gret. Are the characters of love, then, traced upon sand-that the first wave of worldly collision can wash them out?-Is there no rock whereon to found the edifice of friendship or affection?-To what purpose should we give up our hearts to all the joys of fond intercourse-the sweetness of fixed friendship-the delight of deep love,-if, in very truth, they be all thus airy, unsubstantial, and unreal? If we are to be forgotten before a second spring's grass has risen on our graves-if we are to forget, before the very monument which tells our grief, is completed,-it is better to have no loves-no friendships-no ties of kindred or of long remembrance-no gushings of affection-no yearnings of the heart. Let us say, at once, our connections are those of circumstance, of convenience,-at best, of light regard;-to gratify, perhaps, a gust of transient passionto feed the fancy of one passing hour. But if distance be placed between us-and, still more, if death finally intervene then all is gone, never to return or to be remembered all is obliterated, as though it had never been: we are (to use a homely, but most forcibly-expressive, phrase) out of sight—and therefore out of mind also.

Oh! God, and is it thus indeed? The very beasts of the field remember and sorrow for their lost fellows; and are we less human than they?-No-there are some hearts which can never forget-some things which can never be forgotten. No, there are some affections, over which Death has no power-which Time itself is unable to cancel. If I were to number the years which were given to man in the early ages of the world, one feeling, at least-one recollection would still burn at the bottom of my soul.

"That love where Death has set his seal"-is to me the deepest, as it is the holiest, of all. It is without the

impurity and earthly alloy of human passion-yet more strong and more fervent than any thing but human passion can ever be. Violent grief, as I have before said, must pass and in those who are, as I am, thrown by necessity into the full current of worldly society, even deep melancholy will be worn off also. But the soulseated remembrance which remains of the excess of that affection which is at once the most vehement and the softest-the tenderest and the fiercest-of all mortal feel. ings-what can erase that? The sun-like heat and radiance of passion, though themselves no more, are mirrored, as in the moon, in this pure memory. I look on these feelings no longer as recollections they are become part of myself. And can I believe that these will ever pass? No;-when they cease to exist, it will be when I cease to exist also. They are like writing engraven by a diamond upon glass-it cannot be destroyed unless the glass itself be broken.

But there is still left to me one tie, which, though death may sever, it can never take its remembrance from me. It is one which time has only served to draw more close, and to make more endearing. Die when I may, I shall know that, by one at least, I shall not be forgotten. I shall have the remembrance and regret of one who has loved me far far better than I ever deserved to be loved-in despite of all my many faults, and, perhaps, even the better for some of them;-of one who has never failed me in good report or ill report, in bright or evil fortune-who has been deeply consoling to me when I have been afflicted, and lenient, most lenient, when I have erred;-above all, of one to whose almost perfect goodness (accompanied, as real goodness always is, by the truest charity,) I owe any approach I ... myself may ever have made to virtue. The tears of such

me.

a being will be shed for me, or mine will be shed for her. I shall either lament her, or be lamented by her. But, strange and unusual as it may seem, I hope that I may be the survivor. For, utterly as my heart would be riven and shattered by such a blow, I know it would be as nothing in comparison with what she would feel for A heart which has been wasted and spent by passion never can equal in keenness of sensation one unspottedly pure. Once its first fine edge has been taken off, no art can give it again. Feelings which have been excited by desperate enjoyment, and chilled by desperate grief, are of far less force than those which have ever flowed in one strong, unsullied, and unbroken current. My grief would be the grief of man, but her's would be a woman's sorrow.

ON THE (SO CALLED) TOMB OF PSAMMIS.

THE name of the Tomb of Psammis has been so arbitrarily conferred on this magnificent excavation, and so uninquiringly conceded, that it may appear a task as bold as it is singular, to gainsay its title to the name, and reverse the decree of fashion. This, however, a love of truth calls upon me to do. The argument will, at all events, have the merit of novelty. Whether it will be as convincing as it is unique, and as successful as it is singular and bold, will be left to such as will honour it with their attention.

My position, with regard to this excavation, is, that it was not the tomb of a real king, but a Serapeum, or cavern oracle, dedicated to the funeral mysteries of Apis. In this point of view, it may be considered as much a palace as a tomb, such as was that of Osymandes, which it in several particulars resembles. As this is a

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view of the subject as important as it is novel, I shall not waste time by a minute detail of the various chambers it contains, as it has been open to the public; but bear the reader at once in medias res.

It is certain that there were rocks in various parts of the world hewed into winding passages, and chambers for the celebration of religious rites and mysterious trials, connected apparently with the primitive religion of mankind. They existed in Persia, in India, in Syria, in Ethiopia, in Greece, in Italy, and, perhaps, in Ireland (I allude to the singular excavations called St. Patrick's Caves). An immense excavation, it appears, existed at Eleusis, as an appendage to the temple of Ceres. Of the same description were the caverns of Delphos and Trophonius. Both these latter, which strongly resembled each other, were affirmed to be built by the same architect, and still exist, perhaps, nearly in the same external state as when seen by Pausanias; for the oven-formed entrance mentioned by him is still extant in the cave of Trophonius. The passages, however, are now blocked up by the fall of rubbish; or, at all events, have not been penetrated by modern travellers to any extent.

Of the cave of Delphos we only know, that it was similar to that of Trophonius;-that its furniture was of the richest description,-and that it was approached by a descent, for Timoleon is described by Plutarch as descending into it.

The magnificent excavations of Elephanta, Salsette, and Canareh, are familiar to the antiquarian. But no one has ever contended that these, although there be a striking resemblance in all these cavern Adyta, were tombs. Maurice, indeed, with great felicity, as well as erudition, argues that the cavern of Elephanta was devoted to the most ancient mysteries.

There are no extant caverns of the ancient Magian rites, unless the excavated hills called Atash Gah (Places of Fire) which, Abulfazil says, are numerous to the north of India, be of this description. But there are many splendid excavations in Persia, at Shapour and elsewhere, which, indeed, bear a striking resemblance to the Baben-el-Moluck of Egypt, and which were, probably, devoted to the Mythratic mysteries. From what we gather from Porphyry, their construction ought to exhibit a great similarity. The two religions were cognate, and, therefore, we may infer that the initiatory caverns would not be dissimilar. The Mythratic initiation was, it seems, performed in a cave, formed by Zoroaster, to represent the world, and fitted up in a mathematical manner. The analogy will extend farther. The officiating priests, it appears from Tertullian, wore the Egyptian masks of animals. We gather from Origen, that the Mythratic candidate was obliged to pass through seven gates of trial, before he arrived at the ineffable presence, the Makarian Opsin, after which he was declared accepted, and a Lion of Mythras. On passing the upper gate of Capricorn, a baptism of fire awaited the initiate. On reaching the lower gate of Cancer, his trial was to pass through water. Mimic hunts of priests dressed as animals, formed part of the initiatory rites. Tertullian mentions an offering of bread by the candidates,-speaks of a particular mark impressed upon them, and of a symbol of the resurrection. Was this last the Egyptian Tau, (so explained by many commentators,) which, from extant figures, appears to have been worn on the foreheads of particular votaries, and which, perhaps, originated the "mark of the beast" mentioned in the Revelations? The Mythratic rites finished by placing a golden seraph in the bosom of the initiate, and a crown upon his head.