——'There is moreIn such a survey, than the sating gazeOf wonder pleased, or awe that would adore,***or the mere praiseOf art and its great masters.'
——'There is moreIn such a survey, than the sating gazeOf wonder pleased, or awe that would adore,***or the mere praiseOf art and its great masters.'
The approach to the magnificent ruins of this great and ancient city was made by Del Rio from the village of Palenque. This latter place, we are led to conclude from Don Domingo Juarros, was an ancient village of Tzendales, as it was within the kingdom of that people; but of the time of its settlement by the Spaniards, we are not informed. It has been ascertained, that the first settlement made in the province, was by Diégo Mazariegos, as early as 1528, when he established the village of Ciudad Real, the present capital city of the Intendency, with the view of keeping in subjection the inhabitants of the province, which he, with much difficulty, had recovered from the natives. In the province were numerous Indian villages, filled with the peaceful owners of the soil, when invaded by the more cruel and barbarous Spaniards. St. Domingo Palenque is on the borders of the Intendencies of Ciudad Real and Yucatan. It is now the head of a Catholic curacy, and enjoys a wild but salubrious air. It is distinguished from its having within its jurisdiction the vestiges of the great city to which we have alluded, which is now called by the Spaniards, in contradistinction to the name of the above village, 'Ciudad del Palenque,' from which it is distant but a few miles. This antique city is also called, by Juarros,Colhuacan, probably for better reasons than any that have been assigned by others in giving it a different appellation. Much difference of opinion still exists as to the ancient name of this wonderful city. Professor Rafinesque contends, with much assurance, that he has found, beside the name of the city, the true key to all the extraordinary hieroglyphics to be seen there. Its real name, according to this antiquarian, wasOtulum, from the name of the river washing the borders of the city.
From Palenque, the last town northward in the province of Chiapa, says Del Rio, taking a southerly course, and ascending a ridge of high land that divides the kingdom of Guatemala from Yucatan or Campeachy, at the distance of six miles, is the little riverMicol, the waters of which, flowing in an easterly direction, unite with the great Tulija, bending toward Tobasco. After passing the Micol, the ascent begins, and at one-and-a-half miles from them, the traveller crosses another stream, called by the natives, 'Otulum,' which discharges itself also into the Tulija. Immense heaps of ruins arehere discovered, in every direction, which render the travelling very difficult for nearly two miles! At length you gain the height on which yet stand fourteen massive stone buildings, still indicating the condition in which they were left by the people who, at some remote age, dwelt within them. These, astonishing as it must seem, have withstood the ravages of time for thousands of years; and now present to the curious a character unlike that of any structures which have come down to the present period of the world. Some are more dilapidated than others; yet many of their apartments are in good condition. It was impossible for the enthusiastic explorer to proceed to an examination even of the exterior of these singular buildings, until the thick and heavy forest trees, the piles of crumbling fragments, and the superimposing earth, had been removed. Two hundred men were therefore obtained among the natives, who, with various implements, proceeded to the laborious work of removing the many obstructions upon, and immediately surrounding, the remaining buildings. All the means necessary to the execution of this difficult part of the enterprise could not be made available. In about twenty days, however, the task of felling the forest trees, and of consuming them by fire, was accomplished. Some of these trees, according to Waldrick, who has since distinctly counted their concentric circles, were more thannine hundred years of age! The workmen now breathed a freer air, and viewed the massive structures, disencumbered of the dense foliage which had enveloped them. From the summit of the mountain, forming a ridge to the plain, these buildings were presented at its base, in a rectangular area, three hundred yards in breadth, by four hundred and fifty in length, in the centre of which, on a mound sixty feet in height, stood the largest and most notable of these edifices. During a part of the time employed in prosecuting the work, a thick fog pervaded the plain. This may have arisen from the retention and condensation of vaporous clouds in this region, more than five thousand feet above the level of the sea. On the clearing away of the forest, however, a pure atmosphere existed, and the venerable relics stood boldly in view.
From the central temple, (for such it was,) was seen stupendous heaps of stone fragments, as far as the eye could reach; the distance to which they extended, being traversed, was more than eight leagues! They stretched along the base of the mountain in a continuous range. The other buildings, which so long resisted the devastating influence of time, were seen upon high and spacious mounds of earth, and all surrounding the principalteoculi, or temple, above-mentioned. There were five to the north; four at the south; three at the east, and one at the west; all built of hewn stone, in the most durable style of architecture. The river Micol winds around the base of the mountain, at this point of the ancient city, and was here nearly two miles in width. Into this descend small streams, which wash the foundations of the buildings. Were it not for the forest, a view would here present itself, calculated to excite the beholder with the profoundest emotions. Here and there might be seen the crumbling remnants of civil, sacred, and military works. Walls, columns, tablets, and curiously-sculptured blocks,fortifications, passes, dykes, viaducts, extensive excavations, and subterranean passages, broke upon the sight in all directions. Even now, the observer sees many of these specimens of art diversifying the scene before him. The bas-reliefs and hieroglyphics fill him with wonder and enthusiasm. The field of research and of speculation seems, indeed, unbounded, which way soever he turns his eye.
The natural beauty of the scene is also unrivalled; the waters sweet and pure, the locality charming and picturesque; the soil rich and fertile, beyond any other portion of the globe; and the climate incomparably genial and healthful. Natural productions teem in wild and luxuriant profusion. Fruits and vegetables, which, under the hand of cultivation, undergo the happiest modifications, are every where seen in the greatest abundance. The rivers abound with numerous varieties of fish and molusca, and these streams being large, afford every facility for navigation, in almost every direction. The people are presumed to have maintained an active and peaceful commerce with their neighbors, whose ruined cities have recently been discovered in different directions, and which we shall hereafter have occasion more particularly to notice. The great Tulija opens a passage for trade to the province of Tabasco, on the sea-coast of Catasaja. The Chacamal, falling into the great Usumasinta, presents a direct route and easy passage to the kingdom of Yucatan, where it may be supposed was their principal depôt of commerce. The rivers afforded them short and uninterrupted communications east, north, and west. The primitive inhabitants of the province of Yucatan, from the similarity of the relics there found, and from the obvious analogy of their customs and religion to those of Palenque, were in the closest bonds of alliance with their Chiapian neighbors. Indeed, from all the evidence we are enabled to collect in relation to this people, they must have enjoyed a felicity more pure and substantial than that of any other nation on the face of the globe.
