Arnold, and from various other old buildings, was compared with the mortar of the old mill, and found to be identical in quality and character. The form is that of English mills at the period, with which the builders would be most familiar. In the Penny Magazine for November, 1836, there is a picture of a mill in Warwickshire, designed by Inigo Jones, who died in 1652, of which the form is quite the same. Old seacaptains and travelers testify to having seen hundreds of similar wind-mills all over the north of Europe. OLD STONE MILL. Its framework all fell ere a century waned, Sound-hearted and merry, as long as it could; And the hardy old men Of firm, solid stone they would build it again, Because they foresaw It would make a good fort in some hard Indian war.' The story of Newport is so sweet in the telling, that, like Scheherazade beguiling the night, the chronicler would willingly while away the sum mer with his tale. But these annals must end. We have spoken of Newport as a gone glory-an ornament of the Past. But its present career is not less memorable in our contemporary social history. While the old town dozes on unchanged, more surprised, perhaps, than delighted, at the brilliant bustle which rattles through its streets for a brief summer season, a new town is rapidly arising upon the hill. A spacious and beautiful avenue has pierced the solitary fields along the ocean, so long given up to haystacks, lovers, and fishermen, and clusters of handsome houses now flash a welcome to the home-bound mariner still far out at sea; and swarms of equipages and gay groups of youth, beauty, and fashion, announce that the fine society which stepped stately, in brocades and periwigs, has only yielded place to another time and its children, not less beautiful nor less worthy of the spot. The secret of its old success, as a centre of pleasant society from all parts of the country, is Vague romance totters under these direct blows equally that of its present prosperity. The deliof fact. "Alas! the antiquarian's dream is o'er Thou art an old stone wind-mill, nothing more!" sings Mr. Brooks in his poem of "Aquidneck." But the old ruin does not lose its interest. It is a permanent link with the earliest historical days of the island. It belongs still to as much romance as the poet can bring to it. No one has more fully proved it than the author of an admirable antiquarian hoax upon the building, in a series of letters professing to come from " Antiquarian," dating from Brown University, in 1847. He in troduces the Danish theory, supported by reports of fabulous investigations by fictitious characters, which did not fail of provoking caustic correspondence, and finally achieving its triumph by eliciting a solemn denial, from Professor Rafn, of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries at Copenhagen, of the existence of such characters as Bishop Oelrischer, Professors Scrobein, Graetz, &c. Its true history, also, has been hinted in song by the laureate of Old Grimes, a Rhode Island poet, scholar, and gentleman, whose musical verses sum up the whole matter. It is the Song of the Wind-mill Spirits: "How gayly that morning we danced on the hill, When we saw the old Pilgrims were building a mill. * * Albert G. Greene, of Providence. cious climate, the advantages of sporting, and bathing, and social relaxation, which brought the people of a century since to Newport, and held them there, now draw their descendants. For many years, from 1815 to 1840, it was the resort of quiet Southern families, some of whom had summer-houses upon the island; and Uncle Tom Townsend's," known simply as "Townsend's," and Miss Dillon's, upon the Parade, and Potter's old Bellevue, upon the site of the present large hotel, were quite enough for the other travelers, for the lawyers upon the circuit, and for the members of the Legislature. Newport did not readily yield to its greater rival, Providence, sitting regally at the head of Narragansett Bay, leaning either arm upon two tributary rivers. A young Newporter, thirty years ago, bred in the aristocratic traditions of the town, found, to his great contempt, that he could easily lift the chairs in Providence parlors, but in the ancestral rooms of old Newport were only colossal ancestral chairs, no more to be handed about by polite gentlemen than carven thrones. Newport disdained Providence as the Faubourg St. Germain scorned Louis Philippe and his modern dynasty. In its decay, when its population had fallen to some 6000, and its rival numbered nearly 30,000, Newport still divided with Providence metropolitan honors, and sent six representatives to the Legislature, while Prov idence sent only four. Even the present chron- | memory of Norton, their worthy companion. And icler can recall "Eheu, eheu! Posthume! Posthume!" fine old Newport figures, gentlemen and scholars, worthy to call Hunter, Hazard, Randolph, King, Ellery, and others, ancestors. From about the year 1840, and the erection of the "Ocean House" and the "Atlantic House," may be dated the renaissance, of Newport. There is an immortal excellence in the air and the island which will not suffer it to fall into forgetfulness or complete decay. It will not cease to call its roll of famous names. If its traditions love to remember Berkeley and Stiles and Channing walking along its shores and fields, so will its future annalists associate with its history the GLEN. as the patriotic pilgrim watches from the Point the waters on which British power was first humbled by American freedom, and returns, pensive, through the streets that Washington walked, and by the house of Perry, he will be glad that our heroes shall not die unsung, and remember Bancroft, our great historian. Newport is pre-eminently our Watering-place, nor is there any in the world superior in variety of charm. In Europe, the great German Baths are only other names for gaming-houses; the Italian resorts are lovely; Lucca and