ness.

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

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

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

W. A. B.

MY MOTHER'S

GRAVE.

'IF e'er the blest to earth descend,
O come, my mother and my friend,
And GoD by thee will comfort send,
To cheer this gloom!

EPITAPH IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

My Mother! o'er thy lowly grave
The stormy winds may blow,
And spreading branches rudely wave,
Nor break thy rest below.

The bird that mounts on joyous wing,
To hail the rising day,

Though sweet the careless warbler sing,
Pours not for thee his lay!

The stranger, as with pensive eye,
He scans thy burial-stone,

May heave, perchance, a transient sigh
For sorrows of his own;

But few of all the friendly band
Who smiled thy face to see,
Untouched by the Destroyer's hand,
Remain to think of thee!

Yet often, mingling with the crowd
Who thronged yon house of prayer,
In humble posture thou hast bowed,
And loved to worship there.

The solemn notes of sacred lays
Which through those arches rung,
Once filled thy heart with grateful praise,
And trembled on thy tongue!

And oft thy sympathizing breast
The passing tribute gave,

As lightly on the turf thou pressed,
Which covers now thy grave!

I stood beside the hallowed ground,

That marks thy resting-place,

When rolling years had soothed the wound
Which Time can ne'er efface.

And scenes a mother's kindness wove,
When life and hope were new,
Bearing the record of her love,
Came rising to my view:

I thought on all thy tender care,
Thy nature sweet and mild,
Which used my little griefs to share,
And blessed me when a child.

Long, long within the silent tomb
Thy cherished form has laid,

And other woes have chased the gloom
That dark bereavement made;

Yet bright to Memory's fond survey
Each lineament appears,

As when it shed its living ray

On eyes undimmed by tears!

No more the buoyant hopes of youth

Their wonted joy impart,

And childhood's dream of changeless truth

Has ceased to warm my heart;

But while its languid pulses move,

Life's crimson tide to bear,

The sweet remembrance of thy love

Shall still be treasured there!

X.

LETTERS OF LUCIUS M. Piso, from Palmyra, to his Friend MARCUS CURTIUS, at Rome.
Now first Translated and Published. In two volumes, 12mo.
York: C. S. FRANCIS. Boston: JOSEPH H. FRANCIS.

pp. 498. New

We shall offer no apology, nor will our readers deem one necessary, for devoting so large a portion of the review department of the present number of this Magazine to an extended notice of the work before us. The letters contained in the first volume have already appeared in our pages; and the great and deserved popularity which they have acquired, will insure eager readers for the remainder, (the issue of which public opinion has hastened,) which advance in interest to the very close of the work. The conception of the plan is most felicitous- the execution masterly, beyond modern example. The author seems, primarily, to have saturated his mind with the very spirit of the past. He has rolled back the tide of time, and placed us in Palmyra, the magnificent capital of the East, and caused all her glories to pass palpably before us, as if we were gazing upon a moving panorama. Commencing with the first faint dawn of the Christian faith, he infuses into the reader 'a soul of old religion.' His characters are marked with great force; while a nice verisimilitude of individual nature is combined with elegance of fancy, and a richness of ideal coloring, wholly unsurpassed by any kindred writer. The plot- if a succession of events converging to a final point may be so denominated is natural and unperplexed; while the minor descriptive scenes, which are often interwoven, and the inferior characters, are equally well sketched. Though fluctuating between history and romance, the work no where fails to disguise the presence of the latter. The reader is with the characters and of them, from first to last, such is the author's happy freedom of delineation, and the harmony and ease both of incident and style. We proceed to justify our encomiums by liberal extracts, commencing with a stirring picture, which our readers would readily recognise, without consulting the quis sculpsit.

"1 am just returned from a singular adventure. My hand trembles as I write. I had laid down my pen, and gone forth upon my Arab, accompanied by Milo, to refresh and invigorate my frame after our late carousal-shall I term it?-at the palace. I took my way, as I often do, to the Long Portico, that I might again look upon its faultless beauty, and watch the changing crowds. Turning from that, I then amused my vacant mind by posting myself where I could overlook, as if I were indeed the builder or superintendent, the laborers upon the column of Aurelian. I became at length particularly interested in the efforts of a huge elephant, who was employed in dragging up to the foundations of the column, so that they might be fastened to machines, to be then hoisted to their place, enormous blocks of marble. He was a noble animal, and, as it seemed to me, of far more than common size and strength. Yet did not his utmost endeavor appear to satisfy the demands of those who drove him, and who plied without mercy the barbed scourges which they bore. His temper at length gave way. He was chained to a mass of rock, which it was evidently beyond his power to move. It required the united strength of two, at least. But this was nothing to his inhuman masters. They ceased not to urge him with cries and blows. One of them, at length, transported by that insane fury which seizes the vulgar when their will is not done by the