In the opening of our next number, we shall present a brief description of one of the principal structures to which we have alluded, as having so long outlived their Palencian founders; satisfied that these noble relics, which have come down to us through gray antiquity, must possess deep interest to all inquiring minds; connected as they are with a people, all records of whom are lost to the world.
Lady!I thank thee that I here may wreatheMy name with many whom thou lovest well;Though not in 'words that burn, or thoughts that breathe,'Can I the wishes of my bosom tell:But there is nothing I need ask for thee,Of aught to maiden's heart most deeply dear;Yet there is one thing I need wish forme—It is, to keep my memory fadeless here.This much I know thou wilt to me accord,Although I give thy clustering hair no flattering word,Nor praise the flashing of thy clear, dark eye,(Though praise them as I might, I should not lie;)Here then I leave these wishes of my heart—May I be unforgot, and thou just such as now thou art!
Lady!I thank thee that I here may wreatheMy name with many whom thou lovest well;Though not in 'words that burn, or thoughts that breathe,'Can I the wishes of my bosom tell:But there is nothing I need ask for thee,Of aught to maiden's heart most deeply dear;Yet there is one thing I need wish forme—It is, to keep my memory fadeless here.This much I know thou wilt to me accord,Although I give thy clustering hair no flattering word,Nor praise the flashing of thy clear, dark eye,(Though praise them as I might, I should not lie;)Here then I leave these wishes of my heart—May I be unforgot, and thou just such as now thou art!
G. P. T.
'Thepassion which concentrates its strength and beauty upon one object, is a rich and terrible stake, the end whereof is death. The living light of existence is burnt out in an hour, and what remains? The dust and the darkness!'L. E. L.
'Thepassion which concentrates its strength and beauty upon one object, is a rich and terrible stake, the end whereof is death. The living light of existence is burnt out in an hour, and what remains? The dust and the darkness!'
L. E. L.
Endow'dwith all that heart could wish,With all that wealth could bring,I 'mov'd amid a glittering throng,'A vain and worshipped thing.From myriads who beset my path,My heart selected thee;Though lips of love thy follies nam'd,Those faultsIcould not see.That wealth was mine, I heeded not,And cared not to be told;To one I deem'd of priceless worth,How mean a gift was gold!My beauty was a brighter dower,And worthier far to beThe vain oblation of the hourThat saw me pledged to thee!Thy bride—for thus was plighted faith,And pledge and promise kept;I smil'd deridingly on thoseWho look'd on me, and wept:I dar'd my doom; that reckless smile,Its memory haunts me still,Recurring 'mid each change to addIntensity to ill!Amid each change—and change to meHas been with evil fraught,Yet long I vainly sought to gildThe ruin thou hadst wrought;Beneath the stern, unjust rebuke,Love's holy silence kept,And at a cold and thankless shrine,I worship'd while I wept!I learn'd to look upon the browWhere stern indifference sat,But love—the love a rival shared—I could not witness that!I saw thee on another smile,I mark'd the mute caress,And blush'd in agony to thinkI could not love thee less!The shaft has entered!—other handHad vainly aimed the blow;With thee I had unshrinking metA world of want or wo;With thee I fearlessly had dar'dEach form of earthly ill,And 'mid the desert, bird and flowerHad gaily met me still.The shaft has entered!—even thouWilt weep to learn my fate;Oh, would that I could spare the pangWhich then will come too late!Alas for life, which from the pastNo closing light can borrow,Whose story is a tale of sin,Of suffering, and sorrow!
Endow'dwith all that heart could wish,With all that wealth could bring,I 'mov'd amid a glittering throng,'A vain and worshipped thing.From myriads who beset my path,My heart selected thee;Though lips of love thy follies nam'd,Those faultsIcould not see.
That wealth was mine, I heeded not,And cared not to be told;To one I deem'd of priceless worth,How mean a gift was gold!My beauty was a brighter dower,And worthier far to beThe vain oblation of the hourThat saw me pledged to thee!
Thy bride—for thus was plighted faith,And pledge and promise kept;I smil'd deridingly on thoseWho look'd on me, and wept:I dar'd my doom; that reckless smile,Its memory haunts me still,Recurring 'mid each change to addIntensity to ill!
Amid each change—and change to meHas been with evil fraught,Yet long I vainly sought to gildThe ruin thou hadst wrought;Beneath the stern, unjust rebuke,Love's holy silence kept,And at a cold and thankless shrine,I worship'd while I wept!
I learn'd to look upon the browWhere stern indifference sat,But love—the love a rival shared—I could not witness that!I saw thee on another smile,I mark'd the mute caress,And blush'd in agony to thinkI could not love thee less!
The shaft has entered!—other handHad vainly aimed the blow;With thee I had unshrinking metA world of want or wo;With thee I fearlessly had dar'dEach form of earthly ill,And 'mid the desert, bird and flowerHad gaily met me still.
The shaft has entered!—even thouWilt weep to learn my fate;Oh, would that I could spare the pangWhich then will come too late!Alas for life, which from the pastNo closing light can borrow,Whose story is a tale of sin,Of suffering, and sorrow!
Rebecca.
NUMBER TWO.
London!—in solid magnificence—in all that the most visionary dreams of wealth can imagine—where is her parallel! Paris may surpass her in grace; the never-ending sound of joy that echoes through the streets of the French metropolis, may pleasingly contrast with the commercial solemnity which pervades her; but she alone has achieved that imperial crown which cities like her only can wear, and which is only to be won by centuries of untiring enterprise.
Five thousand a year in London is no great things. A man may, to be sure, appear among the great world, by its aid; but it can only be informa pauperis. If he seek to imitate those by whom he is tolerated, he is ruined. Thus fared it with our hero. A desire to appear even as a star amid the constellations by whom he was surrounded, led him to ape, still at an humble distance, their extravagances. But this was enough to destroy him. His house, his horses, and his chariot, in due time came to the hammer, and for the benefit of his creditors. But still Mitford had a thousand guineas left. Though reduced to poverty, he did not despair; but the source to which he looked was a delusive one. He turned to gaming, and invoked the spirit of chance.
Oh, Gaming!—of all vices thou art the most seductive, for thou assailest us through our avarice. What the merchant feels, when his ship is on the seas—what the broker feels, while the rise or fall of stocks is yet undecided—that delightful agony of suspense, which flattering Hope whispers may be decided in his favor—all this the gambler feels, while yet his stakes are on the table. From other vices a man may be divorced. The bottle he may relinquish—women he may forswear—but gambling, never!
