POSTSCRIPTUM. - I salute you again herein, remote yet ever present Betsey, to advise, that a new sect has elaborated or is elaborating itself into notice here, which I fear will make a dismal inroad into the belief which we so long have loved and reverenced. This sect denominates itself the Mormon tribe or party. Deeply anxious to know the principles of its founder, (whose name is that of the Smith family, with the antecedent prefix of Jo,) I asked a person, who was vending esculents at a grocery, concerning them. He said 'he did n't know for sartin, but he believed he went ag'in the United States' Bank, although he did not approve of General Jackson.' I saw nothing to excite the noisy levity in which this American citizen afterward indulged; but it left upon my mind, my Betsey, an evidence of the extreme ease which sometimes attends the spread of error. I have since found, that the sect is likely to flourish in this union, since its foundation-precepts are written, not, as was the case with those hard old stone laws of Moses, upon a comparatively worthless medium, but are said to be engraved upon plates of gold· article highly valued in this western world, and worshipped with a devotion which reminds me of the enthusiasm mentioned by our fathers, as prevalent among the devotees of Syria, when they worshipped a deity, a reverence of whom has been pronounced impossible with the true in heart. Once more, implicit Betsey, I confide to you my parting Farewell!

an

How many moons, fair stream! have passed away,
Since, standing on this oft-remembered height,
The east all bathed in morning's rosy light,

I turned, with fond misgiving, to survey
The scene from which ambition led astray

My foolish heart from all it held most dear;
Home and the old familiar forms that ne'er

So lovely seemed as on that parting day:

Bright with affection's chiding smiles, they shone
Upon my lingering gaze, to woo return;

Ere it were mine the bitter truth to learn,

With fond regret and unavailing moan,

That who for crowds, home's calm delights shall spurn,
In crowds may sigh to feel himself alone!

IV.

So have I felt, dear stream! and here once more
Most gladly stand I in thy cheering sight,
With heart made wiser by the froward slight
Of thy fond teachings for the world's stern lore,
That all its blushing honors to the core

Are but poor painted vanities, and fame
The dying echo of an air-born name,
A bubble bursting on oblivion's shore!

Enough of these sad nothings! be it mine
Henceforth to hoard the blest rememberings
Of kindness shown to all of breathing things

In yon dear vale, and taste those joys divine
Which Duty feels, when Conscience, smiling, sings
Her sweet 'well done,' at every day's decline!

CIRCUS.

'Unrivalled attraction! grand entrée! feats of the ring! ground and lofty tumbling! still vaulting by the whole company!

I KNOW of some villages, which are happy in an unusual seclusion, whose situation protects them from the intrusion of the world. So surrounded are they by hills, and so embosomed in forests, so 'remote from cities,' and from public highways, that the heart of Zimmerman might envy their solitude. The most violent tempests in the political world can hardly affect them. They are like mountains whose summits are basking in the sunbeams, while their base is uprooted by the storm. The wind and the hurricane rage in the distance; the destruction is beyond their horizon of peace.'

Thither, by the eternal impediments of nature, no post-routes or rail-ways can ever come, to work out their magical changes; no manufactories stun with their clatter, or darken the atmosphere with smoke. The spirit of utility, which is abroad in the country, which levels to the earth so many monuments of affection, and forbids any thing to stand as it is, cannot come here. There are few changes except the ever-recurring ones of nature and mortality. The aspect of to-day remains the same to-morrow; and the solitary spire which pierces the blue skies now, will fifty years hence look down upon the peaceful abodes of men whose fathers worshipped in this mountain.'

The primeval silence of these places remains almost unbroken; scarcely is echo awakened among the rocks. Their situation is not marked upon the maps, and their existence is a secret to the world. Perhaps a few quiet gentlemen come there in the summer, to sail on the clear lakes, or drop their lines for the golden-speckled trout, But they are wily fishermen; and when

'The melancholy days return, the saddest of the year,'

6

and they go back to the marts of commerce, careful are they not to reveal the pleasant spots where they laid in wait for the scaly people.'

