The Sacred Iris : a literary and religious offering

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SACRED IRIS,

DLtearg an& Hldigious

!'/'.'? y?«« Entsrurh'gs of Scripture Sbbjfctf.

.1,'JNDON :
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS HOLMES,

(Successor to Edward Lacey,)

16, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD, ^

AND ALL BOOKSELLERS. \ \

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PREFACE.

WITH much pleasure, we present to our readers
this volume of the " Sacred Iris," and it would
be an unpardonable omission to send forth
our offering unattended by a Preface. More-
over, to confess the truth, we particularly enjoy
this patriarchal custom of talking awhile with
the stranger or friend in the gate of our city.

It will be at once seen, that very strenuous
exertions have been made, in the contents and
embellishments of this volume, advantageous! v

*

to occupy and maintain as high a station in the
world of religious literature and illustration, as
any of the numerous elegant and instructive
works now attracting our attention, and exciting
our admiration ; and while we congratulate our-
selves on that account, we cannot refrain from

IV PSEFACK.

expressing our gratitude for the kindness of
S.C.Hall, Esq., George Smith, Esq., arid other
gentlemen, for permission to avail ourselves of
some beautiful pieces ; also for the valuable
assistance of Mrs. Clara Hall, Editress of
" Parlour Stories," " Affection's Offering/ &c. ;
•who, in catering especially for the junioi part
of the community, does herself so much honour,
and the rising generation so much real and
lasting benefit.

CO NT ENTS,

V.*." t

TI-E Widow an>l her Son . . I

The Colonel . . . 4

Poetry and Philosophy . . .31

The Temptation in the Wilderness . . 4;)

The Tempter . . . .41

Young Women in the Upper Ivinks of Society ? I

Sonnet . . . . .79

The Spanish Flower Girl . . . R()

Religious Society and Conversation . . 82

The Ruined Hut ... 87

The Seven Churches of Asia . . .89

The Crucifixion . . . . .121

A Turkish Story . . . . . i&>

If any Man speak, &c. . . 152

Solitary Wranderings . . • , 154

The Smuggler's Wife . . . j.=,9

f s G*

A Lay of the Martyrs . . , .170

The Voice of Prophecy . . . .180

She seeketh not her own . . .197

The Resurrei tion . . 200

The Indian Mother . . . 205

The Stars . . . .222

The Battle of the Idolaters .... 224
The Guardian Angel ..... 243
An Autumnal Evening . » . 24-4

Infanticide . .... 24.5

The Sabbath Bell . . . . 256

A Chapter of Flowers .... 258

Rhapsody from Zechariah . ... 264

The Ocean of Life ..... 266
Addressed to a Young Lady , . . .279

Innocence . . . . . 280

Notices of the Canadian Indians . . . 282

The Song of the Elements . . . ,311

THE SACRED IRIS,

THE WIDOW AND HER SOtf.

BY MISS ISABEL HILL.

IVo, 'tis not in a face like this

That fools should gaze, and jest ;
Thoughts of for-ever vanished bliss

Should shield that matron breast !
Too holy she to be a theme

For slander's hackney 'd tone,
Or the coarse doubts of those, who

All faith light as their own.

Oh ! I can dream her days of pride,

In her free, maiden life j
Next, as the trembling, Hushing brine.

Then, the chaste, faithful wife?
The mother's anxious cores thr.t b'er.d

With piety's deep vo\v ;
The nurse, companion, Mentor,

Alas ! the mourner now.

THE WIDOW AND HER SOW.

She, who 'neath all these names of love

Hath yet been pure and true^
Hath promised, by such life, to prove

A constant widow too 1
Here is no ostentatious grief,

No tears that man may see,
She looks to heaven for her relief.

And waits it — patiently !

She looks to heaven, and thinks, " Thy sou!

Still communes, Love, with mine,
And knows, though time may grief control,

I lived — must die — all thine"
The stirless, silent, lonely thought

Of him, and of his worth,
Already hath her spirit taught

To bear its lot on earth.

Submission seems a doom too dull

For one so firmly bright ;
She is so young, so beautiful,

That rapture were her right !'
Yet mock not her, that fair forlorn.

With worldly solace vain :
She hears but with upbraiding scorn

That she " may love again.'"

They bid her " hope, from her fresh youthf

Another source of joy," —
Her gentle action owns their truth,

She clasps— her sireless boy !

TI1E WIDOW AND IIKR SON.

" She may meet one like her lost lord,

Her mourning duty done :"
That clasp can best reply afford,

Yes, she hath met that ONE !

Her bridal ring will never part

From the hand around him thrown,
As he leans against her widow'd heart

The face so like her own !
£#ce— though her lids be heavier now,

And her smooth cheek more pale :
But, sweet pledge of a mutual vow,

Thou tell'st a deeper tale : —

For traits, which now are only thine,

Blend with her beauties clear,
And, as with light from heaven they shins

Now make thee doubly dear.
There's hope in thee, fond, pensive child,

So early forced to mourn !
A hope, that to that bosom mild

Soft peace shall yet return.

Yes she shall smile : but vanity

That smile will never share;
Though pride in this last cherishM lie

May calmly mingle there.
A duteous son shall cheer her days,

And sooth 3 her dyin? bed,

THE WIDOW AND HER SON

As, o'er her spirit's parting rays,
Grief's latest mists are spread ;

Bui. fly before the sun of faith,
The trust of soul forgiven,

To lie beside her Love in death,
And wake to share his heaven!

THE COLONEL.

A STRANGE *VORY OF EVERY DAY.

No officer of his rank and standing, in the service oi
the East India Company, possessed a more brilliant re-
putation, or had more elevated prospects, than Colonel
St. George. In him the active intrepidity of the ad-
venturous soldier was united to the calculating coolness
of the veteran commander. His knowledge of Eastern
languages and customs, ana his popularity with the na-
tives, had secured him posts of equal trust and difficulty,
in each of which his name acquired new lustre. Just in
the meridian of manhood, with a frame that seemed proof
against the perils of Asiatic E*fe, there was no distinction
within the range of Oriental honours to which he might
not have reasonably aspired.. The frankness of his ad-
dress, and the decision with which he pronounced his
opinions, gave him the air of a person who knows that
he is valued, and feels that he is secure. Whatever
doubts concerning his future ascendancy might have ex-
isted at an earlier period of his career, were annihilated

THE COLONEL, A STRAKGE STOKY. 5

by his marriage with the daughter of one of the richest
merchants in the Bengal presidency. His father-in-law
died three weeks after the wedding-day, leaving him
heir to a ponderous fortune. A change of name
formed a condition of the union, and to his paternal de-
signation of Campbell, he added St. George, in compli-
ment to the lady and her house. A government mission
of greater splendour than importance, afforded him easy
occupation for two years subsequent to his nuptials. His
return to Calcutta was considered a recall to the serious
duties of his profession, in which his promotion to the
rank of a general officer was expected to be immediate.
Strong then was public incredulity, when the story was
whispered that Colonel St. George had resigned employ-
ment of every kind, and was on the eve of quitting India
for ever. Stronger was the astonishment when events
proved the story to be true. Curiosity, busy about the
cause of this extraordinary resolve, made numberless sur-
mises, more or less wide of the mark. Ostensible reason
there was none. His health — it could not be his health —
his constitution displayed small abatement of its iron
vigour. With his acquisitions and expectations, it was
impossible to attribute it to hopelessness of success or
disappointed ambition. What then, could urge a daring
and high-spirited man to forego the honours with which
fortune seemed prepared to crown him, — honours, toe,
the well-won meed of a course trying and hazardous in
the extreme ? The world, which always furnishes mar-
vellous causes to unexpected occurrences, adjusted the
matter with its accustomed vcvacity. The only persoa

u3

6 THE COLOXEL,

who could have enlightened it, was St. George himself,
and he set sail for Europe, leaving his Indian friends to
unriddle the mystery at their leisure.

How little men know of each other, and yet how readily
they deal forth judgment on circumstances, to compre-
hend which the most intimate acquaintance with the secret
springs of action is absolutely necessary. Mrs. St.
George sickened, and breathed her last on the passage to
England. A vessel brought the news to Calcutta, in
time to gain the Colonel the reputation of having been a
model of conjugal affection. His retirement from active
life was now attributed to an overwhelming regard for
the deceased lady, whose health had demanded an Euro-
pean atmosphere. Every body pitied the broken-hearted
husband, who had in vain sacrificed the brightest pledges
of personal aggrandizement at the shrine of connubial ten-
derness. The applause of the multitude, like its con-
demnation, " no cold medium knows," and the wonder
of the hour is either a demigod or a demon.

St. George was neither, although his history and cha-
racter were of no common order. Twenty years before,
his brain would have reeled, had he felt assured that
fate would have ever endowed him with a tithe of what
was his on reaching Old England again. Yet the plea-
sure distinction had promised, eluded his grasp like water,
and the wealth he shared to profusion, imparted sensations
nothing superior to what a miner derives from a burden
of gold.

He was born in a venerable town hi the Wesfbf
Scotland, one of four burghs, the union of whose corpo-

A STRANGE STORY. /

^ale voices calls an item of the legislature into septennial
existence. His family was by its own report a withered
branch of the great Argyle Campbells. Whether the as-
sumption was just or not, his father, Dugald Campbell,

public instructor of youth in the gude town of D , was

a personage of considerable consequence in his peculiar
circle, and acquitted himself like one who knows and ap-
preciates the value of a good name. He was conscien-
tious and simple-minded, with a resolute love of truth,
and a burning thirst after every description of knowledge.
In common with all " of woman born," he had his weak-
nesses : a leading one of which was an intellectual con-
tempt for pursuits unassociated with letters. For agricul-
ture, commerce, and manufactures, he entertained a most
dignified scorn. His spouse had also her professional
antipathies. She was a kind-hearted creature, shrewd too
and reflective, but tenacious in the last degree of sundry
opinions, which had been " time out of mind" hereditary
in her father's house. Among these was an utter aversion
to law and soldiership, and an undisguised belief that
they who terminated their carreer in either of these avo-
cations were vessels selected for any thing but a holy or
happy purpose. The celebrated Colonel Gardiner, in-
deed, formed an exception ; but he was quoted as a brand
snatched from the burning, an instance of what Providence
can, rather than of what he will do. Mrs. Campbell ge-
nerally clinched her arguments by appealing to the noto-
rious mal-practices of a half-pay captain, and his crony,
a icriier of small eminence, whose everlasting potation-,

8 THE COLONEL,

and the freaks consequent thereupon, afforded a perma*
nent theme to the sober moralizers of the burgh,

The prepossesions of this worthy couple naturaly regu-
lated their intentions with respect to their son. Wee Geor*
die was neither to be farmer, weaver, shop-keeper, writer,
counting-house scribe, nor gentleman militant. Dugald,
for household reasons he chose to conceal, declined n ak-
ing him a light to the rising generation, which surprised
those who witnessed the enthusiasm he always displayed
in speaking of the important office allotted to the dispen-
ser of learning. The Church was neutral ground, both
to husband and wife. The Church therefore was selected,
and Wee Geordie was formally and reverently set apart
for the sacred labours of the ministry.

The schoolmaster had reaped small temporal advantage
from infusing a liberal taste into the wabsters callants of
the burgh. He was poor ; and though his wife was a
thrifty woman, and, as her good man observed at times
when his staid affections overflowed their usual measure
of expression, " a crown unto her husband," — still it
would have puzzled a better manager to extract riches
out of poverty, which Mrs. Campbell aptly compared to
drawing marrow from afusionless bane. It was an af-
fecting sight to see the exertions they made, under the
pressure of indigence, to give thieir beloved bairn, the sole
surviving hope of seven, an education suited to the high
vocation for which, with submission to Providence, they
had destined him. The Dominie's black coat was re-
lieved at much longer intervals ; his snuff-box was lite-

A STRANGE ST0RY. 9

rally lii'i upon the shelf; and even the prim little tea-pot,
that had been in diurnal use from the commencement of
their house-keeping, graced the table no more at morning
and evening meal ; but was superseded by a dull vessel
of crockery, containing a portion of blue-looking milk.
Grandeur may smile in derision at the recital of these
humble sacrifices, but there is One by whom they will be
pronounced acceptable, in the day when the vanities of a
heartless world will fleet away with the perishing scene
of their unsubstantial triumphs. Beautiful and becoming
in the eyes of the paternal God is the unwearied attach-
ment of the parent to the child! Alas! how little does the
unthinking spirit of youth know of the extent of its de-
votedness. There sits the froward, fretful, indolent boy.
The care that keeps perpetual watch over his moral and
physical safety, he misnames unjust restriction. The
foresight that denies itself many a comfort to provide for
his future wants, he denounces as sordid avarice. He
turns away from his father's face in coldness or in anger.
Boy ! boy! the cloud upon that toil-worn brow has been
placed there by anxiety, not for self, but for an impatient,
peevish son, whose pillow he would gladly strew with
roses, though thorns should thicken around his own
Even at ».he moment when his arm is raised to inflict chas-
tisement on thy folly, thou shouldest bend and bless thy
parent. The heart loathes the hand that corrects thy
errors ; and riot for worlds would he use " the rod oi
reproof," did he not perceive the necessity of chrushinv
Ins own feelings, to save thee from thyself-

10 THE COLONEL,

After a course of English education under his father,
«nd of classical literature under a competent teacher,
George Campbell was sent to the University of Glasgow
with a few pounds and innumerable blessings. An
eight-day clock, the chief domestic ornament, was sold
to assist in his outfit. It was hoped that he might
obta-in a tuition, and so contribute a share of his col-
legiate expenses. At parting, his mother presented
him with her own pocket Bible, in which her name was
inscribed in gold letters, and slipped a silk purse into
his hand containing thirty shillings, earned by sewing
and washing, at hours when a frame, far from robust,
required repose. His father accompanied him to
Glasgow, and remained there until he saw him settled
in his humble lodgings, and until the lonesome feeling
inseparable from a first entrance into a great city had
something abated.

" Fareweel ! Geordie," said he, as he shook the
young student's hand : " Write aften, and be mindfu' to
let us ken a' about your studies, an' how ye come on
wi' the Professors. Dinna be frettin' that ye're no at
your ain fire-side ; though your mither and I canna
aye be wi' ye, the Lord I trust will — and he'll no let
you want for ohy thing that's gude. * Ask and you
shall receive.' "

The honest teacher faltered, as he pronounced the
last " Fareweel !'' and when he halted midway on the
stone staircase that led to his son's attic apartment, he
afforded subject for speculation to more than one gazer,

A STRANGE STORY 11

who stared at the tall iron-looking man in " the auld
black coat, dichtin' his een wi' his wee bit napekin and
greetin' like a wean."

Four sessions of college had passed, and George had
both distinguished himself in his classes and obtained a
respectable tuition. Dress and a residence in a gentle-
man's family had improved his manners and appearance.
By the Professors he was esteemed a youth of decided
promise, and he was admired by his compeers as a lad
of sense and metal. Low as his situation was, there
were others of a grade still lower, and even he had his
circle of flatterers, who aggravated his opinion of his
abilities, and encouraged a notion he had long cherished
in secret, that the Kirk of Scotland offered a field, a
world too narrow for the exercise of his genius.

His engagement as a tutor had expired, — and the
term for attaching himself to the study of theology was
approaching-, it therefore behoved him to decide for
futurity without delay. He resolved to abandon all
thoughts of the ministry, and as he well knew the im-
possibility of reconciling his parents to the change, he
determined at once to leave Scotland, and return to
beg forgiveness when fortune had crowned his efforts in
another and wider sphere. After transmitting a hasty
letter to his father, he embarked at Leith, and in a few
days landed in London with about an equal number of
shirts and guineas. Singular and hope-depressing were
the vicissitudes he underwent in a brief space, without
friend or recommendation, where both, and more than
both are required by the youthful adventurer Chance,

72 THE COLONEL,

as it is termed, made him a kind of secretary, or literary
assistant, to an individual of eccentric liberality and
great East India interest. His endeavours to please bis
employer were completely successful j a cadetship falling
in his gift, he was rewarded with itj and the close or
his minority found him with a pair of colours in a regi-
ment of Bengal infantry. Such was the early history of
Colonel St. George, — a history he had studiously con-
cealed from his arrival in India, and which, according
to his wishes, remained unknown. Though far from
oeing either a cold-blooded or unprincipled man, a false
shame and a deference to the opinions of people he
despised, had prevented him from communicating with
his parents. Once, in a gay assembly, flushed with wine,
he had taken advantage of the family tradition, and had
claimed affinity with the house of Argyle. This asser-
tion he conceived himself bound to support, and he
dreaded the discovery of his humble origin, as involving
disgrace and degradation. — He forwarded money from
time to time by a circuitous channel to a lawyer in
Glasgow, for the use of his parents, under the assumed
character of a distant relative, and endeavoured to satisfy
his conscience by receiving information of their welfare
in this indirect and disingenuous manner.

Ambition did not meet the expectations of its votary ;
the son of an obscure, indigent schoolmaster held high
command in the most splendid military service in the
world, and was unhappy. His views were elevated,
his capacity extensive, his spirit haughty, his feelings,
though criminal in one instance, capable of much that

A STRANGE STORY. 13

Jvas noble ; and he found beneath the glare of his pro-
fession a thousand things to irritate and gall him. His
pride threw a veil over his vexation and disappointment,
but he suffered not less keenly, nor sighed less fre-
quently for independence and retirement. To procure
them on a scale calculated to preserve the homage of
the multitude he scorned, he wooed and won a woman
he did not love, and tried in vain to esteem. An idle
dispute for precedence with a lady of kindred preten-
sions, brought the Colonel's equivocal lineage under
hostile scrutiny. The question was referred to an
individu.il expected in a month or two from Europe.
Before the arrival of the arbiter, St. George was on
the way to England, and the partner of his fortunes,
but not his affections, had ceased to exist. This event,
subdued as he had been by other circumstances, sen-
sibly altered his disposition and resolves. Without
domestic ties, for his had proved a childless union, he
soon felt that in the midst of wealth, and all the luxuries
that wealth can command, the heart may be desolate as
death. He determined to seek his parents, alleviate in
person the ills of their old age, and end his days in the
country of his birth, as became a rational and responsible
being. Having concluded the purchase of an estate
situated in the Western Highland?, he left London for
the place of his nativity, from which he had been sepa-
rated one-and-twenty years.

He sailed from Liverpool for Greenock ; the wind was
favourable and the passage not unpleasant, even to the
long absent sojourner in lands glowing beneath a tropical

c

14 THE COLONEL,

sun. The best hues of our northern summer were
tenderly united in the soft shadowy grandeur that cha-
racterized the combinations of earth, sea, and sky, which
greeted the Colonel's gaze, as the bark cleft its evening
way through the waters that roll between Bute and
Arran. This scene had left a deep impression on his
memo'-y when he parted " lang syne" from the country
of his fathers, and now face to face once more with
" the grand giant mountains," the expression of their
stern lineaments all unaltered, while he and his were
changed, how much he could not say, and might not
dream ; heart-seared and world-worn though he was,
his feelings gushed forth in a flood, and his breast rose
and fell like a sea-bird on the billows. At that moment
he seemed to have overleaped the chasm of years which
divided him from the days of boy existence; the present
floated away like a mist, and the past lay before him
clear and fair as the side of a sunny hill. His first
thoughts were those of a patriot — his second of a man.
With all his soul did he bless every hill, valley, forest,
firth, stream, cottage, town, and tower of Broad Scotland,
and bitterly did he reflect, that in disowning the holiest
ties that bound him to Caledonia, he had shown himself
unworthy of being called her son. His hands clasped a
relic long untouched and half forgotten ; its preservation
appeared to him almost miraculous — it waif his mother's
pocket bible, his college gift. Insects had pierced its
leaves, the binding had decayed, and the gay letters in
which her name had been inscribed, were like her boy's
affections, tarnished and time-worn ; yet " Marion

A STRANGE STORY. 15

Campbell" was still visible, and the words her hand
had written, "Remember now thy Creator in the dayi
of thy youth," were not quite obliterated. The Colonel
slid the book into his bosom.

The sun-fires had died away in the west, and duskei
and dusker grew the peaks of the distant mountains
A solitary planet, that had ruled the vesper heavens
quietly gave place to the rightful queen of night, who
rose, as she only rises to men who hail her on the
waters — a symbol of unutterable hope — a creature going
forth in the might and majesty of gentleness, tuning
the wildest spirits to the anthem of universal love.
Star after star dropped from their silent eyries in the
remote invisible space, and clustered, a goodly troop,
around their sovereign. The home-returning wanderer,
looking to the cloudless sky peopled with luminous life,
felt and acknowledged the influence of the Almighty
and his works; he crossed his arms upon his breast,
and pressed the volume he had deposited there, with a
tranouil fervour to which he had been long, very long
a stranger. Sharp blew the night-breeze, and the bark
obeyed it well. As they skirted the shores of Argyle-
shire, the waves of romantic Clyde, leaping and
sparkling, seemed with their monotonous voices to bid
the self-expatriated welcome to their common land.
Pensively he hung over the vessel's edge, and murmured,
as he turned his glance towards the country of the
Campbells, " I have parted with my name, but my
nature is still unchanged. Forgive me, God! forgive
me my estrangement from thee and the protectors of my

r O

w <z

10 THE COLONEL,

youth. Though an unworthy lip implores thee, bless
1 beseech thee, my poor deserted parents with the
olessing thou hast in reserve for those whom most thou
lovestf" As he ejaculated these words, he pulled his
travelling-cap closely over his brow, and drew his
handkerchief from his pocket, as if to protect his throat
from the nocturnal dullness. He leaned an arm upon
a part of the rigging, and, pressing the handkerchief
to his temples, hid his face in its folds. A tremulous
motion pervaded his whole frame. One of the seamen
perceiving him shiver, observed, that the air, for so mild
a season, was remarkably keen. — The Colonel started
from his position, and gathering his cloak so as com-
pletely to conceal his features, strode hastily and silently
below, and throwing himself upon a sofa, slept, or ap-
peared to sleep, until the rustling of ropes and the din
of voices announced their arrival at Greenock.

Care and campaigning had made St. George indiffe-
rent to the pleasures of protracted repose. He quitted,
what his host of " the Tontine'' was pleased to term as
good a bed as Renfrewshire could afford, at six o'clock,
an early hour for a traveller fresh from sea. A summons
thrice repeated, hardly disturbed the Eastern torpor of
Saib, his Ptlalay servant, who, wrapped in a seven-fold
shield of blankets, was roaming on the pinions of
dreaming fancy among the palmy isles of the Indian
Archipelago. Having produced a packet, required by
bis master, he was permitted to return to his couch, —
an indulgence, the value of which he acknowledged by
profound obeisances. The Colonel inspected a

A STRANGE STORY. 17

number of papers; and, having finished a note of
instructions to his lawyer in Edinburgh, despatched
the following letter to the agent, who had been em-
plo)ed to forward the remittances to his parents. This
person had remained unacquainted with the name and
rank of his principal, until his departure for Europe.
Of the actual relation of Colonel St. George to Dugald
Campbell and his wife, he was yet ignorant, and on that
point it was not considered necessary to enlighten him.

SIR, Greenock, July 22d, 18

Before I sailed from India, I transmitted, through
Messrs. Leeson and Fairbrother, an order for 200/. to
be applied to the use of Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, who,
according to your last account, had fixed their residence
in Glasgow. I at the same time begged you to com-
municate to them that their only son was still alive, and
having realized an independence, was about to return
to his friends and his native soil. I requested the
favour of a reply, addressed to the care of Payne and
Van Ess, Lombard- street, London; but nothing of the
kind has reached them or me. I wrote another letter
when I reached London, stating that Mr. Campbell the
younger had arrived in England, and was anxious that
the fact should be immediately intimated to his parents,
and likewise expressing a strong desire on his behalf
to be informed of the particulars of their present situa-
tion. This also remains unanswered.

I knew not their address, else I should have com-
municated with them directly ; but I hope you will
without fail instantly inform Mr. and Mrs. Campbel

03

18 THE COLONEL,

that their son George will be in Glasgow in two days
from the date of this sheet, at which time I purpose
calling upon you to arrange any matters that may remain
unsettled by my Calcutta agents.

I am. Sir, your very obedient Servant,

To Archibald M'Grigor, Esq. G. C. ST. GEORGE.

Writer,
St. Enoch's Square, Glasgow.

The Colonel resolved to complete his plans as quickly
as possible. Catherine's Craig, the Highland property
of which he had recently become the owner, was only a
short sail from Greenock, on the picturesque shores of

Loch G . Attached to it was a handsome modern

mansion, and a part of the lands retained in the pos-
session of the late proprietor was well laid out, and
as promising as careful cultivation could make an un-
grateful soil. He had purchased the entire stock and
furniture, with the intention of remaining there during
the summer and autumn, and he had postponed his
journey to Glasgow, partly to prepare his father and
mother for his appearance, and partly to see that his
new abode was in order for his and their reception.
At noon, he went on board a coasting vessel, bound with
a few passengers, and much miscellaneous lumber, for the
head of Loch G .

Of all the years he had passed on earth, more than
a half had elapsed since he had spent a day within the
bounds of his natal soil, and he deemed it singular that
his emotions were not of a livelier character. Long-
slumbering images of evil arose and tlvickened upon

A STRANGE STORY.

his mental vision, making impressions more life-like
and truth-like than the surrounding scene, though
crowded with home associations and mute remem-
brancers of affection and the affectionate. His sensa-
tions did not amount to positive pain or sorrow. A
solitary joy-thrill would ever and anon mingle with
them strangely. Yet he was far from experiencing that
•warm, uninterrupted pleasure he had anticipated from
his first day in Scotland. To relieve the trouble of his
spirits, he gladly met the wishes of an old gentleman,
who showed a desire for conversation, and who, mi-
nutely acquainted with the localities on their course,
appeared courteously solicitous to impart his know-
ledge to one, whose swart cheek and foreign attendant
announced a stranger. This individual was dressea
in a modest suit of black, cut after a forgotten fashion.
His face, to a physiognomist, would have been security
for a thousand pounds ; its expression at once indi-
cating strength of mind, sincerity, and philanthropy,
qualities strikingly developed in his observations.
Every fine feature of a coast distinguished by boldness
a :d beauty, derived a new interest from the energy
of his description and the vivacity of his anecdote.
St. George and he were mutually pleased, and had
passed the bounds of formal introduction an hour before
their bark had reached its destination. The old gentle-
man was the unaffectedly pious and thoroughly learned

Dr. Summerville, clergyman of Loch G , the parish

in which Catherine's Craig was situated. He greeted
the colonel as a member of his flock, and good-humour-

20 -i HE COL'iNF.L,

edly hoped that he would employ him without cere-
mony in his secular as well as his sacred capacity.
Occasional showers had fallen, and the sky looked lower-
ingly, when they touched the fairy strand that fringed
the secluded site of their mountain haven. With a
kindly frankness, that spoke a disposition anything but
indifferent to a refusal, the good pastor tendered the
hospitalities of the manse for the night to his new parish-
ioner, backing his invitation by expatiating on possible
disorder at the Craig, the length of the way, the uncer-
tainty of the weather, and the danger of trying meteoro-
logical experiments on a frame hot from Hindostan. He
begged to premise, however, that he would not. pledge
himself for their cheer, as he had been some time from
home, and how his niece would regulate household-mat-
ters in his absence, he did not pretend to divine. The
young lady enjoyed but temporary authority ; her
mother, his legitimate housekeeper, being on a visit at
Edinburgh. Of one thing at least he was certain, that
Jessie would leave nothing undone to express her grati-
tude to her uncle, if he succeeded in procuring her an
audience from an officer, who had won his laurels in
the Company's service. St. George, in a similar strain
of gaiety, accepted the doctor's offer, and ordering Saib
to " marshal the march" of a knot of bare-legged gillies,
who carried his baggage, he proceeded to the manse.

Miss Summeiville was abroad, but the appearance of
ihe vessel produced her speedy return. The gentlemen
were standing at the window of a pleasant parlour that
fronted " the dream-loving billow, " when she came in

A STRANGE STORY. 21

sight j and the old man's benevolent eyes glistened as they
fell upon her graceful form tripping cheerily along, in
the buoyancy of innocence, to give him the artless wel-
coming of grateful affection. He advanced to meet her
Bounding forward, without regard to the fate of a pretty
basket which dropped to the ground, Jessie hung upon
his arm, and clasped his right hand closely in hers. The
Doctor, surveying the prostrate basket, inquired if she
had been visiting their sick friend. She replied in the
affirmative, adding that he was ill — very ill — and had
expressed an anxiety to see the minister whenever he
came home."

" We shall see him to-night, my dear; in the mean
time, I have the pleasure of introducing you to Colonel
St. George — My niece, Miss Jessie Summerville, Colonel;
a young lady who takes a lively interest in the East India
service, and the officers attached to it. — What, blushing ?
Then I must descend to sober explanation, and destro)
the romance. Miss Summerville would have me say, Sir
that she has two brothers on the Bengal establishment,
for whose sake she entertains a strong partiality for every
gentleman who has borne a commission in the East
Now, my love, hold a dinner counsel with Matty, without
delay. We have had good cause for appetite, and until
the Colonel has tasted our mountain fare, I feel bound
to protect him from the fierce onslaught of female curi-
osity."

Dinner was quickly served up, and with that taste and
neatness which impart an agreeable zest to the plainest
viands. Jessie assisted in doing the honours of the table

22 THE COLONEL,

in a style that St. Giorge considered surprising in a girl
unused to fashionable life. Unlike the vacant imitations
of humanity whom he had often heard thus designated,
she appeared to him realy an accomplished female. With
sound understanding, and accurate and general informa-
tion, she neither obtruded nor withheld her opinions. Her
beauty, too, — for she was beautiful, — sat easily upon her.
She wore it sportively, like one pleased that it gave plea-
sure to those she esteemed, but fully alive to its intrinsic
nothingness. There was an unostentatious kindliness
about his entertainmeut, that inspired St. George with
feelings more gratifying than any he had experienced
for many a day. In the course of conversation it was
discovered that, as Colonel Campbell, he had done a
signal service to Lieutenant Summerville, Jessie's young-
er brother. This made him completely at home under
his host's roof, and he was at once treated with the con-
fidence usually bestowed upon an old and respected
friend. When his niece retired, the Doctor spoke un-
reserVedly of her and the family. His brother, Major
Summerville, had, he said, died at a middle age, leaving
his wife and three children with a sum scarcely exceeding
two thousand pounds for their future provision. The
boys, who were early bent on a military life, were battling
for bread in India : Jessie and her excellent mother
shared his humble lot

'' Poor lassie," continued he in a softened tone, " dearer
to rae she could not be were she my own beloved child !
She is so truly good, so — but enough of domestic exph-
nations Colonel, you have pronounced yourself a

A STRANGE STOilY. 23

confirmed tea-bibber, and as Jessie has by this time con
eluded her arrangements, we shall, if you please, put
your sincerity to the test." The divine showed the way
into a cheerful apartment, where the exhilarating leaf
from " far Cathay" awaited their attendance. This
room was particularly devoted to the ladies, their amuse-
ments and occupations. A harp and music-books,
giving promise of sweet sounds, retained possession of a
corner. Drawings of mountain scenery, and a few choice
volumes, lay upon a little table of fantastic workmanship.
Fresh flowers were tastefully disposed in vases of cheap
material and pleasing symmetry. The open window
displayed some blossoming exotics, ranged on a rustic
balcony, and unfolded to the eye a picture composed ot
the grandest elements of the natural landscape. The
rain-clouds had quite disappeared — the winds slumbered
upon flood and forest — the sun was setting, and the
summits of the far cliffs looked as they had been bathed
in molten gold.

*' O for music at such an hour !" cried St. Gforge,
casting an expressive glance at the harp. Miss Summer-
ville smiled and obeyed the summons. " Jessie," said
her uncle, " sing that fine old Scottish melody that your
brother ' married to immortal verse.' It is supposed to
be the complaint of an unhappy nabob, Colonel, on
returning to the Land O'Cakes. The air will atone for
the defects of Willie's poesy/' Jessie again smiled, and
running her fingers lightly over the chords, sang the fol-
lowing song without further prelude :—

2 THE COUHRt,

() thec lear caller stream an* the snady greentree,
An' the hours I spent, bonny Mary, wi'thee !
When the gloamin' that hallowed the lang simmer day
Seemed to fleet on the wings o' the swallow away.

As saft flowin waters, trees leafy and green,
As ye, my auld loved anes, I aften hae seen ;
An' maids like my Mary, young, artless, and fair,
But the joys o' past hours I've found never mair !

Wi* gold frae the Indies I've bought me braid lands,
I've biggit the house in the plantin* that stands ;
But I'm no half sa happy wi a' that's now mine
As when wi'iny Mary I wandered lang syne.

A stranger I was in the lands whence I came,
Now absence has made me a stranger at harne ;
Baith great folk and sma' o' his siller can tell,
But naebody cares for the carl himsel.

0 wae on this grandeur ! it's lonesome and cauld,
It's no like the pleasure I tasted of auld,

When down by the burn and bonnie green tree

1 dreamed through the gloamin', lost lassie, wi' thee :

The last ibrat on of the harp-strings had melted into
the tranquillity of evening. A silence of some minutes
followed. St. George, \vho, in a fit of abstraction, had
fixed his eyes rather broadly on the fair minstrel, made
an awkward attempt at compliment. The Doctor called
for more enlivening harmony. Jessie played a variety of
national airs, and craved leave to resign the instrument.
Conversation was resumed, but it had lost its playful
character. The Doctor protested that the Nabob had
bewitched then. The song tiad, in truth, a saddening

A STIIANGE

influence over two of the party. Jessie thought of its
author — her dear brother Willie — an exile in a clime
pernicious to his health, uncongenial to his habits. The
Colonel relapsed into the mood of dark reflection that
had thrown a gloom over his morning meditations.

" It is now half-past nine, uncle/' said Mrs. Summer-
ville, using more than ordinary emphasis in announcing
the hour.

" True, Jessie ; and our duty must be remembered.
Perhaps our guest will accompany us. We are going to
the village, Colonel, to administer comfort to a poor old
man, who, I fear, will soon retire to ' the narrow hou^f,
appointed for all living.' The death-bed of the pure in
spirit is replete with instruction; and of our afflicte 1
friend I may truly say he is ' an Israelite indeed, in
whom there is no guile.' '

St. George expressed a ready acquiescence, and th •
were soon on their way to the village.

They entered a cottage, small and of rude constru •-
tion, but exhibiting a degree of cleanliness and comfo T
rather unusual in a Highland habitation of its class. It
belonged to a fisherman's widow, a douce-looking dame,
who answered the clergyman's low-breathed inquiries by
a mournful shake of the head, and gliding ben beckoned
the party to follow. Jessie and the Colonel sat upon a
chest near a window, the recess of which contained a
number of books that had evidently seen service. The
divine, taking a light from the gudewife, approached a
large four-posted bed, hung with a coarse plaiding. St.
G^o'ge liftc-d a volume and began to explore its pages

D

26 TiiECOLOJSEL?

although it was pretty obvious that no human powers of
vision could have distinguished a syllable in the position
he occupied. The minister bent a moment over the
bed, then softly retreated to the window, and placed the
candle in the recess.

" He is fast asleep," said he, " let us not disturb him."
A hollow, distressful cough broke upon the stillness, and
proved him mistaken.

" Wha's there, Lizie >" inquired the sick man, in a
voice struggling hard for expression.

(t It's naebody but the minister and the young leddy,"
replied Lizie.

«' Doctor, come near me," said the sufferer, endea-
vouring to raise his emaciated form; "I was amaist
afeard we should never meet in this warld mair. This
has been a dreich day to me — a weary day, an' a waur
gloamin.' But let me no' be unthankfu.' ' Whom the
Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom
he receiveth.' Gie's yer han/ Sir, ye hae been a gude
frien' to a puir auld ' broken reed,' with neither wife,
nor wean, house, nor ha' — yer han', Doctor, yer han';
it's may be for the last time."

The minister, when the invalid began to speak, had
resumed the light, and would have advanced immedi-
ately towards him, had not Colonel St. George arrested
his hand, while, with a pale cheek and trembling lip, he
rivetted his eyes on three or four lines of manuscript,
barely legible, on the title-page of the volume he had
picked up at random in the window. He dropped the
book — compressed his brow between his extended palms

A STRANGE STORV. 27

•—and, grasping Dr. Summerville's arm, led him hurriedly
Dut of the cottage.

An ash tree, that grew about thirty yards from the
door, afforded support to the Colonel's frame, which
appeared to demand it. The pastor, in a tone of deep
anxiety, begged him to explain the cause of his emotions.
He paced to and fro for a moment ; then paused, as if
endeavouring to master feelings that left no room for
utterance- At length, in accents low and broken, he
replied,

" Sir — Sir, you know not what you have done, — you
have brought me to my father's death-bed."

" Dugald Campbell your father, Colonel! impossible !"

" Impossible! Sir, it is true — bitter true. — One and
twenty years have rolled by since I heard that voice, but
hollow as it is, it rings through my heart ; and if the lip
misled me, the hand could not. I knew the book, and
I remembered the writing well. God pardon me ! I have
been guilty of black wrong, but surely I am not to blame
for all this. My mother in her grave, too ! Well may I
exclaim with Cain, ' My punishment is greater than I
can bear.' But how carne my father here, and why is
he st> destitute? I sent from India what to him must
have been affluence, had he received it. — Can M'Grigor
have deceived me ?'*

« M-Grigor ! What M'Grigor ?"

" M'Grigor the writer, in St. Enoch's Square, Glas-
gow, to whom 1 forwarded large sums for the use of my
rarents. *

" Then vou have been deceived. Although ili health.

t/ *-*

D2

28 THE COLtiHEL,

and other causes, reduced them to great distress, more
than a trilling sura annnally, I know he never gave them;
and even of that your father had not a farthing during
the last year, when he much required it. M'Grigor,
about ten months ago, sold all his effects, and sailed foi
South America."

" Curses go with him ! but I have deserved it all —
more— much more; yet the villain shall not escape me!1'

" Colonel St. George," said the clergyman, " I am
sure it is from no unworthy feeling, from no wish to
exceed my proper measure in our respective relations,
that I am induced to hope you will forbear the expres-
sion of your sentiments concerning the person who has
wronged you. There is a solemn and important dufv
to be performed ; your father has to be told, that you
are here, and it must be done with much caution, lest
the shock prove too heavy for him, and extinguish a flame
already flickering."

" To you, sir, I confide every thing. Tell him, that
his long- lost son is waiting to crave his forgiveness, and
to be the prop of his declining years, if the Author ot
Life will, in his mercy, spare him yet a little longer."

The pastor had executed his task ; — the females had
retired with him, and the repentant son knelt by the hard
couch on which his father lay, worn with age and
penury and sore affliction. His tears filled the hollow
of the furrowed hand he pressed to his quivering lips.
The heart that had never failed him in the charge ot
battle, became as an in fan "s, and he sobbed aloud. — It
was nature's holy triumph.

A STRANGE STORY. 29

" Dinna be grievin', Geordie, ye're still my am baiin,
though we're baith mickle altered; ye hae. my blessing,
but ye maun seek yer Maker's. Remember, we canna
* serve two masters. What will it profit a man if he
gain the whole world and lose his own soul ?' "

"Father, my dear father! spare yourself; you are
exhausted — I pray you spare yourself — we shall again
see happy days.''

" I hope you will, Geordie, and mony o' them, but
my hours are numbered ; and though I feel as one who
joys in the God of his salvation, yet I ken weel that I'm
no to be lang here. Be gratefu' to the gude pastor o'
this place when I'm gane, and lay me beside your
mither in the kirkyard at our auld hame. — I'm waxin
faint, an' my e'en are wearin' dim — Ca' the Minister,
an' let me hear my son's voice join in the worship ot
God before I gang to my rest."

A psalm was sung, — a portion of scripture read, and
as they knelt in prayer, the sick man placed his hand
upon his son's head. The service was at an end, and
still it lingered there ; — all was tranquil, and it seemed
as if he slumbered. In removing the hand to the
warmth of the bed, it felt powerless and chill. — The
Colonel snatched a light and gazed piercingly and long
upon the wasted features of his father — he was dead.

" Blessed are they who die in the Lord," said the
Minister, as he closed the eyelids of the departed j —
" May we die the death of the righteous, and may our
List end be like his. And sanctify, we beseech thee, O
Lord, this affliction to the use of thy servant !"

D 3

THE COLONEL, A STRANGE STOUT.

The course of his subsequent life proved that iha
unexpected trials of this period were indeed sanctified to
Colonel St. George. From the time of his bereavement,
he acted as if every passion of earth had been supplanted
by the noble ambition to walk soberly, righteously, and
godly through an evil world.

He was yet in the prime of existence, — his constitution
vigorous, — his fortune ample. Bound to Dr. Summer-
ville by the strongest ties of gratitude, it was his pride
and pleasure to acknowledge them. They became friends

of the truest order. The pastor of Loch G was his

chief counsellor and sole confidant, and frequently ad-
monished him, in a vein of harmless pleasantry, on the
impropriety of remaining alone in the world. One day,
when the subject was introduced, the Colonel pronounced
himself a convert, and craved his clergyman's consent to
his addresses. He demanded the lady's name —

" Miss Jessie Summerville/'

*' She is a good girl, and worthy of you. My consent
shall not be wanting, if you gain her mother's and her

own."

The Colonel contrived to make himself acceptable to
all parties — he was united to Jessie— it proved a happy
union — the Doctor had to find a new theme for his ad-
monitions, and Cats erine*s Craig was no longer solitary.

POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY .

BY THE LATE KEY. KOBERT HALL.

IT has been observed that it seldom falls to the lot
of one man to be both a philosopher and a poet. These
two characters, in their full extent, may be said to divide
betwixt them the whole empire of genius ; for all the
productions of the human mind fall naturally under two
heads — works of imagination, and works of reason.
There are, indeed, several kinds of composition, which,
to be perfect, must partake of both. In our most cele-
brated historians, for instance, we meet with a just mix-
ture of the penetration that distinguishes the philosopher
and the ardour of the poet ; still their departments are
very wide of each other, and a small degree of atten-
tion will be sufficient to show, why it is so extremely
difficult to unite, in any high degree, the excellence of
each. The end of the poet is to give delight to his
reader, which he attempts by addressing his fancy and
moving his sensibility; the philosopher purposes merely
to instruct, and therefore thinks it enough if he presents
his thoughts in that order which will render them the
most perspicuous, and seems best adapted to gain the
attention. Their views demand, therefore, a very differ-
ent procedure. All that passes under the eye of the
poet, he surveys in one paiticular view; every form
and image under which he p-esents it to the fancv. are

32 POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY.

descriptive of its effects. He delights to paint every
object in motion, that he may raise a similar agitation in
the bosom of the reader. But the calm deliberate
thinker, on the contrary, makes it his endeavour to
seek out the remoter causes and principles, which
gave birth to these appearances.

It is the highest exertion of a philosopher to strip
off the false colours that serve to disguise, to remove
every particular which fancy or folly has combined,
and present to view the simple and naked truth. But
the poet, who addresses the imagination and the
heart, neglects no circumstance, however fanciful,
which may serve to attach his descriptions more closely
to the human mind. In describing the awful appear-
ances of nature, he gladly avails himself of those
magic terrors with which ignorance and superstition
have surrounded them ; for though the light of rea-
son dispels those shades, they answer the highest pur-
pose of the poet, in awakening the passions. It is
the delight of poetry to combine and associate ; ot
philosophy, to separate and distinguish. The one
resembles a skilful anatomist, who lays open every
thing that occurs, and examines the smallest particu-
lars of its make ; the other a judicious painter, who
conceals what would offend the eye, and embellishes
every subject he undertakes to represent. The same
object, therefore, which has engaged the investigating
powers of the philosopher, takes a very different ap-
pearance from the forming hand of the poet, who
p«dds every grace, and artfully hides the nakedness of

POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY. 33

the inward structure, under all the agreeable foldings
of etegance and beauty. In philosophical discussions,
the end of which is to explain, every part ought to
be unfolded with the most lucid perspicuity. But
works of imagination never exert a more powerful
influence, than when the author has contrived to throw
over the-m a shade of darkness and doubt. The rea-
son of this is obvious : the evils we but imperfectly
discern, seem to bid defiance to caution ; they affect
the mind with a fearful anxiety, and by presenting no
limits, the imagination easily conceives them bound-
less. These species of composition differ still farther
with respect to the situation of mind requisite to pro-
duce them. Poetry is the offspring of a mind heated
to an uncommon degree j it is a kind of spirit thrown
off in the effervescence of the agitated feeling : but
the utmost calmness and composure are essential to
philosophical inquiry. Novelty, surprise, and astonish-
ment, kindle in the bosom the fire of poetry j whilst
philosophy is reared up by cool and lon^-conlinued
efforts. There is one circumstance relating to this kind
of composition too material to be omitted. In every
nation it has been found that poetry is of much earlier
date than any other production of the human mind ; as
in the individual the imagination and passions are more
vigorous in youth, which, in mature age, subside, and
give way to thought and reflection.

Something similar to this seems to characterize that
genius, which distinguishes the different periods of
society. The most admired poems have been the off-

34 POETRY AND PHILOSOPE1Y.

spring of uncultivated ages. Pare poetry consists &f
the descriptions of nature, and the display of the pas-
sions ; to each of which, a rude state of society is better
adapted than one more polished. They who live in
that early period in which art has not alleviated the
calamities of life, are forced to feel their dependence
upon nature. Her appearances are ever open to their
view, and therefore strongly imprinted on their fancy.
They shrink at the approach of a storm, and mark with
anxious attention every variation of the sky. The change
of seasons, cloud or sunshine, serenity and tempest, are
to them real sources of sorrow and of joy; and we need
not, therefore, wonder, they should describe with energy
what they feel with so much force. But it is one chief
advantage of civilization, that, by enabling us in some
measure to control nature, we become less subject to its
influence. It opens many new sources of enjoyment.
In this situation the gay and the cheerful can always
mingle in company, whilst the diffusion of knowledge
opens to the studious a new world, over which the
whirlwind and the blast can exert no influence. The
face of nature gradually retires from view, and those who
attempt to describe it, often content themselves with
copying from books, whereby their descriptions want
the freshness and glow of original observation, like the
image of an object reflected through various mediums,
each of which varies somewhat of its form, and lessens
Jts splendour. The poetry of uncivilized nations has,
therefore, often excelled the productions of a more
refined people, in elevation and pathos. Accustomed

* AMJ PHILOSOPHY. 35

to survey nature only in her general form and grander
movements, their descriptions cannot fail of carrying
with them an air of greatness and sublimity. They
paint scenes "which every one has felt, and which,
therefore, need only to be presented to awaken a similar
feeling again. For awhile, they delight us with ths
vastness of their conceptions j but the wanf of various
embellisments, and the frequent recurrence of the same
images, soon fatigue the attention, arid their poetry may
be compared to the world of waters, which fills us with
amazement, but upon which we gaze for a while, and
then turn away our eyes. It is the advantage of en-
lightened nations, that their superior knowledge enables
them to supply greater variety, and to render poetry
more copious. They allure with an agreeable succession
of images. They do not weary with uniformity, or
overpower us with the continuance of any one exertion j
'but, by perpetually shifting the scene, they keep us in a
constant hurry of delight.

I cannot help observing, that poetical genius seems
capable of much greater variety than talents for phi-
losophising. The power of thinking and reasoning is a
simple energy, which exerts itself in all men nearly in
ihe same manner; indeed, the chief varieties that have
been observed in it may be traced to two — a capacity of
abstract and mathematical reasoning, and a talent for
collecting facts and making observations ; these qualities
of mind, blended in various proportions, will for the
most part account for any peculiarities attending men's
.•node of thinking. But the ingredients that constitute a

36 POETUY AND PHILOSOPHY.

poet, are far more various and complicated. A poet is
in a high degree under the influence of the imagination
and passions, principles of mind very various and exten-
sive. Whatever is complicated is capable of much
greater variety, and will be extremely more diversified
in its form than that which is more simple. In this case,
every ingredient is a source of variety ; and by being
mingled in the composition in a greater or less degree,
may give an original cast to the whole.

To explain the particular causes which vary the
direction of the fancy in different men, would perhaps be
no easy task.

We are led, it may be at first through accident, to the
survey of one class of objects; this calls up a particular
train of thinking, which we afterwards freely indulge; it
easily finds access to the mind upon all occasions ; the
slightest accident serves to suggest it. It is nursed by
habit, and reared up with attention, till it gradually
swells to a torrent, which bears away every obstacle, and
awakens in the mind the consciousness of peculiar powers.
Such sensations eagerly impel to a particular purpose, and
are sufficient to give to the mind a distinct and deter-
minate character.

Poetical genius is likewise much under the influence
of the passions. The pleased and the splenetic, the
serious and the gay, survey nature with very different
eyes. That elevation of fancy, which, with a melancholy
turn, will produce scenes of gloomy grandeur and awful
solemnity, will lead another of a cheerful complexion, to
delight, by presenting images of splendour and gaiety

POETRY Ai;iJ PHILOSOPHY. O.

and by inspiring gladness and joy. To these and other
similar causes, may be traced that boundless variety
which diversifies the works of imagination, and which is
so great that I have thought the perusal of fine author?
is like traversing the different regions of the earth : some
glow with a pleasant and refreshing warmth, whils;
others kindle with a fierce and fiery heat ; in one w&
meet with scenes of elegance and art, where all is regular,
ind a thousand beautiful objects spread their colours to
the eye, and regale the senses j in another, we behold
nature in an unadorned majestic simplicity, scouring the
plain with a tempest, sitting upon a rock, or walking
upon the wings of the wind. Here we meet with a
Sterne, who fans us with the softest delicacies ; and there
a Rousseau, who hurries us along in whirlwind and tem-
pest. Hence that delightful succession of emotions whigh
is felt in the bosom of sensibility. We feel the empire of
genius, we imbibe the impression, and the mind resem-
bles an enchanted mansion, which, at the touch of some
superior hand, at one time brightens into beauty, and at
another darkens into horror. Even where the talents of
men approach most nearly, ?.n attentive eye will ever
remark some small shades of difference sufficient to dis-
tinguish them. Perhaps few authors have been dis-
tinguished by more similar features of character than
Homer and Milton. That vastness of thought which fills
the imagination, and that sensibility of spirit which
renders every circumstance interesting, are the qualities
of both : but Milton is the most sublime, and Homer the
most pictui(sque. Homer lived in an early age, before

E

38 POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY.

knowledge was much advanced ; he would derive little
from any acquired abilities, and therefore may be styled
the poet of nature. To this source, perhaps, we may
trace the principal difference betwixt Homer and Milton,
The Grecian poet was left to the movements of his own
mind, and to the full influence of that variety of passions
which is common to all : his conceptions, therefore, are
distinguished by their simplicity and force. In Milton,
who was skilled in almost every department of science,
learning seems sometimes to have shaded the splendour
of his genius.