Mitford was in the habit, since the decadence of his fortunes, of visiting those palaces of vice which, in defiance of the severest laws, rear their pernicious heads in the most public portions of the British metropolis; the more seductive, because they put forth all the blandishments of the most refined elegance—mirrors, Turkey carpets, the most exquisite wines, and last, though not least, acuisineover which Ude himself might have presided without a blush.
It may be said, 'Why are not these houses put down?' It must be responded, that in a free country, abuses of liberty will always take place. No good is inseparable from its concomitant evil. The magistracy once upon a time determined to be firm. Some of the gaming houses were attacked; the iron doors were forced; the barred windows were escaladed. Some of the proprietors, and twenty of the votaries, were captured, together with the guilty instruments of their occupation.
From Bow-street they were released on bail. The case came on to be tried at the Clerkenwell Sessions.
What an array! Three clergymen, two lords, sundry merchants and gentlemen, indicted for a misdemeanor, subjecting them to the discipline of the tread-mill! The usual forms were gone through; the prisoners pleaded not guilty. What sane culprit ever does otherwise?Counsellor Phillips closes for the defence, urging the usual clap-traps of 'Liberty of British subjects,' 'violation of private rights,' etc. 'Shall it be said, gentlemen,' continued he, 'that we shall not transact what business, or enjoy what amusement, we please, in our own houses, without being subject to the interference of the armed myrmidons of the police? Gentlemen, it is the duty of every citizen to resist such gross encroachments on his rights. For my part, were my house assailed, I would do what I have no doubt you would, defend my threshold to the last drop of my blood, and with a pistol in one hand, and a dagger in the other, deal merited death to the aggressors.'
The jury were wonderfully tickled. Verdict, 'Not guilty!'
On the foundation of this verdict, rose Crackford's palace, at which in one night a million has changed hands, and the average never falls below three hundred thousand! Whoever doubts the lamentable, nay, hideous consequences often resulting from this fatal passion, should ponder well on the following, too well authenticated to admit of skepticism.
A lieutenant in the army, a most meritorious officer, strongly attached to play, found himself suddenly plunged by this addiction deeply in debt. His resources, save the scanty means derived from his commission, had long been swallowed up. Nothing was left, except to sell his commission, and then what fate awaited his lovely wife and three children! In the horror of the thought, an idea seized him, as guilty as it was desperate. A certain nobleman, of singular habits, he was informed, would traverse a little-frequented part of the country, on a stated night, bearing with him a large sum of money, the produce of his rents. The lieutenant determined to rob him.
Lord S—— was rolling tranquilly along in his carriage, enjoying the most placid state of mind, and felicitating the country at large and himself in particular, on the very great security with which nightly journeys could be made on the high roads, and which his lordship, in no inconsiderable degree, attributed to the legislative wisdom of his ancestors. At this moment, a horseman, enveloped in a capacious cloak, and mounted on a heavy charger, rode against the leaders with such force as to bring them to an instantaneous stop. To fell the postillion and coachman, open the door of the carriage, and present a pistol at his lordship's head, was the work of a moment.
'Your money or your life!' cried the robber, in a tone of assumed roughness.
Lord S——, if he had all the dignity, had also inherited all the courage, of his ancestors. He replied by pulling a trigger at the speaker's head. The weapon missed fire.
'Such another attempt will cost your lordship your life. Deliver instantly all the money your lordship has in your carriage.'
'On my word, young man, you are very peremptory; and though I cannot say I admire your proceeding, yet I suppose I must comply. Here is a purse containing fifty pounds, and here are two diamond rings, which I have just now disengaged from my fingers, to their very sensible inconvenience.'
'This, my lord, is not sufficient. I know you have a sum of three thousand pounds placed under the right seat of your carriage. Despair, my lord, has driven me to this desperate purpose. That sum you must deliver up, or I shall stop at nothing to obtain it.'
'Really, Sir, your precise information as to my affairs is admirable. Here, then, is the box containing three thousand pounds—as I should be extremely sorry to embrace the alternative you insinuate.'
'Your lordship will excuse the inconvenience to which I have been forced to subject you, and be assured I only accept this as a loan.'
'My good nature is extreme, and I will even extend it so far, on one condition; which is, that you favor me with a meeting, this day three months, at the entrance of the Coliseum.'
'If your lordship will pledge me your honor not to adopt any unpleasant measures, and not to refer to this untoward event, I certainly will.'
'My honor is pledged,' said his lordship, his hand on his right breast.
'And I will comply,' replied the robber, riding off with his booty.
'Jasmin! Turquoise!' exclaimed his lordship to his discomfited coachman and postillion, 'if your brains are not knocked out, pray re-mount and proceed.'
The 'interlocked,' who happily happened not to be in the predicament suggested by his lordship, obeyed orders, and the carriage proceeded.
Theappointed time for meeting had nearly arrived. Lord S—— was entertaining a distinguished colonel at his mansion in Belgrave Square. His lordship related to him the event, and the robber's promise. The colonel laughed at the idea of the meeting. 'Do you really think,' said he, 'your highwayman is so ambitious of the halter as to be punctual?'
'I am persuaded,' said Lord S——, 'that something extraordinary must have driven that young man to this perilous step. My idea is to reform him. You must come with me.' The colonel consented.
At the given day, they repaired to the entrance of the Coliseum. A young man, in a military undress, and whose exterior announced the gentleman, met them. Lord S—— immediately recognised him as the interrupter of his midnight journey. They proceeded into the interior of the Coliseum. The stranger appeared visibly embarrassed by the presence of the colonel. In half an hour he took his leave.
'What think you of my highwayman?' said Lord S—— to the colonel.
'Think!' said the latter; 'the fellow is a member of my own regiment. He must be apprehended and punished.'
'My dear colonel,' said Lord S——, 'you forget that I am bound to secrecy. No such thing shall be done.'
'But the interests of society'—said the colonel, who forthwith uttered a long chapter on that much-abused subject.
'Society, my dear colonel, will never suffer by the reformationrather than the punishment of a criminal. I am not one of those who think myself specially commissioned to avenge the wrongs of society. They who do, generally use the pretence as a cloak to their own ill nature.'
The colonel finally permitted himself to be persuaded. But it was highly probable the young man, finding himself discovered, would be driven to phrenzy. He was probably then with his family. Lord S—— obtained his address from the colonel, flew to his house, where he found the wretched man's wife distracted, his children in tears, and himself preparing to go—he knew not whither.
Lord S—— dried up their tears, assured the lieutenant of his forgiveness, nay farther, of his assistance. The lieutenant resigned his commission, and accepted service in a foreign land, where, by a vigorous renouncement of play, and consequent attention to his profession, he finally rose to distinction.
