" 
 
 , ,\ 

 
 UCSB LIBRARY
 
 
 
 ; HATED BY J G CHAPMAN.
 
 PURE GIFT FOR THE HOLY DAYS. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 WITH NINE ILLUSTRATIONS, 
 BY J. G. CHAPMAN. 
 
 N.E W- Y O R K: 
 JOHN C. RIKER 15 ANN STREET. 
 
 1844.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, 
 
 Bv JOHN C. RIKER, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United Stales, for the 
 Southern District of New-York. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 C. Skcrman, Printtr, 19 St. Janus Street.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IN addressing an Annual to the taste of the religious and 
 moral classes of society, the publisher of The Opal haa two 
 views to which his success will probably be referrible. He has 
 thought it singular, in reflecting upon the manifest aim of ele- 
 gant literature, that so little of it should be expressly adapted to 
 a class so much the largest and most respectable. The serious 
 and thinking portion of this populous country, it is a matter of 
 patriotic congratulation to be able to say, is by much the most 
 numerous as well as the most refined ; and, so high is the moral 
 tone in society generally, that those who are not numbered 
 among religious people, still desire, for their own reading, and 
 that of their friends and families, books which, to say the least, 
 can never offend the taste of the most scrupulous. It is in this 
 class that the household affections are warmest, and that fitting 
 tokens of remembrance and friendship are most looked for, at 
 the season of the year consecrated to cheerfulness and good 
 feeling, by the anniversary of the Saviour's birlh. That there 
 was no Annual, suited to this class and this particular want, 
 published in this great metropolis, seemed, to the publisher of 
 this work, a void to be filled. 
 
 Another deficiency appeared to him quite as obvious. Be- 
 tween the literature prepared for the religious classes and that 
 devoted to the vitiated and worldly, there seemed a deficiency 
 which savoured of an uncharitable, and perhaps fanatical, exclu- 
 sion of taste and elegance. Religious books, devoted solely to 
 the inculcation of the precepts of piety, are all important as
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 one branch of instruction and reading. But God, who made all 
 things for his creatures, and gave them taste, fancy, and a sense 
 exquisitely alive to the beautiful, intended no ascetic privation 
 of the innocent objects which minister to these faculties. The 
 mirth, and the playful elegancies of poetry and descriptive wri- 
 ting, are as truly within the paths of religious reading as any 
 thing else which shows the fullness and variety of the provision 
 made for our happiness, when at peace with ourselves. Nothing 
 gay, if innocent, is out of place in an Annual intended to be 
 used as a tribute of affection by the good. And in this book, 
 hereafter, that view will be kept before the eye. Its contents 
 will be opal-hued reflecting all the bright lights and colours 
 which the prodigality of God's open hand has poured upon the 
 pathway of life. The OPAL, as expressing this the chameleon 
 of gems varied as the rainbow, and shifting with every trem- 
 bling of light into some new tint of beauty shall be its name 
 The Editor whose name is on the title-page, has assumed his 
 office as this first volume is going to press. In the future num- 
 bers of die work, he trusts by diligent care and effort to com- 
 mend it to the approbation of the refined and good. 
 
 N. P. WILLIS.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Preface 5 
 
 Scriptural Prophecy and its Sym- 
 bols REV. GEORGE BUSH, D. D 13 
 
 A Thought over a Cradle N. p. WILLIS 23 
 
 Children JAMES ALDRICH 24 
 
 The Student ERNEST HELFENSTEIN 25 
 
 Ruth and Naomi RICHARD HENRY WILDE .... 31 
 
 The Sabbath of the Year 32 
 
 The Jesuit AUTHOR OF "HENRI QUATRE" . 34 
 
 The Dream of the Consumptive . MRS. SARAH J. HALE 02 
 
 Religious Biography w. A. JONES 64 
 
 To a Reverend Friend CORNELIUS MATTHEWS 74 
 
 Prayer and Praise WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH 75 
 
 God will appoint a Deliverer . . . MRS. SEBA SMITH 80 
 
 Christ by the well of Sychar . . . REV. GEORGE w. EETHUNE,D. D. 10G 
 
 Thoughts REV. HERMAN HOOKER 108 
 
 Is Death the King of Terrors . . REV. GEORGE B. CHEEVER, D. D. 119 
 
 Sleep ROBERT MORRIS 120 
 
 The Triumph of Christianity . . . AUTHOR OF " CROMWELL" ETC. 121 
 
 The Mill MISS MART L. LAWSOS 143 
 
 Scenes oa the Mississippi .... CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN . . .148 
 Evening 172
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 The Daughter of Jairus HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT . . . 173 
 
 The Mission Unfulfilled MRS. EMMA c. EMBURY 177 
 
 Prayer of a Bereaved Mother . . PARK BENJAMIN 193 
 
 A Morning at Rome JAMES ALDRICB 195 
 
 The Deserted Wife SAMOEL D. PATTERSON 203 
 
 The Intrigue, the Assassination, 
 
 and the Punishment w. CHEEVER, M. D 204 
 
 Lines to the Soul WILLIAM PITT PALMER 223 
 
 The Emigrant's Sabbath H. HASTINGS WELD 227 
 
 The Return s. D. PATTERSON 234 
 
 Lyric Poetry HENRY T. TDCKERMAN 237 
 
 Christ Walking on the Sea .... MRS. p. w. CHANDLER 246 
 
 Morning on the VVissahiccon . . . EDGAR A. POE 249^1 
 
 The Pursuit of Ease TRANSLATOR OF"MARYSTCART" 257 
 
 Faith WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH 260 
 
 Prayer RET. s. r. SMITH 262 
 
 The April Birthday H. T. TCCKERMAN 263
 
 LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS. 
 
 CHRIST WALKING ON THE SEA, (Frontispiece.) 
 RUTH AND NAOMI, (Vignette.) 
 
 DREAM OF THE CONSUMPTIVE - 62 
 
 CHRIST BY THE WELL OF STCHAR - 106 
 
 THE MILL - -.146 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS 173 
 
 THE DESERTED WIFE - 203 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH 227 
 
 MORNING - 249
 
 THE OPAL.
 
 SCRIPTURAL PROPHECY AND ITS SYMBOLS. 
 
 ; I':*,;,,'/;; ..;..!- '.jifi 
 BY THE REV. GEORGE BUSH, D.D. 
 
 PROFESSOR OF HEBREW AND ORIENTAL LITERATURE IN THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK. 
 
 THE grand principle lying at the foundation of this 
 department of Revelation is, that Prophecy is History 
 foretold, and History is Prophecy fulfilled ; that is, the 
 history of those peoples and powers which come within 
 the range of the divine predictions ; and these are mainly \ 
 the four great empires of antiquity, the Babylonian, the 
 Medo-Persian, the Grecian, and the Roman, the last of 
 which extends down to our day, and is, in the estimate 
 of prophecy, still subsisting. This quaternian of em- 
 pires is singled out from all the great succession of 
 earthly dynasties, from their more direct bearings on the 
 fortunes of the church in different ages of the world. 
 This grand cycle of sovereignties is first exhibited in the 
 visions of Daniel, and as the three first had passed 
 away in the days of John, when the Apocalypse was 
 written, therefore the disclosures of that book are con- 
 2
 
 14 THE OPAL. 
 
 fined mainly to the territorial platform and the political 
 destinies of the last. 
 
 The grand object then of inspired prediction is to 
 unfold the course of human affairs, in its great outline, 
 so far as it has respect to those paramount moral inte- 
 rests of men, which are embodied and represented in the 
 church. We see not what valid objection, on the ground 
 of reason, can be taken to this view of the subject. So 
 long as we plead only for the prophetic announcement 
 of the grander and more important events of civil history, 
 without claiming a notice of its specific details, in regard 
 to which imagination may easily run riot, we perceive 
 nothing derogatory to the infinite wisdom of Jehovah 
 nothing unworthy of a place in the mystic roll of reve- 
 lation. The secular affairs of the world the great 
 revolutions, moral and political, which advance the pro- 
 gress, or in any way affect the destinies, of the race, 
 certainly come within the scope of the special counsels 
 of the Most High, and if so, we know no good reason 
 why they should not be embraced in the range of his 
 express predictions. No one refuses to admit that, prior 
 to the first advent of the Messiah, there was a system of 
 prophecy vouchsafed to the Jewish church, announcing 
 the Saviour in person, and that spiritual or gospel king- 
 dom which he was to establish. Now, we may propound 
 the question, whether there is any thing in the nature or 
 design of that kingdom which should restrict the prophe. 
 cies respecting it solely to its commencing era? Is not 
 its subsequent career and prosperity from age to age 
 the enemies it should encounter the disasters it should 
 experience the triumphs it should achieve a theme
 
 SCRIPTURAL PROPHECY. 15 
 
 equally worthy the prophetic pen 1 Do they not consti- 
 tute a field of legitimate inspired disclosure ? And is there 
 any thing presumptuous, or visionary, or vain, in the 
 attempt to find the fulfilment of a large class of prophe- 
 cies in the events of history subsequent to the time of 
 Christ, and along the course of centuries down to the 
 present day ? Is there any reason for shrinking from 
 the admission, that even the Old Testament seers, such 
 as Moses, Isaiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel, should have been 
 enabled to utter oracles, whose ultimate reach should 
 take hold on the occurrences of the latter days of time ? 
 Was not the whole future open to the view of that 
 Omniscient Spirit under whose direction they wrote? 
 And did it require any higher afflatus to announce events 
 that should take place after the era of Christ than before 
 it? Does it not require the same power of prescience 
 to foretell what shall happen within a hundred, and within 
 a thousand, or ten thousand years? Or can it possibly 
 be shown, that there is intrinsically any less reason for 
 announcing the latter than the earlier fortunes of the 
 church of the living God, and of those nations with which 
 it has had to do ? 
 
 But it may be said that this opens a field of endless 
 conjecture that " every one" as the apostle says, " hath 
 a doctrine, hath a revelation, hath an interpretation" 
 and that the wild and fanciful expositions every where 
 vented, tend to bring the whole subject into disrepute 
 with the sober-minded, while the countless diversities of 
 opinion cut off all grounds of confidence in any inter- 
 pretation that may be proposed. We are sorry to be 
 obliged to admit, as a matter of fact, that there has been
 
 16 THE OPAL. 
 
 too much occasion for this disparaging remark. It 
 cannot be doubted that prophecy has been and still is a 
 theatre for the exhibition of all manner of Quixotic 
 errantry and extravagance that it has been made a 
 stalking-horse for parading before the eyes of the com- 
 munity the motley effigies of every crude and visionary 
 and grotesque conjecture. But the same may be said 
 of Christianity in general, which yet we do not feel 
 required to discard by reason of the abuses that have 
 grown up under its prostituted name. 
 
 The difficulty in regard to prophecy has arisen mainly 
 'from two sources : 1, the failure on the part of writers 
 to fix upon sound causes of interpretation in regard to 
 the prophetic symbols ; and 2, the lack of a competent 
 measure of historical information. History is the great 
 storehouse from which the materials of prophetic inter- 
 pretation are to be drawn ; and, other things being equal, 
 he is best qualified to solve the enigmas of prophecy who 
 is most at home in the facts of history. Now, it is cer- 
 tain, that the providence of God is so ordering it, that 
 the page of past history is becoming more and more 
 distinctly deciphered by the talent of the learned at this 
 day than at any former period, and consequently the 
 facilities are constantly multiplying upon us for a more 
 intelligent reading of the oracles of the sacred seers. 
 The result must inevitably be, that the mystic shadow- 
 ings of the Apocalypse will gradually resolve themselves 
 more and more into the verified facts to which they refer, 
 and this department will be continually redeeming itself 
 from the disparagement and opprobrium under which it 
 has laboured. It will be possible, we have no doubt, to
 
 SCRIPTURAL PROPHECY. 17 
 
 satisfy sober and reflecting men, that such and such 
 visions of the prophets do actually point to such and 
 such orders of events in Providence, either fulfilled or 
 fulfilling, and that prophetic exposition may be some- 
 thing more than mere idle romancing or solemn humbug. 
 In all this matter we are persuaded there is a hopeful 
 process of recovery and improvement going on in the 
 hitherto diseased mind, notwithstanding the revolting 
 outbreaks of crudities and hallucinations which are every 
 now and then forcing themselves upon public attention. 
 
 But instead of expounding these considerations, it 
 may be a matter of more interest to offer some remarks 
 illustrative of the symbolical genius of that unique and 
 wondrous composition which forms the closing book of 
 the sacred canon, and to the devout study and true un- 
 derstanding of which, the promise of the divine blessing 
 is so unequivocally annexed. And we again lay it 
 down as fundamental in the connexion, that the genuine 
 scope of the disclosures of the Apocalypse is to unfold 
 beforehand the great chain of worldly events which are 
 to transpire in reference to the church and its successive 
 destinies through the lapse of time. The earth is to be 
 regarded as the true scene or theatre of the symbolical 
 drama which it pictures forth. We are not then to sup- 
 pose, that because John is represented as being com- 
 manded to come up into heaven, and to describe what 
 he there beheld, therefore the scenes which he witnesses 
 had their real occurrence in heaven instead of upon 
 earth. The actual substantial realities couched under 
 the visionary phenomena are to occur in the terraqueous 
 arena below. In like manner, the agents employed are 
 2*
 
 18 THE OPAL. 
 
 really men, though called in the diction of prophecy 
 angels. This arises naturally from the decorum of the 
 imagery. The ostensible agents must be in keeping 
 with the ostensible scene of action. Heaven is the 
 appropriate sphere of angels, and therefore in these 
 symbolical visionings the dramatis personce are angelic 
 instead of human. But it is to be remembered that the 
 celestial scenes are not intended to portray actual 
 unities taking place in the heavenly regions, but they 
 are the mere representings, shadows of a series of events 
 developed on the earth, and brought about by men 
 acting from motives that perhaps usually have little 
 respect to the accomplishment of the divine purposes or 
 predictions. 
 
 It will be perceived that we make a free use, in this 
 connexion, of the term shadow, and an apposite illus- 
 tration of our leading idea will show very clearly the 
 signal propriety of this use of the word. In the history 
 of the kings of Judah and Israel, I Kings, xxii. 19-23, 
 it will be recollected, that Ahab and Jehoshaphat were, 
 on one occasion, extremely anxious to go up on a 
 military expedition against Ramoth-gilead, and earnestly 
 desired from a company of prophets an answer favour- 
 able to their wishes. Most of this company were ob- 
 sequious to the royal leanings, and, like other mean 
 panders to kingly propensities, prophesied an auspicious 
 result to the enterprise. But Micaiah, a faithful servant 
 of the Most High, withstood this current of assent, 
 adulation, and compliance, and intrepidly declared a 
 totally different issue. He did it, however, in a bold, 
 Eastern parabolic style as follows :
 
 SCRIPTURAL PROPHECY. 19 
 
 " And he said, Hear thou therefore the word of the 
 Lord : I saw the Lord sitting on his throne, and all the 
 host of heaven standing by him on his right hand and 
 on his left. And the Lord said, who shall persuade 
 Ahab, that he may go up and fall at Ramoth-gilead ? 
 And one said on this manner, and another said on that 
 manner. And there came forth a spirit, and stood 
 before the Lord, and said, I will persuade him. And 
 the Lord said unto him, Wherewith 1 And he said, I 
 will go forth, and I will be a lying spirit in the mouth of 
 all his prophets. And he said, Thou shalt persuade him, 
 and prevail also : go forth, and do so. Now, therefore, 
 behold, the Lord hath put a lying spirit in the mouth of 
 all these thy prophets, and the Lord hath spoken evil 
 concerning thee." 
 
 Now how is this to be understood ? Is it to be sup- 
 posed the description of a real bond fide occurrence in 
 the spiritual world 1 Surely the God of Truth cannot 
 sanction a lie nor the spirit of lying ; nor can we adopt 
 an interpretation which would even seem to favour that 
 idea. "What then is the true solution? Why, doubtless, 
 that this is merely a symbolical picture. It is the 
 heavenly shadow of an earthly occurrence. The scene 
 is ideally and pictorially laid in heaven, whereas the' 
 actual corresponding reality was even at that moment 
 taking place in the court of Ahab, in which the lying 
 spirit was embodied in the persons of these false-hearted 
 and time-serving prophets. It was an actual providence 
 turned into a symbolical adumbration. God, in his 
 righteous providence, permitted the spirit of delusion to 
 take possession of infatuated kings, in consequence of
 
 20 THE OPAL. 
 
 which they were urged on to their own destruction in 
 going against Ramoth-gilead. The issue was just what 
 the prophet predicted in the same figurative style: "And 
 he said, I saw all Israel scattered upon the hills as sheep 
 without a shepherd." It was, therefore, plainly nothing 
 more than a visionary representation of a providential 
 event occurring among men on the earth, though the 
 scene of it be laid by the teller in heaven. 
 
 The specimen now given will afford a striking illus- 
 tration of the nature of a multitude of the prophetic 
 visions, and especially of the great symbolical staple of 
 which the Apocalypse is composed. These visions are 
 a kind of picture which may be said to be stereotyped in 
 the celestial tablet from the actually occurring events of 
 earth and time. Imagine for a moment the concave 
 vault to be transformed to a vast molten mirror, which 
 Job says it resembles, and that the great events of our 
 globe cast their images upon it, as cities, villages, 
 vessels, and landscapes, are sometimes seen reflected 
 in the clouds in continually progressive developement. 
 This will give us some correct idea of the character of 
 prophetic visions ; with this important difference, how- 
 ever, that in prophecy the shadow precedes the substance. 
 In this supernal picture, displayed on the azure firma- 
 ment, there is a foreshowing of the evolution of the 
 corresponding realities which time and providence are to 
 summon up. And this is the great wonder of prophecy, 
 in view of which, the mind is lost in amazement that 
 it should have hung up its diorama of phantasms in those 
 fields of light, composed of forms, and figures, and 
 actings, which shall answer with such astonishing accu-
 
 SCRIPTURAL PROPHECY. 21 
 
 racy to their living counterparts as they become deve- 
 loped on this sublunary platform. We can in fact in no 
 better way conceive of the marvel than by imagining 
 the lone Indian ages ago floating down in his fragile 
 bark the Hudson or the Susquehanna, when nought but 
 the primeval forests overhung its tranquil flood, and 
 beholding reflected on its sunny surface the cities, vil- 
 lages, farms, flocks, mills, and bridges, which not till 
 after the lapse of centuries are to come into existence. 
 
 Let us now apply this to the Apocalypse. The 
 Supreme Ruler of the universe, who knows the end 
 from the beginning, designs to announce beforehand a 
 grand series of events, not perhaps in its minute details, 
 but in its general outline. There are obviously two 
 methods by which this could be done the one by literal, 
 the other by figurative or symbolical prediction. The 
 latter is the method which he has seen fit to adopt. He 
 has made use of a system of pictorial representations or 
 emblems, to shadow forth a corresponding series of 
 actual occurrences. This differs from the literal mode 
 just as Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress differs from Dod- 
 dridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul ! 
 Both these works may be said to contain the biography 
 of a Christian, & setting forth of the progress of his 
 inner spiritual life ; but in the one case it is conveyed 
 in a most exquisite tissue of allegory, while in the other 
 it is embodied in the sober language of absolute verity. 
 
