Chapter VII.

The guests of the preceding day were assembled in the farm house of Philip Mullerhorn, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Adolf. Old Mullerhorn went frequently to the door, and looked out, with anxiety, down the road which Adolf usually took when he visited the farm.

“I fear all is not right with him,” said he. “Adolf is late in coming this morning. He should have been here a full hour before this.”

“Peradventure,” snuffled Chriss, “the young man has fled, doubting whether he could make good his boasts of yesterday.”

“Not so fast, my good friend,” said the voice of Adolf himself, who then entered, bearing in his hand a valise, evidently containing articles of weight. “We shall soon prove whose boasts shall be first accomplished.” As he spoke, he threw the valise upon the table, before Mullerhorn, “I am come,” said he, “Father Philip, to receive my bride.”

“Heavens!” said Barbara, earnestly regarding the countenance of Adolf, “what has thus blanched thy brow, and changed thy visage? Thy cheek is ghastly, and thy look unearthly! Why glares thine eye so wildly? What hast thou done? The light of thine eye is not from heaven! Holy Virgin! the cave! the cave!” cried she, fainting.

“Adolf, what ails thee?” asked Mullerhorn. “Thy brow is indeed pale, and thine eye fierce and blood-shot. Thou comest from no holy work this morning. Hadst thou the whole treasure of earth, no daughter of mine, Adolf Westerbok, should’st thou wed, until the secret of thy conduct is explained.”

“It is nothing,” said Adolf, stammering as he spoke, “a weariness—a sickness—it will soon be over.”

“I fear the mark on thy brow is of no earthly malady. Remain here no longer. Depart from us, for thy society is not for that of Christian men.”

“I come to claim my bride!” cried Adolf, hoarsely, “and to pay the dower. No man shall prevent me from this. Why gaze ye thus on me? Stand back; the man who interferes in this shall rue his intrusion. Barbara, dear Barbara, you cannot, do not thus repulse me?”

“Adolf,” said Barbara, gaining courage, and her voice before faltering, becoming firm and steady, “depart from me. All is now explained. Thy anxiety of last evening; thy expedition to the cave of Schwearenheim; all is explained. Barbara Mullerhorn may have loved thee, and she did so; but she will never consent to be the bride of a forsaken wretch like thee.”

A sudden exclamation from Piet Albrecht attracted the attention of all present, and aroused Adolf from the stupor into which the words of Barbara had thrown him. The room was filled with a rich, purple light, in which the figure of Rudenfranck, arrayed in his magical vestures, and holding the ivory sceptre of Bructorix, appeared to the terrified spectators. Well might they be terrified; for upon the brow of the hunter a brilliant star gleamed brightly with a sulphurous light, and his tall figure seemed to dilate to superhuman size.

“Why dost thou stare at me?” sneered Rudenfranck to Adolf, who gazed upon him with a bewildered look; “why dost thou stare at me? Produce thy treasure and claim thy bride.”

“No! no bride of hell!” shouted Mullerhorn. “I doubted this yesterday. Away from us, Adolf Westerbok; and thou, mysterious being, whether thou be phantom or devil, in the name of God I defy thee.”

“And see,” cried Mienckel, tearing open the valise, “what is here?”

“Old chips of iron and leather, as I live,” said Albrecht. “It is the Evil One. Let us fly from here, else we die!”

Adolf gazed wildly at the valise, and with a loud cry of despair, seized his rifle, and vainly endeavored to destroy himself.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Rudenfranck, “thou hast yet seven years to enjoy thy gold. These are the treasures for which thou hast forfeited thy soul. Miserable fool! Did’st thou think it mattered to me whether thy fate was prosperous or not! Into the snare thou did’st enter of thine own accord, and thou must pay the penalty. Farewell! My ends are accomplished! For the prescribed space of my life, wealth, wisdom, and power in the fullest are mine! That space expired, I will mock at thee in the halls of the fiend. This sacrifice of thy soul hath ensured my success, and I thank thee for it. Farewell, Adolf Westerbok. Fool! idiot! driveller! Thou hast thy hire, and I triumph over the world of spirits.”

As he spoke, he waved his magic sceptre. The cloud enveloped him in its folds, and he disappeared, with a laugh of malicious scorn.

