certain stages of its growth the maguey may be taken as food, and was so used during the revolution by many hungry wanderers.

Thus this plant may be the food, drink, and clothing of the Mexicans; and from the variety of purposes to which it may be applied, the Agave Americana may safely be said to be the most valuable of the vegetable creation.

It was dark when we returned to our lodgings in Otumba, having consumed the whole day in seeing what we might have accomplished in a few hours; but our friends were so polite, that we were obliged to submit to their dilatory movements.

DEC. 30. Provided again with horses, we set out at an early hour for the Pyramids, leaving our carriage to join us at San Juan de Teotihuacan. After a ride of nearly two leagues, we alighted at the foot of the smaller pyramid, which, although the ascent was steep, rough, and overgrown with weeds, we soon surmounted. This, more dilapidated than the larger one, still preserves its pyramidal shape, so as easily to be distinguished. The construction seems to be of stones thrown indiscriminately together, and, at occasional intervals, a layer of lime crosses it horizontally. Upon its summit are the remains of a small stone building, which bears abundant evidence of being the work of the Conquerors. It was probably a chapel, built to fill the place of the temple which it usurped. At the southern foot of this pyramid is a circle surrounded either by diminutive pyramids, or by the ruins of small edifices, or perhaps both intermingled. Near the centre of this circle is a similar ruin, from which proceeds a regular street forty or fifty feet wide, running north and south, and bounded on both sides by ruins of apparently small pyramids, on which are distinct traces of the walls of houses divided into small apartments. At the head of the street is a large rough stone, with a circle sculptured on one side of it; beyond the wall of this circle, on the west, we were shown a singularly cut stone of large size. It is ten feet three inches long, five feet one inch wide, and four feet five inches high above the ground, in which it seems partly buried. We collected every where various wrought pieces of obsidian.

The larger pyramid is a little distant from the street to the east of it. As our time was limited I ascended it hastily, and found that, except in size it differs only in one respect from the other: about midway a terrace extends around it. The faces of both pyramids correspond with the four points of the compass. The view from them extends over the lake of Tescuco to the city of Mexico, and beyond the western barrier of the plain to the snow-capped mountain of Toluca.

The large pyramid of Teotihuacan is called Tonatiuh Ytzaqual, or House of the Sun. According to Oteyza's measurements⁶ its base is 208 metres—682½ English feet—its perpendicular height is 55 metres—180.4 feet. The base of the other pyramid is much less than that of the former. This is called Mextli Ytzaqual, or House of the Moon: its height is 144.4 feet.

⁶ Humb. T. 2. l. 3. c. 8. p. 66.

The construction of these pyramids is ascribed to the Tolteck nation, in which event they were built in the eighth or ninth century.⁷ It has been asserted that these and the other Mexican Pyramids are hollow; but as far as investigations have been carried, their solidity seems established. Constructed as they are, if they were hollow the destructive influence of so many centuries which have elapsed since their erection, would have discovered it. The supposition is equally ill-founded that they are mere casings or crusts to natural eminences. So far as rains have laid them open, or the hand of man exposed to view their interior, all is artificial. It is idle to argue that if they were completely artificial, the materials which form them must have been dug from some contiguous spot, and that this has no where been discovered. Places are seen from which the materials have been collected; and the circumjacent plain is strewed thickly with tetzontli, quite abundant enough to build other pyramids, without being reduced to the necessity of digging into the earth.

⁷ Humb. T. 2. l. 3. c. 8. p. 67.

At San Juan, about half a league from the pyramids, we rejoined our carriage, and at 11 A. M. set out for Mexico, distant ten leagues. We travelled rapidly over a dreary but not a bad road, and passing Tololcingo, crossed the dry bed of the lake of Tescuco, shortening our ride a league or so. At a venta, or small inn, near Santa Clara, we had the good fortune to meet with an idol, dug up in the vicinity, which we bought; it represents a naked female, her hands crossing her breast, her nose of prodigious size, and hair plaited down the back. The figure is about two feet high.⁸

⁸ This idol was sent to the museum of the college at Charleston, S. C.

