at the same time. On seeing the natives devour the arm or leg, of a roasted monkey, it is difficult not to believe, that this habit of eating animals, that so much resemble man in their physical organization, has, in a certain degree, contributed to diminish the horror of anthropophagy among savages. Roasted monkeys, particularly those that have a very round head, display a hideous resemblance to a child; the Europeans therefore, who are obliged to feed on quadrumanes, prefer separating the head and the hands, and serve up only the rest of the animal at their tables. The flesh of monkeys is so lean and dry, that Mr. Bonpland has preserved in his collections at Paris an arm and hand, which had been broiled over the fire at Esmeralda; and no smell arises from them after a great number of years."

Whilst we are on the subject of taste, which is allowed to be mere matter of opinion, not of dispute, we will make mention of another diet, not exactly either animal or vegetable, but which we suppose may combine the flavours of both to those who indulge in it. We speak of the Otomacs, a tribe in the rudest state, who inhabit the picturesque mission of Uruana, and who present one of the most extraordinary physiological phenomena.

"The Otomacs," says Mr. Humboldt, "eat earth; that is, they swallow every day, during several months, very considerable quantities, to appease hunger, without injuring their health." And his arguments on this singular custom are so curious, that though our limits forbid us from pursuing them further, we cannot but recommend them, with the whole of the work, to the attention of our readers, as very highly interesting.

TO LELIA.

O, sainted Lelia! when the dew-bright rose
Shines in the pale moon's pure and pearly light;
While o'er its blushing head serenely flows

The song of love's mild melodist of night-
"Tis Nature's record of thy beautics-where
Thy lucid eye is emblem'd by the dew,-
Thy brow of whiteness, by the moon-light fair,
And thy soft cheek, by the rich rose's hue.-
O, I have seen this emblem! and have thought
The nightingale's sweet warbling like thy voice.
Yet, though the dew-bright rose and moon-light brought
Thy form to mind, I could not long rejoice:
For as I gaz'd upon the flow'r delighted,

I sigh'd to think, it might, like thee, be blighted!

C. L.

*Soon after my return to Europe, an engraving was published at Weimar, from a drawing composed with great spirit by Mr. Schick at Rome, representing one of our resting-places on the banks of the Oroonoko. In the foreground some Indians are occupied in roasting a monkey."

THE MOUNTAIN KING, FROM A SWEDISH LEGEND.

ONE is surprised that the legendary lore of Sweden should be so little known to the rest of Europe; for, although it is a country less explored by travellers than any other so far advanced in civilization, there is a penetrating spirit in popular poetry, that usually enables it to make its way, under every disadvantage.

The incidents in the following tale are taken from an old Swedish Ballad, founded on a superstition common in ancient times to that country, and our own; the mythology of both nations having peopled the interior of their mountains with a powerful, vindictive, and mysterious race-objects always of terror, and sometimes of unwary love, but usually fatal to those by whom they were not sedulously shunned.

"Open, open, green hill, and let a fair maid in," with the subsequent admittance of the damsel, according to her invocation, in one of our nursery-tales, is evidently akin to the fate of Isabel.

THE MOUNTAIN KING.

She heard the bell toll, and went forth at the dawn-
It is not to matins the maiden is

gone:

The mother believes that her child went to pray-

No prayer did fair Isabel utter that day.

Where, through the grey twilight, did Isabel go?

Alas! to the mountains with helmets of snow,

Whose dark brows seem to frown o'er the laurel and rose
That so lovingly under their shadows repose.

On the highest of hills did fair Isabel rest,

Her delicate fingers have tapped at its breast;

"Rise, King of the mountains! unbar thy green door,

I have seen thee in dreams! I must see thee once more."

“Cease, Isabel, cease! I refuse for thy sake;
That maid is my bride who beholds me awake:
And some cruel infliction the Fates ever bring
To her who espouses the pale Mountain-king.”—
"Let my fate be the darkest thy caverns have seen,
I will brave all its horrors to move as thy Queen;
Then rise! Mountain-monarch! unbar thy green door,
1 must gaze on thy terrible beauty once more."-
The lightning flash'd blue, and the thunder spake loud,
The sun was obscured by an ominous cloud;
The doors of the mountain, in darkness and storm,
Flew open, and closed over Isabel's form.