* * * * *

Barbara Mullerhorn survived the misfortunes which had attended her early love, and lived to marry a wealthy farmer of the neighborhood, who proved himself every way worthy of her choice.

Piet and Agatha also entered upon the matrimonial engagement, and their descendants may still be found among the hills.

* * * * *

For some years after, a wan, gaunt, and ragged wretch might have been seen toiling and digging incessantly along the range of the Wolf Hills. The fire of lunacy burned in his eye, he spoke to no one, and never uttered language, save in his insane self-communings. The neighbors universally shunned him, and no charitable voice soothed his misery. He dwelt in the gloomy cave by the run, where the unholy rites of Rudenfranck had been celebrated. His sole occupation consisted in a continual search after hidden treasure.

Seven years had elapsed since the occurrences above narrated, were reported to have taken place, when a hunter, pursuing his game among the Wolf Hills, accidentally discovered the dead body of a man, shockingly torn and mangled, at the entrance of the cavern of the recluse. It was the corpse of Adolf Westerbok, the Silver Digger of the Wolf Hills.

NOTE.

This legendary tale, we learn, is founded upon a superstitious tradition, still current among the backwoodsmen of Pennsylvania. The outline of the tale is preserved as far as the nature of the legend would permit. The cavern is yet to be seen, where the hidden treasures are supposed to have been concealed; and the hardy hunter of the mountains still regards it with fear, and prefers taking a long circuit through the woods, to passing the cavern after nightfall. The whole country, indeed, is full of such traditions, which only require the pen of a Scott to be perpetuated, alike for the amusement and wonder of posterity. Let no man say that America is without legendary lore, let no one deny that she affords materials for poetry! Every hill; every stream; every valley; every plain has its own wild story of border troubles, or Indian traditions. When shall _our_ minstrel arise to hallow them in undying song?—Eds.

Mt. Savage, Md. January, 1841.

* * * * *

SKATING.

“The winter has come, and the skaters are here.”

BY GEORGE LUNT.

The earth is white with gleaming snow, The lake one sheet of silver lies, Beneath the morning’s ruddy glow, The steaming vapors gently rise.

Keen is the cool and frosty air, That waves the pine trees on the hill, And voiceless as a whispered prayer, Breathes down the valley clear and still.

Come, ’tis an hour to stir the blood To glowing life in every vein! Up,—for the sport is keen and good Across the bright and icy plain.

On each impatient foot to-day, The ringing steel again we’ll bind, And o’er the crystal plain away, We’ll leave the world and care behind.

And, oh! what joy is ours to play, In rapid, round, and swift career, And snatch beneath the wintry day, One moment’s rest, and hasty cheer.

Then, when the brief, sweet day is done, And stars above begin to blink, As home the swift lake bears us on, Our sweethearts meet us on the brink.

Then gather’d round the cheerful blaze, While gusts without are blowing shrill, With laugh, and jest, and merry lays, We pass the jocund evening still.

Around the board our feats all told, Comes nature’s welcome hour of rest, And slumbers never bought with gold, Sit light on each untroubled breast.

No lagging pulse impedes our sleep, No startling dreams our couch annoy, But health and peace, in quiet deep, Smile hovering round the country boy.

Then, when the morning bright and clear, Springs gayly o’er the glistening hill, With hardy sports we hail it near, Or hardy labors bless it still.

Newburyport, Massachusetts, January, 1841.

* * * * *

THE SYRIAN LETTERS.

WRITTEN PROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.

Damascus.

Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting:

Your reply to my last epistle, my dear Cornelius, was the more pleasing, because so unexpected.

The speed of its transmission shows the great measure of our obligation to the sagacity and enterprise of Constantine. For who, until our emperor bent to it the considerations of his active mind, ever knew of such rapidity of communication?

In the fair lines before me, I again greet the face of a friend, and hold cheering communion with one divided by long distance. I promised in my last to give you some description of the curious ceremonies of those worshippers, and I find you are urgent that I should fulfil it, since I was so fortunate as to witness some of the hidden mysteries.