brute creation, laid hold upon a long lance, terminated with a sharp iron goad, long as my sword, and rushing upon the beast, drove it into his hinder part. At that very moment, the chariot of the Queen, containing Zenobia herself, Julia, and the other princesses, came suddenly against the column, on its way to the palace. I made every possible sign to the charioteer to turn and fly. But it was too late. The infuriated monster snapped the chains that held him to the stone at a single bound, as the iron entered him, and trampling to death one of his drivers, dashed forward to wreak his vengeance upon the first object that should come in his way. That, to the universal terror and distraction of the gathered, but now scattered and flying crowds, was the chariot of the Queen. Her mounted guards, at the first onset of the maddened animal, put spurs to their horses, and by quick leaps escaped. The horses attached to the chariot, springing forward to do the same, urged by the lash of the charioteer, were met by the elephant with straightened trunk and tail, who, in the twinkling of an eye, wreathed his proboscis around the neck of the first he encountered, and wrenching him from his harness, whirled him aloft, and dashed him to the ground. This I saw was the moment to save the life of the Queen, if it was indeed to be saved. Snatching from a flying soldier his long spear, and knowing well the temper of my horse, I put him to his speed, and running upon the monster as he disengaged his trunk from the crushed and dying Arabian for a new assault, I drove it with unerring aim into his eye, and through that opening on into the brain. He fell as if a bolt from heaven had struck him. The terrified and struggling horses of the chariot were secured by the now returning crowds, and the Queen with the princesses relieved from the peril which was so imminent, and had blanched with terror every cheek but Zenobia's. She had stood the while I was told - there being no exertion which she could make-watching with eager and intense gaze my movements, upon which she felt that their safety, perhaps their lives, depended.

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

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

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

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

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

"I need not, as I cannot, describe our meeting. It was the meeting of brothers—yet, of strangers, and a confusion of wonder, curiosity, vague expectation, and doubt, possessed the soul of each. I trust and believe, that notwithstanding the different political bias which sways each, the ancient ties which bound us together as brothers will again unite us. The countenance of Calpurnius, though dark and almost stern in its general expression, yet unbends and relaxes frequently and suddenly, in a manner that impresses you forcibly with an inward humanity as the presiding though often concealed quality of his nature. I can trace faintly the features which have been stamped upon my memory-and the form too -- chiefly by the recollected scene of that bright morning, when he with our elder brother and venerable parent, gave us each a last embrace, as they started for the tents of Valerian. A warmer climate has deepened the olive of his complexion, and at the same time added brilliancy to an eye, by nature soft as a woman's. His Persian dress increases greatly the effect of his rare beauty, yet I heartily wish it off, as it contributes more, I believe, than the lapse of so many years, to separate us. He will not seem and feel as a brother, till he returns to the costume of his native land. How great this power of mere dress is upon our affections and our regard, you can yourself bear witness, when those who parted from you to travel in foreign countries have returned metamorphosed into Greeks, Egyptians, or Persians, according to the

fashions that have struck their foolish fancies. The assumed and foreign air: chills the untravelled heart as it greets them. They are no longer the same. However the reason may strive to overcome what seems the mere prejudice of a wayward nature, we strive in vain nature will be uppermost - and many, many times have I seen the former friendships break away and perish.

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

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

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

"Now, Jehovah be praised,' ejaculated Isaac, who himself has moved thy heart to this grace. Israel will feel this bounty through every limb: it will be to her as the oil of life.' "And my debt,' said Calpurnius, 'is greater yet, and should in reason be more largely paid. Through the hands of Demetrius I will discharge it.'

We are all bound to you,' said Fausta, more than words or money pay.' "You owe more than you are perhaps aware of, to the rhetoric of Isaac,' added Calpurnius. Had it not been for the faithful zeal and cunning of your messenger, in his arguments not less than his contrivances, I had hardly now been sitting within the walls of Palmyra.'

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

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