 Such then is the peculiar structure of the Apocalypse, 
 a series of prophetic visions announcing a grand order 
 of events to transpire through the ages of time, and 
 which, as they arise, are perceived by the instructed eye
 
 22 THE OPAL. 
 
 to form themselves we had almost said to crystallize 
 themselves into conformity with the visioned patterns 
 described by the pen of the prophet. The great business 
 of the expositor is to compare these symbolic semblances" 
 with the recorded facts of history, and thus to bring 
 providence and prophecy more and more to a tally. This 
 we may be assured can be done. This department of 
 revelation may be fully redeemed from the charge of 
 arbitrary or random guessing, and be made in the end 
 to disclose a rich abundance of the noblest elements of 
 moral power. Greater and greater certainty will be 
 continually infused into the solutions of learned in- 
 terpreters ; and prophecy, which has hitherto, for the 
 most part, been fulfilled blindly by agents " who thought 
 not so," will at length be accomplished intelligently, and 
 taken as a guide and directory to duty by the Christian 
 church. It will then become one of the grand means 
 of its own fulfilment, and as page after page of its 
 mystic records is unrolled, it will be as if the leaves of 
 a new revelation had dropped from time to time out of 
 heaven, and they will be at the same time leaves of the 
 Tree of Life, for the healing of the nations. For the 
 great burden of prophecy is the ultimate evangelization 
 and regeneration of the world.
 
 A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 I SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, 
 Child of my love ! I tremble to believe 
 That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue 
 The shadow of my heart will always pass ; 
 A heart that from its struggle with the world, 
 Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, 
 And, careless of the staining dust it brings, 
 Asks for its idol ! Strange, that flowers of earth 
 Are visited by every air that stirs, 
 And drink in sweetness only, while the child 
 That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven, 
 May take a blemish from the breath of love, 
 And bear the blight for ever. 
 
 I have wept 
 
 With gladness at the gift of this fair child ! 
 My life is bound up in her ! But, oh God ! 
 Thou knowest how heavily my heart at times 
 Bears its sweet burthen ; and if thou hast given 
 To nurture such as thine this spotless flower,
 
 24 THE OPAL. 
 
 To bring it unpolluted unto thee, 
 
 Take thou its love, I pray thee ! Give it light 
 
 Though, following the sun, it turn from me ! 
 
 But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light 
 
 Shining about her, draw me to my child, 
 
 And link us close, oh God, when near to heaven ! 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 BY JAMES ALDRICH. 
 
 BY the old masters painted 
 
 In many a convent gray, 
 I've seen the sweet child Jesus 
 
 And little St. John at play. 
 
 Two blooming cherubs seemed they, 
 And anear them sat the while, 
 
 The ever-blessed Virgin, 
 
 With her sweet maternal smile. 
 
 And sometimes living pictures 
 
 Like to these have met mine eyes ; 
 
 Flowers of more than earthly beauty, 
 Sunny gleams of paradise ! 
 
 Little children, sorrow free, 
 
 Blessed with mother's love and care ; 
 Holy thoughts ye bring to me, 
 
 For, of God, of God ye are !
 
 THE STUDENT. 
 
 HE DISCOURSE! 1 !! UPON VIRTUE. 
 
 BY ERNEST HELFE.NSTEIN. 
 
 A SHADOW is upon thy spirit, my beloved ; shall we 
 lift the veil together that shrouds the mysteries of life 
 or wouldst thou be alone in the sanctuary of thy heart ? 
 
 Enter with me, dear Ernest, I would hide nothing 
 from thee except as I would spare thee pain. Give me 
 the counsels of thy wisdom, for thou art ever thine own 
 master thou hast that calmness which is the gift of 
 power, that the extraneous and the trivial disturb thee 
 not ; the soul hath strange moods shadows come upon 
 it, we know not whence nor why. If there are periods 
 even here when we become so divested of human pas- 
 sions, and human pursuits, that the wrong they may 
 inflict upon our spiritual nature shall appal us with its 
 greatness, what shall we be when free to behold these 
 things in the naked light of truth ! 
 
 There are sacred and yet fearful moments to the soul, 
 my beloved, when we stand at the mount of God, in the 
 midst of thunders and thick darkness, and the heart 
 
 3
 
 26 THE OPAL. 
 
 trembleth while the true, the eternal, is inscribed upon it 
 as with the finger of the Almighty " It is well to tarry 
 here awhile" here in this wilderness of doubt for pre- 
 sently the cloud or the flame will roll thee onward to new 
 perils and to new glories. 
 
 It is a sad resting with gloom and dismay upon 
 every side. How little do human palliatives avail Error 
 when she stands face to face with Truth ! In times like 
 these, Ernest, the slightest evil into which youth, inex- 
 perience, impulse, or circumstance may have betrayed 
 the human heart, appears as without excuse all de- 
 partures from the true and the good, a mortal injury to 
 the soul. 
 
 So it would be, my beloved, did the soul assent; did 
 the habitude of wrong create content in wrong-doing. 
 The very poignancy of distress, proves the vitality of 
 the subject. We should deplore less the presence of 
 evil, than the absence of good. To the spirit accustomed 
 to worship at the high altar of truth, the presence of 
 falsehood is as the touch of a reptile escaped from the 
 weeds at its base ; it chills and appals. 
 
 Then should we, dear Ernest, bless God, even for 
 this sackcloth of the spirit then should we repose tran- 
 quilly with the dust upon our head, feeling that the soul 
 is made worthier for its inward trials. 
 
 Even so, dearest ; and yet praying to be delivered 
 from the perils of overwhelming regret, whatever may 
 have been its cause ; but rather beseeching that the true 
 and the good may so win upon our affections, that the 
 evil shall no more tempt us aside. As a man thinketh 
 in his heart, so is he, and if the inner life be holy, a
 
 THE STUDENT. 27 
 
 passing outward evil cannot be fatal to it. It is the 
 habitude that dimmeth the moral perception, that extin- 
 guisheth the spiritual vision till the light within be- 
 comes darkness. 
 
 I feel a new strength, dear Ernest, while listening to 
 thy wisdom and yet how the consciousness of error 
 abaseth the proud heart ! how the haughtiness of our 
 nature shrinketh from her presence ! Oh ! that one 
 might live the ideal ; be the good and the true : not 
 admire and love merely, but be the embodiment of all 
 that we conceive of human perfection ! 
 
 The desire invalueth the certainty of progress thereto. 
 ' To be exempt from human error, were to be exempt 
 from human emotions. The contest with evil but maketh 
 the triumphs of goodness more complete. If in slaying 
 the dragon we become stained .with his blood, let not the 
 thing dismay, so long as he lieth dead at our feet. It is 
 one of the uses of evil to place virtue in bolder relief 
 it is the shadow, which can be only where there is light. 
 And now, my friend, as a creature endowed with the 
 attributes of humanity, is one exposed to the violations 
 of the great principles of justice, liable to seek the gra- 
 tification of his desires at the sacrifice of the good and 
 the true, a standard which he perceives yet faileth to 
 reach, it may be that a consciousness of ill -desert, is the 
 very state of being necessary to make us meet subjects 
 for the blood of the atonement the conviction that our 
 own acts have not entitled us to eternal felicity, may 
 direct us to the feet of the Great Teacher, for he alone 
 was guiltless as to the law, he alone could say, " I have 
 overcome the world," he " fulfilled the law" and in the
 
 28 THE OPAL. 
 
 great mission which he accomplished, he founded a new 
 code, that of Lave. We shall not be condemned in that 
 we have erred, if so be this principle be strong within 
 us ; and often we need to pass in the shadow of evil, 
 that we may rejoice in the good " To whom much is 
 forgiven, the same loveth much." 
 
 These are vast almost incomprehensible topics, Ernest ; 
 do we not feel, while thus discoursing upon them, as if 
 admitted already within the portals of the unseen and 
 eternal ? Do not our souls seem bathed in a purer atmo- 
 sphere, as if the wings of our better angel had fanned 
 aside the shadows that fall from earthly things ? and 
 this rainy day, meseems, while it saddens somewhat, is 
 also favourable to themes like these. 
 
 Let me give thee this cordial, my friend, compounded 
 of gums and aromatics, which dispose the blood to a 
 readier flow, and yet stimulate no unequal action of the 
 brain. Undoubtedly a rainy day is favourable to reflec- 
 tion, and yet what shall we say of human actions, when 
 a certain combination of the elements may send us forth 
 with the gladness of a free bird, alive to blessedness 
 and love, or plunge us into gloom into despair into 
 misanthropy and crime ! 
 
 Dear Ernest, this is but the influence of things upon 
 our senses, and doth not touch our moral actions. 
 
 Yet it giveth an impulse to them, and hath much, very 
 much to do with the feeling with which we regard them. 
 All times are alike to Truth, her principles are fixed and 
 immutable, and yet when the sun is bright upon the 
 earth we find a thousand extenuations of error that fail 
 us on a day like this. A fair day prompts to geniality,
 
 THE STUDENT. 29 
 
 a dull one to sternness, or if the fountains of blessed- 
 ness have become dry in the heart, prompts to evil 
 deeds. 
 
 Why, Ernest, you would make virtue an accident, a 
 state of the nerves, rather than a holy, self-denying ac- 
 quirement. 
 
 What shall we say, dearest, when the slightest thing 
 in the material world is able to change the very current 
 of thought ? when the pressure of the fingers upon 
 certain parts of the brain will suggest new and insulated 
 trains of images? when a local pain, an absence of 
 organic action, will produce an error in judgment? 
 When a few simples genially administered, transform 
 the despairing moralist into the cheerful philosopher, as 
 in the case of the friend at my side ? 
 
 Then there was profound wisdom in the wish that 
 Shakspeare puts into the mouth of Wolsey at his feast, 
 where he says, " I wish you a good digestion !" 
 
 A good digestion is often the secret of happiness 
 often of external virtue. A thousand things affect our 
 senses, and modify our actions for the time being, which 
 conscience at her leisure calleth to her tribunal. We 
 live a thousand lives in one, each earnest and distinct. 
 Then cometh the great day of accounts, when all things 
 become one, when the fragments are united -when the 
 many lives become the one life. This it is that giveth 
 oneness, continuity to our being. Some are incapable 
 of this great process of combining they live in parts, 
 and their actions hang about them like ill-fitting gar- 
 ments. 
 
 And yet you make us, Ernest, too much the creatures 
 3*
 
 30 THE OPAL. 
 
 of circumstance. Meseems there is a virtue of the will, 
 which is independent of circumstance. A life within, 
 high and holy, to which the external must be perpetually 
 striving to assimilate. 
 
 Ay, dearest, and that is the true life. The law of 
 our members may war against the law of the mind, but 
 woe to him, who subjecteth the law of the mind to the 
 sway of the baser law. Man is too often the creature 
 of circumstance the good or the evil in him is often 
 that of accident. His many lives are often at variance 
 one with the other. His reason, his sentiments, his in- 
 stincts, are often discordant. He sitteth in the silence 
 of solitude and frameth beautiful and exalted theories, 
 an Utopia of the soul he entereth a church and boweth 
 reverently in worship a life of sentiment is here a 
 beautiful woman hath knelt in prayer at his side, and he 
 heareth her low-toned utterance of devotion a new life 
 is awakened within him, all distinct, and yet they are 
 conjoined in one being. Well for him well for the 
 strong man if he hath the strong will to unite the many 
 into one harmonious whole. 
 
 And this, dear Ernest, would constitute virtue ; and 
 you do not, did not mean to imply, that goodness is an 
 abstraction, a dream, a chimera of the brain ? 
 
 No, dearest, only that we are not to judge by insulated 
 acts, that we are often incapable of judging accurately 
 <fr ourselves, far more of others. That we must have 
 great and just principles of action to which we conform, 
 and we are virtuous or otherwise as we abide by these. 
 Virtue is in the soul the standard must be high there, 
 and though the external man may be faulty, yet while
 
 RUTH AND NAOMI. 31 
 
 the internal perception of the true is undimmed, his pro- 
 gress must and will be onward. His faults become the 
 infirmity, it may be, of his nature, if they do not in 
 truth become strong aids to his higher attainments, by 
 the power of contrast ; for one must have felt the cold 
 in order to appreciate the geniality of warmth one must 
 have been in darkness to comprehend the light, must 
 have suffered pain to know the meaning of pleasure ; so 
 truth is to be found upon the confines of error. Let us 
 turn from the faulty to admire the perfect ; forget the 
 imperfections of the best, and struggle manfully for the 
 good and the true. 
 
 RUTH AND NAOMI. 
 
 BY RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
 " And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee or to return from fol- 
 lowing after thee, for whither thou goeat I will go, where thou lodgest I 
 will lodge, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where 
 thou diest I will dje, and there also will I be buried." 
 
 NAY, do not ask entreat not no ! 
 
 O no! I will not leave thy side; 
 Whither thou goest J will go, 
 
 Where thou abidest I'll abide. 
 
 Through life in death my soul to thine 
 Shall cleave as fond as first it clave ; 
 
 Thy home, thy people shall be mine 
 Thy God my God, thy grave my grave !
 
 THE SABBATH OF THE YEAR.' 
 
 IT is the Sabbath of the year ; 
 
 And if you'll walk abroad, 
 A holy sermon ye shall hear, 
 
 Full worthy of record. 
 Autumn the preacher is, and look ! 
 
 As other preachers do, 
 He takes a text from the one Great Book, 
 
 A text both sad and true. 
 
 With a deep earnest voice he saith, 
 
 And yet a voice of grief, 
 Fitting the minister of Death, 
 
 " So fade all as a leaf, 
 And your iniquities, like the wind, 
 
 Have taken ye away i 
 So, fading flutterers, weak and blind, 
 
 Repent, return, and pray." 
 
 And then the wind ariseth slow, 
 
 And giveth out a psalm, 
 And the organ-pipes begin to blow, 
 
 Within the forest calm : 
 Then all the trees lift up their hands, 
 
 And lift their voices higher, 
 And sing the notes of spirit-bands, 
 
 In full and glorious choir.
 
 THE SABBATH OF THE YEAR. 33 
 
 Yes ! 'tis the Sabbath of the year, 
 
 And it doth surely seem, 
 (But words of reverence and of fear, 
 
 Should speak of such a theme,) 
 That the corn is gather'd for the bread, 
 
 And the berries for the wine, 
 And a sacramental feast is spread, 
 
 Like the Christian's pardon-sign. 
 
 And the year, with sighs of penitence, 
 
 The holy feast bends o'er, 
 For she must die, and go out hence, 
 
 Die and be seen no more. 
 Then are the choir and organ still, 
 
 The psalm melts in the air, 
 The wind bows down beside the hill, 
 
 And all are hush'd in prayer. 
 
 Then comes the sunset in the west, 
 
 Like a patriarch of old, 
 Or like a saint who hath won his rest, 
 
 His robes, and his crown of gold ; 
 And forth his arms he stretches wide, 
 
 And with solemn tone and clear, 
 He blesseth in the even-tide, 
 
 " The Sabbath of the year." 
 
 October 16th.
 
 THE JESUIT. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " HENRI QUATRE ; OR, THE DAYS 
 OF THE LEAGUE," ETC. 
 
 / 
 
 WHILST Spain was stealthily forging arms and mana- 
 cles, and her navy-yards groaned under the labour of 
 creating the Invincible Armada, Protestant and heretic 
 England, against whom the vast flotilla was intended, 
 enjoyed the fruits of commerce and improved agriculture, 
 fostered by a female sovereign who appreciated the 
 energies and possessed the tact of directing the ambitious 
 scope of her subjects. Domestic rapine had long ceased 
 to disfigure the land, all strife was hushed, save in the 
 hearts and on the tongue, in secret conference, of the 
 suppressed papists ; the more violent still harbouring 
 through promised foreign aid hopes of the nation's 
 return to Romish supremacy. It was during this reign, 
 and at the period when the din of Spanish armories was 
 borne faintly to the shores which owned Elizabeth's 
 sway, that our history opens, in the north of Lan- 
 cashire. In the background, are the lofty hills which 
 separate the county from Yorkshire a wild region, 
 " land of the flood and the fell." Midway stands an old 
 hall, encircled by a park, or chase, rough, neglected,
 
 THE JESUIT. 36 
 
 uncultivated, with here and there a withered, felled tree, 
 struck by lightning or borne to earth by wild chorus of 
 winds, wailing malicious dirge as they sweep down- 
 ward from the steep mountains toward the north. The 
 ghastly trunks, rotting where they fell, hacked and 
 maimed by the poorly clad, and ill-fed peasant in his 
 night-depredations, bespoke the absence of careful forester, 
 and neglect of the gentle art of woodcraft. In the fore- 
 ground hurries on a deep, eddying stream, a few roods 
 only from the belt of forest. The river is crossed by 
 a bridge, on the centre of which stands an ancient, 
 fortified toll-house. The public road, if it can be called 
 such, on quitting the forest, keeps company with the 
 stream, far as the eye can reach, plainly indicating to the 
 traveller that his way lies on the near side of the river, 
 unless he have business at the manor-house in the chase. 
 The habitable portion of the toll-house stands on an arch 
 embracing the causeway of the bridge ; the road under, 
 was formerly protected by a portcullis, in lieu of which 
 a strong oaken-gate is substituted. In the feudal era, the 
 lord of the domain was wont to take toll of all merchants, 
 pilgrims or travellers ; and a fair income he derived, as 
 the highway then lay across the stream, and in con- 
 tinuation, beneath the walls of his fortress. In con- 
 sideration of the tribute, he protected the wayfarer from 
 rapine and spoliation as far as his authority extended ; 
 beyond that, he was left to the mercies of forest-bands, 
 and hedge-desperadoes, unless in condition to disburse 
 another modus to the seignorial lord of the soil his foot 
 then traversed. When baronial oppression sank under 
 the influence of civilization and commerce, our proprietor
 
 36 THE OPAL. 
 
 of the toll-bridge, for the first time, felt the inconvenience 
 of his deer chase being a public thoroughfare ; he now 
 courted seclusion, turned the course of the road, shut 
 out travellers with a strong gate, defended by lodge- 
 porters, and with anxious solicitude for the preservation 
 of the game and the wood, threatened depredators and 
 trespassers with the stocks, the jail and the whipping- 
 post. Time, and circumstances which we shall here- 
 after relate, reduced the establishment, in the days of 
 good Queen Bess, to one superannuated liveryman. A. 
 small wicket opened in one wing of the gate for the 
 passage of pedestrians, and a grated loophole, in the but- 
 tress of the arch, enabled the old badgeman, Arthur, to 
 examine visitors ere he admitted them. 
 
 'Twas a warm afternoon of June, and Arthur sat in 
 a window of the sunny chamber above, peering at the 
 forest the outer domain of the manor where the deer 
 came momently into view. Suddenly his weak nerves 
 were shaken by a hearty slap on the shoulder, and 
 turning, he beheld Master Hugh Hey wood. The queru- 
 lous complaint died on his lips, as Heywood jocularly 
 rallied him on his contemplative habits. 
 
 " Why, man ! thou livest here like a hermit, and hast 
 no comfort in thy old age ! . Give up thy post to Wil- 
 liam, and take the elbow-seat on the settle, nearest the 
 hearth, in the servants' hall their waggery will cheer 
 thee. Remember the old song 
 
 " After drudgerie, 
 When they be werie, 
 Then to be merie,
 
 THE JESUIT. 37 
 
 Servants in one house to bee, 
 
 To laugh and sing they be free ; 
 
 With chip and cherie, 
 
 High derie derie, 
 
 Trill on the berie, 
 
 And lovingly to agree.' " 
 
 " An' thou wert not a heretic, Master Heywood," said 
 the old man, " I would give thee my confidence." 
 