You esteem it strange that I, a foreigner, and but a few hours in Baalbec, should have stood at once upon such good terms with Mobilius, as to have induced him to conduct me to one of the most secret recesses of the temple—with all the perils of exposure through my carelessness. I have nothing to offer in answer to your surmise but conjecture. Mobilius was certainly upon some familiar footing with the priests, and perhaps being partly moved by the hope that the imposing magnificence of the ceremonial would win a convert to his creed, he ventured to introduce me. If such was his anticipation, how signally in error! how vain to fancy that the sense can blind the judgment! that the splendor of the cloud that curtains some yawning chasm in the mountain side, can be mistaken for the solid pathway.

The sun had long gone down beneath the dizzy peaks of Lebanon, indeed night had far advanced, when Lactantius, Mobilius, and myself, properly arrayed in dark vestments, sallied toward the temple of the sun. Hurried along at a rapid pace, for he feared we had tarried too long, we soon came in view of the temple’s towering portico, which may still be seen by the curious stranger, even in the absence of the moon; for ever-burning lamps, filled, as they say, by never-failing oil, hang beneath the architrave. Entering at the great door, we were stopped by the porter, but recognising Mobilius, he permitted us to pass, without farther scrutiny, though he was evidently displeased; for although I could not clearly distinguish what he spoke, I heard him mutter angrily in the Syrian tongue.

We did not cross the grand courts, which, like the portico, were filled with perpetual lamps, but hastened through low corridors, vaults, and crooked passages, which might defy the skill of man to retrace, but Mobilius seemed well accustomed to them, so that I inferred he had acted as a guide on more than one occasion. After endless windings, we came into an archway, faintly lighted from without, and proceeding farther, entered a dark room. Here we were obliged to grope our way, and were commanded by Mobilius to tread with the utmost caution. We speedily, however, came to a spot, from which we beheld the great floor of the temple, through a narrow opening, artfully concealed in one of the ornaments of the entablature. All was still.

“Earlier than I expected,” whispered Mobilius, “the ceremonies have not yet begun.”

This leisure enabled me to examine the exquisite architecture of the edifice.

The temple was the loftiest of all those that surrounded it, and which had their position and style of architecture in strict reference to this, as their great centre. The roof was of marble, and I could clearly distinguish, by the lamps around, the delicacy and lightness of its mouldings, pannels, and compartments. In the centre was a sun, carved in the full glory of his rays: marshalled at equal distances, surrounded by its sculptured edge, and sunk deeply into the marble, like a picture in its frame, were the heads of Venus, or as this people designate her, the “Syrian Goddess,” and also of Jupiter and other deities; and if I do not err, I could discern, constellated like the rest, the heads of Antoninus, and of other Roman emperors.

The marble walls were carved with niches and tabernacles disposed in two rows, which were filled with statues, between the floor and the roof, and supporting the latter, stood pilasters and columns of the same order as those which sustain the architrave.

Upon the tesselated pavement in the centre of the temple was erected a gorgeous altar, composed in part of precious metals, and of rare and various marbles, tastefully inlaid, and yet all designed in conformity with the strict rules of the architect. The fires upon it threw a reddened glow upon the walls and pillars, and a representation of the sun seemingly illumined from within, by a mildly burning light, whether real or unsubstantial, I cannot say, hovered above the altar, resembling the undulating brightness which the agitated waters in the vase cast upon the tapestry, or the flickering pale reflection of the moonbeams on the ground, as they struggle through the trembling leaves. My thoughts now reverted to the ceremonies we had come to witness, and some perplexing fancies, in spite of resolution, stole upon me. First, the brief acquaintance of Mobilius; the knowledge that Lactantius was a Christian, and his increased apparent dislike of that form of worship, since Constantine had threatened to close the temples of his faith; and Lactantius had expressed a hope it might be so, and the fact that there was, unquestionably, a connection between Mobilius and some of the priests. But again I thought could he be so base as to delude and betray those who had reposed such confidence, and would not his fears prevent, if he even would, because of the certainty of detection? While these reflections were flashing through my mind, the soft mingling of many voices swelling into the full pitch of harmony, and then sinking and dying as if wafted away upon the wings of the wind, broke the spell, and aroused my attention. Such clear, rich, enrapturing melody, I never heard, even surpassing that which floated from the shores of Cyprus; and a thrill of pain ran through my veins as it suddenly ceased, just as if you were to dash a harp into pieces in the midst of its sweetest outpourings.

