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square, of a conical shape, and built of stones. At the southward of this, rises a large and ancient stone palace, which is said to have been occupied by an Indian sovereign, called Htulrio, at the time of the conquest, about three hundred years ago. This chief was compelled to relinquish his palace to the holy Franciscan friars, and afterward to his military conquerors, as a hospital. The building resembles the large one remaining at Palenque; but all tradition respecting it was lost, before the time of Htulrio, its sovereign occupant. He is said to have replied to the inquiries respecting its origin, that he only knew that it had been occupied from time immemorial by his ancestors. All else was lost in the lapse of ages.

Other extensive ruins are to be seen, for a great distance, on the road from Marida to Bacalar; and, indeed, from various sources, we are informed they may be seen scattered throughout this extensive province. What inference are we then to draw, in relation to its ancient condition and population? How numerous and comparatively happy must have been its people ? By an effort of the imagination, let the mind recal the period of its glory and happiness, and contrast it with its present condition. Where once stood proud and stately edifices of eternal granite,' in all their fair proportions, ornamented throughout by figures, hieroglyphics, and ingenious devices of sculpture or of stucco, are now seen only huge and uns

nseemly masses of rubbish. Where once was heard, far and wide, the busy hum of life, the voice of crowded streets, thronged marts, and overflowing temples, the still and solemn air is disturbed only by the tiny notes of the insect, and the fearful howling of savage beasts. All is wild, solitary, dismal! No human voice is heard among the mouldering arts that once echoed and rëechoed its familiar sounds. Millions of our species have come and gone, since they were the pride of those who reared them. But no memorial has outlived the giant fabrics of their hands, nor is a tradition left behind, to guide the strange people that now gaze in wonder upon their ruins. Alas! thus may it be said of us, of our arts, of our cities, and of all the nations of the earth, when they too shall become

'Like the remembered tones of a mute lyre!'

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I DREAMED I stood before the throne of Him

Who wields the universe- his judgment-throne.
Archangels, on each side, and seraphim,

A countless host, in deep'ning phalanx shone.
I dared not raise my eyes - trembled each limb;

When to my ears came rushing a dread tone,
Like to the roar of waters, in the dim

Tempestuous night, that ride the sea shore lone :
'Mortal! I summon thee to hear thy doom,
For evil, worshipp'd ere the marble tomb

Enclosed thee: hearken! Then, with inward moan,
I answered : “Thou did'st make me from the clay,

And, gave me passions I could not disown:

So can'st thou purify, and bid me stay!'
December 30, 1837.


G. W. C.

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ETERNAL powers!' exclaimed the injured lover ; 'twenty dollars! as the price of blighted hope and crushed affection – a youth of misery, and a death of despair' I scorn the base compromise with feeling! I will take a bundred and fifty, and not a cent less !!


They loved, and their plighted hearts were bound

By many a golden tie;
Her love was told in a woman's way,

By her moisture-loving eye;
And he - that his heart was hers alone,

Nobody could deny.

But at last, the fresh green leaf of love

Faded, as leaves will fade ;
A pale and a withered thing it grew,

With the lover and the maid,
And the hapless damsel daily sighed

O'er a trusting heart betrayed.

Then very pale grew her tear-traced cheek,

And her eye waned sad and dim,
And the step was languid, that so oft

Had bounded to welcome him ;
And her heart seemed filled with bitterness,

Up even to the brim,

They looked on her face, and they went away,

To murmur low words apart,
And often meanwhile they sought to soothe

Her grief, with their love-taught art,
As they hoped a healing balm to find

For the crushed and broken heart.

Then they took her into a crowded court,

And she told of his falseness there;
No word of love he had breathed to her,

Did she fondly wish to spare,
Nor the ring that circled her finger still,

Nor the hidden lock of hair.

And then they called for a lawyer's knife,

To sever the ribbon blue,
That bound the notes he had written her,

And all for the lawyer's view ;
And the miniature he had given her,

Was torn from her bosom too!

On that pictured face, by the curious throng,

The careless glance was thrown,
And it answered back with the self-same smile

It had worn for her alone;
Sure, such a winning smile of love

Would soften a heart of stone.

But the youth himself smiled not on her,

For his heart to love was steeled ;
So they told him to pay her gold instead,

And he thought it best to yield;
And from that hour, the broken heart

By the shining gold was healed !



TASTEFUL and fun-loving Reader! - you can scarcely conceive the delight which we experienced, a few days since, in chancing upon a long-treasured copy of that teeming volume, the 'Rejected Addresses,' by the Brothers Smith. 'Right away, immediately, pretty quick,' (to adopt the Frenchman's climax,) we sat down and devoured it up; pausing the while only to give way to those 'laughing shocks which batter at the ribs till they shake, nothing loth to be so shaken.' As the work is exceedingly rare we judge from a twelve-months' unsuccessful search through half a dozen cities for a single copy - we shall venture, in a couple of numbers, to open a new

mine of intellectual riches to nine in ten of our readers, by a brief review of, and adequate extracts from, the choice little book in question.