No epic poet excites emotions so fervid as Homer, or
possesses so much fire ; but in point of sublimity, he
cannot be compared to Milton. I rather think the Greek
poet has been thought to excel in this quality more than
he really does, for want of a proper conception of its
effects. When the perusal of an author raises us above
our usual tone of mind, we immediately ascribe those
sensations to the sublime, without considering whether
they light on the imagination or the feelings ; whether
they elevate the fancy, or only fire the passions.

The sublime has for its object the imagination only,
and its influence is not so much to occasion any fervour
of feeling, as the calmness of fixed astonishment. If we
consider the sublime as thus distinguished from every
other quality, Milton will appear to possess it in an un-
rivalled degree ; and here indeed lies the secret of his
power. The perusal of Homer inspires us with an
ardent sensibility j Milton with the stillness of surprise.
The one fills and delights the mind with the confluence

POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY. 39

of various emotions ; the other amazes with the vastness
of his ideas. The movements of Milton's mind are
steady and progressive 5 he carries the fancy through suc-
cessive stages of elevation, and gradually increases the
heat by adding fuel to the fire. •

The flights of Homer are more sudden and transitory
Milton, whose mind was enlightened by science, appears
the most comprehensive ; he shows more acuteness in
his reflections and more sublimity of thought. Homer,
who lived more with men, and had perhaps a deeper
tincture of the human passions, is by far the most
vehement and picturesque. To the view of Milton, the
wide scenes of the universe seem to have been thrown
open, which he regards with a cool and comprehensive
survey, little agitated, and superior to those emotions
which affect inferior mortals. Homer, when he soars
the highest, goes not beyond the bounds of human
nature; he still connects his descriptions with human
passions ; and though his ideas have less sublimity, they
have more fire. The appetite for greatness — that appetite
which always grasps at more than it can reach, is never
so fully satisfied as in the perusal of Paradise Lost. In
following Milton, we grow familiar with new worlds, we
traverse the immensities of space, wandering in amaze-
ment, and finding no bounds. Homer confines the
mind to a narrower circle, but that circle he brings
nearer the eye, he fills it with a quicker succession of
objects, and makes it the scene of more interesting
action,

£ 2

40

THE TEMPTATION IN THE WILDERNESS.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

NOT in the noise, the tumult, and the crowd,

Did the Arch-tempter spread his snares for THEE :

There he might hope to catch the vain, the proud,
The selfish ; — all who bend the willing knee

To pageants which the world hath deified,

Seeking from such their pleasure and their pride.

But THOU, who, even in thy tarriance here,
Didst bear about Thee tokens of the high

And holy influence of thy primal sphere,
Stamping thy manhood with Divinity !

Who, IN the world, wert still not of it — Thou,

He could not hope, unto its spells would'st bow

Therefore he sought and found Thee — in the gloom
Of the vast wilderness, perchance employed

In meditating on man's hapless doom ;
Who but for sin had still in peace enjoyed

The bliss of Eden, ere the serpent's thrall

Had wrought our earliest parents' fatal fall.

But vain the tempter's power and heart ! though spent
With lono-, lone lasting in that desert drear,

Thou, in thy Deity omnipotent

As man — from human crimes and follies clear,

THE TEMPTER, AN ARAB LEGEND

Wert still temptation-proof, from frailty free
HE left — and ANGELS ministered to Thee !

Oli! then, as Eden, when by sin denied,
Was Paradise no more, THY PRESENCE made

A brief Elysium in the desert wild,

And more than sunshine pierced its matted shade j

Its darkest depths by heavenly hosts were trod,

And the rude wilderness confessed its God !

THE TEMPTER.

AN ARAB LEGEND.

la it not written in the Chronicles of Arabia, that —
the bold man may be overthrown, and the wise man
may be confounded ? But that the patient man over-
cometh ! So sayeth the Arab of the city, so sayeth the
Arab of the tent, so sayeth the man of xinderstanding,
from the Synea to Arabia Felix. Then hear the story of
Ayoub, the mighty, the ruined, the prosperous, the im-
mortal, the son of Ishmael ! Is it not so written ? — The
sun was sinking on the hills that shut in the valley of
the Feiraun, when a traveller, worn out with fatigue and
the heat of the burning day of Arabia, stopped on the
summit of the pass that leads from the desert into this
famous valley. H i uttered an exclamation of surprise

£3

42 THE T KM PIER,

and delight, as his eye saw its whole noble beauty spread
below him. For seven days he had trodden nothing but
the desert: his eyes were withered by the glare of the
perpetual sand; his frame was parched j his brain was
dizzy. For the last day his cruise of water had been
exhausted ; and he had travelled from dawn, in the haste
of one who felt that, unless he reached succour before
another dawn, there his mortal career must end; but he
was amply repaid for his toil by the prospect which now
spread to the horizon.

The valley of the Feiraun is to this hour the loveliest
in all Arabia. From the eastern pass, which lies high
among hills of every coloured marble, an unbroken suc-
cession of date-groves and gardens, filled with all the
fruits and flowers of the East, extend till they are lost in
distance. The sides of the valley are sheeted with a
verdure, which, watered by innumerable rivulets, re-
tains through the year the richest hue of the emerald.
The date harvest was just commencing. The small
Arab tents were seen, planted with standards and gar-
lands, in the open spaces of the groves. Some of the
date-gatherers, who come at thio season from all parts of
Arabia, were dancing to the sounds of their pastoral
instruments j some were preparing the evening meal ;
troops of young girls were going to the wells, carrying
their water-vessels on their heads, and singing in chorus;
long lines of camels and cattle were seen returning from
pasture to the tents ; the valley was filled with life, and
the air sent np a universal echo of rural joy.

The traveller was all astonishment, and stood gazing

AN ARAB LEGEND 43

at the matchless scene of luxuriance and happiness
beneath him, until he saw the sun stoop upon the
western range of the mountains, and the evening star
expand into splendour above his head. Its rise re-
minded him of a duty which even the fatigue and de-
spair of the desert had not driven from his heart. At
the coming of eve he was accustomed to offer up his
devotions. His lips were parched with thirst — his frame
was faint with hunger. A rivulet, cool and sweet as dew,
was gushing along beside the path ; fruits, whose fra-
grance was almost too rich for his feeble sense, were
hanging within his grasp ; but the signal of the hour of
prayer was above — the evening star was glittering from
the heaven, like a lamp in a temple of boundless glory.
He knelt down, and offered up his homage to the Power
which at a word had brought that glory out of nothing,
and whose image is not to be made by man. The
traveller then rose, tasted of the stream and the fruits,
and, making a bed of the leaves of vines and roses, laid
himself down on his cloak, and fell into a delicious
slumber.

After a short, deep sleep, dreams came upon him, and
he felt himself wandering through a strange variety of
places and events. He saw large masses of gold strewed
round him ; but at his touch they dissolved into water.
He saw magnificent alcoves and pavilions starting out of
the shade of superb gardens, and in a moment after they
vanished, and nothing but the desert met his eye. Echoes
of martial music led him to the summit of hills, from
which he surveyed an army* glittering with innumerable

44 THE TEMPTER,

banners and splendid tents — the pomp of an Indian
King — and then a sudden whirlwind tore its way
through them, swept the banners into the air, scattered
the royal tents, and covered the soil with dead. Then a
scene followed, which was altogether incomprehensible
to him. He thought that, as he uas kneeling in his
evening prayer, the star above him grew suddenly
larger ; he felt himself rising towards it ; a glance
showed him the valley of the Feiraun far below. An-
other glance, and the valley had faded into a long line
of blue ; the whole enormous plain of Arabia stretched
out beneath, with its red sands — its bare granite moun-
tains— and the two broad boundaries of sea that lie
between it and the west and east of the world. A third
glance, and Arabia was but a bright spot on a bright
globe, rolling with terrible swiftness through the clouds
and coloured airs of heaven.

He had risen from this world on more than eagles'
wings. The evening star was no longer a glittering point
— a diamond in the turban of night: it was a world of
enormous size, flashing a radiance to which all that he had
ever seen on earth was midnight ; and crowded with
shapes of a grandeur and beauty such as he had never
seen in the noblest and loveliest forms of mankind.
Still, as he rose, he saw visions yet more magnificent
than those guardian spirits ; and glimpses of crowns
and thrones, through a radiance that formed clouds of
itself, and overpowered his faculties.

But, in the midst of those unspeakable pomps, one
figure struck his eye with a mixture of admiration and

AN ARAB LEGEND 45

terror, for which he could not account j yet which fixed
his glance upon this mysterious shape by an irresistible
spell. The form was that of an old man, but decrepit
more with infirmity than age; still, of a gigantic height,
and with a countenance of haughtiness and anguish, to
which there was no similitude in the dazzling myriads
among whom he moved. He seemed to be not of their
number— all shrank from him — but he stalked sternly
on, yet with visible agony in every step, till he paused
directly before Ayoub. An expression of scorn instantly
sat upon his majestic features. The look grew more
intense, until Ayoub felt every pulse of his frame throb
with indescribable fear. Some words of lofty contempt
dropped from the old man's lip; and lifting up his
hand, as if to make a solemn abjuration, he gave a
withering smile, and passed on. Thunder rolled, and
clouds of the thickest night instantly fell upon the whole
scene.

Ayoub felt himself cast down to earth ; and in the
shock of his fall he awoke. A part of his dream was
true. A tempest had come up from the Red Sea, and
the retiring thunders were now rolling away, far over
the mountains of the desert. The ground where he had
lain was drenched with a shower, and in the involuntary
effort to move from it in his sleep he had fallen dowr.
the face of the rock.

The sun rose, and the clouds floated off the landscape ;
but the traveller could feel only that a fierce fever had
seized upon him, that he had broken his arm, and that
he was in a spot where, without immediate succour, ho

46 THE TEMPTER,

must die. He was in the prime of life, and full o<
the buoyant consciousness that he was not to be for
ever the undistinguished thing that lie then was. A noble
mission, too, had been given to him, for which he had
left father and friends, the betrothed of his bosom, and
the brothers of his blood. A VOICE, which he knew to
be of more than man, had commanded him to leave his
fathers' tents, and, abandoning all hope of honour and
possessions at home, to follow its guidance to a land
where his destiny was to be fulfilled.

But now the fire of disease was in his frame; he was
bruised, and unable to stand ; the sun, too, rose with
a brightness that dazzled his enfeebled eye — the heat
drank up his blood : he was dying! — he felt the shades
of the final hour gathering round him. By a last
effort of nature he called out for help — " for one
draught of water before he died." He heard footsteps,
and felt the water close to his withered lip. Never
had he enjoyed such luxury before : the draught was
like dew to the flower — it shot new life through him.
He looked up, and saw one of the date-gatherers, an
old man, with a becchen goblet in his hand, leaning
over him.

A crowd of peasantry now approached, and, by
the old man's direction, made a litter of boughs, and
carried Ayoub down to their tents. As they descended
into the shade of the valley, his senses were bathed in
the perfume of the richest blossoms of Arabia; his
forehead was cooled by the touch of the rose-bushes
and cr: nation-trees which clustered over their path j and,

AN ,iR\B LFGEXD. 47

before he arrived at the tent of his protector, ne felt a
consciousness of renovated health that was like a seme
of immortality.

A few weeks completely restored him, and he remem-
bered his summons, and prepared to go forward on
his jouiney; but his old preserver argued against the
" rashness of trying the desert again.'* Ayoub spoke
of his reliance on the mysterious voice, and told his
dream. The old date-gatherer shook his hoary locks
with laughter.

" Ah," said he, " the dreams of the young are
stronger than the realities of the old. I could once
drearn like you. Like you, I traversed the mountain
for gold, but I found sand. I traversed the plain for
dominion, and I found sand ; and if I had looked for
A throne in the bottom of the diamond mountain of
El Gebir, I should have found sand there too ; in short,
the world is much alike to the dreamer. He will find
gold and sceptres in his dreams, and sand every where
else. Now, listen to me. Give up this foolish fol-
lowing of what you have never seen to find what you
will never see. I have no daughters to give you ; but I
shall send for your betrothed. I have no son; but you
shall be mine. I must die, and would wish to see my
date-groves in the hands of one whom I honoured, and
not tnrown away on a band of peasants. Look from this
door ! As far as the eye can reach — to the left and the
right, to the sea and the sunrise — all is mine. Stay •
and within a few years, perhaps a few hours, you may be

4s? THE TEMPTER,

iord of the valley — king of the paradise of Arabia — happy
sovereign of the Feiraun."

The old man's words sank into Ayoub's heart. Where
could he, on earth, find such another spot? Here was
unbroken peace, luxurious enjoyment, the loveliest
scenery of earth, wealth unbounded. A word would
make him master of it all. He pondered for a moment,
and glanced at his preserver. On a sudden, he thought
that he had seen his countenance before. There was a
singular sternness about it, that was totally unlike its
usual benevolence. He felt a strange and startling sen-
sation. He raised his eyes again. But the look was
fixed solemnly on the skies : the countenance was pale,
and sacred resignation was expressed in every feature.
Ayoub dared not disturb a reverie so holy.

At length the old man turned to him, and with a
faint smile, and pressing his hand, said, uMy son, .
find I can still be guilty of the follies of youth. I am
still as rash as a child. I was wrong to press my offer
on you so abruptly ; but the truth is, that if the dreams
of the young are mere vapours of the brain, the dreams
of the old sometimes tell the truth. I have had some
warnings that this frail tenement of mine will not hold
together much longer. In our fine climate death comes,
like the autumn, in beauty and mildness — it is the
richest hour of life — and the man drops gently but surely
into the grave, as the cluster from the vine. I wished
to leave my groves and gardens in the hands of one who
would love them as I loved them ,; and to set over my

AM AP.A2 LEG F 3D. 49

people a Sheik who would guide them by his wisdom,
and protect them by his valour. But, go! — follow your
own wild will, and forget your old friend."

Ayoub's heart was touched. He felt an inconceivable
sweetness in the tones of his preserver's voice, even
while he spoke of an event which was to separate him
from all his enjoyments. And, mingled with the rustic
and simple look, there was a glance of loftiness and
dignity that showed, if he had resigned the glories of tne
world for the rough garb of a date-gatherer, the fault lay
in no feebleness of mind. The old man evidently read
his thoughts.

" You wonder at my wearing this alhaic" said he :
"but I have worn purple before now, and find the alhaic
just as warm in winter, and just as cool in summer j
besides, it raises no man's desire to pluck it off my
shoulders. You wonder at my preferring a date-grove
to a palace; but it is, at least, as quiet, as chee;ful, and
as fragrant ; besides, who thinks of dropping poison
into the beechen cup of a date-gatherer? Young man,
I have sat upon a throne, richer than all that Arabia
can show — richer than ever son of Ishmael shall sit
upon. But remember the proverb : 'A man may thrust
his hand into the fire, but if he hold it there too long
he is a fool.' Forswear ambition, and be, like me, a
date-gatherer."

A strain of music rose from the valley, and silenced
his speech. The sound was exquisite : rising from the
depths of the groves, with a richness of harmony that
abso'"te!v subdued the senses, it lingered and floated

f

50 THE TEMPTER,

along the summits of the hills j and then, in one burst of
grandeur, rose to heaven.

Ayoub had never heard such sounds before; and.
when he had recovered from his first rapture, he asked.
" Was it possible that they could be produced by date-
gatherers ?"

The old man smiled: "Never believe," said he,
"my son, that all the good things of this world were
meant for men sleeping on silken sofas, under marble
roofs, and with guards, fifty deep, to save their throats
from being cut while they are asleep. Our peasants
are made, by nature, just like other men ; and you may
find as flexible fingers, and tuneful voices, born under
the shelter of one of these linen tents, as ever were
heard in the golden pavilion of the King of India. But
the ceremony to-night is of an unusual kind : some of
my people are siar-worshippers ; and once a year they
hold a festival in honour of the skies. This accounts for
your not having heard their hymn before. You are not
a star-worshipper," said the old man, fixing his pene-
trating eye on him.

Ayoub pronounced that " such worship was folly."

" True/' was the answer ; " and yet the thing is
natui al enough. These peasants see their labours begun
and ended by the light of the stars ; the season of their
trees putting on the leaf and the fruit ripening, led by the
stars; of the destinies of kingdoms they of course can
know nothing ; but of the destinies of themselves, their
children, their cattle, and their gardens, they know a
great dealj and as they see them under some perpetual

AX AR\B LF.GEND. 51

connection with those brilliant luminaries, they honour
and fear the guides of destiny. Besides, man must
always have something to worship ; and the stars are at
once the most obvious, the most beautiful, and the most
magnificent of all things."

A sudden burst of the harmony rose again, and ab-
sorbed Ayoub in an ecstasy of hearing. The chaunt that
had already delighted him was harsh to the melting yet
gorgeous swell that rolled round hirn, like a rising cloud
of fragrance, and steeped his senses in a dreamy enchant-
ment. He was roused by the old man's gesture, who,
with one hand on his, pointed the other to the heavens.
Ayoub uttered a cry of wonder. The whole firmament
seemed to have received an unlimited expansion. Stars
by millions rushed into it, as if a new creation had
just begun. But no splendour of star that had ever
struck his eye was equal to the dazzling brilliancy, the
broad and intense glory, of the orbs that now filled the
infinite azure. All hues of precious minerals, all the
coloured lights of the diamond, the ruby, and the
ciysolite, flashed and burned before him on a scale o.
colossal magnitude. The stars seemed instinct with life
and Ayoub, while he gazed, with redoubled awe ana
admiration, saw them begin to stoop towards the earth,
as if to receive the nearer homage of the hymn.

" There is something in this," said the old man : " I
almost begin to think that there are communications
between those mighty luminaries and earth ; see how
their lustre brightens as the hymn ascends ! May they
not be spirits, of as much power as beauty t How shall

F2

$2 THE TEMPTER.

we limit the forms of creation ? Man is a noble being ;
but is the form of man the only thing noble ? What has
earth to compare with this magnificence ? See that
splendid leader of the host stooping above us with his
golden glory ! Mighty being, come not in wrath, but in
mercy!" said he; and he cast himself on his forehead
before the star, which seemed descending through the
air, and pouring a flood of new light at every ruorfitiit
on the valley. Still bent on the ground, the old man
put out his hand, seized the skirt of Ayoub's garment,
and with convulsive energy pulled him on his knees.
" Youth," said he, tremblingly, " offer up your homage
to the true gods of the universe!'' Ayoub, confused
and dazzled, felt himself under an influence like that of
wine ; strong perfumes breathed round him, sleepy
sounds were in his ears ; and in this bewildered state he
unconsciously lifted his hand towards his lips.

At the instant, he saw his companion's eye fixed upon
mm , — it had a glance of fire. He shrank, his senses
returned ; he sprang on his feet, and in his heart abjured
the guilty homage. A groan at his side roused him from
his sacred reverie. The star-worshipper was dead !
Ayoub, struck with unfeigned sorrow, tried to recover
him, and bore him to the tent. He laid him on his bed,
and tried the simple remedies of the Arab. But, as he
brought the lamp close, to discover if there were any
hope of life, he was startled by the change in his coun-
tenance : it was no longer placid ; the features were like
those of one who had died in agony; the lips were
writhed, the nostrils were distended, the eyes were

AN ARAB LECL.ND. 53

oroadly open. As he gazed, all the features seemed to
recover an unnatural and horrid animation ; and a livid
light began to blaze in the depth of the eyeballs. Ayoub
could bear the terrible spectacle no longer. Bold as he
was, a strange shuddering seized upon him, and he left
the tent. The glory of the stars had disappeared: out-
cries of wild ness and anger were echoing through the
trees. In instinctive alarm, he seized his spear, threw
his bow and quiver across his back, and rushed up the
side of the valley.

As he reached the summit of the mountain pass, he
gave one look more to this earthly paradise. But it was
fearfully changed ; the fires of the star-worshippers seemed
to have spread from hill to hill, until the groves caught
the blaze ; and the cry of affright was mingled with
hideous execrations. As the flame spread, he saw the
people of the groves struggling with each other in furious
contests — every thing flame above, and slaughter below.
The blaze had now reached the tent ; on which he fixed
his eye with a feeling of deep regret for the kind-hearted
and venerable being- who had so long sheltered him there.
It was soon the centre of the conflagration, and from it
sprang up a shape of unspeakable terror — a gigantic
being, crowned and winged with flame, that soared into
the clouds, and hung, as if in fierce triumph, over the
scene of ruin. He dared gaze no more; but darted
down the pass towards the desert, bounded in the
strength of frenzy over rocks and streams, forced his way
through thicket and ravine, nor paused for an instant,

F3

54 THE TEMPTER,

till he found his feet again treading the sand of the
derness.

At dawn, Ayoub locked back, for the first time ; the
mountains of the Feiraun were lying like a blue cloud
on the western horizon. Before him now lay the sandy
ocean, the interminable desert; a dizzy light played over
the surface ; the ground scorched him through his sandals ;
the sun looked like a shield of red-hot iron ; and he
never felt a sensation of greater joy than when, on
passing between two sand-hills, he saw a sullen and
massy caravanserai within a short distance. To see it,
and to rush forward, to throw his cloak upon the floor
and throw himself upon it, were the work of the same
moment.

But he had scarcely laid down, when his ears were
saluted with the sound of camels' bells, horns, the bark-
ing of dogs, and the neighing of horses. A caravan had
arrived, and the gloomy halls were instantly crowded
with people, coming from Yemen with merchandize for
the ports of the Red Sea. Ayoub was seen, questioned,
and brought before the chief of the caravan, a Bedoween,
superbly mounted, with a bold but cheerful countenance,
covered from top to toe with armour of the most curiously
wrought steel, and carrying a rich Indian lance in his
hand.

*' Welcome, my brother !" said the Shiek : " I love
the Beni Ishmael. I am one of them myself; though }
acknowledge that it is a shame for me to be riding my
camel beside those Kafirs. However, one cannot alvvayf

AN ARAB LEGEND. 53

find pearls in the desert. The glorious Hedjaz itself
grows more tons of sand than grains of wheat ; and
praised be your luck that has made you fall m to-day
wlJi Abdul Bahrein, lord of a thousand horsemen, and
of the gold, silver, and camels of every caravan that
payeth not tribute, from the Persian Gulph to the Straits
of Babelmandel."

At twilight, the Arab, ordering that a horse should be
given to the " son of Ishmael," galloped off to the head
of the caravan, which had now commenced its march, as
the cool of the evening came on.

Ayoub was the child of destiny, and he awaited its
will. But his prayer at the rising of the evening star
was not forgotten. He then mounted his Arab horse,

o *

flew to the head of the column, and found the Shiek
busy with marshalling his Bedovveens, and full of gal-
lant animation. Ayoub's figure excited his praise.

" Why, who under the disc of the moon," exclaimed
he, " could have thought to see such a daring rider —
ay, and such a handsome lance-bearer too — in the worn-
out-looking Kafir we found you half a dozen hours ago !
May I never drink the wine of Yemen again, but you
ride, and handle the spear like our father Ishmael him-
self! You must make one of the troop. You shall live
on the purses of the feeble, and on the meat of the strong ;
an eagle will not be more free to shake his plumes over
the desert, nor a vulture to prey on all that lives there."

The march of a caravan is always a striking spectacle
at night. Torch-bearers ride out in front, flank, and
rear, and the sands seem scattered with flying meteors.

56 THE TEMl'TER,

At length the moon touched the summits of the Persiar
hills with a silvery line ; and then, rising broadly, flooded
the desert with light.

The Sheik was in high spirits. " You know our
fathers' proverb," said he: " ' inquire about your neigh-
bour before you build, and your companion before you
travel.' But what care I for proverbs ! You see, I have
adopted you at once. You are a better horseman than
any of the tribe, except myself; a handsomer fellow,
with the same exception ; and I see, by your silence,
that when the angel of the balances was giving brains to
mankind, he did not h de your head under his wing.
Now, listen. I have a daughter, with the blackest eyes
in all Arabia, cheeks like two pomegranates, and the
merchant who could find such rubies as her lips, or a set
of pearls like her teeth, might go through the earth, say-
ing, I am a buyer of princes. She shall be yours!"
Ayoub gave a melancholy look towards the quarter in
which the moon rose, and thought that even then his
betrothed might be gazing on the same lovely orb.

The Shiek burst out into laughter. " So," exclaimed
he, " you are a moon adorer ! Well, ail follies are to be
found even among the Beni Ishmael. But remember
the proverb — ' He who gazeth on the sky may stumble
on the earth.' Think of my offer."

" True," answered Ayoub ; " but also remember the
proverb — ' He who has health, strength, and courage, has
three emeralds that will not turn white in the fire.'

" Wisely spoken," returned the Sheik. " But remem-
ber the proverb — ' He who can neither serve himself,

AN ARAB LEGEND 57

nor hurt his enemies, what is he but a broken lance and
a blunted sword !'

" Spoken like a sage of Serendib," said Ayoub ; " but
remember the proverb — that f The faithless becomes a
stranger to heaven, and the unpurposed may make his
meal of the clouds.' "

The Sheik grew angry at being thus baffled by a youth
with but one garment and one lance. But he restrained
his anger, and said, in a friendly tone, ''Young man,
I might have bid you remember the proverb — that for
six things a fool is known — * wrath without cause,
change without reason, inquiry without object, putting
trust in a stranger and wanting the power to know
a friend from a foe.

"My father," said Ayoub, smiling, "I have eaten
your bread, and I say no more. But I think upon the
proverb — Long experience maketh large wit/ "

The Sheik laughed aloud at this final retort; and in
great delight at the depth of his learning, said, " It is
now midnight j all the robbers in the desert are asleep,
and I see the caravan nodding in all directions. Come
with me, and I shall show you a finer sight than the rising
moon. You are worth some trouble. "

He struck Ayoub*s horse with the end of his lance,
gave his own the reins, and they both instantly flew
across the sands with the speed of antelopes. There was
no bolder rider than Ayoub, but he was first surprised
and then alarmed at the speed of his courser. It flew
like the wind, and still its speed increased. It was now
the flight of the vultuie, it was next t'-ie flight of an arrow,

58 THE TEMPT IP*,

it was next the flight of the lightning. To stop the steed
was impossible, and to throw himself off must have been
instant death. Such was the strange swiftness of the
animal, that the torches of the caravan had disappeared
*n a few moments; the mountains soon seemed to fly
backward ; and, as he at length looked up, the sky shone
with new stars, for the old were low in the horizon. Still
the Sheik continued to rush on before him; and the jour-
ney was still unended.

At length a broad, pale gleam, as of a winter's morn,
began to quiver on the east. Ayoub, shaken in every
fibre, rejoiced to think that day and rest were at hand.
But the increasing swiftness of his horse, which some-
times made him think of the old stories of enchantment,
soon brought him near enough to discover, that the light
proceeded from torches hung out on the walls of a city of
enormous size. The Sheik led the way to the gate,
which rose with the grandeur of a pyramid before the
riders. The gigantic portal received them, and a scene
then burst on Ayoub's gaze exceeding all that his wildest
fancy had ever formed.

The Sheik gave a glance at him, and smiled at his
astonishment. " I told you, " said he, " that you should
see something better than a hundred Bedoween rogues
ready to fall from their horses, and a caravan half asle i .
This is the * city of the golden towers, * of which you
must have heard so often ; but which lies so far out of
the way of the caravans, that not one in a hundred of
them ever comes here. "

Ayoub acknowledged that, " though he had never

AS ARAB LEGEND. 59

even heard of it, it was worth going to the ends of the
c.arth to see. " Nothing could be more magnificent.
Well it deserved the name of golden. Every thing
seemed to be made of the precious metals. From the
gate Ayoub looked up a street of colossal columns, fluted
and flourished in the richest style, and all of gold ; pa-
laces and pavilions, covered with gems and gold, ranged
along the sides of this interminable street ; and, though
midnight was already past, the inhabitants seemed to be
in the height of some great festival.

The Arab checked his rein at the door of a lofty build-
ing, crowded with people, who were continually rushing
in and out. "We may as well alight here," said he,
"and refresh ourselves. For the proverb is true: — ' The
lamp may be made of diamonds ; but it dies without
oil.'"

Ajoub, in intolerable exhaustion, almost fell from
his horse. The sounds of the festivity were stunning to
his ears ; the glare of the walls, and the innumerable lights
which actually clustered over them, like a swarm of fire-
flies on the acacia at sunset, gave pain to his eye, already
wearied by the rapid passing of star, mountain, and
forest, during his journey; and if he could have spoken,
it would be to ask only for silence, a cave, and a cup of
cold water.

But there was a gay and cordial good-humour about his
friend Abdul, that at once prevented his complaints and
supplied his wishes, and more than his wishes. " Ha ! "
said he, with his usual cheering laugh, " I see you are
a philosopher; ay, so is every man when he is too much

CO THE TEMPTER,

tired for pleasure; and very likely a saint too; ay, so is
every one when he is sick. But come out of this rabble. *'

He threw his arm round Ayoub, and rather carried
than led him under a long, half-lighted cloister, which
looked out on a small garden. The air, here, was deli-
ciously cool, and the sounds of the city seemed to have
suddenly died, or rather sunk into that low mingling
of the distant sounds of life, which, without being music,
is almost sweeter. A profusion of shrubs, that crept up
and wreathed round the cloister, heavy with the night
dews, breathed a strange but exquisite odour round this
secluded spot; and when Ayoub sank on the divan, he
experienced a sensation of rest, like that from which the
faithful awake in paradise.

But the bold Arab was not disposed to waste the
precious moments in lying on cushions, and gazing on
the coloured tracery of a cloister. He clapped his hands
• — attendants appeared — he ordered supper, with the air
of one accustommed to command this world's enjoy-
ments— drew a weighty purse from his girdle, and,
flinging it to a slave, bade him give its value in their
entertainment. The supper was speedily brought inj
and Ayoub acknowledged that, whether from his fatigue,
or its excellence, or both, he had then, for the first time
in his life, known the delight of the senses. The pome-
granates, grapes, and peaches had an exquisiteness of
flavour, that made them less the finest of their species
than of a different and totally superior species ; even
their colours were lovelier and more dazzling. Bet for
the touch, he should have pronounced them real dia-

AN ARAB LEG (Jl

mond and ruby. But the wine was the wonder ! Their
table, their cups, every thing round them looked sim-
plicity itself; but the wine was worthy of princes. His
glance was irresistibly fixed upon its lustre. It flashed
and sparkled with living brightness. '« If wine," ex-
claimed *Ayoub, as he gazed upon the cup lifted in his
hand, " if the blood of the grape could contain the prin
ciple of hie, it is in this goblet."

"And why not?" said the Arab, who had just swal-
lowed a copious draught: "in the blood of man is the
life, in the blood of beasts is the life ; the vine, the rose,
the tulip live j they have infancy, matuiity, and age j
they wake, they sleep, they love the sunshine, they shrink
'rorn the storm ; they eat, drink, and breathe ; and what
more can you say for the first Sheik of Yemen, except
that he does not wear such fine clothes, live in a garden,
nor spend a life half so pleasant, or half so profitable to
mankind. But, drink, and get a little of that life
within you, if you can ; for you seem more tired than an
elephant at noon j and we have something to see before
our return."

Ayoub put the cup to his lips; he was fascinated.
The mere fragrance was subduing, but the tuste was
rapture. He had drank the famous vintage of the isles,
in the tents of his fathers, but till now he felt that he
had never tasted true wine. The sensation ran like a
touch of new life through every nerve of his frame. He
could compare it to nothing but a soft flame penetrating
all his fibres, vivid, but painless, and filling him with a
uew and joyous animation. His fatigue was past in an

G

ft? THE TF.M-PTER,

instant; he felt the vigour of a giant, he could have
bounded with the elasticity of a leopard. A conscious-
ness that he was made for something beyond the common
destinies of earth glowed in his soul. He could have
sprung up into the elements on wings of fire.

" Best of guides — first of friends — spirit of con-
querors !" gaily exclaimed the Arab, as he poured out
another cup for his young companion, " what a miracle
you have wrought ! You have turned the dreamer into
a man. But, come : we shall be late. Here's to the
giver of the vine! Here's to Baal! — ' the glorious!'"
He put the goblet to Ayoub's lips, whose head was
already confused. To set him the example, he lifted the
fellow cup to his own. But, at the instant, the draught
seemed to throw up a flash of real fire. The Arab gave
a shriek of agony, dropped it on the ground, and writhed
with sudden torture. Ayoub flung down the cup, and
flew to his assistance. After a few moments of hideous
distortion, the bold aspect returned.'

" You see," said he, still panting, « that the proverb is
true : — ' The first draught of the vintage may be dew, the
second maybe death.'"

" I have heard, too," involuntarily said Ayo ib, shud-
dering, " that in cities they sometimes put poison in the
cup of the stranger." The Arab cast a glance upon him,
not unlike the blaze from the wine ; but instantly re-
covering his composure, and pointing upward, said,
" Night flies, the stars themselves look weary. Come,
and see the wonder of the world."

Ayoub, for the first time, felt some unaccountable

AN ARAB LEGEiND. 63

reluctance to follow his guide. But what was to be
done ? Without him he could not return to the caravan,
nor even make his way through the streets. The wine,
too, was still in his brain ; and, notwithstanding his re-
collection of the hideous expression of the Arab's agony,
he followed him from the portico into the midst of the
multitude.

His fears of losing his way might have been spared,
for he found the whole joyous crowd, and it consisted of
f.ens of thousands, all moving in the same direction,
and all talking of " the temple, the temple.'' Yet all in
i different way ; some praising the incomparable sculp-
tures of the high altar, others the richness of the music;
some loud in their admiration of the priests' robes,
while the females could talk of nothing but the priests
themselves, — the chief favourite being- a magnificent
Ethiopian, who had won their hearts by his gigantic
stature, his vast eyes, and the sonorous voice with which
he pealed out the hundred thousand names of their
deity. The crowd, too, were as various as their opinions.
Ayough looked in speechless astonishment at the myriads
of motleyness round him. There were the Tartar flat
nose and squeezed forehead, the olive skin of the Persian,
the high brow of the Ionian, the baboon visage of the
Lybian, the sharp physiognomy of the Greek, the frost-
nipt features of the Scythian, the slender, sable linea-
ments of the Indian, and the yellow hair and broad blue
eye of the Gaul. At his first glance he conceived that
the people of the city had, in some wildness or national

04 THE ir.Ml'TEll,

festivity, made artificial faces for themselves, as was not
uncommon among the orientals. But a nearer view
showed him, to his wonder, that they were all real. Ugli-
ness predominated ; for such is human nature ; and yet
the paint, the costly dresses, the ringletted heads, the
jewels, silks, and embroideries that covered the multi-
tude, in the style of their various countries, made a spec-
tacle of the most brilliant kind. There were lovely
women, too; groups from Mingrelia and Circassia, with
their white necks bound with emeralds and amethysts,
and their coral lips in a perpetual smile ; and beauties of
Golconda, with eyes that outshone the produce of their
mines, and covered necks, arms, and ankles, with chains
and plates of gold. The turbaned Malabar dancers, too,
floated among the crowd1, and the Egyptian Almai tossed
their cymbals, and sang alike solemn hymns and gay
melodies of the Nile.

Ayoub, in a state of mental excitement which pre-
cluded thought, was carried along with the living flood,
gazing delighted, and wondering, till he found himself at
the summit of an immense flight of steps leading to the
doors of the great temple.

As he paused for a moment's breath, a sudden roar of
dissonance burst across him. He felt some instinctive
dread of entering ; and asked his friend " what was to be
seen within ?" " The Arab, putting on a countenance of
grave derision, asked him in return, " whether he had
ever heard the proverb : — ' The pearls of Serendib are
thick as starsj but wishing never brought one of them from

AN ARAB LEGEND. 65

the bottom of the sea.' This night you have rode a
thousand miles to see the grandest of all spectacles ; and
you turn away when you are within a foot of it."

" A thousand miles !" exclaimed Ayoub, in utter
surprise ; " then we must have rode on the wind !"

" Perhaps we have," said the Arab with composure :
then, pointing to a range of hills, whose tops were just
visible by a waning moon, "there lie the mountains of
the Khalaun. Beyond them lie the plains of the Hedjaz,
five hundred miles of as burning sand as ever scorched
the heel of man, or dried up the panniers of a dromedary.
Behind you is the Persian Sea. You stand in the city or
Ornaun, the wise, the illustrious, the centre of the earth !"

Ayoub was only the more perplexed ; but he was
convinced ; for the breeze from the oceau flowed with
refreshing coolness on the night, and he listened with de-
light to its distant dash and murmur on the rocks of the
Ras-el-bled ; the view of the city below, too, was en-
chanting. He could have stood for ever to see its lovely
expanse of mingled gardens, gilded roofs, and the tall
slender towers of the oriental architecture, like ascending
meteors. The Arab impatiently plucked his robe.

" What can I see within, richer than this view ?'7 said
Ayoub.

" You will see," replied the captain, " the only thing
worth a man of sense's seeing on earth ; human nature.
Come." With the words, he laid his grasp on Ayoub 's
arm, and pushed him inside the huge portico.

But the splendours that opened on him in the idol
.temple required no assistance from persuasion. Vast

c3

THE TEMPI ER,

aisles of variegated marble— ->shrines and alcoves hiinsr
with festoons and tapestries of Indian silk — pavements
inlaid with metals and gems of every colour of the rain-
bow, spread interminably before him. Colossal paintings
of sacrifices, of the invocation of spirits, and of the descent
of the winged messengers of heaven, finished with the
most masterly skill, were hung on the walls ; sculptures
and frescoes of lions and tigers, of the eagle and the
vulture, the serpent and the crocodile, twined in a thou-
sand attitudes of struggle or sport, covered the roof, or
enriched the chapiters of the columns ; while clusters of
immense lamps threw radiance upon the whole, so that
the most minute feature of its opulence and beauty was
visible. " This indeed is well worth our journey !"
exclaimed Ayoub, with uplifted eyes and hands.

"You will believe me again," said his companion.
" But you have still the true wonder to see."

A sound of trumpets, uniting the most singular
sweetness with a power that shook the frame, echoed
from the central colonnade of the temple ; and, at the
sound, the multitude fell on their faces, crying out,
" Glory to Baalim !'' — " You shrink from this ceremony,"
said the Arab, with a contemptuous smile: "The Beni
Ishmael may be wise enough for their wilderness. But
remember the proverb — 'The antelope is swift on the
plains, but a child leads him in the streets/ What is
wisdom to the grey-beard of the dweller in the tent, may
be folly to the lip of the youngest dweller in the city.
Here you see thousands, all richer and all happier than
yourself, and why not at least as wise? You see them

AN ARAB LEGEND. 67

content to do as their forefathers have done ; this they
themselves have done from their cradles, and this their
children will do after them ; and how are they the worse
for it? Where are the thunders to burn their temple ?
Or could all the tents of the Hedjaz find such a form, or
furnish it with such jewels, as might be found in every
group in this temple ?''

He pointed to a female then passing with a basket of
fruits towards a shrine. She seemed scarcely beyond
girlhood, by the lightness of her step, but her form had
the finest proportions of woman. As if sho npplied the
praise to herself, she looked round, and Ayoub saw —
could he believe his senses ! — the face of his betrothed !
But her beauty seemed to have gained additional bril-
liancy. The cheek glowed carnation with the delight of
the meeting ; and the glance which she modestly cast on
the ground, resembled to his thought the descent of a
shooting star. But " how came she in the idol temple?"
She saw his hesitation; and, without a word, laying on
his arm a hand delicate and white as the lily, yet which
he felt unaccountably control him, as if it had been
nerved with supernatural strength, the lovely idolater led
him forward.

A burst of matchless voices and instruments awok:?
him from his perplexity. Immense folds of silk,
wrought with mystic emblems, floated away at the
sound, like clouds; and the full pomp of eastern idolatry
opened on his eyes. An altar, scarcely raised from the
floor, surrounded, in a circle, a colossal figure, thaf
seemed compounded of every rich product of earih-

68 THE TEMPTER,

gem, metal, ivory, and marble, mixed in the form, which
looked not less the representative of every living object
of nature— man, the beast of the forest, the bird, the fish
even the claws and sting of the insect. The multitude
shouted as the enormous idol dawned upon them. A
chorus of sweet voices, that appeared to come from
under ground, answered to the acclamation. The low
altar was soon a blazing circle of sandal-wood and
incense, that threw a perfumed and intoxicating smoke,
in rolling volumes, to the roof of the temple ; from which
it descended on the worshippers, partially dimming the
lamps, and covering the scene below with a shade like
that of a rich twilight.

But, as the light thickened, the rapture of the multi-
tude grew wild. Troops of dancers, with timbrels and
lyres, whirled among the multitude. Sudden banquet-
tables appeared in various quarters, from which sounds
of the most extravagant revelry began to rise. Crowds
of women, magnificently attired, rushed from the recesses
of the temple, wandered round the tables, sang, danced,
and flung garlands of tulips and roses at the guests.
Ayoub looked round for the Arab captain. He was
gone ; but by his side still was the betrothed ! He
would have besought her to leave the scene of riot ; but
her beauty was overpowering. And a look of sweetness,
yet so vivid that it penetrated his soul, seemed to reprove
his gravity as a censure of her exceeding loveliness.
While he stood in this embarrassed silence, a huge
Ethiopian, who wore a sapphire in his turban that might
ftave made the ransom of princes, started, up from one

AX AuAB LEGEND.

of the tables, and, goblet in Viand, insisted on theix
drinking to the glory of the idol. The female timidly
took the cup, kissed it, and offered it to Ayoub The
wine sparkled in the gold. He thought of the Arab's
draught, and was still pondering; when he suddenly
raised his eyes. The countenance of the betrothed had
changed : it was the living likeness of the Arab, in his
fiercest expression. Ayoub dashed the wine on the
ground. Her visage writhed as in sudden pain ; and,
with a gronn, she rushed away into the thickest of the
multitude.

Ayoub felt as if instant reason had returned to his
rnind. The abominations of ihe idol worship were at
once fully opened to the son of Ishmael. He had now
but one desire — to escape from the place of guilt, and
to atone for the folly of venturing within its temptation.
But to escape seemed impossible. The labyrinth of
the aisles and colonnades was endless. It was in vain
that he rushed through their vistas : he was either
brought round upon his own sleps, or bewildered by
the blaze of altars that seemed to spring out of the earth;
cr met by troops of dancers and singers, who surrounded
and fettered him with wreaths of flowers.

At length, in despair, he resolved to struggle no
longer; and, sinking on the marble floor of a pavilion,
lighted only by the distant flame of one of the innume-
rable altars, he implored the relief of death. As he lay,
his eye fixed upon a solitary star, slowly moving across
the circular opening in the dome. Its long, tremulous
ray glittered on the floor — it fell upon 'iis forehead— it

70 THE TLMPTER,

touched the colours of the inlaid pavement, and threw
a glow-worm light through the distant halls. He fol-
lowed its guidance ; and determining to smite the idol,
listened for the sounds of the worship. Still the slender
radiance glimmered along the marble floors, and he
followed. A curtain spread across his way ; he cast it
aside, and beheld the idol.

But was he again in a dream! The gold, the glory,
the overwhelming richness of the fabric, were all changed.
The scene round him was like the dwelling of a king of
the dead. A lofty vaulted roof, with a thousand niches
and images, touched only with the tremulous light of the
moon — vast ancient trees, larch, cypress, and pine,
hanging their heavy tufts over the openings for light and
air — shapes of rich-coloured light, but dirn and vapoury,
covering the casements — an altar, of a sepulchral form,
and gleaming with a low and wavering blaze, were now
before him. Ayoub still bore the bow and shafts of the
Bedoween. He had already fitted the shaft to the string,
when, looking once again upon the idol, he saw it wear
the image of his father Ishmael. He flung the shaft on
the ground. A wild roar of derision rang through the
vaults. He bounded upon the image, and with a con-
vulsive exertion of his strength tore it from its pedestal.
It fell in thunder.

Instant darkness came. The vault seemed peopled
with myriads. Sounds of frenzy, of fierce execrations,
of baffled rage, of delirium, of despair, of spirits in tor-
ture, echoed round him. He felt his darkened way back
through the temple. There he heard sounds more of

AN ARAB LECENT5. 7\

this earth; the uproar of intoxication, the screams of
women, the dissolute song on the lips of the dying, the
clashing of swords, and the groans of trampled and torn
combatants. At length he reached the door. As he felt
its huge and massive frame, he recoiled. What could
his exhausted strength avail against that brazen barrier?
In the name of the Mightiest, he again laid his hand
upon it. It flew open like gossamer. But where was
the glorious prospect that had before arrested him on the
steps of the temple ? The " City of the golden towers"
was gone. For all its glittering roofs, and innumerable
groves and gardens, to the farthest extent of the horizon,
was to be seen but the cold, grey desert, under the first
glimmer of dawn.

With scarcely less than a pang of heart he turned to
give a parting look upon the temple. But it, too, was
gone. The magnificent sculptures, the immortal paint-
ings, the living work of the loom, the train of beauty, the
starry illuminations, the voice of the singer, the solemn
grandeur- of the worship, the various and adoring multi-
tude— all were gone. A heavy and dark building alone
stood before him. To his unspeakable astonishment, it
was the caravanserai ; but all was silent there. He
entered, and all was gloom. The Bedoween guard, the
merchant of Yemen, the horse and the camel, were gone.
All had vanished like a vapour of night before the sun.
Vision of visions !

Ayoub felt that he had escaped a mighty evil ; and
prostrating himself, with his face towards the east,
thanked the providence that had rescued him from the

72 HIE FE

fallen Angel. While he still offered up his prayer, he
heard a wild rush of wings above his head, and a conflict
of fierce voices, in groans and blasphemy. It passed
away, but other sounds came ; and he heard the tinkling
of camels' bells, and the morning song of the tents of his
fathers. A voice that sank to his soul pronounced his
name. He started on his feet. A train of his father's
camels and shepherds was at his side. The voice was
of his betrothed ! She told him, that in a dream she had
seen him triumphant over the worship of the heathen,
and had been sent, by his angel, to lead him to the land
where he was to be glorious. Ayoub clasped her in his
arms. She was lovelier than ever. The wilderness losi
its desolation as he looked upon this creature of fondness
and beauty. The train set forward. The desert soon,
in reality, lost its nature. Their feet began to tread upon
the soft herbage and rich blossoms of Arabia the Happy.
The plain now rose into hills, covered with sunshine and
fragrance ; the hills into mountains, sheeted with the
almond tree and the cedar.

On the evening of one of those days of serenity and
splendour alone seen in the east, Ayoub pitched his tents
in the first gorge of the mountains, and, after the hour
of worship, walked forth with his young bride. On their
way, a youth, in the garb of the country, joined them j
and presenting two wreaths of the large oriental lily, said,
that he had been sent to offer them as a welcome to the
strangers. He placed the chaplets on their brows.
Ayoub uttered an exclamation of wonder as he gazed on
his bride. The wreath had suddenly shone with the

AN ARAB LEGEND. 73

light of living gems. His bride saw, with equal wonder,
the wreath on his forehead alike turned into a diadem.
They now both gazed on the giver. He was a shepherd
no more. He was clothed in a vesture of light, his form
was grandeur, his countenance the loveliness of immor-
tality,

" You have been tried, Ayoub," said the angel, " and
have been found faithful. The great tempter has fallen
and fled before you. You are henceforth a king. Be-
hold your dominion !"

As he spoke, he slowly rose upon the air. The
spreading of his vast wings threw a flood of radiance
on the ground, on the forest, and on the mountain. lie
still rose, expanding a still broader light, till the whole
immense landscape beneath was visible in its rays, as in
the richest illumination of the summer moon.

Ayoub and his bride fell on their faces, and worship-
ped. The valley before them, their destined kingdom,
was the magnificent Feiraun $ the boast of Arabia and of
Ihe world.

•74

ON DIFFICULTIES IN ASCERTAINING THE CHA-
RACTER OF YOUNG WOMEN IN THE UPPER RANKS
OF SOCIETY, AND THE CONSEQUENCES OF THOSB
DIFFICULTIES.

BY THE REV. THOMAS GISBORNE,

I SPEAK not of special examples of individuals, in
whom either Christian excellence, or the absence of it,
is disclosed by marks so plain and concurrent, that a
moderate share of intercourse with the person suffices
to preclude misapprehension as to the character. I
speak of general cases. The actual character of a young
man frequently is not easy of investigation. Smooth-
ness of temper, speciousness of manners, outward regard
to moral decorum, customary acquiescence in the forms
of religion, literary attainments, professional industry,
may co-exist with depraved habits, and with unfixed or
abominable principles ; and may spread over those
habits or principles a veil scarcely to be penetrated by
common eyes, and for a season impervious even to an
attentive inspector. In general, however, there are cir-
cumstances which, notwithstanding any ordinary exertion
of the art of concealment, open inlets of observation into
the interior. A young man acts in some measure before
the public. His line of life is known. His companions
are known. His proceedings, whether of business or of
amusement, are usually connected with those of olher

WOMEN IN" THE UPPER RANKS OF SOCIETY. 75

men ; and in a greater or a less degree are conducted
publicly. Hence arise means of observation, sources of
inquiry, grounds of judgment.

To gain a complete insight into the character of young
women is, on various accounts, a harder task. To pour-
tray an exact resemblance of the strong features of a
man is an effort less trying to the painter than to fix on
his canvass the softer undulations and the less prominent
lines of the female countenance. The analogy may be
extended to the discernment of the mind and the dis-
positions. The process of fashionable education, operat-
ing in the case of young women on less rude materials
than in the other sex, produces a greater similarity
of general deportment ; and, in proportion, arise im-
pediments in the way of discrimination. Nor do feelings
of propriety or the usages of polite life allow the same
liberty of pressing subjects, in conversation with a young
woman, for the purpose of acquiring solid knowledge
of her sentiments and frame of mind, which might be

O

exercised towards a young man without obtrusiveness or
fear of offence. Female life, too, unmixed with pro-
fessional concerns, is passed more in private than that of
men : and thus affords less scope for information to the
inquirer. And farther ; a young woman necessarily
follows the routine of the parental family in which she
is living : and is guided or controlled by the opinions
and habits of her parents in a greater degree than her
brothers, who, being stationed in their several profes-
sions, are no longer domesticated under their father's
roof. Hence the difficulty is increased of ascertaining

H 2

?O CHARACTER OF YOUNG WOMLN

what is the general tenor of her views and inclinations
and what will probably be the prevailing colour of hei
character and proceedings, when she shall feel herself
removed from such restraints by marriage, and shall be
placed at the head of a household of her own.