 Master Heywood knew full well by the tone in which 
 this was uttered, that Arthur desired to bestow his confi- 
 dence, and only stood out for a little solicitation. He 
 soon enticed the porter to unlock the storehouse of his 
 experience ; how he had been gatekeeper thirty-five 
 years, next St. Martin's Eve ; how staunchly he held 
 his post the time of the great flood, when the waters 
 washed the keystone of the causeway arch, and pro- 
 visions were handed from a boat into the chamber they 
 then occupied. Here he had lived here he would die ! 
 He loved to see the deer peep timidly from covert, on 
 the confines of their woody territory, starting at the 
 slightest sound on the highway, crushing the underwood 
 in retreat, midst the music of the leader's bell. He 
 could tell, he said, the faith of every traveller as he 
 emerged from the forest ; whether he were of the old 
 or the new religion. 
 
 " Now fathom me that !" exclaimed the old man, 
 triumphantly. 
 
 Master Heywood shook his head ; he could not guess 
 a man's faith from the cut of his doublet or the colour of 
 his trunk-hose. 
 
 Old Arthur pointed in great glee, (for he was growing 
 4
 
 38 THE OPAL. 
 
 merry, as was his wont to an attentive listener,) to a 
 ruined cross by the wayside, between the bridge and 
 forest-growth. St. Mary's Cross was a dilapidated 
 structure, circular, tapering to a point, like the spire 
 of a gothic cathedral, with niches near the base, occu- 
 pied by the mutilated figures of saints. He knew, by 
 sure token, every man's creed by his behaviour in 
 passing the old relique. 
 
 " Then I'll e'en put thy skill to the test, for here come 
 horsemen !" exclaimed Master Hugh. 
 
 A cavalier, attended by a solitary lackey, was in 
 sight. On approaching the cross, the former drew up, 
 and surveyed the ruins with respectful gaze, then jogged 
 on ; the attendant also paused, rode slowly in face of 
 the structure, and quickened into the old pace. Arthur 
 and Master Heywood exchanged glances. 
 
 " Thou knowest now the secret," said the porter ; 
 " but I'll down to the gate, for I trow the stranger has 
 business at the Hall." 
 
 " Open it not, till he answer for himself," cried Hey- 
 wood, as Arthur was hobbling down the stone steps. 
 
 The cavalier appeared a man not far short of thirty 
 well armed, well mounted, of gay and nonchalant bear- 
 ing such as the sober citizen of that day would pro- 
 nounce a court-gallant ; his eye was lit up with auda- 
 city, reckless of where and on whom its glances fell ; 
 his apparel was rich, partially concealed by a travelling- 
 mantle, which, sometimes blown aside, displayed a lining 
 of ermine, in the construction of the sumptuary-laws 
 denoting baronial rank. He dashed on the bridge with 
 a clatter which awoke loud echoes from the old stones,
 
 THE JESUIT. 39 
 
 and drove the owlets screeching from their nest ; but 
 the gate was closed, and the gallant steed thrown on its 
 haunches. The stranger, with reddening anger, looked 
 around, and espying the face of Master Hugh at the 
 chamber above, with chin resting on the window-coping, 
 looking carelessly, and quietly, on the scene beneath, 
 shook his riding-whip, crying, 
 
 " How now, varlet, art mocking me ?" 
 " Art thou ignorant of our customs, Sir Stranger ?" 
 asked Master Hey wood ; " hast not heard the legend 
 of the Hall 1 
 
 ' At Marston-fbrd where the stream is deep, 
 The lonely warder his vigil doth keep, 
 No visor'd knight, or eke baron bold, 
 May pass the bridge-ward with name untold.' " 
 
 " A murrain seize thee !" exclaimed the cavalier in 
 extreme vexation. " Who could have thought, when 
 Sir Edward Marston crossed the seas, he would have 
 left his fool behind ! I am Sir Henry Stonor, and 
 promise thee a sound cudgelling, if thou comest not 
 down at the word." 
 
 " Knowest thou not, Sir Henry Stonor," rejoined the 
 unmoved Master Heywood, " that by an act, made and 
 passed in the third year of the reign of our sovereign 
 lady the Queen, that no one under the rank of baron 
 shall wear the ermine-fur ?" 
 
 Here the speaker withdrew his head quickly, for the 
 knight in his rage seized a matchlock-pistol from the 
 holster.
 
 40 THE OPAL. 
 
 "Dost bar, or unbar?" he cried, with suppressed 
 breath. 
 
 " Prefer thy petition to the porter below," cried Hugh, 
 exposing his head for a moment, and only for a moment, 
 " whom thou shouldst have asked at first." 
 
 Sir Henry, looking where he had not before looked, 
 beheld old Arthur behind the grating in the wall. 
 
 " Open the gate, old dotard, to Sir Henry Stonor," 
 exclaimed the knight, " or thy gray hairs shall not 
 protect thy shoulders." 
 
 When Arthur made free passage, Sir Henry, in pass- 
 ing, frowned angrily, crying, " Art mad, that I should 
 bide on the bridge ?" 
 
 " I pray thee, good Sir Henry," said the old man, 
 cautiously keeping out of reach of the riding thong, 
 " respect our ancient custom !" 
 
 "Who is that springald in the tower?" asked the 
 knight sternly, checking the rein. 
 
 " The worshipful Master Hugh Hey wood, nephew of 
 our late Mistress Priscilla Marston, may it please ye, 
 Sir Henry," rejoined the porter. 
 
 The knight rode haughtily onward, without remark or 
 acknowledgement. Master Hugh, having enjoyed the 
 rather perilous amusement of angering the cavalier, did 
 not care to face the reproaches of his quondam gossip, 
 the porter, to whose . tower he often strolled to while 
 away the hours, but slipping away quietly, continued 
 his walk through the park. 
 
 It was, indeed, a neglected place. Sir Edward Mar- 
 ston, lord of the domain, a rigid Romanist, had so 
 deeply compromised himself in opposing the succession
 
 THE JESUIT. 41 
 
 of Elizabeth, that prudence rendered a sojourn abroad 
 a matter of necessity. It was not her grace's policy to 
 drive the Catholics to despair ; Sir Edward, and many 
 others as deeply involved, were unmolested in their 
 possessions, and though in exile, suffered to draw their 
 annual rent-roll. Adherence to papacy was no state- 
 crime ; it was expected that the old religion would gra- 
 dually melt into the new ; conformity was so far from 
 being pressed that the Romanist and Protestant oft used 
 the same parish church of course under the tutelage of 
 their respective pastors. But Philip of Spain, aided by 
 Rome, and urged by the vigorous " soldiery of Jesus," 
 the Jesuits, through secret missionaries scattered over 
 the island, fanned the hopes and enthusiasm of the 
 sterner Catholics with expectation of promised invasion. 
 That papal emissaries were secretly at work throughout 
 the land, was not unknown to Elizabeth and the nation, 
 and whilst their labours estranged the hearts of the 
 Romanists from the princess who so ably occupied the 
 throne, the evil was compensated by the bond of union 
 and faith being strengthened between her and her Pro- 
 testant subjects, by whom she was beloved and revered. 
 Sir Edward Marston on leaving his native land con- 
 signed the stewardship of his estates to a decayed kins- 
 man, Master Philip Marston, now resident at the Hall. 
 As Philip, destitute of fortune, was forced to render a 
 rigorous settlement of the proceeds, the establishment 
 was on a very humble footing. A few superannuated 
 serving-men there were, whom Sir Edward could not 
 dismiss, who still received the yearly coat and badge, 
 and fee, and ate from wooden platters in the servants' 
 4*
 
 42 THE OPAL. 
 
 hall, as they had done in their days of lustihood ; but 
 the gallant band of foresters, rangers and prickers had 
 disappeared to eat the bread of new masters. Philip 
 was a sour, formal ascetic, fretted by poverty and dis- 
 appointment, seeking consolation in the austerities of his 
 creed. He had been once otherwise, we may presume, 
 or he would not have married a lady of the reformed 
 faith. She was long since dead, bequeathing to his care 
 their daughter Isabel, and a brother's orphan, whose 
 patrimony he had controlled, as guardian, in virtue of a 
 testamentary disposition of the brother-in-law. Philip, 
 with the same ill luck which attended all his own affairs, 
 and with less justice, contrived to squander his ward's 
 fortune in attempting to improve it. By this delinquency 
 the impoverished gentleman was saddled with the main- 
 tenance of a comely, larksome nephew, now three-and- 
 twenty good at the trencher, moderate, to his credit, 
 with the wine-pitcher, excellent at the cross-bow, to the 
 thinning of Sir Edward's deer, and deplorably out of the 
 uncle's grace in being, like his deceased aunt and all 
 their kindred, a zealous Protestant. This, we need 
 hardly say, was Master Hugh, who, presuming on the 
 immunity of Protestantism, was reckless in braving the 
 anger even of so wealthy and powerful a knight as the 
 Romanist Sir Henry Stonor. Tn general, uncle and 
 nephew jogged on together indifferently well, save on 
 one fearful occasion, when Philip caught the youth 
 expounding to Isabel her mother's faith. He was bit- 
 terly enraged, threatening Hugh with crushed bones, 
 indeed utter annihilation ; and ended with ordering him 
 immediately out of doors. Young Hey wood demurred
 
 .THE JESUIT. 43 
 
 to quit the roof till justice had been done in the affair of 
 the dissipated patrimony. This brought about recon- 
 ciliation. Philip also found his account in having a 
 Protestant in the family ; in acting as his uncle's repre- 
 sentative, the latter was saved sundry penalties, incon- 
 veniences, and some indignity, to which members of the 
 Roman faith were subject. Master Heywood was con- 
 tent to stay, perhaps because he had no other resort, 
 perhaps, as some asserted, because the attraction of 
 living under the same roof with Isabel was irresistible. 
 
 Several hours elapsed ere Hugh returned to the Hall, 
 followed by one of the men, bearing on his shoulders a 
 fine buck, slaughtered in the chase. It was fair apology 
 for absence long after the usual hour of reassembling 
 in the evening ; but in truth, Master Hugh did not like 
 meeting with Sir Henry, whom he had so insolently 
 trifled with, and was both pleased and astonished to 
 learn that the knight did not consort with his host, but 
 took up his quarters in a suite of chambers disused 
 since the departure of Sir Edward. But a small part 
 of the extended and irregular edifice was occupied by 
 the present family. The diminished state and splendour 
 of the Hall accorded with the diminished means and 
 inferior condition of Philip Marston who, but for the 
 name he bore, would have been held throughout the dis- 
 trict as steward and man of business, not kinsman, of 
 the absent knight. Still Philip Marston was on the 
 land and under the roof which had owned the name for 
 centuries, and even Heywood, when the first sensation of 
 delight in the discovery that he should be spared meet- 
 ing Sir Henry at table had subsided, and he learned
 
 44 THE OPAL. 
 
 from his uncle's lips, what the latter appeared in some 
 hurry to communicate, that their guest had come to 
 treat for the purchase of several outlying farms as Sir 
 Edward was desirous of raising a large sum of money, 
 even he, forgetting how much he had been pleased in 
 looking vainly for the cavalier's face at the family 
 board, muttered that the Marstons and Heywoods were 
 fitting society for a Stonor. Philip's melancholy face 
 contorted into a grim smile, but his forehead was 
 flushed, and he evidently felt the nephew's rebuke. 
 Isabel came to her father's rescue. Should not her 
 cousin, who knew the plate-chest of Marston Hall was 
 across the seas, rather be pleased they were spared the 
 mortification of Sir Henry beholding a scant table-equip- 
 ment? 
 
 " Certes ! an excellent, womanly reason," cried 
 Philip, addressing his nephew more complacently than 
 usual ; " but in truth, Hugh, I would rather hold the 
 knight at distance till I have fairly conned his offers." 
 
 " 'Tis an excellent flint that strikes fire from both soft 
 and hard !" thought young Heywood " but there is 
 more in this than meets either the eye or the ear !" 
 
 Affairs remained many days pretty nigh in the same 
 state, Sir Henry occasionally, as though it were to show 
 that privacy sprung not from disdain or contempt of his 
 entertainers, eating at the family board. Towards Hey- 
 wood he exhibited supreme indifference, nor could the 
 latter glean whether the knight had ever complained 
 of hjs behaviour, as he never otherwise than by silent 
 aversion resented it. Visits, in company only with 
 Philip, were made to the distant farms, and occasionally
 
 THE JESUIT. 45 
 
 Philip's hawk was flown, but Sir Henry, contrary to 
 the general habits of his class, and in defiance of fine 
 weather* was very studiously inclined, and preferred 
 the seclusion of the library, or range of the portrait- 
 gallery. Master Hugh, however, was not insensible to 
 the knight's design of sporting, on what he deemed his 
 own manor ; he witnessed more attention bestowed, and 
 not always of a refined and courteous nature, on Isabel 
 than he liked or thought even decorous. It was, to say 
 the least, treating her as an inferior, as one with whom 
 liberties might be taken, and both the pride and jealousy 
 of the young man were aroused. Hugh's intercourse 
 with Isabel was the fascination of his life ; he never 
 spoke of love her father's antipathy to the reformed 
 faith, deepened by age and blighted worldly prospects, 
 forbade hope of union, even if poverty and dependence 
 had offered no bar yet he lived untroubled and serene 
 in the light of her sunny smiles, as though such life 
 were to last for ever. 
 
 Isabel was barely twenty, a perfect specimen of the 
 English country maiden of gentle birth. A sunny cheer- 
 fulness dwelt in her eye, the roseate hue of health glowed 
 in a cheek, whose bloom was untainted by the sickly 
 languor of courtly revel or burnt by the sun's scorching 
 rays to rivalry with the embrowned rustic's. She shared 
 her cousin's fate in not escaping from the seductive in- 
 fluence of their false position ; but affection for Hugh 
 was attempered by love of her father, deep regard and 
 respect for his wishes, which, it must be confessed, was 
 far from being the case with Master Heywood. 
 
 Time fled, and still Sir Henry departed not, although
 
 46 THE OPAL. 
 
 Philip announced to his family, that the knight's busi- 
 ness was concluded. Hugh's jealousy pointed angrily 
 at the cause, yet at times he surmised there was a 
 mystery beyond the cavalier's insolent admiration of 
 Isabel, which occasioned his visit, or at least detention. 
 Before even Sir Henry^s arrival, there had not been 
 wanting secret conferences between father and daughter, 
 and a freemasonry of significant looks, gestures and 
 monosyllables, utterly unintelligible, to confound the 
 young man. His jealousy unawakened, his frank nature 
 had no inclination to pry into the secrets of parties so 
 closely connected as Isabel and his uncle. But the case 
 was now different, with a rival in the field. Could this 
 proud Sir Henry stoop to win the hand of the portionless 
 daughter of the poor Philip Marston ?i It were possible 
 yet not probable. That the knight aimed at luring her 
 heart, the sagacity or passion of young Heywood had 
 penetrated. But her liand ? No ! jealous fear alone 
 shook well-grounded conviction of the visitor's dis- 
 honourable intentions. His happy self-complacency, 
 however, was fearfully disturbed^ he awoke to the in- 
 security of his happiness, and trembled when he re- 
 flected that proximity to and daily intercourse with the 
 object of his affection, though it added to the peril of 
 both, afforded no presage of safety. 
 
 The torture of mind to which for the first time in 
 his life, he was subjected, became in a degree relieved 
 by a remarkable incident. The door of an adjoining 
 chamber being partially open he could hear, though 
 indistinctly, the voices of the knight and Isabel. Sir 
 Henry's tone grew loud and impassioned ; an exclama-
 
 THE JESUIT. 47 
 
 tion escaped from the maiden, followed by a rapid 
 movement of feet ; and Isabel rushed into Heywood's 
 presence, angry and with flushed cheek. She was 
 followed hastily by the knight, who stepped back dis- 
 concerted and baffled, on beholding Hugh, who con- 
 fronted him steadily. He cast a threatening glance on 
 the young man as he strode by, and bowing to Isabel 
 as he quitted the room, expressed regret that the un- 
 courtly habits of country places encouraged eavesdrop- 
 ping. Master Hey wood turned to the affrighted damsel, 
 who greeted his prompt interference with a sweet smile, 
 a pledge to the enraptured lover of future confidence. 
 Delicacy, for which perhaps the contemptuous cavalier 
 would not have given the pert youngster, as he deemed 
 him, credit, and by which he won the secret thanks of 
 his mistress, withheld any allusion to their visiter's con- 
 duct. He gloried in the knight's discomfiture, was 
 proud of the protection he had afforded, but seeing 
 Isabel's confusion, withdrew, as he said, to prove the 
 strength of his new cross-bow. 
 
 Hugh's sagacity failed not to perceive that all save 
 himself were subjected by some strange mystery to the 
 caprice of their proud, haughty guest. Isabel treated 
 him with deferential respect, yet, whenever possible, 
 shunned his presence. Even Philip seemed annoyed, 
 yet without remedy, at his prolonged stay. As the 
 maiden was on her guard, no good and much harm 
 might result from acquainting his uncle with the knight's 
 discourtesy, and in the peculiar position in which he 
 himself stood to Isabel, complaint might give his inter- 
 ference a colouring and lead to results for which he
 
 48 THE OPAL. 
 
 was not yet prepared. Silence, and sharp watch on 
 their visiter, he deemed best policy; it found favour, 
 also, with the maiden, which he was made sensible of, 
 and other argument were not needed. 
 
 It happened one evening that Hugh, quitting the 
 family table, encountered a serving-man returning from 
 the knight's quarters with supper untouched. Singular ! 
 thought Master Heywood. That very day he had over- 
 heard a forester relate to one of the domestics that he 
 had seen the rich Papist Sir Henry, who came to buy 
 the estate, riding with a stranger whose face was almost 
 concealed by a hood. The imagination of our lover 
 was instantly filled with the image of Isabel carried off 
 by the retainers of the knight, shrieking in vain the 
 name of her cousin Hugh. Cooler moments succeeded, 
 but Sir Henry's untasted tray of forest delicacies car- 
 ried back to the larder ! 'Twas abstinence unaccounta- 
 ble, and foreshadowed evil design. Sleep was an im- 
 possibility, and come what might, he was bent on 
 allaying or satisfying suspicion. That very hour the 
 faithless guest and his crew might be lying in wait to 
 force her chamber and carry off his hapless cousin ! 
 Sir Henry's domestic, he found, had retired earlier than 
 usual to his sleeping quarters in the ante-room of the 
 suite appointed to his master. This arrangement was a 
 precautionary measure to prevent surprise, a relique of 
 feudal manners. Pride and caution made Hugh chary 
 of inquiries of the Marston serving-men respecting the 
 whereabouts of this mysterious guest, but the little he 
 gleaned increased his irritating suspicion. He resolved 
 to keep watch in a music balcony, which overhung one
 
 THE JESUIT. 49 
 
 end of the long portrait-gallery, and commanded a view 
 of the door of the knight's sleeping-chamber. The 
 gallery had been disused during Sir Edward's absence, 
 but there was no difficulty in gaining access to the bal- 
 cony above, by a secondary staircase, without chance 
 of coming in contact with Sir Henry or his lackey. 
 Thither he repaired, with no other company than the 
 grim portraits of Isabel's ancestors, over whose warlike 
 effigies the moonlight, streaming from the opposite win- 
 dows, cast an uncertain light. Superstition was strong, 
 but love was stronger, and the young man could not 
 drive away the constantly agonizing thought that the 
 licentious Romanist, whose reputation both abroad and 
 at home was far from pure, had drawn into the vicinity 
 of the Hall retainers or hired associates with intention 
 of carrying off the maiden. 
 