Castellamare, of which Willis gossips airily, are delightful. But the Baths of Lucca are shut in by mountains, and Castellamare, although upon the Bay of Naples, is oppressed by Monte San Angelo, and wants the breadth and variety of Newport. In France and England the summer resorts are pleasant, but the peculiarity of a watering-place is too much lost in the extent of the towns. Töplitz, in Bohemia, is inland; Heliogoland is a small island in the North Sea, more curious than agreeable; the Tyrolean Baths at Ischl are romantic, and surrounded by magnificent mountains; and the Swiss Baths and those of the Pyrenees lie in narrow valleys, and want a refreshing horizon. At Baden Baden, the great Continental resort, you may see Rachel lose and win piles of Napoleons, and try your own fortune with Louis d'ors or sovereigns. But Newport has more natural advantages than any of LILY POND. liest youth, at which time tradition did not reach to its first construction-and catch, for baking with wine-sauce, the tautog, famed fish of Rhode Island waters, which the unfortunate Abbé Robin ignorantly called tew-tag. Or, in more romantic and less fiercely piscatory moods, you will draw perch from Lily Pond, and saunter to the Spouting Horn, where, in storms, the sea dashes high in crumbling, glittering spires of foam-building in air a vast, blinding, momentary wall of unimaginable splendor of device and detail-a palace of exquisite faery heaved suddenly upthem. Nor does it want similar seductions | ward from the volcanic emerald mine of ocean Superfluous money may be lost even in Newport-wavering, flashing, and gone. Or you go down -land of John Callender and Roger Williams. the Forty-steps to Conrad's Cave, and babble Its casinos do not blaze with colored lamps among Byron; or to the Point, and recall revolutionary orange trees upon the highway, as at Baden; but in tradition. But still, a watering-place is a thequiet little streets, hiding in houses of a rusty dig-atre where the audience are also the actors. nity, lurk the fascinating spells: and there the youths-fondly supposed by mothers, aunts, and sisters, to be innocently polking with Clotilda, or discreetly flirting with Amanda-are toying with a more terrible mistress, and perfecting the jaded and insolent swagger which is supposed to indicate the man of the world. Sometimes the conscience, and not the stomach, is responsible for that morning headache. Saratoga is our only rival of Newport, and Saratoga is always sure of a certain homage. But its unique hotels, its throng, its music, its dancing, its bowling, its smoking, its drinking, its flirting, its drives to dinners, and sunsets at the Lake, are not enough to equal the claim of Newport, which has most of these and more. Saratoga is a hotel, Newport is a realm. Saratoga will always be sure of its friends, for it has an actual and tangible value in its mineral waters and its fine hotels. Newport has no mineral springs, and its hotels are bad. But the chief charm of a watering-place is not the beauty nor the fame of the spot. It has They play to themselves for their own amusement, and it sometimes happens that they do amuse themselves more than others. It has its legends, like other theatres-its tragedies and comedies. And if the portraits of our grandmothers, in their favorite parts of admired belles, are not hung up in its offices and parlors, it is because they are so vividly depicted by fond tradition. The grandchildren succeed to those parts, and play them quite as well. They sing the old songs to different tunes; they bowl with other beaux; they flirt with younger lovers; they dance with partners not yet gouty; they roam on the cliffs, and drive upon the beach, and ride at the Fort; they are not ante-revolutionary, nor are the lovers called De Lauzun, Viosmenil, De Broglie, or De Segur; but the plot is the same, and the play is not different, and the summer moon of this year sees as fair a spectacle as that of a century ago. less to do with the place than with the people. Not love, quoth he, but vanity, THE HOLY WEEK AT ROME. E ceremonies and labor's of the Holy Week, one would suppose, were sufficient for the wants of any clergy for the entire year. Not so with the Roman Church. She proclaims and enforces the observance of some seventy distinct festas, or sacred days, besides Sundays. Nearly third of the year is consecrated to idleness, which vice is exalted to the rank of a virtue. I would exempt from this waste of time the periods properly belonging to divine worship, which of course are comprised within the duties of all men. But the Pope absolutely inculcates doing nothing on holidays, and denounces heavy penalties on You stroll along the cliff to the Bass Rocks, and the disobedient. The laboring classes, consethrow your line for sea or striped bass, or blue- quently, whose average daily gains are between fish; or from Bateman's shore look across to a quarter and a half of a dollar, are compelled to Gooseberry Island, whither Colonel John Malbone abstain from all work, and take part in religious was wont to repair, and with his friends fish, and processions, or in witnessing superstitious rites, drink, and swim three times a day; or you go of a character to confirm their own vain predilecout in tossing sail-boats with a grim old Newport tions. Without the physical labors which the captain-who remembers the Boat-house from ear-observance of these holidays forces upon the clergy, they would be almost as idle as the pop- occupations, and to interest themselves in the suc ulace themselves. But the dressings and undressings, the genuflexions, and swinging of censers, the marching and counter-marching, the collection of alms, bearing of images, carrying of candles, ringing of bells, and all the complicated and ingenious inventions of ecclesiastical brains, to keep their hands from being in the service of the devil-all these find the clergy in some degree of