To these obstacles is to be added another, which I
disjoin from all the former, because, though o^f no trifling
effect, it may be regarded as subsisting equally in the
youth of either sex : the portion, namely, be it what it
may, of disguise, intentional or unintentional, spread
over the character through the desire of being agreeable.
No young woman who is not anxiously vigilant to be
" an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile," will at all
times keep herself pure from a tinge of unreal concur-
rence in sentiments avowed by a person whom she is
solicitous to please; from exaggerated approbation ot
conduct habitual or evidently acceptable to him ; and
from a variety of small and nameless accommodations
calculated to assimilate her in his eyes to himself. In a
female who partakes of a designing disposition, the
amount of this favourable misrepresentation of herself is
frequently found, by subsequent experience, to be very
great.

When we place before us the combined influence of
all the circumstances which have been specified as ob-
scuring insight into female character, we shall not be
surprised if it is not a rave occurrence. that a person of
the other sex, after spending some length of time in
common society with young women, remains in suspense
as to some mental pointj which will assuredly have a

IN IliE UPPER RANKS OF SOCIETY. 77

very important bearing on the domestic happiness of
their future husbands. lie perceives, to put a possible
case, the attractive female to be, like her companions,
well bred, accomplished, of good understanding, appa-
rently good-humoured, and, in popular language, of good
intentions. But all beyond is dim. He has not been able
to attain grounds for judging whether she is under the
presiding influence of that Scriptural piety, which sup-
plies the only rational basis of happiness in matrimonial
life. He doubts whether her wishes are formed to seek
their gratification in the calm pleasures and quiet dutiei
of domestic retirement : or whether her heart be not in
reality devoted, even if in some measure unknowingly
to herself, to publicity, to dissipation,

" To glaring show and giddy noise,
The pleasures of the vain,"

to the love of shining and a thirst for admiration. He
gazes on the questionable object of his solicitude j and
doubts whether she may not be a counterpart of one of the
elevated villas in the vicinity of Rome, pervaded amidst
its beauty and captivation by a hidden malaria, with
which imperious considerations respecting his welfare
gnd comfort must forbid him to be associated.

*' The risk," eager Hope may reply, *' is not so for-
midable, even should the young female, settled in married
life, prove at first addicted in heart to the world ; her
situation of itself prompts her to better things. New
duties press upon her: a young family calls upon her
affections, and takes possession of her thoughts \ and she

H3

78 CHARACTER OF YOUNG WOMEN, fetC.

becomes such as you were desirous to ascertain her to be
beforehand. " — But what if she should not become such?
Where, in that case, is comfort ? Allow that she perhaps
may become such. Is comfort to be staked on the per-
haps ? Are not examples of women, in whom marriage
has not wrought the supposed change, present on every
side ? Might not it be rationally expected that they
would abound ? If before marriage to be worldly-minded
was to violate duty, was to disregard the decisive declara-
tion, " whosoever will be a friend of the world is the
enemy of God," what assurance is there that, subsequently
to marriage, Christian duty is likely to be fulfilled, that
the declaration is likely to be revered ? If the new situ-
ation introduces new objects of attention, it commonly
increases the facility of gratifying antecedent desires. If
it raises some fresh impediments, it removes some which
existed before. The impediments which it raises are
easily pushed aside by the hand of inclination. The chil-
dren have charming constitutions, and rarely have any-
thing amiss with them. The boys go to school. The
girls are fortunate in an admirable governess. " Some
general superintendence on my part," concludes the
lady, " will of course keep every thing right, and will
require little of my time." The rest she places at the
command of her habits and desires.

If such, then, be the difficulties of ascertaining (he
character of young women in the upper classes of society,
and such the consequences of those difficulties : what is
a young woman to do ? These two things. First : to
cultivate the modest ingenuousness and transparent

SONNET. 79

simplicity of character, which enables a candid observer,
possessed of reasonable opportunities, to discern what
the internal dispositions and habitual views really are.
Secondly, to labour, under the grace of God, by the
constant study of the Scriptures and by the watchful
application of them day by day to her own heart and
conduct, so to form her character, that it may manifest
to such an observer indubitable and consistent marks of
Christian piety ; of affections set on things above j and
of that " ornament of a meek and quiet spirit which is" in-
dispensable to domestic felicity, and is " in the sight of
God of great price."

SONNET.

TO LUCY BARTON.

" NOT in the verdant garden's cultur'd bound,"
Where blooms in beauty many a fragrant flower,
Not 'mid the trellis of the shady bower,

Yet sprang —but in the wild and turfy ground

'Mid peat and moss — where, with loud booming sound,
The Bittern sad breaks the still calm of night,
And moping Heron oft with lagging flight

Harsh notes of wailing pours on all around.

'Mid these lone scenes I hail'd thy modest form,
With joy first hail'd thee, " Snow-drop of the fen ;"

Then all unknown thy true poetic name :

Now votive blossoms, now, with feelings warm
I strive to emulate thy tints again,

Emblems of Lucy fair, and flow'rets worthy of her Sire's
bright fame,

THE SPANISH FLOWER-GIRL

BY WILLIAM KENNEDY.

1 LIKE not, love, those garden blooms

Twined in thy glossy hair —
I cannot much approve the tasle

That chose to place them there.
The green-wood yields more fitting flowers

For beauty such as thine,
For one who sees the summer-beams

Tn all their fervour shine.
1 know a blessed little spot,

Beyond me citron trees,
Where many buds are blossoming

Far lovelier than these.
Fly thither, and of them I'll weave.

For thee, the very crown
Young maids should wear, with raven

And cheeks of berry brown.
You will not go — I nothing care —

Perhaps, were Perez here,
Whose garden looks so beautiful,

You would be less severe.
He needs must pass your cottage door,

Whene'er he views his corn, —
No doubt lie taught his Clara thus

Her ringlets to adorn,

.

THE SPANISH FLOWER-OIRL. 81

Laugh on — laugh on — nor smile, nor sigh,

Of thine can give me pain, —
I would not be a woman's toy

For all the gold in Spain.
The little love I may have had

For thee, is long since gone,
I'm sorry for thy father's sake —

My merry maid, laugh on.
Thy hand! — why should I take thy hand ?—

A farewell word from me,
Like my poor flow'rets of the field,

Is but a jest to thee.
Ai\d yet, though purse-proud Perez bind

The garland on thy brow,
Beshrew me if his heart could feel

What I still felt till now !
Speak thus again, dear Clara ! — say,

Again thou'rt all my own !
I would not part these fingers five,

Not for our Monarch's throne !
The garden blooms become thee hf.^:-*-

Tny smiles — O, do not spare
Thy smiles — I've been as great e f-.vl

As thou art kind and fair !

THOUGHTS

ON THE USES AM) CONDUCT OF RFLIGIOUS SOCIETY
AND CONVERSATION.

The counsellor of our doubts, the clarity of our minds, the
emission of our thoughts, the exercise and improvement
of what we meditate. — JEREMY TAYLOR.

THESE words form the conclusion of a very beautiful
summary of the benefits and blessings of true friendship,
and we think them happily expressive of the motives
which should regulate our communications with one
another on that which is the noblest object of thought,
and the best subject of meditation. It is scarcely possi-
ble to rate too highly the value of such communing
among believers. " Out of the abundance of the heart
the mouth speaketh," and that travellers who journey the
same road, and partake of the same difficulties, and
share in the same hopes, should never converse with
one another of the " better country" to which they are
going, of the Hand that guides them, and the Eye that
watches for their deliverance, or of the mercy of Him
who hath provided a rest for his people, would be a cir-
cumstance strange and anomalous indeed. It is not
so. — It could not have been so intended when the
Almighty gave (along with affections and desires)
the power of speech to His intelligent creatures ;
and we cannot, therefore, consider any society in a

RtLIGIOUS SOCIETY AND CONVFRSATH • "> .

safe or happy state in which the name of God and
the things belonging to His kingdom appear an un-
welcome and chilling intrusion. We cannot help
believing that, if one of the angel inhabitants of
heaven were transported into the midst of such a
society on earth, he would feel that the conversation
there (however diversified by talent, or dignified by
the results of learned inquiry) was barren, because
unhallowed ; and may we not imagine such a being
returning to his own region in sorrowful amazement
that the uses of thought, and speech, should, in any
part of the universe of God, be so little under-
stood ? — When, after saying this with the deepest
conviction of its truth, we turn (somewhat abruptly,
it may seem) to dwell on the dangers attending
religious intercourse, we trust that it cannot be
held to be from any cold or invidious feeling, but
.rom a very high sense of its value, when rightly
conducted, that we do so. It will not, we think,
be denied, that in all collective bodies there is a
strong tendency to lose sight of the object which
first led them to associate; and that the spirit of
party is often called in to aid the declining spirit of
usefulness, or benevolence, or whatever else might
have been their original bond of union. Now, we
dare not hope that this principle of decay, which
seems to cleave to all human institutions, is suspended,
even with regard to those societies which have for
their professed bond of social union a more devoted
love to the Saviour, and a warmer interest in His

84 THOUGHTS ON RELIGIOUS SOCIETY

service, than is to be found among the ordinary
followers of the world. Amongst the members of
such societies, there is an evident danger that the
earnest pursuit after personal holiness may be di-
minished, from its being understood to be the pursuit
of all; and that a habit may be acquired of taking
it for granted that there is a progress made in the
life of religion in the heart, when that progress may
be only in some points of religious knowledge gained
by the understanding ; or in some fluency of expres-
sion on religious subjects acquired by the lips.
Against so fatal a consequence as this, a guard, so
far as it depends on ourselves, is provided by a
practical application of our Lord's impressive words.
" What I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch."
This is a duty which it must be admitted every
human being owes to himself, even in the most
favourable moral circumstances, — at the peril of his
soul, if it be neglected : — and the duties we owe to one
another, most peculiarly in the societies now spoken
of, may be summed up in those words of an Apostle,
few in number, but of great meaning, " speaking
the Truth in love." — If this were faithfully taken
as the motto in all Christian intercourse, it might indeed

/ o

be full of benefit, and free from all danger ; for we
should then be perfectly gentle to one another, without
being in any degree false. It is by a neglect of the first
requisite contained in that holy admonition, in its full
meaning, that we think evil is often done — to the young
especially — in the circles of the religious. An allowance

AND CONVERSATIOK. 85

is given, and an excitement afforded, to the vanity of
their age, and its love of stimulus, that are but too much
calculated to increase the disease ; and if a malady, so
fatal to purity of motive and integrity of purpose, be
increased, or if some real advance be not made in its
cure, to what purpose is it that we change the outward
circumstances of the patient ? The real danger of world-
ly intercourse and of varied amusements consists in their
tendency to lead away the mind from God, to make self
the idol, and human applause the object of chief desire,
and the motive to exertion. If, therefore, in seeking to
make converts to a more religious mode of passing some
evening hours than the ball-room or the theatre afford, we
do not at the same time seek to repress those dispositions
which give to worldly amusement all its dangerous in-
fluence, are not our efforts worse than vain ? — do we not
present to the youthful convert, the waters of life in a cup
poisoned with base ingredients, and may there not be
much reason to fear that, even in a circle where prayer
has formed part of the evening's occupation, and where
sacred subjects have been on every tongue, we may still
be contributing to train up "lovers of pleasure more than
lovers of God ? "

The conduct of Christians, in their discourse with one
another (as well as in all the other offices and relations
of social life) h so frequently dwelt on by the writers 01
the New Testament, that we could be at no loss to add
" line upon line, and precept upop precept/' concerning
it ; but we have a still more powerful lesson conveyed to
us on that subject in the same book, by the example of

z

86 THOUGHTS ON RELIGIOUS SOCIETY, &C.

Christ himself. Among the many points of internal evi-
dence, which, in reading the Gospel history, we find
witnessing in beautiful agreement to the truth of Christi-
anity, few, we think, are more important than the
character of uncompromising faithfulness maintained by
its divine Author in His conversational intercourse with
His disciples. Though poor, and a wanderer — often in
the midst of enemies — yet do we find Him, with faithful
and watchful diligence, rebuking every fault as it appeared
in His immediate followers ; never holding forth a single
excitement to the vain or selfish feelings which yet lingered
in their hearts ; never accepting zeal in His service as a
substitute for mercy to His enemies, or approving any
protestations of love to Himself, however strong, when
put in the place of that humility, and self distrust, which
must lie at the very basis of religion in the heart of a
sinner. It may well be said that we shall vainly seek
amongst all the histories of friendship upon earth for one
so intimate and so endearing as this, — so full of tender-
ness, and so free from flattery ; but let us beware of
supposing that such an example was given without a
moral purpose, and let us not look upon it so often in
vain. May He, whose office it is to guide and purify
the hearts that truly desire His presence, assist them to
retain this lesson of the Saviour, and may we each lift
up in sincerity the prayer of the holy Psalmist, " Let the
words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be
acceptable in Thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my
R(-deemer. "

THE RUINED Hirf.

BY THOMAS ATKINSON.

IT was a wild and lonely place,

Where little hills up-rose
Around a green and tiny space,

As if they strove to close
The narrow scene from all the strife
And din which wait on human life !

Yet life was there — of gentlest sort :

The lark above it hung ;
The throstle wooed in plaintive sport ;

The breeze had e'en a tongue ;
And the small stream that murmured by
Was full of gentle melody.

And on the brier, and in the brake,
Full many a gladsome thing,

In hum, or cheerier chirrup, spake,
And spread its painted wing ;

The wild rose, too, spoke in its bloon;.

And every weed that there had room.

i 2

88 THE RUINED HUT.

But, as the day-light gentler grew,
Tones sadder swelled the breeze ;

And o'er the heart, like unsunned
Stole music from the trees,

So low and lone that they who heard

Could utter there no idle word.

It seemed as if each mournful bend

The sweeping branches gave,
Moved like the vision of some friend

Laid in a nameless grave ;
Or, as they waved above yon cot,
As if they mourn'd its master's lot !

For other life than wild bird's song,

Or streamlet rushing by,
Once — or these ruined walls speak wrong— -

Was here to glad the eye.
Alas ! that roof is rent and bare !
Where those it sheltered ? — where, oh, where?

Methinks, as echo gives me back

The sadness of my tones,
I trace their fate's stern grave-ward track

Even o'er these crumbling stones :
Perchance they sleep in lonelier earth
Than e'en where stands their broken hearth J

THE SEVEN -CEIURCIIE3. 93

Or, as I mark yon upward path

Which leads me to the world again,
Methinks 'twas theirs to brook the wrath

Which men inflict on fellow-men ;
And they who once were happy here
Are dwelling distant half the sphere !

Dark grow my thoughts, as glooms the scene,
Yet that is sweet — but these are sad;

For, while this bank slopes softly green,
But for that ruin I were glad : —

As 'tis, I seek my browsing steed,

To feel again companioned !

THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

THAT particular district of the Lesser Asia included
within the river Cayster and the Caicus, the JEgean Sea,
and the lower declivities of the Tauric chain of mountains
behind Philadelphia, had early and great claims to the
attention and admiration of mankind. Here was the mild
lona, with her arts and her elegances — her countless tem-
ples, still beautiful in their desolation— her crowded cities,
the birth-places of poets and philosophers whose names
survive the firm-set wall and the column of marble or of
bronze, and now can never die. Here was Lydia and
her riches — her gold-flowing Pactolus and Gygaean lake
— her Tumuli, those lofty and enduring records of the
dead, reckoned among the world's wonders; nor could

i3

90 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

Lydia's monarch be forgotten and the name of Croesus
cease "to point a moral and adorn a tale. "

Here, too, was the Pergamena nkingdom, and the splen-
did capital of Pergamus, and its library, inferior only to
that of Alexandria ; and Caria, Mysia, and .ZEolis, all con-
tained within our narrow limits, and combining to form a
region peculiarly enlightened and interesting — a federa
tion of little states, characterized and perpetuated by the
genius and taste inherent to the colonies of Greece— an
oasis of civilization, and at times of freedom, on the edge
of the barbarity and slavery of Asia.

To the ancient Gentiles, moreover, this was a holy
land ; the polytheists here revered spots consecrated by
mythology, as being the scenes of the loves and deeds of
their divinities, and of the earliest intercourse of the gods
with the sons of men. To them, Niobe still mourned in
stone on the lofty Sipylus, and the irate Latona still spoke
her anger in the thunders of that mountain ; the " regions
of fire " which modern science may partially explain, and
reduce to a volcanic district, were to them replete with
omens of awful import, and in a special manner the re-
gions of mystery and awe.

The disciple of a sounder philosophy — though unim-
pressed with the Pagan creed that has passed so utterly
away from the earth (which it was not calculated to im-
prove) that not even a Julian would hope to re-illume its
altars— cannot travel through this part of Asia Minor,
without having his heart touched at each step of his lonely
pilgrimage, and disposed to melancholy, by the sight of
the utter desolation into v^hich the long-prosperous and

HIE SEVEN CHURCHES. 91

most abundantly peopled regions have fallen. He can-
not hear the jackal's cry in the loneliness of Ephesus,
without asking, where are the thousands and tens of thou-
sands that thronged its streets and issued from its gates?
He cannot see the storks and the wild doves, the only oc-
cupants of Philadelphia's crumbling walls — he cannot
watch the Turcoman driving his cattle among the fallen
columns and desecrated walls ofSardes — he cannot see
the relics of ancient art, the very perfection of sculpture
and architecture, leveled with the earlh, torn away, mu-
tilated, to honour a barbarian's grave — without a sad
thrilling of the heart, and an ardent wish that it were
possible for the civilized portion of mankind to interfere,
and stay the annihilating hand of the Turk.

But to the inheritor of a purer faith, to a Christian, and
one penetrated with the full value and spirit of Chris-
tianity, how immeasurably must this interest be increased !
He views in these regions the early arena of the undying
church of Christ; as he toils over the lofty mountains,
and traverses the desolated plains, he remembers the
ground was trod by the blessed feet of the immediate
disciples of the Lord ; from city to city (or rather, as in
most cases, from site to site) he traces the outlines orthe
station of the primitive churches — the first to echo with
the blessed word, the "glad tidings of salvation j " and
to his eyes the Christian walls of Pergamus and Sardes,
Philadelphia and Thyatira, are not rude, unintelligible
masses, but endeared and consecrated objects, that, though
now mute, were once " vocal with their Maker's praise,"
and echoed with the voices of those who received their

92 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

mission and their instruction from the voice of the Son
of God himself. Nor is this all : — he may seat himself in
the shade of those ruins, and recurring to his book — the
legacy of his Saviour — he may read the instruction and
discipline addressed by the Apostles to the first Christians
who congregated here ; and moreover, immeasurably in-
crease the interest and the awe he must feel, by tracing
in his volume, and in the dread prediction of eighteen
centuries ago, the very picture of the present desolation
of the "Seven Churches of Asia." The lapse of time, and
all the sorrow and the sin that has filled up the long space,
may disappear to his eyes ; but here is the prophecy and
here its fulfilment !— a fulfilment to the very letter of the
holy text. With convictions like these, the stones that
strew the ground, the rent fragments that still rise in the
air, though *' trembling to their fall, " are not in his eyes
merely the melancholy ruins of human industry and
ingenuity j they are records of his God, and of the will of
that Providence whose ways, inscrutable as they may be,
he is taught to consider as ever just, with a tendency to
mercy.

It has been my fortune to visit, and in a quiet, lonely
manner, adapted to impress the sad scenes on my mind,
several of these cradles of Christi faith, and I will en-
deavour to give concisely a description of those I saw,
completing the picture of the " Seven " from other East-
ern travellers.

The first of the churches to which my journeying led
me, and which had been one of the most important of
the seven, was SMYRNA. The peculiar felicity of the

THE SEVEN CHURCHES. 93

situation of this place still retains, and seems always to
have retained, a certain degree of commerce, and its
natural consequences — population and prosperity. But
these are merely comparative, and to exalt Smyrna she
must be compared with the present depopulated, wretched
condition of the districts that surround her, and not tc
herself, or to the cities of her neighbourhood at the
period preceding the date of the awful prediction of hei
ruin. At the more ancient epoch referred to, Smyrna
was the admiration of a most ingenious people, who pos-
sessed the fine arts in a perfection we have still to see
equalled ; her lofty Acropolis bore whole quarries of
marble on its proud brow ; temples and stoas, theatres
and a library, covered the bold sides of the hill, facing
the clear, deep bay — a fitting mirror for so much grace
and beauty j her crowded but elegant houses descended
in gentle parapets from the heights of Mount Pagus, and
stretched to the banks of the sacred Meles ; whilst, fai
beyond, an avenue of temples and tombs, villas and
baths, extended in the direction of a modern village
called Bournabat: in short, ancient description, the
glorious site of the place as we now see it, and the beauty
of the remains of sculpture and building occasionally
discovered, combine to justify the high titles with which
she was honoured, and to prove that Smyrna was indeed
" the lovely, the crown of Ionia, the ornament of Asia."
Now, compared to this, what I saw certainly did noi
seem of a character to stand, as some have made it to do,
in the teeth of a prophecy. Her Acropolis was bare, o?
only marked by the walls, with many a yawning fissure

94 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

between them ; of the ancient fortifications, of temples,
or other edifices of taste and grandeur, were there none ;
the Turkish houses, ihat seemed sliding down the hill,
were mean, filthy, and tasteless; and every here and
there an open space, with smoked and blackened walls
around it, gave evidence of recent conflagration; narrow
and dirty streets led me to the Meles — the sacred and
Homer's own river, according to Smyrnaean tradition —
and I found the stream foul, and wholly insignificant ;
the avenue beyond it could be merely traced by the
occasional obtrusion of a block of marble, or the base of
a wall, which, indifferent to their ancient destination,
the indolent Turks used as stepping-stones to mount
their horses. The only buildings, and they could not
pretend to much importance, that rose above the general
insignificance, were the Mahometan mosques; and the
voices of the Muezzins from their minarets seemed , to
proclaim the triumph of the crescent over the cross, and
to boast of the abasement of the church of Christ in one
of its "high places." The Christians, divided by
heresies and feuds, were merely tolerated on the spot
A'here the church had been all-triumphant, and the
Jreek, the Catholic, and the Armenian offered up their
devotions in narrow temples, that were fain to hide
«' their diminished heads." It required the skill of an
tntiquary to trace the walls of the church on the side of
Mount Pagus, where Saint Polycarp and others had
euflered martyrdom. _ Nobody attempted to shew me
even the site of the original metropolitan temple, but
every step 1 took offered me evidences of that destruction

THE SEVEN CHURCHES. 95

and humiliation foretold by the inspired writer. An
infidel and barbarous race, the Turks, whose existence
was not even known in the days of the prophecy, were
masters or tyrants of the fair country; and the wealth
and prosperity of Smyrna, or the small portion of them
that remained, had passed into the hands of foreign
traders — some of them from countries considered in a
state of unimprovable barbarity, or altogether unknown,
when the prediction was uttered — for English, Dutch,
and Americans were the most influential of the number.
The red hand of the Osmanlis had very lately waved
over the devoted city ; and if slaughter had ceased, a
pestilential fever, engendered by the putrid waters and
filth about the town, daily thinned its inhabitants. The
productions of art, of the pencil, or the chisel, were
looked for in vain in Smyrna, that had been art's empo-
rium— in Smyrna, whose ancient coins and medals, and
other exquisite fragments, have partially furnished half of
the numerous cabinets of Europe. The voice of music
was mute, the converse of philosophy was no more heard,
and, of a certainty, Smyrna was in the days of tribulation
with which she had been threatened.

A journey through a desolate country, whose natural
fertility and picturesque loveliness (all unnoticed by the
few barbarians that traverse it) only added to the melan-
choly of my impressions, brought me to another of the
seven churches — to PERGAMUS, which is situated on the
right bank of the river Caicus, about GO miles to the N.
of Smyrna. The approach to this ancient and decayed
city was as impressive as it well might be; after crossing

96 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

the Caicus, I saw, looking over three vast tumuli er
sepulchral barrows, similar to those of the plains of Troy,
the Turkish city of Pergamus, with its tall minarets and
taller cypresses, situated on the lower acclivities and at
the foot of the Acropolis, whose bold grey brow was
crowned by the rugged walls of a barbarous castle, the
usurper of the site of a magnificent Greek temple. But,
on coming still nearer, the lofty, massy walls of early
Christian churches offered themselves to my eye, frowning
in their ruin ; and after having made my ingress into the
once splendid city of Pergamus, the capital of a flourishing
kingdom, through a street flanked by hovels, and occupied
in the midst by a pool of mud, I rode under the stu-
pendous walls of these degraded edifices with silent awe.
1 would not take upon myself to determine that either of
these ruins belonged to the primitive Christian temple;
indeed, from their magnificent dimensions, the style and
durability of the architecture, and other circumstances, I
should rather conclude that they arose several centuries
after the immediate ministry of the apostles, and when
Christianity was not a humble and oppressed creed, but
the adopted religion of a vast empire. Yet I felt a
pleasure in lending my faith to a poor Greek, who assured
me that one of the ruins, an immense hall, with long
windows, a niche at each end, and an entrance or door
of gigantic dimensions, occupied the very spot where had
stood the first church of Christ in Pergamus; nor is it at
all improbable, but rather in accordance to the general
abits of men, that the Greek Christians should have
revered and preserved the locality, until enabled to erect

THE SEVEN CHURCEE3. P?

a splendid temple, on what uad been original) a hum'- •
tabernacle. Though these ecclesiastical buildings, whie'i
are principally in the Roman style, and formed of admi-
rably strong brick-work, mixed sparingly with stone and
traversi of marble, cannot pretend to any great beauty as
works of art, but rather denote periods of the lower
empire, when taste had disappeared, "and the science
of the architect had sunk to the mere craft of the brick-
layer," still they do not cease to be impressive, pictu-
resque objects, and present themselves to the eye which-
ever way you turn. In looking from the plain towards
the Acropolis, they stand boldly out in the picture, and
ofTer greater breadth and mass of ruin than any thing on
that hill ; and on gazing from the summit of the Acro-
polis downward, they show like vast foitresses amidst
barracks of wood — like "skeletons of Titanic forms,"
raising their heads reproachingly, but proudly, above the
pigmy wooden houses of the present inhabitants of the
dishonoured city of Pergamus. But if in tiiis it differ
from the other cities of the seven churches, if the Christian
remains and the Christian style predominate here, as
they do not elsewhere, and the objects first to meet and
last to retain the melancholy regard of the traveller are
these essentially connected with his religion, still he
must mourn over the desecration of these edifices dedi-
cated to the faith of Jesus — must mourn over the present
darkness of Pergamus, once "so rich in gospel light" —
so crowded with temples to echo that gospel's words.
One of the churches serves as a workshop for coarse
pottery another I saw converted into a cow-stall ; " and

98 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

the poor Greeks, with these stately structures of their
ancestors before their eyes, some of which could be
easily repaired and returned to their original and holy
uses, are confined to a little church under the Acropolis,
low, narrow, dark, and itself ruinous." This rrean
edifice is the only one which now echoes the name of
Christ; and, alas! the hymn of praise is subdued and
whispered, for fear of offending the fanatic Turks; and
moral intelligence and spiritual illumination are not to be
looked for in the long-oppressed and barbarized Greek
priests. It is probable that the primitive church was not
materially, or in brick or stone, extent or elevation, much
superior to this lowly temple ; but how immeasurably
different the light that beamed — the spirit that animated
it! It was not without deep interest that I saw in this
church of Pergamus some copies of the New Testament
in Romaic, edited by Englishmen, and printed at
London. The sight suggested a compression of chrono-
logical space, and of historical facts, almost astounding.
When the gospel was proclaimed in these fair regions,
what was Britain ? Whence, and through the medium
of what language, had we, with all Europe, derived our
knowledge of the words and the acts of the Son of God
and his disciples ? From the Greek, which was not
merely to instruct us in all that was sublime and beautiful
in poetry, and the other branches of human literature,
but to lead us to the knowledge of our eternal salvation,
and to form the broad basis of our religious instruction
and belief. Since the dissemination of the Scriptures in
that all but perfect language, the degraded Greeks had

THE SEVEN CHURCHES. 9

lost the idiom of their ancestors; and the schools of
remote Britain had a key to their ancient treasures \vhich
themselves did not possess. About a century since a
Greek priest of Gallipolis, on the Propontis, had ren-
dered the Scriptures from the ancient Hellenic, which
they did not understand, into the Romaic, or modified
dialect spoken by the people in his day. An inconsi-
derable edition was printed and circulated, but poverty
and oppression precluded the adequate supply ; and, in
the process of years, the dialect had so much changed^
that in many instances the Romaic of the Gallipolitan
papas was no longer intelligible. Then it was that
England, who, in the centuries that had intervened, had
kept on in a steady course of improvement, found herself
in a condition to assist her ancient instructress, and to
come forward and pay in part a long-standing debt of
gratitude. It was under the care of Englishmen that the
New Testament was again revised, compared with the
ancient, and corrected, and adapted in its modern idiom;
and the presses of England — the press, a miraculous
engine of good or evil unknown to the Greeks of old, —
England, a barbarous island then scarcely noted on the
world's horizon, — had supplied thousands of copies of
the book of life, to those regions from which she had
originally derived the inestimable treasure. This is
indeed a glorious restitution, and one, I hope, that will
be persevered in, until we have effectually contributed to
raise the civilization, morality, and religion of those, to
whose predecessors we owe so much.

The Pagan temples — those structures too beautiful ft t

K2

100 THE SEVEN CHURCHES,

the worship of divinities with human passions and human
vices — were more completely subverted than the Christian
churches in Pergamus. The fanes of Jupiter and Diana,
of /Esculapius and Venus, were prostrate in the dust;
and where they had not been carried away by the Turks
to cut up into tomb-stones, or to pound down into mortar,
the Corinthian columns and the Ionic, the splendid
capitals, the cornices and pediments, " all in the highest
ornament," were thrown in unsightly heaps. Some lay
in the stony bed of the Selinus, a mountain stream that
washes the Acropolis' base ; and others, mangled and
defaced, were strewed on the sides and brow of the
Acropolis itself. " As I looked thence, (may I be per-
mitted to quote my own words?) down from the walls of
the upper castle, I was filled with melancholy reflections.
Before me was a suite of ruins ; the city of Lysimachus
had disappeared — it had been in part destroyed by Roman
conquest : but the perhaps equally magnificent Roman
city had disappeared too; the rich provincial city of the
Greek empire had fallen after it; the walls erected by the
Christians, to defend themselves against the Saracens
and Turks, were all prostrate, and even the walls of the
barbarous Donjon, which reigned the lord of all those
stately edifices, the survivor of so many superiors, were
themselves fast crumbling to the common ruin ! The
scenery from the Acropolis is grand but sad. The fine
plain before Pergamus, which (tp use an expression of
Professor Cavlyle, when describing this part of Asia)
' seems ready to start into fertility at a touch/ is spar
ingly cultivated, except on the very edges of the townj

THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

and we may well add, as he did with a sigh, ' but, alas !
that touch is wanting!' On looking from the castle, I
could trace the ravages made by the unrestrained
flood-courses of the Caicus and its tributary streams,
which have cut the plain into broad, bare, sandy veins."
I have remarked at Smyrna the depression of the
Christian religion, and that even there, where the Turks,
by the frequent contact with Franks, and from the effects
of commerce, are comparatively tolerant, still the Greeks,
Armenians, and Catholics, are fain to perform their
church ceremonies in a quiet, retiring manner. But as
you remove from that short line of coast, fanaticism in-
creases ; and the more barbarous Turk of the interior
grudgingly allows to the Greek, or the Armenian, the
exercise of his own worship, and the use of his own lowly
temple. I could never attend service in the church of
Pergamus, as it was always hurried over by early morning
dawn. All the wearers of the black turban, when abroad,
or exposed to the observation of the Turks, struck me as
being timid and faltering ; but, besides the inferiority
they are habitually made to feel as Christians, their spirits
may have been still more broken by the recollection of
icent massacres committed on their race, within the
own of Pergamus — and to an extent, considering their
relative populations, far exceeding those perpetrated in
Smyrna.

The overflowing population of the ancient and mag-
nificent Pergamus had sunk, at the time of my visit
(1828), to about fourteen thousand, of which there were
about three thousand Greeks, three hundred Armenians,

K3

102 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

not quite three hundred Jews; the rest were Turks. A
collection in a Gieek school of about fifty volumes in
Romaic was called " the library," and represented the
ancient store of two hundred thousand volumes, formed
here by the munificent monarchs of Pergamus ; and a
dirty little Italian quack, ignorant and insolent, was
head practitioner of medicine in the city which gave
birth to Galen, and of which .^Isculapius was the
tutelar divinity ! The town was as dull as the grave,
except during the night, when, as it happened to be the
Ramazan of the Turks, there was some stir and revelry
among the Mahometan portion of it. The animal
creation delighted me more than the human world : I
have dwelt elsewhere with enthusiasm on the storks and
turtle-doves that I used to see from my apartment,
covering the lofty, castle-like walls of the Greek church of
Agios Theo'logos, or sailing or flitting across the blue
twilight sky, the doves " forming an amorous choii
which never ceased by day or by night;" and I have
recorded the vernal voices of the cuckoos that contri-
buted to make the air and the voice of Pergamns re-
dolent with languor and tender feeling, to a degree I
have never experienced in any other spot on earth. But
I neglected, which I should not have done, to mention in
those pages the occurrence of a little scriptural picture.
The Psalmist says, "As for the stork, the fir-trees are her
house ;" and at a humble village in the neighbourhood
of Pergamus, screened by a dark wood of mountain fir, I
observed in one of my solitary rides the vast procrean*

THE SEVEN CHTIU T-t>. 103

cradle, "and the broad white wing, of tne stoik. o'i
nearly every other tree."

From Pergamus I went on to SARDES, by rather a
circuitous route, taking Kirkagatch and Magnesia on my
way. The country I traversed, the luxuriant vales of
the Caicus and the Hermus — two noble rivers ! — was
almost as deserted and melancholy as the regions between
Smyrna and Pergamus ; but nothing that I had yet seen
equalled the desolation of the city of Sardes. I saw from
afar the lofty Acropolis fringed with ciumbling ruins;
and when I crossed a branch of the Golden Pactolus
which once flowed through the Agora, or market-place —
and when I stood there at eleven o'clock, the very hour
in which, in its ancient days, the place would be crowded
-I saw not a soul, nor an object of any sort, to remind
me that this solitude had been a vast and splendid city,
save here and there a patch of ruin — a dismantled wall,
or a heap of stone and brick-work mixed with brambles
and creeping weeds. Where palaces and temples, the-
atres and crowded habitations, had stood, a green
and flowery carpet of smooth sward met the eye ;
and the tall, stately asphodel, or day-lily, gleamed in its
beauty and pallidness, where the marble column had
risen in other days. The brook — for the Pactolus is now
nothing more than a brook, and a choaked and insig-
nificant one — gently " babbled by ;" a cool breeze blew
from the snow-covered Mount Tmolus, which, if I may
be permitted to use the poetical language of the Sicilians,
as applied to Etna, stood like " L' Arciprete de1 montt
be in cotta bianca, al ciel purge gl' incensi," facing me

104 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

fir across the plain. This breeze murmured along the
steep, rough sides of the Acropolis, and sighed among
the underwood that grew thickly at its foot. Other
sounds were there none, save now and then the neigh-
ing of my horse, who crushed the flowers and the scented
turf beneath his hoof, and gave utterance to the content-
ment and joy suggested by such fair pasture. This utter
solitude, and in such a place, in the Agora of the populous
Sardes, became oppressive : I would have summoned the
countless thousands of ancient Lydians, that for long
centuries had slept the sleep of death beneath that gay
green sward : spirits might have walked there in broad
noon-day — so silent, void, awful, was the spot ! Here the
hand of destruction had spared nothing, but a few rent
walls, which remained to tell all that had been done ; were
they not there, the eye might pass over the plain and the
hill, as a scene of a common desert, and never dream that
here was the site of Sardes ! The Pagan temple and the
Christian church had alike been desolated ; the architec-
tural beauty of the one, and the pure destination of the
other, having been all inefficacious for their preservation.
Four rugged, dark, low walls, by the side of a little mill,
represented the church ; arid two columns erect, and a few
mutilated fragments of other columns, scattered on the
sward or sunk in, were all that remained of that " beau-
1iful and glorious edifice," the temple Cybele at Sardes!
At the mill by the church I met two Greeks, and these,
I believe, formed the resident Christian population of
Ih is once distinguished city of the Lord . From the mill
i could see a group of mud huts on the acclivity under the

THE SEVEN CHURCHES. 105

southern cliffs of the Acropolis — there might have been
half a dozen of these permanent habitations, and they
were flanked by about as many black tents. A pastoral
and wandering tribe of Turcomans dwelt here at the
moment, and the place almost retained the ancient name
of the city — they called it Sart. Well might the Christian
traveller exclaim here — and what is Sardes now ? " Her
foundations are fallen ; her walls are thrown do\vn."
* She sits silent in darkness, and is no longer called the
lady of kingdoms." " How doth the city sit solitary that
was full of people !"

1 have described in my book of travels, and at some
length, the state of the ruins of Sardes j this detailed de-
scription need not be repeated here, but perhaps I may
be excused for quoting from that volume the impressions,
as they were noted down at the time, made upon me by
the melancholy prospect from the Acropolis. "The view
from the ragged brow was vast and sublime ; the broad
plain of the Hermus through which wound the stately
and classical river, was at my feet ; at the extremity of
the plain, in a direction nearly due north, I could discern
the tranquil bosom of the Gygaean lake; the lofty tumuli,
the sepulchres of Alyattes, and of Lydia's royal race;
beyond which the view was terminated by a ridge of
mountains. To the west was a chain of jagged, rocky
hills; to the east were the high, broad cones of Tmolus,
deeply covered with snow, whose white hues, tinged by
the reflected purple of the setting sun, shone like an
accumulated mound of brilliant rose-leaves. Behind the
Acropolis, to the south, the long deep valley of the Pac-

106 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

tokis, plunged within the blackening sides of the majestic
mountains, and cast itself in shade, seemed strikingly
solemn and mysterious ; its famed stream was at intervals
hidden by, and at others seen rushing through, dark
trees and thick underwood, whilst at the more open
parts of the valley, beneath where I stood, it was bur-
nished with gold and crimson, by the farewell rays of
the god of day. Of living beings there were none visible,
save a small herd of lowing cattle, driven by two
mounted Turcomans in the direction of the concealed
village ; but historical recollections and imagination
could people the spot with Cimmerians, Lydians,
Persians, Medes, Macedonians, Athenians, Romans,
Greeks of a declining empire, and Turks of a rising one
— races that have in turns flourished or played an active
part on this theatre, and have in turn disappeared. By
such aids, the ancient warrior, with his helmet and
breast-plate of shining steel, might be seen again to climb
the castellated heights ; the conqueror of the world to
lay his victorious sword on the altars of Polytheism ;
and, passing over the lapse of centuries, the fanatic
Unitarian, the Moslem Emir, to lift up the voice of praise
to Allah and to destiny that had awarded him such fair
conquests."

The troubled state ol the country, and other circum
stances of a more private nature, prevented me from ex-
tending my journey in Asia Minor as I had intended.
I turned back from Mount Tmolus, not without a sigh
of regret I passed a night at Sardes, in a mode quite
accordant with the desolation of the place. My lodging

THE SEVEN CHURCHES. 10?

was one of the mud-built huts of the Turcomans; my
meal, boiled vsheat, and a little lamb roasted whole, and
in the most primitive manner; and my bed, some sheep-
skins spread on the floor. But before I retired to supper
and repose, I took a walk in the direction of the ruined
temple. It was a short walk, for the. #as no moonlight
to guide my steps, or disclose the objt-cts that interested
me, and the large sheep-dogs whom I disturbed set up a
tremendous chorus of barking ; yet I shall not soon for-
get the feelings of awe and melancholy that invaded me
as thus, in the gloom of night, and alone, I traversed the
deserted site of the splendid, the wealthy capital of Lydia,
where Croesus had counted his treasures, and Alexander
triumphed.

The next morning I left Sardes, and keeping to the
northward, passed the river Ilermus, at rather a bad ford ;
and then, turning a little to the west, rode on to the tu-
muli or sepulchral mounds, which were covered with
luxuriant grass, green and gay. " Sitting on the gigantic
burrow, the greatest work of the ancient Lydians, held
as one of the world's wonders, and esteemed by the father
of history as inferior only to the works of the Egyptians
ind Babylonians ;" and gazing over the plain, and on the
Bourse of the Ilermus for many miles, or "on the placid
Gygsen lake, with sedgy borders, and waves reflecting
the clear blue sky, and solitary as the recesses of an
undiscovered world," I enjoyed moments of exquisite
happiness; yet \he reflections that occupied those mo-
ments, though perhaps hallowing to the heart, were
emphatically sad. I sat among the dead. Those nu-

108 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

merous sepulchral barrows, form ing a gigantic
worts, covered thousands and thousands who had lived
and felt, suffered and enjoyed, even like myself. Here,
around me, "the princes" of Lydia, her wise men, her
captains, and "her rulers, and her mighty men, slept a
perpetual sleep ; " and the name of one of them, (of
Alyattes) and the nature and use of the extraordinary
mounds, had been preserved only by the pages of
Herodotus.

From the banks of the Gygoean lake, I reluctantly re-
crossed the Hermus, and took my way back to Smyrna,
by Casabar and Nymphi ; but, by the aid of Mr. Arundell
and other travellers, I will endeavour to convey my
readers whither I did not go, and to complete a picture
of the Seven Churches.

TIIYATIRA, called by the Turks Ak-hissar, or the white
castle, is situated about twenty -five miles to the north
of Sardes, to which place it must offer an ageeable con-
trast, as, though inferior to Pergamus, and infinitely so
to Smyrna, it is superior to any other of the churches, and
is stiil a large place, abounding with shops of every des-
cription. "The appearance of Thyatira, " says Mr.
Arundell, " as we approached it, was that of a very long
line of cypresses, poplars, and other trees, amidst which
appeared the minarets of several mosques, and the roofs
of a few houses at the right. On the left, a view of dis-
tant hills, the line of which continued over the town ; and
at the right, adjoining the town, was a low hill with two
ruined wind-mills." The disproportion of Christians
to Mahometans is great, as there are but two churches to

THE SEVEN CHURCHES. 109

nine mosques in the town. One of the churches is Armen-
ian, the other Greek j the latter was visited by Mr. Arun-
dell. " It was a wretchedly poor place, and sc much
under the level of the churchyard, as to require five steps
to descend to it. The priest told us that the bishop of
Ephesus is the Agxtsgtvs of Thyatira. We intended to
give him a Testament, but he seemed so insensible of its
worth that we reserved it." If, however. Thyatira retain
a population and the material of a considerable city, it
has been less retentive than others of the seven of its
ancient edifices and ruins.

"Very few of the ancient buildings," says Dr. Smith,
" remain here ; one we saw, which seems to have bi en a
market-place, having six pillars sunk very low in the
ground, about only four spans left above. We could
not find any ruins of churches; and inquiring of ihe
Turks about it, they told us there were several gre-.t
buildings of stone under ground, which we were very
apt to believe from what we had observed in other f laces,
where, digging somewhat deep, they met with strong
foundations, that, without all question, have formerly
supported great buildings."

The same traveller remarks that, in the days of
heathenism, Thyatira, like Ephesus, was much de-
voted to the worship of the goddess Diana ; and he thus
accounts for the comparative affluenc? of the former of
the two cities. " The inhabitants are maintained chiefly
by the trade of cotton wool, which they send to
Smyrna."

Another traveller, Rycant, says, " It is this trad0, with

L

U THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

the crystalline waters, cool and sweet to the taste, and
light on ihe stomach, the wholesome air, the rich ami
delightful country around, which cause this city so to
Hourish in our days, and to be more happy than her
other desolate and comfortless sisters." Many years,
however, have passed since Rycant travelled this route,-
and the decline that seems every where incidental to
Turkish misrule has not wholly respected Thyatira. It
is not so populous as it was, and a good portion of its
trade in cotton has been removed to Kirkagatch, and to
districts nearer to Smyrna.

PHILADELPHIA, according to the Antonine itinerary,
is distant twenty-eight miles from Sardes, E. by S. Tt
stands in the plain of the Hermus, about midway between
that river and the termination of Mount Tmolus. Besides
the stately Hermus, which divides the plain, numerous
brooks and rills give beauty, and verdure, and fertility to
the neighbourhood, which is, however, but little culti-
vated.

When Dr. Chandler crossed it, eighty years ago, he
found it possessed by the wandering Turcomans, whose
booths and cattle were innumerable. The city the same
able traveller describes as mean, but considerable in
extent, spreading up the slope of three or four hills.
" Of the wall which encompassed it, many remnants are
standing, but with large gaps : it is thick and lofty, and
has round towers. On the top, at regular distances, were
a great number of nests, each as big as a bushel, with
the storks, their owners, by them, single or in pairs."
This garrison has not been changed, for Mr. Arundell

LE SEVEN CHURCHES. 11 1

^e-raarks, in 1826, "The storks still retain possession of
the walls of the city, as well as the roofs of many of the
houses." The same gentleman describes the streets as
filthy, and the houses mean in the extreme ; but he was
deeply penetrated with the beauty of the country, as sef'n
from the hills. " The view from these elevated situations
is magnificent in the extreme ; gardens and vineyards lie
at the back and sides of the town ; and before it, one
of the mosi extensive and richest plains in Asia. The
Turkish name for Philadelphia, Allah Sher, * the city of
God,' reminded me of the Psalmist : ' beautiful for situ-
ation is Mount Zion/ &c. There is an affecting re-
semblance in the present condition of both these once
highly favoured 'cities of God ;' the glory of the temple
is departed from both; and though the candlestick has
never been removed from Philadelphia, yet it emits but
a glimmering light, for it has long ceased to be trimmed
with the pure oil of the sanctuary. We returned
through the town, and, though objects of much curiosity,
were treated with civility, confirming Chandler's obser-
vation, that the Phi lade! phians are a civil people. It was
extremely pleasing to see a number of turtle doves on
(he roofs of the houses; they were well associated with
the name of Philadelphia."

Dr. Chandler and his companions were received at
the Greek episcopal palace — " a title given to a very
indifferent house, or rather cottage, of clay." The proto-
papas, or chief priest, who did the honours in the absence
of the bishop, was ignorant of the Greek tongue; and
t\\e Christians conversed together, by means of an in-

L2

]]'2 THE SEVEN CHURCHES.

'.!jrpreter, in the Turkish language. The rest cf the elergy,
;<nd the laity in jenera1, were supposed to know as little
Greel as the proto-papas ; but the liturgy and the offices
of the church co^'inued to be read in old Greek, which
is sufficiently unintelligible, even to those who speak the
Romaic or modern Greek.

This disuse of their own language, and the adoption
of that of their masters, is not now found to prevail,
except among the Greeks far removed from the coast
and communication with their brethren, and shut up in
the interior of Asia Minor, in some parts of which, I have
been told, their church service is in Turkish, written in
Greek characters. The bishop who entertained Mr.
Arundell was kind, hospitable, communicative, and in-
telligent, and conversed long and freely with Mr. A.'s
fellow traveller, in Romaic 5 vet the protestant " could
not help shedding tears, at contrasting this unmeaning
mummery, (the long Greek service on Palm Sunday
which he attended) with the pure worship of primitive
times, that probably had been offered on the very site of
the present church."

A single pillar, of greater antiquity, and which had
evidently appertained to another structure than the pre-
sent church, forcibly recalls the reward of victory,
promised to the faithful member of the church of Phila-
delphia. " Him that overcometh will I make a pillar in
the temple of my God, and he shall no more go out:
and I will write upon him toe iame of my God, and the
name of the city of my God."

Of five and twenty churches, only f" "o,nainfe;i, and

THE .EVI:N CHIIICZIS. J13

were used as places of Christian worship. Mr. Arumlell
had heard of some ancient manuscripts of the Gospels
existing at Philadelphia 5 but when he inquired for them
there, and search was made, a priest told him that he did
recollect " to have formerly seen some very old pieces of
parchment, but that he had learned to-day the children
had torn them all up." The inquiry, however, elicited
the information, that there exists in the neighbourhood
of Cesarea a MS. of the Gospel, all in capital letters, a
beautiful work, and held in such high veneration, that
the Turks always send for it when they put a Greek upon
his oath."

The whole of these regions have been subject to earth-
quakes, and ancient history records the almost total de •
Btruction of Magnesia, Sardes, and other cities, and their
reconstruction under Tiberius; yet Philadelphia, though
she still survives, has suffered more severely and more
frequently than any of them, except Laodicea.

The testimony of Gibbon to the truth of a prophecy,
" I will keep thee in the hour of need," might hardly
be expected, yet we have it, in these eloquent words.
" At a distance from the sea, forgotten by the Emperor,
encompassed on all sides by the Turks, her valiant
citizens defended their religion and freedom above four-
score years, and at length capitulated with the proudest
of the Ottomans in 1390. Among the Greek colonief
and churches of Asia, Philadelphia is still erect — a
column in a scene of ruins."

Part of the " Catace-caumene1' plain, and the ridges
of Mount Messogis, intervene between Philadelphia, and

I ?

114 TO F SEVEN CHURCHES.

her sister LAODICEA, pleasantly situated in the valley of
the Mseander, on six or seven hills. The Turks call it
Eski-hissav; or the old castle, and Dr. Smith thus de-
scribes it. " To the north and noth-east of Laod'cea,
runs the river Lycus, at about ~ mile and a half distance,
but more nearly watered by two little rivers, Asopus
and Caper ; whereof the one is to the west, the other to
the south-east ; both which pass into the Lycus, and
that into the Maeander. It is now utterly desolated, and
without any inhabitants, except wolves, and jackals,
and foxes ; but the ruins show sufficiently what it has
been formerly, three theatres and a circus adding much
to the stateliness of it, and arguing its greatness."

More recent travellers have confirmed this picture of
desolation ; and it is melancholy to trace their steps as,
conducted by the camel-driver, or the goat-herd, they
pass from ruin to ruin, and find, in excavations made
by the Turks of the neighbourhood, for the sake of the
stones that have been buried beneath the earth's surface
by successive earthquakes, the finest sculptured frag-
ments, the most beautiful remains of the ancient city.
But it is to Dr. Chandler's tour we must refer for a de-
scription of the peculiar volcanic nature of the country,
in which are to be found the direct causes of the effects
that meet our eye.