In a palace of splendour, received as a Queen,

A rich robe is crasp'd round her by handmaids unseen;
And the gems of her crown are selected to vie
With her sun-shine of smile, and her soul-speaking eye.
Sweet voices, responsive, breathe softly around,
And pour on her name all the treasures of sound,-
Now harmoniously blending, now pearly and bright,
Falls each delicate note, like a drop of pure light.

Now they linger and fade, like a lover's last sigh,
And now the full chorus floats proudly on high,
Where, like Iris in hue, shedding odours divine,
Lamps nourish'd with perfumes eternally shine.

But the wild rush of hope that check'd Isabel's breath
Closed her ear to soft tones, like the dull ear of death
And she mark'd not the splendour that glitter'd around,
Her eye sought but one object-her ear but one sound.—
'Twas a moment, no more-yet seem'd ages to fleet,
Ere the pale Mountain-monarch appear'd at her feet:
He knelt at her feet, and he whisper'd soft vows
Words, man dare not utter, have made her his spouse.
His subjects are thronging with looks of surprise,
And fix on her face their inquisitive eyes;

They drew near with respect, yet she met them with awe,
For a likeness in each to their monarch she saw.

And wherever she turned, some lines were impress'd

Of the visage imprinted so deep in her breast;

So sweetly majestic-so mildly severe

That her tremulous love often thrill'd into fear.

But he calms her in whispers, and gems her dark hair With treasures, and wonders-the beauteous-the rareSought in darkest recesses of desolate caves,

Paved with jasper, and cover'd with deep-flowing waves. Her life one smooth ocean of boundless repose, Without chance, change, or time, like eternity shews, Save that eight smiling infants successively shine, Flashing star after star, in their beauty divine.

When she drank the deep love of their fathomless eyes,
Feeling Heaven's own breath in their infantine sighs,
These ineffable stirrings of nature awaken

The deepest remorse for a mother forsaken.
In the full tide of passion did Isabel fling

Her fair form at the feet of the pale Mountain-king;—
"A boon from my lord and my husband I crave,
Let me kiss my fond mother, or weep o'er her grave."

"Then go to thy mother,-in sadness bereft,
But say not a word of the babes thou hast left."-
Soon was Isabel lock'd in a parent's embrace,
And the tears of forgiveness fell fast on her face.
"Oh! remain, my lost bird, in the haunts of thy youth,
Nor again flee the precincts of honour and truth;
Though the gardens of Error are perfumed with flowers,
The adder and snake lie conceal'd in her bowers."

"With the blushes of shame had her cheek ever burn'd
To her home had fair Isabel never return'd;
By the King of the mountains selected as queen,
The truest and fondest of wives have I been.

"In his realms neither sorrow nor sickness appear-
I had nearly forgot-almost long'd for a tear;
And our bridal is blest by the bounty of Heaven-
I have one peerless daughter-my sons they are seven."

Then strode o'er the threshold the pale Mountain-king-
"Why standest thou here, thus presuming to fling
Such aspersions on me as I ne'er can forgive?—
The revealer of secrets deserves not to live."

"No aspersions on thee have these lips ever thrown,

I have dwelt on thy love and thy kindness alone."

"Thou hast mention'd the babes with thy venomous breath-
Thou fool! that vain boast has condemn'd them to death.

"Forewarn'd, thou hast broken the merciful spell
That permits in our palace those children to dwell,
Whose existence has never been whisper'd on earth-
Oh! accursed the hour I rejoiced in their birth!"
Then he struck her fair face as she knelt at his feet-

"Oh! the death-blow," she cried, "from thy hands will be sweet!
Since the deep chords of love thus mysteriously thrill,
While I suffer in patience resign'd to thy will."

"In this ill-fated mansion no more shalt thou stay,

Where thy crime was committed :-Away! then-Away!"
Farewell, my dear father!-farewell, my fond mother!