employment, while their flocks are left to idly gape over their stereotyped displays, or find such amusements as they can; in short, to do any thing but conform to the Divine injunction of "Six days shalt thou labor." The Church, however, discountenances irregular pleasures, and does its best, consistently with its own example, to keep the people in a moral vein. It endeavors to reconcile idleness with goodness, and superstition with religion; unions, like all unnatural ones, prolific only in imbecility and disorder. The weightiest objection to the absurd spectacles of the church, sanctioned by the Pope and high clergy, is, that they cultivate credulity and ignorance among the people, and teach them to rely more upon the blessings and supernatural care of deceased saints than upon their own exertions or enterprise in providing against the ordinary contingencies of life. Hence human prudence is superseded by a puerile fatalism, equally remote from the dignified practice and sublime doctrine of Islamism. The Roman people, in particular, believe that the special business of the saints in Paradise is to watch over their daily cess of all their pursuits-good, bad, or indifferent. When an accident occurs to man, beast, or vehicle, they do not hesitate to rate their patron saint, roundly and profanely, for his negligence. If, on the contrary, they escape an evil, they hasten to offer a candle, or some gift in proportion to their means, to his or her shrine, as the sex may be. Among the many ceremonies my curiosity has prompted me to witness, none more wearisome ever fell to my lot than the midnight mass of Christmas-eve. Prompted by the expectation of good music, I went to the church of the "Annunciata" at Florence, at the usual hour, about ten o'clock. The body of the church was crammed with the unwashed multitude. Behind the choir were admitted the strangers and fashionables. During the dark and dismal service, gay conversation, flirting, and promenading were going on. It was more like the saloon of a theatre than the house of God. At midnight a gaudily-dressed doll was held up for the devotion of the congregation, and the ceremony was concluded. The Roman clergy assemble five times a year in general processions. The different orders of monks, being very properly of the least consideration in the church, march first. Thirty-seven communities appear under the banners of their several saints, twenty march under the flag of the Holy Sacrament, and eight others appear under different ensigns, of which one is the banner of Death. They turn out to the number of five or six thousand, when in full ranks, of priests, constitutes a congregation of relics, composed of monks, and clerks. The most splendid of these processions is that of "Corpus Domini," or the Fête of God. In this, the Pope and all the civil and ecclesiastical dignitaries of Rome, and the military, take part. Embassadors, governors, senators, princes, and nobles of every degree, humbly carrying candles, appear in this colossal cortège. The Pope is borne on his pontifical litter, high above the heads of all, surrounded by his court, and carrying in his hands the holy sacrament, in vessels radiant with gold and jewels, before which the spectators prostrate themselves humbly and uncovered, as the procession slowly passes through the different quarters of Rome, on its way to and from St. Peter's. The doctrine and abuses of relics are among the worst corruptions of the Roman Church. As they are sources of incalculable pecuniary profit, they will be among the slowest and most difficult of reformation. Doubtless the Church of Rome possesses, among its hordes of false relics, some true memorials of departed saints. It is even possible, though not probable, that St. Helena did put her in possession of some of the genuine implements used at the crucifixion. Grant this much, even, but hold her to her own doctrine in regard to them, viz., "That in religion relics are to be held in veneration corresponding to that in which tokens of affection and memorials of endearment are preserved in well-regulated and virtuous families." This is right and proper. But what use does the Church of Rome make of them? That she considers them of primary importance in her service is evident from the fact that she six cardinals and four prelates, whose functions are to examine and classify the remains of ancient martyrs found in the catacombs of Rome and elsewhere. Their quarry is a large one, for already there have been taken from this necropolis the remains of one hundred and seventy thousand victims-of death surely, if not of martyrdom--most of which have passed muster as genuine relics, comforting to the faith of the living and profitable to the treasury of the Church. Unfortunately the science of the priestly inspectors has not always been equal to their zeal, and the remains of animals have been sometimes confounded with those of the early Christians. But as a close inspection of relics is seldom allowed, distance would lend as much spiritual efficacy to the bone of an ass as of a martyr, provided faith was equal to the sacred recognition. St. Peter's boasts the possession of the most precious of the sacred relics. These consist of a piece of the true cross, a portion of the spearhead which pierced the side of Christ, a bit of the sponge, and the true imprint of the Saviour's face upon the handkerchief of St. Veronica, which, according to Roman Catholic tradition, she lent to Christ to wipe the sweat from his brow while staggering under the weight of the cross. No good Catholic presumes to doubt the authenticity of these relics. They are exhibited to the people during Holy Week, all incased in gold and precious stones, from one of the raised galleries above the tomb of St. Peter, nearly one hundred feet above their heads, at which distance it is impossible to distinguish one object from another. Besides these, there are eleven columns from the |