<;The hill of Laodicea," says that correct traveller,
"consists of dry, impalpable soil, porous, with many ca-
vities resembling the bore of a pipe, as may be seen
on the sides which are bare. It resounded beneath our
horses* feet. The stones are mostly masses of pebbles, or

THE SEVEN CHURCHES. J]5

of gravel consolidated, and as light a pumice-stone, We
had occasion to dig, and found the earth as hard as any
cement. It is an old observation, that the country about
the Maeander, the soil being light and friable, and full of
salts generating inflammable matter, was undermined by
fire and water. Hence, it abounded in hot springs, which
after passing underground from the reservoirs, appeared
on the mountain, or wer efound bubbling up in the plain,
or in the mud of the river: and hence, it was subject to
frequent earthquakes ; the nitrous vapour, compressed
in the cavities, and sublimed by heat or fermentation,
bursting its prison with loud explosions, agitating the.
atmosphere, and shaking the earth and waters with a
violence as extensive as destructive ; and hence, moreover,
the pestilential grottos, which had subterraneous com-
munications with each other, derived their noisome
effluvia ; and serving as smaller vents to these furnaces or
hollows, were regarded as apertures of hell — as passages
for deadly fumes rising up from the realms of Pluto. One
or more of the mountains, perhaps, has burned. It may
be suspected that the surface of the countiy has, in some
places, been formed from its own bowels ; and in parti-
cular, it seems probable, that the hill of Laodicea was
originally in eruption." On this head, Mr. Arundell says
"To a country such as this, how awfully appropriate is the
message of the Apocalypse ! " I know thy works that thou
art neither cold nor hot. So then, because thou art luke-
warm and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of
my mouth.'"

E.\ UlURCHES.

The utter solitude of Laodicea is relieved by a Turkish
village in the neighbourhood. The view, from the ridge
cf a hill behind the flat-roofed houses and trees of the
village, must be very impressive, as, beside the scattered
ruins of Laodicea, the eye embraces those of Hierapolis,
another splendid city, fallen from its high estate, situated
in a recess of mount Messogis, and " appearing like a
large semi-circular excavation of white marble. " The
river and the plain of the Lycus are between the two
cities ; and, turning to the left, there are other ancient
remains — ruins ! — still ruins ! — and every where ruins !
Higher up the hill is a long line of arches, in large
masses, much decayed, once an aqueduct ; before which
were Turcoman black tents, and thousands of goats and
sheep of the same colour. "

I now conclude the tour of the Seven Churches with
EPHESUS, which, though last in my mentioi,, was, per-
haps, in reality, the first, the grandest of the seven. From
the days of our childhood, the name of the city of Diana
and her marvellous temple has rung in our ears, and
filled our imaginations with images of surpassing vastness
and splendour. If the primitive Christian world acknow-
ledged only seven churches, the ancient woild owned
only seven wonders, and the temple of the Ephesian
Diana was one of the seven. I can still recall the immea-
surable proportions and the gorgeousness I attributed to
that edifice when I read of it, in a child's book contain-
ing descriptions of the prodigies of human art. St. Paul's,
or the Abbey of Westminster, or that of York, was a mere
nut-shell in my comparison : and though I may have

THE SEVEN CHURCHES. 317

since learned to estimate it more correctly, though I have
since seen the "dome, the vast, the wondrous dome" of
St. Peter's, " compared to which, Diana's temple was
a cell ;" and though, in common wiih all men, the
vastness of my young conceptions have been diminished
and pared down by time and experience, still, the mere
mention of Ephesus suggests notions of essential
grandeur — of sublimity. Mr. Arundell, cautious and
correct, seldom gives way to the inspirations of enthu-
siasm j but this is his language when he crosses the
sluggish stream of the Cayster, and reaches the forlorn
city.

" What would have been the astonishment and grief
of the beloved Apostle and Timothy, if they could have
foreseen that a time would come when there would be in
Ephesus neither angel, nor church, nor city — when the
great city would become ' heaps, a desolation, a dry
land, and a wilderness ; a land wherein no man dwelleth,
neither doth any son of man pass thereby !' Once it had
an idolatrous temple, celebrated for its magnificence, as
one of the wonders of the world ; and the mountains of
Corissus and Prion re-echoed the shouts of ten thousand,
'Great is Diana of the Ephesians!' Once it had
Christian temples, almost rivalling the Pagan in splen-
dour ; wherein the image that fell from Jupiter lay
prostrate before the cross, and as many tongues, moved
by the Holy Ghost, made public avowal that ' Great is
the Lord Jesus !' Once it had a bishop, the angel of the
church, Timothy, the disciple of St. John ; and tradition
reports that it was honoured with the last days of both

IIS .HE SEVF.N CHURCHES.

these great men and of the mother of our Lo;d. Some
centuries passed on, and the altars of Jesus were again
thrown down to make way for the delusions of Mahomet;
the cross is removed from the dome of the church, and
the crescent glitters in its stead, while within, the Keble
is substituted for the altar. A few years more, and all
may be silence in the mosque and the church. A few
unintelligible heaps of stones, with some mud cottages
untenanted, are all the remains of the great city of the
Ephesians. The busy hum of a mighty population is
silent in death. ' Thy riches and thy fairs, thy mer-
chandise, thy mariners and thy pilots, thy caulkers, and
the occupiers of thy merchandise, and all thy men of war,
are fallen.' Even the sea has retired from the scene of
desolation, and a pestilential morass, covered with mud
and rushes, has succeeded to the waters which brought
up the ships laden with merchandise from every
country."

Ail the industry and ingenuity of Tournefort, who
visited Ephesus at the beginning of the last century, and
of Dr. Chandler, who was there about sixty years after
him, were unavailingly employed to trace the site of that
ancient temple, or to discover the remains of the Christian
churches — except the walls of one of the latter, or the
church of St. John, that were preserved, as Tournefort
thought, in a Turkish mosque which then existed j yet
those travellers found considerably more than now meets
the eye; for the progress of destruction, gradual for
centuries in these regions, seems of late years to 'have
moved with increased rapidity.

THF. SEVEN CHURCHES. 119

Of the population Chandler thus speaks: "The
Ephesians are now a few Greek peasants, living in ex-
treme wretchedness^ dependence, and insensibility; the
representaiives of an illustrious people, and inhabiting
the wreck of their greatness ; some, the substructions or
the glorious edifices which they raised; some, beneatt?
the vaults of the Stadium, once the crowded scene 01
their diversions ; and some, by the abrupt precipice in
the sepulchres which received their ashes. We employed
a couple of them to pile stones, to serve instead of a
ladder, at the arch of the Stadium, and to clear a pedestal
of the portico by the theatre from rubbish. We had
occasion for another to dig at the Corinthian temple;
and sending to the Stadium, the whole tribe, ten or twelve,
followed ; one playing all the time on a rude lyre, and at
times striking the sounding-board with the fingers of his
left hand in concert with the strings. One of them had
on a pair of sandals of goat-skin, laced with thongs, and
iiot uncommon. After gratifying their curiosity, they
returned back as they came, with their musician in front.
Such are the present citizens of Ephesus, and such is the
condition to which that renowned city has been gradually
reduced. It was a ruinous place when the Emperor
Justinian filled Constantinople with its statues, and raised
his church of St. Sophia on its columns. Since then it
has been almost quite exhausted. A herd of goats was
driven to it for shelter from the sun at noon; and a noisy
flight of crows from its marble quarries seemed to insult
its silence. We heard the partridge-call in the area of
the theatre and of the Stadium. The glorious pomp oi

1'20 THE SI.VEN CHURCHES.

its Heathen worship is no longer remembered ; and
Christianity, which was here nursed by apostles, and
fostered by general councils, until it increased to fulness
of stature, barely lingers on in an existence hardly
visible.''

Little can be added to the solemnity and impressive-
ness of this passage ; nothing more is required to esta-
blish the fulfilment of the prophecy ; for the candlestick
is indeed removed out of its place, and night hangs over
Ephesus. But we may add shades, deeper and deeper
still; for the travellers of our day, Dallaway, Lindsay,
Arundell, &c., have found that the slight and melancholy
record of & Christian people has entirely disappeared —
the sound of the rude lyre is hushed— the cry of the
beasts of prey and the fowls of the air is increased, and
the malaria to such a degree, tha* Ephesus is hardly
to be approached with safety during sis, months of
ihe

121

THE CRUCIFIXION,

CITY of GOD ! Jerusalem,

Why rushes out thy living stream?
The turban'd priest, the hoary seer,

The Roman in his pride are there !
And thousands, tens of thousands, still
Cluster round Calvary's wild hill.

Still onward rolls the living tide,

There rush the bridegroom and the brj'f- ;
Prince, beggar, soldier, Pharisee,

The old, the young, the bond, the
The nation's furious multitude,
All maddening with the cry of blood.

'Tis glorious morn ; — from height to
Shoot the keen arrows of the light;

And glorious, in their central shower,
Palace of holiness and power

The temple on Moriah's brow

Looks a new-risen sun below.

But woe to hill, and woe to vale !

Against them shall come forth a wail
And woe to bridegroom and to bride !

For death shall on the whirlwind ride:
And woe to thee, resplendent shrine,
The sword is out for thee and thine.

M

THE CRUCIFIXION.

Hide, hide thee in the heavens, thou sun->
Before the deed of blood is done !

Upon that temple's haughty steep
Jerusalem's last angel's weep j

They see destruction's funeral pall

Black'ning o'er Sion's sacred wall.

Like tempests gathering on the shore,
They hear the coming armies' roar :

They see in Sion's halls of state,
The Sign that maketh desolate —

The idol-standard — pagan spear,

The tomb, the flame, the massacre.

They see the vengeance fall ; the chain,
The long, long age of guilt and pain ;

The exile's thousand desperate years,

The more than groans, the more than tears ;

Jerusalem a vanished name,

Its tribes earth's warning, scoff and shame.

Still pours along the multitude,

Still rends the Heavens the shout of blood f
But in the murder's furious van,

Who totters on ? A weary man ;
A cross upon his shoulders bound —
His brow, his frame, one gushing wound.

And now he treads on Calvary.

What slave upon that hill must die?
What hand, what heart, in guilt embrued,

Must be the mountain vulture's food ?
There stand two victims gaunt and bare,
Two culprit emblems of despair.

THE CRUCIFIXION. ]23

Y-t who the third ? The yell of shame

Is frenzied at the sufferer's name.
Hands clenched, teeth gnashing, vestures torn,

The curse, the taunt, the laugh of scorn,
All that the dying hour can sting,
Are round thee now, thou thorn-crowned king !

Yet cursed and tortured, taunted, spurned,
No wrath is for the wrath returned j

No vengeance flashes from the eye ;
The sufferer calmly waits to die :

The sceptre-reed, the thorny crown,

Wake on that pallid brow on frown.

At last the word of death is given,

The form is bound, the nails are driven ;

Now triumph, Scribe and Pharisee!
Now Roman, be,nd ihe mocking knee !

The cross is reared. - .T^e deed is done.

There stands MESIAH'S earthly throne !

This was the earth's consummate hour ;

For this had blazed the prophet's power •
For this had swept the conqueror's sword,

Had ravaged, laised, cast down, restored
Persepolis, Rome, Babylon,
Fur this ye sank, for this ye shone.

Yet things to which earth's brighest beam
Were darkness — earth itself a dream.

Foreheads on which shall crowns be laid
Sublime, when sun and star shall fade ?

"Worlds upon worlds, eternal things,

Hung on thy anguish — King of Kings!

M2

124 THE CRUCIFIXION.

Still from his lip no curse has come,
His lofty eye has looked no doom ;

No earthquake-burst, no angel brand,
Crushes the black, blaspheming band,

What say those lips by anguish riven ?

" God, be my murders forgiven !"

HE dies ! in whose high victory

The slayer, death himself, shall die.

HE dies ! by whose all-conquering tread
Shall yet be crushed the serpent's head ;

From his proud throne to darkness hurled,

The god and tempter of this world.

HE dies ! Creation's awful Lord,
Jehovah, Christ, Eternal Word !

To come in thunder from the skies !
To bid the buried world arise ;

The Earth his footstool j Heaven his thro«8

Redeemer ! may thy will be done.

J23

A TURKISH STORY.

IN the year of the Christum era, 1390, Amurath W\
Great, the most powerful warrior and statesman that
ever filled the Turkish throne, put himself at the head
of an army of 200,000 men, to crush the last resist-
ance of the Hungarians and Servians. The sternness
of the Ottoman government had alienated the chief
tribes of that immense region lying between the
Adriatic and the Euxine ; and the abilities and
intrepidity of Lazarus, the prince of Servia, had com-
bined their strength into an insurrection that threatened
the empire of the Turks in Europe. Amurath, though
nearly seventy years old, instantly rushed into the
field, passed the Dardanelles, and clearing the way
with an irresistible cavalry, laid the land in ruin up to
the memorable plain of Cassovia. But there he
found that he must fight for his supremacy. The
army of the confederates of Hungary, Croatia, and
Servia, reinforced by knights and eminent soldiers
from France and Germany, were seen drawn up
before him, under the command of Lazarus. The
Ottoman troops had never encountered so formidable
an enemy, and even the invincible Lord of the
Janizaries began to fear for the result of the day. Tne
battle commenced, as usual in the Tuikish warfare, by
successive charges of cavalry. They were repulsed,

M 3

i2G A TURKISH STORY.

and the mass pressed back towards the infantry, where
the Sultan had continued^ sitting upon his horse, and
waiting for the tidings from the troops engaged.
While he was nervously listening to every sound of
the struggle, he saw two of his Delhis, that corps of
desperadoes, which always, as a forlorn hope, heads
the Turkish charge, rushing back from the field.
Amurath galloped up to meet them. They were both
covered with wounds ; and their chargers were
evidently exhausted with fatigue and loss of blood }
yet they bounded through the thicket and broken
ground with extraordinary rapidity, and the Sultan
could catch but a sentence from each as they darted by
him. The first cried out, " Thou shall conquer!"
The second, " Thou shall be conquered !" then in-
stantly plunged into the depths of the forest, and
pursuit was vain. Amurath, like all his countrymen,
was superstitious ; and the contradiclion of his Delhis
seemed a foreboding of some strange catastrophe.
But there was now no time for thought. He advanced
at the head of the Janizaries, gradually bore down all
resistance, and, after a day of various change and
memorable havoc, remained master of the field, and
with it, of the destinies of Servia.

But, even in the tumuli of battle and of triumph, the
words of the Delhis were not forgotten ; and Amurath,
while still in the field, ordered that they should be
brought before him, — the prophet of good to receive
a present, and the prophet of evil to pay for his pre-
sumption by the loss of his head

A TU UK iS 11 S'lOHV 127

They were speedily found, and brought before this
resistless dispenser of life and death. Yet, as the
Delhis prided themselves on their love of hazard, both
men kept a firm countenance, and seemed to have even
taken advantage of the few moments of delay afforded
them, to clear the dust and gore from their forms and
features. They were two remarkably handsome sol-
diers, and with but little difference except in colour,
one having come of the bright-skinned race of
Georgia, and the other wearing the deep tinge of
Asia Minor.

" Thou saidst," was the Sultan's exclamation to the
Asiatic, " that I should conquer."

'« Said I not true ?" was the soldier's reply.

At a sign from Amurath, a purse of a thousand
sequins, a pelisse, and a richly caparisoned chargei,
were the reward of the lucky prediction.

" And thou saidst that I should be conquered," was
the scornful observation to his Georgian comrade.

" Said I not true ?" was the reply.

The Pashas were indignant at the mockery, and
would have cut him to pieces on the spot. But
Amurath, respecting the dignity of justice in a strange
land, ordered that he should be reserved for death after
evening prayer.

The sun was going down, wli<n the Sultan, awaiting
the return of his son Bajazet from the pursuit, walked
over the field, attended by the Vizier and a glittering
train of Beys and Agas. He paused on reaching a
spot where the last charge of the Janizaries had decided

128 A TURKISH STORY.

the day j and pointing to a heap of the dead, laughed
at the weakness of prediction.

*' There," said he, " lie those who were to have
trampled on my turban. — Yet last night I had a dream
that disturbed me. I thought that a man stood beside
aiy couch, and summoned me to walk forth. I fol-
lowed him, and the spot was not unlike the one where
we now are. He fiercely accused me of blood 5 I
resisted the charge, and would have turned away. But
he seized me with an irresistible strength, stamped on
the ground, and from a multitude of dead two rose up
at his command. They had the hue of the grave, but
both wore golden diadems. On the head of one the
diadem was complete, though stained with gore. On
the head of the other it was also stained, but it was
broken, and round the neck was a heavy chain. While
I gazed, life came into their faces, and in one of them I
recognized my own countenance, and in the other that
of my son."

The vizier, prostrating himself, said, " May the evil
be to the enemies of my lord. What are dreams, but
the inventions of the spirits of the air ? So saith the
book of wisdom, the volume of the prophet."

" True/' exclaimed the Sultan with a smile, *' dreams
are the work of folly, and let fools alone believe them ;
this day's chances are over."

HP turned away disdainfully, and grasped the mane
of his horse, that he might ride to welcome Bajazet,
who was now seen coming back in triumph at the head
of the cavalry. His foot accidentally struck one of the

A TURKISH STORY. 12»

wounded lying on the field. The man, though at
the point of death, rose on his knee, and gave a be-
wildered look round him. The sultan held his foot
suspended in the stirrup as he gazed with a fixed eye
on the wild yet singularly grand figure, thus rising
as from the tomb, there in the next moment to return,

" Is the battle to the Christian or the Infidel ?" asked
the warrior.

" God is great," said the Sultan, " and the dogs
have died the death."

The man sprang on his feet, and drove his sabre up to
the hilt in the Sultan's bosom. They fell side by side.

" Now we are equal, " he exclaimed with his last
breath ; " the master and the slave are one. Amurath
has died by the hand of Lazarus."

Amurath lived two hours. He sent for the Delhi who
had so ominously predicted his fate, and with a more
than oriental magnanimity, ordered that he should not
merely be set at liberty, but rewarded. The mighty lord
of the Ottoman then expired, recommending both the
Delhis to his son's protection, as brave soldiers and
tellers of the truth — a rare distinction in a land of slavery.

Bajazet was himself a desperado, and he loved the
furious bravery of the Delhis. Achmet the Georgian, and
Murad the Asiatic, were taken into his guards, and
became his peculiar favourites. Both were alike, hand-
some, intelligent, and brave. Yet there were differences
of character, sufficiently palpable, even in their soldiership.
The Georgian was chivalric, showy, and generous in his
pursuit of his master's favour. The bravery of the Asiatic

130 A TURKISH STORY.

was ferocious, he loved battle for its plunder and its
massacre. Murad rapidly gained ground in the conge-
nial ferocity of the young Sultan.

" What shall I do with that boy ?" exclaimed Bajazet,
gloomily, one day, as he saw his young brother Zelibi
riding, and throwing the spear, with an activity that raised
shouts of applause.

" Make him Governor of one of your provinces, M said
Achmet, " and teach him the art of doing honour to the
great Prince who has placed him there, and good to the
people. "

Bajazet continued to ponder.

" What says my brave Murad ?" were his first
words.

" The Osmanli must have but one Sultan at a time, "
was the answer.

Bajazet's sullen smile showed that he felt the full
meaning of his councillor. On that night the bowstring
was round the neck of Zeiibi, and the first instance given
of the tremendous succession of fratricides that have
dipped the Ottoman throne in perpetual gore. The
dawn saw Murad, Aga of the Janizaries.

The history of this famous Sultan was thenceforth the
history of perpetual triumph. Europe trembled at the
name of Bajazet. The rapidity of his marches, the
vigorous decision of his councils, and the tremendous
remorselessness of his vengeance, struck the continent
with alarm ; and all the minor fears and feuds of the
European princes were absorbed in the one great terror
^ seeing the Turkish arms flooding every kingdom ;

A TURKISH STORY. 131

Christendom seemed about to shrink and be extinguished
in the mighty shadow of Mahometanism. The Osmanli
hailed Bajazet as the sent of heaven, the conqueror on
whose lips had descended the wisdom of Mahomet, and
in whose hand was grasped the scimitar of Ali. The
universal name for him, through the East, was " Ilderim,"
the lightning. They saw in him the embodied principle
of strength and terror, heaven-descended, and heaven-
sustained, resistless by human power, and inexhaustible
by human devastation ; inscrutable in its movements as
the fire from the clouds, and at once the most fearful and
the most magnificent of the agents of the Divine will.

His first exploit was the seizure of the silver mines of
Servia. In the year of his ascending to the throne, he
rushed from Asia, and before the Servians could collect
their forces, was seen pouring his armed thousands through
the passes of her mountains. He found their capital,
Cracova, almost defenceless. But it contained the prin-
cipal Servian nobles and their families, who had fled
from the invasion. They sent a deputation to intreat
him to spare their city. He received them on horseback,
at the head of the Spahis. Achmet and Murad were still
at his side ; but Achmet still wore the simple vesture of
a private Delhi. Murad glittered like a sunbeam in the
superb dress of general of the Turkish cavalry. The Sultan
demanded their advice. " Spare the suppliant, and take
the tribute. Is it not so written ?" said Achmet. " The
scent of the blood of the unbeliever is more precious
than all the gums of Arabia. Is it not so written 1 " was
the answer of Murad. The new Pasha's advice was

132 A TURKISH STORY.

congenial to the spirit of the Sultan. He ordered the
Janizaries to the attack. Cracova, reduced to despair,
made a heroic resistance, and repelled the first assault.
In the night offers were made to capitulate. The offers
were accepted by the Sultan ; but the first sound at day-
break was the thunder of the cavalry pouring in at the
open gates ; and the last sound at evening was the dying
curse of the last inhabitant of Cracova.

A long course of unbroken successes followed ; and in
them all the Sultan was attended by the two Delhis.
Their characters continued the same,— Achmet perpetually
the adviser of peace, mercy, and justice; Murad the
perpetual spur to the ambition, boldness, and vengeance
of his master. The natural wonder of the Court was,
that the adviser, who so resolutely thwarted the impulses
of his Sovereign, had not long before expiated his obsti-
nate honesty by the bowstring. Yet the troops would
have reluctantly seen Achmet destroyed. His fearlessness
and singular sagacity, in some of the most trying mo-
ments of the war, had secured to him the respect of this
fierce soldiery j and his habitual gentleness and attention
to the sufferings that all war produces, even among the
conquerors, made them form many a wish that, when
peace should return them at last to their homes in Asia,
those homes might be under the government of Achmet
the Delhi. Bajazet endured him, from the mere facility
of extinguishing him when he pleased. He spared him
as the tiger spares the dog in his cage, conscious that a
single grasp of his talons could crush out his life.

Murad's rights to eminence allowed no wonder ; he

A TURKISH STORY. 333

was pre-eminent in soldiership, the great talent of the
day. His military invention seemed inexhaustible ; he
remodelled the troops, and established a discipline that
in itself was equivalent to victory. He was the unfailing
resource of the Sultan in the intricacies of council, and of
the army in the difficulties of the field. When Murad
mounted his horse, the battle was looked upon as
decided, and the event never fell short of the omen. His
personal appearance might alone have been a claim to
popular admiration. Among the noblest figures and
countenances on earth, the Osmanli, Murad was the
handsomest. The surpassing skill with which he rode,
the singular distance to which he threw the lance, the
extraordinary force with which his scimitar cleft alike
the cuirass and the turban, were the unceasing admira-
tion of the troops ; and to be like Murad Pasha in any
one of his crowd of warlike accomplishments, was
amongst the highest aspirations equally of the court and
the field.

Constantinople had been the grand hope of all the
Turkish conquerors, from the hour when, in the 13th
century, Othman, the son of the Turkoman Ortogrul,
first girded on the scimitar in the mountains of Bithynia ;
to the triumph of Mahomet II., and the death of the
last emperor in the last intrenchment of his famous city.
Bajazet had already approached it twice ; had broken
the Greek troops, had marched within sight of the
golden crescent on the summit of Santa Sophia, and
had each time been forced away by distant hostilities.
But those impediments were at length overcome. He

134 A TUfttfJSH STORY.

had crushed the loose squadrons of the Karamanian
princes, divided their dominions among his Pashas, and
dragged the unfortunate sovereigns in chains with his
army. The great Hungarian insurrection under King
Sigismund, in which the revolters, confident in their
multitudes, loftily boasted, that " were the sky now to
fall, they could prop it up with their spears," was ex-
tinguished in the blood of the nation, and the Sultan
was without a rival. On the evening of that memorable
victory, Bajazet, wearied by the fatigues of the day,
threw himself on his couch, and sank into a heavy
slumber, which lasted till midnight. His attendants had
long observed that he was violently agitated in his sleep,
and he started up in singular disturbance, ordering
Achmet and Murad to be instantly sent for.

" My father Amurath," said he to the Delhis, " died
for his contempt of a dream. Listen to mine, and
interpret for me, if you can. I thought that, as I was
sleeping in this tent, I heard a voice calling me to walk
forth. I rose. It was morning. All signs of the battle
had disappeared ; and I saw a country covered with
verdure and harvest. But I saw what was to me worth
all other sights on earth, the battlements and palaces of
Constantinople rising more magnificent than ever before
me. I would have rushed towards them, but felt myself
plucked back by an invisible hand. Twice I made the
effort, and was twice baffled . In my despair I cursed
my destiny, and demanded of the prophet to strike me
with his lightnings, or to make me master of the city of
the golden towers.

A TURKISH STORY. 135

" The thunder rolled above, and the bolt struck the
ground at my feet. From the spot in which it plunged,
I saw two founts of water gush up ; they swelled with
astonishing rapidity, and rushed forward, in two vast
streams, direct towards the city. I longed to plunge
into the rirst that would bear me into glorious posses-
sion. At that moment I heard your disastrous voice,
Achmet, and saw you at my side. I felt instinctively
that you were come to thwart me, and expected to hear
some of your chilling wisdom. But to my surprise you
pointed to the walis, and declared that you were come
to guide me there. I followed, and we sailed down one
of the rivers. The stream was singularly bright, and
I could count the smallest pebble at the bottom. It
spread as we advanced j and the verdure on its banks
grew continually richer; — the sky was reflected on its
bosom with matchless beauty; and crowds of travellers,
with their horses and camels, came to drink securely of
fhe waters. Yet, with the spreading of the stream I
found that its swiftness had diminished. It made a
thousand bends and wanderings from the direct course ;
and though it wandered through a country of still increas-
ing richness, yet Constantinople seemed almost as far off
as ever.

"I grew impatient, and sprang upon the bank. There,
Murad, I found you awaiting me ; and your advice was
like what yor.r own gallant and decided soul has always
gWen ' Tw the swifter stream at all hazards/ We
left Achmet to his eternal voyage, and embarked on the
untried stream.

N2

13(1 A TURKISH STORY.

" Nothing could be less like the river that we had
left : it rushed down with the force and dashing of a
mountain torrent. I saw Constantinople constantly
enlarging on the eye, and growing visibly more worthy
of the triumph of the son of Othman. Yet, if our
course was swift, it was perilous ; we swept over rocks
every instant, and darted through billows that almost
shook our chaloupe to pieces. The water too had lost
its transparency, and was stained with blood, and en-
cumbered with wrecks and remnants of the dead. I felt
a strange feebleness growing upon me ; but still I went
on. Our course was now swifter than the swiftness of a
lance flung by a powerful hand. The stream had again
changed its hue ; and from the deep crimson of recent
massacre was of the brightness of gold. My spirit re-
vived. We were rushing down a torrent of actual gold.
I touched it, I grasped it, I exulted in the consciousness
that I was master of infinite treasure. I looked upon
the countenance of my guide. It still bore your features,
Murad ; but it was of even a bolder cast. His glance
was loftier, and his words, few and solemn, sank into
the soul with a power that I had never felt from man.
He smiled haughtily at my weakness, and pointed to the
gates of the city, which already rose with visible grar,
deur above our heads. I uttered a shout of joy.

" The swiftness of the vessel now outstripped the
eagle's wing. My sight was dazzled by the frightful
speed with which we shot down between the rugged
banks of this tremendous stream. The roar of whirl-
pools and the thunder of cataracts was in my ears. I

A 1URKISH STORY, 137

I'Unced anain at my fearful guide. His visage was
sterner than ever j but its dignity was gone. The noble
features were heightened and sharpened with an ex-
pression of indescribable scorn : but in the eye which
had so lately beamed with the splendours of the mighty
mind, the glory was no more, and its look was fixed
above, with an expression of pain and woe that smote
me like the arrow of the angel of death. I turned from
it in fear, and bent my eyes on the stream. Its hue was
again changed. The gold had darkened, and streaks of
sullen fire were shooting along its surface. The thick-
ening flames burst upwards ; we were in a torrent of
fire.

" I now felt many a pang for the rashness of aban-
doning the guidance of Achmet j but it was too late. I
thought of the smoothness of the river, the softness of
the perfumed and refreshing breeze, the luxuriance and
fertility of the landscape, and the brilliant glory of the
sky above. Round me all was terrible contrast. We
darted oown between walls and straits of sullen preci-
pice, that rose to the very heavens; the light grew
darker at every plunge of the vessel, the precipices
closed over our heads, and at length we rushed through
a perpetual cavern, with no other light than that of the
flames which curled and dashed away before our prow.
My heart panted with terror inexpressible. My tongue
cleaved to the roof of my mouth, I felt scorched and
suffocating. In this extremity I raised my half-blinded
eyes to you for help. But with a gesture of haughty

N 3r

138 A TUUK1SII STORY.

scorn you pointed to the torrent. It was now a bed
of liquid fire, boiling and rushing redly along, like
metal from the furnace, I gazed in a frenzy of fear,
that took away all strength from me. My heart was
withered and collapsed within me. My sinews were
dried up. I was an infant in nerve ; but in the agony
of feebleness I was a thousand years old. As I gazed on
the torrent, I saw it filled with hideous life. Along its
billows I saw forms and faces slowly rise, distorted as
if in torment. I saw my mighty ancestor Othman, in
the wolf-skin that he wore when he first rushed down
from the Caucasus. By his side rose my father,
Amurath, as I saw him on the night of his death at
Cassovia. Then followed a long succession of Sultans,
glancing on me with fierce and tortured visages, and
rolling along the stream thick with turbans and jewels,
broken armour, and the glittering fragments of thrones.
A wild shout at length roused me. I lifted my eyes and
saw that all my hopes were on the point of triumph.
We were at the gates of Constantinople ; the outcry was
from the Greeks gathered upon the battlements in despair.
I rushed exultingly forward. At that moment I felt
myself grasped by a hand to whose strength mine was
like the reed waving in the wind. The hand was
Murad's, yet Murad no longer, but a gigantic figure,
surrounded with lightnings, and flinging out two mighty
pinions, black as thunder clouds, upon the air. He
caught me, and held me quivering over the torrent. My
yell was answered by a withering laugh that echoed

A TURKISH STORY. 13rJ

round (he horison. We rushed on — we reached the
edge of the cataract. My eye recoiled from its unfa-
thomable steep. I was plunged in. Prophet of Heaven,
can such things be but a dream ! I felt every moment
of the measureless descent. I felt with the keenness
of ten-fold life the contact of the burning torrent. I
shot down its depths with the rapidity of a stone from
the brow of a mountain. The fire seized upon every
nerve and fibre of my frame. I felt it penetrating
through my veins, drinking up my blood, becoming a
portion of my being. I was changing niy nature, but
with a living susceptibility of torture beyond all the
powers of flesh and blood. I became fire, intense,
imperishable, essential fire."

The Sultan, overcome by the recollection of his
horrors, sank on the ground ; and remained, for some
time, helpless and exhausted. But his natural vigour of
mind at length threw off his bodily depression, and he
demanded, what was to be done. Achmet was silent.
" Speak," said his haughty master, " you have followed
me ten years ; yet your obstinacy has kept you in the
turban of a Delhi still. Be silent now, and you may
have no head for even the turban of a Delhi." He was
still silent. But Murad's cheerful and bold voice inter-
posed. He laughed at the idleness of dreams, and in-
treated the Sultan to overlook the folly of his old comrade,
and to refresh his own wearied frame with the banquet.
It was brought, and among its luxuries was wine.
Bdjazet, in all his military excesses, had preserved the
personal temperance which is not more a dictate of

140 \ TURKISH STORY.

Mahometanism, than a precaution of health in the
feverish climates of the East. But on this night of
anxiety, excited by the example of Murad, whose love
of wine was known to the camp, he drank freely. In
the height of the banquet, a Tartar rode into the camp,
bearing letters from Constantinople.

The Emperor Manuel had been driven from the
throne by his nephew John, aided by the troops of the
Sultan. But the same despatch which announced the
accession of the new Emperor, announced that he, in the
pride of sudden power, refused to perform the stipula-
tions for the aid of Bajazet. The Sultan's eye sparkled
with ferocious triumph at this excuse for the long medi-
tated seizure of the capital of Greece. He ordered the
trumpets to sound instantly through the camp, and th
Spahis to mount. Murad filled a goblet of wine to th
success of the expedition, and on the knee presented it
to the Sultan. As he was lifting it to his lips, he glanced
on Achmet ; the Delhi's eye was fixed on him with
ominous melancholy. Bajazet involuntarily shrank, but
his haughty temper overcame the instinctive alarm, and
he demanded, whether he was to be l< always thwarted
by the insolent rebuke of a slave."

*'The slave and the Sultan have alike one master,"
was Achmet's calm reply.

Bajazet, with a livid lip, retorted, " The earth does
not contain the master of the Sultan.'

" Neither the earth nor the heaven of heavens contains
him/' answered the Delhi, with increasing firmness,
" but that master lives, and solemnly and terribly will

A TURKISH STORY. 141

he demand the innocent blood at the hands, of the
loodshedder.''

The tone sank with strange power into the hearer's
soul, and he looked to Murad for assistance. But he
found it there speedily. Murad, with the most profound
prostration, stooped before the agitated Sultan, and im-
ploring him to rely on the prudence, zeal, and attach-
ment of his faithful followers, again presented the cup.
Then, suddenly starting on his feet, he poured forth his
eloquent indignation against the ingratitude, the coldness,
and the treachery of an advice, which, by depriving the
Ottoman of the glories of war, when its noblest prize
was in his grasp, must be intended to stain the lustre of
the past, and break down the strength of the empire of
the faithful for all time.

Bajazet found it impossible to withdraw his eyes from
this energetic councillor. Murad seemed to have derived
a new dignity of presence from his noble wrath at the
tardiness of his old comrade. His stature appeared
loftier, his gesture more commanding. The natural
beauty of his singularly handsome countenance glowed
and beamed with a more intellectual and impressive
beauty, as the words rushed from his lips in a torrent of
proud and generous feeling.

" Ask,'' said the fascinated Sultan, l< ask what you
will, even to the half of my throne, and this hour it
shall be granted."

" Evil be to the enemies of my lord," was the sub-
missive reply. Then, turning to the Delhi, " Let my
reward be — the head of the traitor Achmet.

142 A TURKISH STORY.

The Sultan paused. The long services of his
brave but uncourtly follower rose in his recollection ;
the suspicion that Murad's jealousy of an adviser so
near the throne had mingled with his zeal, perplexed
him ; and he remained lost in thought. But a sudden
burst of martial music flourished on the air. A shout
of the camp, on hearing the signal for the march,
followed. Murad took advantage of the new impulse,
gave the cup to his quivering lip, saw it drunk off,
and, as the Sultan rushed from the tent to his charger,
heard the triumph of his ambition in the words,
" Let the Delhi die." On that night Murad was
Vizier !

Before morning, the Turkish army were in full march
for Constantinople. The Greek Emperor, himself an
usurper, could throw but few obstacles in the way of a
force of 200,000 men, the most warlike in Europe,
accustomed to conquer, and commanded by the
boldest sovereign of his age. They were driven before
the Spahis, like chaff before the wind. The entrench-
ments of Adrianople and Byrza were reddened with
the blood of the best soldiers of the Paloeologi, and the
banner of Bajazet waved on the heights that command
Constantinople. The triple rampart of the Constantines
alone lay between the Sultan and the most magnificent
conquest that ever tempted the ambition of man. By
his position on the Bends, or great reservoirs of water,
and on the chief road, by which provisions were brought
into the city, he had the alternative of either gradually
reducing the population by famine, or overthrowing

A 1WKKISH STORY. 143

by storm. His fierce nature, already stimulated
to the height of military pride, determined on the
quicker execution of the sword. The Janizaries were
ordered to assault the " golden gate'' by day-break.
But at midnight a Tarter rode up to the Sultan's tent ;
#i|i7et was still at the table, where he had now accus-
tomed himself to indulge. The Tartar's despatches
were put into Murad's hands, and the bold spirits of
the favourite and his master were alike chafed by their
perusal. They bore at the head, the name of Timour-
lenk, the Tamerlane of after-times, already terrible
through the east; and commanded Bajazet to with-
draw from the walls of Constantinople.

" Dost thou not know, Turkoman," was the lan-
guage of this memorable letter, " that Asia is vanquished
by us ? — that our invincible fortresses stretch from sea
to sea ? — that the kings of the earth form a line before
our gate? — that we have extinguished chance, and made
fortune watch over our empire ? And what art thou,
but a robber, and the son of robbers ? What are thy
horsemen, but swift to flee ; and thy Janizaries, but
dust to be swept away by the shaking of my banners ?
Thou, thyself, art but a worm. Wilt thou dare to meet
the feet of my elephants? Fool, they will ti ample
thee, and not know that they have trodden thee into
nothing. Leave the city of the Greek, and bow down
fie head of a slave at the feet of the Mongol."

Fire flashed from the Sultan's eyes as he heard this
epistle. He tore it into a thousand fragments, and
ordered the Janizaries instantly to the attack. But a

144 J. TURKISH STOUT.

new obstacle arose. The serenity of an oriental night
was changed into tempest. The Janizaries, accustomed
to brave the elements and man alike, still advanced.
But the tempest thickened round them ; the leading
columns lost their way ; deluges of rain fell, and
disordered their ranks j the fosses at the foot of the
rampart were found full; thunderbolts and flashes of
lightning dazzled and broke the troops ; and, almost
without resistance from the walls, they were repelled
with the loss of thousands.

Bajazet, in his fury, cursed the elements, and the
power that had armed the elements against him. But
he had now no time for indolent wrath. Every hour
brought into his camp crowds of pashas and generals,
full of fearful news of their own defeats and the
irresistible advances of Timour. They described his
army as rushing on, less like a human force, than an
ocean. "The torch and the sword were the crown and
sceptre of the Mongol. Cities, fortresses, fields, the
forest, the mountain, all were rolled in a sea of fire.
Man, and the works of man, were engulphed j and
all that remained behind, to tell of the march of Timour,
was ashes."

Bajazet would have made one desperate effort more
to seize Constantinople ; but, for the first time, he
found Murad opposed to him. The favourite, no longer
in fear of a rival influence, had become stem and
imperative^ and Bajazet felt that he had established a
tyranny over himself. But he felt a strange powerless-
ness of mind in the presence of the Vizier. And with

A. TURKISH STORY. 145

many a bitter regret, and many a sensation of indignant
wonder at suffering another's control, he gave the order
to break up, and pass the Bosphorus to meet the
invader. Every hour of his advance through the lesser
Asia, gave fatal proof of the necessity of destroying
or being destroyed by his enemy. The old fury of
Timour in Tartary and Hindostan was tame to the
unbridled devastation that he let loose within the
Ottoman frontier. The assault of Sebasti, on the
borders of Anatolia, where he buried alive the garrison
of four thousand Armenians j the ruin of Aleppo and
Damascus; and the pyramid of ninety thousand heads
raised as a monument of wrath on the remnants of
Bagdad, remain among the recollections that to this
hour make the name of Timour terrible to the Osmanli.

The ambassador of Bajazet found him in the midst of
the conflagration of Aleppo. The Mongol affected the
language of humility : " You see me here," was his
singular harangue, "a poor, lame, decrepit mortal, yet by
my arms has the Eternal been pleased to smite the great
kingdoms. He has, with my arrows, brought down the
flight of Iran, Turan, and Hindostan. Heaven is
powerful ! by my spear he has opened the veins of the
Tartar, and smote the Chinese on his throne ; but by the
blowing of my poor breath he will sweep away the pride
of the Sultan. I am not a man of blood! heaven is my
witness, always have I been attacked first. But heaven
is my witness, that the sons of misfortune are they who
attack the lame, lowly-hearted, and dying Timour."

This extraordinary harangue of pride, scorn, and

o

146 A TURKISH STORY.

superstition, which is still among the traditions of the
Mongol, was repeated, word for word, by the Tartai
envoys, in the presence of Bajazet. It was poison to his
feverish soul; he tore his beard at the insult, and order-
ed the death of the envoys, and the immediate march of
the army. But while the pen for his signature to the
order of death was in his hand, the curtains of the tent
opened, and one of the wandering Derveishes that attend
a Turkish camp, solemnly walked in. Even the fury of
war respects the Derveish ; but the striking and stately
presence of this man commanded veneration. He wa?
in the deepest vale of years, yet his step was full oi
majesty, and his countenance had the powerful intel-
ligence of a being that seemed to borrow light from that
world of splendour on whose verge he was treading.
" Spare the innocent blood," were the first and only
words of the Derveish. Murad, with a cry of loyal wrath
at this defiance of his master, sprang on his feet, and
rushed with his scymetar drawn to strike off the intru-
der's head. But the look of the old man excited a strange
power over the Vizier, and the scimitar remained sus-
pended. The Derveish fixed his gaze upon the Sultan,
" Let my Lord think of mercy," said he, bending before
the throne, " all are mortal ; and Sultan Bajazet, who
can tell, but He who sitteth above the stars, whose voice
may be next raised to call for pardon ?" The speech was
answered only by a smile of supreme scorn from Murad.
But that smile decided the Sultan, he waved his hand
thrice, the usual sign for execution, and the envoys were
ied out to be massacred. The Derveish had left the tent

A TURK;SH STORY. 147

in the confusion, and was no where to be found. Battle
was now inevitable-, and on the third day of his march
Bajazet poured his army into the memorable plain of
Angora.

Since the fall of the Roman Empire under the north-
ern barbarians, dominion was never fought for on so
gigantic a scale as by the armies that now moved from
the extremities of Asia, to fatten the soil with their blood.
Bajazet brought into the field four hundred thousand
horse and foot of the most famous and highest-disciplined
troops in the world. Timour, gathering his force on
the mountains, rushed down with twice the number,
inferior in their equipment and order, but accustomed to
Asiatic war; and confiding in the splendid genius, and
still more in the perpetual prosperity, of their mighty
chieftain. The battle was fought in the year 1401 ; the
year of the Hegira 804. During the early part of this
tremendous encounter, Bajazet drove all before him.
The square of the Janizaries, flanked by two columns of
thirty thousand cavalry, trampled down the light-armed
multitude of the Mongols, and the battle seemed won.
It is recorded that, exactly as the day was in the merid-
ian, Bajazet, spurring his horse up a slight ascent in the
centre of the plain, and seeing it covered to the horizon
with the flying squadrons, cried aloud, with a gesture of
pride and scorn to the sun, " that thenceforth he might
hide his beams, for Bajazet should be the glory of the
world." A well-known voice sounded in his ear, " By
pride fell the angel of the stars." He turned, and to his
unspeakable surprise saw at his side Achmet the Delhi.

o2

148 A TURKISH STORY.

" By pride," said another voice, " that fallen angel is
still king of the air." The voice was Murad's, who
nacl just ascended the hill, and was gazing at the defeat
of the enemy. A sudden roar of battle below checked
the Sultan's answer; and brandishing his lance, and
giving his horse the rein, he rushed forward, with but
one wild exclamation ; " Nor heaven nor hell shall
snatch this victory out of my hand !"

The battle had been renewed. Timour's reserve,
in itself an army, had advanced and charged the Jani-
zaries ; fatigue, and the intense heat of a burning day
of Asia, had exhausted those brave troops ; but the
arrival of Bajazet, as he rode shouting in front of the
immense square, and the brilliant courage of the Vizier,
gave them new strength, and they repelled the charge
with desperate slaughter. The Sultan now ordered the
cavalry to advance and trample the disordered ranks of
the enemy; but a sudden shout was heard, and the whole
of the Anatolian horse, wheeling round, galloped off to the
standard of Timour, leaving the flank of the Janizaries
uncovered. The cry of treachery spread, and all was
immediate ruin. The Mongol arrows came showering
in incessant flights ; charge upon charge, the grand
manoeuvre of Timour's battles wore down the Ottomans.
On that day the square had repulsed nineteen distinct
attacks ; but the Sultan, as the sun was just torching
the horizon, saw that a more formidable attack was
preparing, and saw, with a bitter reflection on his boast,
that the light of his glory on that day was not to sur-
vive the decline of the great luminary. The twilight is

A TURKISH STOUY. 349

rapid in the climates of the south, and objects were
scarcely visible beyond a few paces, when the Sultan
heard a trampling, which shook the ground under him.
He knew it to be the movement of Timour's whole re-
serve of cavalry. The dust came before them like a
whirlwind ; and the screams and clashing of arms, as
they tore their way over the Turkish squadrons in his
front, told with what irresistible force they must soon
reach the spot where he sadly stood, amid the last
veterans of his once magnificent army. " The hour
is come for us all to die," said the dejected monarch.
•* Ble-^sed are they who die in the act of mercy," said
^chmet, stooping over his saddle-bow to give a cup
)f water to a wounded soldier. " Glorious are they
who die in the act of vengeance," exclaimed Murad, as
he put spurs to his horse, and darted forward into the
darkness, with the force of a thunderbolt.

He returned at ful) speed, dragging a young Mongol
chieftain by the hair. Bajazet's scimitar already flashed
over the prisoner's head. The voice of Achmet again
restrained his fury. " To every man," said the Delhi,
" are given at his birth two angels — one to destroy, and
one to save ; which will the Sultan obey ?" His hearer
paused. But Murad spurred up to his side, and, point-
ing to the prisoner, exclaimed, "There stands the only
offspring of Timour." The blood boiled in Bajazet's
bosom at the thought ; he whirled the weapon round his
head to make the blow sure j but at the same instant he
felt as if his brain were crushed in by a blow of a mace,
and dropped under his horse's feet. While he 'ay

o 3

lt>0 A TURKISH STORY.

\vriihing on the ground in the last paroxysm of ruined
ambition and thwarted love of blood, he saw the counte-
nance of Achmet change. It gazed upon him with a
sublime pity. He saw the form dilate into supernatural
loftiness and grandeur. He saw beauty the most divine,
surrounded with a light of unearthly glory. The Delhi
was no more. The figure rose by instinctive power on
the air, and with its countenance of sorrow fixed on him
to the last, rose into the heavens.

A voice of derision rang in the Sultan's ear. The
Vizier was beside him, still grasping the head of the
Mongol. But Bajazet saw alone the robes of the Vizier ;
the visage was wild, keen, and writhing with furious
passions. The guide of his evil voyage stood there ;
he saw him suddenly assume the aspect of the fallen
angels. Blasphemy burst from the lips of the evil
one ; flame swept round him ; and bidding the Sultan
1o despair and die, he swept away with a force like the
rushing of a whirlwind. The light vanished from Bajazet's
eyes, and he sank insensible. On that day his tyranny,
his ambition, his freedom, and his throne, had passed
away for ever.

The chief of the Tartars, the Zagatai Khan, found him
in the field under a heap of corpses, and brought him in
chains to the feet of Timour. But the conquered prince
was spared the consciousness of his degradation. His
sense was gone, he was a raving madman j and in this
state he was carried at the head of Timour's march
through Asia Minor, as a terrible example of the wrath
of the universal conqueror.

A TURKISH STORY. 151

But the Sultan had fallen under a more powerful
hand. In this moving dungeon, the iron cage, so
widely commemorated in Eastern history, he was often
heard reproaching himself wildly for the crime of re-
sisting his guardian spirit. He was heard through the
night calling on the name of Achmet, whom he described

O w '

as invested with the splendours of Paradise; or shrink-
ing in tones and gestures of horror from the evil supre-
macy of Murad. " Son of Eblis," he would exclaim,
" why was I not taught by the vision of my early days
to dread your counsel ? Why was not my demon-guide
down the torrent of fire and blood revealed to me under
the visage of the Vizier ? Why were power, and beauty,
valour, and eloquence, combined in the fiend ? And
why was the good angel hidden in the humble friendship
of the Delhi ?"

Thus he raved in the anguish of a broken mind, ?
spectacle of astonishment and fear to the East, until, iu
the tenth month of his captivity, he was one morning
found dead, with his breast torn and crushed against the
bars of his rage.

s IF ANY MAN SPEAK, LET HIM SPEAK AS THE
ORACLES OF GOD : IF ANY MAN MINISTER, LET
HIM DO IT AS OF THE ABILITY WHICH GOD
GIVETH : THAT GOD IN ALL THINGS MAY BE
GLORIFIED THROUGH JESUS CHRIST, TO WHOM
BE PRAISE AND DOMINION FOR EVER AND EVER.
AMEN." 1 Peter, chap. iv. ver. n.

HERE is an antidote to the pride and vanity of the
human heart ; — here is a transforming power supplied,
by which the multitude of gifts and talents, however
large and splendid be the measure in which they have
been imparted, shall be stripped of their original power
to mislead and pervert, and shall, severally, be brought
into the treasury of God, from whence they issued, there
to be laid, in meek acknowledgment and rejoicing
thankfulness, at the Redeemer's feet. In the fulfilment
of this apostolic command, how heavenly will be the
spirit with which each act of duty shall be performed,
how faithful and how true the estimate made of man's
dependance, and of the Creator's fulness ! Lord, we
render back to Thee, but of thine own ; for from Thee
we first received our powers ; in Thee they are continu-
ally replenished and upheld ; for Thee we exercise
them, and are permitted to minister of them to others.
The soul that has no higher joy than thus to know its '!r
the privileged agent of a Father's bounty, is mac:e

IF ANY MAN SPEAK, ScC. J53

partaker of a blessedness to which all earthly joys are
indeed as nothing j that soul has already admittance
into the joy of its Lord ; it has an ever-animating im-
pulse urging it forward, and filling the measure of its
hopes, «' that God in all things may be glorified, through
Jesus Christ." Self is forgotten in the ardency of its
desires that " the Lord alone may be exalted ;" and
where self is kept low, trodden down, and finally annihi-
lated, what refreshing streams of pure pleasure flow
through the levelled plain, and convert the once barren
wilderness into the well " watered garden/' whose
•' spring of water" faileth not. Oh ! that within this
heart, within this house, in the little circle of dear friends,
beloved relations, and in the wider range of neighbour-
hood, of acquaintance, and of country, God may indeed
be glorified in all things ! Nor shall the wish stop here.
Christianity, truly felt, must enlarge the principle of
human affection within our breasts, and will compel us
to pray that " the knowledge of the Lord may cover the
earth, as the \vaters cover the seas," and that " the
kingdoms of this world" may speedily ''become t?ie
kingdoms of our Lord and of his Christ." Have we no
power to minister to the consummation of this blessed
hope ? Let each examine into " the ability which God
hath given" him ; and, having the glory of his Redeemer,
and the eternal salvation of mankind, near and dear to
his own heart, let prayer, and influence, and gifts unite,
to the promotion of this eternal end, " that God in aV
things may be glorified through Jesus Christ, to whom
be praise and dominion for ever and ever. Amen >J

J54

SOLITARY WANDERINGS.