 Busy with these thoughts, which he made coincide 
 with the knight's actions, he was startled by the sudden 
 opening of Sir Henry's door, and by the knight in 
 person issuing forth ; not booted, spurred and armed, as 
 he expected, prepared for abduction, flight and resistance 
 of rescue, but wrapped in a loose velvet-gown, fastened 
 with girdle and jewelled clasp. Hugh held his breath, 
 and, crouching low, watched the motions of his rival. 
 The latter advanced carelessly, lamp in hand, as little 
 suspicious of being observed as when locked up in his 
 own dormitory. Halfway down the gallery he lifted the 
 tapestry which, falling, concealed him from further 
 view ; a slight noise was heard and, as Hugh thought, 
 the voice of a stranger was audible. 
 
 A bare half hour our spy waited, irresolute of action, 
 5
 
 50 THE OPAL. 
 
 fearing the knight's return, pondering over the strange 
 manner of his exit, and of the unknown or concealed 
 region into which he had wandered. 
 
 " If these old graybeards," thought Master Hugh, 
 glancing at the portraits, " permit a Stonor, guilty of 
 unknightly conduct to one of their race, to penetrate the 
 mysteries of the old den without having senses scared, 
 or breaking his neck, why I, Hugh Heywood, con- 
 nected with the stock, and wishing closer alliance, may 
 follow unharmed, and I hope without dread of spell or 
 wizardry, this proud man's footsteps ! And so aid my 
 courage, ye Marstons of eld !" 
 
 This soliloquy was partly jocular, partly earnest, for 
 our adventurer, though he had shaken off the trammels 
 of papistical superstition, could not yet wholly rid him- 
 self of compunctious doubt, (fruit of early lore,) of 
 witchcraft, and other unearthly influence, that by ven- 
 turing where he had no right to stray, and penetrating a 
 mystery which lay not in his duty to fathom, he might 
 incur from harsh sprite, an untoward, perhaps mortal 
 disaster, or as had been oft told at the winter fireside, if 
 the spirit of the haunt were frolicsome only, broken 
 head or bruised limbs might be his lot. 
 
 By aid of a strong cord, which held in festoons the 
 faded drapery of the balcony, he lowered himself silently 
 to the gallery beneath, and disposing it in such fashion 
 that he could reascend hastily, if necessary, he crept 
 towards the spot where the knight had disappeared. 
 Removing gently the tapestry, a crevice in the panelling 
 was visible by the reflection of strong light within. 
 Hugh, on his knees, endeavoured to scan the interior,
 
 THE JESUIT. 51 
 
 ere he ventured to proceed further. It was a providen- 
 tial caution. The knight, in entering, having omitted to 
 close the sliding door, sufficient space was there for the 
 inquisitive youth to satisfy himself that our Romanist's 
 abstinence arose not from imposition of fast, or sickly 
 appetite. 
 
 It was a small, rudely-fashioned chamber, into which 
 Master Hugh peered, the stone walls carelessly hung 
 with drapery ; in one corner a pallet-bed, in another 
 a book-shelf, well furnished ; from the ceiling a lamp 
 suspended by a chain, and beneath, a table covered with 
 the remains of a supper which, our daring youth was 
 prepared to swear, had been partly obtained by the skill 
 of his own cross-bow. The knight needeth no descrip- 
 tion ; opposite, sat a man whose age might be forty, or 
 less, whose plain habiliments and close-cut hair bespoke 
 the clerical profession. The face was singular, not from 
 the contour of the features, which were regular without 
 being handsome, but the restless, unsteady, wandering 
 glance of the full-orbed eye. It glanced every where 
 without repose, and revealed what the oily tongue sought 
 to conceal. It could scarcely fail inspiring mistrust even 
 with the inexperienced ; but nature, in part compensa- 
 tion, had bestowed a subtlety of speech which laboured, 
 not often unsuccessfully, in repairing the mischief. 
 Hugh, an attentive listener, was fascinated by the skill 
 with which the stranger handled every topic of dis- 
 course, nor was he unawed by the splendour of worldly 
 connexions which his anecdotes betrayed. He had sat 
 in the cabinet of Philip of Spain, alone with the monarch,
 
 52 THE OPAL. 
 
 copied instructions from the Pope's own lips, mingled 
 familiarly with the mightiest princes of Christendom 
 in a word, was a thorough and accomplished Jesuit, one 
 of the impiously styled " soldiery of Jesus," now en- 
 gaged in secret crusade against the faith and temporal 
 liberties of the English people. Further, our listener 
 gleaned, to his surprise, that the Jesuit had been con- 
 cealed upwards of three months at Marston, correspond- 
 ing during this time with all the more violent and mal- 
 content Catholic families of the North, preparing them 
 by counsel and exhortation to cooperation with the vast 
 designs of Philip against Elizabeth and her reformed 
 subjects. Sir Henry Stonor had come purposely to 
 confer with Philip's emissary, under colour of making 
 purchases of land, and with sanction of the exile, Sir 
 Edward. Much as Master Hugh was astonished by 
 these incidental revelations, he was yet more surprised 
 by the priest's accurate knowledge of the character of 
 every member of the household, and of passing, daily 
 events. Horror lent effect to the discovery, that not 
 only Philip Marston, but Isabel, were in constant com- 
 munication with the recluse ; father or daughter inva- 
 riably brought the uncooked food, which the priest's 
 contrivances and appliances, within the narrow circuit 
 of his den, converted into a delicate repast. Occasion- 
 ally, for the sake of health, the Jesuit, aided by Philip's 
 personal services of course unseen rode forth into 
 the adjoining forest, and in its recesses had interviews 
 with various Romanists of the country. The Jesuit, as 
 became the society he mingled with, was no ascetic, but,
 
 THE JESUIT. 53 
 
 on the contrary, a lover of good cheer, a candidate for 
 ladies' favours, to relieve dry studies and the tortuous 
 path of politics. 
 
 Isabel was the theme of conversation. The priest 
 grew loud in her praise, lauded every charm and virtue, 
 save her coyness. 
 
 " Wert thou not closely cabined here," remarked the 
 knight, in a tone between jest and anger, " I would not 
 brook thy impotent rivalry." 
 
 " I would that she were cabined here," observed the 
 Jesuit; "but our prim Phillis never ventures into the 
 gallery, if I be strolling, but leaves the viands at the 
 door. But patience ! Despite thy liberty, I will yet 
 match thy wooing, Sir Knight !" 
 
 " Thou match my wooing !" exclaimed Stonor, an- 
 grily, " what meanest thou ?" 
 
 " That the field is open to us both," replied the priest. 
 
 " None of thy garb could win the girl," remarked Sir 
 Henry, affecting scorn, " without first polluting her soul, 
 or she would not listen." 
 
 " She could confess to the priest with safer conscience 
 and reputation, than follow to the camp or the town 
 such as thou !" said the Jesuit quietly ; " but let us end 
 the dispute by toasting on our knees, Isabel Marston, 
 and success to him who wins her !" 
 
 And so saying, the Jesuit, bumper in hand, dropped 
 on one knee. 
 
 " Bend thy knees where thou oughtest, on the bare 
 stones of thy cell, and not before me," cried Sir Henry, 
 in the extremity of rage and jealousy, dashing the cup 
 5* '
 
 54 THE OPAL. 
 
 out of the Jesuit's hand, " and leave to men of the world 
 worldly pursuits." 
 
 The priest arose slowly, and brushing off the dust 
 from his garment, perhaps to allow time for passion to 
 subside, said calmly, 
 
 "Thou well knowest the day, Henry Stonor, ere 
 Edward Sabine betook himself to Holy Church, and 
 how he would then have resented this injury, even after 
 the fashion of the world thou alludest to. When I took 
 vows I forswore personal quarrel, tut the Church, and 
 the great order to which I belong, have been insulted in 
 my person ; beware their resentment ! But I love, thee, 
 Harry Stonor ! take till to-morrow for reflection and 
 he who brings contrition shall not go away without for- 
 giveness. Benedicite /" 
 
 There was silence of many moments' duration. At 
 length the knight confessed his rash haste and folly, 
 and prayed it might be even as the Jesuit desired, that 
 the maiden should be to him who won her ; but Sabine, 
 with assumption of calm superiority, shook his head. 
 He would receive, he said, no hasty repentance, which 
 the Church could not value. To-morrow the visit of 
 Sir Henry Stonor might prove reconciliatory. 
 
 Young Hey wood, by this hint, judged he had listened 
 long enough for his own safety, and immediately with- 
 drew. He had barely time to scale the balcony by 
 means of the knotted cord, ere the displaced tapestry 
 exposed the figure of the knight, who slowly withdrew 
 to his own chamber. 
 
 No goblin or sprite had witched Master Hugh, for
 
 THE JESUIT. 55 
 
 the scene was too real to pass for delusion. What a 
 combinatio : of state treason, domestic treachery and 
 licentious hypocrisy was here laid bare ! He hied to his 
 dormitory, but could not sleep, and with the first blush 
 of dawn was away to the forest-glades, that he might 
 commune with himself his troubled countenance unob- 
 served by prying eyes and there, in solitude, shape 
 out a course of action. 
 
 " What a perplexing fate !" was his exclamation, after 
 much reflection. He had lifted the veil of a fearful 
 mystery, which he could not disclose, for he was himself 
 within pale of the circle. His sovereign, his country, 
 the altars of his faith, sealed with the recent blood of 
 martyrs, were involved in one common danger ; but 
 the same breath which revealed the plotting, attainted 
 the father of Isabel nay, Isabel herself of treason ! 
 Must he then hold silence? Tears came, but did not 
 relieve the perplexity. 
 
 If he warned the father of the meditated dishonour 
 on Isabel, the ascetic Romanist was so linked and in- 
 volved in the same treason though perhaps support- 
 ing a subordinate and more harmless part with those 
 who sought to do him wrong, that exposure might be 
 attended with the effect only of removing a watchful 
 and zealous, though unsuspected guardian, without re- 
 medying the evil and danger, by which his cousin was 
 threatened. Another course, though only likely to be 
 adopted by a more romantic and inexperienced person- 
 age than our sagacious, though provincial-bred Master 
 Hugh, was adopting the chivalric expedient of notify- 
 ing the knight and his clerical rival, that he had over-
 
 66 THE OPAL. 
 
 heard their designs on Isabel, and was prepared at all 
 hazards to defeat them, but would make no other use of 
 his discovery than to shield the lady. A moment's re- 
 flection, that life would be worth small purchase were 
 it known to the unhesitating emissary of Rome that he 
 had penetrated his inner designs, and that on his breath 
 depended escape from the scaffold, and the idea was 
 summarily dismissed. 
 
 The only practicable course though it weighed heavy 
 on his conscience that in concealing treason he par- 
 ticipated in the crime was by adopting a system of 
 vigilant surveillance over the actions of the knight and 
 around the mysterious "priest's chamber." Isabel, as 
 the Jesuit confessed, was too guarded to place herself 
 within his reach, and of the knight she had already ex- 
 perienced sufficing specimen of his discourtesy to place 
 reliance on his loyalty. Through this middle yet ardu- 
 ous course he resolved to steer, and, if possible without 
 betraying them to the law, teach this pair of malignants 
 to rue practices on the daughter of a gentleman, though 
 he were impoverished and she portionless. To guard 
 against sudden abduction he contrived, under pretence 
 of chastising forest and game depredators, to draw under 
 immediate control three of the lustiest and most coura- 
 geous serving-men, well-armed, and ever prepared to 
 obey a sudden call. Meanwhile days flew on, which 
 brought nothing more remarkable than increasing evi- 
 dence of Philip Marston's secret annoyance and won- 
 derment that the knight departed not, and in Isabel, 
 more undisguised solicitude to be rid of their guests. 
 Often Hugh felt inclined to unburthen his mind to her,
 
 THE JESUIT. 57 
 
 but was withheld by considerations of delicacy ; he saw 
 how reluctantly she seconded her father's secret hospi- 
 tality, yet how closely and shrewdly she had avoided 
 risk of betraying the presence of the concealed guest, 
 even to her cousin and her lover. 
 
 One morn, whilst Philip and his daughter were gone 
 to hear mass at a chapel beyond the limits of the chase, 
 frequented by the Romanists of the neighbourhood, who 
 preferred attending public service of their worship 
 rather than incur the odium of harbouring priests in 
 their houses and subjecting themselves to domiciliary 
 visits for the practices and designs of travelling Jesuits 
 were not unknown to Elizabeth's ministers one of 
 Hugh's selected forest-rangers came in great haste to 
 inform him that a stranger requested it to be notified 
 instantly to Master Heywood and no other party, that 
 he would do well and wisely to repair immediately, 
 with his men, to the copse which stretched between the 
 bridge-tower and the Romanist chapel, as a herd of 
 peasants and vagabonds, from a distant quarter, were 
 making terrible havoc with the deer. The description 
 of the stranger coincided so exactly with Hugh's im- 
 pression of the Jesuit's features and person, that our 
 youth, calling to mind the quarrel between knight and 
 priest, more than suspected- that jealousy had induced 
 the latter to penetrate and take means to frustrate his 
 rival's plans. The story of the deer-slaughtering was 
 certainly fabulous, as Master Heywood, with wonted 
 vigilance, had followed Isabel and her father at a dis- 
 tance through this very copse, and only returned when 
 he saw them safely in advance on the high-road, and in
 
 58 THE OPAJ,. 
 
 view of the chapel. What else could be the motive of 
 the fabrication ? If the Jesuit, as he averred, knew 
 every thing that was passing at Marston Hall, the 
 arming of Hugh's forest-rangers would not escape him ; 
 if the strange message to the youth had pointed to any 
 other quarter than the road to the chapel, he would have 
 good reason to suspect intention of sending him and his 
 men out of the way to leave room for outrage. But as 
 the case stood, it looked very like a subtle scheme of 
 the priest's to baffle a rival, without exposing his own 
 agency in the affair. 
 
 The result confirmed the suspicion. Heywood arrived 
 barely in time to rescue his cousin. The sole attendant, 
 an aged domestic of the Hall, was lying on the ground 
 defenceless, and Isabel herself was in the arms of a 
 powerful horseman, supported by three comrades as 
 well mounted. Not an instant to lose ! Hugh and his 
 rangers were on foot, but a bolt from the unerring 
 cross-bow brought the proud steed, with its double 
 burthen, prone on the dust. The villains, foiled of their 
 intent, stayed not for fight, but fled through the wood. 
 Isabel, bruised and disordered by the fall and fright, 
 could scarcely inform her rescuer that Philip, at the 
 instance of Sir Henry Stonor, stayed at the chapel to 
 confer with a neighbour, and that she, with her solitary 
 escort, started homeward. If other evidence were want- 
 ing of Sir Henry's guilt, Heywood had not far to seek 
 it. He recognised as belonging to the knight a rich 
 housing-cloth embroidered with the family-arms, on the 
 back of the expiring steed, and immediately possessed 
 himself of it.
 
 THE JESUIT. 59 
 
 When Isabel, supported by Hugh and his followers, 
 was led to the chapel, where her father, the knight and 
 several of the Catholic gentry were in conference for 
 they subjected themselves to strong suspicion by meet- 
 ing in any number at each other's houses, Sir Henry 
 gave way to the same rash anger and precipitate con- 
 duct which had before marked his conduct. Scarcely 
 permitting Hugh to complete a narration of the circum- 
 stances, in blind rage at being thwarted of his prize, 
 he denounced the story as a fabrication of the young 
 man to cover the theft and violent outrage he and his 
 rude gang had committed. Nor stopping here, he sum- 
 moned a headborough, and gave Hugh and the rangers 
 in custody on charge of felony, in spite of the remon- 
 strance of Philip Marston and the tears of his daughter. 
 It must be confessed Master Hugh and his assevera- 
 tions met with small courtesy from the Romanist neigh- 
 bours of Philip, who were rather pleased to witness the 
 disaster of one who had on many occasions, with the 
 recklessness of youth, derided attachment to the creed 
 of their forefathers. It was deemed an offence not 
 bailable before the headborough, as the stolen property 
 was found on the person of the accused, so our youth 
 and his men the former muttering threats of vengeance 
 were conveyed to jail. 
 
 In prison the indignant Master Heywood, losing pru- 
 dence in thirst of revenge, requested to have interview 
 with the sheriff, as he had matter of state importance to* 
 disclose. The rank of the prisoner caused the request 
 to be acceded to, although this officer resided many 
 miles distant from the place of confinement. Delay of
 
 60 THE OPAL. 
 
 a few hours, gave Hugh interval to deliver his dis- 
 closures in such guise as to convey the impression 
 that Isabel and her father were not implicated in har- 
 bouring the Jesuit, who owed his concealment to the 
 sole agency of Sir Henry Stonor. The sheriff deemed 
 the confession so important that he immediately de- 
 spatched Master Heywood, under proper escort, to Lon- 
 don, that he might repeat his tale before her Majesty, 
 and the privy-council. Two hours only after Hey wood's 
 departure, a message came from the knight expressing 
 regret at having made so serious a charge against one of 
 Master Heywood's condition, which subsequent circum- 
 stances proved was totally unfounded, and requesting 
 that the necessary legal forms might be speedily under- 
 gone to restore the accused to liberty. The sheriff so 
 far acted on this attestation as to release, under proper 
 security, the four rangers imprisoned at same time with 
 Hugh, and immediately went in quest of the county- 
 lieutenant. The consequence of this interview was the 
 issuing of a warrant for the apprehension of the knight, 
 whilst a pursuivant, with aid, was despatched to search 
 over Marston Hall and secure the Jesuit. Although 
 the sheriff had purposely concealed from Sir Henry's 
 knowledge the transmission of Heywood to London, 
 yet the knight was perhaps not wholly unprepared. 
 The faithful servant sleeping in the ante-room gave 
 timely alarm for the execution of the warrant was 
 purposely delayed till after nightfall, and his master, 
 escaping by the window, reached the stables and mount- 
 ing a ready-saddled horse, never rested till he was safe 
 on shipboard. Father Sabine, the Jesuit, it appeared,
 
 THE JESUIT. 61 
 
 never waited for either pursuivant, or sheriff; the in- 
 considerate arrest of Hugh Heywood was sufficient to 
 alarm the wily Jesuit, and he fled, leaving behind in the 
 "priest's chamber" books, wardrobe and, (unintention- 
 ally,) papers which exposed the designs of his order, 
 and their kingly and tiara'd employers. 
 
 Before the acute council of Elizabeth, Master Hey- 
 wood, to his grief, found he could not persevere in the 
 exculpation of Philip Marston, nor even effectually 
 screen Isabel ; but the Queen, who attended the exami- 
 nations, felt for the youth, and interposing her authority, 
 declared that for his sake, free pardon should be ex- 
 tended to both father and daughter. . 
 
 Many of the circumstances attending the Jesuit's dis- 
 covery and flight, we need not chronicle, being foreign 
 to our purpose, but it was proved that the exile, Sir 
 Edward Marston, had sanctioned the use made of Mar- 
 ston Hall, more particularly in the appropriation of the 
 " priest's chamber," a parallel to which may be fur- 
 nished in many an old English mansion. As punish- 
 ment of his treason and he was but too glad to escape 
 at the cost he executed a long and advantageous lease of 
 the Hall and adjoining domain, in favour of Master Hugh, 
 who shortly married the fair papist, Isabel. The cove- 
 nants of the lease proved a lucrative remuneration to 
 Heywood ; and the mode was specially pleasing to the 
 Queen, as her gratitude was displayed without loss to 
 her exchequer. The results of her Majesty's reign, 
 and the permanent triumph of the Reformation, may be 
 pursued with pleasure and improvement by every reader 
 of history. 
 
 6
 
 THE DREAM OF THE CONSUMPTIVE. 
 
 BY MRS. S. J. HALE. 
 
 " THEY tell me spring is coming, 
 
 That buds begin to swell ; 
 They bid me trust the warm bright days 
 
 Will cheer and make me well ; 
 I smile and answer playfully, 
 
 I would not crush their hope, 
 But I feel the serpent at my heart 
 
 Which drinks its life-stream up. 
 