Now I would by no means seriously advise any young man, however much inconvenienced for money, to take to the highway, for there are few persons in the world like Lord S——, and vast numbers disposed to avenge 'the interests of society.'
Mitfordhad long deserted No. 10 St. James' Square, and No. 7 Pall-Mall, for the more humble and smaller hazards of '5 Bury,' and '10 King-street;' and though at each of these tables he could see the spectres of ruined adventurers flitting round the scenes of their destruction, and who were rather tolerated by the proprietors from fear, than suffered from choice, yet example gave no lesson to our hero, who, like thousands of others who had preceded him, hoped he should be able to avoid the disasters which all others had found it impossible to shun.
One fatal evening, he carried the whole of his funds with him, determined to 'make or mar' his fortune. From five in the evening, with various alternations of chance, he hung over the bank ofrouge et noir. Morning dawned, and saw him a beggar.
He quitted the pandemonium. Fevered, heart-sick, and agonized, he rapidly traversed Pall-Mall, and plunged into Hyde-Park. The broad and placid sheet of the Serpentine lay before him, reflecting the early rays of the sun, and projecting back the shadows of the thousand palaces which seemed to claim a fairy existence in its waters.
A sudden thought struck him. Perhaps it had directed him there. Might he not at once end all his troubles, and find quiet and a grave in the stream on whose banks he now wandered?
But whatever might have been Mitford's other faults, that reckless infidelity, which must always accompany the suicide, formed no portion of his character. From the instructions of an affectionate mother he had early imbibed those religious lessons, which, however silent they may have remained amid the glare and gayeties of the world, struck him with peculiar force in the midst of his desolation, and he shrunk aghast from the thought of rushing into the presence of his Creator, unabsolved by penitence, and bearing fresh on his soul the impress of a mortal crime.
He turned toward his humble residence, with a throbbing brain. The streets were already crowded, but Mitford heeded not the bustle which surrounded him. The absolute, irretrievable, hopeless ruin into which he had fallen, alone occupied his thoughts; and his eyes saw nothing but the future misery to which he was doomed. The crowds turned to gaze at him, as he rushed elbowing through them, and seemed to think him some fugitive from a mad-house.
Arrived at home, he threw himself on his bed. The pent-up sorrows of his nature gushed out in torrents of tears, and his agony found a vent in audible sobs. But it has been wisely ordained that no sorrow, however acute, no grief, however overwhelming, should prey upon the mind with equal and continued fervency. The floodgates of sorrow once opened, the mind, relieved from the oppression, re-bounds from the cause in which its sorrows had their source; Pride comes to the relief of Despair, and the siren Hope has yet another delusive whisper to console.
Thus fared it with Mitford. Fatigued with the grievous outpouring of his soul, he slept.
Wehave hitherto seen Mitford carried away by the frivolities of fashion, and even culpably straying from the strict path of morality; but it must not be imagined that his acquaintances consisted alone of those giddy moths, who cease to flutter round the candle the moment it ceases to blaze. Many of his father's friends, solid merchants with well-ballasted heads, he still continued to cultivate; and he formed some intimacies with families of sterling worth—whether we count it in virtue or in pounds—among retired traders.
Let us now turn to more domestic matters. Some months had elapsed, and Mitford had long ceased to be a desirable resident at any of the fashionable hotels. There is no place in the world where a man can live so long without money, as London; but it is necessary to have a little, sometimes. Tavern-keepers, in this civilized age, are audacious enough to expect payment for their mutton after it has been eaten. So much for the march of democracy!
Refugiated in a suburban lodging, verging on that truly English appellation, 'the shabby genteel,' he breakfasted at nine, and made his exit at ten, exactly, leaving his landlady in considerable doubt whether he was a moderate annuitant, a half-pay officer, a junior in a banking-house, or an attorney's clerk.
While absent on one of these morning excursions, his laundress called with his clothes. 'This makes five-and-thirty shillings as how Mr. Mitford owes me.'
'And as how,' says the landlady, peering from the top of the stairs, 'he owes me for five weeks rent.'
'Strange he doesn't pay!' echoed the woman of suds.
That morning Mitford's evil star predominated. His tailor, his wine-merchant, and his butcher, presented themselves together.
'We wants our money!' cries the trio in a breath.
On such occasions landladies are always curious. Ours adjusted her hair, and asked them into her parlor.
'How much does he owe you?' asked she of the man of port and champagne.
'Two hundred and eighty-six pounds, not to mention odd shillings and pence.'
'My eyes! what a lot of money!' echoes the laundress; 'and all for such outlandish stuff! I never drinks nothing but small beer, 'cept it's a quartern o' gin.'
'And my bill,' said the Schneider, 'is three hundred pounds.'
'And mine,' cried the man of beef, 'is two hundred.'
'I tell you what, gem'men,' says the landlady, 'in my opinion you'll never see a shiner; he owes me for five weeks rent.'
'I wish I could get my bottles back,' says the man of champagne.
'I'll never get my clothes,' says the man of measures.
'It's no use standing no nonsense,' says he of beef; 'a gem'man as has got no money, is no gem'man, and dash my wigs! if he don't pay me, I'll tell him so!'
'I'll seize his trunk!' says the landlady.
'And I'll keep his clothes!' said Suds, 'when I can get them again.'
'I'll have satisfaction!' says the man of beef, his hand reverting insensibly to his steel; for in the mind of a butcher, satisfaction is inseparable from slaughtering a sheep or lamb.
The trio finally agreed to call that evening, and not depart without the wherewithal.
Poor Mitford unsuspectingly came home to dinner. Scarce had he concluded, when the man of wine, of measures, and of beef, made a simultaneous attack.
Now even when a man has money, to be dunned immediately succeeding dinner, and forced to pay out a certain quantum of pounds, shillings, and pence, is horridly provoking. What then must it be to a man who hasnomoney? What must it have been to Mitford, who by no means boasted the mildest of tempers—who was still more soured by recent misfortune—and who had three of the noisiest of the genus 'dun' to deal with?
We must not then be surprised, if the man of beef found himself with a single leap from the drawing-room window at the street door; if the Schneider made but two steps down the stair-case; and if the prompt exit of the man of bottles was accelerated by an impetus to the Hotentonian portion of his unmentionables.
That night Mitford interrupted the charitable predilection of his landlady for his trunks, by discharging his 'little bill,' and the following morning found him on his way to France.
Calaisis the grand resource of those English who live to eschew bailiffs. Sufficiently near to England to admit of a quick correspondence, it at the same time presents moderate charges.