“What means this?” I whispered, but a low murmur from Mobilius brought me to instant silence. Directly I heard a silvery ringing voice swell forth a chaunting note, and all the voices fell in one by one, with sweet and heavenly accord, until the lofty temple echoed and re-echoed with the sounds.

The great door then sprang asunder—without the jarring of a hinge—by some imperceptible agency, revealing in magnificent array, numerous ranks of priests, clothed in vestments of the costliest dyes, and walking to the sound of instruments, with measured tread, in glittering procession. Some bore many of the symbols of their faith—such as the heifer’s head—the crescent, the golden bull—some ears of corn, others silver torches, when ascending the altar steps, they lit them at its fires, which threw into still brighter effulgence, the dazzling ornaments of the priests, and all the solemn pageants. This was, as Mobilius whispered, the splendid ceremonial which precedes the great sacrifice. Now came a bewildering and elaborate observance of the usual ceremonies, but so numerous and complicated, that it were tedious to recount them, if I even could.

After a little the music was again heard, both of instruments and voices, swelling, blending, and pouring forth the same entrancing harmonies. The priests, in three rows, circling round the altar, sent up a swelling chaunt, and in a moment, as it were, with the quickness of lightning, three bright fires sprang from the different portions of the altar-top, so brilliant, as that for many seconds, I was not able to discern a vestige of what I had just seen. At this, Mobilius, taking us by the hand, said, “we must depart,” and led us by a different route from that through which we entered. At one place, in suddenly opening the gate, at the end of a long passage, I was startled by a flood of light, illuminating a colonnade, which seemed to lead into a subterraneous passage, plainly connected with another temple. We shortly reached the great door itself, and glided through the portico, seemingly unobserved, though I doubt not it was guarded by some unseen janitor. We now emerged into the open air, and hurried rapidly on. Upon turning to take a parting glance at the temple, my eye was riveted in deep and reverential admiration. The moon was at a towering height, and shone down clear and silvery. Not a cloud spotted the heavens, nor the bright-eyed stars, that like watch-lights, palely burnt around her. No sound disturbed the silence of the night, except the faintly dying note of a trumpet, as it softly echoed from some far, far distant battlement, or the rattling of some chariot wheels in its progress homeward, from the banquet of the wealthy Heliopolitan, which lingered for a moment on the ear, then was lost forever.

The lights upon the temple paled away in the eternal brightness of the queen of night, throwing the portico in bold relief, as if it were covered with a mantle of snow, and casting its deep recesses into the shades of midnight. Beside the temple rose a grove, bathed in a silvery flood of light, and the tall obelisks, which being but faintly visible among the foliage, stood like spectres, and upon steady contemplation, appeared to stir from the place of their foundation, such is the power of fancy.

I turned; my companions were gone. They had passed on unheeded, and I wandered as I best could toward the mansion of Septimus.

The gorgeous streets of this great city, lined, as they were, with marble palaces and temples, and thronged but a few hours since with the gay, the beautiful maiden of Heliopolis, or the busy wayfarer, were now as silent as the place of tombs. The cold beams of the pale moon shone still undimmed and uninterrupted, save here and there by a projecting shade or darkling grove, whose loftiest boughs closely interweaving, reared a verdant arch, revealing now and then through the thick foliage, the night’s illumined heaven, and its cold azure depths. So I wandered, cheered at intervals by the soft murmur of the fountains among the trees, whose waters sparkled in the moonbeams.

This grove was ornamented with statues, and verily, I believe, of all the Gods in the Pantheon, among which was Mars, whose highly polished shield shone like another moon.

Now completely lost, I found myself near one of the city gates, and hearing an approaching footstep, I recognised a citizen, some gay Heliopolitan, I supposed, returning from a midnight banquet.

“Can you tell me,” I enquired, “in what direction lies the house of Septimus?”

“Oh! readily,” he answered, “I will go with you, for it stands nearly in my path. I perceive, my friend, you are a stranger, and we dare not break our ancient rule of friendship.” Thanking him for his kindness, we proceeded forward, and I found him a communicative and entertaining companion.