 " I heard a bird this morning, 
 
 Its song so blithe and wild, 
 It lulled me in the sweetest dream, 
 
 I was again a child ; 
 I bounded o'er the hill-side, 
 
 Like swallow on the air, 
 While earth seemed bright with new-wrought light 
 
 From beauty every where. 
 
 " The trees, like incense bearers, 
 
 Showered blossoms on my head, 
 And flowers, as sweet as angel's smiles, 
 
 Bloomed up on every tread ; 
 The little webs that veiled the grass, 
 
 Were gemm'd with diamond dew, 
 And o'er each rough unsightly thing 
 
 Green life its lustre threw.
 
 DREAM OF THE CONSUMPTIVE. 63 
 
 " Like childhood in its gambols, 
 
 The merry mountain stream 
 Came singing on I heard my name, 
 
 And started from my dream ! 
 Oh ! 'twas as though night's pall should sweep 
 
 Athwart the morning sky ; 
 As though heaven's crystal gates should close 
 
 Before hope's lifted eye ! 
 
 " And yet, why should I sorrow ? 
 
 Though life seems glad and fair, 
 The brightest rose that blooms on earth 
 
 Conceals some thorns of care ; 
 My foot hath only stirred the flowers, 
 
 But after years might show 
 A gloomy path and baffled hopes, 
 
 And pain, and sin, and woe. 
 
 " My dream was kindly given 
 
 The spirit's parting sign, 
 One glimpse of earth in beauty bright, 
 
 Ere breaks the morn divine. 
 Ah ! see the skies are parting now, 
 
 A holier light is shed 
 I come, I come!" and that fair girl 
 
 Was gathered to the dead !
 
 RELIGIOUS BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 BY W. A. JONES. 
 
 WE believe Dr. Johnson was the first critic to complain 
 of the penury of English biography. It was a com- 
 plaint that savoured more of hastiness and ignorance 
 than the Doctor's contemporary admirers would have 
 been willing to allow any reviewer to discover in him, 
 but still it was such ; and now that every pretender to 
 criticism makes it a point to beard the rough but manly 
 old dogmatist, we may allow ourselves the privilege of 
 picking an additional flaw in his critical reputation 
 (almost worn out by repeated attacks). It is certain, for 
 his undoubted vigour and ability, no writer of eminence 
 ever made so many and such gross critical blunders, as 
 Doctor Johnson. On real life and domestic morals ; 
 the character and manners of the Londoners ; the 
 hypocrisies of men of the world ; the thin-skinned sen- 
 timentalities of pretenders to sentiment and criticism, he 
 exhibited an acuteness of observation, a comprehensive- 
 ness of judgment, and pungency of satire, that have 
 never been surpassed. But in the field of literary 
 criticism, requiring finer tact and a nicer perception, the 
 grossness of his senses, no less than the obtuseness of his
 
 RELIGIOUS BIOGRAPHY. 65 
 
 taste, rendered him unfit, physically and intellectually, 
 to judge of poets and men of fancy. 
 
 In the rich territory of old English literature, there 
 is not, perhaps, a more fruitful province than that of 
 biography, not only in the classic form of lives, but 
 also memoirs, diaries and autobiography. It is true 
 the lives most generally read at present, were written 
 either during the lifetime or since the death of Johnson ; 
 as in the former period the classic lives of Goldsmith 
 and Johnson, and the memoirs of Cumberland, and from 
 that period to the present day, among heaps of wretched 
 compilations, we must distinguish the first book of the 
 kind in the world, Boswell's Johnson, the learned auto- 
 biography of Gibbon, the simple yet fascinating lives of 
 Hume and Franklin, honest self-painters ; the classic 
 compendiums of Southey, the lives of Burns by Currie 
 and Lockhart, and the minor sketches of Irving. The 
 latest permanent work of this class, is the Memoirs of 
 Leigh Hunt. And yet by far the richest treasures of 
 English biography are to be found among the antiqua- 
 rian volumes of the old English library. The best of 
 these form a choice list ; classic to this day. There are 
 the lives by Burnet, of Hale and Rochester ; the austere, 
 incorruptible judge and pure citizen, and the lively, vola- 
 tile wit and libertine subsiding into a sober, earnest 
 Christian. Walton's lives are too well known to dilate 
 upon the heroes of them at present, yet what a noble 
 company of poets, divines and Christian gentlemen form 
 the subjects of his volumes ; Hooker, and Wotton, and 
 Donne, and Herbert, and Sanderson. Zouch's life of 
 Walton himself is fit to be included as the humble com- 
 6*
 
 66 THE OPAL. 
 
 panion of these. Then we have North's life of Lord 
 Guilford, full of lively personal strokes and characters 
 of the great lawyers of the time of Charles II. and 
 James II. Fenton's lives of Milton and Waller Fell's 
 Hammond, the Fenelon of the royalist divines, and 
 favourite chaplain of Charles I., sharing his imprison- 
 ment and dangers. Among the latest of the older lives, 
 Doddridge's Life of Colonel Gardiner, of which we shall 
 say more before we conclude. 
 
 Of autobiographies, two are celebrated, Lord Her- 
 bert's (the first in English) and Clarendon's, an appendix, 
 as it were, of his great history. Others, less known, but 
 extremely useful to the historian, as Laud's, Patrick's, 
 Ellwood's, the Quaker friend of Milton, &c. 
 
 The French have the reputation of being the best 
 memoir writers in the world, yet their most courtly wits 
 have not surpassed Grammont, (himself a Frenchman,) 
 in his pictures of the royal licentiousness of the age of 
 Charles II., and, on the spot, Pepys and Evelyn. The 
 memoirs of Colonel Hutchinson by his wife, and of 
 Venetia Digby, the beauty of her day, and the popular 
 toast, despite her doubtful reputation, by the quaint 
 fantast Sir Kenelm Digby, are at least a fair match for 
 Bassompierre and Rochefoucauld. And then, as reposi- 
 tories of facts and personal circumstances nowhere else 
 to be learned, we have the elaborate histories of Wood 
 and Fuller, Spence's and Aubrey's anecdotes, and the 
 letter writers, from old Howell himself to Pope and his 
 friends. If such a list looks like " penury," we should 
 like to learn the comparative scale by which " wealth" 
 is to be adjudged.
 
 EELIGIOU8 BIOGRAPHY. 67 
 
 A fair proportion of the old lives are those of good 
 Christians without pretence, and fine scholars without 
 presumption. Most of them, too, have an additional 
 value as models for conduct : Rochester and Gardiner 
 being the sole instances of " men that need repentance," 
 and they both converted in the heyday of the vicious 
 career in which they were embarked. 
 
 So much by way of preface a long introduction to a 
 brief article. We have selected this topic to point out the 
 prevalent defects, in almost every work of the kind ; 
 defects, too, springing from the best of motives, and 
 more easily discovered than corrected. In the best of 
 the old lives we find this ever-recurring defect : a desire 
 to paint in the hero of biography a perfect man ; a ten- 
 dency to exaggerate individual and particular merits, by 
 the force of contrast with inferior traits in much inferior 
 characters. The writers of lives, in all times, have been 
 too sparing of the shade in their portraits. A -profusion 
 of light falling upon the admirable virtues, allows no 
 room for the exhibition of defects. Every trait is 
 heightened ; every characteristic marked with an em- 
 phasis, seldom found in nature. The subjects of bio- 
 graphy, like the heroes of novels, are too often, 
 
 " Faultless monsters whom the world ne'er saw." 
 
 This disgusts the thoughtful reader, whether young 
 or old ; for the youthful student soon finds these pictures 
 disproved in real life, and the sage knows their unreality 
 while he is perusing the page. In the older lives, in all 
 of those to which we have referred, a saving clause may
 
 68 THE OPAL. 
 
 be inserted, that the subjects of the writers were all of 
 them men of that eminence that either extravagant praise 
 or excessive censure soon corrected itself. For one would 
 report differently of their lives and actions from another, 
 and hence a balance might easily be struck between 
 them. And besides, in extenuation, we may offer the 
 best apology for the biographer, that his hero was often 
 a character so fascinating, viewed as a whole, that it 
 was very excusable to overlook minor errors and petty 
 defects. All of Walton's characters, for instance, inevi- 
 tably seduce a writer into encomium, when he should be 
 writing impartially ; and it is pleasanter, as well as 
 easier, to pen an eulogy rather than a life. This was 
 the fault that Johnson accuses Sprat of falling into,* 
 and a fault more glaring in Mrs. Hutchinson's book than 
 in most of the old lives, and less justifiable, since she 
 wrote the history of her time, as well as the life of her 
 husband. 
 
 Doddridge's Life of Colonel Gardiner is a singular 
 specimen of this class of books, of an inferior literary 
 value, compared with the rest, but still excellent. As 
 an example of its class, we will give the reader a sum- 
 mary digest of its contents. The author, a nonconformist 
 divine of considerable reputation, became in the career 
 of his ministry professionally acquainted and intimately 
 connected with the subject of his narrative, who was a 
 royalist officer, a colonel of dragoons. Gardiner re- 
 vealed to him from time to time the most eventful pas- 
 sages of his life, over which hung, in his devout imagi- 
 
 * Life of Cowley.
 
 RELIGIOUS BIOGRAPHY. 69 
 
 nation, a mystical halo, radiant with celestial beauty. 
 He was born at a remarkable period, 1688, the year of 
 the English Revolution, and expired, at a no less stirring 
 time, on the battle field at Preston Pans, when the parti- 
 sans of the house of Stuart " were out" for the second 
 time, in '45. 
 
 This distinguished officer and Christian was the son of 
 an officer of good family, who fought the battles of his 
 country on the continent, during the reigns of William 
 III. and of Anne, after him, and in which Marlborough 
 was the presiding military genius of Great Britain. A 
 military school, with Marlborough and Eugene at its 
 head, could not fail of turning out able commanders ; 
 and of these Gardiner was one of the chief. Brave, to 
 a daring rashness, he had all the splendid qualities, and 
 but too many of the striking vices, of the soldier. Like 
 the majority of celebrated men, who have evinced in 
 later life the influence of early education, Gardiner was 
 fortunate in having a most estimable mother, to whose 
 guidance and example he was wont to attribute the 
 uncorrupted parts of his character and temper. Yet ill 
 company, and that of a military cast, was allowed at 
 one period to master the original good qualities of his 
 nature, and taint the purity of his soul with the tarnish 
 of vice. He early fell into gross living, swore dread- 
 fully, cherished a malignant spirit of revenge (be- 
 fore the age of twenty -one he had fought tJiree duels,) 
 and exhibited even a ferocity, that became sobered down 
 into manly valour and Christian resolution ; so much 
 so, that in middle life he used to say, " I fear sinning 
 more than fighting !" In every engagement he gained
 
 70 THE OPAL. 
 
 applause for skill, no less than courage, since he scien- 
 tifically practised his profession. 
 
 Though often remonstrated with, and even sometimes 
 alarming by his horrid imprecations the better portion of 
 his comrades, he still went on in his evil ways, until 
 the occurrence of what he speaks of as a vision from 
 heaven, and would have regarded as a miracle. To fill 
 up the interval, it seems, one morning, previous to the 
 hour appointed for meeting certain of his associates at a 
 dinner party, he took up one of the religious works with 
 a quaint title, published at the era of the Protectorate, 
 when the Puritans were in fashion and in power. He 
 read to ridicule, but was suddenly overpowered by a 
 conviction, awfully indescribable, of his wickedness, 
 which threw him into a sort of vision or trance, during 
 which he imagined, as we construe the declaration, that 
 he saw a living representation of his crucified Master, 
 and heard the divine voice, in tones of entreaty and to 
 this purport, Have I not suffered this for thee? The 
 dream, the fancied vision, or what you will call it, struck 
 him with profound dismay, and awakened his soul to 
 the consideration of its state. 
 
 From this period he was another man : strictly 
 pious, regular in every habit, loving solitude and reli- 
 gious conversation and prayer. He became a dis- 
 ciplinarian of the noblest sort, the moral teacher as well 
 as commander of his men. He now was used to re- 
 count the wonderful providences, (so he termed them,) of 
 his life, of his extraordinary escapes, of being wounded 
 in the mouth just after uttering a horrid oath, a punish- 
 ment closely consequent on his offence : of striking per-
 
 RELIGIOUS BIOGRAPHY. 71 
 
 sonal deliverance from imminent dangers. A good man 
 and true Christian hero, after Steele's model, a saint 
 militant, he yet was not without a besetting defect and 
 that was the excitability of his religious imagination. 
 He dreamed a dream of following across the part of a 
 field his Lord and Saviour : he made a prediction of the 
 death of the king, which turned out correct. Every 
 thing with him was miraculous, and a little heightened 
 by (unconscious) extravagance. No doubt he was sin- 
 cere : the only question is, if he was not a self-deceiver. 
 A sudden conversion, an opportune deliverance, is suffi- 
 cient to turn the head of the wisest man. We think 
 that like Donne's extraordinary vision of his wife and 
 dead child, his vision was the waking dream of an 
 imaginative mind. 
 
 Whether imagination or reality presided on these 
 occasions, still he remained consistent and firm : unlike 
 Volney and those cowardly blasphemers, who take 
 back in a moment of security what they uttered in the 
 hour of danger. Even these circumstances remained 
 before him, a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, 
 to guide his faltering steps. A lofty confidence elevated 
 the hopes and daily walk of the happy man, who con- 
 sidered himself blessed in beholding the countenance of 
 his Saviour and friend. 
 
 With the mass, the love for the miraculous, for 
 prophecy, for mysteries, is more a false taste, a mere 
 religious stimulant, and not the healthy action of a 
 vigorous soul. But it was not so with him. 
 
 Gardiner died the death of a soldier and a Christian, 
 on the field of battle, and in the arms of victory, an
 
 72 THE OPAL. 
 
 officer of the generous strain of Gustavus Adolphus, 
 and like that lion of the North, high-toned, exact, 
 judicious, and sincere, he fought the good fight of faith, 
 and left behind him a sweet remembrance in the hearts 
 of all, as a brave and accomplished officer, a steadfast 
 Christian, a good man, and a courteous gentleman 
 Requiescat in pace. 
 
 To return to the general subject : for modern religious 
 biography, we entertain no great favour. The writers of 
 it are in most cases ill-fitted for their task, and indeed 
 quite unpractised in composition. Southey's Wesley (a 
 philosophical history of Methodism) and Heber's life of 
 Taylor are the only two classic works in this depart- 
 ment, of the nineteenth century, we can, at present, re- 
 call. The lives of most missionaries are more interest- 
 ing for the statistical information they contain than 
 aught else. Missionaries should be good travel writers, 
 yet we find only a single Borrow among them. The 
 subjects of religious biography are in most cases good 
 enough people, but quite unworthy of being embalmed 
 for the admiration of posterity. The embalming is 
 thrown away, for they never reach posterity. An emi- 
 nently great and good man, an exemplar of faith and 
 charity, should never be allowed to pass out of the 
 memories of men, cannot be forgotten ; he will live in 
 tradition, if not in printed books. But many good, 
 humble Christians die daily, whom it is by no means 
 essential to write the lives of; whom it rather hurts the 
 interests of religion, and certainly of literature, (con- 
 sidered purely as such) to make unduly prominent. 
 The facts of their lives are few ; they have done little
 
 RELIGIOUS BIOGRAPHY. 73 
 
 to affect the rest of mankind ; their greatest victories 
 (silent and obscure) have been over themselves, (the 
 noblest of victories,) and their profoundest discoveries 
 have been of the wickedness of their own hearts. These 
 facts, to the individual of all others the most important, 
 still have little interest for the world at large. The 
 story of the Christian's life is told in two words, Re- 
 pentance and Love. Now, unless striking instances 
 occur, or curious details are presented, a religious life, 
 of all others, presents very little to interest even the 
 most sympathizing (intelligent) reader. 
 
 The injury done to literature by a flood of religious 
 lives is clear : standard works of the highest character 
 are neglected for a new biography of the least value ; 
 corruptions of style become frequent, and essentially 
 impair the idiomatic graces of our tongue. Inferior 
 models of excellence are held up, to the exclusion of 
 the most excellent ; cant is prevalent ; at first uncon- 
 scious, it becomes at last confirmed and hypocritical. 
 
 Let no serious reader think we underrate the humblest 
 virtues of the patient Christian. We reverence piety in 
 the garb of the beggar ; we believe it to add a crowning 
 glory to the wisest head. Yet we protest against an in- 
 discriminate record of the private lives of Christians, 
 who have not some other claim on the universal atten- 
 tion of mankind. Want of literature is not, however, 
 the only want of many, both of the subjects and authors, 
 of religious lives ; many have wanted real humility, 
 many have in a secret self-praise elevated themselves 
 above the rest of mankind, and thought a publication of 
 their conversion and religious experience, necessary for 
 7
 
 74 THE OPAL. 
 
 the salvation of the world. With such we can pretend 
 to have no patience, since we believe they are self- 
 deluded after all, and rather to be pitied than admired. 
 
 The sincere Christian need not fear oblivion. Un- 
 known to men, he is not forgotten by his heavenly 
 Father ; and if his life is not told in the perishable 
 books of human authors, his name is nevertheless 
 registered in the Book of Life. 
 
 TO A REVEREND FRIEND, 
 
 DEPARTING FOK MARYLAND. 
 
 B V CORNELIUS MATHEW8. 
 
 FLY to the south, on smooth and gliding wing 
 Fealtied to Washington and Ravenscroft 
 
 By firmer ties than bondman, lord, or king 
 In fearless talons bearing high aloft 
 
 Shafts plucked in many fields of bearded truth ; 
 
 But sailing onward, feel with noble ruth 
 
 And kindliest hope, how sad a realm may lie 
 Beneath a heavenward and a human eye. 
 
 VVhat though the black shot of the fowler ring, 
 Shattering the cold and hollow air around thee ! 
 And though the world's vain noise would fain confound thee, 
 
 Calm be thy flight ! Let gentlest motions bring 
 Thy sacred feet, my Earliest Friend, to rest 
 In lands that wait thy coming to be blest !
 
 PRAYER AND PRAISE. 
 
 BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 
 
 " While I live will I praise the Lord. I will sing praises unto my 
 God while I have any being." 
 " Let my prayer be set forth before thee as incense." 
 
 PSALMS, cxlvi. 2 ; cxli. 2. 
 
 1. 
 
 LET us pray ! the shadowy night 
 Melts before the coming light, 
 And the stars, with dimmer ray, 
 Twinkle in the kindling day, 
 Till of all their lustre shorn, 
 In the full and perfect morn. 
 From the pestilence, whose breath 
 Freights the midnight air with death, 
 From the prowling robber's hand, 
 From the incendiary's brand, 
 From disease and every ill, 
 God hath kindly kept us still. 
 
 n. 
 
 Praise to him whose goodness kept 
 Watch around us while we slept 
 Be his worthy name adored 
 For the light around us poured, 
 While exulteth in its beams 
 Earth with ail her hills and streams ;
 
 76 THE OPAL. 
 
 For those common blessings given 
 Duly with the light of heaven ; 
 For to guide us on our way 
 Grace sufficient to our day, 
 And for hearts with love imbued, 
 Burning with their gratitude. 
 
 in. 
 
