proffered visit, was founded on the same feelings which led him so blindly to resign himself to them on their approach. He felt himself rebuked by their superior genius. He at once conceded all that they demanded, his treasures, his power, even his person. For their sake, he forsook his wonted occupations, his pleasures, his most familiar habits. He might be said to forego his nature, and, as his subjects asserted, to change his sex and become a woman. If we cannot refuse our contempt for the pusillanimity of the Aztec monarch, it should be mitigated by the consideration that his pusillanimity sprung from his superstition, and that superstition in the savage is the substitute for religious principle. in the civilized man.

It is not easy to contemplate the fate of Montezuma without feelings of the strongest compassion,-to see him thus borne along the tide of events beyond his power to avert or control; to see him, like some stately tree, the pride of his own Indian forests, towering aloft in the pomp and majesty of its branches, by its very eminence a mark for the thunderbolt, the first victim of the tempest which was to sweep over its native hills! When the wise king of Tezcuco addressed his royal relative at his coronation, he exclaimed, "Happy the empire, which is now in the meridian of its prosperity, for the sceptre is given to one whom the Almighty has in his keeping; and the nations shall hold him in reverence!" Alas! the subject of this auspicious invocation lived to see his empire melt away like the winter's wreath; to see a strange race drop, as it were, from the clouds on his land; to find himself a prisoner in the palace of his fathers, the companion of those who were the enemies of his gods and his people; to be insulted, reviled, trodden in the dust, by the meanest of his subjects, by those who, a few months previous, had trembled at his glance; drawing his last breath in the halls of a stranger, a lonely outcast in the heart of his own capital! He was the sad victim of destiny,-a destiny as dark and irresistible in its march as that which broods over the mythic legends of antiquity!

CATHARINE MARIA SEDGWICK.

THIS pleasing writer was born in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Her father, the Hon. Theodore Sedgwick,-one of the first men in the State,-was at one time Speaker of the House of Representatives, and afterwards Senator in Congress, and at the time of his death (January 24, 1813) was a Judge of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts.

Miss Sedgwick first appeared as an author in 1822, by the publication of A New England Tale, the success of which was so great as to induce her to continue in a

career so auspiciously begun. In 1824, she published Redwood, a Tale, which immediately became very popular. In 1827 appeared Hope Leslie, or Early Times in Massachusetts, in two volumes; in 1830, Clarence, a Tale of Our Own Times; and in 1835, The Linwoods, or Sixty Years Since in America,-the last, and, as many think, the best, of her novels.1

In 1836, she struck out into a new path, and gave to the public Home,—the first of an admirable series of stories illustrative of everyday life. This was followed by The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man;2 Live, and Let Live; and this, by Means and Ends, or Self-Training. Then appeased two volumes of delightful juvenile tales,-A Love-Token for Children, and Stories for Young Persons. Soon after these appeared a small volume,-Morals of Manners, with a sequel of Facts and Fancies. It was introduced into the school-libraries of New York, and exerted a happy influence in educating the manners of the young. The Boy of Mount Rhigi was written by request of a friend, to be read to prisoners in a house of correction, and it was listened to with great interest.

In 1839, Miss Sedgwick went to Europe, and during the year she was there, wrote her Letters from Abroad to Kindred at Home, which, on her return, were published in two volumes. She has also written a Life of Lucretia M. Davidson, published in the seventh volume of "Sparks's American Biography," and has contributed many articles to "The Lady's Book," and other periodicals. Her lastpublished work is entitled Married or Single.3

A SABBATH IN NEW ENGLAND.

The observance of the Sabbath began with the Puritans, as it still does with a great portion of their descendants, on Saturday night. At the going down of the sun on Saturday, all temporal

1"We think this work the most agreeable that Miss Sedgwick has yet published. It is written throughout with the same good taste, and quiet, unpretending power, which characterize all her productions, and is superior to most of them in the variety of the characters brought into action, and the interest of the fable." -North American Review, xlii. 160.

2 "The Poor Rich Man, and the Rich Poor Man is one of those rare productions of wisdom and genius which none can read without delight, and which are adapted to leave deep impressions of duty. If we dared to allude to so trite a saying as that which sets ballad-making above law-making, we would say that the writer of works like this and its twin-sister Home has the character and fortunes of this nation more at her disposal than any of the ambitious politicians of the land. We look, for the safety and progress of society, far more to the operation of strong principle and persuasive truth, wrought quietly into the heart and formed silently into habit, than to any action of government or other external institution."--Christian Examiner, xxi. 398.

3 "It is impossible to speak of her works without a particular regard to their moral and religious character. We know no writer of the class to which she belongs who has done more to inculcate just religious sentiments. They are never obtruded, nor are they ever suppressed. It is not the religion of observances, nor of professions, nor of articles of faith, but of the heart and life."National Portrait-Gallery.

affairs were suspended; and so zealously did our fathers maintain the letter as well as the spirit of the law, that, according to a vulgar tradition in Connecticut, no beer was brewed in the latter part of the week, lest it should presume to work on Sunday.

It must be confessed that the tendency of the age is to laxity; and so rapidly is the wholesome strictness of primitive times abating, that, should some antiquary, fifty years hence, in exploring his garret-rubbish, chance to cast his eye on our humble pages, he may be surprised to learn that even now the Sabbath is observed, in the interior of New England, with an almost Judaical severity.

On Saturday afternoon an uncommon bustle is apparent. The great class of procrastinators are hurrying to and fro to complete the lagging business of the week. The good mothers, like Burns's matron, are plying their needles, making "auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;" while the domestics, or help, (we prefer the national descriptive term,) are wielding, with might and main, their brooms and mops, to make all tidy for the Sabbath.