“Pray,” said I, “what noble edifice is that immediately before us, now silvered by the moon?”

“That is the temple of fortune, erected many years ago, after some signal benefit had fallen on the city, through the beneficence of the Gods. It is the work of the lamented Epamenides, his first, his last design,” and he appeared much affected by the reflection. He continued, “behold the proportions.”

I no longer doubted but that my friend was some young architect, enthusiastic in his profession, and not being able to understand his learned phrases, endeavored to divert the conversation.

“In what you say I cordially concur, but what is fame and fortune since but a few lustres must snatch us from their enjoyment, though they be the highest and the brightest which the generosity and admiration of our countrymen can award? Man toils much ere he reaps, so that if the harvest is not scanty it is ours for the enjoyment of but a brief space.”

“You do not draw your conclusion,” said he, “after the manner of the model of all that is great in reason and philosophy. Were the votary to hold such doctrines as these, he would never reach the fires, however ardently he might fix his gaze upon them; he would never attain the consummation of his burning wishes. But he would reason after this manner—toil would be well were the goal worth the reaching. So mark the inconsistency.”

Although not convinced, I was compelled, forsaking my former conjecture, to conclude that the stranger was some eminent philosopher of Heliopolis, so ingeniously did he argue. Though I thought it could not be of so severe a school as some sternly avow.

Walking a little, we met a man in the agonies of a strange sickness. Here I fancied will be afforded an opportunity of testing the truth of my conjecture—for philosophers, especially those of the present day, are ever ready to prescribe both for afflictions of body and of mind precepts which they are most rarely in the habit of practising themselves. But I was again mistaken, for, taking the sick man by the hand, he examined his pulse, and closely scrutinised his features, upon this abstracting a small casket, containing medicines, from his robes, he administered a portion, and its good effects were wonderful. All conjecture was now put to flight; for I at once decided that my new friend was a disciple of Hippocrates.

How fruitless is all surmise, for he afterward informed me he was a member of the forum, and held an office under the emperor. This brought me to the widely spreading portal of Septimus—which almost seemed to welcome me after my absence. I met Lactantius pacing to and fro the hall with Mobilius, as if theirs had been an intimacy of months. “Ah!” said the latter, “we were about sallying out for you—but yet knew it would prove of no avail in such a city as this.”

“Welcome,” exclaimed Lactantius, “I was anxious on your account. How came you to leave us?”

“I did not leave you—it was you who left me—doubtless in the heat of controversy upon the Chaldean mysteries.”

“I understand your meaning, Servilius,” said he, smiling, “but how came you here at all; you are not acquainted with the streets of Baalbec, especially by moonlight?”

“Through the kindness,” I replied, “of Apicius.”

“You are fortunate,” ejaculated Mobilius, “and should deposite your offering to-morrow in the temple of fortune, as is the custom here. He is the first of statesmen and advocates; an accomplished orator, and a very generous and learned citizen. If he pressed you to visit him at his palace, you are still more fortunate.”

“And so he did,” I rejoined.

It proved as Mobilius predicted, for I did not meet a kinder or more noble-hearted friend than this same Heliopolitan.

“As it is late,” observed Lactantius, “we will seek our couches, and to-morrow,” archly glancing at Mobilius, “we may examine the Egyptian mysteries.”

But I must draw to a conclusion, least I should sketch this epistle to a tedious length. I bid you an affectionate

Farewell.

* * *

* * * * *

THE SOUL’S DESTINY.

BY MRS. M. S. B. DANA.

And oh! the soul! she saw in visions bright, The veil withdrawn which hides the world of light, With eye of faith she gazed in tearful joy, And they were there! her husband and her boy! Sweet hope of Heaven! thou art a healing balm— If storms arise thy deep rich holy calm Comes with a spirit influence to the breast, And to the weary mourner whispers “rest!” Rest—for the fondly loved, the early dead! Rest—for the longing spirit Heavenward fled! Rest—from a tiresome path in weakness trod! Rest—in the bosom of the Saviour, God!

* * * * *

THE SACCHARINEOUS PHILOSOPHY.

“Her ‘prentice han’ she try’d on man, and then she made the _Lasses_ O.”