I AM an old man, and a solitary being in a busy,
peopled world ; yet has neither age rior loneliness
chilled the warmth of those social affections which the
benevolence of the Creator hath implanted within his
creatures, that they may minister alike to the sum of
human good, and of human happiness. What though
they be restricted in many a channel where they were
wont to flow, the fountain is not yet dried up within
my heart ; there

" The waters sleep
In silence and obscurity,"

yet ever ready to gush

forth in sympathy with the joys or the sorrows of my
fellow-men.

•»

A solitary being, did I say ? Oh ! who shall dare to
call himself such in a world peopled with creatures of
the same nature as his own ? Creatures subject to the
same passions, and affections, and wants; objects of the
same superintending Providence, children of one Father,
redeemed unto one Hope. Surely, God " hath made of
one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face
of the earth/' that they may love as brethren, that the
social virtues may have full room to expand, and that,
while yet we tread this lower world, we may emulate
the employments, and enjoy a foretaste of the bliss,

SOLITARY WANDERINGS. 155

which, in a fuller measure, are the portion of the
ministering spirits above.

There have been moments when the sense of lone-
liness has pressed upon me heavily, sadly, — as I mused
on the friends of infancy and youth, long gathered to the
home where I too would be; but this feeling of deso-
lation vanishes when I connect myself, as God has con-
nected me, with His large family, and seek to fill, as
best I may, my allotted station. There are seasons, too,
when even solitude ceases to be lonely ; when it does
more, it becomes pleasing ; for I am a lover of nature in
all her varied forms of animate and inanimate beauty.
I delight to seek companionship in her sequestered
scenes, to feel in

" Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense
Reply of hers to our intelligence ;"

and when I can steal for a while from the busy scenes of
daily life, and from those active charities which have
their claim, aye and perhaps the strongest claim, on the
most unconnected being, I wander forth to recruit my
wearied spirits in some excursion through the scenes of
past pleasure, and grow young again in the novelty of
feelings called forth by the charms of some unknown
spot of sequestered beauty.

The crowded city has its attractions for many ; its
own peculiar advantages which all may find. Tis well!
I envy not the first their joy, if they know of none
beyond its narrow bounds : nor would I be wholly blind
to the latter, since Providence has fixed my habitation

156 SOLITARY WANDERINGS.

there. It is in the midst, of congregated men that Science
and Literature flourish most ; and thence they emanate
to pervade many a distant and wide-spreading circle.
The Arts are cherished there j Industry finds its excite-
ment and its meed ; Civilization advances, and Commerce
collects the treasures and the improvements of distant
climes: there, many a noble and generous spirit finds
the fullest exercise for the lofty virtues of the heart, and
the splendid talents of the head : there, self-denying
goodness, and unobtrusive merit, often " hold the noise-
less tenor of their way:" Society there receives its
polish, and intellect brightens by collision. But with
the knowledge of good, there too does its coeval alloy,
the painful knowledge of evil, abound ; and the heart will
turn, with renovating delight, from scenes, where the
works and the ways of man are ever foremost in the
picture, to ihose quiet spots, where the God of Nature
speaks to us in this yet beautiful creation ; shadowing out
to the attentive mind, by " the things that are made,"
the invisible things of His kingdom of Grace. Here are
we continually reminded how fair and perfect all once
came from the Creator's hand ; and are led onward to
the contemplation of that time, when, the primeval curse
removed, " the wilderness and the solitary place shall be
glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the
rose :" — when " violence shall no more be heard in the
land, wasting nor destruction within its borders:" —
when "the sun shall be no more our light by day,
neither for brightness shall the moon give her light," but
nan shall walk in the unceasing splendour of his Saviour'i

SOLITARY WANDERINGS. 157

presence; and, beneath a new Heaven, and in the midst
of a new earth — the renovated creation of the Most High —
shall again enjoy full communion with his Maker, as in
the first blissful days of Paradise.

It is therefore that I love the country, for that voice
whi :' 3 b'v.y ear may not hear, but which speaks to
rne ofb 'ter thin-s: — for that hand which the restless
eye may overlook, but which the contemplative vision
will ever discern, silently working in the order, and
regularity, and peaceful beauty of Nature. I love it,
not that with visionary enthusiasm I expect to find there
the vestiges of an innocence and uncorrupted simplicity,
w'nioh exist net save in the imagination of the poet, but
because in such scenes my mind is refreshed, and purified,
and elevated ; because

" I love not man the less, but GOD the more,"

for these my lonely communings with nature anJ my
own heart. Drawing nearer to the Fountain of all
beauty and perfection, I feel but the more disposed to
seek out and to value the traces of his image wherever
they are to be found. Intercourse with my own heart,
and increasing perception of its frailties, render me more
indulgent to the weaknesses of my fellow-man ; and thus
do I return, from the scenes of such meditation, to the
busier haunts of active life, more disposed, and better
fitted, to bear my part in its duties, to labour for its best
interests, to support my 'share of its evils, and to
welcome, with a grateful spirit, whatever of good it has
to bestow.

"While I write, memory is busy "re«;eop1ing witn

P

153 SOLITARY WANDERINGS.

the past." She brings before me many a fair picture of
rural loveliness, which she has preserved in colours more
glowing than the painter's hand could e'er arrest ; many
a quiet scene of sweet domestic affection, or hour of
holier and yet more sacred feeling, which have marked
these my solitary wanderings, and which the heart
treasures up amid its dearest records. I could speak of
many such, but I will not, for the garrulity of old age
might lead me on where my readers could not follow: —
the associations are wanting which might enable them to
feel as I do. Let me rather leave them to go forth and
taste for themselves, for,

''My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets,
And she that sweetens all my bitters too,
Nature, enchanting nature, (in whose form
And lineaments divine, I trace a hand
That errs not, and find raptures still renewed)
la free to aU ojen, — universal prize !**

L. II. 0.

i

15-9

THE SMUGGLER'S WIFE.

BY S. C. HALL.

*' With mourful eyes, and brow of feeling;
One hand before her meekly spreading
Tfee other back her ringlets shedding.'"

Allan Cunningham.

WHY looks the mother so lonely within her cottage
home — her own home — even at the very moment when
the prayers of her first-born ascend to the throne of the
Almighty, and her cradled infant is calmly sleeping by
her side? It is a kindly and a quiet evening; the setting
sun mingles his rays with the light fleecy clouds that sail
along the sky ; the gentle breeze wafts the fragrance of a
thousand flowers through the open casement j and the
voice of nature is calling upon every heart to be cheerful
and to be happy ; — yet is the mother more than pensive
as she looks forth along the far-spread heath ; and in her
chamber there are tokens that she waits the home-comins:

•j

of one, in whose presence alone her eye can brighten and
sadness and solitude be felt no more. For hours has
she listened to hear his step along the gravelled pathway
that leads from the main road to her humble dwelling
on the plain — and she is weary with the heaviness of
hope deferred.

At length her ear catches the welcome and well-
known sound of his tread ; in another moment he has

p2

1GO THE SMUGGLER'S WIFE.

passed the threshold of his door, and the anxious wife i?
in the husband's arms ; he has kissed her fair forehead,
patted her cheek, and gazed intently on his babe ; — but
he has spoken no word ; and there is a cloud upon
his brow ; his eyes appear sunk, and his lips are firmly
compressed, as if he broods over some plan of more
than ordinary moment, as he takes his accustomed seat
by the cheerful fire-side, and partakes of food slowly and
in silence ; looking now and then towards the clock, that,
with its melancholy note, alone breaks the dreariness of
the scene, giving awful notice that another moment is
gone with the past. The wife is sitting opposite the hus-
band ; her clasped hands rest on her knees ; and she is
earnestly watching the outward signs of the struggle she
knows to be passing within the breast of her beloved:
but she does not intrude her speech upon his thoughts,
until, with a deep and heavy sigh, he takes her small
hand, gently presses it, and gazes fixedly and anxiously
upon her quivering lip.

" Is there any trouble that I may not share ?" she
enquired, in that gentle tone which comes to a wounded
spirit like the summer breeze over a sick man's brow,
when for the first time he has left the heavy atmosphere of
his chamber — " or am I less the friend than the wife ?"

"Nothing, nothing, Ellen," he replied, at length,
" but that my spirits are low — and yet in truth I know
not why," he continued, assuming a look and attitude of
gaiety and carelessness — "for my labour of to-night is not
a new thing with me ; but one which I have often done
lit safety and with success The Bessy is expected in to-

±HE SMUGGLER'S WIFE, loi

night," lie added in a whisper 5 we have certain news
that she will land her cargo when the moon goes down,—
but strange does it seem that what should make me
joyous, weighs down my heart as if its veins were filled
with molten lead !''

" Then go not to-night, Herbert, — Oh ! go not with
these fearful and reckless men, — pursue no longer a
course that may lead to death j but listen again to the
warning you have so often heard from my lips. "

" Nay, Ellen, soon will thy daily prayer be answered —
but to-night must see me on the shore ; I am pledged
to be there before the midnight comes ; but take the
word of one who never deceived you, the morrow's dawn
shall see me an altered man — never again shall the
smuggler hail me his companion. And now, farewell,
this will be my last night. Herbert kissed his sleeping
babe, breathed a parting prayer o^er the couch of his
boy, pressed his wife to his bosom, and paced rapidly
from his dwelling.

She watched him, until he had reached the jutting of
the road that led down to the beach. Then, sighing
heavily, she echoed her husband's words, " his last
night!" and, leaning her head upon the cradle of her
child, wept bitterly, as she prayed earnestly that his fare-
well sentence mi^ht not have an awful meaning.

o o

Herbert hurried onwards, nor paused even for a mo-
ment, until he stood before a large mansion that nearly
skirted the beach ; its broken windows and unweeded
garden showed it to be without inhabitant. It had
once been his own — it had descended to him through a

r3

1C2 THE SMUGGLER'S WUE.

long line of ancestors; arid a very few \ears had passed
since he had been greeted as one of the wealthiest men
along the whole coast of Devonshire. One of the hap-
piest he had certainly been ; — for his hopes of the future
soared but little beyond the posses-" iw -3 of the present;
his pleasures were those of a dor.; tc hearth, and all
his ambition sought for was even within his grasp.

But it is not the daring and the speculative alone that
adversity visits : — in an evil hoi r, but more from a natural
kindliness of disposition than from feelings of a selfish
nature, was Herbert induced to permit a quantity of
smuggled goods to remain in one of his cellars until
their owners had contrived some means of conveying
them to the neighbouring town of Barnstable. These
were discovered by the officers of excise ; the unfortunate
gentleman was prosecuted, exchequered in an enormous
sum, and utterly, and, as it appeared, irretrievably ruined.
The lofty mansion in the dale was exchanged for the
humble cottage on the moor; but as a recompense for
poverty and loss of character, he had then a conscience
void of offence, and the knowledge that in r .versiiy and
in prosperity his wife was still the same ; — there was
hope in every tone of her sweet gentle voice, in every
glance of her mild blue eye— the smile of affection was
never for a moment away from her eloquent counte-
nance; and the dwelling he had shuddered to think upon,
became happier and more cheerful than the abode from
which he had been driven — an exile within sight of
home.

But, partly from necessity, and partly because he con-

THE SMUGGLER'S WIFE.

ceived himself a wronged and injured man, he was in-
duced to form a connexion with one of the lawless bands
that infested the sea-coast of Devonshire ; and, from
a suspected smuggler, became one in reality. Notwith-
standing the continued exertions of his wife to wean him
from a course of crime and danger, he had persevered,
until much of the wealth he had lost had returned again
to his coffers, — and when he spoke of the re-purchase of
his ancient home and estate, it was not as a far-off pros-
pect, but as an event almost within his reach. It was this
feeling, and this hope, that came over him, as he stood
before the broken door of the deserted house.

" Soon shall ye be my own," he exclaimed, as he
paused at the threshold, — " my own, once more ; and in
your spacious halls shall my Ellen sit as meekly and as
gently as in her humble cottage on the moor — soon will
ye be my own again, home of my fathers !"

He whistled j the sound was answered ; and in a few
moments he was in the midst of a band of resolute and
daring men, who welcomed him as their leader.

•' Comrades ! the moon wanes ; have you any one on
the look-out ?"

" Ay, Sir, ay," replied a stout hardy seaman : "Jack
Minns is up aloft with the night-glass ; and I warrant
me Jack will see her ten knots off."

" Is there any one upon the watch on the main road,
and to the left of the hill ?"

" Ay, Sir, ay, all is cared for, and I warrant me the
bonny Bess will land her cargo safe enough, long before
the morning breaks."

THE SMUGGLER'S

The gang were carousing merrily ; but Herbert sat
apart. His thoughts were with his lone wife in her
cottage ; well he knew that the night would be to her
sleepless as to him : and it was with an aching heart,
and a burning brow, that he looked upon the calm
heavens, and then towards the moor that lay shrouded
in darkness, and breathed a low and solemn prayer that
the innocent might not suffer with the guilty. It was a
vain and foolish prayer; it was a solemn mockery of
justice ; and he knew it. The husband and the father
should have remembered that in his dishonour was his
children's shame ; that in his misery they must partici-
pate ; and that the consequences of his crime could not
be visited alone on him. It was thus he reasoned, when
such reasoning could avail him nought.

la about an hour, Jack Minns descended from the
roof of the house, and gave notice that the Bessy was
in ihe offing. Instantly, the party were in motion, and
on their way to the shore. Silently and steadily they
passed down the rugged and broken cliffs, and stood at
the water's edge. Soon a solitary spark was seen dimly
burning:, for an instant, upon the surface of the ocean ;
so faint was it, that by those only who looked for it, could
it be discerned. It pointed out where the vessel lay.
The signal was answered from the shore : a flash from
a pistol-pan informed the smugglers where they might
land — and, in a few moments, the muffled oars were
rapidly bearing a boat to land. A. brief greeting was
exchanged between the seai^en and their associates, and
Uie work of unloading commenced. In a soace o*" time

THE SMUGGLER'S WIFE. 105

almost incredibly short, she was on her way towards the
ship, when a sound that resembled a stifled scream
passed along the waves ; and the boatmen stayed their
oars, first looking along the sea, where tlieir own vessel
rode tranquilly upon the waters, and then towards the
'and, where they could discern, in the dim twilight, an
jnusual and omincus bustle among the party they had
left.

It was not the ordinary stir of their employment that
engaged the smugglers on shore. Herbert had given his
directions ; and along the craggy cliffs were the tubs
and bales borne to a place of safety, when he perceived
a stranger among the group, and instanti'y pointed him
out to Minns, who advanced, laid his hand upon him,
gjid attempted to force his slouched hat from his head.
The attempt was resisted, when th° smuggler drew a
pistol from his belt, and said in a low tone — " Friend
or foe ?"

The stranger replied by knocking the pistol out of the
hand that threatened him, and rushed up the cliffs, fol-
lowed by a number of the party, one of whom fired his
pistol at the spy. The sound echoed from rock to rock,
and as it died away, the voice of Jack Minns was heard
in a kind of hissing whisper that passed through the
group.

" Comrades, we are betrayed ! — off! off!"

But ere they could resolve on what course to pursue,
a party of soldiers bent their bodies over the precipice,
and pointed their muskets at the gang beneath. The
click of their fire-arms was distinctly heard, and the

VG6 THE SMUGGLER'S WIFE.

gleam of their brightness met the gaze of the smugglers,
as they looked upwards and shuddered. The next
sounds were the fearful warning. " Yield, in the King's
name !" and the reply of some daring and reckless
man, " Come and take us !"

The smugglers had shrunk under the partial shelter o*
the overhanging cliffs, but as they looked to the right or
left, they saw that every pass was guarded. They had
brief time for thought: — the soldiers with their fixed
bayonets were marching in order towards the strand,
and a signal fire was instantly blazing on the heights.

<c They are but few now," exclaimed Minns ; " let us
fight it out before the rest come on us."

Herbert made no reply. Every nerve was paralized ;
his countenance became pale as death ; and a deep and
hollow groan came from his bosom, at the very moment
when Minns, struggling with the foremost soldier of the
band, received the contents of a musket through his
heart, and with a loud shriek fell along the shore.

The contest was brief, but did not terminate until
more than one soldier had been wounded, and several
smugglers had been stretched upon the crimsoned sand.
Almost broken in heart, and wounded — for he had
fought like a tiger in his lair, when he found the hunters
press hardly upon him — was Herbert led, a gyved
prisoner, along the road towards the dwelling that was
once his own.

The morning was breaking over the earth, and still as
a prisoner, with a felon's death before him, lay Herbert,
beside his own once cheerful and happy hearth, when a

THE SMUGGLER'S WIFE. 1G7

gentle tap was heard at the casement ; — with a faultering
step he approached, looked beneath, and beheld his wife:
— she made a sign to be cautious ; and having first
ascertained that his guards were sleeping, Herbert care-
fully opened the window, and in another moment she
was in his arms : — a few brief whispers served to tell the
purport of her visit : —

" Oh, Herbert, this is no time for reproach — to save
the erring father of my children am I here. Oh, if my
warning voice had been heard ere the fatal night that is
now fearfully passing I"

Her object was soon explained ; and in a few seconds
Herbert had taken her cloak, wrapt her in his long and
heavy coat, placed his hat on her head, pressed her to
his bosom, and he was crawling away under the shaddow
of the trees. In the already dawning twilight, he could
perceive her at the window, pressing her hand to her
brow, and her raised finger was directing his course
towards the beach.

The whole transaction was scarcely the work of a
ninute, but it was an eventful one ; for she had scarcely
closed the window, ere one of the soldiers awoke, turned
and looked carefully round the room — the prisoner was
seated in a corner ; leaning her head upon her arm ;
and above an hour passed before the escape of Herbert
was discovered.

In vain did they search every portion of the old
mansion , and scour the neighbouring hills and plains —
the object thev sought was no where to be found ; — and
although Ellen was led to the nearest town and examined,

1CS THE SMUGGLER'S WIFE.

her bondage was brief, — she was suffered to return to her
children.

Nearly a year nad passed, and she had received no
tidings of her husband,— hope had at length gone from
ner, — in sorrow and in solitude did she spend her days,
and even the sweet smiles and gentle accents of her
children failed to call back comfort to her heart and
dwelling. A long weary winter and a cheerful spring
had gone by; and summer had again decked the land
in beauty. Driven from her humble cottage, and
pointed at as the smuggler's wife, in the neighbouring
town of Barnstaple, in which she at first sought refuge,
she had travelled along the coast, — poor, and friendless,
and deserted, — with no comforter but that religion which
had never left her, either in the lofty dwelling on the
strand, the humble cottage on the moor, or during
her wanderings along the public highways, — depending
for existence upon the poor pittance that the cold hand
of chanty might fling to her. At length, in a dark and
cheerless lodging in the outskirts of Ilfracombe, did
Ellen Herbert find shelter, and, by the labour of her
hands, did she bring up those who were more desolate
than orphans.

Morning, noon, and night, did she fervently pray
that, wherever her husband wandered, the light of truth
might visit him, — and that deep adversity might teach
him the lesson of honourable contentment he had failed
to learn from the precepts and example of his wife.

One evening, when her children were at rest, she had
laid aside her work, and the Book of Truth lay open on

THE SMUCliur.EV; WIFE. 169

her table; she had been comforted by its pages, that
speak so strongly to the faithful of reward ; to the
desolate, of hope; when the latch was gently raised, and
Herbert met the gaze of his wife: — pale and haggard,
and in the garb of extreme poverty, did he stand before
her, and listen to the throbs that came from her bosom,
mingled with grateful thanks to the giver of all good that
hfi was yet alive.

Her prayers had been heard. The hand of affliction
h;id been heavy upon him in the far distant land to
which he had escaped; but affliction had been to him
mercy ; the bread that had been cast upon the waters,
had been returned after many days ; the prayers of the
righteous had availed much ; — changed in heart did he
once more tread the shores of his native land, and seek
out those beloved ones from whom he might ngain hear
the blessed words of husband and father.

All the night long did they sit, hand in hand, and
speak their gratitude to God, who had made adversity
the handmaid of religion : and in calm confidence they
spake of the future, as more full of hope than of fear.
"Steadfastly purposing to lead a new life," did the out-
lawed smuggler detail to his trusting and virtuous com-
panion, the trials he had encountered — trials that had
vorked together for his good. And the early morning
beheld them, with their boy and babe, journeying from
the town.

In the metropolis, to which they travelled, Herbert,
under another name, soon obtained employment; re-
gained his lost character; and by a course of unremit-

Q

170 A LAY OF THE MARTYRS.

ting industry and integrity, arrived, step by step, to a
respectable and lucrative station in the office of an
extensive merchant, whose partner he became, after the
lapse of a few years.

Many persons are there, in the county of Devon, who
have received from their fathers the above story of
Herbert the Smuggler. The circumstances will be fami-
liar to some of them, although nearly a century has
passed over the transaction — for it has been recorded,
as nearly as possible, after the manner in which it was
related to the writer, as a true tale.

A LAY OF THE MARTYRS.

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

" OWHERZ have you been, bonny Morley Reid ?

For mony a long night and day
1 have missed ye sair, at the Wanlock-head,

And the cave o' the Louther brae.

Our friends are waning fast away,

Baith frae the cliff and the wood ;
They are tearing them frae us ilka day
For there's naething will please but blood.

And, O bonny Morley, I maun now

Gie your heart muckle pain,
For your bridegroom is a missing too,

And 'tis feared that he is ta'en.

A LAY OP THE MARTYR... 17]

We have sought the caves o' the Enlerkin,

And the dens o' the Ballybough,
And a' the howes o' the Ganna linn

And we wot not what to do."

" Dispel your fears, good Marjory Laing,

And hope all for the best,
For the servants of God will find a place,

Their weary heads to rest.

There are better places, that we ken o*

And seemlier to be in,
Than all the dens of the Ballybough,

Or howes o' the Ganna linn.

But sit thee down, good Marjory Laing,

And listen a while to me,
For I have a tale to tell to you,

That will bring you to your knee.

I went to seek my own dear James

In the cave o' the Louther brae,
For I had some things, that of a' the world,

He best deserved to ha'e.

I had a kebbuck in my lap,

And a fadge o' the flower sae sma',
And a sark I had made for his board ly back,

As white as the new dri'en snaw.
02

172 A LAY OF THE MARTYRS.

I sought him over hill and dale,

Shouting by cave and tree,
But only the dell, with its eiry yel\,

An answer returned to me.

1 sought him up, and I sought him do\vRj

And echoes returned his name,
Till the gloffs o' dread shot to my heart,

And dirled through a' my frame.

I sat me down by the Enterkin,

And saw, in a feerful line,
The red dragoons come up the path,

Wi' prisoners eight or nine.

And one of them was my dear, dear James,

The flower of a' his kin;
He was wounded behind, and wounded before,

And the blood ran frae his chin.

He was bound upon a weary hack,
Lashed both by hough and heel,

And his hands were bound behind his b tck,
Wi' the thumbikins of steel.

1 kneeled before that popish band,

In the fervour of inward strife,
And I raised to heaven my trembling h.in i,

And begged my husband s life,

A LAY OF THE MARTYRS. 173

But all the troop laughed me to scorn,

Making my grief their game.
And the captain said some words to me,

Which I cannot tell you for shame.

And then he cursed our whiggish race,

With a proud and a scornful brow,
And bade me look at my husband's face,

And say how 1 liked him now.

O, I like him weel, thou proud Captain,

Though the blood runs to his knee,
And all the better for the grievous wrongs

He has suffered this day frae thee.

But can you feel within your heart,

That comely youth to slay ;
For the hope you have in heaven, Captain,

Let him gang wT me away.

Then the Captain swore a fearfu' oath,

With loathsome jest and mock,
That he thought no more of a whigamore's lifc.

Than the life of a noisome brock.

Then my poor James to the Captain called,

And he begg'd baith hard and sair,
To have one kiss of his bonny bride,

Ere we parted for evermair.
Q3

]74 A LAY ^F THE MARTYRS.

I'll dothat for you, said the proud CapUin,

And save you the toil to-day,
And, moreover, I'll take her little store,

To support you by the way.

He took my bountith from my lap,

And I saw with sorrow dumb,
That he parted it all among his men,

And gave not my love one crumb.

Now, fare you well, my very bonny bridev
Cried the Captain with disdain :

When I come back to the banks of With,
I shall kiss you sweetly then.

Your heartiest thanks must sure be given,
For what I have done to-day, —

I am taking him straight on the road to heaven
And short will be the way.

My love he gave me a parting look,

And blessed me ferventlye,
And the tears they mixed wi' his purple blood,

And ran down to his knee."

" What's this I hear, bonny Morley Reid ?

How could these woes betide ?
For blither you could not look this day,

Were your husband by your side.

A LAY OF THE MARTYRS. 175

One of two things alone is left,

And dreadful the one to me,
For either your fair wits are reft,

Or else your husband's free."

*' Allay your fears, good Marjory Laing,

And hear me out the rest, —
You little ken what a bride will do,

For the youth she likes the best.

I hied me home to my father's ha',

And through a' my friends I ran,
And I gathered me up a purse o'goud,

To redeem my young good man.

For I ken'd the papish lowns would well

My fair intent approve,
For they'll do far mair for the good red goud,

Than they'll do for heaven above.

And away I i an to Edenburgh town,

Of my shining treasure vain,
To buy my James from the prison strong,

Or there with him remain.

I sought through a' the city jails,

I sought baith lang and sair,
But the guardsmen turned me frae their doors,

And swore that he was not there.

176 A LAY OF THE MARTYRS.

I went away to the popish duke,
Who was my love's judge to be,

And I proffered him a' my yellow store,
If he'd grant his life to me.

He counted the red goud slowly o'er,

By twenties and by tens,
And said I had taken the only means

To attain my hopeful ends.

And now, said he, your husband's safe,
You may take this pledge of me,

And I'll tell you, fair one, where you'll go
To gain this certaintye.

Gang west the street and down the bow,
And through the market place,

And there you will meet with a gentleman,
Of a tall and courteous grace.

He is clad in a livery of the green,
With a plume aboon his bree,

And armed with a halbert glittering sheen,
Your love he will let you see.

O Marjory, never flew blithsome bird
So light out through the sky,

As I flew up that stately street,
Weeping for very joy.

A LAY OF THE MARTYRS. 17?

O, never flew lamb out o'er the lea,

When the sun gangs o'er the hill,
Wi' lighter, blither steps than me,

Or skipped wi* sic good will.

And aye I blessed the precious ore,

My husband's life that wan,
And I even blessed the popish duke,

For a kind, good hearted man.

The officer I soon found out,

For he could not be mistook,
But in all my life I never beheld

Sic a grim and a gruesome look.

1 asked him for my dear, dear James,

With throbs of wild delight,
And begged him in his master's nams,

To take me to his sight.

He asked me for his true address,

With a voice at which I shook,
For I saw that he was a popish knave,

By the terror of his look.

I named the name with a buoyant voice,

That trembled with extasye,
But the savage brayed a hideous laugh,

Then turned and grinned at me. 9

A LAY OF THE MARTYRS.

He pointed up to the city wall ;

One look benumbed my soul,
For there I saw my husband's head,

Fixed high upon a pole.

His yellow hair waved in the wind,

And far behind did flee,
And his right hand hang beside his cheek{

A waesome sight to see.

His chin hang down on open space,

Yet comely was his brow,
And his een were open to the breeze, —

There was nane to close them now.

" What think you of your truelove now ?

The hideous porter said ;
" Is not that a comely sight to see,

And sweet to a whiggish maid ?"

O, haud your tongue, ye popish slave,

For I downae answer you j
He was dear, dear to my heart befoie,

But never sae dear as now.

I see a sight you cannot see,

Which man cannot efface ;
I see a ray of heavenly love

Naming on that dear face.

A LAY OF THE MARTYRS. 179

And weel I ken yon bonny brent brow,

Will smile in the walks on high,
And yon yellow hair, all blood-stained nov

Maun wave aboon the sky

But can you trow me, Marjory dear,

In the might of heavenly grace,
There was never a sigh burst frae my heart,

Nor a tear ran o'er my face.

But I blessed my God, who had thus seen meet

To take him from my side,
To call him home to the courts above,

And leave me a virgin bride."

" Alak, alak, bonny Morley Reid,

That sic days we hae lived to see,
For sickan a cruel and waefu' tale

Was never yet heard by me.

And all this time, I have trembling weened,

That your dear wits were gone,
For there is a joy in your countenance,

Which I never saw beam thereon.

Then let us kneel with humble hearts,

To the God whom we revere,
Who never yet laid that burden on,

Which he gave not strength to bear."

180

THE VOICE OF PROPHECY.

BY THE REV. CHARLES WILLIAMS.

*' Truth is strange,
Stranger than fiction/'

MAN, richly endowed as he is, has been denied the
attribute of prescience. Such a boon would have proved
inimical to his peace ; its withholdment demands, there-
fore, acquiescence and gratitude. In the perverseness of
his spirit, however, he is often dissatisfied with this
negation in his lot, and, were it possible, would im-
petuously rend asunder the veil which overhangs futurity;
but, failing in his efforts, he welcomes every promise to
draw it aside, and to cast a revealing light on things to

come.

In this infatuation originated the oracles of antiquity,
amounting, it is calculated, to not fewer than three
hundred ; among which that of Apollo at Delphos, and
that of Dodona, consecrated to Jupiter, were the most
renowned. So great was the charm attendant on their
celebrity, that responses were received with implicit con-
fidence, though delivered in the murmurs of a fountain,
in the sounds of a brazen kettle, or by the lips of the
Pythoness, who, having passed through the preparatory
rites and inhaled the sacred vapour, arose from her
tripod, and with a distracted countenance, with hair
erect, with a foaming mouth, and with shrieks and howl-

THE VOICE OF PROPIILCY. Ibl

ings which niied the temple, and shook it to its ba^e,
uttered some unconnected words, to be collected by tiie
priests, and pronounced the decisions of inexorable fate.
And, strange as it may appear, a similar fascination i.s
still extant. Dupes are found in towns and villages by a
wandering tribe, —

" the sportive wind blows wide
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,
The vellum of the pedigree they claim ;"

while modern seers, unhappily, are in no want of readers
for their volumes, or listeners to their harangues.

Well may the heart sicken at such proofs of hum a
imbecility. Many fire the minds which never rise beyond
the infancy of their powers ; and not a few are there
which make a sudden lapse into a second childhood.
There is, however, the consolation that imposture proves
the existence of reality, and that there are

" Oracles truer far than oak
Or dove or tripod ever spoke ;"

notwithstanding the preference which prevails for falla-
cies, and the too common disposition to effect the ac-
cordance of what is infallibly true with wild hypotheses.
Among the pedictions that substantiate their claim to
a divine origin, are those associated with the history of
Tyre, and on these a few illustrative remarks may not be
deemed uninteresting or unseasonable. Antiquity speaks
indeed of three cities, erected at different periods, which
bore a similar designation. Tyre on the continent, called

THE VOICE OF PROPIIECIT.

aiso Palse-Tyrus, or old Tyre ; Tyre, on the islanc , which?
according to Pliny, was little more than half a mile from
the continent j and Tyre on the peninsula : but it appears
they were actually one, for an artificial isthmus is said
to have joined the old and new cities.

At the time to which allusion should first be made,
Palse-Tyrus had attained the towering pinnacle of wealth
and fame. Every part of the known world wafted trea-
sures to her ports, and people of all languages thronged
her streets. Within her boundaries, was the chief seat
of liberal arts — the mart of nations — the vast emporium
of the globe. Her merchants were princes; and Tyre,
having taught her sons to navigate the mighty deep, and
to brave the fury of its storms, stretched forth her radiant
sceptre — the empress of the seas.

Amid the splendour, luxury, and pride of unsurpassed
prosperity, a holy seer, with ashes on his head, a coun-
tenance of noble expression, and a garment of sackcloth
cast over a frame of vigorous maturity, went forth, and
in tones of authority, softened by compassion, announced,
among indifferent, scornful, and insulting multitudes,
the solemn prophecy of Tyie's destruction. At the sounds
which fell from his lips the loud laugh often rose; the
wit and the mimic made* the prophet their sport at many
a banquet ; to every false prognostication was given the
name of Ezekiel ; and more than one generation passed
away, leaving the daring impiety of the Tyrians un-
visited, and the true and holy character of Jehovah
unavenged.
But at length, the sword of justice, slumbering in its

THE VOICE OF PROPHECY.

scabbard for more than a hundred years, awoke. Ne-
buchadnezzar, who had been expressly announced, came
forth " from the north, with horses, and chariots, and
companies, and much people," attacked Palse-Tyrus, and
continued the siege for thirteen years. Availing them-
selves of their physical superiority over the invader, the
Tyrians made their escape by sea ; hence their colonies
were scattered far and wide, and the city, which was
called the daughter of Sidon, became the parent of
Carthage. Success was, therefore, to the conqueror only
the harbinger of disappointment ; he found Tyre strip-
ped of its treasures and almost deserted ; and in the
furious exasperation of his wrath, he put the remnant of
a vast and luxurious population to a cruel and imme-
diate death, and consigned the scene of their departed
giory to utter destruction.

If, however, unlike the fabled phoenix, it was forbid-
den to rise from its ashes, it was permitted to resemble
the father who lives again in his son, for insular, or
New Tyre, soon rose to distinction, became a mart of
universal merchandize, m?d '* heaped up silver as the
tlust, and fine gold as the mire of the streets." Sur-
rounded by a wall, a hundred and fifty feet high, built
upon the very extremity of the island, and laved on every
side by the ocean's billows, it appeared impregnable. But
the revival of power was transient — the semblance of
security \vas delusive, for scarcely had a century elapsed
Mr hen Alexander panted to reckon it among his proud
possessions. Rushing to the city to slake his burning
Us.-: ires, eagerly as the hunted deer hurries to quart the

R 2

J34 THE VOICE OF PROPHr.CV.

tool waters of the lake, he found a spirit of resistance
awakened, equal in energy to the ardour of conquest.

Never did the collision of human passions enkindle
a contest more violent and sanguinary than that which
immediately commenced, — the heart chills at the recol-
lection of its details, and the hand refuses to present
them to the eye. Furiously repelled by a desperate
people, the invaders had to contend with exasperated
elements. A junction with the main land, rendered
necessary by the previous destruction of the isthmus, was
almost complete, when a storm arose — the waves dashed
with resistless force against the mass — the waters pene-
trated the strong foundation — and like the sea-giit rock
riven by an earthquake, it sunk at once in the yawning
abyss.

No sooner was this repaired by the aid of the pa-
triarchs of the vegetable world, — the cedars of Leba-
non,—

" Coeval with the sky-crowned mountain's self,"

and the military engines placed upon it, hurling arrows,
stones, and burning torches on the besieged, while the
Cyprian fleet approached the harbour, to the unutterable
terror of the Tyrians, than, suddenly, thick and gloomy
clouds en wrapt the sky ; — every moon-beam was extin-
guished ; — the sea insensibly arose, casting far and wide
the foam of its wrath j — the vessels fastened together
were torn asunder with a horrid crash ; and the flotilla,
once tremendous and threatening destruction, returned a
wreck to the shore.

THE VOICE OF PROPHECY.

Disphited by these circumstances, and by unquench-
able valour, Alexander had almost determined to raise the
siege ; but a supply of eight thousand men having arrived
in compliance with his demand, from Samaria, (then the
asylum of all the malcontents in Judea,) he gave fresh
energy and horror to the conflict j and at length, amid
the shouts and yells of infuriated multitudes, the ocean-
sceptre of Tyre was broken — the splendid city was given
to the devouring flame — and two thousand victims
remaining, when the soldiers were glutted with slaugh-
ter, they were transfixed to crosses along the sea-shore.

And now, as the traveller seeks for ancient Tyre, he
will find its reliques in a miserable spot named Sir.
Instead of a magnificent spectacle, enkindling admiration,
delight, and astonishment, nothing but the fragments of
scattered ruins will meet his view ; instead of gay and
glittering throngs, he will recognize only a few wretches,
plunged in the deepest poverty, who burrow in vaults,
and subsist on the produce of the waters ; and strange
will be the darkness of his mind, and the apathy of his
heart, if, as he muses on the contrast, and marks the
implements offishing lying on the solitary cliffs, he does
no homage to the prophetic voice which said " Thou
shall be built no more— thou shall be as the top of a
rock, thou shall be a place on which fishers shall dry
their nets !" - But another fact must now be re-
marked.

At the crisis when Alexander, desponding of victory,
contemplated the abandonment of Tyre, messengers
despatched to Jerusalem with a requisition of aid

a 3

lf THE VOICE OF PROPHECY.

returned with the reinforcement from Samaria. Hurried
instantly into the presence of the Monarch, he demanded
the number of the Jews on their march. To this inquiry
a Macedonian of noble mien replied, in a tone expies-
sive of reverence and regret, that their mission, though
undertaken by command of the greatest of Princes, had
utterly failed.

u At whose peril V asked the indignant conqueror.

" At their's, O King," replied the messenger, " to
whom our embassy was charged."

" Then be it their's," rejoined the Macedonian ; " ven-
geance shall follow their contumacy but their

answer ?"

" It was thus given," said the legate, " by the chief of
the priesthood : ' Go tell your King, that the Jews are
bound by an oath to Darius of Persia, and therefore
during his life, they cannot obey another's mandate.' '

"But they shall — they shall," — vociferated the impe-
tuous Prince ; " and no sooner shall the pride of Tyre be
brought low, than Alexander's victorious legions shall
pour a like destruction on Jerusalem ; nor shall their
Persian ally shield them from the wrath their madness
has enkindled !"

Jaddua, the High Priest, could easily anticipate the
ebullition of the Macedonian's ire, but portentous as it
appeared, duty left him no alternative. To disobey the
mandate was indeed to expose himself and his people to
the violence of an exasperated power ; but what was this
compared with the breach of a solemn pledge ? With a
conscience unstained and unburdened, they could rely

THE VOICE OF PROPHECY. 387

implicitly on Israel's God ; and as he thought of their
deliverance from the plot of Haman, the son of Ham-
medatha the Agagite, he pronounced his decision with a
countenance beaming with placid dignity, with a steady
gaze, and with an unfaltering tongue j nor was his se-
renity ruffled by the ill-repressed rage of those to whom
it was delivered. At the offering of the evening sacrifice
however, he did not forget to supplicate pardon, if he had
unwittingly trespassed ; nor to implore the divine bene-
diction, if his determination were accordant with his
character and office.

But as the interests of his people, infinitely dearer than
his own, were now in imminent peril, the fervent sup-
plications of his bosom were not enough, and he therefore
issued his command for a general and solemn con-
vocation.

The day arrived,— the hum of secular occupation was
hushed — the Sabbath seemed suddenly to have returned,
and multitudes from every part proceeded to the temple.
In the first court, surrounded by a range of cloisters, over
which were galleries supported by columns, each consist-
ing of a single piece of white marble, stood the Gentile
proselytes ; within — but seperated by a low stone parti-
tion, on which pillars were placed, inscribed with a
prohibition to an alien to enter the holy place — appeared
vhe Jewish women : on an elevation of fifteen steps arose
th? court appropriated to the worship of the male Israelites;
above this was that of the priests, cut off from the rest 01
the building by a wall one cubit high, and surrounding
the altar of burnt-offerings, and between it and the holy

183 THE VOICE OF PROPHECY.

of holies, were the sanctuary and the portico, in which
splendid votive offerings were suspended; — while the
various inclosures were thronged with worshippers, with
eyes cast reverently downward, with hands meekly cros-
sed upon their breasts, and with uncovered feet, blending
their fervent prayers with acts of deepest humiliation, to
deprecate the vengeance, which, like an immense thunder-
cloud, hovered over Jerusalem.

Refreshed as the Israelites were by the pure streams
of Elim, Jaddua retired from the magnificent and solemn
scene ; and when at the usual hour he sought repose, his
venerable cheek was irradiated by the brighest glow of
hope. As he sunk into slumber, that glow was softened,
until at last it melted into an expression of profound
reverence ; for He, who commands every avenue to the
mind, deigned to approach his servant in the visions of
the night, smiled upon him with ineffable beignity, as-
sured him of the ascent of his offerings with a grateful
odour, pointed out the means to be employed, and
engaged to throw around his people the shield of his
Almighty arm

Shilling through tears of astonishment and gratitude,
the High Priest awoke ; and soon was the heavenly mo-
nition obeyed. Again the whole city was in motion, —
all its magnificent portals were thrown open — an abun-
dance of flowers, asphodel, ranunculuses, anemonies,
phalangias, hermolanuses, — all the varieties of beauty
and fragrance, were profusely strewed through the streets
— and a splendid and august procession issued forth from
Jerusalem.

THE VOICE OF PROPHECY. ] 89

First appeared the venerable and lofty-minded Jaddua,
the snows of whose age finely contrasted with the fire
that flashed from his daik, full eye; he wore the linen
ephod, splendidly wrought with gold and purple,
bearing on its shoulder-straps two gems, and in its hem
a row of golden bells separated from one another by
artificial pomegranates — on his bosom was the breast-
plate of judgment, of exquisite workmanship, studded
with precious stones, inscribed with the names of the
twelve sons of Jacob, and holding the mysterious Urirn
and Thummim — while his forehead was adorned with a
crown of pure gold, on which was written, " Holiness
to the Lord." He was followed by the Priests, the
Levites, the Nethinims in their official vestments, by the
singers and minstrels with the harp, the trumpet, and all
the treasures of a land whose native genius was music,
and by an immense multitude of the people attired in
white; and as they descended the hill of Zion, and
entered the deep valley again, encircled with noble hills,
the chorus of the song of David melted in the air : —
" The Lord of Hosts is with us ; The God of Jacob is
our refuge."

Having at length reached Sapha, the procession
stopped. From that noble eminence the eye beholds
an extensive and delightful scene. Industry has tri-
umphed over every physical disadvantage, and covered
the lime-stone rocks and stony vallies of Judea with
luxuriant plantations of figs, vines, and olives. For
Ages the whole surface of the hills has been overspread
with gardens, rich in all that is beautiful, fragrant, and
delicious ; and even the most sterile mountains have had

;80 Tm: VOICE OF PROPHECY.

•joil accumulated ou their sides, and rival the most pro-
mising spots in the abundance of their produce. At the
foot of heights which terminate for a space a mountainous
tract, Sichem appears luxuriantly embosomed in the
most delightful and fragrant bowers, and partially con-
cealed by the stately trees which encompass the bold
and beautiful valley, from which arises this metropolis
of an extensive country. Beyond this, Thabor raises its
head, lofty and alone, from one side of the great plain
of Esdraelon, the frequent encampment of Arabs, whose
tents and pavilions of all colours, surrounded by horses
and camels, some in square battalions, others in circular
troops, and others again in lines, present a spectacle
resembling a vast army, or the siege of a city.

From a scene thus imposing, the eyes of Jaddua and
those around him were now diverted by different objects.
Already could they discern the troops of the all-
conquering Macedonian, who, with their leader, antici-
pated a slaughter like that in which their hands had just
been imbrued. Every heart was impelled by the same
feeling — a hatred bitter as death swallowed up all other
emotions, and the thirst of wolves or of tigers seemed
likely to be slaked only by a lake of blood.

Alexander, observing the procession of the Jews,
dismounted, and advanced to the front of his troops j
but amid the astonishment, dismay, and despair of his
legions, he no sooner recognized the High Priest by his
magnificent dress and the sacred name on his brow,
than he fell at his feet in profound homage, and then,
rising from the earth, saluted him with the deepest
veneration.

THE VOICE OF PROPHECY. 191

Indignant at this act of submission, Parmenlo ex-
claimed : " Does the Sovereign, whom all adore, thus
yield what it is his universally to claim."

«'Knowest thou then," replied the Monaich, "the
object of this reverence?"

"Surely," rejoined the favourite, "this Jewish Priest
is he/'

" He is not, Parmenio," said Alexander — " thou hast
yet to know that when I was at Dia, my mind fixed on
the Persian war, and revolving the means for the con-
quest of Asia, this venerable man, thus attired, appeared
to me in a dream, charged me to banish fear and to
cross the Hellespont, and declared that God would march
at the head of my legions and grant me a splendid
triumph — I therefore adore the Divinity in the person
of his Priest."

Having given this reply, Alexander embraced Jaddua
and all his brethren, and proceeded in the midst of them
towards Jerusalem j while as they advanced, the High
Priest could not restrain the glowing language of his
ardent spirit, resembling that which fell in after days ;

Behold the temple,
In undisturbed and lone serenity,
Finding itself a solemn sanctuary
In the profound of heaven ! It stands before us
A mount of suns, fretted with golden pinnacles.
The very sun, as though he worshipped there,
Lingers upon the gilded cedar roof,
And down the long and branching portico*,
On every flowery sculptured capital
Glitters the homage of his parting beam.

19'2 THE VOICE OF PROPHECY.

Alexander felt the appeal ; and as soon as the sacred
edifice was entered, he inquired how he could present
an acceptable offering; the delighted Priest directed him
to the ritual of Moses, and that day the holocausts of
the Macedonian were consumed on Jehovah's altar.

No sooner was the last sacrifice presented than Jaddua
took the sacred rolls from the golden ark, whose tissued
curtains hid them, as in a sanctuary, from every casual
eye, exclaiming, "There are other visions, O King,
than that of Dia j — visions which only ask a steady gaze
to reward him who looks with heaven's own beams."

"To whom were they given?" asked Alexander,
whose romantic spirit instantly lighted up his strongly-
marked countenance with lively expectation.

" To one of Israel's seers, replied the Priest, Daniel
by name ; he beheld them in the splendid palace of
Shushan j and as he trod the flowery banks of Ulai's

river."

" Command him then instantly to appear," cried
Alexander, "and let him tell his dreams."

"Thou canst not gaze upon him," said Jaddua, "the
holy prophet of the Lord rests in peace : his ashes are
in Babylon, but his spirit delights itself in the presence
of God with Abraham, Moses, David, and all the
redeemed of Israel. — But in this roll, immaculate and
incomparable, he has traced them all with a hand as
unerring as his lips."

" How knowest thou this ?" inquired the Macedonian.

" The dew of heaven cannot bless one spot with
fertility and curse another with barrenness," said the

THE VOICE OF PROPHECY. 193

Priest ; " neither can he to whom God gives the words
of truth write or utter falsehoods. — Daniel was a prophet
highly favoured. When Nebuchadnezzar, Assyria's
Monarch, had a dream, which departed from him in the
confusion of his mind, and the astrologers, soothsayers,
and magicians of his court, though threatened with death
in case of failure, could not reveal it, Daniel, at that
time one of the children of the captivity, described all he
had beheld ; and was raised as his reward to honour and
dominion. When, too, Belshazzar was feasting with a
thousand of his lords, a mysterious hand came forth and
wrote over against the candlestick, upon the plaster of
the wall of the King's palace, some words in letters of
light ; but none could decypher them, till Daniel read
in them the doom of the idolatrous prince ; and received
for his interpretation, the satrap's scarlet robe, the chain
of purest gold, and the dignity of third ruler in Chaldea's
realm. Besides, an angel came to him, even Gabriel,
chief of the heavenly hosts, and revealed all that should
take place in the latter days ; and if

" Enough ! enough !" said Alexander, hastily, " I'll
hear thy oracle."

" He looked," resumed Jaddua, t( on a stormy and
tempestuous sea, the sign of a world of strife, and from
it four beasts arose. — The first was like a lion, having
eagle's wings, — but its wing's were soon plucked." — •

" Of what was this the symbol ?" asked Alexander.

" Of the kingdom of Babylon," replied the Priest,
" whose conquests were rapid as the eagle's flight when
hastening to its prey : the spirit and arms of Nebuchad-

s

1£4 THE VOICE OF PROPHECY.

nezzar raised it to the pinnacle of its glory in a few
short years; but when this piophecy was uttered, its
mighty opponents were tearing away its power as the
feathers are torn from the wings of a bird. The second
beast was like a bear — the emblem of a proud, haughty,
vindictive, cruel race — ."

'* Ah ! I see — the Medes and Persians — the revellers
in blood," — shouted the elated Macedonian.

" The same," rejoined the Priest ; " but mark ! — the
third beast was like a leopard having four heads, on its
back were the wings of a fowl, and to it was given do-
minion— thus denoting one of little stature but great
courage, whose triumphs accumulate as the wind heaps
up the sand of the desert, or as the cloud like a man's
hand gathers the vapours from every quarter when it has
arrived near the zenith, till they overspread the sky ; —
and who will yet combat with a mighty king and compel
him to lick the dust — one — "

" Alexander is the leopard, and Darius is his prey,"
said the Monarch ; ''but has the seer other signs ?"

" He has," answered Jaddua ; " Daniel beheld, in
vision, a ram, which pushed westward, and northward,
and southward, so that no beast could stand before it ;
and this the angel declared was the type of the Medes
and Persians, who urged their conquests to the ./Egean
Sea, and the bounds of Asia in the west, subdued the
Armenians and Cappadocians in the north, and con-
quered Egypt in the south 5 but a he-goat came from
the west, having a notable horn between its eyes —
and *

TIl£ VOICE OF PROPHECY. J <J3

*• A he-goat, say you, priest?"" inquired the monarch
with great eagerness, — " a he-goat is the very sign of the
Macedonians ! Was not Caranus, going with a multi-
tude of Greeks, to seek a new abode, required by the
oracle to take the goats for his guide ? D.d he not follow
a herd, flying from a violent stonr. to Et'essa ? Did
he not fix there his seat — make the goats his standards —
and call his people JE^eadse, and his ciiy ^Sgeae, after
their name ? — And is not Roxana's son ca'Ied Alex-
ander jEgus — But the horn — what means the ho/n ?"

*' It is the sign of the great king of M cedon," answered
Jaddua, ''who is described as Contending with the
goat."

"He did so." interrupted the monarch, "at the
G.anicus, and tore from his grasp the richest trophies!
Did he not defeat him again in the narrow passes of
Cilicia — and w II" he not tear the crown fioii h.:* head,
and break the staff of his power ? '

'• He wi'l," replied the priest, ?s he ro'led up the
lecord and covered it w:th its gorgeous and go 'den -fringed
mantfe ; but as b.p was about so replace it in the ark,
Alexander asked if all the prophet wrote was told. As
the question could not be evaded, Jaddua said, thai the
horn of the goat should soon be broker off, and (hat Hair
other horns should rise in its place.

