Chapter II: Part 2

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 has NO money? What must it have been to Mitford, who by no means boasted the mildest of tempers--who was still more soured by recent misfortune--and who had three of the noisiest of the genus 'dun' to deal with?

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Ah!' cried the enraged cobbler, 'you tell me to go to the diable! By gar, I will make de scandale--de _grande scandale_! You shall see vat I shall do!'

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

SUMMER EVENING.

WRITTEN AMONG THE BLUE-RIDGE MOUNTAINS.

BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE, D. D.

Lo! it is evening: down the mountain's side
The 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 last
Declining, lingering radiance of day
Skirts the faint eves of heaven--while adown
The 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 saw
And 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 heaven
The full broad moon, amid a host of clouds,
That stand like broken battlements afar,
Unveils her silvery face, and gives a beam
Resplendent, meek, and lovely as the hour.
Sometimes the shaggy clouds inter her form,
And leave me to myself and darkness--yet
Anon 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 mirth
Entwine the heart, and give a charm to life.
Where now is that tall spire, which lately gleamed
Amid 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 nest
The solitary bird hath gone--and naught
Save the dark whip-poor-will is heard abroad.
The meadow, but an hour ago alive
With grazing flocks and herds, and echoing blithe
The gentle music of the ploughman's whistle,
Lies cheerless and asleep--a lonely waste!

Still resting on this mossy rock, 'round which
The 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 round
Weaving harmonious--and rejoiced to do
The 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 traced
The pathway of our orbs, and love to twine
A wreath of gratitude and praise to Him.'

Such is the language which those stars address
To melancholy man, while from the heath
Accordant 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 life
Extinguished by the chilly touch of death.
But still upon thy grave a light shall stream--
And 'tis the torch of _Hope_ enkindled there
By 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 down
Within 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 thy GOD.

RELIGIOUS CHARLATANRY.

NUMBER ONE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEATH OF ROB ROY.

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

WITH heather pillowing his head,
The dying outlaw lay,
And plaided clansmen round his bed
Stood watching in dismay.
Wild throes of dissolution shook
His worn and wasted frame,
But native lordliness of look
Distemper could not tame.

The walls of his rude dwelling-place
Were hung with weapons bright--
With branching antlers of the chase,
And trophies won in fight.
His tall, gaunt hound, of proven worth,
Acute of eye and ear,
Slept idly on the lighted hearth,
Forgetful of the deer.

Cold dew--that herald which precedes
The winding-sheet, and wail
Of mourning ones--in clammy beads,
Stood on his forehead pale.
Faint grew the swell of his proud breast,
And dim his falcon-eye,
But manfully his lip suppressed
The groan of agony.

While ran his blood with feebler flow,
Strode in a clansman stout,
And told the chief, in accents low,
'A stranger waits without!'
Then syllabled the name--a word
Unwelcome to his ears,
Which darkly in his bosom stirred
The hoarded hate of years.

'No member of a hostile clan,
While heart or pulse can beat,
Shall see me,' said the dying man,
'In posture of defeat.
Array me in the spoils I took
From enemies laid low;
Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook
The presence of a foe.'

'Bring forth the bonnet that I wore
When blood was on the heather,
Though in the mountain wind no more
Will nod its eagle feather:
Gird on my sword, of temper tried,
Old beam of hope in danger,
To deeds of hardihood allied,
And then admit the stranger!'

Attendants clad the dying man
In garb that well became
The leader of a martial clan,
A warrior of fame;
Admitted then his guest, who met
Reception stern and cold;
The Highland Chief could not forget
The bloody feuds of old.

The stranger soon withdrew. 'Now call
The harper in, to cheer
My passing spirit with the strain
Most welcome to my ear!'
The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,
To notes of battle strung,
And fingering its chords of fire,
In stormy concert, sung:

I.

'The plaid round his shoulders our leader hath thrown,
And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown;
He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand
To gather around him with bonnet and brand;
Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag,
We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag.

II.