At Desseins Mitford met the celebrated Brummel, whom he found, in dress and manners, nothing more than a gentleman should be. Oh, Bulwer! how could you travestie one of the most perfect gentlemenof modern times, by adopting, in 'Pelham,' that story of the 'Ruelles?'—'Do you call that thing a coat?' Brummel told Mitford he intended to write a book, entitled 'Characters in Calais,' who facetiously recommended him to prefix the substantive 'bad' to the title, being most descriptive of the English society generally met there.
One day Brummel was seated at table with Colonel Haubrey, of the Grenadier Guards. He had a beautiful Mosaic music-box, which he exhibited to the latter. It presented some difficulty in opening. The colonel was about using his dessert-knife.
'I beg you to remark, colonel,' said Brummel, gently resuming his Mosaic, 'that my box is not an oyster!'
On this occasion, he related a curious anecdote of the tenacity of French duns.
'A literary friend of mine,' said he, 'making a temporary sojourn in Paris, and sadly in want of remittances, was one day beset by his boot-maker for a trifle of forty francs. He endeavored to soothe him, but in vain; and as apis aller, told the man of sole to 'go to the devil!'
'Ah!' cried the enraged cobbler, 'you tell me to go to the diable! By gar, I will make de scandale—degrande scandale! You shall see vat I shall do!'
Straightway he posted himself at the foot of the stair-case, where he related to every passer-by the indebtedness of my friend for his boots. The man of intellect felt so indignant and annoyed at this conduct on the part of thecordonnier, that forthwith taking his last forty-franc piece from his escritoire, he threw it at the honest artizan's head, bidding him be gone—not in peace, but with his maledictions.
Brummel was a very fervent admirer of America, and descanted largely on what might be expected from the more extensive diffusion of British liberty through her means. 'It is only the illiberal and unwise,' said he, 'who apprehend that the power of America, transcendant as it must become, will injure Great Britain. On the contrary, as the one increases in prosperity, the other certainly must do so likewise. What would England be now, if America had never been discovered? At most, a second-rate power. Suppose such an operation to be possible, as that of cutting off Great Britain from all intercourse with the United States? How many thousands of her artizans must go without bread! How many of her commercial establishments decay! What destruction of wealth, ruin of palaces, and dock-yards! Such an event would occasion a scene of desolation to be paralleled only by that of Nineveh and Tyre of old.'
For a mere man of fashion, Brummel entertained some clear ideas on political subjects, by which ministers might have profited. Witness his opinions on Canada.
Butthese opinions, with the remainder of Mitford's varied history, we reserve for another number.
WRITTEN AMONG THE BLUE-RIDGE MOUNTAINS.
BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE, D. D.
Lo! it is evening: down the mountain's sideThe parting sun-beams slowly melt away:But, ere they fade, a lingering lustre shed,That loiters brilliant on the smiling peak.See how the horizon blushes—as the lastDeclining, lingering radiance of daySkirts the faint eves of heaven—while adownThe desert mountain darkness glides apace,And steals the cottage from the inquiring eye!Hark! from the copse a plaintive murmur sighs,That seems to tell a tale of sympathy.'Tis the lone rivulet, which lately sawAnd felt the sun-beams dancing on its bosom:Then o'er its gentle bed it stole in mirth,And as it flowed, chimed to the lovely scene.Ah! let me hie me to the twilight stream,To muse the solemn, silent hour away!But, as I move, upon the verge of heavenThe full broad moon, amid a host of clouds,That stand like broken battlements afar,Unveils her silvery face, and gives a beamResplendent, meek, and lovely as the hour.Sometimes the shaggy clouds inter her form,And leave me to myself and darkness—yetAnon she bursts her prison, and looks down,Like one that feels her consciousness and pride.Here, from this eminence that tops the rill,My eye goes wandering to the village nigh,Where many a taper glimmers: there, methinks,Contentment cheers the bosom—peace and mirthEntwine the heart, and give a charm to life.Where now is that tall spire, which lately gleamedAmid the bright reflections of the day!Ah! it hath vanished—shaded by the night,It rises up unseen, and each fair mansion,Save by the doubtful moon, is seen no more.Hushed is the voice of nature: to her nestThe solitary bird hath gone—and naughtSave the dark whip-poor-will is heard abroad.The meadow, but an hour ago aliveWith grazing flocks and herds, and echoing blitheThe gentle music of the ploughman's whistle,Lies cheerless and asleep—a lonely waste!Still resting on this mossy rock, 'round whichThe night-winds moan, let me indulge my soul—For to my soul 'tis sweet to linger here.Turn up thine eye to yon bright vaults of heaven,All studded o'er with gems of light serene,That glimmer through the mistiness of night:See how they travel—their unceasing roundWeaving harmonious—and rejoiced to doThe will of their Creator: 'Ah!' they say—For, to the poet's ear they speak aloud—They say: 'proud man is but a reptile thing,Lowly and dark—and still with head erect,Presumes to challenge his almighty Lord,And dares disclaim allegiance to his will.We, dressed in glory bright as heaven itself,Supremely lifted from those humble walks,To journey through interminable space,Stoop with submission to the hand that tracedThe pathway of our orbs, and love to twineA wreath of gratitude and praise to Him.'Such is the language which those stars addressTo melancholy man, while from the heathAccordant voices rise. Lo! it is night—Extinguished is the brilliant orb of day,And none is left, save those bright stars above,To cheer the solitary world. So thou,Unthinking man! shall one day see thy lifeExtinguished by the chilly touch of death.But still upon thy grave a light shall stream—And 'tis the torch ofHopeenkindled thereBy meek Religion, to watch o'er thy dust,Which life again shall animate and warm.To-morrow, and the sun shall rise sublime,Painting the face of nature; and each scene,Tinged by its golden beams, shall glow and laugh,Fraught with new life: so thou shall lay thee downWithin the midnight chambers of the tomb,And darkness shall encompass thee awhile;But then the light of Immortality,Bursting into the cold recess, shall shine,And wake thee from thy slumbers: thou shall rise,And, robed in never-fading glory, live,And rest thee on the bosom of thyGod.
Lo! it is evening: down the mountain's sideThe parting sun-beams slowly melt away:But, ere they fade, a lingering lustre shed,That loiters brilliant on the smiling peak.See how the horizon blushes—as the lastDeclining, lingering radiance of daySkirts the faint eves of heaven—while adownThe desert mountain darkness glides apace,And steals the cottage from the inquiring eye!
