and in thirty more, Madras. Having letters
of introduction to the judges and other
persons of distinction there, I was received
and entertained with munificent hospitality.
For three weeks, while I waited for the
steamer to convey me to Suez, I became the
guest of one of the chief officers of the
Presidency, who appropriated a suite of
apartments, bath-room, library, carriage, and two
servants, to my especial use. What a charming
scene is a dinner-party in India! The
very heat is made a source of delight. A
feeling of deep repose is in the dusty saloon.
The floor, paved with smooth stone, without
carpet; the air rendered deliciously cool by
passing through wet matting; the eye
refreshed by the choicest flowers encircling the
doorway and drooping in through the open
windows; the guests attired in snow-white
dresses of Chinese grass-cloth, more cool and
delicate than the finest muslin; the
barefooted native servants, in their white robes
and red turbans, gliding noiselessly about;
everything reminds you of those Oriental
stories which we are earliest taught, and
whose scenes, long after floating in the mind,
become the elements of dreams. From above
the punka kept up an artificial breeze, while
ice appeared as plentiful as if we had been
regaling ourselves on the Grands Mulets.
What Eastern story could be more strange
than those vicissitudes which had finally
brought me amid such scenes.

I reached Paris by the overland route viâ
Trieste, passing through Southern Germany,
and down the Danube and the Rhine, having
letters of introduction to eminent persons
there. Through them I succeeded in securing
the attention of Her Majesty's ambassador to
my case; and, after the lapse of six months,
I received a free pardon, with a letter from
the Secretary of State acknowledging my
innocence.

THE CITIES OF TIME.

IN a deep and death-like forest
Where the midnight ever broodeth,
And within whose solemn silence
Man nor beast nor bird obtrudeth,—
Wrecks and ruins of great cities,
Crowded once with countless numbers,
Shroud them in the massive branches,
Blackening in their moulder'd slumbers.

Spacious were these regal structures,
As their Titan sprawl evinces,
Peopled once by kings with harems,
Priests and soldiers, chiefs and princes;
All the rest were slaves more lowly,
And their fragile habitations
Perished, with the stalls and stables
Of their quadruped relations.

Palace, pyramid, and column,
Temples, idols, and traditions,
Arts and skill, and pomp of tyrants—
Scorning human recognitions:
Such their grandeur of past ages,
Such the end of all their glory,
In barbaric height of power
Darkness hath devour'd their story.

Turn thine eye upon the present,
Where the northland swims in rivers,
Itaska and the Rocky Mountains
Are their spring-head's glorious givers.
On they flow to ocean, southward,
Shining, leaping, and expanding;
In a vision I behold them—
'Midst these despot ruins standing.

Leaping rush the foaming rapids
Towards the cataract, eddying, spooming,
O'er the precipice of granite,
Down the gorge with hollow booming!
Thence advance the mighty rivers
Through vast tracts and rolling prairies,
Fields of maize, and rice, and cotton,
Meads and mines for gnomes and fairies.

On the banks are scatter'd sparely
Village, log-hut, lone location,
But upon the river's bosom,
Floating towns attest a Nation!
Life and labour, commerce, progress,
Seeds of men and riches sowing,
O'er five thousand miles now witness
Fertile borders—cities growing.

While in Yucatan I ponder
O'er oblivion's crushing paces;
Mississippi, and Missouri,
Oh, love freedom in all races!
In the future I behold ye,
Clad with cities and with glory,
Nobly hold your course—take warning
By these wrecks and ruins hoary.

Last great strong-hold left for Freedom,
Patriots seek thee o'er the ocean,
Since the world's be-soldier'd pagods
League once more, and claim devotion.
But thou wilt not, ever passive,
See man for his birth-right struggle;
Ten years and thy star-lit banner
Shall o'ertop the blood-stain'd juggle.

Farewell, self-entombing ruins!
Void, majestical, and nameless;
Type of splendours, now so mournful,
Would thine origin were blameless.
Forests clasp'd thee in embraces,
Now the earth shall fold thee rotten,
Scorning man—to God a stranger—
Pass to dust—and be forgotten!

DINING WITH THE MILLION.

THE French journals, debarred from the
discussion of prohibited politics, have been
lately discovering several heroes in humble
life. Modest merit is very apt thus to turn
up in the newspapers at dead seasons, like the
Shower of Frogs, and Tremendous Turnips,
which, in England, are among the most
important results of the close of the
parliamentary session. It happens occasionally
that we read in the obituary of some very