 Let us pray ! each flow'ret's cup 
 Sendeth sweetest incense up ; 
 And with prayer the dewy grass 
 Trembles as the breezes pass ; 
 Every bird whose glittering wings 
 Fan the air, exulting sings 
 Songs of praise to him who sent 
 Light to gild the firmament ! 
 And the wreathing vapours dank, 
 Rising from the river's bank, 
 Upward from the valleys move, 
 Catch the light and glow with love ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 While this worship goeth on, 
 Shall the human heart alone 
 Prayer restrain and praise deny 
 To the Lord of earth and sky ? 
 Never ! let our souls proclaim, 
 " Worthy is Immanuel's name !" 
 Let our loud thanksgivings ring 
 Up to heaven's eternal King ! 
 Praise, for blessings numberless, 
 Prayer, to him who loves to bless 
 Ever shall his goodness dwell 
 With his chosen Israel !
 
 PRAYER AND PRAISE. 77 
 
 V. 
 
 Let us pray ! from cloudless sky 
 Looks the sun with burning eye, 
 Noon is over earth the flowers 
 Drooping, wait reviving showers 
 And the flocks, to shun the heat, 
 Seek the forest's cool retreat. 
 Gathered round our ample board, 
 Let us praise the sovereign Lord, 
 And to him our prayers uplift, 
 Giver of each perfect gift, 
 That his love be round us ever, 
 That his spirit leave us never. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Trials will our way beset, 
 
 And temptations must be met 
 
 Unto thee, oh God ! alone 
 
 Is the hidden future known ; 
 
 But, whatever it may bring 
 
 Us, of joy or suffering, 
 
 Only let thy spirit dwell 
 
 In our hearts, and all is well ! 
 
 Only let thy grace sustain, 
 
 Earth shall tempt our souls in vain, 
 
 With its wealth or joys, to stray 
 
 From the true and living way ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Let us pray ! the sun hath set 
 Though his radiance lingers yet, 
 And along the coming night, 
 Throws a dim and doubtful light, 
 
 7*
 
 78 THE OPAL. 
 
 In the east, together rolled, 
 Clouds of mingled rose and gold 
 Fling a rich and softened dye 
 Over half the bending sky, 
 While a solitary star 
 Glimmers in the west afar, 
 Like the eye of serapli pure, 
 Beaming from the " clear obscure !" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Let us to Jehovah pay 
 Praises with the dying day, 
 For the love that girt us round, 
 For the mercies that have crowned, 
 For that all-sustaining hope 
 That hath borne our spirits up, 
 Whether clouds their shadows vast 
 Darkly o'er our pathway cast, 
 Or our way was rendered bright 
 By the sun's pervading light ; 
 Prayers shall rise and praise be poured 
 To the beneficient Lord ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Let us pray ! from cloud and sky 
 Faded is the roseate dye 
 Shadow all the valleys fills, 
 Night is settling on the hills, 
 Stars in glittering troops appear, 
 Watchers o'er this lower sphere, 
 Broods upon the sluggish air 
 Silence with its solemn prayer
 
 PRAYER AND PRAISE. 79 
 
 Now in sleep his eyelids close, 
 As the labourer seeks repose ; 
 No dark memories haunt his breast, 
 So his slumbers shall be blest ! 
 
 x. 
 
 Pray ! for over life at last 
 Shall the night of death be cast, 
 And around the waiting tomb 
 Gather more than midnight gloom, 
 Unless He, the strong to save, 
 Crowned Victor o'er the grave, 
 Guide and guard the trembling soul, 
 As the billows round it roll ! 
 Oh, with watching and with prayer, 
 Let us for that hour prepare, 
 So for us shall be the rest 
 Of the sanctified and blest !
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER ; 
 
 OR, THE FLOWER GIRL OF ANTIOCII. 
 
 BY MRS. SEBA SMITH. 
 
 IT was the early twilight, the stars were scarcely 
 paled in the warm sky of June, and the mist that 
 all night lay heavily upon the waters of the Orontes 
 was sailing in deep folds over the distant hills, occasion- 
 ally broken by a ray of warmer light, indicating the 
 joyous coming up of the god of day, to disperse the 
 shadow and awaken all things to life and love. The 
 outer walls of Antioch were as yet unclosed, and groups 
 from the country were beginning to collect about the 
 gates, while the by-paths and great thoroughfares to 
 the city exhibited a gala view of peasants, strangers, 
 and wealthy dwellers from the surrounding districts, 
 thronging to the city to enjoy the gayeties of a celebra- 
 tion, in which all might join with freedom and pleasure. 
 It was the festival of Hestia, and the simplest denizen of 
 the wilderness, the rudest boor as well as the more 
 deeply versed in the mysteries of religious worship, 
 might equally join in adoration of a deity so readily 
 comprehended the benign protector of the domestic 
 hearth. Every where were the flowers of that flower- 

 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 81 
 
 loving dime wreathed in wild profusion. The rude 
 stone indicating the pathway of the traveller, and the 
 old landmarks defining the limits of property, were 
 bound with garlands ; and the sober camel, the fiery 
 steed, and even the tower-like elephant, equally with the 
 diminutive ass, thronged the highway to the city, in all 
 the panoply of gold and silver trappings, with the tin- 
 kling of bells and the melody of pipes, each festooned 
 in garlands, and bearing cakes and fruits, a free-will 
 offering, to be dispensed amid the multitude of wor- 
 shippers. Far as the eye could reach, where wound 
 the sparkling waters amid the hills, might be seen boats 
 of every description, their gay pennons flashing in the 
 gathering light, and oar and mast radiant with garlands, 
 while the hills awoke their thousand echoes responsive 
 to the melody of horn, or the sweeter music ringing 
 from glad voices and glad hearts. Troops of maidens, 
 bearing vases of rare flowers to decorate the shrines of 
 the goddess, filled the air with their harmonious voices 
 as they sang in concert. 
 
 We must separate one group from the many that 
 approached the city, as being more intimately connected 
 with our story. On a slight eminence is standing an 
 ancient man, whose stern simplicity of dress, and tran- 
 quil, even saddened cast of countenance, at once distin- 
 guished him from the festive multitude. As he looked 
 down upon the city, with the dense population just 
 thronging into its many avenues, his head was unco- 
 vered, and the light breath of morning lifted the thin 
 white hairs from his temples, and parted the long locks 
 that depended from his chin. At first his eye had wan-
 
 83 THE OPAL. 
 
 
 
 dered off in sweet communion with the beautiful scene 
 that lay spread out before him, and a holy rapture had 
 filled his bosom ; then, as it fell upon the multitude below, 
 his countenance assumed an expression of mournful 
 interest : no severity was there, but sympathy blended 
 with compassion. 
 
 It was Ignatius, the patriarch of Antioch, he whom 
 the holy Nazarene had blessed, who had looked upon 
 the pale face of the stricken Mary, and sat even at the 
 feet of the beloved disciple. Uncompromising in his 
 own martyr-like regard for truth, he had imbibed a 
 portion of the gentleness of him who leaned on Jesus' 
 bosom, and felt that these even in their delusion igno- 
 rantly worshipped the true and the good. Hitherto he 
 had stood with hands carelessly pressed upon the head 
 of his staff, but now he spread them out, embracing all 
 in one fervent benediction. When he again resumed his 
 position, his eye rested upon a child of singular beauty, 
 who looked up into his face with a child's expression of 
 wonder and pity. Instantly, however, as her eye met 
 his. she looked down, and began to disengage a garland 
 from those that hung upon her arm ; she held it up for 
 his acceptance, her face full of smiles and the confiding 
 sweetness of childhood. Ignatius pressed his lips upon 
 the brow of the fair child, and his hand rested a moment 
 upon her head. She looked at the plain sandal, the 
 simple robe and girdle, for she knew something of the 
 sect they indicated, yet she ventured to say, 
 
 " Will you not hang this upon the altar of the 
 goddess ?" 
 
 Before the Christian could reply, the wreath was lifted
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 83 
 
 high above their heads, where it vibrated a moment, and 
 then streamed forth upon the air. The child looked up 
 and clapped her hands with merriment, for an elephant 
 of the largest size had seized it in his trunk, and held it 
 aloft, while his eyes shone with a singular expression of 
 intelligence and pleasure. 
 
 " Give it to me, Porous !" she cried, striking his rough 
 sides with affected anger. The .elephant described a 
 circle in the air, and then gently laid it upon her 
 shoulder , the next moment he had encircled her with 
 his trunk, and raised her to a level with his forehead. 
 
 " You shall be crowned, Porous, you shall be 
 crowned !" cried the child, swinging the flowers over 
 his neck, and hanging them on the huge tusks of the 
 animal, all the time shaking her curls while her sweet 
 voice rang with merriment. When all were disposed of 
 in this way, she pillowed her arm upon the brow of the 
 animal amid the blossoms, and playfully laid down her 
 head and closed her eyes as if for sleep, the dimples 
 changing like wavelets about her mouth, and at every 
 moment her bright eyes flashing in the light. It was a 
 beautiful picture, that sunny-haired child sustained by 
 the huge creature, who moved his pillared limbs from 
 side to side, and waved his fan-like ears as if instinct 
 with delight. Then, as the crowd pressed nearer the 
 city, the animal moved onward with his sweet charge. 
 
 Porous was an old elephant, nearly white, of enor- 
 mous strength, belonging to a wealthy citizen of Antioch, 
 whose son he had saved from a death which was 
 threatened him by some outbreak of popular fury in
 
 84 THE OPAL. 
 
 consequence of his irregularities the elephant, ex- 
 travagantly attached to the youth, having borne him 
 aloft amid the crowd, and thus preserved his life. In- 
 deed, Porous seems to have been superhuman in his 
 attachments, and to have found a pleasure in bestowing 
 his awkward caresses upon some human pet, greater it 
 may be supposed than he could have derived from one 
 of his own species ; for his ear was exquisitely alive to 
 the sound of music, and the kindly tones of the human 
 voice seemed to afford him the greatest delight. Often 
 in passing by a group of children he would be seen to 
 iStop, vibrate his trunk, and watch their sports with evi- 
 dent pleasure ; he would even share in them, bringing 
 the instruments of the game in his trunk, and often 
 swinging the children one after another in the air. 
 
 After the service he had rendered his master, little 
 had been exacted from him. He was allowed to go at 
 will through the city, where he was every where re- 
 garded as a favourite. 
 
 Now when he was seen bearing along the beautiful 
 child, a way was made for him by the pleased multitude, 
 many indeed supposing the child, embedded as she was 
 in flowers, as one destined for the service of the goddess. 
 But Nerissa was a bond-maiden, and though gentle and 
 beautiful, might not aspire to such high honour. True, 
 gentle service only was hers, and as yet the yoke had 
 been unfelt ; no sorrow had been hers, except when 
 her pale and gentle mother died, in sorrow for the 
 home from which she had been torn, a captive and an 
 exile ; but tears may not linger upon the cheek of child-
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 85 
 
 hood, smiles will chase them away, and gladness will 
 make it forget to mourn. 
 
 Who in looking upon the clear brow, the dark radiant 
 eyes, and wreathed smiles of the young maiden, could 
 have read there woman's destiny of tears and heart- 
 dwelling grief, that earth cannot yield aught to fill up 
 the measure of her own deep love, her own truthful and 
 undying affections ! 
 
 Nerissa was accustomed to go daily through the 
 wealthier portions of the city with baskets of flowers 
 elegantly arranged, and each telling some tale of ten- 
 derness, some language of sentiment, which lovers were 
 wont to purchase to present to the object of their attach- 
 ment ; and in this way the girl had become the confidant 
 of many a tale of love and many a passage revealing 
 its waywardness, its caprice, or estrangement. Alas, 
 simple child ! often did she look in amazement upon 
 sweet faces, that could wantonly pain those acknow- 
 ledged dear to the heart, and behold noble and manly 
 bosoms torn with agony at the fickleness of those for 
 whom they would have perilled life itself. But Nerissa 
 had a light heart, and though her brow became clouded 
 for a moment at sights like these, the next her gayest 
 smile played about her lips, and the song of the hand- 
 some flower girl of Antioch called many a patron to the 
 lattice. 
 
 For many weeks of late the elephant Porous had 
 been observed to follow leisurely in the wake of the 
 girl, stopping whenever she paused, and when quite 
 alone thrusting his trunk over her shoulder, to claim a 
 caress, or to be playfully decorated with flowers. When 
 8
 
 86 THE OPAL. 
 
 indulged in this way, he would move with renewed plea- 
 sure, and appear intent upon observing the sweet girl. 
 Indeed Nerissa often talked with the creature uncon- 
 sciously, and often was she astonished at his quickness 
 of perception. 
 
 For instance, once in disposing of her flowers, a free 
 youth had attempted some liberties, which Nerissa re- 
 sented with all the intensity of her own fiery clime, and 
 when she murmured reproachfully, " Why, Porous, didst 
 thou not strike down the foolish coxcomb ?" the eyes of 
 the elephant kindled with intelligence, and he moved 
 along nearer in her footsteps. A few days after the 
 youth again crossed their path, when he rushed forward, 
 seized him in his trunk, hurling him aloft, and would 
 have dashed him upon the ground, but for the entreaties 
 of Nerissa. The story became known, and Porous 
 grew to be regarded as the protector of the flower girl. 
 
 A child, treading rapidly upon the footsteps of woman- 
 hood, she had still all the playfulness of the one, while 
 the intensity of the other was fast gathering about her 
 heart. Her smile was that of a child, while the quick 
 blush revealed the approach of the woman. Even now 
 a new tenderness breathed in the tones of her musical 
 voice, and the ringing laugh was softened to a low sweet 
 melody. Could it be that love had visited her young 
 heart, or was it but the stirring of its wings, as yet 
 wavering and objectless? Nerissa asked not. She 
 blushed and smiled and sang her songs, repelling with 
 coquettish frowns the admiring eyes with which the 
 youth of Antioch began to regard her. 
 
 Nerissa had knelt at the shrine of the goddess, and
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 87 
 
 joined with other maidens in procession and chant, and 
 now as the day declined she was on her return to the 
 suburbs, her bulky friend still in attendance. Ignatius 
 likewise was returning from his ministry, where he had 
 confirmed the faith of the wavering, comforted the 
 mourner, and preached that purer doctrine which is to 
 sanctify the heart of the believer. Now as the day 
 declined he too was on his return to his humble lodge 
 on the verge of the wilderness. Nerissa looked timidly 
 up at the venerable man as she encountered him at the 
 gate, and walked silently by his side, for his tranquil 
 aspect and benign smile won her confidence. For a 
 while the way led amid groves of citron, the myrtle, 
 and the rose, but now, as the path wound amid the hills, 
 trees and shrubs of hardier growth filled the earth. The 
 voices of the multitude died away, and the warm tints 
 of sunset began to soften into gloom. They had climbed 
 the bed of a torrent nearly dry, whose white pebbles 
 gleamed amid vines and blossoms, and now stood upon 
 a shelf of rock, above which towered a lofty sycamore : 
 the tinkling plash of the waters just reached the ear 
 from beneath, and in the distance gleamed the white 
 walls, the temples, and princely dwellings of Antioch. 
 
 Nerissa, tranquillized by the hour, had listened to the 
 grave discourse of the patriarch, as yet but partially 
 understood, but the import was hopeful, and strangely 
 in harmony with that deep yearning for something 
 brighter and purer felt in her own heart, and she listened 
 with the docility of her child nature. Ignatius knelt 
 beneath the shadow of the still skies, and uttered a 
 fervent prayer to the Invisible. How could she compre-
 
 88 THE OPAL. 
 
 hend those lofty abstractions, that love embracing all, 
 and strangely too invoking blessings and peace for the 
 injurer ? 
 
 Nerissa turned aside to her dwelling, and Ignatius 
 ascended the mountain to his solitary cave. 
 
 Weeks and months passed away, and often did the 
 Eastern maiden sit at the feet of the patriarch, gathering 
 wisdom from his lips. As yet she listened, unaware 
 that she imbibed truths of vital import ; that imperceptibly 
 the mummeries of her own faith ceased to content her ; 
 that she learned their gods were but the impersonation of 
 the loftier qualities of manhood, still debased by his 
 errors and passions ; and that unknowingly she sought 
 communion with the majesty of the Eternal, the Ancient 
 of Days, the Searcher of Hearts, the Author of the 
 Spirit. These doctrines awakened no tumult, no wild 
 frenzy ; they sank silently into her heart, and dwelt amid 
 her thoughts almost unperceived. She was the same 
 gay maiden, and though her air might have acquired a 
 something more of majesty, it was simply the result of 
 latent truth, and she sang, and smiled, and wreathed 
 bouquets to the same language of sentiment, and passed 
 through the city in her maidenhood of beauty unmo- 
 lested. 
 
 Porous too, her strange companion, gradually forsook 
 - all others to follow in the footsteps of the flower girl, 
 whose every word and motion he seemed to comprehend. 
 Sometimes Nerissa would direct him to remain in the 
 suburbs or by-streets awaiting her return, an order he 
 never failed to obey, although it evidently cost him an 
 effort. At such times he became restless and petulant,
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 89 
 
 driving the children from his path, and moving perpetu- 
 ally in short impatient steps. On her approach he would 
 weave his trunk about her, and then stand to receive her 
 caresses, and listen to her playful epithets of tenderness 
 with a strange and most gentle expression of delight. 
 
 Many were the surmises of that wonder-loving and 
 poetical people. Some, believers in the doctrine of 
 transmigration, conceived the elephant to have become 
 the dwelling-place of some human soul, that, retaining 
 all its former affections and sentiments, was doomed to 
 be the victim of an attachment for the beautiful maiden, 
 whose love he still sought with all the vehemence of 
 human emotion, while the incongruity of his external 
 shape for ever prohibited him from its expression. Ne- 
 rissa asked not, cared not for a solution of the mystery ; 
 he was her friend, her protector, and she lavished ten- 
 derness upon him because such was her nature, and 
 every thing within the sphere of her movements must 
 receive a share. 
 
 Is it not even so ! are there not natures so gentle, so 
 loving, and beautiful that even inferior natures feel the 
 benignity of their aspect, and are drawn to them by that 
 affinity of love that links together the whole universe of 
 God ? Human hearts too bow down in worship to them 
 as in adoration of what is best and worthiest in huma- 
 nity, the outward expression of the true and the beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 " Come hither, Nerissa !" said her young mistress, as 
 the maiden completed an arrangement of gems that 
 decorated a tripod, inlaid with mother of pearl. 
 
 Nerissa sank gently upon her knees before the high- 
 8*
 
 90 THE OPAL. 
 
 born damsel, her hands lightly folded, and the long braids 
 of her hair falling around her and lying in masses upon 
 the mat on which she knelt. Her head was slightly 
 inclined, thus exposing the graceful curve of the rounded 
 shoulder, and the rich outline already apparent in her 
 splendid figure. Her eyes were bent downward till the 
 long lash swept the cheek, which was just not too dark 
 o prevent the blood from resting there in its richest tint. 
 The finely arched brow reposed with no shadow upon 
 its clear surface, though the quick and suppressed beat- 
 ing of the heart, as it swelled the girdle beneath her 
 bosom, and a slight compression of the lip, indicated the 
 presence of strong and painful emotion. As she thus 
 knelt, she formed a striking contrast to the other, with 
 her more mature style of beauty. 
 
 The straight profile, the broader forehead, and fairer 
 complexion of Helen betrayed her Grecian origin, while 
 . the full bust and dreamy softness of eyes that scarcely 
 raised the fringed lid, accorded well with the full and 
 richly coloured lips. Even now while she carelessly 
 glanced at the excited girl at her feet she delayed to 
 utter her thoughts, as if it gave her an indolent pleasure 
 to watch her changeful cheek. When she at length 
 spoke, though her voice was low and soft, the whole 
 frame of Nerissa thrilled as if roused from a revery, 
 and the blood rushed to her face and bosom. 
 
 " Did I not see thee by the fountain near the river 
 gate, this morning 1" 
 
 The maiden bowed her head in silence. 
 