Hark! from the copse a plaintive murmur sighs,That seems to tell a tale of sympathy.'Tis the lone rivulet, which lately sawAnd felt the sun-beams dancing on its bosom:Then o'er its gentle bed it stole in mirth,And as it flowed, chimed to the lovely scene.
Ah! let me hie me to the twilight stream,To muse the solemn, silent hour away!But, as I move, upon the verge of heavenThe full broad moon, amid a host of clouds,That stand like broken battlements afar,Unveils her silvery face, and gives a beamResplendent, meek, and lovely as the hour.Sometimes the shaggy clouds inter her form,And leave me to myself and darkness—yetAnon she bursts her prison, and looks down,Like one that feels her consciousness and pride.
Here, from this eminence that tops the rill,My eye goes wandering to the village nigh,Where many a taper glimmers: there, methinks,Contentment cheers the bosom—peace and mirthEntwine the heart, and give a charm to life.Where now is that tall spire, which lately gleamedAmid the bright reflections of the day!Ah! it hath vanished—shaded by the night,It rises up unseen, and each fair mansion,Save by the doubtful moon, is seen no more.
Hushed is the voice of nature: to her nestThe solitary bird hath gone—and naughtSave the dark whip-poor-will is heard abroad.The meadow, but an hour ago aliveWith grazing flocks and herds, and echoing blitheThe gentle music of the ploughman's whistle,Lies cheerless and asleep—a lonely waste!
Still resting on this mossy rock, 'round whichThe night-winds moan, let me indulge my soul—For to my soul 'tis sweet to linger here.Turn up thine eye to yon bright vaults of heaven,All studded o'er with gems of light serene,That glimmer through the mistiness of night:See how they travel—their unceasing roundWeaving harmonious—and rejoiced to doThe will of their Creator: 'Ah!' they say—For, to the poet's ear they speak aloud—They say: 'proud man is but a reptile thing,Lowly and dark—and still with head erect,Presumes to challenge his almighty Lord,And dares disclaim allegiance to his will.We, dressed in glory bright as heaven itself,Supremely lifted from those humble walks,To journey through interminable space,Stoop with submission to the hand that tracedThe pathway of our orbs, and love to twineA wreath of gratitude and praise to Him.'
Such is the language which those stars addressTo melancholy man, while from the heathAccordant voices rise. Lo! it is night—Extinguished is the brilliant orb of day,And none is left, save those bright stars above,To cheer the solitary world. So thou,Unthinking man! shall one day see thy lifeExtinguished by the chilly touch of death.But still upon thy grave a light shall stream—And 'tis the torch ofHopeenkindled thereBy meek Religion, to watch o'er thy dust,Which life again shall animate and warm.
To-morrow, and the sun shall rise sublime,Painting the face of nature; and each scene,Tinged by its golden beams, shall glow and laugh,Fraught with new life: so thou shall lay thee downWithin the midnight chambers of the tomb,And darkness shall encompass thee awhile;But then the light of Immortality,Bursting into the cold recess, shall shine,And wake thee from thy slumbers: thou shall rise,And, robed in never-fading glory, live,And rest thee on the bosom of thyGod.
NUMBER ONE.
Everyage and every community have their peculiar moral and religious symptoms, under the action of the Christian system. So also every separate form of Christianity hath its own characteristic features. Doth not the Roman Catholic religion differ from the Protestant? Doth not Protestant religion in Germany differ from that which passes under the same name in Great Britain? Presbyterianism in Scotland from Episcopacy in England? English Episcopacy from Dissent? Christianity in Great Britain from Christianity in America? Congregationalism in New-England from the Presbyterianism of the middle and southern states? The two latter from Wesleyanism? The Baptists from all three? Unitarianism from the four? And American Episcopalianism from each of this tribe? We might descend to other specifications, were it needful. It is enough for our purpose, that they are suggested.
It is interesting as well as pleasant to suppose, that the actual experiment of the different and successive modes, or developments, of the divine economy of redemption, as they transpire in human society, operates as a sifting of their qualities as excellent or otherwise; and that the good gradually combine and become permanent, while the faulty, by the same gradual process, become obsolete.Human frailties have ever found their way into Christian institutions, and pervaded more or less all Christian enterprises; but the proof of time invariably determines their character before the public, and causes them to be severed from such connection—to be ejected from such society—and consequently, to lose their influence, while that which is excellent abides. Faults almost innumerable may be traced in the history of the Church; but the candid reviewer, occupying our present position, can separate the good from the bad. We are more immediately concerned, however, to observe the character ofAmerican Christianity—especially those parts of it which have been most prominent and influential, and which have generated what may be called the religious spirit of the age in our own quarter. It cannot be denied, that there is something peculiar in American religion. First, religion here has been uncommonly energetic. Next, it has assumed some striking peculiarities in its modes of operation. There has been a disposition to lay aside old forms, and to put on new ones; to make experiments; and the business ofexperimentinghas been pushed so far as to bring the public mind to a pause. It may be profitable, therefore, in the temporary and comparative quiet of this hiatus, to interpose a little philosophical inquiry.
Not to detract at all from the highly meritorious character of our forefathers, it will be obvious to the observer of the past, that the religious spirit of those who have had most influence in forming the religious character of this country, was of the puritanical school. Thus far in this statement we are innocent, and hope that no ghost will start up before he is called. Nevertheless, we begin to imagine a stirring in the graves. But we intend not to disturb the dead. We revere and laud that high Providence, which transplanted so much conscience—so much fear of himself—into these wilderness realms, and whose spirit has made this former wild abode to bud and blossom like the rose, morally and physically. We have some respect even for puritanism in 'its straitest sect;' but in some of its forms, it was, in our opinion, rathertoostrait.
Doubtless the puritanism of England was well provoked. But itwasprovoked. The peculiarities of its mood were the legitimate product of oppression; and its natural offspring, Dissent, has been nourished by the same cause. The puritans were aggrieved, and they came here for comfort. They might have been blessed with a Cromwell for a king, if an order from government had not thrown a barrier in his path of emigration through the sea, and destined him for a higher and more sublime purpose, whether for good or for evil. Certainly it was not for good, in the estimation of those who had the ill luck to keep him back by their own measures. They dreamed not, they were favored with no prophecy, of the work assigned to him. The reign of puritanism in England stands forth on the page of history as a singular and instructive drama, not to say tragedy. Doubtless there was much virtue in it; but the sublime of its enactments was so closely allied to the ridiculous, that the reader who weeps must also be prepared to laugh.