Gentle reader—art thou fond of molasses? Not only molasses in its simple state, but in its various compounds? If thou art not I pity thee. Thy taste relishes not that which would otherwise be a source of inexpressible pleasure. Eatables may be divided into the two great classes of the sweet and the sour. From the full enjoyment of at least one-half then of the good things of life (and that the better half) art thou deprived. Again I pity thee.

But some may say, that although not lovers of molasses or sugar, (as I shall consider them the same in this essay,) yet they are really very fond of many sweet things. They like a portion of the saccharine, though not fond of the gross and clogged sweetness of molasses. Let such, however, think not of escaping in this manner. What! like a thing in part and not in fulness—like the rose-bud and not the open rose—like an amiable and not a perfectly angelic being—like five dollars and not five hundred—like middling and not good health—like imperfect and not perfect happiness—like strawberries and cream, and not sugar or molasses—I tell thee, man, woman, or child—Caucasian, African, or Malay, thou art crazy, bewitched, or tasteless.

How shall I describe the delicious sensations which the saccharine matter imparts to the outward man? Alike in fruit, and flower, and honey-comb most gratefully apparent. And thou, ice-cream! who has so often diffused throughout the body of this “me,” a most delicious coolness, what wouldst thou be without that essence, whose merits I am exalting? Insipid and unmeaning, like unto a flower without color or fragrance.

Oh! how well can I remember the time, when, released from school, I hastened home, and, sitting on the kitchen door-sill, enjoyed my bread and molasses. I never felt more thankful than when, plate in hand, and a huge slice of the wheat loaf in reserve, the preparatory pause was made “according to the good order used among friends.” And then, also the “switchel,” that nutritious and cooling drink, (molasses and water, with a _little_ vinegar,) with which our revolutionary fathers quenched their thirst, when rooting up their ditch on old Bunker. Even the horrid tales told me in childhood by the pestered servants, of thumbs, and fingers, and bloody streaks, the evidence of cruel treatment in the Indian isles, turned not the edge of my keen desire.

But I shall no longer occupy paper with the advocacy of the merely sensual claims of molasses. It has other and higher demands upon your notice. The author of this lately perused, with pleasure, that most important work upon “The Philosophy of Clothes,” by Thomas Carlyle. It suggested an interesting train of thoughts upon the subject before us. Molasses, and its kindred sweets are the well fitting garments of the spirit of love and purity. Here then we have an unfailing index by which to judge of the characters of our fellow men. Herein is contained the germ of our new and spiritual philosophy.

Charles Lamb in his “Elia,” quotes and endorses the sentiment of one of his friends: “that no man be entirely reprobate who is fond of apple-dumplings.” This I grant to be true. He did not, however, remember that both the apples and the dumplings contain a portion of saccharine matter; and this accounts _partly_ for the dislike felt toward them by a reprobate spirit. And again—who ever heard of eating apple-dumplings without sugar or molasses? I therefore bring Charles Lamb, who, although he did not perceive the great _principle_ coiled up in this succulent eatable, has taken notice of the above interesting _fact_, as a witness to the truth of my theory.

When do we find that the love of all sweet things most commonly prevails? In youth undoubtedly. When the mind is pure, free from worldly guile, innocent, and _lamb_-like. When the fresh and untainted spirit drinks eagerly and deeply at the fount of truth, and its type or representative on earth (according to Swedenborg) pure water. Then, sugar-plumes are a delight—ginger-bread a blessing—molasses candy, especially when rolled and pulled out into sticks, _bright_ or _dull_ yellow, according to the cleanliness of the maker’s hands, “the staff of life.”