 " Was not the young Roman, Servius, by thee, and 
 did I not see him bind a garland amid thy hair ?"
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 91 
 
 Nerissa again assented, and her questioner looked at 
 her a moment in silence. At length the blood rushing 
 to her own face, and lifting her lustrous eyes full of a 
 new fire, she said, 
 
 " And didst thou present the buds I gave thee ? and 
 what said the youth ?" 
 
 Nerissa replied without raising her eyes, " I offered 
 them, lady, but he threw them aside." 
 
 Helen bit her lip, and she pressed her hand upon her 
 girdle as if to hold down the emotion that swelled it. 
 
 " Didst thou reveal the name of her who sent the 
 offering?" 
 
 " Nay, lady, they were rejected ; it were base in him 
 to ask, treachery in me to reveal." 
 
 There was so much of truth and simplicity in the 
 manner of the girl, that it softened for an instant the 
 irritated feelings of the mistress, and she was silent. A 
 moment more and she bent her eyes sternly upon her, 
 and said, 
 
 " Thou didst proffer thine own suit first ! thou hast 
 basely betrayed me, slave as thou art !" 
 
 For one instant the girl's face glowed with indignant 
 blood, and the flashing eyes of the incensed maidens 
 met as Nerissa arose from her submissive attitude, and 
 stood proudly up. 
 
 " Nerissa hath not the soul of a slave, whatever may 
 be her condition ; falsehood doth not belong to her !" 
 
 " And where is the garland the vain youth bound for 
 thee ?" continued the other. 
 
 " Nerissa dared not wear it ; she laid it at the foot of 
 the altar in the penetralia."
 
 92 THE OPAL. 
 
 " Hast thou dared to love the youth, Nerissa ? If 
 thou hast, though the Fates themselves were arrayed 
 against me, thou shouldst know what it is to dare my 
 displeasure ! Tell me, hast thou before met the youth ?" 
 
 Nerissa stood pale and trembling. " He has pur- 
 chased flowers, and sometimes bound them upon the 
 temples of the gods, saying they were for me. It is not 
 for such as Nerissa to dare love the noble Roman." 
 
 "But thou hast dared to do so," cried the lady, "thou 
 hast dared to do it, and the penalty be on thine own 
 head !" 
 
 Nerissa raised her head with an air that had in it less 
 of the fire of her blood than the proud dignity of one 
 conscious of no wrong, and she replied calmly, 
 
 " Whatever may be my thoughts, none but the 
 Revealer of hearts can ever know. Bondage cannot 
 touch the soul, lady, and there Nerissa will be free. 
 No question may drag her thoughts to the light, where 
 they now lie unshackled, unapproachable, the free 
 thoughts of a free soul. O that Nerissa were with 
 those to whom death can no more come !" and she 
 covered her face with her hands and wept. 
 
 "-Ha ! sayest thou so, maiden ! By the eternal Styx, 
 thou hast indeed revealed thy thought ! Thy language 
 hath betrayed thee ! Thou art one of the new sect, 
 against whom the powers are even now arrayed !" 
 
 At this moment a harsh and somewhat melancholy 
 sound, proceeding from the foot of the terrace, where the 
 vines clustered about marble columns, called both of the 
 maidens to the court, and the sound was repeated. In- 
 stantly Nerissa hastened down the avenue bearing cates
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 93 
 
 and fruit for her favourite. Her brow was still trou- 
 bled, and she failed to caress the noble brute, who took 
 the dainties from her hand without the utterance of 
 a single kind word from his mistress. When all were 
 exhausted he still presented his trunk, moving it to and 
 fro, and she mechanically laid her arm upon it and 
 rested her head thereon with a feeling of listless un- 
 happiness new to her heart. As she did so she was 
 surprised to behold upon the sward beneath the dainties 
 she had just presented the creature, who had taken them 
 and dropped them upon the earth. 
 
 " Porous," she said, looking mournfully into his 
 strange eyes, "Porous, hast thou a human soul? 
 Surely thou must know that I am in sorrow ! Would 
 that thou didst, for Nerissa may love thee and feel 
 neither shame nor regret." And again she laid her head 
 on the strange pillow. 
 
 " Love is the prerogative of the gods, and even Jove 
 himself might own it for Nerissa," said a deep low 
 voice ; and the maiden beheld Servius half kneeling at 
 her feet and looking admiringly into her face. Still she 
 changed not her position, but regarded the youth with a 
 look of mournful tenderness, more touching than any 
 thing that words could convey. 
 
 " Nerissa hath her price," said she, mournfully ; " the 
 proud Syrian would demand a sum worthy of Croesus 
 for the person of the bond-maiden." 
 
 " Let him name it, let him name it, and Servius would 
 barter any thing short of the freedom of a Roman for 
 the love of Nerissa." 
 
 A smile of bitterness passed over the face of the
 
 94 THE OPAL. 
 
 girl, that gave a wild and startling brilliancy to her 
 singular beauty, as she replied, 
 
 " Name not such love to me ! Lowly as I am, Nerissa 
 could not brook the cold proud tolerance of the Roman 
 matron, eyeing the bond-wife, purchased by her son. 
 No, better were it that some patrician maiden, with 
 claims ancient as the walls of the city, should bless his 
 love. Let him forget the Eastern maiden." 
 
 Servius arose to his feet, and gazed tenderly yet most 
 respectfully upon the face of the girl, whose lids drooped 
 as her eyes encountered the softness of his, and the tears 
 gushed from beneath them. At this moment a pet dove 
 alighted upon the shoulder of a statue beside her, and 
 attracted her attention by its cooing. Nerissa looked 
 round and caught a glimpse of the retiring figure of 
 Helen. She waved a hurried adieu and disappeared 
 among the foliage. 
 
 Hours, velvet-footed hours, glided away in that sunny 
 clime, deepening the soul-beaming eyes of Nerissa, and 
 crowning her with the graces of womanhood. The 
 proud and luxurious Helen delighted to exhibit her hand- 
 some slave, as a portion of her wealth and ministering 
 to her vanity ; for her own affluence of beauty precluded 
 the pangs of jealousy, and she scorned the thought of 
 rivalry in a slave, who could be crushed in a moment at 
 her will. 
 
 Servius the handsome Roman now touched the lyre 
 at her feet, and Helen triumphed not ; for beauty, and 
 talents, and grace were the gift of the gods, unstinted in 
 their measure, and homage to her had become a dower 
 free as the free airs of heaven.
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 95 
 
 What were to her the tortures of another heart, ago- 
 nizing in the pangs of unrequited love, a love that had 
 been the toy and trifle of an hour, when that heart 
 throbbed beneath the insignia of servitude ! And Ser- 
 vius, what was the heart-breaking devotion of the flower 
 girl to him upon whose lip rested for ever the winning 
 seductions that find their way at once to woman's heart ! 
 Smiling and winning in the very wantonness of a 
 buoyant nature, impressions of the present were always 
 the powerful, and those of the past glided away like 
 water upon the sands, no more to be gathered. 
 
 Nerissa bound chaplets for the brows of the lovers, 
 twined garlands and weaved them in the devices of her 
 own land ; she smiled and knelt at their bidding, and 
 her fair brow received the mimic crown, all with the 
 same unimpassioned grace ; and even the Roman became 
 piqued that an impression he had inspired should have 
 been so transitory. He watched her calm proud eye, 
 and wondered at its tranquil depths ; but he was himself 
 too wayward to comprehend the pale cheek and the play 
 of the compressed lips when in his presence, 
 
 ***** 
 
 The possession of power increases its tenacity the 
 triumph of success enhances the love of conquest the 
 cruelties of war give a sanction to arbitrary measures in 
 times of repose an army fresh from its victories is ill 
 fitted for the quiet observances of peace ; like the tiger 
 that will bury itself in the very vitals of its victim, the 
 soldier learns to riot in the excitements of blood, until 
 satiety at length sends him loathing from the banquet. 
 
 These remarks will not apply to an army whose great
 
 96 THE OPAL. 
 
 motive-movement has been patriotism, but where it has 
 been that of ambitious conquest the conquering leader 
 trembles to disband it amid the quietudes of home. He 
 seeks by triumphs and marches, by pomp and amusement 
 to allay the spirit which the demon of war has conjured up. 
 It was thus that the Olympic games, the contests of the 
 Coliseum, the combat of the gladiator, the pangs of the 
 martyred Christian, each in turn became national in 
 their character, and were made subservient in allaying 
 temporary excitement by affording a diverting channel, 
 while they served still to keep alive the wild spirit of 
 bloodshed. 
 
 Trajan had returned victorious from the East. He 
 was marching towards Rome with a soldiery enriched 
 by spoils, and made sensual by the seductions of cli- 
 mate. Even he had not escaped the exhilaration of 
 power ; a prouder defiance grew upon his lip, a more 
 arrogant assumption of Roman dignity, a keener per- 
 ception of any infringement of Roman supremacy. 
 
 In the course of his homeward march he had heard 
 much of the strange growth of that new sect, that 
 seemed to thrive just in proportion to the means adopted 
 to root it out. He remembered the glorious temples of 
 Rome, where if religion were not a sentiment, it was a 
 grand and imposing pageant, and he felt a glow of 
 indignation against the advocates of a faith who would 
 desert the public altars, and take no share in the sublime 
 festivals of a great people. He vowed that those who 
 would not share should become a part of the festival. 
 A believer in mysteries, but a contemner of faith, master 
 of an inflexible will, subdued only by the invincible in
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVEREE. 97 
 
 
 
 fate, life became a mechanism, and death a destiny, and 
 he felt no remorse in crushing that which might oppose 
 the one, while he believed the Fates would decide the 
 other. 
 
 When too did ever Persecution stop to justify her 
 measures ! 
 
 Always delighting in pomp, Trajan marshalled his 
 forces with even more than wonted splendour on entering 
 the fair city of Antioch. Triumphal marches and impe- 
 rial shows delighted the people of a voluptuous climate, 
 and the seductions of music added but another thrill to 
 nerves already attenuated to effeminacy. 
 
 In the midst of this princely splendour, the Emperor 
 saw on all sides evidences of the progress of the new 
 faith. The symbol of the cross often met his eye, 
 betokening a follower of the Prophet of Nazareth. In- 
 censed at this departure from the usage of the Romans, 
 he issued an edict forbidding the exercise of their pecu- 
 liar rites, and calling upon its followers to renounce their 
 heresies and conform to the recognised worship of Rome. 
 Many made a hurried escape from the impending storm, 
 while others, feeble and unsustained by an earnest faith 
 in the doctrines they had adopted, abjured the same in 
 the first moment of peril, leaving those whose con- 
 sciences would admit of no compromise, to " tread the 
 wine-press alone." 
 
 Ignatius was one of the first consigned to a prison, 
 which was soon filled with a pale yet resolute band, who 
 would yield life sooner than principle. For these the 
 stake, the cross, and the arena swimming with the blood 
 of human victims, were in daily requisition. In the 
 9
 
 98 
 
 THE OPAL. 
 
 excitement of the times small effort was necessary to 
 procure the death of obnoxious individuals ; private 
 pique found abundant pretence in its zeal for public 
 security, and the arena was never barren of its prey. 
 
 Ignatius sat in the midst of his attentive disciples, 
 whom he had been exhorting to constancy at the same 
 time that he more clearly impressed upon their minds 
 the spiritual and life-giving nature of their faith, when 
 the bolts were withdrawn and the keeper thrust another 
 victim into the already crowded space. 
 
 The patriarch lifted up his eyes and beheld Nerissa 
 the flower girl of Antioch, standing with her eyes 
 strained in her effort to adapt them to the dimness of the 
 room ; one hand was half extended as if to ward off what- 
 ever might molest her, while the other firmly grasped a 
 mantle to her breast, that, sweeping in heavy folds, 
 nearly concealed her whole figure. Her brow was con- 
 tracted sharply, her lips compressed, and her face ashy 
 pale. 
 
 Laying aside the manuscript which he had been ex- 
 pounding, Ignatius arose to his feet and laid his hand 
 paternally upon her head, " God tempereth the wind to 
 the shorn lamb, my daughter," and he placed her upon 
 the rude seat beside him and then lifted up his voice in 
 prayer. 
 
 The holy duty closed, Ignatius turned to Nerissa, who 
 sat motionless as a statue, her hands clasped, and appa- 
 rently unconscious of all about her. A female prisoner 
 approached her gently with a few words of comfort, at 
 which the girl lifted up her eyes, looked anxiously into 
 her face, and her eyes slowly suffused with tears ; but
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 99 
 
 she shook her head mournfully and motioned her away. 
 " Blessed are ye when men shall persecute you," per- 
 sisted her kindly companion in captivity. 
 
 " Me ! me !" cried Nerissa passionately, " I am not 
 persecuted for the faith. I hardly know of the doctrines 
 of Jesus. Believe it not that I perish for the truth.. 
 Ye gods, if indeed ye have an existence, why are we 
 tortured with affections like these if they bring only ruin 
 and misery upon us !" 
 
 " Daughter," said the patriarch, and he laid his hand 
 upon her head, " there is One who knoweth our frame, 
 who remembereth we are but dust." 
 
 Nerissa sank on her knees before the holy man, and 
 with clasped hands exclaimed, 
 
 " Oh ! that I knew more of him the Unknown 
 God ! There must be comfort in your faith, for ye are 
 
 tranquil but " And she covered her face with 
 
 her hands and was silent. 
 
 " What wouldst thou say, daughter ?" said Ignatius. 
 
 Nerissa's voice was scarcely audible as she replied, 
 " Ye are ready to die for your religion, because ye 
 have not tasted of human love." 
 
 Ignatius bent his head till his white locks were 
 scattered amid the clustering curls of the pale girl who 
 still knelt at his feet, and the frame of the strong man 
 was shaken with inward emotion. These few words, 
 so faintly uttered, had thrilled every breast in that sad 
 circle a momentary silence prevailed, a sob was heard, 
 a groan, and then one deep and yearning wail burst 
 from every lip. Nerissa arose to her feet, she pressed 
 her hands wildly upon her brow, she looked around upon
 
 100 THE OPAL. 
 
 the pale group hitherto so calm, so dispassioned, and 
 her own griefs became merged in those about her. 
 
 At this moment the keeper reappeared and ordered 
 the patriarch to follow him. Nerissa gathered her 
 mantle about her, put her arm within his and moved 
 to the door ; there was a slight questioning, but she 
 persisted in her determination, and was soon on her 
 way to the imperial presence. Not a word was spoken, 
 and they moved onward amid Roman guards, depend- 
 ents of the court, and gay-clad patricians, scarcely 
 conscious that a human eye was upon them, so absorb- 
 ing were the inward emotions of each. 
 
 Arrived in the presence of Trajan, the patriarch 
 bowed in obeisance with a dignity that told of one not 
 unfamiliar with the usages of courts, and then he stood 
 with his arms meekly folded, waiting the imperial will. 
 
 " I have been told thou art at the head of this new 
 and dangerous sect, that soweth sedition wherever it 
 exists. I have sent for thee to know what thou wilt 
 say for thyself, and in behalf of thy doctrine." 
 
 " For myself I have nothing to say," rejoined Igna- 
 tius meekly ; " I am a shock of corn fully ripe, ready 
 for the harvest. If it be the Master's will that I be now 
 gathered, lo ! I am ready !" 
 
 " Yet I would know more of thee," resumed the Em- 
 peror, " I would learn something of the Prophet of 
 Judea, whom I have heard thine eyes have looked upon." 
 
 A glow of enthusiasm lighted the pale face of the 
 patriarch, a slight colour mantled his cheek, and he 
 raised his eyes upward as in adoration. 
 
 " These eyes did behold Him of whom the prophets
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 101 
 
 and the law spake ; this unworthy head has received the 
 blessing from lips that spake ' as never man spake.' " 
 
 The Emperor half arose from his throne, impressed 
 with irresistible awe in the presence of that venerable 
 man, who seemed invested as with a glory while thus 
 speaking, and whose lip was wreathed with an almost 
 infantile smile, the same it may be that he wore when 
 on his mother's knee at the time she brought him to 
 Jesus. The words were few and scarcely comprehended 
 by his pagan auditors, yet an internal sense seemed to 
 emanate from the speaker that carried with them a 
 mysterious power. He was silent a moment ; and then 
 dropping his head and turning to Nerissa he resumed, 
 
 " For myself I have little to say, most noble Trajan, 
 for bondage and death are as nothing to him who is free 
 and alive in Jesus, but for this maiden I would beg 
 releasement. She understandeth not the doctrines for 
 which we suffer ; she is yet wedded to her idols. She 
 cannot suffer for the truth's sake, for she comprehendeth 
 it not." 
 
 " Why is she in bondage then ? I would know of 
 this matter. Maiden, why art thou given over to the 
 authorities ?" 
 
 " I am a Christian," said Nerissa in a low voice. 
 
 Ignatius recoiled from her side, and fixed his keen 
 eyes upon her face, and then in a tone of sorrow and 
 reproof he answered her 
 
 " Nerissa, it is a fearful thing to lie unto the Holy 
 
 Ghost. It is but now that thou didst abjure it, and spake 
 
 of other reasons for thy imprisonment. Child, child, thou 
 
 art no believer ; I would thou wert ; but if death be the 
 
 9*
 
 102 THE OPAL. 
 
 thing thou courtest, do not, I beseech thee, seek it in the 
 way that will peril thine own soul, even with falsehood 
 upon thy lips!" 
 
 Nerissa did not lift up her eyes to this stern rebuke, 
 but meekly reiterated, " I am a Christian, father." 
 
 The patriarch shook his head mournfully. " Nay, 
 God forgive thee, thou art no Christian. He will 
 appoint thee a deliverance, for it would be but sacrilege 
 to offer thee upon his altar." 
 
 " Now by the gods," cried Trajan, " thou art a per- 
 jured old man, who hast come hither hoping to release 
 the maiden by dissembling the truth. But ye shall 
 neither of ye escape. Gods ! but I like her constancy, 
 and it shall be worthily tested but as for thee, old 
 man, I will more of thee. Thou shalt to Rome, where 
 despatches urge our return. Rest thee assured thy 
 falsehood shall avail thee nothing for the girl." 
 
 " God will appoint a deliverer," returned Ignatius, as 
 with the voice of prophecy. 
 
 " Hope it not, hope it not ! she dies !" replied the 
 Emperor almost fiercely as he broke up the court ; and 
 the captives were remanded to their prison. 
 
 For many hours all was silent in that low cell, and 
 Nerissa sat buried in her mantle, motionless and silent. 
 At length she gently approached the feet of the patriarch. 
 
 " Why am I not a Christian, father ? I am willing 
 to believe in your gods, and to die that I may find that 
 happiness of which ye tell." 
 
 Ignatius groaned heavily. " Alas, child, all you say 
 but proves the truth of my assertion. I will expound 
 the truth to thee, but now thy carnal nature craves
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 103 
 
 more the love of a human heart, than that of the Holy 
 Spirit." 
 
 A fierce light gleamed in the eyes of the girl, and she 
 drew herself proudly up. " No, Nerissa is not so weak. 
 Love is but a mockery a thing to be bartered like the 
 basest merchandise, to be whispered in all ears and to 
 abide with none." 
 
 A smile, sad yet exceedingly sweet, grew upon the 
 lips of the patriarch. 
 
 " Yes, in this also has light come into the world. In 
 the mysteries of human love is life and immortality re- 
 vealed. Maiden, that which thou hast called love is not 
 so. It is a blind impulse in which the true elements of 
 the soul are unawakened, and which must pass away. 
 But love is holy, spiritual, self-sacrificing and inde- 
 structible. It is the full soul, the mystic marriage, and 
 can no more die than the soul itself. It is the germ of 
 immortality, and it shall grow forever in the Paradise of 
 God. Speak not irreverently of it, for it maketh us like 
 the angels of heaven, two natures incorporate in one." 
 