America was a better field for puritanism. It was a congenial soil. And beyond all question, here it has earned an honorable distinction, and won laurels. Though it believed in witches, and hung them, (poorcreatures!) it believed in God as well as in the devil. Though it banished Roger Williams, and interdicted the Quakers, it had this good reason: 'We came here to be by ourselves. Pray don't disturb us, when the land is so wide!' They who had experienced intolerance, might have some excuse for practising it—especially, as their theory and purpose was to have a community adhering to one catechism. They had taken and occupied vacant ground, (Indians are not counted,) for the sake of peace; and they thought the best way to maintain it, was to keep away dissentients from their opinions. Nevertheless, dissentients came in, and disputes have prevailed. But the spirit of the puritan fathers also prevailed. That spirit, with certain modifications of time and chance, has pervaded New-England society, and, to a great extent, our land. Like the Scotch, who are never at home till they get abroad, the sons of New-England have also been rather 'curious.' They have spread out to the north, to the east, to the west, and to the far west, and sent school-masters, as well as pedlars, to the south. They have subdued the wilderness in all directions; they have built and peopled our great cities and flourishing towns at the north and west; their bone and sinew have sustained our agriculture; their enterprise built our manufactories; and their love of gain has pushed our commerce to the ends of the earth. First in religion, especially in the commendable quality of zeal, and first in schools and colleges, they have been chief in influence throughout all our borders. Alas for the Presbyterian church! (fortheirsakes we say it,) the Congregationalism of New-England governs it. They must emancipate themselves as best they can. It is not for us to say which is the better of the two.
Now be it known—such at least is our philosophy—the religious novelties of the age, on our side of the water, owe their being to the New-England spirit, and had their germ in puritanism. The straitness of this excellent sect was too strait to last always. Children, kept so close on Sunday as to run themselves out of breath when let loose at sun-down, were very likely to relax that kind of discipline when they came to be parents. The blue-laws of Connecticut, once thrown off, were naturally supplanted by a more generous code. The Saybrook Platform has been thrown into the garret, or buried beneath the wreck and dust of some other deposit of old rubbish. Who can find a copy? And as for the Westminster Catechism, what pastor of New-England now assembles the children of his parish in the old school-house once a quarter to hear them recite this elaborate and comprehensive body of divinity, from beginning to end, as was the universal custom of olden time? These blessed days of New-England have gone by. The fathers are dead. A new generation, new laws, new customs, and a different set of manners, have succeeded.
But how did this grow out of puritanism? Is it not rather an abandonment of that high character? There may be a little, and not a little, of truth in both. Puritanism was itself a novelty, and novelty begets novelty. We do not mean that it never had a type; but it was cast in an English mould—a mould that was formed at a particular juncture of English history, by the operation of special and peculiar agencies; and even on Englishground, it could last in all its force only while the causes which produced it continued to take effect, and just in that proportion, allowing, indeed, a reasonable time for its natural subsidence. In America, the causes did not exist, and the subsidence was unavoidable. It was indeed a high and stern character, which would require a space for its abatement into milder forms; but it was not in man to maintain it without its original provocations.
If we were called to give a philosophical account of its productions, we should say briefly, that the basis of this character, independent of religion, was that sturdy and indomitable love of liberty which has for so many centuries characterized the English. It was only necessary to graft religion, the strongest passion of man, on such a stock, to render it truly sublime in its capabilities for endurance, or daring under oppression. The natural consequence of the annoyances and vexations of bad government with such minds, and of encroaching on the rights of conscience, was the production of a striking severity and determination of character—especially among the ruder and less cultivated classes of society. The fear of God, as every Christian is happy to record, rose above the fear of man; all sympathy between the two great parties was divorced; and neither could discern the virtues of the other. The indifferent customs of the oppressors were allied to their vices in the estimate of the oppressed, and the theory of perfection with the latter was to eschew, repudiate, and abhor that which was done or approved by the former. Some of the highest and most desirable attainments and attributes of civilization were counted as sins, and inconsistent with Christian character, simply because they were held dear by their opponents. Refinement of manners was reckoned a snare to the soul, and regarded as beneath the high aims of religion, because it was the study of courtiers, and of the higher conditions of life. To smile, was a mark of levity, or a proof of unbecoming thoughtlessness, because it might be a stage of progress toward a sinful mirth. All historical recollections of primitive self-denial, and sacrifice, and earthly painfulness, were set up as the permanent lot of Christians, and the measure of present duty. 'In the world ye shall have tribulation,' was accepted as equally applicable to all the conscientious, in all times and circumstances. In a word, the theory of Christian character was moulded by the accidents of a peculiar condition; and those accidents contributed eminently to the formation of a lofty and vigorous character, a character which combined the most essential elements of moral sublimity, and oppression matured and confirmed it. There might be some acerbity of temper under such provocations, and rusticity of manners in such a course of training. The germ of a terrible retribution might lurk and lower amid the loftier aspirations of a pure and heavenly piety; for how could a deep and abiding sense of perpetual wrong fail to have its influence over minds but partially sanctified?—and the period of the interregnum sufficiently developed this fearful ingredient. Nevertheless, it was, on the whole, a character to be respected, as well as to be feared. It was compounded of the best and of the worst elements.
But a transplantation beyond sea, in a wilderness, where all the causes of its production and the modifying circumstances of itsgrowth were wanting, did not indeed at once reduce and new-create it; for it had been too long in coming to such a maturity, to forget its former being; it had acquired too much vigor, to bend and become supple, even by a round of years, in a new world—in a field left to its own sole occupation, unsupported by the blasts and storms of its native regions. But it was morally impossible that the second generation in such circumstances should fully sustain the character of their fathers. The second was naturally destined to soften down yet more; the third to experience a farther modification; and so on, till this character should necessarily, and to a great extent, be remodelled by the altered circumstances of a new state of existence. That certain of the primitive features, enough for ever to identify the race, should remain, was as natural as that any should be effaced. And here we are, the children of our puritan fathers. Who could mistake us?
Again, we solemnly aver, that we mean not to speak disrespectfully. Far from it. Eternal shame on the recreant, who could libel such a parentage! Let the princes of the earth boast of their lineage; let the sons of a race emblazoned with the proudest heraldry, hang out the flag that displays their arms, and prove their worth and greatness, by deciphering the emblems of a piece of parchment, borrowed from the remotest antiquity. Ours be the glory of descending from a stock heaven-born by the imprint of the hand of God, who could dispute a right with kings, embarrass the wicked counsels of their ministers, measure weapons with their armies, and found and maintain an independent empire, to rival equally their wealth and power.