One might suppose that the current of life ran along almost too sleepily, and that the inhabitants of such places would be ready to die with weariness and disgust. But let it be remembered, that they do not live in idleness, nor are their sickly natures fed with excitement, as a food. They have sports and pastimes in abundance, and incidents which the bustling world would deem unworthy of notice are continually occurring, to relieve them from monotony, and to create a spicy variety of life. Sometimes a pedlar comes along, and is a welcome visiter. He opens doors without knocking, and enters with the familiarity of a friend. His variegated wares are spread out; brass buttons, and tortoise-shell combs, and suspenders, and ear-rings, and jewelry of pure gold. The housewives find it to their advantage to purchase his salves and essences, and his o-pod-eldoc, as he terms it, which is a sartin cure for the rhumatiz.'

Ever and anon, there is a show of dancing puppets, and a barrelorgan turned by some worn-out soldier, whose simple airs a fat, rosyfaced woman accompanies, while in a very sweet voice, but a raw accent, she sings, rolling her dark, supplicating eyes to the windows: 'I'd be a butterfly, born in a bow'r,

Where roses and lilies and violets meet,
Roving for ever from flower to flower,

Kissing all things that is pretty, a-n-d sweet.
I'd never languish for wealth or for power,
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet.'

And not in vain does she expend her melody. For soon her eyes are refreshed by a pattering shower of silver coin, which honest boys collect from the earth, and place in her hands, while some kindhearted spirit crowns the whole with a goblet of sparkling water. She inhales the draught, more delicious than wine of the old vintage, and passes on to the next cottage, leaving a God's blessing, sweet to the rustic ear as the lately-expired music. A few moments elapse, and her distant voice is again heard; for having detected in a window a golden-haired, beautiful girl, peeping from behind the jalousies of the honeysuckle, she sings of the minstrel's return,' or of a youth now far, far away, but whom at midsummer the propitious fates will restore to the embrace of his mistress. And again, in a song not excelled for a simplicity which touches the heart, she declares the enduring attachments of home:

'Midst pleasures and palaces though I may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.'

I charge all persons, and especially husbandmen, that they reward most generously these only relics of the troubadours. Many a weary mile do they walk, the messengers of music. Small is the boon which they ask or desire, and entirely unequal to their deserts. Treat them kindly, treat them tenderly, and they will repay you ten-fold; neglect them, and the doric muse has perished.

There are few wandering fortune-tellers in the country, nor are our villages rendered animate by the scene of a gipsey encampment. Let those arrant poachers remain in England; their absence is certainly to be regretted, on the score of the picturesque. Yet we cannot accord with the solemn exclamation of the nursery song :

'Lo! mother Shipton and her cat

Quite full of conjuration;

And if more conjurers could be found,
'T were better for the nation.'

A travelling caravan is an integral portion of the great institute in the metropolis. When the summer comes, it is broken up into parts, which are dispersed in every section of the country, that the imprisoned beasts may have the benefit of pure air. These consist, for the most part, of a lion, a tiger, a black bear, a camel, a wild cat, a hyena, some torpid snakes, coiled up in a box, and in a separate apartment a panorama, and a man who sings Jim Crow.' This latter is the most noxious beast of the whole clan. Beside these, a great number of monkeys, apes, and ring-tailed babboons, are shut up in a commu.

nity. These be capital fellows, full of spirits, which go the whole length of their ropes, and are better worth seeing, the spectators themselves being judges, than all the tigers, zebras, and hump-back camels, put together. Among themselves, they are hale fellows,' chattering and grinning, jibing, and cracking their jokes, as if in some forest of Africa, save when a by-stander rolls in an apple of discord,' or a cake, and then the big ones flog the small ones unmercifully; and herein consists the kernel of the joke. A Shetland pony goes round and round in a circle, surmounted by a jocko in scarlet uniform, who proves himself an indomitable horseman. He leaps on and off, handles the reins with address, and cracks his whip like a Jehu. Sometimes a small African elephant is made to kneel down, and receive a tower on his shoulders. Those of the company who desire to ride, are requested to step forward, ladies first, gentlemen after-wards.' After a deal of hesitation, a servant-maid gathers courage, and simpering and dimpling, ambles into the arena. Her the showman politely assists to ascend. Another follows, and another, until all the seats are taken up. Then the beast moves once around, with his slow and heavy tramp, the ladies descend from their airy height, and are able to go home and say that they have ridden on the elephant.' Last of all, a negro is encouraged to mount the animal's bare back, and broadly grinning, is looking down upon the crowd below, when the latter, being privy to a joke, gives a violent shrug, and hurls him, as from a terrific precipice, to the ground.