The declaration cast PO shade over .he monavcVs
brovv, for his eye gloated on the dazzling honours HGW
within his grasp. He saw Darius as vainly contending
with his power as the dove does with the eagle by whose
talons it is clutched — the bright glory o f the Persians

sS

I9C THE VOICE OF PROPHECY.

appeared rising on that of his own empire, like another
sun, on the effulgent radiance of noon — ardent and rap-
turous exclamations broke upon his ear — the tieasures ot
a world seemed poured out before him as from a vast
cornucopia — and countless millions to do homage at his
feet.

Tearing himself, at length, from the dazzling vision
which absorbed his whole soul, he exclaimed, " Vener-
able priest of the Jews, had thy prophet lived, on him
I had showered gifts worthy of him to receive, and of
Alexander to bestow ; he rises aloft among seers as thou
doest among thy people — as thy temple does among their
dwellings ; — but I can reward thee for his sake, as well
as for thine own — what wilt thou ?"

" King of Macedon," replied Jaddua, " accustomed as
the Jews are to eat the simple fruits of the earth, except
at the appointed festivals, their wants are few. — "

"What then are they?1' inquired the joyous mo-
narch.

" Once in seven years/* the Priest answered, " the
Jews, according to the law of Moses, do not till their
ground, and therefore reap not the golden fruits of harvest,
and yet for that year they pay tribute/'

"Henceforth then," rejoined the king, "they shall
not ! but when Alexander wishes to bestow, those whci
ask need not soon be silent — the earth that has the forme;
needs the latter rain."

"Let then, gracious monarch," said Jaddua, "ore
more favour be granted, and the latter rain will ha/e
fallen : it is, that the Jews, who live in Babylon

THE VOICE OF PROPHECY. l97

and Media, may observe their own laws, which mak?
them differ from all other peop'e."

At the assurance of perfect liberty in these respects,
and of its extension to all Jews who might choose to
range themselves under the banners of Macedon, the
spacious chamber revei berated with shouts of joy—-
the mrltitudes without soon caught the tidings — the
sackbut, psaltery, and cymbals gave forth their sounds — •
raptmous acclamation? were echoed from hill to hill—
and, as the monarch 'eft Jerusalem, flowers were
sUewed in his path — all the music of the city was

\asked to do h;m honour thousands on thousands

pressed eagerly around his chariot — the very children
limped his name, and the eye followed him until the
dense mass of his army, augmented by numbers of ihe
Jews, looked like a dark speck on the horizon, and
then disappeared.

SEEKETH NOT HER OWN.

IN reading the apostle's beautiful description of the
varied and lovely graces of Christian charity, the lips
may sometimes dejectedly exclaim, " who is sufficient
for these things?" So trrly may conscience wain too
many of their lamentable deficiency in the exercise of
those holy tempers, which shou'd be the outward testi-
mony of that faith, by which the Christian professes that
he lives. I will not look into the world to see how
many or how few of those characteristic marks attach to

s3

193 SEEK.E1H NOT HER OWN.

those with whom I mix. I have a nearer business to
transact at home. Were I judged solely by the test of
some of these, where should I deservedly be ranked?
" Seeketh not her own,'' is one of the distinctions by
which the faithful child of God is recognised, as coming
out from amongst others, and being separate. Is this dis-
tinction mine ? Are the rights which are clearly my own,
never insisted on with a pertinacity which shows they
are estimated as something more than trusts which Pro-
vidence has reposed on me, out of which He has de-
puted me to minister as His agent ? Do I, if placed in
eminence of station from wealth, or rank, or learning, or
talent, consider myself but as an upper servant of God's
household, on whom a superior responsibility is made
to rest, and who, therefore, " seeketh not her oww," but
God's honour ? If this be so, I shall claim no peculiar
deference to be paid to my opinion, because it is mine ;
no flattering attentions to my person ; no infringment on
the inclinations and tastes of those around me, simply
that mine may have the pre-eminence. Whatever station
I am in, I shall consider the affections of others (even if
by my own undeviating tenderness I should seem to
have a just claim to them) as theirs, freely to bestow,
believing it to be my part gratefully to receive them.
Leisure and ease I shall be ready to resign, whenever the
claims of God's service and the necessities of my fellow
creatures require my attention, though the call be repug-
nant to inclination, and convenience be made the sacrifice.
Even to add to their momentary gratifications, my own
uust be taught to yield, so that they be innocent, and

StEKETH NOT HtR OWN. j9

no way likely to infringe on any higher claim which
God, or my neighbour, possesses over me. And, when
all this is done, Christianity enjoins that I seek no
praise, that I demand no compensation for the benefit,
or the pleasure, which has been bestowed. This, indeed,
would be a wide extension of that, against which the
prohibition already exists. For, in this case, should I
not seek that which, clearly, could in no sense be said
to be my own ? To whom should the praise be given,
but to Him of whom cometh the sufficiency, and "our
sufficiency is of God." To ourselves then let us ascribe,
as we justly may, every deficiency which attends our
daily performance of this prescribed command ; and to
Him be the honour, the praise, the adoration, for eve*y
power of resisting self. His grace it is which worketh
it in us, and to Him be all the gl

SMW

run: RESURRECTION.

THE ANGEL OF THE SEPULCHRE.
HE IS NOT HERE, BUT HE IS RISEN?

Gone beyond the world's control —
Upward, fiom the body's prison,

To the regions of the soul.
Time nor chance can longer bind
Jesus, — Monarch of mankind!

Dusk was upon Sion's hill,

Ni^ht was in the vale below;
All thy myriad hearts were sail —

City, doomed to matchless woe!
O'er her more than clouds were spread-
Thunders, that shall wake the dead.

Madness there had done its deed !

There, in dreams, the haughty Scnbcr,
Murderer for his vanished creed,

Launched the zealot's bitter gibe :
There, with more than aspic tongue,
His coils around the victim flung.

THE REbUKUECIION. 201

There the sullen hypocrite —

Man of blood, the Pharisee —
Darkener of the Temple's light,

Ruthless binder of the free —
In dreams ran o'er the life of guile,
And wore the double traitor's smile.

There the men of Sanhedrim,

Wrapt in old, pontific pride,
With no enemy but HIM

Who to save them, bled and died—-
Ere his hallowed blood was cold,
Grasped, in dreams, the Roman gold

There the furious multitude,
Raising in their sleep the yell,

" Be upon our heads his blood !" —
Watched his heart-drops as they fell:

Each triumphant in his pain,

As if his direst foe was slain.

Man ! are those thy vanities ?

Those the triumphs of the earth >
If the spirits of the skies

Could be stirred to bitter mirth,
Thou and all thy pride were born
Things of endless scoff and scorn.

20? HIE RESURRECTION

Yet, oh, woman's heart ! — 'twas thino
Through that night to watch and \*'

Touched with love and grief divine,
Still she gazed on Sion's steep,

Till the trembling morn-star gave

Light to lead her to the grave.

Fearless of the Roman spear,
Fearless of the Jewish chain,

Through tho valley, dim and drer»r,
Trod her steps of toil and pain ;

Though, before her, Calvary,

Daikered wiih th' accursed tree!

Rourd her lay the guilly dead,
Piied and festering from all timi-:

There, by endless victims fed,
Emblem of the throne of crime,

On the pilgrim's sluink'ng gaze

Flared Gehennah's livid blaze.

Onward still, in faith and love,

Mary sought her Master's tomb;
Li i bv wisdom from above,

* '

What to her was pain or gloom ?
Life was death, death victory —
S! e had seen her Master die!

THE RESURRECTION. 203

Now was reached the lowly cave,

Where the dead ne'er lay befor.c .
King, omnipotent to save!

When our age of guilt is o'er,
What hosannas shall be sung,
Where thy tortured form was flung!

On her eyeballs burst a flame,

Brighter than the lightning's spirp ;

From the grave the splendour camp;
On it sat a shape of fire,

With the angel-crown and plume,

Guardian of the Saviour's tomb.

One of the high cherubim

Which surround the FATHER'S thronr,
Chaunting day and night the hymn.

"King and God, thy will be done !'"
Shapes that with a touch could sweep
All earth's kingdoms to the deep!

Empire beamed upon his brow,
Power was in his lifted hand,

In his cheeks' celestial glow
Loveliness, serene and grand ;

But his flashing glance severe,

Shewed the blood-avenger their..

2M THE RESURRECTION,

" He is risen," the cherub said ;

"Death is slain, and life is comej
Seek the dead among the dead ;

Light has burst on mankind's glooia t
In the grave no longer bound—-
From tl is hour your King is crowned.

" Go, proclaim it to the world !

Mercy has been found for man ;
Satan from his throne is hurled ! —

Where the Saviour's heart-drops rafij
There shall God's high altar rise;
Lit with glory from the skies.

" Go, proclaim it to the world !

Though its crimes were red as blood,
O'er it is awing unfurled :

Though its soul were guilt-imbruedj
From the rock a fount shall spring,
Deathless balm be on that wing.

t( Go, proclaim it to the world !

That one penitential tear,
More than diadems impearled,

More than earth, is precious hers*
Earth must still in pain be trod,
But give the heart entire to God.

THE RESURRECTION. 205

" Go, proclaim it to the world !

That Creation, like a scroll,
Fire-struck, like a parchment curled,

Into dust and smoke shall roll :
Then, upon his angels' wings,
Throned shall come the King of kings,

"Then, who smote him shall be smote
Then, who loved him shall be loved j

Swifter than the flight of thought,
Flesh and blood shall be reproved j

Earth's foundations shall be air —

Faith be sight, and sin despair!"

THE INDIAN MOTHER.

There is a comfort in the strength of love,
Making that pang endurable, which else
Would overset the brain — or break the hearl

WORDSWORTH.

THE monuments which human art has raised to human
pride or power may decay with that power, or survive
to mock that pride ; but sooner or later they perish —
their place knows them not. In the aspect of a ruin,
however imposing in itself, and however magnificent or
dear the associations connected with it, there is always
something sad and humiliating, reminding us how poor

T

20o THE INDIAN MOTIIFR.

and how trail are the works of man, how unstable his
hopes, and how limited his capacity compared to his
aspirations ! But when man has made to himself monu-
ments of the works of God ; when the memory of human
affections, human intellect, human power, is blended
•with the immutable features of nature, they consecrate
each other, and both endure together to the end. In a
state of high civilization, man trusts to the record of
brick and marble — the pyramid, the column, the temple,
the tomb :

" Then the bust
And altar rise — then sink again to dust."

In the earlier stages of society, the isolated rock — the
mountain, cloud-encircled — the river, rolling to its ocean-
home — the very stars themselves were endued with
sympathies, and constituted the first, as they will be the
,ast, witnesses and records of our human destinies and
feelings. The glories of the Parthenon shall fade into
oblivion; but while the heights of Thermopylae stand,
and while a wave murmurs in the gulph of Salamisf a
voice shall cry aloud to the universe — " Freedom and
glory to those who can dare to die ! — woe and everlasting
infamy to him who would enthral the unconquerable
spirit !" The Coliseum with its sanguinary trophies is
crumbling to decay; but the islet of Nisida, where
Brutus parted with his Portia — the steep of Leucadia,
still remain fixed as the foundations of the earth; and
lasting as the round world itself shall be the memories
that hover over them ! As long as the waters of the
Hellespont flow between Sestos and Abydos, the fdrne

THE IKDIAN M0111KK. 207

of the love that perished there shall never pass away.
A u'aveller, pursuing his weary way through the midst
of an African desert — a barren, desolate, and almost
boundless solitude — found a gigantic sculptured head,
shattered and half buried in the sand ; and near it the
fragment of a pedestal, on which these words might be
with pains decyphered : " I am Ozymandias, King of
kings : look upon my works, ye mighty ones, and despair!"'
Who was Ozymandias ? — where are now his works ? —
what bond, of thought or feeling, links his past with our
present? The Arab, with his beasts of burthen, tramples
unheeding over these forlorn vestiges of human art and
human grandeur. In the wildest part of the New Con-
tinent, hidden amid the depths of interminable forests,
there stands a huge rock, hallowed by a tradition so
recent that the man is not yet grey-headed who was born
its contemporary; but that rock, and the tale which
consecrates it, shall carry down to future ages a deep
lesson — a moral interest lasting as itself — however the
aspect of things and the condition of people change
around it. Henceforth no man shall gaze on it with
careless eye j but each shall whisper to his own bosom —
" What is stronger than love in a mother's heart ? —
what more fearful than power wielded by ignorance ? —
or what more lamentable than the abuse of a beneficent
name to purposes of selfish cruelty V

Those vast regions which occupy the central part of
South America, stretching from Guiana to the foot of the
Andes, overspread with gigantic and primeval forests,
and watered by mighty rivers — those soli'ary wilds wheie

T 2

203 THE INDIAN MOTHER.

man appears unessential in the scale of creation, and the
traces of his power are few and far between — have lately
occupied much of the attention of Europeans j partly
from the extraordinary events and unexpected revolutions
which have convulsed the nations round them ; and
partly from the researches of enterprising travellers, who
have penetrated into their remotest districts. But till
within the last twenty years these wild regions have been
unknown, except through the means of the Spanish and
Portuguese priests, settled as missionaries along the
banks of the Orinoco and the Paraguay. The men thus
devoted to utter banishment from all intercourse with
civilized life, are generally Franciscan or Capuchin friars,
born in the Spanish Colonies. Their pious duties are
sometimes voluntary, and sometimes imposed by the
superiors of their order; in either case their destiny
appears at first view deplorable, and their self-sacrifice
sublime ; yet, when we recollect that these poor monks
generally exchanged the monotonous solitude of the
cloister for the magnificent loneliness of the boundless
woods and far-spreading savannahs, the sacrifice appears
less terrible ; even where accompanied by suffering,
privation, and occasionally by danger. When these
men combine with their religious zeal some degree of
understanding and enlightened benevolence, they have
been enabled to enlarge the sphere of knowledge and
civilization, by exploring the productions and geography
of these unknown regions; and by collecting into villages
and humanizing the manners of the native tribes, who
seem strangely to unite the fiercest and most abhorred

THE INDIAN MOTHER. 209

traits of savage life, with some of the gentlest instincts of
our common nature. But when it has happened that
these priests have been men of narrow minds and tyran-
nical tempers, they have on some occasions fearfully
abused the authority entrusted to them ; and being
removed many thousand miles from the European settle-
ments and the restraint of the laws, the power they have
exercised has been as far beyond control as the cala-
mities they have caused have been beyond all remedy
and all relief.

Unfortunately for those who were trusted to his charge,
Father Gomez was a missionary of this character. He
was a Franciscan friar of the order of Observance, and
he dwelt in the village of San Fernando, near the source
of the Orinoco, whence his authority extended as pre-
sident over several missions in the neighbourhood of
which San Fernando was the capital. The temper of
this man was naturally cruel and despotic ; he was wholly
uneducated, and had no idea, no feeling, of the true
spirit of Christian benevolence : in this respect, the
savages, whom he had been sent to instruct and civi-
lize, were in reality less savage and less ignorant than
himself.

Among the passions and vices which Father Gomez
had brought from his cell in the convent of Angostara,
to spread contamination and oppression through his new
domain, were pride and avarice ; and both were inte-
rested in increasing the number of his converts, or rather,
of his slaves. In spite of the wise and humane law of
Charles the Third, prohibiting the conversion of the

T3

210 THE INDIAN MOTHER.

Indian natives by force, Gomez, like others of his
brethren in the more distant missions, often accomplished
his purpose by direct violence. He was accustomed to
go, with a party of his people, and lie in wait near the
hordes of unreclaimed Indians j when the men were
absent he would forcibly seize on the women and
children, bind them, and bring them off in triumph to
his village. There, being baptized and taught to make
the sign of the cross, they were culled Christians, but in
reality were slaves. In general, the women thus detained
pined away and died ; but the children became accus-
tomed to their new mode of life, forgot their woods,
and paid to their Christian master a willing and blind
obedience; thus in time they became the oppressors of
their own people.

Father Gomez called these incursions la conguisla
espiritual — the conquest of souls.

One day he set off on an expedition of this nature,
attended by twelve armed Indians ; and after rowing
some leagues up the river Guaviare, which flows into
the Orinoco, they perceived, through an opening in the
trees, and at a little distance from the shore, an Indian
hut. It is the custom of these people to live isolated in
families; and so strong is their passion for solitude,
that when collected into villages they frequently build
themselves a little cabin at a distance from their usual
residence, and retire to it, at certain seasons, for days
together. The cabin of which I speak was one of these
solitary villas — if I may so apply the word. It was
constructed with peculiar neatness, thatched with palm

THE INDIAN MOTHER. 211

leaves, and overshadowed with cocoa trees and laurels ;
it stood alone in the wilderness, embowered in luxuriant
vegetation, and looked like the chosen abode of simple
and quiet happiness. Within this hut a young Indian
woman (whom I shall call Guahiba, from the name of
her tribe,) was busied in making cakes of the cassava
root, and preparing the family meal, against the return
of her husband, who was fishing at some distance up
the river 5 her eldest child, about five or six years old,
assisted her ; and from time to time, while thus em-
ployed, the mother turned her eyes, beaming with fond
affection, upon the playful gambols of two little infants,
who, being just able to crawl alone, were rolling together
on the ground, laughing and crowing with all their might.
Their food being nearly prepared, the Indian woman
looked towards the river, impatient for the return of her
husband. But her bright dark eyes, swimming with
eagerness and affectionate solicitude, became fixed and
glazed with terror when, instead of him she so fondly
expected, she beheld the attendants of Father Gomez,
creeping stealthily along the side of the thicket towards
her cabin. Instantly aware of her danger (for the nature
and object of these incursions were the dread of all the
country round), she uttered a piercing shriek, snatched up
her infants in her arms, and, calling on the other to fol-
low, rushed from the hut towards the forest. As she had
considerably the start of her pursuers, she would probably
have escaped, and have hidden herself effectually in its
tangled depths, if her precious burthen had not impeded
her flight; but thus encumbered, she was easily overtaken.

THE INDIAN MOTHER.

Her eldest child, fleet of foot and wily as the youngjaguar,
escaped to carry to the wretched father the news of his
bereavement, and neither father nor child were ever more
beheld in their former haunts.

Meantime, the Indians seized upon Guahiba — bound
her, tied her two childred together, and dragged them
down to the river, where Father Gomez was sitting in his
canoe, waiting the issue of the expedition. At the sight
of the captives his eyes sparkled with a cruel triumph ;
he thanked his patron saint that three more souls were
added to his community \ and then, heedless of the tears
of the mother, and the cries of her children, he command-
ed his followers to row back with all speed to San
Fernando.

There Guahiba and her infants were placed in a hut un-
der the guard of two Indians ; some food was given to her,
which she at first refused, but afterwards, as if on refle -
tion, accepted. A young Indian girl was then sent to
her — a captive convert of her own tribe, who had not yet
quite forgotten her native language. She tried to make
Guahiba comprehend that in this village she and her
children must remain during the rest of their lives, in
order that they might go to heaven after they were dead.
Guahiba listened, but understood nothing of what was
addressed to her ; nor could she be made to conceive for
what purpose she was torn from her husband and her
home, nor why she was to dwell for the remainder of her
life among a strange people, and against her will, During
that night she remained tranquil, watching over her
mfants as tney slumbered by her side j but the moment

T1!E INDIAN MOTHER.

213

the dawn appeared she took them in her arms and ran off
to the woods. She was immediately brought back ; but
no sooner were the eyes of her keepers turned from her
than she snatched up her children, and again fled ; — again
— and again? At every new attempt she was punished
with more and more severity ; she was kept from food,
and at length repeatedly and cruelly beaten. In vain!
— apparently she did not even understand why she was
thus treated ; and one instinctive idea alone, the desire of
escape, seemed to possess her mind and govern all her
movements. If her oppressors only turned from her, or
looked another way, for an instant, she invariably caug
up her children and ran off towards the forest. Father
Gomez was at length wearied by what he termed her
"blind obstinacy;" and, as the only means of securing
all three, he took measures to separate the mother from
her children, and resolved to convey Guahiba to a distant
mission, whence she would never find her way back
either to them or to her home.

In pursuance of this plan, poor Guahiba, with her
hands tied behind her, was placed in the bow of a canoe.
Father Gomez seated himself at the helm, and they rowed
away.

The few travellers who have visited these regions agree
in describing a phenomenon, the cause of which is still
a mystery to geologists, and which impart to the lonely
depths of these unappropriated and unviolated shades an
effect intensely and indescribably mournful. The granite
rocks which horded the river, and extend far into the
contigous woods, assume strange, fantastic shapes ; and

214 THE INDIAN MOTIIEU

are covered with a black incrustation, or deposit, winch
contrasted with the snow-white foam of the waves break-
ing on them below, and the pale lichens which spring
from their crevices and creep along their surface above,
give these shores an aspect perfectly funereal. Between
these melancholy rocks — so high and so steep that a
landing-place seldom occurred for leagues together — the
canoe of Father Gomez slowly glided, though urged
against the stream by eight robust Indians.

The unhappy Guahiba sat at first perfectly unmoved,
and apparently amazed and stunned by her situation ;
she did not comprehend what they were going to do with
her ; but after a while she looked up towards the sun,
then down upon the stream ; and perceiving, by the
direction of the one and the course of the other, that every
stroke of the oar carried her farther and farther from her
beloved and helpless children, her husband and her native
home, her countenance was seen to change, and assume a
fearful expression. As the possibility of escape, in her
present situation, had never once occurred to her captors,
she had been very slightly and carelessly bound. She
watched her opportunity, burst the withs on her arms,
•with a sudden effort flung herself overboard, and dived
under the waves ; but in another moment she rose again
at a considerable distance, and swam to the shore. The
current, being rapid and strong, carried her down to the
base of a dark granite rock which projected into the
stream j she climbed it with fearless agility, stood for an
instant on its summit, looking down upon her tyrants,
then plunged into the forest, and was lost to sight.

THE INDIAN MOTHER 215

Father Gomez, beholding his victim thus unexpectedly
escape him, sat mute and thunderstruck for some moments
anable to give utterance to the extremity of his ra^e and
astonishment. When, at length, he found voice, he com-
manded his Indians to pull with all their might to the
shore ; then to pursue the poor fugitive, and bring her
back to him, dead or alive.

Guahiba, meantime, while strength remained to break
her way through the tangled wilderness, continued her
flight; but soon exhausted and breathless, with the
violence of her exertions, she was obliged to relax in her
efforts, and at length sunk down at the foot of a huge laurel
tree, where she concealed herself, as well as she might,
among the long interwoven grass. There, crouching and
trembling in her lair, she heard the voices of her perse-
cutors hallooing to each other through the thicket. She
would probably have escaped but for a large mastiff
which the Indians had with them, and which scented her
out in her hiding-place. The moment she heard the
dreaded animal snuffing the air, and tearing his way
through the grass, she knew she was lost. The Indians
came up. She attempted no vain resistance j but, with
a sullen passiveness, suffered herself to be seized and
dragged to the shore.

When the merciless priest beheld her, he determined
to inflict on her such discipline as he thought would
banish her childern from her memory, and cure her
for ever oi her passion for escaping. He ordered her
(o be stretched upon the granite rock where she had
dieted from the canoe, on the summit of which she had

THE INDIAN MOTHER.

stood, as if exulting in her flight,— THE ROCK OF
MOTHER, as it has ever since been denominated — anci
there flogged till she could scarcely move or speak. She
was then bound more securely, placed in the canoe, and
carried to Javita, the seat of a mission far up the river.

It was near sunset when they arrived at this village,
and the inhabitants were preparing to go to rest. Gua-
hiba was deposited for the night in a large barn-like
building, which served as a place of worship, a public
magazine, and, occasionally, as a barrack. Father
Gomez ordered two or three Indians of Javita to keep
guard over her alternately, relieving each other through
the night ; and then went to repose himself after the
fatigues of his voyage. As the wretched captive neither
resisted nor complained, Father Gomez flattered him-
self that she was now reduced to submission. Little
could he fathom the bosom of this fond mother ! H€
mistook for stupor, or resignation, the calmness of fixed
resolve. In absence, in bonds, and in torture, her heart
throbbed with but one feeling ; one thought alone
possessed her whole soul : — her children — her children —
and still her children !

Among the Indians appointed to watch her was a
youth, about eighteen or nineteen years of age, who
perceiving that her arms were miserably bruised by the
stripes she had received, and that she suffered the most
acute agony from the savage tightness with which the
cords were drawn, let fall an exclamation of pity in the
language of her tribe. Quick she seized the moment of
fueling, and addressed him as one of her people.

THE INDIAN MOTHER., 217

" Guahiba," she said, in a whispered tone, *' thou
speakest my language, and doubtless thou art my
brother Wilt thou see me perish without pity, O son
of my people ? Ah, cut these bonds which enter inlo
my flesh ! I faint with pain ! I die !"

The young man heard, and, as if terrified, removed
a few paces from her, and kept silence. Afterwards,
when his companions were out of sight, and he was left
alone to watch, he approached, and said, " Guahiba ! —
our fathers were the same, and I may not see thee die ;
but if I cut these bonds, white man will flog me: — wilt
thou be content if I loosen them, and give thee ease ?"
And, as he spoke, he stooped and loosened the thongs
on her wrists and arms ; she smiled upon him languidly,
and appeared satisfied.

Night was now coming on. Guahiba dropped her
head on her bosom and closed her eyes, as if exhausted
by weariness. The young Indian, believing that she
slept, after some hesitation laid himself down on his mat.
His companions were already slumbering in the porch of
the building, and all was still

Then Guahiba raised her head. It was night — dark
nigh.- without moon or star. There was no sound,
except the breathing of the sleepers around her, and the
humming of the mosquitoes. She listened for some
time with her whole soul ; but all was silence. She then
gnawed the loosened thongs asunder with her teeth.
Her hands once free, she released her feet ; and when the
morning came she had disappeared. Search was made

V

2.8 THE INDIAN MOrHF.ft.

for her in every direction, but in vain; and Father
Gomez, baffled and wrathful, returned to his village.

The distance between Javita and San Fernando, where
Guahiba had left her infants, is twenty-five leagues in a
straight line. A fearful wilderness of gigantic forest
trees, and intermingling underwood, separated these two
missions ; — a savage and awful solitude, which, probably,
since the beginning of the world, had never been trodden
by human foot. All communication was carried on by
the river; and there lived not a man, whether Indian or
European, bold enough to have attempted the route
along the shore, tt was the commencement of the rainy
season. The sky, obscured by clouds, seldom revealed
the sun by day ; and neither moon nor gleam of twink-
ling star by night. The rivers had overflowed, and the
lowlands were inundated. There was no visible object
to direct the traveller ; no shelter, no defence, no aid, no
guide. Was it Providence — was it the strong instinct
of maternal love, which led this courageous woman
through the depths of the pathless woods — where rivulets,
swollen to torrents by the rains, intercepted her at every
step ; where the thorny lianas, twining from tree to tree*
opposed an almost impenetrable barrier; where the
mosquitoes hung in clouds upon her path ; where The
jaguar and the alligator lurked to devour her; where the
rattle-snake and the water-serpent lay coiled up in the
damp grass, ready to spring at her ; where she had no
food to support her exhausted frame, but a few berries,
and the large black ants which build their nests on the
trees ? How directed — how sustained— cannot be told :

THE INDIAN MOTHER,

210

ttte poor woman herself could not tell. All that can be
known with any certainty is, that the fourth rising sun
beheld her at San Fernando; a wild, and wasted, and
fearful object; her feet swelled and bleeding — her hands
torn — her body covered with wounds, and emaciated
with famine and fatigue; — but once more near her
children !

For several hours she hovered round the hut in which
she had left them, gazing on it from a distance wiih
longing eyes and a sick heart, without daring to advance ;
at length she perceived that all the inhabitants had
quitted their cottages to attend vespers j then she stole
from the thicket, and approached, with faint and timid
steps, the spot which contained her heart's treasures.
She entered, and found her infants left alone, and play-
ing together on a mat: they screamed at her appearance,
so changed was she by suffering j but when she called
them by name, they knew her tender voice, and stretrfied
out their little arms towards her. In that moment, the
mother forgot all she had endured — all her anguish, aft
her fears, every thing on earth but the object which
blessed her eyes. She sat down between her children —
she took them on her knees — she clasped them in an
agony of fondness to her bosom — she covered them with
kisses — she shed torrents of tears on their little heads, as
she hugged them to her. Suddenly she remembered
where she was, and why she was there : new terrors
seized her; she rose up hastily, and, with her babies in
her arms, she staggered out of the cabin — fainting,

stumbling, and almost blind with loss of blood anil

U 2

220 THfc INDIAN MOTHER.

inanition. She tried to reach the woods, but, too feeble
to sustain her burthen, which yet she would not relin-
quish, her limbs trembled, and sank beneath her. At
;his moment an Indian, who was watching the public
oven, perceived her. He gave the alarm by ringing a
6ell, and the people rushed forth, gathering round
Guahiba with fright and astonishment. They gazed
upon her as if upon an apparition, till her sobs, and
imploring looks, and trembling and wounded limbs
convinced them that she yet lived, though apparently
nigh to death. They looked upon her in silence, and
then at each other ; their savage bosoms were touched
with commiseration for her sad plight, and with admi-
ration, and even awe, at this unexampled heroism of
maternal love.

While they hesitated, and none seemed willing to
seize her, or to take her children from her, Father
Gomez, who had just landed on his return from Javita,
approached in haste, and commanded them to be sepa-
rated. Guahiba clasped her children closer to her
breast, and the Indians shrunk back :

11 What !" thundered the monk : " will ye suffer this
woman to steal two precious souls from heaven ? — two
members from our community 1 See ye not, that while
she is suffered to approach them, there is no salvation
for either mother or children ? — part them, and in-
stantly !"

The Indians, accustomed to his ascendancy, and
terrified at his voice, tore the children of Guahiba once
more from her feeble arms: she uttered nor word nor
cry, but sunk in a swoon upon the eartlir

THE INDIAN MOTHER. 221

While in this state, Father Gomez, with a cruel
mercy, ordered her wounds to be carefully dressed : her
arms and legs were swathed with cotton bandages ; she
was then placed in a canoe, and conveyed to a mission
far, far off, on the river Esmeralda, beyond the Upper
Orinoco. She continued in a state of exhaustion and
torpor during the voyage ; but after being taken out of
the boat and carried inland, restoratives brought her
back to life, and to a sense of her situation. When she
perceived, as reason and consciousness returned, that
she was in a strange place, unknowing how she was
brought there — among a tribe who spoke a language
different from any she had ever heard before, and from
whom, therefore, according to Indian prejudices, she
could hope nor aid nor pity ; — when she recollected that
she was far from her beloved children ; — when she saw
tio means of discovering the bearing or the distance of
their abode — no clue to guide her back to it : — then,
and only then, did the mother's heart yield to utter de-
spair j and thenceforward refusing to speak or to move,
and obstinately rejecting all nourishment, thus she died.

The boatman, on the river Atabapo, suspends his oar
with a sigh as he passes the ROCK OF THE MOTHER.
He points it out to the traveller, and weeps as he re-
lates the tale of her sufferings and her fate. Ages
hence, when those solitary regions have become the seats
of civilization, of power, and intelligence; when the
pathless wilds, which poor Guahiba traversed in her an-
guish, are replaced by populous cities, and smiling
gardens, and pastures, and waving harvests,— still ihal

u3

222 THE STARS.

dark rock shall stand, frowning over the stream j tradition
and history shall preserve its name and fame ; and when
the pyramids, those vast, vain monuments to human
pride, have passed away, it shall endure, to carry down
to the end of the world the memory of the Indian
Mother.

THE STARS.

BY FREDERICK MULLER.

OH ! 'tis lovely to watch ye at twilight rise,
When the last gleam fades in the distant skies,
When the silver chime of the minster-bell,
And the warbling fount in the woodland-dell,
And the viewless sounds in the upper air,
Proclaim the hour of prayer !

Then ye shine in beauty above the sea,
Bright wanderers over the blue sky free !
Catching the tone of each sighing breeze,
And the whispering sound of the forest-trees,
Or the far-off voice, through the quiet dim,
Of some, hamlet's hymn!

And the midnight too, all still and lone !
Ye guard in beauty, from many a throne !

THE STARS. 223

In your silver silence throughout the hour
Watching the rest of each folded flower,
Gladdening with visions each infant's sleep,
Through the night-hour deep !

Yes, ye look over Nature's hushed repose,
By the forest still where the streamlet flows,
By the breezeless hush of many a plain,
And the pearly flow of the silver main,
Or sweetly far o'er some chapel-shrine
Of the olden time !

Thus in shadeless glory ye onwards roll,
Bright realms of beauty, from Pole to Pole !
'Midst the vaulted space where your bright paths lis
In the hidden depths of the midnight sky,
To some far-off land, — to some distant home,
'Neath the ocean's foam !

But, hark! the far voice of the waking sea,
And the dim dew rising o'er lawn and lea,
And the first faint tinge of the early day,
Shining afar o'er the ocean-spray!
Oh, ye that have been as a power and a spell,
Through the dim midnight [—Farewell !

THE BATTLE OF THE IDOLATERS,

ON ONE OF THE GEORGIAN ISLANDS.

the Rev. IF. Ellis, Missionary to Sandwich Islands,

MIDWAY between South America and" Australia, or
New Holland, amid the clustering islands that stud the
bosom of the wide-rolling Pacific, two interesting
groups of islands are situated. They were probably
first seen by Quiros, a Spanish navigator, in 1606;
also by Captain Wallis, in 1767j but little was cor-
rectly known respecting them until two years afterwards,
when they were visited and explored by Captain Cook.
By him, in honour of his late Majesty George III.,
under whose patronage the expedition was undertaken,
the eastern group, including Tahiti and Eimeo, was
called the Georgian Islands: and the western group
was denominated the Society Islands, in honour of the
Royal Society, at whose recommendation the voyage
had been made. Conspicuous among the former, in
the extent of its surface and the beauty of its scenery,
is Tahiti, the largest of the Georgian group. Combin-
ing all that is salubrious in climate, fertile in soil, bold
and romantic in form, luxuriant and diversified in
verdure, it has not been unappropriately distinguished
as " the Queen of Islands."

Its isolated inhabitants, who imagined they were »''<•

OF THE IDOLATERS. 255

only human beings in the world, appeared to their
early visiters a mild and inoffensive race. Living in
soft, luxurious ease, and appearing to form an exception
to the declaration of Scripture, that in the sweat of his brow
man should eat his bread, they seemed to live only tcv
be happy, if man could be happy while ignorant of God.
To impart to them a knowledge of that Being who had
strewed around them the beauties and the wonders of
creative power; whose hand, unseen indeed by them,
bestowed his bounty with perpetual munificence ;
and to unfold to them the way whereby they might
enjoy his favour; an institution was formed, uniting
some of the most pious and benevolent men of the age.
It was denominated the Missionary Society. A ship
was purchased, and a number of devoted men embarked
in the generous enterprise of seeking to convert the
inhabitants of Tahiti, and the neighbouring islands, U
the Christian faith. In the year 1797, they landed at
Tahiti, and soon perceived that the morals of the people
were most degraded, and their superstition most bar-
barous and cruel. They continued, however, their
labours till the year 1808, when a civil war broke out
in Tahiti, during which Pomare, the hereditary sovereign

•

of the island, in consequence of the numbers who now
joined the rebel chiefs, was more than once defeated in
the field of battle. The Missionaries were obliged to

o

quit the shores of Mataval, after having maintained their

post during twelve eventful years ; and subsequently

the king and his friends, alarmed at the increasing

ower of his enemies, and in despair of retrieving his

226 THE BATTLE OF

affairs, took refuge in the adjacent island of Eimeo,
where he continued in exile till 1815. In the year
1813, he became a convert to Christianity, and during
the two subsequent years his example was followed by
numbers of his subjects. The rebel and idolatrous
chieftains had recourse to the most treacherous and
cruel expedients, for the purpose of exterminating
Christianity in the islands, and destroying those who
had renounced the idols of their ancestors. Through
the watchful care of the Almighty, their murderous pro-
jects failed; and in the year 1815, they made their
last desperate effort, which terminated in the complete
discomfiture of the idolatrous army, and the subversion
of paganism in the Georgian and Society Islands. At
the commencement of this year, the affairs of Tahiti
and Eimeo, in reference to the supremacy of Chris-
tianity or idolatry, were evidently tending to a crisis ;
and although the converts had carefully avoided all
interference in the wars which had so recently desolated
the large islands, they were convinced that the time
was not very remote when their faith and principles
must rise pre-eminent above the power and influence of
that system of delusion and of crime to which they had
so long been the slaves, or must be by them renounced.
To maintain the Christian faith, and enjoy a continuance
of their present peace and comfort, they foresaw would
be impossible. Under the influence of these impres-
sions, the fourteenth of July, 1815, was set a part as a
day of solemn fasting and prayer to Almighty God,
whose guidance and protection was implored. A chas-

THE IDOLATERS. 7

tened and dependent frame of mind was at this period
very generally experienced by the Christians, which
led them to desire to be prepared for whatever, in the
tourse of divine providence, might transpire.

Soon after this event, the idolatrous chiefs of Tahiti
sent messengers to the refugees in Eimeo, inviting them
to return, and re-occupy the lands they had deserted.
This invitation they accepted ; and as the presence of
the king was necessary, in several of the usages and
ceremonies observed on these occasions, Pomare went
over about the same time, formally to reinstate them in
their hereditary possessions. A large number of Pomare's
adherents, who were professors of Christianity, and in-
habitants of Huahine, Raiatea, and Eimeo, with Pomare-
vahine and Mahine, the chiefs of Eimeo and Huahine,
accompanied the king and the refugees to Tahiti. When
they approached the shores of this island, the idolatrous
party appeared in considerable force on the beach,
assumed a hostile attitude, prohibited their landing,
and repeatedly fired upon the king's party. Instead of
returning the fire, the king sent a flag of truce and a pro-
posal of peace.

Several messages were exchanged, and the negoci-
ations appeared to terminate in the establishment of
confidence and friendship. The king and his followers
were allowed to land, and several of the people returned
unmolested to their respective districts and plantations.
Negociations for the adjustment of the differences existing
between the king and his friends on the one side, and the
idolatrous chiefs on the other, were for a time carried on,

228 THE BATTLE CF

and at length ananged apparently to the satisfaction of
the respective parties. The king and those attached to
his interest were not, however, without suspicion that it
was only an apparent satisfaction ; and in this they were
not mistaken. The idolaters had indeed joined with
them in binding the wreath of peace and amity, while
they were at the same time secretly and actively con-
certing measures for their destruction.

The twelfth of November, 1815, was the most eventful
day that had yet occurred in the history of Tahiti. It
was the Sabbath. In the forenoon, Pomare, and the
people who had accompanied him from Eimeo, probably
about eight hundred, assembled for public worship,
near the village of Bunaauia, in the district of Atehuru.
At distant points of the district, they had stationed
piquets, and when divine service was about to com-
mence, and the' individual who was to officiate stood up
to read the first hymn, a firing of muskets was heard.
Looking out of the windows of the building in which
they were assembled, a large body of armed men, pre-
ceded and attended by the flag of the gods and the
varied emblems of idolatry, were seen marching round a
distant point of land, and advancing towards the place
where they were assembled. " It is war! it is
was the cry which re-echoed through the place, a
approaching army was seen from the different parts 01
the chapel. Many, agreeably to the precautions of the
Missionaries, had met for worship under arms j others,
who had not, were preparing to return to their tents, and
arm for the battle. Some degree of confusion conse-

THE IDOLATERS. 229

quently prevailed. Pomare arose, requested them all to
remain quietly in their places, stating that they were
under the special protection of Jehovah, and had met
together for his worship, which was not to be abandoned
or disturbed, even by the approach of an enemy. Auna,
formerly a warrior, and an Areoi, now the the minister of
a native church in Sir Charles Sander's Island, who was
my informant on these points, then read the hymn, tha
congregation sang it, a portion of Scripture was read, a
prayer offered to the Almighty, and the service closed.
Those who were unarmed now repaired to their tents,
and procured their weapons.

In assuming the posture of defence, they formed
themselves into two or three column?, one on the sea-
beach, and the others at Short distances towards the
mountains. Attached to Pomare's camp were a number
of refugees, who, during the late commotions in Tahiti,
had taken shelter under his protection, but had not em-
braced Christianity; on these the king and his friends
placed no reliance, but stationed them in the centre or
the rear of the columns. The bure Atua, or converts to
Christianity, requested to form the viri, frontlet, or ad-
vanced guard, and the paparia, or cheek of their forces,
while the people of Eimeo, immediately in the rear, formed
what they called the tapono, or shoulder of their army.
In the front line, Auna, Upaparu, Hitoti, and others
equally distinguished for their steady adherence to the
system they had adopted, took their station, and on this
occasion shewed their readiness to lay down their lives
rather than relinquish the Christian faith, and the privi-

x

233 THE BATTLE OF

l^ges it had already conferred. Mahine, the king of Hun-
bine, and Pomarevahine, the heroic daughter of the king
of Raiatea, with those of their people who had professed
Christianity, formed themselves in battle-array imme
diately behind the people of Eimeo, constituting th
body of the army. Mahine, on this occasion, wore a curi-
ous helmet, covered on the outside with plates of thy
beautifully-spotted cowrie, or tiger-shell, so abundant it
the islands, and ornamented with a plume of the tropic
or man-of-war bird's feathers. The queen's sister, like ?
daughter of Pallas, tall, strong, and rather masculine ir
her stature and features, walked and fought by Mahine':
side, clothed in a kind of armour of net-work, made with
small and strongly twisted cords of romaha, or nativ-f
flax, and armed with a musket and a spear. She was sup-
ported on one side by Farefau, her steady and courage-
ous friend, who acted as her squire or champion, whilt
Mahine was supported on the other by Patini, a fine, tall
manly chief, a distant relative of Mahine's family, and
one who, with his wife and two children, has long
enjoyed the parental and domestic happiness resulting
from Christianity, but whose wife, prior to their renunci-
ation of idolatry, had murdered twelve or fourteen chil.
dren. Pomare took his station in a canoe, with a
number of musqueteers, and annoyed the flank of his
enemy nearest the sea. A swivel, mounted in the stern
of another canoe, commanded by an Englishman, called
Jem by the natives, and who came up from Raiatea,
.did considerable execution during the engagement.

Before the king's friends had properly formed them-

THE IDOLATERS. £3

selves for regular defence, the idolatrous army arrived,
and the battle commenced. The impetuous attack of
the idolaters, attended with all the fury, imprecations,
and boasting shouts practised by the savage when
rushing to the onset, produced by its shock a tempo-
rary confusion in the advanced guard of the Christian
columns. Some were slain, others wounded, and
Upaparu, one of Pomare's leading men, saved his life
only by rushing into the sea and leaving part of his
dress in the hands of the antagonist with whom he had
grappled. Notwithstanding this the assailants met with
steady and determined resistance.

Overpowered however by numbers, the viri, or front
ranks, were obliged to give way. A kind of running
fight commenced, and the parties were intermingled in all
the confusion of barbarous warfare : —

ITfre might the hitleous face of war be seen
Stript of all poinp, adornment, and disguise."

The ground on which they i o\v fought, excepting the
sea-beach, was partially covered with trees and bushes,
which often separated the contending parties, and inter-
cepted their view of each other. Under these circum-
stances it was, that the Christians, when not actually
engaged with their enemies, often kneeled down on the
grass, either singly, or two or three together, and offered
up an ejaculatory prayer to God, that he would cover
iheir heads in the day of battle, and, if agreeable to his
will, preserve them, but especially prepare them for the

x .

232 HIE BATTLE OF

results of the day, whether victory or defeat, life or
death.

The battle continued to rage with fierceness ; several
were killed on both sides; the idolaters still pursued
their way, and victory seemed to attend their desolating
march, until they came to the position occupied by
Ttlahine, Pomare-vahine, and their companions in arms.
The advanced ranks of their united bands met and
arrested the progress of the hitherto victorious idolaters.
Raveae, one of Mahine's men, pierced with a musket-
ball the body of Upufara, the chief of Pa para, and the
leading commander of the idolatrous forces. The
wounded warrior fell, and shortly afterwards expired.
As he sat bleeding on the sand, his friends gathered
round, endeavouring to stop the bleeding of the wound,
and afford that assistance which his circumstances ap-
peared to require. — "Leave me," said the dying warrior;
"mark yonder man in front of Mahine's ranks; he
inflicted this wound; on him revenge my death." Two
or three athletic men instantly set off for this purpose.
Raveae was retiring towards the main body of Mahine's
men, when one of the idolaters, who had outrun his
companions, sprang upon him before he was aware of
his approach. Unable to throw him on the sand, he
cast his arms round his neck, and endeavoured to strangle,
or at least to secure his prey, until some of his com-
panions should arrive and dispatch him. Raveae was
armed with a short musket, which he had reloaded since
wounding the chief: but of this, it is supposed, the

THE IDOLATERS. 233

ftiau who held him was unconscious. Extending his
arms forward, Raveae passed the muzzle of his musket
under his own arm, suddenly turned his body on one
side, and pulling the trigger of his piece at the same
instant, he shot his antagonist through the body, who
immediately lost hold of his prey, and fell dying to
the ground.

The idolatrous army continued to fight with obstinate
fury, but were unable to advance, or make any im-
pression on Mahine and Pomare-vahine's forces. These
not only maintained their ground, but forced their
adversaries back, and the scale of victory now appeared
to hang in doubtful suspense over the contending parties.
Tino, the idolatrous priest, and his companions, had,
in the name of Oro, promised their adherents a certain
and an easy triumph. This inspired them for the conflict,
and made them more confident and obstinate in battle
than they would otherwise have been j but the tide of
conquest, which had rolled with them in the onset, and
during the early part of the engagement, was already
turned against them, and as the tidings of their leader's
death became more extensively known, they spread a
panic through the ranks he had commanded. The pagan
army not only gave way before their opponents, but soon
fled precipitately from the field, seeking shelter in their
Part's, or strong-holds and hiding places in the mountains,
leaving Pomare, Mahine, and the Princess from Raiatea,
in undisputed possession of the field.

Flushed with success in the moment of victory, the
king's troops were, according to former usage, prepar-

x 3

23 1 THE BATTLE OF

ing to pursue the flying enemy. Pomare approached
and exclaimed, " Atira /" it is enough ! — and strictly
prohibited any one of his warriors from pursuing those
who had fled from the field of battle, forbidding them
also to repair to the villages of the vanquished to plunder
their property, or murder their helpless wives and
children

While, however, the king refused to allow his men to
pursue their vanquished enemies, or to take the spoils
of victory, he called a chosen band, among which was
Farefau, who had offered up the public thanksgiving to
God at the festival in Eimeo, and Patini, a near relative
of Mahine's, and who had been his champion on that
day, and sent them to Tautira, where the temple stood
in which Oro, the great national idol, was deposited.
He gave, them orders to destroy the temple, altars,
and idols, with every appendage of idolatry that they
might find.

In the evening of the day, when the confusion of the
battle had in some degree subsided, Pomare and the
chiefs invited the Christians to assemble, probably in
the place in which they had been during the morning
disturbed, there to render thanks unto God for the pro-
tection He had on that eventful day so mercifully
afforded. Their feelings on this occasion must have
been of no common order. From the peaceful exercise
of sacred worship, they had been that morning hurried
into all the confusion and turmoil of murderous conflict
with an enemy, whose numbers, equipment, implacable
hatred, and superstitious infatuation from the prediction

THE IDOLATERS. 235

of their prophets, had rendered them unusually formi-
dable in appearance, and terrible in combat. Defeat
and death had, as many of the*m have more than once
declared, appeared, during several periods of the engage-
ment, almost certain j and in connexion with the antici-
pated extinction of the Christian faith in their country
the captivity of those who might be allowed to live, the
momentous realities of eternity, upon which, ere the
close of the day, it appeared to themselves by no means
improbable they would enter, had combined to produce
a degree of agitation unknown in the ordinary course of
human affairs, and seldom perhaps experienced even in
the field of battle. They now celebrated the subversion
of idolatry, under circumstances that but a few hours
before had threatened their own extermination, with the
overthrow of the religion they had espoused, and o>
account of which their destruction had been souah,

o

The Lord of Hosts had been with them ; the God <. •
Jacob was their helper, and to Him they rendered the
glory and the praise for the protection he had bestowed,
and the victory they had obtained. In this sacred a^t
they were joined by numbers who heretofore had wor-
shipped only the idols of their country, but who now
desired to acknowledge Jehovah as God alone.

The noble forbearance and magnanimity of the king
and chiefs, in the hour of conquest, when under all the
intoxicating influence of recent victory and conscious
power, was no less honourable to the principles professed,
and the best feelings of their hearts, than it was service-
able to the cause with which they were identified. It

THE BATTLE of

did not terminate with the declaration made on the fiekl
of contest, to be satisfied with victory, and the command
to forbear pursuit, but itrwas a prominent feature in all
their subsequent conduct.

When the king despatched a select band to demolish
the idol temple, he said, " Go not to the little island,
where the women and children have been left for
security ; turn not aside to any of the villages or plan-
tations j neither enter into any of the houses, nor destroy
any of the property you may see ; but go straight
along the high road, through all your enemy's districts."
His directions were attended to. No individual was
injured ; no fence broken down; no house burned; no
article of property taken. The bodies of the slain were
not wantonly mangled and left exposed to the elements
or to be devoured by the wild dogs from the mountains,
and the swine, that formerly would have been allowed
to feed upon them : they were all decently buried by
the victors, and the body of the fallen chief, Upufaia,
was conveyed to the district of Papara, to be interred
among the tombs of his forefathers. He was an intel-
ligent and interesting man ; his death was deeply
regretted by Tati, his near relative and successor in the
government of the district. His mind had been for
some time wavering, and he was, almost to the moment
of the battle, undetermined whether he should renounce
the idols, or still continue their votary. One of his
intimate companions informed me, that a short time
before his death he had a dream which somewhat
alarmed him. He thought he saw an immense oven

THE IDOLATERS. 237

(such as that used in preparing opio), intensely heated ;
and in the midst of the fire, a large fish, writhing in
apparent agony, unable to escape, and yet unconsumed,
living and suffering in the midst of the fire. An impres-
sion at this time fixed itself on his mind, that perhaps
this suffering was designed to shew the intensity of
torments which the wicked would suffer in the place of
punishment. He awoke in a state of great agitation of
mind, with profuse perspiration covering his body, arid
was so affected with the circumstance, that he could
not sleep again that night. The same individual, who
resided with Upufara, stated also, that only a day or
two before the battle, he said to some one with whom
he was conversing, " Perhaps we are wrong. Let us
send a message to the King and Tati, and ask for peace,
and also for books, that we may know what this new
word, or this new religion is '* But the priests resisted
his proposal ; assured the chiefs, that Oro would deliver
the Bure Atua into their hands, and the hau and mana,
government and power, would be with the gods of Tahiti.
In addition to this, and any latent conviction that still
might linger in his mind, relative to the power of Oro,
and the result of his anger, should he draw back, he
stood pledged to the cause of the gods, and prohably
might feel a degree of pride influencing his adherence
to their interest, lest he should be charged with coward-
ice, in seeking to avoid, the war, on which the chiefs,
who were united to suppress Christianity, had deter-
mined.

