but on praying to Brumha, he promised to make the image famous in its present shape. Brumha himself gave eyes and a soul to it. He has many temples; one of the most famous is in Orissa. The annual Car Festival is the most popular; the car is in the form of a tapering tower, between fifty and sixty feet in height: it has sixteen wheels, two horses, and a coachman, all of wood. The crowd draw the carriage by means of a hawser; he is supposed to pay an annual visit to his brother; and while the car remains empty near his brother's temple, immense crowds flock to gaze at the pictures which are painted on it. At the end of eight days, he is drawn back again to his own temple.
Unnumbered multitudes of pilgrims, from all parts of India, attend this festival, among whom a great mortality frequently prevails; and hundreds, perhaps thousands of persons, diseased or distressed, have cast themselves under the wheels of this ponderous car, and have been crushed to death.
Original.
THE BACHELOR’S DREAM.
“When I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I should live to be married.”
The clock of St. Paul’s, that only accurate chronicler of time’s flight in the commercial emporium, had just struck three, when I finished my last quadrille—bade adieu to the splendid dresses, the fascinations of beauty, the whisperings of love’s wildest promptings, and throwing myself into a carriage, was set down at my lodgings in Broadway, disposed to think better of the fair than ever, and fairly three-quarters in love. I defy any bachelor to mix with the young and beautiful—to listen to voices tremulous with the tenderest emotions—to inhale an atmosphere as full of love as the rose gardens of Cashmere are of perfume—to touch hands, and in the mazes of the waltz find circled in our arms perfections which would not disgrace the beings that serve up the nectar of the gods, without feeling some compunctious visitings of conscience for his “let us alone” doctrines, and wishing that fate had so ordained it, that some of these rich prizes in the grand lottery of life had fallen to his share. I am a devout believer in Shelley’s philosophy of love, and hold that he who does not yield to the magic of its sweet influences, is acting against the ordinances of high heaven, and is no better than a madman or a fool: and with my head full of love and wine I tumbled into bed, half singing, half dreaming the following lines:—
The fountains mingle with the river,
The river with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet commotion:
Nothing on the earth is single,
All things by a law divine,
In one another's being mingle;—
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another:
No leaf or flower would be forgiven,
If it disdained to kiss its brother.
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;
But what are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
I know not how it is, but it is certain that in sleep we view things in a far different light from what we do when awake:—impossibilities vanish fear and physic are flung to the dogs—dull care is banished with our bashfulness, and we revel in the fairy worlds created by our own imaginations.—Caroline Thompson is one of the most lovely girls that ever paced Broadway, and though I loved her distractedly,as every one else does that knows her, I should no more have thought when awake, of inviting her to share my humble circumstances, than I should of inviting Venus to leave her radiant sphere, and take the place of my lamp while I am scribbling this paper.—But the truth is my diffidence had all evaporated, the “question” was put, and with one of the sweetest smiles that ever lighted up her beautiful features, was answered in the affirmative; and quicker than a magician’s wand, or the lamp of Aladdin could have brought matters about, I became the happiest of men by finding myself the husband of my adored Caroline. Philosophers prate about our anticipated joys being diminished in their participation. I know it’s all fudge!—No man in his sober senses could have imagined the happiness I enjoyed—none but an opium eater, or one who had voyaged to Mahomet’s heaven, could have approximated towards an idea of it.
How rapidly we pass over time when we are —asleep. A Kentuckian on his stream of light- ning can alone equal us in velocity. Years glided away, and I was soon the father of some half a dozen children, but of these, two, only, a son and a daughter, remained to reward our care —the rest, “sparkled, exhaled, and went to heaven.” Theodore, the son, was fifteen when he went to college, a noble though a wilful boy, and the just theme of praise from every one. My two children, and my wife I was proud of, I fancied justly; and every nerve was exerted to furnish my son with the means of lavish expenditure, and to provide for the gratification of that love of distinction and show, of which women and girls are so distractedly foné.—Helen, my girl, was one of the fairest creatures the world ever saw—guileless and pure hearted, she won golden