The menagerie is a very popular entertainment, unexceptionable on the score of morals, and visited by the most straitest sects' of the people. Do you see that tall, thin, straight, bony, green-spectacled man, who pries curiously into all the cages, and shuts up like a jackknife when he bends? That is Mr. Simpson. He is a judge of these things, and has a collection at home; an ostrich's egg, a stuffed partridge, and some bugs in a bottle of spirits. He is followed by the lady superior of the female seminary, and a score of pupils, that they may lose none of his valuable remarks.

Aha!' quoth he, here we have the lion, most properly denominated the king of beasts. He is a native of Africa, fierce in his might and terrible in his strength. Mark his flowing mane, his majestic port, his flaming eyes his-his - his - tail. When he roars, heaven shakes, earth quakes, and hell trembles. Here, keeper, please be so good as make this lion roar.'

'Oh! no, no, no!' shriek a dozen voices, hysterically, 'do n't let him roar! - do n't let him roar !'

'Well, well, as you please,' quoth Mr. Simpson, good-humoredly winking at madam.

Here is the Jackal, who purwides food for the lion; a miserable sycophant and panderer for a king. Mark his mean aspect, and dirty appearance. He is emblematic of man. Alas! there is jackals in the world; jackals literary and jackals political.'

It is a season of still deeper excitement, in such a retired country village, when once a year, after several days' heralding, a train of great red wagons is seen approaching, marked in large letters, CIRCUS, 1, 2, 3, 4, and so on. This arrival has been talked of, and produces an immediate bustle and sensation. Fifty boys breaking loose from

school, rush immediately to the street, and in treble tones cry' Circus!' The ploughman lets his plough stand in the middle of the field, and leans over the fence. The blacksmith withdraws his brawny arm from the anvil, and stands in the door of his smithy. A man in the act of shaving, comes out with his face lathered, and a towel under his chin. The old woman who is washing in the porch, takes her dripping and smoking fingers from the suds, peers over her spectacles, opens her mouth, and utters an ejaculation. The milkmaid leaves her pail to be kicked over by the cow. A wise-looking clerk puts his head out of the window, with a pen stuck in his ear. A cat on the eaves of a house likewise looks down. The mother runs to call Johnny, who is playing in the yard, quick-quick-quick! before the procession moves by. He is too late. Ba-a-a-a! An invalid in bed leaps up, thinks he feels better, and shall be abundantly able to go.'

Meantime the cavalcade halts before the inn. The crowd closes in at once, to feast their eyes on the luggage, and see the company unpack. The spirited horses, perspiring with the long journey, stamp impatiently on the ground. The corps are a little out of patience, and annoyed by the crowd. A child gets under the horses' heels, and is dragged out by the hair of his head, unhurt. What rough-spoken, ill-looking fellows are the equestrians! How strangely will they be metamorphosed in a few hours-bright, dazzling, tricked out in gay attire, full of beautiful spangles! They are not themselves now; they are acting the difficult parts of every-day men. At night they will fall readily into their own characters, clowns, harlequins, and the most amusing fools in the world.

"May I be there to see!'

Rapidly the intelligence of their arrival spreads into the adjacent country. The whole community are on the qui vive. There are uneasiness, anticipation, excitement. The village belles lay out their trinkets, ornaments, and brightest calicoes, to adorn the boxes; the plough-boy scrapes his pence together, desperately determined on a standing in the pit. A discussion waxes warm among the graver part of the community, about the lawfulness of these amusements. Some of the young are troubled with doubts. The old people hesitate, demur, and at last give their consent. They have been once young themselves such opportunities do not occur every day. Indeed it would be very difficult for any one to demur, after reading the bill of fare,' a great blanket sheet, full of wood cuts and pictures; horses on the full run, and men bent into all possible shapes and contortions. 'Unrivalled Attraction! Grand entrée. Four-and-twenty Arabian horses. Celebrated equestrian Mr. Burke. Feats in the ring. Grand leap. Cups and ball. The entertainments to conclude with the laughable farce of Billy Button, or the Hunted Tailor.' As the hired man reads over this tempting bill, or failing to read, interprets the hieroglyphics, his mouth waters. I must go!' and he adds, resolutely clenching his teeth, 'I will go.'

In the course of the day the equestrians have wrought industriously, and raised their white pavilion. It stands out on the green, in beau