We arrived at Guadalupe at 3 P. M. and an hour's ride over a good calzada, bordered with pretty aspins, brought us to the capital. Our jaunt has been very delightful, and we have met with great kindness. From what we have seen of the antiquities of Mexico, we are impressed with a far more favorable opinion than we had entertained of the civilized state of the Indians before the Conquest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. WHITE:

The subjoined copy of an old Scotch ballad, contains so much of the beauty and genuine spirit of by-gone poetry, that I have determined to risk a frown from the fair lady by whom the copy was furnished, in submitting it for publication. The ladies sometimes violate their promises—may I not for once assume their privilege, in presenting to the readers of the Messenger this "legend of the olden time," although I promised not? Relying on the kind heart of the lady for forgiveness for this breach of promise, I have anticipated the pardon in sending you the lines, which I have never as yet seen in print.

SIDNEY.

BALLAD.

They have giv'n her to another— They have sever'd ev'ry vow; They have giv'n her to another, And my heart is lonely now; They remember'd not our parting— They remember'd not our tears, They have sever'd in one fatal hour The tenderness of years. Oh! was it weal to leave me? Thou couldst not so deceive me; Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee, Lost, lost Rosabel! They have giv'n thee to another— Thou art now his gentle bride; Had I lov'd thee as a brother, I might see thee by his side; But I know with gold they won thee, And thy trusting heart beguil'd; Thy mother too, did shun me, For she knew I lov'd her child. Oh! was it weal to leave me? Thou couldst not so deceive me; Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee, Lost, lost Rosabel! They have giv'n her to another— She will love him, so they say; If her mem'ry do not chide her, Oh! perhaps, perhaps she may; But I know that she hath spoken What she never can forget; And tho' my poor heart be broken, It will love her, love her yet. Oh! was it weal to leave me? Thou couldst not so deceive me; Lang and sairly shall I grieve thee, Lost, lost Rosabel!

From the Baltimore Visiter.

THE COLISEUM. A PRIZE POEM.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length, at length—after so many days Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered, and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory. Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence and Desolation! and dim Night! Gaunt vestibules! and phantom-peopled aisles! I feel ye now: I feel ye in your strength! O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls; Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat: Here, where the dames of Rome their yellow hair Wav'd to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle: Here, where on ivory couch the Cæsar sate, On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder: Here, where on golden throne the monarch loll'd, Glides spectre-like unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones. These crumbling walls; these tottering arcades; These mouldering plinths; these sad, and blacken'd shafts; These vague entablatures; this broken frieze; These shattered cornices; this wreck; this ruin; These stones, alas!—these gray stones—are they all— All of the great and the colossal left By the corrosive hours to Fate and me? "Not all,"—the echoes answer me; "not all: Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise for ever From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, As in old days from Memnon to the sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men. We rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not desolate—we pallid stones; Not all our power is gone; not all our fame; Not all the magic of our high renown; Not all the wonder that encircles us; Not all the mysteries that in us lie; Not all the memories that hang upon, And cling around about us as a garment, Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written in the Village of A——, Virginia.

Sweet village of the mountain glen! Thy verdant shades are dear to me; I shun the busy haunts of men, And to thy peaceful bosom flee; For smiling nature's summer home Is found beside thy flashing rills, And when the winter-tempests come, She reigns upon thy rugged hills. Upon thy rocks the tow'ring pine, The hemlock and the cedar grow; And high the wild and flow'ring vine, Its tendrils round their branches throw. 'Tis sweet to stray thy paths along, Beside some bright and rippling stream Whose waters with a murm'ring song, Glance gaily in the sunny beam. Through distant lands my feet may roam, In foreign climes my dwelling be, Unchang'd where'er I make my home, My heart will still abide with thee. Yes! still with thee, in joy or woe, On desert land, or stormy sea, In pain or bliss, where'er I go, My love will ever dwell with thee.