Farewell, weeping sister!-farewell, infant brother!—

"Farewell, ye high Heavens !—farewell, thou green earth!—
And farewell, thou sweet home, the dear place of my birth!-
For the King of the mountains I left ye before,
And for him, in his anger, I leave ye once more."
Horrid laughter appears in the Monarch's dark face,
While nine circles around the tall mountain they trace,-
And the tears on fair Isabel's bosom fell fast,
As smaller each circle became than the last.

The glad sun in the blue depths of heaven shone bright
As she gaspingly sought the last ray of its light;

Her young daughter beheld her with terror o'ercast—

Oh, mother, dear mother! repose thee at last.

"Beneath this gold canopy lay thy pale head,
Where cushions of crimson profusely I've spread."
"My child! give me wine-bring the cup of my death—
Then close my sad eyelids-receive my last breath.
"A more tender farewell thy poor mother would take,
But fears, my sweet daughter! thy young heart 'twould break."
She drank and to ice a more warm heart was chill'd,
Than by love's richest treasures had ever been fill'd.

Thus from home and from happiness Isabel stray'd,
And thus the pale Monarch her passion repaid;-
Like a lily she sank when a pitiless shower
Has unsparingly beat on the delicate flower.

M. A. S.

NICE MEN.

THERE are several kinds of nice men; but I shall content my readers with two of them :

I. The nice-tasted man.-He is your hypercritic in literature, painting, sculpture, music, acting, dancing, and singing; and is, moreover, over-profound in the virtù of coats, snuff-boxes, and keptChloes. A creature of this class is as troublesome to you with his

opinions, as an old over-provident housekeeper of the Mistress Alison frugality, or a conscientious steward; (but these are very scarce troubles.)

All niceness is effeminacy: niceness of judgment is but mental effeminacy. Strong minds are sometimes diseased down to it; but there are some minds that seem born with this sickliness of the judgment; one can conceive that they had a severe taste in pap, when infants; and when boys, were supreme-judgmented in taws, bloodalleys, and peg-tops. The man is as much to be pitied who has this malady of the mind, as if he had any one lingering disorder of the whole catalogue of sufferings which our "vile flesh is heir to." A nice woman is put-up-with-able;-I knew one who was so overexquisite, she would not be cantered in a swing set up in a kitchengarden, because, as she whispered, the potatoes had eyes; but a nice man is a nausea: it is, as a certain Irish orator would say, the lion aping the lap-dog; the oak the violet.

You shall know this class simply by their noses. There is observable, in that very expressive feature, a prominent indication of never-failing conceitedness of opinion, and a nice dissatisfaction with every thing but themselves, in the up-curling of its widely-dilated nostrils: the nose I mean is very like the poet Gray's. You would think, at the first wink, that it was merely hypercritical in snuffs, and profound in distinguishing adulterated Irish Blackguard from the real; but, upon a nearer acquaintance, you discover that its discernment is of a higher and nicer character. This nose may vary in its L shape it may have the straightness of the Grecian; the eagle. beaked curve of the Roman; the strength and manly beauty of the English; the shortness and pertinacity of the Scotch; or the snubbiness and obstinate stupidity of the Irish nose: the contour may vary, but the sentiment, the expression of the nose, is ever the same.

A critic of this class will not suffer you to admire any one thing for yourself: it is his pleasure (which, consequently, is your pain) to point out two things you should admire, which are not worthy to be admired, and two hundred you should not, which are. If Venus herself could bud out of her imaginary existence into the full-blown beauty of a thing of life, and come among the inhabitants of this "terraqueous earth," our nice man would find out that she halted in her gait; or that she squinted; or that her teeth were not so white as Ruspini's; or that her waist required stays à la Diana, to give it a graceful, undulating bend; or that her yellow tresses had too much of the sandy hue in them, and perhaps call her a "red-haired wench. If you have a new coat, you must consult his taste, and not your own or endure the penalty of being held by the third button (that is hi favourite one, because three is the number of the Graces,) while h lectures on the cut and constitution of coats, from the remotest colla of antiquity, to the most recent cape of modern days--from the litt coat of Samuel, to the great coat of Soames. You sprain your anch in a slip from the pavement, and he falls to shewing you how yo might have sprained it with more grace in a Psychean quadrille. Yo weep the loss of some dear friend before him, and he asks you whethe you have ever seen the celebrated statue of the weeping Narcissus,