But this high claim affects not at all the matters of fact in our moral and religious history. For us to assert a title to perfection, would be as foolish as untrue. He is wise who knows himself; and so is that nation which understands its own history, and understanding, profits by it. Human society has no where yet attained the best possible condition. Nay, more: where is the community that has not in its bosom portentous elements of mischief? And who will deny that it is the part of wisdom to investigate and expose them, and if possible, to invent and apply a remedy? We have our virtues, doubtless, though it might be more becoming to allow the world to see and acknowledge them, than to laud ourselves. Our fathers had their virtues—enough for us to be proud of; and they and their children have had their faults. Neither is it dishonorable willingly to see and frankly to confess them. It is injudicious; it is a disease of the mind; it may lead to fatal error, to insist on bestowing and claiming praise for that in ourselves which is faulty.
While, therefore, we proceed to unfold yet more distinctly and minutely the religious blemishes of our national character, in their origin and successive modifications, we are prepared to assert our respect, and even our veneration, for the virtues of our ancestors. They who brought religion, and planted and nourished it here, were men of a high order. Nevertheless, it would be allowing more than belongs to man, in any stage of his history, or to any set of men, to write them down as perfect. We do conscientiously believe, that the puritanism of England, and that portion of it which has soextensively leavened the religion of this country, was gravely faulty, in some very essential and influential particulars. We believe, moreover, that these faults have been, directly and indirectly, the occasion of evil—of disaster to our religious history.
We have said, that puritanism was itself a novelty, in the form it assumed at the period to which we allude. It was the offspring of circumstances peculiar to the time. We have hinted that it was the parent of novelties in a series of changes that have come down to our own day. Certain it is, our eyes and ears have recently been forced to witness some strange, not to say alarming, exhibitions of religion and moral reform, in this land. They have assumed an aspect to challenge universal attention. Whoever feels an interest in Christianity, cannot fail to look upon those extraordinary phenomena of the moral world, with some concern. They demand and must receive the most grave consideration. The press which sustains them must be the organ to discuss them. They must be viewed calmly and considerately, and treated philosophically as well as conscientiously. Beyond a question, they are novel developments, but not without cause; and as certain as there is a cause, we think it may be sufficiently palpable to be traced. For ourselves, we have presumed upon the essay, and will deliver our opinion.
We have intimated that the severity of the puritanical character could not endure in all its vigor, without the continued action of its producing causes. In correspondence with this theory, we observe, that the growth of this portion of American society has given birth to a gradual and uninterrupted modification. Not to speak of others, there are two attributes very essential to give permanency and controlling influence to any specific form of human society: antiquity and a proof commending itself to the good sense of the community. Puritanism, in the form now under consideration, could not claim antiquity. True there had been things like to it; but this particular type was well understood to have been of recent origin. It grew out of resistance to oppression, in part, within the memory of living witnesses. It was the product of an accident, and the resort of a temporary expediency. Circumstances being changed, and so far as it differed from the doom of necessity, that same discretion which adopted the expedient in one case might and would naturally accommodate itself to another. So far as necessity was the cause, it was equally impossible to oppose necessity in a change of circumstances. The force of antiquity was utterly nugatory.
As to the arbitrations of good sense, it hardly need be said, at this time, that there were many things in puritanism which could not long be tolerated under such an appeal. Hence almost the entire code of its more severe customs has long since become obsolete, even in the land of the pilgrim fathers. So far as they have not passed from memory, they are handed down, not as authority, but simply as an amusing, and in regard to some things, an incredible, tale. They who had rebelled against the established usages of society once, might do it again. They who had made a code, might amend it. Peculiar circumstances had formed the puritanical character in the mother country; and there was no good reason whypeculiar circumstances should not modify, or re-model it in this. The authority of precedent in change was established.
Here, if we mistake not, is developed a practical secret of stupendous influence over the religious destinies of our country. That there were good reasons for rebellion against the prelacy of England, and adequate causes for the production of a distaste for Episcopal usages on an extended scale, can hardly be denied.
Here was the beginning of an order of things, that has come down to us, and had more influence in this than in the parent country. Here it has taken the lead, for the reason that this land was made the refuge and asylum of those who felt themselves injured, and who were injured, by the operation of a system of oppression. It is an instructive lesson, and ought to stand up as a beacon, in all coming time, among other historical advices of the same class, to warn those who, clothed with legitimate authority, are tempted to abuse it, by lording it over God's heritage. To provoke and enforce schism in the Church of Christ, involves a most grave responsibility, and may lead to infinite mischief.
We have sufficiently recognised the fact of the ascendancy of puritanism in American society, and that its peculiar temperament was the soul of a system of dissent from an Episcopal organization. Again we say, we mean not to speak disrespectfully. Our aim is an exposé of facts, and, if possible, to present a philosophical view of their historical train. We respect the piety of the puritans, and desire to do justice to all their virtues; and if we have not already shown a satisfactory candor, we hope before we shall have done, abundantly to appease the most sensitive partiality for our puritan ancestry. We are not unwilling to believe, that the original elements of American society, in so far as this particular class predominated, were on the whole most happy, and will yet, in the long run, be overruled for the greatest good. Their virtues were stern and lofty, and their faults are subject to the corrective influence of time and events. It was as impossible that the latter should not have their race, as that the former should not come in with their balance of influence, and finally obtain a conservative shape and commanding position. And this end, as we opine, will the sooner be accomplished, as the public can be made to discriminate, by the instructive career of events between the good and the bad. Whenever society, or any portion of it, runs off in a wrong direction, it must ultimately find itself in a false position; and the discovery being made, there is the same certainty, if virtue enough remains, that it will aim at a recovery.
If we do not err in our discernment of the signs of the times, there is even now a conviction rapidly obtaining in the public mind of this country, that we have nearly if not quite arrived at ane plus ultraof religious radicalism; and that a conservative and redeeming influence is being formed and growing into importance. The race of change, which has been a long time, even ages, in the course, has recently been so accelerated, as to set the axles of the machinery on fire, and run off the wheels. The chariot of religious radicalism, we think, is tumbling and falling.
In our opinion, this catastrophe is not the product of an hour, nor of an age. We go farther back for the primal cause. As a matter of history, we find that the leading and most influential religious machinery of this country was composed of the dislocated fragments of long-established European institutions, broken off by convulsions, not wanting virtue so much as order, symmetry, and consistency. The virtue was strong, and while its character of firmness was maintained, it could better dispense with a fixed and well-ordered machinery, sanctioned by time, and having a reasonable claim to apostolic origin. But the rapid growth and the fervid condition of our social organization, have put the new theory to a test too stern for a felicitous development.