A. L. B.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Extracts from the Auto-biography of Pertinax Placid.

MY FIRST NIGHT IN A WATCHHOUSE.

CHAP. II.

This was our hero's earliest scrape; but whether I shall proceed with his adventures is Dependent on the public altogether: We'll see, however, what they say to this. [Don Juan.

We found Fenella in much trouble. That buoyant mind which the vicissitudes of a changing and precarious profession could not sadden or subdue, proved itself vulnerable to the weapons of ridicule.

"And so, my young deserter, you have come at last. Here have I been grieving myself to death at the malice of Mc——, and you have felt no sympathy in my trouble, or have been too indolent or indifferent to give me one word of comfort. Shame on you! Is this your friendship?"

I made my excuses with the best grace I could assume, and assured her I had just learned the cause of her uneasiness. She readily believed me, for she was too sincere herself to doubt the sincerity of others.

"I do not know," said she, "but my annoyance at this affair may seem overstrained. To those who call themselves philosophers, it may appear childish in me to grieve at such an attempt to render me ridiculous. But I am a mere woman, and no philosopher; besides, my case is a peculiar one. On the stage we have so often, I might say so habitually, to overstep what by other women are considered the bounds of modesty, that she who preserves the essential principle of that great charm of the sex, is most jealous in keeping her claim to it inviolate. The world gives us credit for but little feminine delicacy—and the world reasons correctly in doing so. But correct reasoning does not always reach the facts of peculiar cases. It may be thought strange, but I know it to be true, that a woman who in the presence of hundreds suffers herself to be embraced, kissed, and fondled by men of gross character and disgusting manners, and who embraces and caresses them in turn, should revolt at the idea of permitting such liberties in private. I know this to be so in my own case. And even were all those women whose lot is unfortunately cast upon the stage, as licentious as both the virtuous and the vicious are pleased to suppose them, they must indeed be debased and degraded, to yield themselves to that indiscriminate licentiousness which the world's censure would imply. Few know how far the enthusiasm of an artist, his aspirations after excellence, his love of abstract beauty, may check and overcome every prurient thought, every low born imagination. The sculptor, when he moulds the beings of his fancy into forms of loveliness, is alive only to the spirit of his art; his mind is filled with the beauty of his conceptions, and is purified by the intenseness of his desire to attain the summit of excellence, from every grovelling idea. He is not, surely, to be classed with those who, looking upon his works with vulgar eyes, find in them food for lascivious thoughts, and stimulants to unhallowed passions. So it is with acting. The actress has placed before her a mark of excellence which she is ambitious to attain, and in striving for its attainment, all minor considerations are thrown aside. The exhibition of a passion must not be shorn of its accessories; and whatever is necessary to its full development she yields to, with as little thought of grossness or indelicacy in caressing an individual who represents her husband or her lover, as the artist indulges when painting Eve in the undress of nature. It would be well for such as suppose that these exhibitions indicate a want of modesty, to know how totally the mind is absorbed in the desire to embody the conceptions of the poet, when an actress in Belvidera or Monimia gives a loose rein to the passions, and regardless of the being with whom she is associated, contributes, by the very freedom which the over-virtuous delight to censure, in producing the delusion of the scene. In playing her part, not one thought is given to the man whom she embraces. No—she is for the time a fictitious character—the character of the scene, insensible to any other feeling but that which the poet has delineated. But how differently do the work-a-day world argue this matter. They seldom, if ever, separate the actress from the woman—and every action is judged of according to the gross ideas of the vulgar minded, or the fastidious scruples of those who measure a dramatic representation by the rules which prevail in private society. I know full well the invidious position which, as an actress, I occupy in the opinion of the public; and a consciousness that in my unfortunate profession, every step towards the achievement of excellence must be gained by a sacrifice of personal respect, often gives me melancholy sensations. Do you then wonder at the pain I have suffered from this malignant endeavor of Mc——'s to render me ridiculous?"