The party, sent by the king to the national tempip

S3B THE BATTLE OF

at Tautira, in Taiarabu, proceeded directly to their
place of destination. It was apprehended, that not-
withstanding what had befallen the adherents of idol-
atry in battle, the inhabitants of Taiarabu, who were at
that time more zealous for the idols than those of any
other part of the island, who considered it an honour
to be entrusted with the custody of Oro, and also
regarded his presence among them as the palladium of
their safety, might, perhaps, rise en ma$$e to protect his
person from insult, and his temple from despoliation.
No attempt, however, of this kind was made. The
soldiers of Pomare, soon after reaching the district, pro-
ceeded to the sacred grove, acquainted the inhabitants
of the place, and the keepers of the temple, with the
events of the war, and the purpose of their visit. No
remonstrance was made, no opposition offered j they
entered the depository of Tahiti's former god. The
priests and people stood round in silent expectation —
even the soldiers paused a moment; and a scene was
exhibited, probably strikingly analagous to that which
was witnessed in the temple of Serapsis, in Alexandria,
when the tutelar deity of that city was destroyed by the
Roman soldiers. At length they bi ought out the idol,
stripped him of his sacred coverings and highly-valued
ornaments, and threw his body contemptuously on the
ground. It was a rude, uncarved log of alto wood, caw-
sarina equisetifalia, about six feet long. The altars
were then broken down, ihe temples demolished, and
the sacred houses of the gods, together with their
apparel, ornaments, and all the appendages of their

irir IDOI.ATF.I;?. 239

worship, committed to the flames. The temples, altars,
and idols, in every district of Tahiti, were shortly after
destroyed in the same way. The log of wood, called by
the natives the body of Oro, into which they imagined
the god at times entered, and through which his influ-
ence was exerted, Pomare's party bore away on theii
shoulders, and on returning to the camp, laid in triumph
at their monarch's feet. It was subsequently fixed up
as a post in the king's kitchen, and used in a most
contemptuous manner, by having baskets of food, fee.
suspended from it j and, finally, it was riven up for
fuel. This was the end of the principal idol of the
Tahitians, on whom they had long been so deluded as
to suppose their destinies depended; whose favour kings,
and chiefs, and warriors had so often sought ; whose
anger all had deprecated; and who had been, during
the preceding thirty years, the occasion of more bloody
and desolating wars than all other causes combined.
The most zealous devotees were, in general, now con-
vinced of their delusion ; and the people united in
declaring that the gods had deceived them, — were
unworthy of their confidence, and should no longer be
the objects of dependence or respect.

Thus was idolatry banished in Tahiti and Eimeo ;
thus were the idols hurled from the thrones they had for
ages occupied, and the remnant of the people liberated
from the abject slavery and wretched delusion in which,
by the cunningly-devised fables of the priests, and the
doctrines of devils, they had been for ages held, as in
fritters of iron. It is impossible to contemplate the

240 TUE BATTLE OF

mighty deliverance thus effected, without exclaiming
" What hath God wrought !" and desiring, with regard to
other parts of the world, the arrival of that promised and
auspicious era, when the gods that have not made the
heavens shall perish, and u the idols shall be utterly
abolished."

The total overthrow of idolatry, splendid and impor-
tant as it was justly considered, was but the beginning of
the amazing work that has since advanced progressively
in those islands. It resembled the dismantling of some
dark and gloomy fortress, or the razing to its very
foundations of some horrid prison of despotism and
cruelty, with the very materials of which, when cut and
polished and adorned, a fair and noble structure was, on
its very ruins, to be erected, rising in grandeur and in
symmetry, to the honour of its proprie or and architect,
and the admiration of every beholder. The work was
but commenced, and the abolition of idolatry was but
one of the great preliminaries in those designs of mercy,
and arrangements of the providence of God, which were
daily unfolded with increasing interest of character
and importance of bearing, on the destiny of the
people.

The conduct of the victors after the memorable battle
of Bunaauia, had an astonishing effect on the minds of
the vanquished, who had sought safety in the mountains.
Under cover of the darkness of night, they sent spies
from the retreats in which they had taken shelter to their
habitations, and to the places of security in which they
had left their aged and helpless relatives, their children,

THE IDOLATERS. 241

and their wives. These found every one remaining as
they left them on the morning of the battle, and were in-
formed by the wives and relatives of the defeated warriors,
that Pomare and the chiefs had, without any exception,
sent assurances of security to all who had fled. This
intelligence, when conveyed to those who had taken
refuge in the mountains, appeared to them incredible.
After waiting, however, some days in their hiding-places,
they ventured forth, and singly, or in small parties, re-
turned to their dwellings. When they found their plan-
tations uninjured, their property secure, their wives and
children safe, they were utterly astonished. From the
king- they received assurances of pardon, and were not
backward in unitedly tendering submission to his author-
ity, and imploring forgiveness for having appeared in
arms against him. Pomare was now by the unanimous
will of the people reinstated in the throne of his father,
and raised to the supreme authority in his hereditary
dominions. His clemency in the late victory still con-
tinued to be matter of surprise to all parties who had
been his opponents. ''Where/' said they, " can the
king and the Bure Atua have imbibed these new principles
of humanity and forbearance ? We have done every thing
in our power, by treachery, stratagem, and open force,
to destroy him and his adherents ; and yet, when the
power was placed in his hand, victory on his side, we at
his mercy, and his feet upon our necks, he has not only
spared our lives and the lives of our families, but has
respected even our houses and our property." While
making these inquiries, many of them, doubtless, recol-

ff

242 IMF BATTLE !-<F

lected the conduct of his father in sending one night,
when the warriors of Atehuru had gone over to Tautira,
a body of men, who at midnight fell upon their defenceless
victims, the aged relatives, wives, and children, of the
Atehuruans, and in cold blood cruelly murdered upwards
of one hundred helpless individuals; and this probably
made the conduct of Pomare II. appear more remarkable.
They might also remember what is stated to have taken
place with regard to the king himself, who, it is said,
was seen after one battle to drag along the beach, in
order to gratify his horrible revenge, a number of mur-
dered children strung together, by a line passing through
their heads from ear to ear. At length they concluded
that it must be from the new religion, as they termed
Christianity, that he had imbibed these principles ; and
hence they unanimously declared their determination to
embrace its doctrines, and to place themselves and their
families entirely under the direction of its precepts.

The family and district temples and altars, as well as
those that were national, were demolished, the idols
destroyed by the very individuals who had but recently
been so zealous in their preservation, and in a short tirc>e
there was not one professed idolater remaining. Mes-
sengers were sent by those who had hitherto been pagans,
to the king and chiefs, requesting that some of their men
might be sent to teach them to read, instruct them con-
cerning the true God, and the worship and obedience
required by his word. Those who sent the messengers
expressed, at the same time, their purpose to renounce
every evil practice connected with their former idolatrous

THE IDOLATERS. 243

life, and their desire to become altogether a Christian
people. Schools were built, and places for public
worship erected, the Sabbath observed, divine service
performed, child-murder and all the gross abominations
of idolatry discontinued.

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.

ENVOY of mercy from the King of Kings,
My guardian angel ! spread thy buoyant wings ;
Take thine accustom'd station o'er my bed,
From every danger shield my sleeping head.

If dreams approach me, lead my soul away
From earth's dark night to heav'n's resplendent day;
There let it vvond'ring range without control,
Amidst new suns, and where new planets roll.

Shake off in sleep my spirit's kindred dust,

And bid it wake to glory with the just;

In space unbounded let it wander free,

With friends refined, and wise, and good, like time

And when day dawns, be this thy friendly cart,
To form my early thoughts to God in prayer ;
Grateful and humble bid my spirit rise,
In fervent adoration to the skies.

v 2

2-14

AN AUTUMNAL EVENING.

The Visit of the Angel to Hagar. Genesis xxi.

BY TEIE EDITOR.

Now Evening droops, and lingers still

To catch the Sun's last farewell smile,
Sinking behind the western hill,

Veil'd by purple clouds awhile ;

Which, opening, many a golden isle
Displays ; such as, in a pious cause,

Great CLAUDE immortalized in style-
Embodies with God's holy Laws.

Sweet hymns the lark his gratitude
To all the listening sky around ;

Still from the earth-no more he's view'd,
Though still his pleasing notes resound,
Soothing the pangs of HAGAR'S wound,

When, by the fount, she pray'd to heaven,
And the angel by her side was found

Telling in Ishmael her sins forgiven.

Thus blest, she breathes a fervent prayer,
And seeks her way to Sarah's place,

O'er fair fields, woods, and groves, with cars,
Rich in her heart, and seeking grace ; —

INFANTICIDE. 245

And yon bright orb, with splendid face,
Becomes her guide, though twilight gray

Tells the departure, by its pace,
Of ever faintly dying day.

With the ardent gaze does she behold
Where partly hid, and partly seen,

Light's Author, on his throne of gold
Dispensing forth his dazzling sheen ;
Till quick behind a gorgeous screen

He unperceiv'd nas stolen away,
While, less and less, expires serene

Evening, to night a prey.

INFANTICIDE.

EY THE REV. WILLIAM ELLIS.

THE most pure and powerful feeling which the humau
bosom can cherish is maternal affection. For man, in the
season of his greatest helplessness, it provides the tender-
est guardianship and the most secure protection j and,
while it soothes the sorrows and anticipates the wants of
infancy, it enkindles an attachment which often maintains
its ascendancy through all the vicissitudes of life. A mo-
ther's love —

" The warmest love that can grow cold" — •

pervades alike the highest and humblest classes of
Christian society ; and, though manifested in those
nameless attentions to which it impels by a power as

v3

246 INFANTICIDE.

gentle as resistless, must yet be exercised to be fully
understood. It is an emblem under which the benign
Creator has manifested his compassion to his people,
declaring, " As one whom his mother comforteth, so
will I comfort you, and ye shall be comforted." So
deep and tender are the sympathies which a parent's
love excites, so sweet the satisfaction it imparts, that
we are ready to believe it is scarcely possible to re-
strain its exercise or destroy its power ; but the testimony
of inspiration that there are portions of mankind " with-
out natural affection," and that a mother's love may be so
far destroyed that she may cease to have compassion on
her offspring, is confirmed by our acquaintance with the
dispositions and practice of those nations which are
destitute of the influence that Christianity exerts in
social and domestic life.

There are some parts of the world in which it might
nave been expected that the inhabitants would have pre-
sented an exception to a truth so general and distressing ;
and to no part of the world should we have looked with
greater hopes of meeting with such an exemption than
among the islands that gem the bosom of the Pacific.
The climate is genial, the spontaneous products of the
earth abundant and grateful — the severities of winter and
miseries of want equally unknown j to strangers the in-
habitants appear gay, fascinating, and good-natured j
but, notwithstanding this, crimes, which violate every
parental feeling, were formerly practised by them with
more recklessness and frequency, perhaps, than by any
other portion of mankind.

INFAMICIDE

It is not many years since a British frigate, com-
manded by a gallant and intelligent officer, of noble
family, arrived among these islands. The commander,
who is not more distinguished by his rank and station
than by his integrity and honourable respect for religion,
maintained the most friendly intercourse with the native
governors, and, by his advice and example, rendered his
visit alike agreeable and salutary. While the vessel lay
at anchor, off Tahiti, the captain, accompanied by several
of his officers, visited every place of importance or inte-
rest, and among others the peninsula of Tuiarabu.

This part of the island, although, in extent and
population, inferior to the northern divisions, is not sur-
passed in the variety, wildness, and beauty of its
scenery. The altered character of its inhabitants renders
it also, in common with other parts of the island, inte-
resting to the Christian and the philanthropist. For man}
generations, it was a distinct territory under an inde
pendent ruler, but, since its conquest by the first Po-
mare, it has been annexed to his dominions ; and
though still governed by its hereditary chiefs, these ac
knowledge the supremacy of Pomare's successors, and
render to them the fealty which established usageti
require.

Veve, the present chief of Taiarabu, a man of energy
and courage, of great natural talent and great crimes, is
now far advanced in years. Few of the companions oi
his early life remain, and his broad and hardy frame,
venerable with age, appears, among the present genera-
tion of his people, like some stately oak, that, left by (he

248 INFANTICIDE

woodman's axe which felled its companions, towers m
the solitary dignity of years over the saplings that are
shooting up around it. Passing through the district, the
strangers visited his abode, and were welcomed with
courtesy. Among other objects of interest, they were
forcibly impressed by observing the strong affection which
he cherished for a son and daughter, who appeared to
find their greatest happiness in reciprocating their father's
love, and endeavouring with tender and unceasing
solicitude to contribute to his comfort.

Gratified with what they beheld, the visiters inquired
•whether the son and the daughter whom they saw were
his only children ; and, on being informed that they were,
asked if his offspring had never exceeded this number.
The reply acquainted them with the melancholy fact,
that he was the father of'eight children, of whom tne son
and daughter then present alone remained, six having been
destroyed in their infancy by his own hands. This
declaration could not fail deeply and painfully to affect
the minds of his visiters, while it probably excited, in the
bosom of the aged chief by whom it was made, feelings
of agonizing remorse, which mingle bitterness with every
enjoyment of his closing life. These emotions, painful
as they must have been, are not peculiar to the governor
of this romantic peninsula. There are few of equal age
who, in early life, were not addicted to similar crimes;
while with some the repetition was carried to an extent
scarcely credible.

The Christian missionaries from Britain, who arrived
at Tahiti five-and-thirty years ago, were not unacquainted

249

\vitn the existence of this practice ; but it was only by
degrees that they could bring their own minds to receive
the evidence furnished by the natives themselves of its
distressing frequency. Though it prevailed most amongst
the highest and most voluptuous classes in society, few
were exempt from the cruelty and guilt it involved. Of
this the following fact, communicated in a letter recently
received from the South Sea Islands, affords affecting
confirmation : — " We were conversing the other day,"
observes Mr. Williams, " on the subject of infanticide-
Three native females were sitting in the room at the
time ; the eldest did not appear to be more than forty
years of age. In the course of the conversation, turning
to them, I asked whether, while they were idolaters, they
had destroyed any of their children. They hesitated,
but afterwards replied that they had. I asked if they
had been guilty of this cruelty more than once. They
answered in the affirmative; and, though reluctant to
acknowledge how often they had imbrued their hands in
innocent blood, at length, to our astonishment, declared
that they had occasioned the death of not fewer than
one and twenty infants. One had destroyed nine,
another seven, and the third five. These unhappy
mothers were not selected as having been more criminal
than others, but simply happened to be sitting in the
room at the time when the conversation occurred."

Indolence, the pride of rank, the vanity which impel-
led the females thus to seek the preservation of personal
attractions, and the existence of the libertine areoi
association — an institution founded by their gods, and

250 INFANTICIDE.

conferring many privileges on its members, but which
prohibited any who should, by allowing one of their
offspring to live, become parents, to continue members —
were the chief considerations by which the unhappy
individuals who perpetrated these cruelties were induced
thus to exceed, in insensibility and savageness, the most
ferocious beast of the forest.

The delusions of idolatry, and effects of long famili-
arity with vice, must have acquired an appalling power
over the prostrate and degraded mind, when considera-
tions, inferior as the above, so completely triumphed over
those feelings which ennoble and humanise man, and form
the strongest law which the Creator has framed for the
preservation of our race. In this practice, man, by the
atrocity of his guilt, seemed to be defying the forbearance
of the Almighty, at the same time that he was seeking to
annihilate, by an act of suicide, his species.

Woman, whom true religion elevates, protects, and
places on an equality with the other sex, but whom
idolatry ever oppresess arid enslaves, perpetually beheld,
in this practice, her abject humiliation. Infants of her
own sex were the most frequent victims ; and often,
when the period has approached which in Christian
Society is one of the greatest solicitude and hope, the
parents have agreed that the infant, if a male, should be
spared, but if a female, destroyed. As the period of
its birth approached, instead of those joyful preparations
with which parental affection, in happier communities,
awaits the pledge of mutual love, the inhuman father
has dug his unborn infant's grave ; and when the chill

INFANTICIDE. 251

has entered the world, if a female, its sex has been its
crime ; and for this the sire has seized the tender babe,
and scarcely has its infant eye gazed on the beaming
day — its infant bosom breathed the ambient air — before
that father has marred, with ruffian hand, its lovely form,
and closed its eyes in death ! One feeble cry or startling
shriek, which might have drawn tears from demon eyes,
was scarcely uttered, before its mangled body, bleeding,
and palpitating still with new existence, was, from it?
father's arms, hurled into the grave. This was filled
with unbroken clods and stones, which, while he sought
with the foliage of surrounding shrubs to cleanse his
blood-stained hands, that father has trodden down j then,
having strewn a few green boughs or tufts of grass over
the place, the guilty parties have returned, and have,
with apparent unconcern, joined the pursuits or the
pastimes of their companions. Other means — means
which do not admit of description — were employed on
these occasions ; and somtimes, without effecting by the
hand what the Turks accomplish by the bowstring, they
buried the infant alive, simply covering its mouth with
a piece of cloth made with the bark of a tree. In the

i

Sandwich Islands, the natives have stated that the mother
herself has assisted in filling up the grave and pressing
down the earth. The mothers in the Society Islands were
scarcely less inhuman in the part they often acted.
Among the latter, the first-born, the second, the third,
and often a greater number, were thus destroyed.

The practice, instead of being regarded as disgraceful
or criminal, was, under some circumstance?, considered

INFANTICibfc.

meritorious. To be an areoi was esteemed an honour-
able distinction, and infant-murder was one means of
removing inferiority of rank. When the family, or station
in society, of one parent was superior to that of the
other, which was a frequent occurrence, the former in-
variably secured the destruction of the child. If the
parties continued to live together, the number of the
children that must be sacrificed was regulated by the
degree of difference originally existing between the
parents. And it was not until, by the destruction of
the required number of children, the parent who had
b,!en inferior in rank was raised to an equality with the
superior, that their offspring might live. Natural affec-
tion, which, however it may be restrained, was perhaps
never entirely eradicated, often struggled against these
barbarous customs ; and the fond and youthful mother
has wept over the doom of her child, and has striven
to preserve its life, when often by brute force has the
infant been torn from her embrace, and hurled before
her into its untimely grave. The mind involuntarily
shrinks from the comtemplation of the scenes of violence
and ciime which were presented on these occasions ;
and the recollection or recital of which, even now, fills
with anguish the bosoms, and with tears the eyes, of the
bereaved and childless parents who survive.

The conduct of the Sandwich Islanders, at these
reasons, appears to have been reckless in the extreme.
Among their southern neighbours, one circumstance-,
which appears peculiarly striking, was the shortness of
the season of danger. The infant was usually destroyed

INFANTICIDE. 253

immediately on its birth ; if it was spared but a single
hour, or even a shorter period, it was safe. Whether,
with all their cruelty, they could not relentlessly con-
sign to the grave a little infant that unconsciously looked
up, as if inviting protection and kindness, or whether
their having suffered the child to live for so short a period
deprived the parents of that consideration from the com-
munity which its immediate destruction would have
secured, is uncertain ; but if it escaped death from the
bands of its own parents, or their immediate relations,
for the first hour of its existence, it was afterwards
nursed and reared with tenderness and care.

Among the practices of cruelty which excited the
compassion and called forth the exertions of the mis-
sionaries, this was one of the first. The English females,
wives of the missionaries, applied themselves especially
to the mothers, as the period of childbirth drew near,
and, with all the tenderness and fervour which suc.h an
object excited, remonstrated against their cruel purpose,
presenting every consideration that they imagined likely
to affect the hearts of the natives; and, when every other
inducement failed, even soliciting them to spare the
infant as an act of personal favour to themselves, re-
questing that the child, as soon as it was born, might be
given to them, assuring the parents that it should be
brought up with their own children, and receive an equal
degree of kindness and regard. Their efforts were una-
vailing; and in only one or two instances did they
succeed during the first sixteen years of their residence
rmong the people,

z

2,54 INFANTICIDE.

In the year 1815 the inhabitants of the Society Islands,
as a nation, received the Christian religion ; and infanti-
cide, with other usages equally iniquitous and cruel,
was universally abandoned. Since that period a new
order of feelings appears to have influenced the Tahitian
parents ; they are astonished at themselves when they
reflect on their former inhuman conduct; and no parents
can be more affectionate than the Tahiti ans now are.
Domestic happiness, though formerly unknown amongst
them, now pervades their neat and simple habitations ;
and, while they behold their children growing up like
olive-branches around their table, unwonted emotions of
the purest satisfaction and the brightest hopes are kindled
in their bosoms. Hundreds of intelligent, cheerful, and
active children, who would formerly have been sacrificed
to a custom as savage as it was criminal, now not only
gladden their parents' hearts, but daily attend the
native schools, where they manifest no inferiority in
capacity to children in other parts of the world ; and
where, besides acquiring the elements of useful know-
ledge, they are taught to read in their own language,
wherein they were born, the Holy Scriptures, which are
able to make them wise unto salvation, through faith
which is in Christ Jesus. Annual examinations of the
scholars are held, when suitable rewards are given as
encouragements to the most deserving. At these seasons,
emotions of pleasure and of pain the most intense often
appear m striking contrast. In one of the islands, a
short time ago, after the examination, and while several
hunured children were cheerfully partaking of th-2

INFANTICIDE.

255

reircs.iment which their parents had provided for the
occasion, while the parents were delighted spectators
ot the scene, a venerable chief arose and addressed
them, evidently under the influence of strongly excited
feeling.

" I was," he exclaimed, as he proceeded in his
address, ua mighty chief. The spot on which we are
now met was sacred to me and my family Large was
my family, but I alone remain ; the rest have died ;
they knew not this good word which I am spared to see ;
my heart is longing for them, and often says within me,
Oh, that they had not died so soon! Great are my
crimes : I am the father of nineteen children ; all oftliem
1 have murdered; now my heart longs for them. Had
they been spared, they would have been men and
women, learning and knowing the word of the true God.

* c? *_j

But while I was destroying them, no one stayed my
hand, or said, 'Spare them/ Now my heart is re-
penting—is weeping for them." To such a parent what
u<jony must the scene, of perhaps five or six hundred
lively, happy children, gladdening their parents' hearts,
have afforded ! We rejoice to believe that no future
parents will experience pangs of remorse from such a
cause. Were this the only result of the efforts of
Christian missions in the South Sea Islands, it would
impart a high degree of satisfaction.

To have rescued from a premature death, by the
hands of their own parents, the multitudes who, had
idolatry continued, would have been every year destroyed
is, without reference to the higher and more important

Z2

256 T11E SABBAlll-iVELL.

spiritual advantages which they have conferred, an ample
reward, to the supporters of Christian missions, for the
difficulties they have encountered and the exertions they
have made.

THE SABBATH-BELL.

BY JOHN BIRD.

THE Sabbath-bell !— how sweetly breathes

O'er hill and dale that hallowed sound,
When Spring her first bright chaplet wreathes

The cotter's humble porch around ; —
And glistening meads of vernal green, —

The blossomed bough, — the spiral corn, —
Smile o'er the brook that flows between,

As shadowing forth a fairer morn.

The Sabbath-bell! — 'tis stillness all,

Save where the lamb's unconscious bleat,
Or the lone wood-dove's plaintive call,

Are mingling with its cadence sweet :
Save where the lark on soaring wing

At heaven's gate pours her matin-son j :
Oh ! thus shall feathered warblers sing,

Nor man the grateful strain prolong.

The Sabbath-bell ! — how soothing flow
Those greetings to the peasant's breast ?

Who knows not labour, ne'er can know
The blessed calm thai sweetens rest !

THE SABBATH-BELL.

The day-spring of his pilgrimage,
Who, freed awhile from earthly care,

Turns meekly to a heaven-taught paue,
And reads his hope recorded there.

The Sabbath-bell! — yes, not in vain

That bidding on the gale is borne ;
G'ad respite from the echoing wain,

The sounding axe, the clamorous horn ;
Far other thoughts those notes inspire,

Where youth forgets his frolic pace,
And maid and matron, son and sire,

Their church-way path together trace.

The Sabbath-bell !— ere yet the peal

Tn lessening murmurs melt away,
Tis sweet with reverent step to steal

Where rests around each kindred clay !
Where buried love, and severed friends.

Parent and offspring, shrouded lie !
The tear-drop falls, — the prayer ascends,-

The living muse, and learn to die!

The Sabbath-bell ! — 'tis silent now ;

The holy fane the throng receives :
The pastor bends his aged brow,

And slowly turns the sacred leaves
Oh ! blest where blending ranks agree

To tread the paths their fathers trod,
To bend alike the willing knee,

One fold before one fostering God i

z3

A OlIAi'TIR OF FLOWERS.

The Sabbath-bell !— Oh ! does not time

In that still voice all-eloquent breathe!
How many have listened to that chime,

Who sleep these grassy mounds beneath !
How many of those who listen now

Shall wake its fate-according knell ;
Blessed if one brief hour bestow

A warning in the Sabbath-be!! !

A CHAPTER OF FLOWERS.

WHAT is the use of flowers ? Why cannot the earth
bring forth the fruits that feed us, and the sweet flavours
that provoke our appetite, without all this ostentation ?
What is it to the ponderous cow, that lies ruminating and
blinking hour after hour on the earth's green lap, that
myriads of yellow buttercups are all day laughing in the
sun's eye ? Wherefore does the violet, harbinger of no
fruit, nestle its deep blueness in the dell, and fling its
wanton nets of most delicious fragrance, leading the
passenger by the nose ? And wherefore does the tulip,
unedible root, shoot up its annual exhibition of most
gaudy colour and uninterpretable beauty ? Let the apple-
tree put forth her blossom, and the bean invite the vagrant
bee by the sweet annunciation of coming fruit and food ;
but what is the use of mere flowers — blossoms that lead
to nothing but brown, withered, curled-up, vegetable
fragments? And why is their reign so short? Why does
the gum-cistus drop its bright leaves so regularly at such

A CIlAPif.S, OF F LOWERS. 2.~9

brief intervals, putting on a clean shirt every duy ? Who
can interpret the exception to the rule of nature's plan of
utility? For whom are flowers made, and for what?
Are they mere accidents in a world where nought else is
accidental ? Is there no manifestation of design in their
construction ? Verily, they are formed with as complete
and ingenious a mechanism as the most sensitive and
marvellous of living beings. Tliey are provided with
wondrous means of preservation and propagation.
Their texture unfolds the mystery of its beauty to the
deep-searching microscope, mocking the grossness of
mortal vision. Shape seems to have exhausted its
variety in their conformation; colour hath no shade, or
combination, or delicacy of tint, which may not be found
in flowers ; and every modulation of fragrance is theirs.
But cannot man live without them ? For whom,
and for what, are they formed ? Are they formed for
themselves alone ? Have they a life of their own ? Do
they enjoy their own perfume, and delight themselves in
the gaudiness of their own colours and the gracefulness of
their own shapes ? Man, from the habitual association
of thought, sentiment, and emotion — with eyes, nose, and
mouth, and the expression of the many-featured face,
cannot conceive of sense or sentiment subsisting without
these modifications, or some obvious substitute for them.
Is there nothing of expression in their aspect ? Have
they not eyeless looks and lipless eloquence ? See the
great, golden expanse of the sun-flower winding, on its
tortuous stem, from east to west ; praising, in the profuse-
of its gaudy gratitude, the light in \vhich it lives and

261. /v CHAPTER OF FLOWERS.

glories. See how it drinks in, even to a visible intoxica-
tion, the life-giving-rays of the cordial sun; vvhiie, in the
q-iiet of its own deep enjoyment, it pities the locomotive
part of the creation, wandering from place to place in
search of that bliss which the flower enjoys in its own bed ;
fixed by its roots, a happy prisoner, whose chains are its
life. Is there no sense or sentiment in the living thing ?
Or stand beneath the annual canopy that o'ershadows a
bed of favourite and favoured tulips, and read in their
colours, and their cups, the love they have for their little
life. See you not that they are proud of their distinction ?
On their tall tremulous stems they stand, as it were, on
tiptoe, to look down on the less favoured flowers that
grow miscellaneously rooted in the uncanopied beds of
the common garden. Sheltered and shielded are they
from the broad eye of day, which might gaze on them too
rudely ; and the vigour of their life seems to be from the
sweet vanity with which they drink in admiration from
human eyes, in whose milder light they live. Go forth
into the fields and among the green hedges ; walk abroad
into the meadows, and ramble over heaths ; climb the
steep mountains, and dive into the deep valleys j scramble
among the bristly thickets, or totter among the perpendi-
cular precipices ; and what will you find there ? Flowers
— flowers — flowers ! What can they want there ? What
can they do there? How did they get there ? What are
they but the manifestation that the Creator of the universe
is a more glorious and benevolent Being than political
economists, utilitarians, philosophers, and id genus otnne ?
Flowers — of all things created most innocently simple

A CHAPTER OF FLOWERS. 2'J I

\nd most superbly complex : playthings for childhood.
ornaments of the graves and companions of the cold
corpse in the coffin ! Flowers — beloved by the wandering
idiot and studied by the deep-thinking man of science !
Flowers — that, in the simplicity of their frailty, seem to
beg leave to be, and that occupy, with blushing modesty,
the clefts, and corners, and spare nooks of earth, shrinking
from the many-trodden path, and not encroaching on the
walks of man j retiring from the multitudinous city, and
only then, when man has deserted the habitation he has
raised, silently, and as if long waiting for implied per-
mission, creeping over the grey wall and making ruin
beautiful ? Flowers — that unceasingly expand to heaven
their grateful, and to man their cheerful looks : partners
of human joy, soothers of human sorrow ; fit emblems of
the victor's triumphs, of the young bride's blushes ;
welcome to crowded halls and graceful upon solitary
graves ! Flowers — that by the unchangeableness of their
beauty, bring back the past with a delightful and living
intensity, of recollection ! Flowers — over which inno-
cence sheds the tear of joy ; and penitence heaves the
sigh of regret, thinking of the innocence that has been
Flowers are for the young and for the old ; for the grave
and for the gay ; for the living and for the dead ; for all
but the guilty, and for them when they are penitent.
Flowers are, in the volume of nature, what the expression,
"God is love," is in the volume of revelation. They
tell man of the paternal character of the Deity. Servants
are fed, clothed, and commanded; but children are
instructed by a sweet gentleness; and to them is given,

2f>2 A CHAPTER OF I'LOWEES,

by the good parent, that which deiights as well as that
which supports. For the servant there is the gravity of
approbation or the silence of satisfaction ; but for the
children there is the sweet smile of complacency and the
joyful look of love. So, by the beauty which the
Creator has dispersed and spread abroad through creation,
and by the capacity which he has given to man to enjoy
and comprehend that beauty, he has displayed, not
merely the compassionateness of his mercy, but the
generosity and gracefulness of his goodness.

What a dreary and desolate place would be a world
without a flower ! It would be as a face without a
smile — a feast without a welcome. Flowers, by their
sylph-like forms and viewless fragrance, are the first
instructors to emancipate our thoughts from the grossness
of materialism ; they make us think of invisible beings ;
and, by means of so beautiful and graceful a transition,
our thoughts of the invisible are thoughts of the good.

Are not flowers the stars of earth, and are not stars
the flowers of heaven ? Flowers are the teachers of
gentle thoughts — promoters of kindly emotion. One
cannot look closely at the structure of a flower without
loving it. They are emblems and manifestations of
God's love to the creation, and they are the means
and ministrations of man's love to his fellow-creatures ;
for they first awaken in the mind a sense of the beautiful
and the good. Light is beautiful and good : but on its
undivided beauty, and on the glorious intensity of its
full strength, man cannot gaze ; he can comprehend it
best when prismatically separated and dispersed in the

A CHAPTER OF FLOWERS. 263

many-coloured beauty of flowers j and thus he reads the
elements of beauty — the alphabet of visible gracefulness.
The very inutility of flowers is their excellence and great
beauty ; for, by having a delightfulness in their very form
and colour, they lead us to thoughts of generosity and
moral beauty detached from and superior to all selfish-
ness; so that they are pretty lessons in nature's book of
instruction, teaching man that he liveth not by bread
or for bread alone, but that he hath another than an
animal life.

It is a pretty species of metaphysics which teaches us
that man consists of body, soul, and spirit, thus giving
us two parts heavenly for one that is earthly, the inter-
mediate leading us by a gentle ascent to the apprehension
and enjoyment of the higher part of our nature ; so taste
and a love of the beautiful leads us to the aspiring after
virtue, and to regarding virtue as something far sublimer
than mo.'-e calculation of physical enjoyment. Is not the
very loveliness of virtue, its disinterestedness, its uncal-
culating generosity, its confiding freeness, its appre-
hension of a beauty beyond advantage and above utility,
— above that utility which ministers merely to the animal
existence ? In its highest and purest sense, utility is
beauty, inasmuch as well-being is more than being, and
soul is more than body. Flowers, then, are man's first
spiritual instructors, initiating him into the knowledge,
love, and apprehension of something above sensualness
and selfishness. Children love flowers, childhood is the
age of flowers, of innocence, and beauty and love of
beauty. Flowers to them are nature's smiles, with

/. CHAPTER OF FLOWERS.

which they c;ui converse, and the language of which
they can comprehend, and deeply feel, and retain
through lifej so that when sorrow and a hard lot presses
on them heavily in after years, and they are ready to
think that all is darkness, there springs up a recollection
of an early sentiment of loveliness and recollected
beauty, and they are reminded that there is a spirit ot
beauty in the world, a sentiment of kindness that cannot
be easily forgotten, and that will not easily forget.
What, then, is the use of flowers ? Think of a world
without flowers — of a childhood that loves them not —
of a soul that has no sense of the beautiful — of a virtue
that is driven and not attracted, founded on the meanness
of calculation, measuring out its obedience, grudging its
generosity, thinking only of its visible and tangible
rewards j think of a state of society in which there is
no love of beauty, or elegance, or ornament; and then
may be seen and felt the utility of ornament, the sub-
stance of decoration, the sublimity of beauty, the use-
fulness of flowers.

RHAPSODY FROM ZECHARIAH,

Chap. VI.

BY THE REV. R. POLWHELE.

AGAIN I turned, the Prophet cries:
I turned, and lifted up mine eyes:

And lo ! there rushed four chariots from between
Two mountains towering to the skies!

And the mountains were of brass

FROM ZECJJAR:

Dire on my sense the vision burst —

Horses of flame whirled on the^Vs^ }

And fiercer in the second car

Sable were the steeds of war;

And in the third, of dazzling white

The coursers urged their rapid flight ;

And in the fourth, with far o'erwhelming force.

«/

Statelier seemed each grizzled horse.

Then cried I to the angel: Lord, what mean

These sights insufferable, to surpass
All mortal durance ? And he said :
These are the four great Spirits of heaven that, sped
By the Omnipotent, go forth,

His ministers of wrath,

Through all the subject earth ;
That strike the nations with dismay
As vast dominions roll away,
And raise up empires mightier yet than they ^
That crush the purple tyrant's throne,
And bid thee lick the dust, proud Baby ion !
That shall to ruin hurl, as erst they hurled
The arrogant and vain, to appal a guilty we*'

THE OCEAN OF LIFE.

•

Ir was in the days of my youth, that I once wandered
forth to pass a summer's evening on the sea-shore. I
had often looked upon its waves, and watched their rise
and fall, each coming on like one of the rolling years of
Time, and passing away to make room for a succeeding
one- Often, too, had I heard Life compared to that
restless ocean, and the human race to the multitude of
vessels ever moving on the troubled surface of its waters ;
but on this day the idea possessed me more strongly
than at any former time, and when I stretched myself
on a sea-worn rock, it was with an intention of pursuing
the train of thought it had suggested. But the noise of
the receding tide, which now came more and more gently
up to the place on which I rested, lulled my senses,
even like the soothing voice of a nurse, when, in low
and still lower tones, she hushes to its rest the cradled
infant, and I soon sank into the deep quietness of sleep.
It was not, however, a sleep of forgetfulness ; my waking
thoughts still pursued my slumbers, and such as I have
now to describe was the dream that followed.

Methought that I stood upon a high and beetling cliff
which gave me the view of an unbounded ocean. But
it was not untenanted, for it seemed crowded with vessels
of every size and form. They were sailing with various

THE OCEAN OF LIFE. 267

deg-ees of speed, and were steered, as it seemed, with
various degrees of skill, but one great irresistible tide
carried them all forward, and, however the voyage might
be diversified to each, I soon found that in one point of
the distant horizon they must all meet at last. I looked
earnestly in that direction, but a dense mist covered the
place j I looked again, fixing my eyes intently upon it,
but in vain ; they could not pierce its thick and heavy
gloom. There was something oppressive in this, from
which I turned awav. and soon became engaged by the
strange and animated scene before me. For a time it
was all enchantment, for the breath of the morning
played lightly round my head, and the waters danced
beneath my eye in the light of a newly risen sun. But
as the day advanced, and I continued to gaze, I began
to be troubled ; — sometimes the sky lowered over the
place where I stood, and the glare of the early sunbeams
having passed away from the surface of the ocean, it
assumed a very different appearance. I observed
dangers innumerable, in the course of every voyager,
which had been hid from me before. There were
symptoms of reefs, and shoals, and quicksands. The
vessels now seemed to me but the sport of winds and
waves, often of tempests and whirlpools. It was seldom
that any one reached its wished-for destination, and

every thing seemed uncertain, except that each must
enter the region of shadowy darkness at last. It received

them all, the bravest and the gayest, as well as the
meanest and most insignificant. The gallant vessel that
had iust entered on its course, as well as the worn and

268 THE OCEAN OF LITE.

shattered bark that seemed no longer able to brave the
terrors of the ocean — all entered there, and from that
place of darkness there was no return. Yet surely,
thought I, these common dangers, and this universal
fate, must give a community of interest to these wan-
derers of the ocean ; it must make them tender and
compassionate to one another, anxious to attend to every
signal of distress, willing to cheer on a fellow- voyager
in his course, and never to pass by indifferent to his
misfortunes. — I looked again over the wide scene before
me, in search of proofs to confirm this hope, but alas !
it was not thus ; — the truth was far otherwise. It now
seemed to me that the severest dangers, which these
ocean travellers had to fear, were from the evil designs
of one another. The strong did not assist the weak,
they oppressed them ; those whose path lay for a time
over smooth waters did not heed the cry of their storm-
tossed fellows ; and there were some vessels, moving as
if with pride and beauty over the deep, which swept
down the meaner barks that impeded their course even
for a moment. As I looked on these things I became
perplexed and sorrowful : — t( Where/' said I, " is the
Ruler of this ocean ? Where is the Great One who holds
the waters in the hollow of His hand ? — for the work is
vast, the artificer must be Almighty." As I raised my
head, in uttering these words, I found that a being of a
gentle and engaging aspect stood beside me. There
was no mixture of contempt in the pity with which he
looked at me, and, though I felt that he was a being of
a much more exalted nature than myself, I was subdued

THE OCEAN OF LII £ '269

not by the terror but by the calmness of his presence.
In his appearance he was a stranger to me, but the
feeling with which I met his looks was not new, some-
thing like it I had known before' and it was in a voice
of half recognition that I said " Who art thou?" " Child
of mortality, and doubt, and error," he replied, "I am
thy good Angel, the commissioned attendant on thy
steps, the unwearied companion of thy wanderings."
" But art thou wise as thou art good ?" said I, with an
impatience that ill became a listening disciple, " Canst
thou explain ail that now perplexes my thoughts, or
restore to me the pleasant gaiety that once possessed
them ? — Canst thou call back the beams of the morning,
or pour some more steady light on the confused scene
before me ?" — "It is not my office to do this," he said,
" but do as I would wish, and the knowledge thou
desirest shall be thine." I now observed that he held in
his hand a telescope of the finest workmanship ; and,
having rested it firmly on the rock beneath us, he turned
to me and continued. " Bend thyself down, that by the
assistance of the eye of Faith thou mayest correct the
short and erring vision of nature. It is not needful," I
replied, "my sight of all the danger and misery before
me is but too clear, and wherefore should I stoop to so
low a place as that on which thy glass rests, since this
higher point must needs give me a more extended
prospect? — What is that quality or charm to which thou
givest the name of Faith?" "It is," said the Angel,
looking upward, as if to acknowledge from whence he
obtained his answer, and bowing his head in devout

2 A3

270 THE OCEAN OF LIFE.

acquiescence, "it is the substance of things hoped for
the evidence of things not seen." His reply arrested me
at once, for it was an answer not to my words only, but
to my anxious wishes and troubled thoughts. I there-
fore prepared to obey him, and as I stooped down to use
the goodly assistance he had brought me, I saw that his
eye, which had before been clouded by sorrow, brightened
into a look of animated pleasure. With a gaze of no
common earnestness I now bent my eyes again upon the
ocean, but it was not at once that I found the assistance
I desired. It was some time before I could accommo-
date my sight to this new medium, but when at last a
distant view of every object was presented to me. its
aspect was so changed that I could scarcely believe it
was the same scene which I had looked upon before.
There were still, indeed, the same countless multitudes
moving over the face of that heaving ocean, but not one
of its waves seemed now to rise or fall at the mere
impulse of chance: — there was plainly a power ruling
over them all; and the longer I continued to look, th»
more wonderful and visible appeared to be the effects of
that power. I saw it in the lightest ripple of the water,
as well as in the fiercest tumult of the agitated deep. —
It appeared to me in the slightest breeze that moved the
sails of the voyagers, as well as in the awful tempest
that swept them to destruction, and my soul confessed
that an Almighty spirit did indeed move on the face of
those waters. I turned my eyes to that distant part of
the horizon which had before been hid from me in
:lu;kness; a shadow still rested upon it, but it was not

THE OCEAN OF LIFE.

271

impenetrable. Beyond it lay a shore, peaceful and
smiling as the waters that led to it were turbulent and
dark : — long could I have looked with delight on its
surpassing beauty, its " many mansions," and its blessed
inhabitants, but the Angel recalled my attention to the
course of the voyagers (and I no longer resisted his
commands.) Their condition was now much changed
in my sight; dangers, indeed, lay in the way of every
one, but each had a compass to direct his course, and
might possess himself of a chart to point out his des-
tination, and to guide him to it through every danger
with security. "Both these gifts," said my Angel.
" were bestowed by the great Ruler of the Ocean : —
the compass is, indeed, subject to variation from the
attraction of surrounding objects, but these it is the duty
of a skilful mariner to remove j he should also p.ace i
in the light instead of hiding it, as so many do, ir
darkness. The chart is of inestimable value to thos
who truly study it, and shape their course as it direct:
I is plan is perfect and its execution admirable, for i
describes the Ocean of Life as having once beei
entered upon, and travelled over by the Ruler of thai
Ocean in the person of His only Son. — And His was
no smooth or pleasurable passage. He toiled through
dangers, and suffered from enemies, and contended
with storms; in an hour of more than common terror
He penetrated the region of darkness, and why He did
all this, for whose sake it was accomplished, and in what
manner, appears so legible in every line and word traced
there, that to look and yet to be ignorant is impossible.'*

872 THE OCRAy OF LITE.

But, of these invaluable gifts, I observed that the
former was often hid, and the latter often neglected;
by some even despised, and by far too few dwelt upon
and followed. I saw it, indeed, consulted in the hour
of danger, when some vessel had struck upon a rock in
its heedless course, or had been shattered by the fury
of a storm, and it was well for those mariners when
their experience of its value in such seasons made it
afterwards precious in their sight : — but it was not
always thus j it was often thrown aside when the
danger was past, and again called for when the same
necessity recurred — By persons of this description 1
could well observe that it was looked at in vain : —
the confusion of their thoughts at these troubled
moments, and their ignorance of its plan and mean-
ing, deprived them of its use. — It was in seasons
of calmness, in the still and early morning of the
day, that it was to be studied best ; that the dangers
of the passage might be known before they became
too near and frequent, and that the reference to it
might be easy and habitual. But in many cases, as
I have said, this was forgotten, and it seemed to be
the prevailing custom with every company of mari-
ners to yield themselves up to the guidance of one
who stood at the helm, regardless of the dangers
into which he led them, or how widely he steered
from the true point of the compass or the right
direction of the chart. " Who," said I, " is that
daring steersman standing at the helm of yonder well-
trim med vessel? — he has borne down many others

TiiE GC£AN OF LI1 £. 1?3

in his course, and fair winds seem to attend his sails,
nor does he appear to dread any dangers of the
voyage, but rather to encounter them in order that
he may overcome, yet he has a look rather of restless
emotion than of joy. I behold on his face a gleam
of triumph when the notes of a trumpet, loudly
blown by one who stands at the prow of his vessel,
are sent over the ocean, and the echoes return upon
his ear j but that is momentary." — " It is true,"
said the Angel. " His name is Ambition. He is
supported, as you may see, by Pride, and the voice
of Fame is the music of his soul : — by their assistance
he maintains the most unlimited power over his followers,
but Peace and Joy are not his associates. Observe his
course still further." — I continued to look, wishing much
to know how this gallant and fearless company would
enter the region of darkness. It was sad to witness the
efforts of the steersman to turn aside from that inevitable
doom. I could well observe that he saw nothing but
darkness in the shadow ; there was nothing in it that he
could hope to overcome, and he dreaded to be inactive
and to be forgotten. In vain did he turn for assistance
to Pride ; that untameable spirit seemed to writhe under
the necessity of sharing the common lot, but with the
selfishness of its nature refused to bestow comfort. Even
the music of Fame seemed to have lost its charm, though
as the darkness received him, I could observe that he
and his followers still lent an ear to the notes as they
floated back upon the waters ; to my ear this music had
the sadness of a knell, but the player was so skilful and

274 THE OCEAN OF LIFE.

could so sweetly adapt his airs to the fancy of the voya-
gers, that he was eagerly receiveed into the service of
others, though a useless and often a destructive com-
panion to them all. It were tedious for me to relate the
manv vessels whose courses I followed. At the helm
of one stood Avarice 5 his course, unlike that of the for-
mer steersman, was slow and cautious, but of his true
destination he did not seem to have the least idea j the
many heaps of gold which lay on the deck were guarded
by the meagre and wrinkled form of Anxiety ; the same
expression pervaded the whole crew, for happiness had
no dwelling amonst them. Another company, and it
was indeed a very large one, sailed under the conduct of
Beauty ; — had it not been for the visit of the Angel I
might have dwelt on their proceedings with amusement,
but now in truth the sight of them was sorrowful ; the
more so, as many of them were young and full of anima-
tion, and might, perchance, have been more wisely oc-
cupied than in the pursuit of outward adornings, (careless
of the dangers around them and the place to which they
were going,) had it not been for the incessant anxiety
with which their conductress diverted their attention by
pictures and gewgaws. So entirely careless were they
of the duty of mariners bound on so perilous a voyage,
that I dreaded lest they should be dashed on every rock,
and that every wave should be their ruin. — If they were
saved from any of these dangers it must have been by
the lightness with which the vessel (being entirely with-
out ballast) danced on the surface of the waters ; but I
toon became weary of pursuing it, and my eyes and

THE OCEAN OF I !!•£. 275

thoughts now addressed themselves to a much more en.
gaging object. The vessel which attracted me was one
which I had scarcely noticed before the visit of the
Angel had furnished me the means of clearer observation,
so little ornament was there belonging to it, so noiseless
was its path along the waters : — it was a woman's form
that stood at the helm, and it was she who first gained
and longest fixed my attention. There was no studied
peculiarity in her garb or countenance, but she was alto-
g< -W unlike any one I had looked upon before : —
her eyes seemed naturally directed upwards, but she
fixed them with a steady regard upon the immediate
progress and conduct of the vessel whose helm she
never deserted for a moment. I could observe that
she required from those who made the voyage in her
company the most unhesitating obedience; but her
wisdom was so unquestionable, her commands so
reasonable, and her demeanour so peacefully affection-
ate, that in yielding their obedience they could not
deny their love. The Angel seemed to rejoice as he
saw my eyes directed to this vessel. " Follow its
course," he said, " even to the end. It is well worthy
your regard, for she whom you behold at the helm is
Religion. Her immediate attendants are Charity and
Truth : — Peace and Joy are also there, and all the
gentle and generous affections are in her company."
" And of what quality," said I, " is she who stands at
the prow of that vessel ?— a figure resembling hei's I have
seen in every company of voyagers, but she whom I
now observe has a much nobler expression than lay

27G Tnr, err \:; OF LTFK.

rest, neither is her countenance subject to the chnn^f-a
that I saw in theirs, but is ever radiant, as if fro PA
the reflection of some bright though distant reality."
"Yes," said the Angel, "she is, indeed, a being of a
most cheering nature ; her name is Hope. She has been
instructed by Religion, and is now the chosen assistant
of her to whom she owes her surpassing excellence and
beauty." I continued to watch every movement of this
vessel* and chiefly to observe the demeanour of her who
ruled and guided it. From the extreme care with which
she avoided every danger of the ocean, even the most
hidden, a careless observer might have thought her
timid. At times I observed that this thought occurred
even to some among her own company, but they were
instantly reproved for the error, not by ungentle autho-
rity, but by an appeal to the chart of their voyage ; and
were recommended to place themselves under the gentle
but faithful guard of one who seemed much prized by
Religion, and whose name, as the Angel told me, was
Humility. When danger was of necessity to be encoun-
tered, when the crews of other vessels were to be assisted
in their distress, or when the heavens looked dark, and
the tempest descended around her own, then did the
gentle form of Religion seem endued with a "giant's
force :" — then was her voice lifted up to re-assure the
timid, and to comfort the despairing ; while she bid them
be of good cheer, for Hope was with them, and at her
command she had cast her golden anchor far beyond the
dark and awful shadow, even on the shore of everlasting
peace. When I saw these things, and again turned for

THE OCEAN OP LrFE. Q77

a time to the other travellers of the Ocean, I could not
help feeling amazed that they did not all follow in the
track of her whose way seemed as perfect as her form
was lovely. " Is it not strange," said I, but a recol-
lection of my former rash judgments checked the words
that were about to rise to my lips. The Angel under-
stood my thoughts and answered them. " It is sad in
truth," he replied, "but you will not regard it as strange
if you again view the different qualities of those who
guide the other vessels on that Ocean, and think how
impossible it is that they should become the followers of
Religion. In general you will find them much too
intent on their own pursuits to cast a look or a thought
on her : — if they do, it is seldom an approving one. She
is far too noiseless for Ambition ; and her followers are
impressively commanded not to listen even to the
whispers of Pride, or to be seduced by the sweetest
music that Fame can breathe. She is too poor to draw
on Avarice, and too serious to attach the regards of
Vanity even for an hour, but some attempts to resemble
her you may behold, and one of them is now within
your sight." As the vessel to which he pointed ap-
proached, I saw that it also was steered by the hand of
a woman. — At a distance she resembled in some degree
the one who had before delighted me, but, as she became
more distinctly visible, I looked in vain for the calm eye,
and the regulated demeanour, the gentle yet powerful
expression of Religion. She had a look of extreme
anxiety, but it did not seem to relate to the onward
rogress of the vessel ; she was engaged in numberless

2*

g? 5 TliE OCEAN OF LIFE.

arrangements and observances of which lite glass I
did not enable me to discover the use or the meaning,
and which rather retarded than advanced her progress.
I inquired her name of the Angel. "Superstition," he
replied. "She is the daughter of Ignorance, who still
assists her to maintain command over her followers, but
those who stand on each side of her are of a more
dangerous character ; the masked figure on one side is
Hypocrisy. He once attempted to appear amongst the
followers of Religion, but his real face was soon revealed
to her by Truth, and he was spurned as from the presence
of an insulted monarch. She forbade even Charity, her
well-beloved sister, to plead for him, and Hope was
commanded to avert her face. His only refuge was
where you now behold him, by the side of Superstition,
where he generally remains concealed behind a mask,
and is always at hand to aid the designs of his more
ferocious companion, Persecution, he who holds a sword
and firebrand ready to enforce obedience from the
followers of Superstition to her most absurd and
capricious commands. Wi;h such rulers it is not won-
derful that the crew is, as you see it, joyless and timid,
preyed upon by fear, without Activity, Hope, or Reso-
lution." " It is even so," said I, but at this moment I
again turned my eyes to follow the even course of
Religion. I saw her as before beautiful and powerful,
calm in suffering and active in relieving, but I now
looked more intently than ever, for her vessel had almost
reached the place of the dark shadow. To her followers,
indeed,, it seemed to have no appalling darkness; they

THE OCEAN OF LIFE- CT"7

were carried nearer to it and no one shrank — in no indi-
vidual of that company did I see a countenance of fear
or sadness. As they entered it I looked still more
intently, hut at that moment there seemed such a living
brightness cast from the brow of Religion, and the eyes
of Hope beamed with so ineffable a lustre, that the light
flashed upon me like a sunbeam, and I awoke.