As the day declines, the hum of labor dies away, and, after the sun is set, perfect stillness reigns in every well-ordered household, and not a footfall is heard in the village street. It cannot be denied that even the most scriptural, missing the excitement of their ordinary occupations, anticipate their usual bedtime. The obvious inference from this fact is skilfully avoided by certain ingenious reasoners, who allege that the constitution was originally so organized as to require an extra quantity of sleep on every seventh night. We recommend it to the curious to inquire how this peculiarity was adjusted when the first day of the week was changed from Saturday to Sunday.

The Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the first hallowed day. Not a human sound is heard without the dwellings, and, but for the lowing of the herds, the crowing of the coeks, and the gossiping of the birds, animal life would seem to be extinct, till, at the bidding of the church-going bell, the old and young issue from their habitations, and, with solemn demeanor, bend their measured steps to the meeting-house; the families of the minister, the squire, the doctor, the merchant, the modest gentry of the village, and the mechanic and laborer, all arrayed in their best, all meeting on even ground, and all with that consciousness of independence and equality which breaks down the pride of the rich, and rescues the poor from servility, envy, and discontent. If a morning salutation is reciprocated, it is in a suppressed voice; and if, perchance, nature, in some reckless urchin, burst forth in laughter, "My dear, you forget it's Sunday," is the ever-ready reproof.

Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet we once chanced to see even a deacon's muscles relax by the wit of a neighbor, and heard him allege, in a half-deprecating, half-laughing voice, "The squire is so droll, that a body must laugh, though it be Sabbathday."

The farmer's ample wagon, and the little one-horse vehicle, bring in all who reside at an inconvenient walking distance,—that is to say, in our riding community, half a mile from the church. It is a pleasing sight, to those who love to note the happy peculiarities of their own land, to see the farmers' daughters, blooming, intelligent, well bred, pouring out of these homely coaches, with their nice white gowns, prunel shoes, Leghorn hats, faus and parasols, and the spruce young men, with their plaited ruffles, blue coats, and yellow buttons. The whole community meet as one religious family, to offer their devotions at the common altar. If there is an outlaw from the society, a luckless wight, whose vagrant taste has never been subdued, he may be seen stealing along the margin of some little brook, far away from the condemning observation and troublesome admonitions of his fellows.

Towards the close of the day, (or, to borrow a phrase descriptive of his feelings who first used it,) "when the Sabbath begins to abate," the children cluster about the windows. Their eyes wander from their catechism to the western sky, and, though it seems to them as if the sun would never disappear, his broad disk does slowly sink behind the mountain; and, while his last ray still lingers on the eastern summits, merry voices break forth, and the ground resounds with bounding footsteps. The village belle arrays herself for her twilight walk; the boys gather on "the green;" the lads and girls throng to the "singing-school;" while some coy maiden lingers at home, awaiting her expected suitor; and all enter upon the pleasures of the evening with as keen a relish as if the day had been a preparatory penance.

UNCLE PHIL AND HIS INVALID DAUGHTER.

It was a lovely morning in June when Uncle Phil set forth for New York with his invalid daughter. Ineffable happiness shone through his honest face, and there was a slight flush of hope and expectation on Charlotte's usually pale and tranquil countenance, as she half rebuked Susan's last sanguine expression.

"You will come home as well as I am: I know you will, Lottie !"

"Not well,-oh, no, Susy, but better, I expect, I mean, I hope."

"Better, then, if you are, that is to say, a great deal better,— I shall be satisfied: sha'n't you, Harry?"

"I shall be satisfied that it was best for her to go, if she is any better."

"I trust we shall all be satisfied with God's will, whatever it may be," said Charlotte, turning her eye, full of gratitude, upon Harry. Harry arranged her cushions as nobody else could to support her weak back: Susan disposed her cloak so that Charlotte could draw it around her if the air proved too fresh; and then, taking her willow-basket in her hand, the last words were spoken, and they set forth. Uncle Phil was in the happiest of his happy humors. He commended the wagon,-"it was just like sitting at home in a rocking-chair: it is kind o' lucky that you are lame, Lottie, or maybe Mrs. Sibley would not have offered to loan us her wagon. I was dreadful 'fraid we should have to go down the North River. I tell you, Lottie, when I crossed over it once, I was a'most scared to death,-the water went swash, swash, -there was nothing but a plank between me and etarnity; and I thought in my heart I should have gone down, and nobody would ever have heard of me again. I wonder folks can be so foolish as to go on water when they can travel on solid land; but I suppose some do!"

"It is pleasanter," said Charlotte, "to travel at this season, where you can see the beautiful fruits of the earth, as we do now, on all sides of us." Uncle Phil replied, and talked on without disturbing his daughter's quiet and meditation. They travelled slowly, but he was never impatient, and she never wearied, for she was an observer and lover of nature. The earth was clothed with its richest green,—was all green, but of infinitely varied tints. The young corn was shooting forth; the winter-wheat already waved over many a fertile hill-side; the gardens were newly made, and clean, and full of promise; flowers, in this month of their abundance, perfumed the woods, and decked the gardens and court-yards; and where nothing else grew, there were lilacs and peonies in plenty. The young lambs were frolicking in the fields, the chickens peeping about the barn-yards, and birdsthousands of them-singing at their work.

Our travellers were descending a mountain where their view extended over an immense tract of country, for the most part richly cultivated.

"I declare!" exclaimed Uncle Phil, "how much land there is in the world, and I don't own a foot on't, only our little half-acre lot it don't seem hardly right." Uncle Phil was no agrarian, and he immediately added, "But, after all, I guess I am better off without it,-it would be a dreadful care."

"Contentment with godliness is great gain," said Charlotte. "You've hit the nail on the head, Lottie: I don't know who should be contented if I a'n't: I always have enough, and every