"But still," said Nichols, "the attack in itself is unworthy of notice. The same talent might render the proudest woman in the city an object of equal ridicule."

"Very true, but it would not find the public disposed to laugh with the caricaturist. The general sentiment would be against him, for he would have outraged what every man would be ready to defend—the sanctity of female privacy, and the decencies of social life. But such a case is strongly contrasted with mine, and it is that which renders it to me so peculiarly painful. The actress lives in the full glare of public observation, and the libeller who holds her up to contempt, invades no sanctuary which all hold sacred; he only makes her subservient to public amusement in a new character. If her pride be wounded, if her delicacy be shocked—she has few to sympathise with her, for few believe she possesses either pride or delicacy, and none deem it their duty to defend her from the attacks of her enemy."

Fenella paused, and I saw the tears glisten upon her cheek; but she turned away her face, and hastily brushed them off, as if ashamed that her weakness should be observed.

"You do your friends injustice," said I. "You do indeed. There are a few who do not think thus lightly of your feelings, and who are ready to defend you from assaults of whatever kind."

"Doubtless there are a few," said she, "who feel for me. It would be unjust in me to doubt it. But it is the want of that general feeling of sympathy which would be excited in favor of any other woman, that I feel most keenly. To know that in proportion as my professional exertions are admired, my private feelings are disregarded, gives point to the malice of Mc——, and renders that a cause of pain and mortification which ought to be the object of contempt. But we will say no more upon the subject. Perhaps I have said too much, for I see that you and Nichols are distressed by my complaints. I will not repeat them; but endeavor to display more of what Nichols calls philosophy."

The train of our conversation was broken off by the entrance of Selden and Cleaveland. Fenella's spirits were soon restored, and she became as gay and fascinating as usual. Various topics were discussed, and much pleasant badinage filled up the time until tea—which Fenella particularly patronized, in spite of the fashion—made its appearance.

"Pray, Master Pertinax," said Fenella, "how have you employed your time since I last saw you? You have lost a deal of green room scandal, and missed seeing some of the finest of green room absurdities, by your long estrangement from the Theatre."

"Well, saving your presence, I have been occupied with better things—a hard student have I been—and although the merry bells of the Driving Club sounded their peals under my windows twice during my seclusion; although I saw their gorgeous train of carioles piled with buffalo robes, and flaunting in blue and crimson trimmings, glide merrily by; and though among the furred and feathered demoiselles who sat within them, I knew there was one whom it would have been delightful to be near; nay more, although under a silver-grey Chinchilla bonnet, there shone forth two lustrous black eyes—yet did I resist the lure, and turn again to my studies. I have declined three balls where I knew I should meet that 'Cynthia of the minute,' with whom, at this particular time, I cannot but believe I am most foolishly in love. I have resisted the temptation of skating, and a special invitation from the Curling Club to witness an important match. All these and many more allurements have failed to withdraw me from my books."

"Bless me, what a Solomon you will become, if you persevere in your labors! But your stoicism surprises me. Can it be possible that Marian Lindsay's load-stars failed in attraction?"

"Nonsense! I have said nothing of Marian Lindsay or her load-stars, as you are pleased to call them. Her eyes are not black, nor are they those I spoke of."

"What, a new attraction! Well, I see that I must relinquish the task of keeping you steady. I had hopes, when I prudently endeavored to prevent your falling in love with me, (which you cannot deny you had more than half a mind to do,) by directing your amorous disposition towards a proper object, that your fancy would endure at least a month or two. Do you not now perceive what a folly I should have been guilty of, had I suffered you to dangle, as you wished, at my apron string?"

"I do indeed. Still, I may say with honest Jack Falstaff, 'ere I knew thee, I knew nothing.'"

"Yes," said she, "and I can finish the sentence with equal truth—'and now art thou little better than one of the wicked.' But I deny your declaration, for you have confessed to the truth of your intrigues with the little Canadian milliner, and the blue eyed Irlandaise."