'The dirk of our fathers in gore we must dye!
Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh?
The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale,
That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale;
That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy,
And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy.

III.

'On the head of Macgregor a price hath been set,
With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet;
Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows,
And loud is the song in the camp of our foes;
But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy,
When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!'

Ere died the battle-song away,
Rose up the voice of wail,
While motionless the chieftain lay,
With face like marble pale.
No kindly word from him repaid
The harper for his strain;
The hushing hand of Death was laid
On heart, and pulse, and brain!

_Avon, May,1837._ W. H. C. H.

A TALE OF TIGHT BOOTS.

AN AUTHENTIC FRAGMENT FROM AN UNWRITTEN HISTORY.

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

THE INCENSED COCKNEY.

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

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

Rap--tap--tap!

'Come in!'

'A note, Sir.'

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

----'What sprawling heels!
And holes are cut anigh the spreading toes,
As if the ponderous feet in that wide space
Had still been 'cabined, cribbed,' and wanted room,--
Or else, that doleful crops of pedal maize,
Called by the vulgar corns, had flourished there.
I see the wearer plainly. In public haunts
He of his self deportment takes no heed,
And spitteth evermore. His lips are sealed
And juicy, like wind-beparchéd mouth
Of ichthyophagous Kamschatkadale; and oft,
With three sheets in the wind, in upper tier
Midst mirthful Cyprians, he puts his feet
Over the box's front, and leaning back,
Guffaws and swears, like privateer at sea,
Until the pitlings from beneath, exclaim,
'Boots!' 'Trollope!' and he straightway draws them in.'

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

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

And he did!

D.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] 'APOPLEXY--TIGHT BOOTS.--A physician of New-York says, that he has recently attended four cases of apoplexy, caused by wearing tight boots. Many a grown-up man is now grieving over the effects of this folly of his dandyism, in earlier years. Corns, toes cramped in a heap, and tenderness of the whole foot, are the penalty which manhood has to pay for this sin of youth.'

THE POET.

* * * 'LE poéte est homme par les sens
Homme par la douleur! * * *
L'argile périssable où tant d'âme palpite,
Se façonne plus belle, et se brise plus vite;
Le nectar est divin, mais le vase est mortel;
C'est un Dieu dont le poids doit écraser l'autel;
C'est un souffle trop plein du soin ou de l'aurore,
Qui fait chanter le vent dans un roseau sonore,
Mais, qui brisé de son, le jette au bord de l'eau,
Comme un chaume séché battu sous le fléau!'

LAMARTINE.

* * * * *

THOU dark-eyed, pensive, passionate child of song!
Enthusiast! dreamer! worshipper of things
By the world's crowd unnoticed, 'mid the throng
Of beautiful creations, Nature flings
The sunlight of existence o'er!

The wings
Of the rude tempest are not half so strong
As thy proud hopes--thy wild imaginings:
Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flight
Reach a too-dazzling height!
Venturing sunward, till the flashing eye
Of reason, grown deliriously bright,
Kindle to madness, and to idiocy;
And, from excessive light
To hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night!

Stop! melancholy youth!
Though bright and sparkling be the tide of song,
And many a sunbeam o'er its waters dance
Meanderingly along--
Though it be heaven to quaff of--yet, in truth,
A deadlier venom taints its gay expanse,
More deep, more strong,
Than to the subtlest poison doth belong!
A very demon haunts its foetid air,
Infatuating with its serpent glance
The wanderer there;
And, with a sad but most bewitching smile,
Luring the credulous one to its desire:
Stirring new feelings, passions, hopes awhile,
And burning thoughts, whose mad, unholy fire,
With its own strength illumes its own funereal pyre!

Stop, if thou'dst live!--or hath life left for thee
No charms, that thou its last terrific scene
Shouldst with such passion worship? Can it be,
That the world nothing hath thou'dst care to win?
No gem, no flower, no loveliness, unseen?
No wonder unexplored? no mystery,
Still undeveloped to the eagle eye
Of Genius, or of Poësy?