In August, 1812, an advertisement appeared in the London daily journals, from the Drury-Lane Theatre Committee,' announcing that they were desirous of promoting a fair and free competition for an Address, to be spoken upon the opening of the new Theatre, which had just arisen from its ashes. The compositions were to be sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author,' which was not to be opened, unless containing the name of the successful candidate. One hundred and twelve addresses, according to the preface, were sent in, “as per order of contract, by the gross, 'some written by men of great, some by men of little, and some by men of no talent. The editor does not deem it necessary to mention how he became possessed of so * large a lot of verse; but proceeds to cull what had the appearance of flowers from what possessed the reality of weeds, and in so doing, diminished his collection to twenty-one! The effusions discarded by the compiler are said to have borne a close resemblance to each other, every one having caged that much-abused bird, the Phenix, in a simile. The fact that the published addresses failed of selection by the committee, is accounted for on the ground that they were penned in a metre unusual on similar occasions, and were deficient in that indispensable theatrical art, called 'touch and go. In addition to the addresses, the editor states, that 'above one hundred spectacles, melodramas, operas, and pantomimes, were transmitted, beside the first two acts of one legitimate comedy.' Some of these evinced, it is added, considerable smartness of manual dialogue, and several brilliant repartees of chairs, tables, and other inanimate wits, but were nevertheless unpresentable.

In selecting a few specimens of these 'Rejected Addresses, we shall confine ourselves mainly to the imitations of well-known English writers. The finely-tempered yet pungent satire which pervades them, was as much enjoyed, we have been informed, by the lampooned authors themselves, as by the public at large, who speedily swallowed up some ten or fifteen editions of the work. The opening effusion is a bit at the pseudo poet-laureate, FITZGERALD, whose muse

labors to attribute the burning of the theatre to that arch apostate, Boney,' and to lug in, ‘by ear and horn,' some compliment to the reigning powers. The editor has well illustrated, in his successful counterpart of a loyal address, the truth of Goldsmith's remark, that • there is not in nature a more dismal figure, than a man who sits down to premeditated flattery. Every line he writes, tacitly reproaches the meanness of his occupation; till at last his stupidity becomes more stupid, and his dullness more diminutive.' The laureate begins thus :

Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work!
God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!
Ye Muses! by whose aid I cry down Fox,

Grant me in Drury-Lane a private box !'
After some exciting particulars' in the political history of.Gallia's
stern despot,' to whose charge are laid all the sins in the calendar,
Mr. Fitzgerald proceeds :

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Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain
of Covent-Garden and of Drury-Lane?
Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork,
(God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!)
With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas,
And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos?
Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise ?
Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies ?
Why be, who, forging for this isle a yoke,
Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,
“The tree of freedom is the British oak !
Bless every man possessed of aught to give;
Long may Long Tilney Wellesley Long Pole live;
God bless the army, bless their coats of scarlet,
God bless the navy, bless the Princess Charlotte,
God bless the Guards, though worsted Gallia scoff

God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off ;
And oh, in Downing-street should Old Nick revel,
England's prime minister, then bless the Devil !'"

Byron's contribution bears the caption 'Cui Bono ? — and all who have read 'Childe Harold,' will not need to be told, how completely the writer has embodied the train of thought and style of a portion of that renowned poem. We annex several stanzas :


'Sated with home, of wife, of children tired, The restless soul is driven abroad to roam ; Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired, The restless soul is driven to ramble home; Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine, There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome, Scorning to view fantastic Columbine, Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.


'Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way,
To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,
Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,
Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom,
What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom ?
Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave
Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb:

Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave, Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.


'Has life so little store of real woes,
That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?
Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,
Ye court the lying drama for relief?
Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief,
Or if one tolerable page appears
In folly's volume, 'i is the actor's leaf,

Who dries his own by drawing others' tears,
And raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.


· Albeit how like young Betty doth he flee!
Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam,
He liveth only in man's present e'e,
His life a flash, his memory a dream,
Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream;
Yet what are they, the learned and the great ?
A while of longer wonderment the theme!
Who shall presume to prophesy their date,
Where nougbt is certain, save th' uncertainty of fate ?

"This goodly pile, upheav'd by Wyatt's toil,
Perchance than Holland's edifice more fleet,
Again red Lemnos' artizan may spoil ;
The fire alarm, and midnight drum may beat,
And all be strew'd ysmoking at your feet,
Start ye? Perchance Death's angel may be sent,
Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat,

And ye who met on revel idlesse bent,
May find in pleasure's fane your grave and monument.


Your debts mount high ye plunge in deeper waste,
The tradesman calls — no warning voice ye hear;
The plaintiff sues — to public shews ye

The bailiff threats -- ye feel no idle fear;
Who can arrest your prodigal career?
Who can keep down the levity of youth?
What sound can startle age's stubborn ear?
Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth
Men true to falsehood's voice, false to the voice of truth ?'


'For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?
And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl ?
And what is Rolla?' Cupid steep'd in starch,
Orlando's helmet in Augustine's cowl :
Shakspeare, how true thine adage, 'fair is foul ;'
To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,
The song of Braham is an Irish howl,

Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,
And nought is every thing, and every thing is nought.


"Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above,
Not laurel-crown'd, but clad in rusty black,
Not spurring Pegasus through Tempe's grove,
But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack,
What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,
Ye mar to make again for sure, ere long,
Condemn'd to tread the bard's time-sanction'd track,

Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,
And reproduce in rags the rags ye blot in song.

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