"I admit it; but those were unsophisticated flirtations."

"Unsophisticated! Mercy on us!"

"Oh yes," said Selden, "and he stoutly denies having ever sighed to you, Fenella; and talks a deal of nonsense about friendship, as though such a feeling ever existed between a lad of nineteen and a lady under twenty-five."

"Upon that subject," replied Fenella, "we can at least keep our own counsel."

"Come, Cleaveland," said I, "we are bound in the same direction. I have a few words to say to you, and if you are at leisure we will walk."

"I hope I have not driven you away," said Selden.

"Pshaw! I am not so easily driven."

Tea was over, and Cleaveland and I rose to depart. Fenella accompanied us to the door, and said to me in a monitory tone: "Now, Pertinax, be careful what you do in relation to the caricature. Keep out of difficulty with Mc——. You cannot be of any service to me in that affair, and may injure yourself by your interference. I know your disposition to serve me; but I also know that your impetuosity is more likely to involve you in difficulty than to bring me out of it. Be cautious, I beseech you."

"Do not be alarmed," said I, somewhat piqued, "my indifference will be my protection."

"I do not believe that, nor do I believe that you are indifferent to my feelings; and the caution I now give you is a proof that I do not think so."

A pressure of the hand was my only reply to this conciliatory speech; and we left the house.

It was early in the evening, and quite dark, as we mounted the ice in the middle of the street, preferring the risk of being run down by traineaus or carioles, on that narrow pass, to stumbling against steps, cellar doors, and other obstructions on the trottoir of an avenue, feebly lighted by here and there a dim and solitary lamp. We pursued our way down St. Paul's street, and in passing the shop where "Timothy Crop, Fashionable Hair Dresser and Perruquier," shone in gilt letters, illuminated by a lamp, a glance shewed us two copies of Fenella's effigy, displayed with most provoking prominence in a bow-window, which was brilliantly lighted.

"Curses on that fellow," said I. "Is there no way in which this nuisance can be prevented? You are fertile in schemes, Cleaveland; cannot you contrive some plan, if not to stop the issue of these libels, to revenge the insult offered to our friend?"

"Not I indeed, unless we hire Felix Sans Pitié¹ to thump the artist, or get Piquet,² the retired bully, to break his right arm."

¹ There was a family of Sans Pitiés, belong to a neighboring seignory, celebrated for their muscular frames and pugilistic powers. They were Voyageurs in the service of the North West, or Hudson's Bay Companies, at the time when those associations were at deadly feud, out of which grew the massacre at Red River. In the spring, previous to the setting out of the North West expeditions, the voyageurs of these companies had their rendezvous in Montreal for a day or two, during which they were generally intoxicated, and scarcely an hour passed that was not distinguished by a pugilistic combat in the old market place, which was their peculiar haunt. The Sans Pitiés when present were the champions, and challenged all comers with nearly uniform success. I have never seen more magnificent forms than these brothers displayed, when stripped for a fight. Their chests and shoulders would have been fine models for a Hercules, so muscular were they, and devoid of superfluous flesh. Their style of hitting was peculiar, and differed entirely from the English system, being far more rapid and eccentric. In general an English pugilist was more than a match for the best Canadian bully; but in one instance the youthful gladiator referred to in the text, was triumphant over a skilful pupil of Crib. It is worthy of remark, that the English bully, when completely sewed up, (to use a phrase of the prize ring) declared in a faint voice, that he had been beaten contrary to all rule, and that Sans Pitié knew no more about boxing than a horse. But the Canadian champion was once well beaten by an antagonist as little skilled as himself in the arts and mysteries of the Five's Court. I was witness to this conflict between him and an English sailor, not half his weight. The Jack-tar completely overcame his Herculean opponent, when it seemed to me that had his frame been made of any material softer than iron, he must have been demolished by Sans Pitié's blows.