The child becomes a man. He grows selfish and proud. He loses his relish for innocent enjoyments, and with it his taste for molasses. The spirit of love becomes impregnated with impure desires, and his outward man changes accordingly. The saccharine matter no longer suits him in its natural state—it must be fermented, and gases added, and gases deducted, to correspond with the altered soul. What a beautiful emblem is this change of saccharine substance to the poisonous liquor, of the transition state of the immortal in man. First the spirit as in childhood, pure and gentle, like the sweet juice of the grape. Then youth, with its noble and generous bearing, comparable to the result of the first fermentation. Manhood comes on, and with it the fermentation proceeds. Soon the soul is agitated with innumerable gases—and from their bubblings, and combinations, and effervescence, it comes forth a new creature. Well satisfied are most if they go no farther than this, but succeed in calming the troubled elements at this second fermentation. While some, unable to arrest their progress, plunge into the third and woful state; from which, if they succeed in coming out, they appear all soured, and be-vinegared, your universal fault-finders and found-fault-with. Too many, alas! emerge not even at this third gate, but dash recklessly into the fourth, the last and worst, and hope-decaying state—and when dragged through it, are cast out with the blessed feelings of childhood putrified—the flesh rotted off, and exposing the then loathsome skeleton of the soul, the never to be destroyed framework of an eternal nature.

How beautiful also the resemblance in another sense. Wherever you meet the poison fire, under whatever name it may assume, whether brandy, gin, whiskey, wine, cider, or beer, as you are confident that the innocent sugar must have been its basis; so in whatever form you meet vice in the human heart, you may be also assured, that there was, and perhaps is yet, in that heart a stronger or weaker basis of God-like love.

Although the good, spiritually, is to be considered the cause of the liking for the saccharineous, yet they are to some extent mutually creative. The outward may appeal so strongly as even to produce the inward. “Hang up a coat in the highway, and will it not soon find a body to fill it?” Who has not often observed the child when requested by its parents to swallow the bitter dose of (so called) medicine? What a struggle between duty and disgust! What measures are then taken by the wise parent in order that the right may conquer? How is the virtuous appealed to and strengthened? One single lump of sugar, perhaps not larger than a hickory nut decides the question. Duty prevails. How shall we account for such things without adopting a similar doctrine to that which I have thus partly illustrated?

Reader, thou wilt believe or not, as thou choosest. But before this is dismissed as unworthy, for thy own sake, examine facts. Find among thy acquaintances, that man, sullen, and morose, and cruel, who loves molasses. Understand me—_loves_ molasses—not who sometimes eats it, but who clings to it with a passionate devotion—who prefers it to the best pie ever baked, apple, mince, peach, or cranberry,—as I do. If thou canst find such a being—thou thinkest I’ll recant? Not I. Such a man is an anomaly, a monster, deserves not to live—and if he knows what a beautiful theory he is practically marring, and has the least spark of generosity within him, is willing to die. If he wont die I care not,—he’s only an exception, and “proves the truth of the general rule,” as all metaphysicians will tell thee.

If it were needful I could skip from individuals to nations—could prove the truth of my doctrines by referring to the Irish with their potatoes, buttermilk, and whiskey—the Hindoo and his rice—the West Indian slave with his patient endurance, the result of his frequent sucking at the juicy cane.

But why multiply proof? Why refer to the bee with his industrious habits, caused by living entirely upon honey—the bear with his good nature, hugging you, even when in anger, to his bosom, how he also likes sweet things—the humming-bird, with its love for the sweets of flowers—the—but why instance more?

Oh! ye wise, give ear while I call your attention to this new philosophy, which I name saccharine, and not transcendental. Parents, guardians, physicians, nurses,—“they that have ears to hear let them hear.”

Ella.

* * * * *

WINTER.

BY J. W. FORNEY.

The leaf hath fallen! E’en the withered leaf; and from the trees Hath faded Nature’s robe of living green; While, thro’ their naked boughs the wintry breeze, Makes mournful music o’er the vanished scene— The funeral requiem of those blushing flowers, That bloomed and flaunted in the sunny air, When the coy spring-time and her laughing hours, The graceful monarchs of the season were.

The song is hushed! And gone those warblers for a softer clime, Whose morning welcome, and whose evening hymn Made the gay summer but a trysting time, And prayerful music poured aloft to Him!

No more they usher, with their mellow song, The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud— Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng, Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud.

The brook is frozen! The babbling streamlet sparkles now no more In the full glory of the sun’s warm beam; The ice-king’s sceptre has been wafted o’er, And sleep is brooding on the modest stream. There are no flowers on its frozen side— The sun shines only with a cheerless glance: Still is its melody; and the valley’s pride, Is calm as Beauty in a pleasing trance.

Lancaster, Pa. January, 1841.

* * * * *

THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER.

BY J. ROSS BROWNE.