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

WITH A COPY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT.

IF this volume of Heaven has been thy delight,
And thy offerings of praise to its God have ascended,
If thy prayers have encircled the throne of His might,
And the tears of repentance and love thou hast blended ;

Thy bark, as it floats to the regions of truth,
Shall know neither shipwreck, nor danger, nor fear;
For the God thou hast sought in thy moments of youth
Shall soothe and support thee when trouble is near.

He will guide it unhurt to Eternity's shore,

And anchor it safe in the Haven of rest ;

Thou shall sleep in His bosom, to wander no more

Ftom the House of thy Father, the Home of the blest.

280
INNOCENCE.

BY AGNES STRICKLAND-

K radiant glances of thy heavenward eve-
Are raised above the clouds of mortal care$
Oh, holy and divinest Purity,
To thee, all things are lovely, all are fair.
The Proteus shapes of Sin still pass thee by,
And leave on thee no shadow j and the snare
Of strong Temptation, though it oft assail
Thy stedfast spirit, can in nought prevail.

Thou hast in festal halls and lordly towers
Preserved thy charms amidst the flattering train,
Who scattered in thy path enchanted flowers,
And wooed thee with a thousand spells in vain.
Thou, with firm step through Pleasure's syren botvers,
Like angel guest whom earth could ne'er enchain,
Hast still serenely thy bright course maintained,
And onward passed unfettered and unstained.

On thee, in deepest solitudes, has smiled
That perfect peace the world could ne'er bestow ;
Oh! holy, beautiful, and undefiled,
Relic of heaven still lingering here below,
The lily blooms beside thee in the wild,
Yet cannot match her coronal of snow
With thy unsullied vesture's spotless white.
Washed in the dews that usher in the light.

1SMJCE..CE. 282

Ficm the vain throng retired, thou sitt'st alone,
Listening the wood-dove's note, or murmur sweet
Of waving leaves by mountain breezes blown,
Where jasmines canopy thy calm retreat,
And thymy hillock forms the sylvan throne,
And the lamb finds a refuge at thy feet j
And crystal fountain, sparkling in thy sight,
Reflects thy image, and becomes more bright.

What though the tender paleness of thy face
Doth wear at times the pensive shade of sadness?
'Tis only when thou dost around thee trace
The evil traits of folly, guilt, and madness,
Whose canker spots have marred the human race ;
For thou art in thyself celestial gladness,
And crystal fountain, sparkling in thy sight,
Bright as when Eden's bovvers beheld thy birth.

Affliction, with her sternly chastening rod,

Indeed hath tried thee, but could ne'er destroy

That glorius emanation from thy God,

The deep serenity of holy joy j

And though thy pilgrim feet full oft have trod

A rugged way, yet bliss without alloy

Is to thy raptured glance divinely given,

Which sees through thorny paths the road to heaven:

NOTICES OF THE CANADIAN INDIANS,

THE mutations in the condition of the great family o
man, have furnished, in all ages, a copious theme for
poets, moralists, and philosophers. States and empires
have passed over the shifting scene of human existence,
and " left not a wreck behind," — etiam periere ruince.
It is by their historic names only they are known to have
once existed ; but while they sink and are absorbed, like
the ephemeral suns of the Aborigines of America, in the
dark ocean of oblivion, another sun, alter et idem, issues
from his chambers in the east, and " rejoices as a giant to
run his course."* The species perish, but the genus is
immortal. We live in an sera when such scenes may
possibly be witnessed.

When the wars and calamities incident to the human
race leave great voids in the population of the middle
and southern regions, "the populous north" has ever
been ready to pour out its myriads to fill them up ; in
no time, however, has its population been so steadily on
a progressive increase as at present. An Omniscient
Providence brings about events by secondary causes for
ultimate good, and these are now obvious. " The march

* The American Indians believe that the old sun every
evening is extinguished and dissolved in the Pacific Ocean,
and a new one arises the next dav out of the Atlantic.

THE CANADIAN INDIANS. 283

of intellect" has produced improvements in the arts and
sciences. Agriculture and commerce have gone hand in
hand to supply subsistence for the increase of the people ;
for when a bad season threatens a scarcity in one country,
the superabundance of another anticipates the evil. Wars
are no longer so sanguinary and destructive as formerly j
and diseases, once so formidable and fatal, are now so
much altered and subdued, as to prove comparatively
little destructive ; whilst habits of temperance have es-
tablished among all classes a steadier state of health. At
the same time, the silent spread of the Christian religion
begins to shed its divine influence on every region ; and,
in spite of the intolerance and bigotry of some of its
professors, brings every where " Peace on earth, and
good-will towards man."

By these causes, the former checks to population are,
in a great measure, removed ; but a consequence follows,
which threatens a more terrible calamity than all its
checks put together. Every where, even in the largest
cities, the annual births exceed the burials ; and it must
inevitably happen, if no causes, natural or political,
prevent, that more mouths will be produced, than there
can be food provided to supply them. This has become
a subject of the first consideration to every government.
Various plans have been agitated and proposed ; but
there is one only on which reliance can be placed with
any prospect of success, and that is emigration. Indeed,
it has grown into a general feeling, a kind of instinct, tc
emigrate, independent of government aids, to countries
where plenty and independence may be obtained, which is

* THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

denied at home. But of all regions, the Canadas seem
most congenial to British habits. The soil and climate
are, in the highest degree, fertile and salubrious. There-
are some countries, which, from an unknown constitution
of the atmosphere, seem to be exempt from certain fatal
diseases that infest their neighbours ; thus, the plague
never visits Persia, nor the yellow fever the Canadas.

I have only to regret one consequence that results or
will inevitably result, from the rapid increase of the popu-
lation of British America, and that is, the utter extinction
or absorption of the aboriginal natives. The red and the
white people cannot co-exist in the same place. Many
well-informed writers have described the country and its
inhabitants, and treated at large of American population.
1 am willing to contribute my gleanings, collected during
a residence of more than five years amongst them, and to
testify, " before they go hence, and be no more seen," tha
an unlettreed, but interesting race of Red People had
existed.*

The opportunities I had of mixing with these people,
and knowing them well, were such as do not usually
happen to those who merely visit the country. Shortly

* The term Indians does not properly belong to the
American aborigines. The first discoverers of the Western
Hemisphere, supposing that the continent and islands of
America were parts of India beyond the Ganges, called the
whole West Indies, and the natives Indians ; a naoie that is
loosely applied to all savages, but which is least of all ap-
plicable, to the red American people, who are neither Indians
nor savages ; but the name having obtained general currenr*' ,
cannot now be dispensed with.

THE CANADIAN INDIANS. 2S5

after my arrival, one of these occurred, which I was glad
to avail myself of. Among the misfortunes which the
migrations of Europeans to America has brought on the
natives, is the introduction of the small-pox, from the
scourge of which they had before been exempt. Diseases
are always most fatal when they seize, for the first time,
fresh victims j and this spreads its ravages among the red
people, with the resistless fury of a conflagration. I shall
mention one instance of its devastating effects. A dis-
tant tribe in alliance with the Chipawas had been in a
flourishing state, when it was first attacked by this awful
pest. In vain their priests, prophets, and physicians, at-
tempted to arrest its progress ; they themselves became its
victims. The survivors shifted their encampments from
place to place ; the inexorable pestilence pursued them,
till the whole nation perished, with the exception of one
family — a man, his w ife, and child. This " last man"
fled towards the British settlements, and was seen to
pitch his wigwam on the edge of the forest ; but here,
too, his enemy found him. The woman and child
sickened and died — the last survivor dug their grave,
and laid them in it ; he then sat down on the edge ff
the grave, and, in this attitude, he was found by a pass
ing trader. Him he requested to cover him up with
his wife and child ; and then, giving himself a mortal
wound, he flung himself upon their bodies. The
Indians seldom, if ever, commit suicide ; but this was an
extreme case, which put to the test the fortitude even oi

''The stoic of the woods — the man without a tear."
To arrest the progress, or ameliorate the rhaiacter af

' THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

this disease among the Indians, a few individuals had
been, at different times, vaccinated by European phy-
sicians; but no systematic effort had been made to
introduce vaccination among them, until it was made a
general practice in the army, by an order of His late
Royal Highness the Command er-in- Chief, when I, with
many others, set out for the purpose of introducing it
among the Indians also. There are certain stations
where all the tribes who wander over the vast continent
assemble together periodically, and remain encamped
in a body for a longer or shorter period. I availed
myself of one of these occasions, and proceeded thither
with a small detachment, who were sent from head-
quarters, with annual presents. They were, at this time,
encamped on the banks of the Grand River, which falls
into the north side of Lake Erie. Here we found a
numerous assemblage of men, women, and children, of
various tribes, collected from very remote quarters. As
they were apprised that I came to administer an antidote
or preservative against the sma!l-pox, a ruthless foe,
which justly inspired them with greater terror than all
their other enemies, I had the most cordial and friendly
reception. They erected for me a commodious and
cool wigwam : it was constructed of long flexible poles,
with each end stuck in the ground, so as to form a
circular roof, high enough to stand and walk upright in.
The top was covered with skins, and the sides with
birch bark, and the floor within was laid down with
mats. Here they repaired to me. and submitted to the
simple operation of vaccination with the most implicit

v.DIAN I

faith, and watched its progress with the greatest attention.
Finding every thing turn out as they were apprised it
would, and that no pain or sickness supervened, I gained
their entire confidence and good-will. They were soon
convinced of the efficacy of the operation , and continued
afterwards to bring their children for the purpose to
every future station, as well as to head-quarters.

Having performed this first and important duty I
applied myself to study the Indian character and manners,
and no situation could be better calculated for the pur-
pose. Most of these tribes had, as yet, little intercou.se
with European visitors; and they brought with the^i,
and practised, all their primitive habits, their languages,
oratory, gala dresses, dances, amusements, and religious
ceremonies. They hunted for us every day, and we
occasionally joined their parties. Our table was abun
dantly and sumptuously supplied with venison, fiVh,
wild turkey, pheasant, and partridges ; and we were
daily tempted with bear, porcupine, racoon, squirrel,
dog-flesh, and rattlesnake soup, these being the choicest
delicacies of an Indian mess ; and some extraordinary
ceremony or usage was continually occurring, at which
I was present.

The first to which my attention was directed, was a
matter of great curiosity and interest, which I had often
heard of, but never before had an opportunity of wit-
nessing. This was the initiation of a young warrior,
into the Society, or College of Magicians. The ceremony
is conducted with a deal of mystery, and none but dis-
tinguished chiefs admitted to be spectators. By special

288 THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

favour, I was allowed to stand in the circle. The
aspirant had been severely disciplined, in a state of pro-
bation, for some time before. There was a small arched
hut constructed, very close, and barely high enough
for him to sit up. A dog having been previously sacri-
ficed, the bones were scraped, and wrapped up in its
skin The aspirant was placed, sitting, at the little
door ; he was entirely naked ; his body oiled, and painted
in stripes of black, white, and red, and his head, deco-
rated with porcupine quills, and powdered with swans-
down. All being now ready, the most extraordinary
figure that was ever seen among the demons of the
theatre, strode out of his wigwam. He was a Miamee
chief, gaunt and big-boned, and upwards of six feet high.
His face was terrific. Projecting brows overhung a pair
of keen, small, black eyes ; the nose large, prominent
and angular j visage lengthy; chin square and long, with
a bushy beard ; and a mouth which appeared to extend
from ear to ear. A white line divided his features; one
side was painted black, the other red. His head-dress
was made of the shaggy skin of a buffalo's forehead, with
the ears and horns on. A buffalo robe hung on his
broad shoulders; «.he inside of which was wrought in
figures of sun, moon, and stars, and other hieroglyphics.
The Okama-Paw-waw, or chief worker of miracles, now
addressed the young aspirant, in a short speech, uttered
with a deep intonation, as from the bottom of his breast.
He then flung a small pebble at him, with some force.
The Indian, the instant he was hit, fell back, and app-Arsd
to be in a swoon. Two assistants, with hooded skins

THE CANADIAN INDIANS. 289

over their heads, thrust him head foremost, in this state
of insensibility, into the hut, which had previously been
heated with hot stones, upun which water was thrown,
to raise a vapour. While this was performing, the grand
Paw-waw threw himself on the ground, muttering words,
as if he was talking to somebody ; rolling himself from
side to side, and working like one in strong convulsions.
In this state he was dragged into his wigwam, and left
there to dream. In about half an hour he sallied forth,
and made a sign j upon which the assistants drew out by
the heels the miserable candidate from his oven. He was
bathed in a clammy sweat, and had the appearance of
having actually expired, evincing no perceptible respira-
tion or pulse. The great Paw-waw, no ways discon-
certed, stooped over him, and uttered alcud his in-
cantations. The two assistants sat on either side, each
with a skin pouch, in which was some ignited substance,
the smoke of which they puffed into his ears. In a few
minutes, he fetched a deep sigh, and opened his eyes.
The High Priest then put a calebash, in which was some
liquor, to his mouth ; after which he soon recovered.
The specators then testified the strongest signs of appro-
bation, crying altogether, hu! hu! hu ! hogh ! hogh !

It was now intimated to me, that I might be initiated
into these mysteries ; but I confess I had no wish to ba
further acquainted with this Miamee masonry, although
I was informed I should be enabled to dream dreams, to
foretell events, to raise the dead, to eat fire, swallow
trees^ snd digest bayonets. No doubt, these juggling
prophets, by a knowledge of medicinal plants, and by

290 THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

great sagacity and experience, exercise a strong, but not
despotic, influence over the multitude. To these natu-
ralists of the forest, we are indebted for some of our most
valuable articles of the Materia Medica; as sarsaparilla,
jalap, snake-root, gingsing, and ipecacuanha. They are
also adroit at reducing a dislocation, or setting a fracture;
but they do not understand blood-letting, although they
practise cupping with a gourd. To introduce among
them so important a practice, I gave the Paw-waw a case
of lancets, and instructed him in their use; and, in
return, he conferred on me his buffalo conjuring-cap,
which, like the mantle of the prophet, was also to confer
his miraculous spirit; but, not finding it efficacious, I
gave it, with many other Indian articles, to a public
Museum, where it now is.

I was a spectator here of the game of the ball, played
with extraordinary strength and agility, by two rival
tribes. It is a kind of rude and simple cricket, but is
exactly similar to the Irish hurling match. The players
were quite naked, and their bodies oiled and painted.
Some of their figures displayed so much symmetry and
beauty, and exhibited in their motions such grace,
strength, and agljity, that one might fancy any individual
of them was the Fighting Gladiator, that had stepped
down from his pedestal.

Here? too, they exhibited most of their dances.
Amongst the ancients, the Romans despised dancing,
but the Greeks and Jews were passionately fond of it
It formed a great part of their religious ceremonies, and
we read that Socrates and King David both practised it.

THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

291

The Indians are not less addicted to this exercise. They
represent all their important transactions by u panto-
mimic dance. War — Return from Battle — Prisoners-
Sacrifice — Death — Weddings — Calumet or Peace, —
each has its appropriate dance. They also have the Bear
and Eagle dance, in which they represent with great
truth all the motions of those animals. A sketch of the
Calumet dance may serve as a specimen. A circle of
warriors, highly dressed and decorated, surround a
central fire; behind 'diem is a circle of women. The
quire is seated before the fire, and the music consists
of three or four drums, beat with a single stick, and a
bunch or two of deer's hoofs, tied on the top of a short
pole to be rattled together. There is also a large thick
flute, with only three holes and the mouth-piece. It
produces a plaintive :one, not unpleasing. The head,
or leader, now steps forth with the calumet, which is a
long pipe, the stem highly decorated with eagles' feathers,
and the bowTl curiously carved ; he raises his eyes slowly
to heaven, and puffs the smoke towards the four cardinal
points j he then, in a measured step, accompanied by
the drums, presents it to each warrior. Having finished
the circle, he places himself at the head of the train, and
'eads the chorus. They move round and round ; the
women fall in, and they all join in the religious hymn
of Yah-luh-leagh.

The opinion that the Indian tribes are descended
from the ten captive tribes of the Jews, has been advo-
cated by several writers, particularly by Adair, who
was employed as an agent among the Indians for many

2 c2

THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

years. In order lo witness any circumstance that might
corroborate this opinion, I went on another occasion
with a party from Fort Erie lo the Shawonese Town,
near Buffalo Creek. It was early in May, when the
country had shaken off its white robe, and appeared in
the bright verdant dress of spring. We found the village
of a superior order, the houses well constructed and
comfortable, and some even with an upper story. They
surrounded a large green or common ; in the centre of
which the council-house or temple was erected. Tins
was a large oval building, thirty-two paces long by
twenty -four broad, and about fourteen feet high to the
roof. It was lighted by a few small square apertures
close to the eaves, which also let out the smoke; conse-
quently, it was somewhat dark. The door facing the
west had a rude but spacious portico. The roof, which
had a high pitch, was propped up within by four strong
postSj between which was the hearth, with a large kettle
over it. There was a seat all round, and the walls,
which were formed of split plank, were half-way up
covered with mats. Here we found a great number of
Indians assembled. The women were ranged outside the
wall, and the men surrounded the fire inside, at the
head of whom was the High Priest in his pontificals.
His face was painted like the quarterings of a coat of
arms, and he was furnished with a beard. He wore on
his head a high tiara of beaver-fur, stuck round with dyed
porcupine quills. He had over his chest a kind of
stomacher, worked in figures, and ornamented with
ivampum, which was supposed to represent the Jewish

THE CANADIAN INDIANS 293

Urim and Thummim ; in this the Indians imagine some
little spirit resides, which tney talk to and consult in
dubious events. Whilst the usual dance or chorus was
performing, a dog, which had been previously selected
and fattened, was boiling, in the kettle; when cooked,
the flesh was cut off, and the bones scraped clean and
wrapped up in its skin. The flesh was then divided
into small bits, and handed round, on a wooden platter,
to all those that surrounded the fire : at the same time,
the High Priest dipped a branch of hemlock pine in the
broth, and sprinkled it every where as well on the people
as on the walls. The ceremony concluded with (he
circular dance and chant, in which the women joined.
This chant or hymn is sung by all the Indian nations in
North America, however they may differ in custom and
language ; Humboldt even heard it in Mexico, and it is
supposed to be synonymous with the Hallelujah of the
Psalms. It was pricked down for me by a gentleman,
who understood musical composition j to my ears it
sounds like the lullaby of the nursery.

It must be admitted that this ceremony bears some
rude resemblance to the Feast of the Passover, substituting
a dog for a lamb, of which they have none, — but dogs
are sacrificed on all solemn occasions. The Indians also
resemble the Jews in many other particulars. They are
divided into tribes, which bear armorial banners — at least,
they make figures of the tortoise, bear, eagle, &c. to dis-
tinguish the tribes j and thus was each of the Jewish tribes
distinguished. They also place great dependance on
their prophets and their dreams, and consult them on all

2c 3

2i)4 THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

important occasions, as King Ahab did. When they
slaughter an animal, they spill the blood on the ground,
according to the Mosaical injunction. The purification
of women is remarkably similar to the Jewish law.

The marriage ceremonies, in many particulars, were
like those of the Hebrews. They purchase their wives,
by making presents, as Abraham's servant purchased
Rebecca for Isaac; and Jacob purchased Leah and
Rachel. A young warrior addresses the father of his
beloved, in a short speech, to this purport : — " Father,
I love your daughter ; will you give her to me ? and let
the small roots of her heart twine round mine." On
permission having been obtained, he brings his presents,
and lays them at the door of the lodge or wigwam ; if
they are accepted, he visits his mistress, and remains all
night with her ; and so continues to do for two or three
months before the wedding is celebrated. After feasting
and dancing, the high priest or prophet finishes the cere-
mony, when the bride presents a cake to her husband, and
he divides an ear of Indian corn between them. The
bride is then carried by her bride's-maids, in a buffalo
skin, to her husband's cabin.

•

Polygamy and divorce were common to Jews and
Indians ; but among the latter it is not general. The
Indian females are naturally gentle, modest, and silent;
— they are passionately fond of their children, and are
submissive slaves and at the same time affectionately
attached to their husbands. This they evince by self-
immolation, after the manner of eastern wives. Among
the few poisonous plants of Canada, is a shrub, which

THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

yields a wholesome fruit, but contains in its roots a dead-
ly juice, which the widow who wishes not to survive her
husband, drinks. An eye-witness describes its effects :
the woman having resolved to die, chanted her death
song and funeral service ; she then drank off the poison-
ous juice, was seized with shivering and convulsions, and
expired in a few minutes on the body of her husband.
In their persons they are small and well-made : many of
them, if dressed in the English fashion, would be counted
pretty brunettes ; their complexions are not so dark as
to veil their blushes. It is curious to see them toddlino-

O

after their tall husbands, loaded with gear, and perhaps
an infant fastened on the top of the bundle. However,
they are indemnified, when they grow old ; for, as among
the ancient Germans, their authority and advice are then
paramount.

The funerals of the Indians have also a reference to
those of the Hebrews. How earnestly does the patriarch
Jacob enjoin his sons to bury him in Canaan, in the fa-
mily sepulchre ; and Joseph in like manner exacts an oath
from his people to carry his bones with them when they
leave Egypt. The Indians lavish all their care and affec-
tion on the remains of their friends. They bury with them
their arms, dogs, and all their property, under the impres-
sion that they will be required in the next world. For
three months they pay visits to their graves, and the women
cry or keen over them exactly as they do in Ireland- A
woman is often seen in this way shedding bitter tears
over the grave of her nursling, and milking her breast
on the earth tha^ covers .1, The graves are decorated

296 THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

with boughs and garlands, as among the Welsh and Irish,
which are all removed at the end of the mourning.

The last ceremony they practise, is called the feast of
souls. Every three or four years, by a general agree-
ment, they disinter all the bodies of such as have died
within that time : finding the soft parts mouldered away,
they carefully clean the bones, and each family wrap up
the remains of their departed friends in new furs. They
are then all laid together in one common cemetery, which
forms a mound, or barrow, sometimes of considerable
magnitude. Many such may be seen in Upper Canada,
exactly similar to those of Dorset and Wiltshire. Such
remains of antiquity are indeed spread over the whole
surface of the globe. This last grand ceremony is con-
cluded with a feast, with dances, songs, speeches, games,
and mock combats.

The exterminating fury with which wars are carried
on by the Indians, has also its parallel in Jewish history ;
but there is this difference : in the one it was an act of
obedience to punish sinful and idolatrous nations ; in the
other it is an act of revenge. There it was duty, — here
a point of honour. When the fate of two prisoners is to
be decided, the one is adopted into the tribe to supply
the loss of a fallen warrior ; the other is condemned to
be sacrificed to his manes. The choice is made by the
family which has lost a relative. There is no personal
hatred or malice on either sxle. The red stoic goes t«
the stake, "indifferent in his choice to live or die." He
sings his death song, which is a mournful recitative re-
peated constantly. The rords sometimes vary among

THE CANADIAN INDI VN-S. 297

different tribes ; but the sentiment is the same every-
where j it is as follows : —

INDIAN DEATH SONG AT THE STAKE.

" Great Spirit ! — Lord and giver of Life ! view me
well ! — I have opposed my body against the bad spirit.
I go into the fire ; my veins are open — I go to change
my sky !"

He then boasts of his exploits, and of the cruelties he
inflicted on his enemies.

From some particulars above stated, it appears that
.here really is, in the customs of the Indian tribes, a
resemblance to those of the Jews; but one essential rite
is wanting to the former — that of circumcision. It also
appears that the Affgans, a semi-barbarous nation on
the Persian side of the Indus, use all the same customs
and ceremonies, and circumcision also. They seem
more immediately to belong to the ten dispersed tribes
of the Hebrews, who were placed by Shalmanezer
" in Halah and Habor by the river of Gozan, and in the
cities of the Medes." The American Indians might have
derived their religion from that patriarchal worship which
obtained in the world prior to the call of Abraham. In
fact, the religion of the Aborigines of America was
Theism ; the Theism of the ancient Persians, called
Manicheism, which taught the belief of a good and evil
principle. All happiness, the Indians think, proceeds
from the former, who is incapable of injuring his

298 THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

creatures} and "the ills that flesh is heir to," are in-
flicted by the latter. The Indian names of these two
adverse powers remarkably strengthen this dogma.

The good spirit is, in Indian language, Kee-tchee-wan-
i-tou ; in Persian, it is Qras-man-es The bad spirit is
Matchee-mtm-i-tou*; in Persian, Aris-wzan-es. The
radical word, "man," is obtained in both, as well as
in Latin, Man-es. The Jews, during their captivity
in Chaldea and Persia, seem to have imbibed the
same dogma.

The Indians have several apologues, referring to the
Deluge, in which the ark, the raven, and dove are
alluded to. Indeed, the present aspect of the country is
itself a commentary on the Deluge. The soil of British
America is evidently alluvial ; the waters of the great
lakes are subsiding, and the basins of many small
ones are quite dry. The channel of the great river,
St. Laurence, has obviously very much contracted within
its former limits. In fine, from the vigour and freshness
of the vegetable kingdom, it may be fairly inferred that
the ground was uncovered by the waters at a much later
period than in the old world.

The Indians have also a tradition that the world will
be destroyed by fire. To a people ignorant of astronomy,
their theory is plausible. They think that the sun is
approaching nearer the earth, and that the effect is per-
ceptible every fifty years : — of course, in time, the orb
of fire must come near enough to consume it. Perhaps
thfiy adopted this notion from observing the evident

THE CANADIAN INDIANS. rr

Amelioration of the climate. They have also various
traditions of the Creation and the Fall of Man. One
has some disfigured resemblance to scripture

"In the beginning, a few men rose out of the ground,
but there was no woman among them. One of them
found out a road to heaven, where he met a woman ;
they offended the Great Spirit, upon which they were
both thrust out. They fell on the back of the tortoise ;
the woman was delivered of male twins ; in process of
time, one of these twins slew the other."

The mythology of the arch jugglers, though not over
refined, is yet more so than that of the Greeks, whose
deities were as substantial as mortals. The Goddess of
Wisdom instructs her hero Diomed, to wound the
immortal gods with mortal weapons. They also believed
that departed souls would come to lap a trench full of
milk and blood like a pack of hounds. The Indians
know that the victuals, arms, and dress, which they
bury with the body, cannot be used by the spirit of
the deceased, but they believe that each and every thing
appertaining to the individual has, like himself, a spirit
or shade, whether it be his venison, his dog, his gun, or
nis tomahawk ; and that those spiritual substances become
subservient to his use in the world of spirits. In the
earliest state of society among the Greeks, their oldest
author, Homer, describes his Infernal Regions — which
are not very different from the Indian Heaven. Ulysses,
having descended into Hades, relates what he sees —

SOU

THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

' There huge Orion, of portentous size,
Swift through the gloom — a giant-hunter flies,
Stern beasts in trains that by his truncheon fell,
Now grisly forms — shoot o'er the lawns of Hell. '

And further —

*' Now I the strength of Hercules behold —
* • • • *

A shadowy form he stands— in act to throw
The aerial arrow from the twanging bow."

Odyssey.

Here the phantoms of the animals and of the weapons
accompany the souls of the heroes. And Pope gives a
similar creed to his Indian —

" Who thinks — admitted to that equal sky —
His faithful dog shall bear him company."

Essay on Man.

Most religions have an allegory of a river to be crossed
in the transit from this to the invisible world. The
Indian has this also. The souls of the brave and just
^an stem the current, and gain the celestial country; but
those of cowards, liars, and cheats cannot, but are carried
away by the stream, no one knows where. They do not,
however, admit a Tartarus, or Hell, in their creeds.
They believe in guardian spirits, which are somewhat
like the good demon of Socrates. One is assigned to
every child that is born, which inspires it during all its
future life by dreams, how to attain the good, and avoid
the evil.

The Lord's Prayer, in the Nadowassie, or Sioux lan-
guage, with a literal translation, which is here given, is,

TEE CANADIAN INDIANS. 301

I believe, the only one extant ; that fierce nation being
•rore opposed to Christian sentiments than any other.

LORD'S PRAYER IN NADOWASSIE.

" Attai-wy-ambea, ukan yengash. Nye Chasseh
wawndia. Mukka mawhin. Mauckpia ukan eshenee.
Onshimaunda tau go re-tauh ong koub. Taugo sijah
etch kung-koub, a keke tousha oh ou kish echenee
onkake toushab. Inohan taugo sijah a wauchin org
ayah yahbikee taugo sijah etang ochundakoub. Mau-
kotchie awaas natawah. Mauckpia ukan nukung nil
awah tohan ye-ye-genee."

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

" Father ours that is above, thy name be honoured
earth in, heaven above also j take pity on us, and what
we have been used to eat, give us; what bad we have
done forget, as what bad has been done us, we forget ;
what is wicked keep from our minds, and hinder us
from doing ill. Earth all is yours, Heaven is yours also,
for ever and for ever. So it is."

The language of the Indians is as extraordinary as
their origin. Humboldt enumerates 140 languages
spoken on the American continent, but there are
German authors which mate them amount to more than
2000. The early French colonists have published voca-
bularies of those of Canada, which are generally fol-
lowed ; but the French are notorious for altering foreign
words, and reducing the names of persons and places
to their own standard. In the Indian dialects the letters

2o

502 THE CANADIAN FNDIANS,

k and w most frequently occur, but they are wanting in
the French alphabet, and are ill supplied by other com-
binations. The orthography of an unwritten language
must depend on the ear, and on the power of the letters
in which the writer takes down the words from the
mouth of the native.

Of the three languages spoken in Canada, the Irrekee
is the most difficult to learn : it is highly figurative, and
composed of compound epithets. On this account,
they excelled in oratory ; but their words are of an
'immeasurable length, — for instance, the name of the sun
(itself an epithet) is Lhadeshaw; of night, assontelay ;
and of the moon, compounded of these, assontelay-
eway-Uadeshawy — that is, " night-walking-sun." God
is, Yah wah-de-hu, " Master of all." In Chippeway,
the sun is Geezis; the moon, Debikgeezis, "night sun;"
God, Keetchee-man-i-tou, from keetchik, " heaven." In
the Nadowassie, the simplest and shortest, the sun is,
Paytah, " fire ;" God, Wakon, " Spirit." What soft
ideas must be comprised in, Noo-ho-mantam monee
knun noon no nash, tl our loves !" The Mexican verb is
not so soft — Tlazottle ta littsle, "I love." On the
whole, the Indian languages resemble the Hebrew in
construction, having a few radicals; but they seem to
have neither cases, declensions, numbers, genders, nor
degrees of comparison.

The Bible has been translated into a dialect of the
Six Nations as early as 1664, by Elliot, a Protestant
minister, whose missionary labours obtained for him the
title of Apostle of the Indians j but that and other

THE CANADIAN INDIANS. 303

translations are become a dead letter, in consequence
of the extinction of the tribes.

When the Indian population had been reduced three-
fourths, they began to attempt making converts : the
Puritans of New England on one side, and the Jesuits
of New France on the other. In point of talent,
learning, and address, the latter had greatly the advan-
tage, having some eminent men among them, as Fathers
Hennepen, Charlevoix, Brebeuf (who was burnt by the
Indians), Lallemant, &c. The Puritans having fled
from persecution, became the most cruel persecutors.
Meanwhile, the Indians, seeing the while settlements
around them increasing and prosperous, were converted
in great numbers to both the Protestant and Roman
Catholic faith. The Sachems openly avowed that their
own religion was as good, but not so lucky as the
Christian. Between 1660 and 1670, there were in New
England more than 5000 converted Indians : these
have long since been absorbed, and their descendants
are not known from the whites. Their misfortunes
alone induced them to embrace Christianity ; and it is
no wonder that they were puzzled in the choice, when
they witnessed the witch mania, and the Quaker perse-
cutions. About 1630, the witch mania spread like-an
epidemic over all Christendom, but it gained its acme
in New England. A law passed at Boston, to make
suspected witches and wizards confess their witchcrafts,
and this of course introduced torture. Mrs. Greenwich,
an innocent crazed creature, was the first victim ; she
was hanged for having confessed that the devil had

1304 THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

tain with her. Giles Coiry, and his wife Martha, were
accused and condemned on the evidence of a ghost,
Martha suffered, but Giles refusing to plead guilty, was
pressed to death. This infatuation was cruel and absurd
iu the extreme; but it was an infatuation: whereas the
Quaker persecution, with cool heads, outdid any thing
perpetrated by the Inquisition. The Quakers, male
and female, were kept to hard labour in prison, whipped
twice a week, and at last sold for slaves. William
Ledray, a Quaker, was hanged at Boston, March 14,
1660, for returning from banishment. His last %vords at
the gallows were, — "1 am brought here to suffer for
bearing my testimony against the deceivers and the
deceived."

The stiong good sense of the Indians was not a little
disturbed at the contradictory doctrines of the French
and English Friends, who were labouring for their sal-
vation. The former preached to them that the Virgin
Mary was a French lady, and that the English crucified
the Saviour out of hatred to the French ; consequently,
that they could not perform a more acceptable service to
God than by tomakawking those heretics. On the other
hand, the Puritans told them that they must pray by
the Spirit ; and the Episcopalians taught that they must
depend on the Book for their salvation : in fine, they
agreed in nothing but in raising a persecution against
the only real friends the Indians ever had — the Quakers.
At length, the latter established themselves in Pennsyl-
vania; and Penn honestly purchased from the natives
the ground on which he built Philadelphia. This

THE CANADIANS INDIANS. 30.5

morally-grand character was regarded by all Indian
people with affection and veneration. lie traversed the
continent often alone, with no other defensive armour
than his drab coat, slouched hat, and his integrity, —
every where persuading fierce contending tribes to bury
the hatchet.

The Quaker and Moravian missionaries alone have
succeeded in persuading the Indians to exchange their
precarious hunting for an agricultural life. They first
taught the most necessary arts, and then followed
religious instruction. But it was not without great dif-
ficulty that the various federal governments of the union
have been able to fix in the respective states the Indian
tribes within limited stations. " We see," said a dele-
gated Indian orator at one of the provincial meetings,
" we see among you a people with black skins. We
see you beat them with whips and make them work
like horses, whether they choose it or not, and all be-
cause they have black skins. Now, if we were to live
with you as you propose, in community, I see no
reason why you should not treat us in the same way,
because our skins are red." This logic had no effect
with the resolutions of the states government. They reject
any claims which aborigines might make to hunting
grounds, within the states, possessed by themselves or
their ancestors. They compel them to resign their lands
for what compensation they choose to award, and to
become citizens, amenable to the laws of the state ; from
whence it results that numbers among the late powerful
tribes of Meskoc^ues or Creeks, of the Choktaws, Chika-

2o3

30G TIL CAISAMAN INDIANS

saws, arid Cherokees, aie gradually melting into the
general population, and becoming as white as the Anglo-
Americans. In fine, the whole of these populous tribes
are impounded, as it were, within the borders of the
southern states. They have lost their national names
and independence, and have ceased to be a distinct
people ; it is to be hoped they may gain in manners
and religion, what they lose in Indian virtues. There
are stilj some broken and scattered independent tribes
along the Mississippi ; but means are taken to compel
them to come in," that they may be incorporated with
the virtuous citizens of Tennasse and Kentucky.

There are three nations inhabiting the Canadas, de-
cidedly distinct; — the Irrekees, or Six Nations, the
Chippewas, and the Nadoyvassies, or Sioux. The lan-
guages of these nations are so different in their words
and idioms, as to be quite unintelligible to each other.
The Nadowassies are the most remote, and the least
changed by intercourse with Europeans. They inhabit
the vast plains and savannahs to the west of the lakes,
and north of the Missourie. They have established a
breed of horses, originally taken from the Spanish colo-
nies of New Mexico, and are become excellent horse-
men. The Chippewas, who were by far the most nume-
rous nation, occupy all the countries north and south of
the great lakes. They are divided into many tribes,
generally at war with each other ; yet, like the Greek
states, they unite for common defence. The principal
tribes are— Illenees, called also Chippeways, north and
south of the Kikes ; Shawonese, Pot'owaiternies, Wyan*

THE CANADIAN INDIANS. 307

ootts, Munsees, Miamees, Ottawaes, and Delawaies, of
Lenni-lenap^.es, that is, freemen. These last weie ex-
pelled from the shores of the Atlantic, and are considered
the most civilized ; their dialect being the standard — the
Attic— of the Chippeway language. The Irrekees origi-
nally sprung from the Hurons. They were driven east
and north by the Algonkins, a powerful and warlike
tribe of the Chippevvays j but, after a long war ad necem,
the Algonkins were finally defeated and exterminated.
The Irrekees were established on the Mohawk River,
and round Lakes George and Champlain, as well as on
the north side of the St. Laurence. They were divided
into five tribes, to which, afterwards, a sixth was added
— Mohawks (properly Makv.ass), who style themselves
the Elder Brothers j Oneyclas ; Kayugas, Sons of the
Mohawks; Onondagas ; Senekas, Brothers of the Mo-
hawks; and Tuskaroras, Nephews to the Mohawks.
These formed a powerful confederacy, with which the
surrounding nations dared not quarrel. They were
making rapid advances in arts, arms, and in civil polity,
when, in an evil hour, two rival white nations, French
and English, appeared on their borders. They could
not avoid getting embroiled in the quarrels of the
strangers, and taking opposite sides, to their own de-
struction ; so that, with presents of powder and shot and
ardent spirits in one hand, and small-pox and religious
bigotry in the other, the rising republics became nearly
extinct. Their spirit and independence are gone ; and
little is now left of them b t :!:eir memory .

The spirit and bravery of the Six Nations, who were

303 THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

rather inclined to the English interest, in resisting HIP
invasion of the French, could not be surpassed. In spite
of the superior arms and tactics of the enemy, they dis-
played " a courage never to submit or yield." At length,
the cross came to the aid of the sword. The converted
Irrekees were arrayed against their heathen brethren.
" If you are brought to the stake by the fortune of war,"
said the proselyters to their converts, " you will gain the
crown of martyrdom ; whereas your enemies, in the same
condition, will exchange the temporary faggot for eternal
fire." At length, the unconquerable resistance of the
Irrekees, after their towns were burned, and theii old
men, women, and children, butchered in cold blood,
induced Louis XIV. to order that all the savage prisoners,
being a robust and able-bodied race, should be sent to
France, to serve on board his Majesty's galleys.

The skeleton of the Six Nations is disposed of, at this
day, as follows : — three villages of French Roman
Catholics — at Lorette, near Quebec ; at Cocknawaga,
opposite La Chin ; and at the village of the Two Moun-
tains, on the Ottawa. Three of English Protestants ,
namely, two on the Bay of Kvventy, and one on the Grand
River — the Ouse. The Tuskaroraes are incorporated
within the United States. Once the Irrekees could
muster 20,000 warriors ; now the six villages could not
collect together 800 fighting men.

It is not presuming too much to suppose, that if the
country had not been visited by Europeans, tney would
have emulated, in some degree, the Greek republics.
It is true, they had not letters ; but neither could Homer,

lilE CANADIAN INDIANS. 300

aor his heroes, read or write. The Irrekees joined the
eloquence of the Athenians to the courage, frugality,
fortitude, and equality of the Spartans. They had no
gorgeous temples built with hands; but the sky was
their temple, and the Great Spirit was their God. They
fared as well as the kings of Sparta, who eat their black
broth at the same board with their fellow-citizens, in a
building not better than a Mohawk council-house j they
lived in thatched cabins, and so did Phocion and
Socrates, in the midst of the magnificence of Athens.

Many ^fine specimens of the personal appearance of
the Indians may be seen in the Illenee, Pottowattemie,
and Miamee tribes, that are still independent, — strait,
clean limbed, erect figures ; and many Roman counte-
nances may be noticed among them. The figure of the
Indian warrior, in the fore-ground of West's Picture of
the Death of General Wolfe, gives a good idea of them.
Such a figure \vas the Shawanese warrior Tekumseh, \vho
suddenly appeared on the theatre of events in Canada,
and proved the Indian fire was not even yet extinct. Ke
was not only a warrior, but an orator, sachem, and
prophet. In the late short American war, when hosti-
lities commenced on the Canadian frontier, in 1812, he
took up the hatchet, and commanded the Indian allies
on our side. He had the address to go into several of
the states, to bring away Indian recruits ; but the whole
he could muster, with our own, was only about 650
men. The American general, Hull, crossed the Straits
at Amherslburg, and erected the American standard,
evidently with a design to make a permanent establish-

3lv> THE CANADIAN INDIANS.

ment in Upper Canada. He attempted in vain to bring
over our provincials and Indians ; not one joined linn.
Meanwhile, Major General Brock collected all his forces,
which did not amount to 3000 men, regulars, pro-
vincials, and Indians. Machilliemakinak was taken,
and Tekumseh and his band of warriors broke up from
Lake Michagan, and surprised the American posts along
the lakes. The Americans had not forgotten the severe
defeat they suffered, under General St. Clair, in 1793,
by the confederate Indians. Tekumseh burst upon
them, like another Judas Maccabeus, bringing terror
and devastation. He co-operated with Major General
Brock, and, at the battle of Kappohanno, forced Hull to
recross the Straits. He was pursued by Brock, who
attacked the American camp before Detroit, and obliged
Hull to surrender that important fortress by capitulation.
In the subsequent campaign, the enemy crossed again
at Queenston ; he was repulsed, and driven over, but in
this action Brock was struck with a rifle ball, and fell
dead from his horse; Tekumseh also fell, by a similar
murderous shot, in a skirmish : but not till the gallant
efforts of these heroes had already saved Upper Canada.

Tekumseh was no less a warrior than an orator and
politician. The vigour of his physical powers was only
surpassed by the energy of his mind. He conceived a
practical plan of collecting the various tribes to the west
of the lakes, and founding a confederate red republic.
There still remains the brave Nadowassie nation, with
its congenial tribes. They are expert and intrepid
horsemen ; and the whole hope of Indian independence

THE SONG OF THE ELEMENTS. 311

rests with the possibility of some Indian Gengis, Breber,
or Tamerlane, rising up and organizing the red Cossacks.
But these speculations are vain. The deadly (white)
arrow sticks in their side. The influx of white emigrants
from various countries has set in so strong, wave im-
pelling wave, that the natives have been literally pushed
off their paternal hunting-grounds, and driven furihet
into the wilderness.

Their history is as mysterious as their fate is severe
Like the autumnal leaves of their illimitable forests, they
are driven before the blast — they are gliding from the
face of the earth like guilty ghosts, leaving no memoria
on record that they ever had existed. An unlettered
race, their laws and customs, their feats of arms, theii
speeches, their wars, and their treaties, have only beer
preserved in belts of wampum, a sealed book to all th<
world but themselves.

THE SONG OF THE ELEMENTS.

FIRST VOICE. — EARTH.

I SIT amidst the universe,

As I've sat for ages gone,
And though God hath bound me with a curse,

I am bathed in the light of the sun ;
And I bear within my bosom the pride

Of many a kingly throne, —
There the diamond and ruby are scattered wide,

And the changless rocks are my zone ;

312 TUT: SONG OF THE

And the mighty forest springs from my oro

And the mountain doth upward dart,
And though the clouds are on its crest,

Its root is in my heart.
I am the mother of all things

That have filled me since life began j
The nursing mother of founts and springs,

The own true mother of man :
His limbs are formed from my finest ciav,

And let him die by earth or sea,
He must perish and pass away,

And come again to me.
Oli, man is strong in his power and might,

But I, his mother, am more strong ;
He is mine by a parent's right —

Sisters ! take up the song !

ALL THE ELEMENTS,
We four dwell all apart, yet still

We are bound by a viewless chain.
The thrones, that God hath given, we fiu

Each with a separate reign.
Contending oft, like the kings of earth,

Triumphant for an hour ;
Yet the fallen rising again, in the birth,

Of its own unvanquished power.

SECOND VOICE. — AIR.
I lap the earth as with a robe,

And I bind it like a rim,
And the clouds that shadow o'er the globe

Upon my bosom swim.

THE so:;o OF THE ELEML.NIS 3J3

And in the summer eve I play

O'er earth like a sportive child ;
And in the winter night I sway

The world, with a tempest wild :
i dash on the rocks the helpless seas,

Like wine from a reveller's cup,
And the proud earth cannot hold her trees,

If I will to root them up.
And then I come in the autumn morn,

With a fresh and stirring voice,
And I shake in the valley the golden com,

And the dying flowers rejoice :
creep into the withering rose,

And lull it as if to sleep ;
Then up I start from that false repose,

And its leaves to the cold earth sweep.
Man must breathe me, or he dies,

The minion of my power, —
I have supplied with the breath of sigh?

His heart from his earliest hour :
And, like an unseen enemy,

I battle with the strong;
Such might as this is claimed by me,-

Sisters! take up the song!

ALL TUB ELEMENTS.
We four dwell all apart, yet still

TVe are bound by a viewless chain ;
The thrones that God hath given we fill,

Each with a separate reign.
Contending oft, like the kings of ea:ih,
Triumhant for an lioi."-;

. THE SONG OF THE E!.LM£NTS.

Yet the fallen rising again, in the birth

Of its own unvanquished power,

THIRD VOICE. — FIRE.
I live in the light of the blazing sun,

And in the shining stars*
And restless o'er the world I run,

And nought my glory mars.
Silently, creep I thro' the earth,

'Midst many a precious stone,
And till the volcano gives me birth,

My being is unknown ;
And in the tempest's glooming cloud,

I hide my burning wing,
And wait till the wind gives summons

And then from my tent I spring! —
Like a conqueror from the ambush I come.

With a fatal glittering spear,
And with a quick and sudden doom,

Earth's mightiest things I sear.
I can strike man dead, if 'tis rny will,

As a leaf falls from the tree,
Tis I who makes his heart's pulse thiill,

He lives not without me.
Oh, man is a wondrous creature! our aid

Must make him stand or fall,
A thing of elements, and made

Dependant on them all !
He prides himself in the pomp and po\m

That do to us belong j —
We laugh at him in his proud* st ; our -f

Sisters! take up the song'

THE SUNG OF THE ELEMENTS.

ALL THE ELEMENTS.

We four dwell all apart, yet still

We are bound by a viewless chain ;
The thrones that God has given we fill,

Each with a separate reign ;
Contending oft like the kings of earth,

Triumphant for an hour ;
Yet the fallen rising again, in the birth

Of its own unvanquished power.

FOURTH VOICE. — WATEK.
1 burst from the earth, but for my birih

I claim God's will alone,
Who made me queen of a realm serene,

And placed me on my throne ;
My throne of sunken rocks and caves,

Where the crimson coral dwells,
Where I may let my weary waves

Sleep on the pearly shells ;
And in vast rocks sometimes I'm pen',

Like a soul for some dark crime :
Till the prison at last is broken and rent,

And comes my rejoicing time.
And I float sometimes in a quiet river,

Under the cloud's passing shade,
And its broad breast doth in sunlight quivei

In loveliness arrayed j
And, down in my depths, I let the light

Of the quiet blue sky dwell,
And the images of stars at night
seen in my lovely cell.

816 THE SONG OF 7«1E ELEMENTS.

Sometimes in the novth li lit»,

Congealed, like a mighty isle,
Cold and unmoved 'neath the wintry sky,

Unwon by the light's faint smile.
And then at last there shines a day

Sunnily on my home,
And the icy bars to my path give wny,

And thundering out I come !
And rush upon the fated bark,

With my waves in unprisoned glee,
And we whirl it down to the caverns cla?!

That are treasure rooms for me !
In the desert vast, where the caravan

Is drooping for lack of shade,
Oh, how lordly, haughty man,

Is my dependant made ! —
As much as when in his fragile ship

My waves did around him throng.
He dies if I do not bathe his lip.

Sisters ! take up the song !

ALL THE ELEMENTS.

We four dwell apart, yet still

We are bound by a viewless chain;
The thrones that God hath given we fill,

Each with a separate reign j
Contending oft like the kings of eaith

Triumphant for an hour,
Yet the fallen rising again, in the birth

Of its own unvanquished pc wen

THE ENP

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