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hot smokes that wrapped and half blinded us, hung thick 3 as night upon the wrecks of pavilions and palaces; but the dexterity and knowledge of my inexplicable guide carried us on: It was in vain that I insisted upon knowing the purpose
of this terrible traverse. He pressed his hand on his heart in reassurance of his fidelity, and still spurred on. We now passed under the shade of an immense range of lofty buildings, whose gloomy and solid strength seemed to bid defiance to chance and time. A sudden yell appalled me. A ring of fire swept round its
summit; burning cordage, sheets of canvass, and a shower 4 of all things combustible, flew into the air above our heads.
An uproar followed, unlike all that I had ever heard a hideous mixture of howls, shrieks and groans. The flames rolled down the narrow street before us, and made the passage next to impossible. While we hesitated, a huge fragment of the building heayed, as if in an earthquake, and fortunately for us fell inwards. The whole scene of terror was then open. The great amphitheatre of Statilius Taurus had caught fire : the stage with its inflam
mable furniture, was intensely blazing below. The flames 5 were wheeling up, circle above circle, through the seventy
thousand seats that rose from the ground to the roof. I stood in unspeakable awe and wonder on the side of this colossal cavern, this mighty temple of the city of fire. At length a descending blast cleared away the smoke that covered the arena.—The cause of those horrid cries was now visible. The wild beasts kept for the games had broken from their dens.--Maddened by affright and pain, lions, tigers, panthers, wolves, whole herds of the monsters
of India and Africa, were inclosed in an impassable barrier 6 of fire. They bounded, they fought, they screamed, they
tore; they ran howling round and round the circle ; they made desperate leaps upwards through the blaze; they were flung back, and fell only to fasten their fangs in each other, and with their parching jaws bathed in blood, die raging. I looked anxiously to see whether any human being was involved in this fearful catastrophe. To my great relief, I could see none. The keepers and attendants had obviously escaped. As I expressed iny gladness, I was startled by a loud cry from my guide, the first sound that I had heard him utter. He pointed to the opposite side of 7 the amphitheatre. There indeed sat an object of melan
choly interest : a man who had been either unable to escape, or had determined to die. Escape was now impossible. He sat in desperate calmness on his funeral pile. He was a gigantic Ethiopian slave, entirely naked. He had chosen his place, as if in mockery, on the imperial throne ; the fire was above him and around him ; and under this tremendous canopy he gazed, without the movement of a muscle, on the combat of the wild beasts below; a solitary sovereign, with the whole tremendous game played for himself, and inaccessible to the power of man,
She is not mad who kneels to thee;
And what I was, and what should be.
My language shall be mild, though sad;
I am not mad, I am not mad.
Which chains me in this dismal cell ;
Oh! jailer, haste that fate to tell :
His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad
I am not mad, I am not mad.
He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain;
'Tis gone! and all is gloom again.
Life, all thy comforts once I had ;
4 'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain ;
What! 1,—the child of rank and wealth,—
Bereft of freedom, friends, and health?
Which never more my heart must glad,
A mother's face, a mother's tongue ?
Nor round her neck how fast you clung;
Nor how that suit your sire forbade;
They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad 6 His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!
His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!
And art thou now for ever gone?
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad?
I am not mad; I am not mad. 7 Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries !
His chain some furious madman breaks;
Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes.
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare !
He whirls a serpent high in air.
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ;
Your task is done-l'm mad! I'm mad'
There often wanders one, whom better days
The Mocking Bird Wilson. 1 The plumage of the mocking bird, though none of the homeliest
, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it, and, had he nothing else to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice; but his figure is well proportioned, and even handsome. The ease, elegance, and rapidity of his movements, the animation of his eye, and the intelligence he displays in listening, and laying up lessons from almost every species of the feathered creation within his hearing, are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius. 'To these qualities we may add that of a voice full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every modula2 tion, from the clear, mellow tones of the wood thrush, to
the savage screams of the bald eagle. In measure and accent, he faithfully follows his originals. In force, and sweetness of expression, he greatly improves upon them. In his native groves, mounted upon the top of a tall bush, or half-grown tree, in the dawn of dewy morning, while the woods are already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his admirable song rises pre-eminent over every competitor The ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all
the others seeins a mere accompaniment. Neither is his 3 strain altogether imitative. His own native notes, which
are easily distinguishable by such as are well acquainted with those of our various birds of song, are bold and full, and varied, seemingly, beyond all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, three, or, at the most, five or six syllables, generally interspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity, and continued, with undiminished ardor, for half an hour, or an hour, at a time. His expanded wings and tail, glistening with
white, and the buoyant gayety of his action, arrest the eye, 4 as his song most irresistibly does the ear.
round with enthusiastic ecstasy,-he monnts and descends, as his song swells or dies away, and, as Mr. Bartram has beautifully expressed it," he bounds aloft with the celerity of an arrow, as if to recall his very soul, which expired in the last elevated strain." While thus exerting himself, a bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that the whole feathered tribes had assembled together, on a trial of skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect,- perfect are
his imitations. He many times deceives the sportsman, 5 and sends him in search of birds, that, perhaps, are not within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly imitates. Even birds themselves are frequently imposed on by this admirable mimic, and are decoyed by the fancied calls of their mates, or dive, with precipitation, into the depths of thickets, at the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow-hawk.
The mocking bird loses little of the power and energy of his song by confinement. In his domesticated state,
when he commences his career of song, it is impossible to 6 stand by uninterested. He whistles for the dog : Cæsar
starts up, wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He