IDOLATRY.

I.

THE ENCHANTED RING.

ONE of the most imposing buildings in Boston, twenty years ago, was a granite hotel, whose western windows looked upon a grave-yard. Passing up a flight of steps, and beneath a portico of dignified granite columns, and so, through an embarrassing pair of swinging doors to the roomy vestibule;-you would there pause a moment to expectorate upon the black and white tesselated pavement. Having thus asserted your title to Puritan ancestry, and to the best accommodations the house afforded, you

would approach the desk and write your name in the hotel-register. This done, you would be apt to run your eye over the last dozen arrivals, on the chance of lighting upon the autograph of some acquaintance,—to be shunned or sought, according to circumstances.

Let us, for the story's sake, suppose that the gentle reader is a guest of this hotel on a certain night during the latter part of May, in the year Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-three. Turning to the ninety-ninth page of the register above-mentioned, he will remark that the last name thereon written is, "Doctor Hiero Glyphic; Room 27." The natural inference is that, unless so odd a name be an assumed one, Doctor Glyphic occupies that room. Now, passing on to page one hundred, the first entry reads as follows;-" Balder Helwyse, Cosmopolis; Room 29."

In no trifling mood do we call attention to these two names, and above all to their relative

position in the book. Had they both appeared upon the same page, this Romance might never have been written. On such seemingly frail pegs hang consequences the most weighty! Because Doctor Glyphic preferred the humble foot of page 99 to the trouble of turning to a leading position on page 100; or because Mr Helwyse, having begun the 100th, was too incurious to hunt up his next door neighbour on the 99th; ensued unparalleled adventures, and this account of them!

Our present purpose-by the reader's leave and in his company-is to violate Doctor Hiero Glyphic's retirement, as he lies asleep in bed. Nor shall we stop at his bedside! we mean to penetrate deep into the darksome caves of his memory, and to drag forth thence sundry oddlooking secrets, which shall blink and look strangely in the light of discovery - little thought their keeper that our eyes should ever behold them! Yet will he not resent our in

trusion; for it is twenty years ago, and he lies

asleep!

Two o'clock sounds from the neighbouring steeple of the Old South Church, as we noiselessly enter the chamber-noiselessly, for the hush of the past is about us. We scarcely distinguish anything at first; the moon has set on the other side of the hotel; and perhaps, too, some of the dimness of these twenty intervening years affects our eyesight. By degrees, however, objects begin to define themselves; the bed shows doubtfully white, and that dark blot upon the pillow must be the face of our sleeping man. It is turned towards the window; the mouth is open, probably the good Doctor snores, albeit across this extent of time the sound fails to reach us.

The room is as bare, square, and characterless as other hotel rooms; nevertheless, its occupant may have left a hint or two of himself about which would be of use to us. There are

no trunks or other luggage; evidently he will be on his way again to-morrow. The window is shut, for all that the night is warm and clear. The door is carefully locked. The Doctor's garments (which seem to be of rather a jaunty and knowing cut for one of his grave profession) are lying disorderly about, on chair, table, or floor. He carries no watch, but under his pillow we see protruding the corner of a great leathern pocket-book, which might contain a fortune in bank-notes."

A couple of chairs are drawn up to the bedside, upon one of which stands a blown-out candle, while the other supports an oblong, coffin-shaped box, narrower at one end than at the other, and painted black. Too small for a coffin, however; no human corpse, at least, is contained in it. But the frame that lies so quiet and motionless here, thrills, when awakened to life, with a soul only less marvellous than man's. The coffin, in short, is a violin-case,