 Nerissa listened half in bewilderment, yet she did not 
 fail to perceive a portion of the truth, for she replied with 
 a slight shudder, 
 
 " I seek death, but alas, I am no Christian." 
 
 Death was nearer at hand than the poor girl dreamed. 
 The Emperor was eager to return to Rome, and thus he 
 abridged the ordinary preparations for public execution. 
 A temporary circus had been erected, in which the 
 poverty of material was disguised by the blazonry of 
 arms, the waving of royal standards, drapery of ich 
 and gorgeous textures and the purest Tyrian dye. All
 
 104 THE OPAL. 
 
 that pomp and luxury could do to cast an illusion over 
 the sanguinary and cruel exhibition about to be presented 
 was brought in requisition. The fluttering of scarfs, 
 the blazonry of jewels, where wealth and beauty were 
 assembled ; the pendent garlands, and burning incense, 
 the gleaming of shield and cuirass, the stirring notes 
 of wild and exciting music, and the mutually stimulating 
 action of human masses, all combined to wake an eager 
 thirst for something on which the animal excitement thus 
 engendered might wreak its expression. 
 
 When therefore a pale slender youth was led into the 
 arena, and stood one moment with eyes lifted upward, 
 and the next an elephant of the largest size rushed in- 
 ward with trunk aloft, and a human body was whirled 
 far above the heads of the spectators and then fell dead 
 at the feet of the enraged animal, there was a pause of 
 breathless silence, and then a tumultuous shout broke 
 from the immense crowd, which thus found relief from 
 its pent-up energies. 
 
 Round and round rushed the infuriated beast, now 
 uttering uncouth snorts and now tossing the lifeless 
 body, and again the portal opened while the animal was 
 at its farthest point, and another victim was thrust in- 
 ward. A dead pause he detects the new object and 
 rushes onward. He stops his fore feet are thrust out- 
 ward and trunk in the air the huge carcass trembles 
 slowly the trunk sinks downward, and he kneels before 
 the almost unconscious being. 
 
 It was the flower girl of Antioch, and as in mockery 
 they had crowned her head with a chaplet of flowers, 
 and now she stood with her arms crushed to her boson),
 
 GOD WILL APPOINT A DELIVERER. 106 
 
 and face passionless as marble. One glance and she 
 uttered a wild cry and threw her arms about the trunk 
 of Porous. 
 
 A brief space, and the creature swayed her to and fro, 
 tranquillized with delight, and those strange eyes emitting 
 their peculiar fire, which had in them that wondrous look 
 approaching to human tenderness. 
 
 A brief space, and he rushes forward bearing all 
 before him ; portal and guards are crushed by his weight, 
 and barriers are but cobwebs to his fierce strength. 
 Heedless of the crowd, heedless of the yells of the 
 terrified multitude, he tramples onward, bearing his 
 precious burden with superhuman care beyond the city, 
 and away to the free wilderness. 
 
 God had appointed a deliverer !
 
 
 CHRIST BY THE WELL OF SYCHAR. 
 
 BY REV. GEORGE W. BETHUNE, D.D. 
 
 "My meat is to do the will of Him that sent me." 
 
 UPON the well by Sychar's gate, 
 At burning noon the Saviour sate, 
 Athirst and hungry from the way 
 His feet had trod since early day. 
 The twelve had gone to seek for food, 
 And left him in his solitude. 
 
 They come and spread before him there, 
 With faithful haste, the pilgrim fare, 
 And gently bid him, " Master, eat !" 
 But God had sent him better meat, 
 And there is on his lowly brow 
 Nor weariness, nor faintness now ; 
 
 For while they sought the market-place, 
 His words had won a soul to grace, 


 
 CHRIST BY THE WELL OF SYCHAB. 107 
 
 And when he set that sinner free 
 From bonds of guilt and infamy, 
 His heart grew strong with joy divine, 
 More than the strength of bread and wine. 
 
 So, Christian, when thy faith grows feint, 
 Amidst the toils that throng the saint, 
 Ask God, that thou mayst peace impart 
 Unto some other human heart ; 
 And thou thy Master's joy shall share, 
 E'en while his cross thy shoulders bear.
 
 THOUGHTS. 
 
 BY REV. HERMAN HOOKER, 
 AUTHOR OF " THE PORTION OP THE SOUL," ETC. 
 
 I. THE HEAHT. 
 
 THE heart is a garden where all that is wholesome and 
 delightful has claim to grow, but a garden which we have 
 turned into a heath: it is a fountain where all knowledge 
 should spring, but a fountain which our corruptions have 
 sealed up : it is a book once plain and legible, but a book 
 now so interlined with the insertion of our good works, and 
 defaced with the erasure of our misdeeds, that we cannot 
 read our own history in it, though it be as one written 
 with our own hand. 
 
 II. UNBELIEF. 
 
 Ignorance of God is a great cause of unbelief, and 
 we must fed after him by knowledge before we can 
 reasonably expect to find him by faith. We must be 
 persuaded of our ignorance before we can become 
 wise by an understanding of what wisdom is. We 
 must search the Scriptures and through them come 
 first to the " break of day." They have an evidence in 
 them which is not seen by glances ; they have a fire in
 
 THOUGHTS. 109 
 
 them which must be mused upon, before it will begin to 
 burn ; like the heavens, they have lights and wonders in 
 them, which are not seen by common gazers, and though 
 they may receive them upon the report of others to 
 whom they have come as by observation, they will still 
 be as things of which they have no knowledge, and 
 with which they have no means of communication. 
 
 III. IRRESISTIBLE POWER OF TRUTH. 
 
 There are truths so immense and glorious, that when 
 we really credit them, though the heart should be op- 
 posed to them, they will still take hold of us in so many 
 ways that we cannot escape from their impression ; and 
 the very attempt to do so, will but make us the more 
 sensible of our trouble, as he would be, who should shut 
 his eyes to rid himself of a pain, or run to get out of 
 the light of day what then must be the impression, the 
 power of faith when the heart accords with its object ? 
 
 IV. INDIFFERENCE TO GOD. 
 
 As God has given reason to man, thus making him a 
 noble and a knowing creature, it is very singular that 
 he should only employ that reason in his social acts and 
 duties ; that he should perform his relative offices with 
 such design and constancy, as that his whole life may 
 be compared to a volume written with forecast of the 
 ends it should answer, while the thoughts and acts which 
 signify a recognition of God, are but the parentheses, 
 which might be left out without breaking the sense, or . 
 without so much as blemishing the morality of the 
 author. 
 
 10
 
 110 THE OPAL. 
 
 V. A PECULIARITY OF THE KNOWLEDGE OF GOD 
 IN CHRIST. 
 
 In Christ the knowledge of God is let down to our 
 sympathies, and becomes a part as well as the treasure 
 of them. To know him is to know God in a way that 
 is as obliging as it is condescending, and should be as 
 grateful as it is honourable to our nature. It is no 
 difficult science which we are to learn, rift cold abstrac- 
 tion which we are to study, but the simple truth set off 
 in life, and coming to us all animated as with our own 
 sympathies ; it is a knowledge proposed to us warm as 
 with the kindliest affection for us, and commended as a 
 tried experience of our necessities. 
 
 VI. LOVE OF GOD. 
 
 God known, we must needs love, as we will always 
 love that which is most lovely to our sense ; and we 
 must needs seek him too, as we will always seek that 
 which appears most desirable, and he is really so 
 desirable, that our loving him shall make him ever 
 appear more and more so for ever; and so shall our 
 love overcome the world, as we cannot but feel ourselves 
 masters of it, when we have an object that fills us with 
 desires and hopes carrying us upward, and making us 
 both happy and worthy to be so. 
 
 VII. TYPES. 
 
 Our unworthy thoughts and suspicions of God are 
 but the types and shadows of ourselves, pointing to 
 those revelations of great depravity with which we may 
 yet astonish all but ourselves.
 
 THOUGHTS. Ill 
 
 VIII. TRUE DIGNITY. 
 
 It is proof enough how little we know of the temper 
 of Christ, that we have so little patience with his 
 station in the world. We seem not to know how to be 
 honoured, and are ever found seeking honour from that 
 which could confer no honour on him. We seem to 
 value wise heads more than good hearts. He had. all 
 wisdom and understood all mysteries, yet he made no 
 display of knowledge, but confined himself to magnify 
 the law of God. Should we do so, or expend as much 
 to improve our hearts as heads, we should be surprising 
 proficients in goodness. But we do not see this subject 
 as he saw it. We are in the wrong ; we have lost the 
 secret of true greatness and aspire not thereto. 
 
 IX. HUMBLENESS OF FAITH. 
 
 Faith is not apt to turn chooser of the bounties of 
 God, but attaches chief value to that which bears the 
 clearest stamp of his will. It indulges no large expecta- 
 tion, especially no immoderate craving of temporal good, 
 well assured that but little can be lost here at most, and 
 that nothing can be intended to afford us rest which we 
 must so soon leave, and our fondness for which is so apt 
 to turn to our harm. 
 
 X. IMPORT OF NATURAL VIRTUES. 
 
 The virtues of the natural man resemble the motions 
 in the limbs and heart of an animal, when the head is 
 severed from the body. They are symptoms of a moral 
 life that of itself must come to nothing ; but as this is 
 all the life he has, an image of life, and that only of
 
 112 THE OPAL. 
 
 life in death, how great his weakness ! and how sure is he 
 without the aid of a sustaining power to go downwards 
 in his growth ! 
 
 XI. CONTRARIETIES INSTRUCTIVE. 
 
 Contrariety of human character to the demands of 
 the Christian religion, is just what we should expect 
 from a system proposing the elevation of man, and 
 bringing against him the charge of guilt. If it were 
 not so, it would command little reverence from him, and 
 he would turn it off as impertinent to his wants, or as 
 incompetent to the task of convincing him of his guilt, 
 or of delivering from it, should he be convinced. Our 
 exception to it then is but a plea in its behalf, a calling 
 in question of the wisdom of God in a way that does 
 both prove it, and our incapacity of judging in the case. 
 Both our complaints against the system, and our mis- 
 conceptions of it may be safely understood to presume 
 its truth, the one as arguing our guilt, the other as 
 showing our ignorance, and both as attesting our need 
 of the relief which it brings, and proving its excellency 
 to be above our experience and taste, and therefore 
 worthy of the divine descent which it claims. 
 
 XII. SPIRITUAL DEADNESS. 
 
 We have eyes and see not, ears and hear not there is 
 a God. There is a voice as that of sweetest music in 
 the promises and provisions of his grace, and the bless- 
 ings of friendship, peace and plenty ; there is a noise 
 as that of thunder in the threatenings of his word and in
 
 THOUGHTS. 113 
 
 the judgments that are abroad in the earth ; but we dis- 
 cern not that this melody, or this noise, comes from him. 
 Not only do we not hear him in the sound of these and 
 all his organs, but we neither know nor hear, when he 
 comes out of the whirlwind and the cloud, and the 
 promises, and speaks to us, as it were, " face to face," 
 yea, and with his own, his full voice, in Jesus Christ. 
 Alas ! that the Creator should so spend the riches of his 
 power and wisdom in filling up and furnishing this their 
 earthly habitation, and the more exceeding riches of his 
 grace that he might exalt them to fellowship with him- 
 self, and still find it so difficult, let alone their heart, to 
 gain the eye or the ear of his creatures ! 
 
 XIII. RESIGNATION. 
 
 In the world there is nothing durable ; and if there 
 were, it would not be suitable to us, because how long 
 soever that might last in itself, yet we could not last 
 to enjoy it. Though our temporal goods and comforts 
 were not moveable, yet we are ; though they might stay 
 with us, yet we could not stay with them ; and though 
 they should procure many advantages and pleasures for 
 us, even that would make the pain and loss of parting 
 with them greater, and by attaching us to life here, 
 might cheat us out of life hereafter ; so that, content, 
 ment with an ill lot, is not less called for by reason than 
 piety, and would seem not to be the difficult virtue it is 
 so often esteemed to be. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A supreme fondness for any creature presumes that 
 10*
 
 114 THE OPAL. 
 
 we do not perceive any worthier object, or perceiving, 
 do not relish it ; and if we had done no other wrong, we 
 need not go further for proof of our utter depravity and 
 our utter incapacity of advancing in excellence, till we 
 see and relish something better. 
 
 XV. CAUSES OF NOT SEEKING THE HEAVENLY WISDOM. 
 
 It is not the requisite effort that deters us from the 
 pursuit of divine knowledge, but our low appreciation of 
 the great interest we have in it. Did we not fail in this 
 sense, we should not wonder that we are required to do 
 so much, but that so much may be gained by the little 
 that we can do. Our first wonder would be that there 
 is a heaven for us, our greater wonder that it should be 
 procured at an expense so great, that we cannot tell 
 which is greatest, the love which bore it, or the guilt 
 which made it necessary. Our strongest desire to be 
 there, would be, that we may " be for ever with the 
 Lord," who is such, and could love us so, that our loving 
 him is not so much his will as our privilege, and not so 
 much his glory as we would make it ours. And so 
 would our faith call off our thoughts from the world 
 and turn them to heaven, with designs and desires car- 
 rying us there. 
 
 XVI. INDIFFERENCE TOWARD GOD. 
 
 To be able to think of God as a being proper to wor- 
 ship ; to be capable of a religious sentiment, of a spiritual 
 advancement, and attend not thereto ; to trust all which 
 we own to be most important to casual thoughts, thoughts 
 which we neither bid nor heed is a forfeit of our title 
 to the rank of rational creatures.
 
 THOUGHTS. 115 
 
 XVII. NATURAL VIRTUE. 
 
 Should we note the developements of human character 
 around us ; should we reason from what transpires in 
 our own bosoms, we should be convinced that the mo- 
 rality of secular men is in general " a vain show," not 
 like the oak that strikes its roots deeper and stronger in 
 its foundation, while its branches spread and aspire to 
 the skies, but like a feather in the air, sure to obey the 
 direction of the wind, to rise and fall with it, yet settling 
 down, down at every intermission, till it fastens on the 
 earth, and is seen to rise no more. Their motives are 
 such as they might have if there were no God, and if 
 they have any respect for him, it is a respect of fear, not 
 of love ; it is a mere observing, hardly a fearing, of his 
 thunder ; a flash of guilt that vanishes with thought ; 
 something like our daily noticing of the sun, not as any 
 thing we have to do with or think of, except as it serves 
 or incommodes ourselves. 
 
 XVIII. INDECISION. 
 
 The same indecision in worldly affairs which we 
 manifest in spiritual, would indicate an abandonment of 
 our proper nature, and whatever we may think of it as 
 affecting the higher concerns of eternity, certain it is 
 that it cannot be the fruit of considering them ; and not 
 to consider them when we admit our high concernment 
 in them, and are summoned to it by so many arguments 
 of invitation and as with the alarm voice of the spirit 
 within us, is to despise and reject them as in our slum- 
 bers, and to become unbelievers, if not by the action of 
 our reason, yet by the chance of our indifference.
 
 116 THE OPAL. 
 
 XIX. FAITH. 
 
 The faith of believers overcomes the world by spread- 
 ing over it the bright shadowing of " better things to 
 come." No darkness or sorrowing moves them out of 
 their course of duty or stays them in it ; like the moon, 
 when she suffers an eclipse, they continue on, losing no 
 motion and no order, till they regain the presence and 
 glory of which they are deprived. As shaken trees root 
 deeper, as the blast that beats down the flame causes it 
 to rise higher, so they, when brought low by adversity, 
 mount upwards, or bind themselves closer to the rock 
 they are resting on. 
 
 XX. THE CALM OF FAITH. 
 
 When we come to try a new condition we shall find it 
 little better, perhaps worse, than the one that disaffects 
 us now. This will always be the case with people who 
 look for enjoyment in outward things. If the affections, 
 if all on which the thoughts repose within, are not right, 
 nothing we can gather around us will make us happy. 
 We should be able like the bee to extract sweets from 
 the bitterest flowers, and to feed in inclement seasons on 
 the honey that is in our hive that is, in ourselves, by 
 the treasuring of kind and pious affections. This should 
 be a spring that rises clear and healthful when all around 
 it is dry and unproductive. There is nothing so bitter 
 in our experience but will yield a sweetness if we exer- 
 cise our inward faculty to find it. The friends and pos- 
 sessions we are so apt to depend on, are too uncertain 
 in their duration and value, to make us happy, and still 
 we will love them too much not to be made miserable
 
 THOUGHTS. 117 
 
 by their loss ourselves ever the slaves and not the 
 masters of what we possess. We boast of freedom, 
 and yet are held in bondage by the little which we call 
 our own, and why should we be perplexed in the search 
 for more, if more will but multiply our chances? There 
 seems indeed to be a repose in some minds which out- 
 ward things give, but it is like a storm sleeping in the 
 clouds. It has no self-control, and may be broken in a 
 moment. It is a troubled sleep. Thoughts of danger, 
 which are willed not, visit it. 
 
 " There is a calm which is not peace, 
 Like that when ocean's tempests cease ; 
 When worn out with the storm, the sea 
 Sleeps in her dark tranquillity, 
 As dreading that the slightest stir 
 Would bring again the winds on her." 
 
 There is a calm too that excludes fear and rides in all 
 storms unharmed it is the calm of faith, of chastened 
 and pure affections, a calm like that in which the Deity 
 reposes. 
 
 XXI. THE ONLY UNREGARDED LOVE. 
 
 How strange it is, that God's love, so wonderful in 
 itself, so diffused that we see it in every beauty and 
 taste it in every enjoyment a love compared with 
 which the greatest love of creatures is as a ray of light 
 to the sun, and that ray mixed and darkened, should be 
 lost on creatures whose love for the gentler and worthier 
 qualities of each other, runs so often into rapture and 
 devotion !
 
 118 THE OPAL. 
 
 XXII. TO A. MOTHER ON LOSING AN INFANT DAUGHTER. 
 
 God does nothing without a reason. That reason 
 may have respect to you it may have respect to your 
 child, and not unlikely to both. He sees effects in their 
 causes. Your case may have been this : you may have 
 been in danger of loving the world too much, and he re- 
 moved the cause in time. Her case may have been this : 
 she may have been in danger from the growth of a cor- 
 rupt nature, and he took her in the bud of being that she 
 might grow without imperfection, " for of such is the 
 kingdom of heaven." Think of your child then not as 
 dead but as living, not as a flower that is withered, but 
 as one that is transplanted, and, touched by a divine hand, 
 is blooming in richer colours and sweeter shades than 
 those of earth, though to your eyes these last may have 
 been beautiful, more beautiful than you will hope to see 
 again. 
 
 " With patient mind thy course of duty run, 
 God nothing does nor suffers to be done 
 But thou wouldst do thyself, if thou couldst see 
 The end of all he does as well as he."
 
 IS DEATH THE. KING OF TERRORS ? 
 
 BY REV. GEORGE B. CHEEVER. 
 
 IF you, O man, of Death are bound in dread, 
 Come to this chamber, sit beside this bed, 
 See how the name of Christ, breathed o'er the heart, 
 Makes the soul smile at Death's uplifted dart ! 
 
 The air to sense is close, that fills the room, 
 But angel forms are waving through the gloom ; 
 The feeble pulse leaps up, as 'twould expire, 
 But Christ still watches the refiner's fire. 
 
 Life comes and goes, the spirit lingers on : 
 'Tis over ! No ! The conflict's not quite done ; 
 For Christ will work, till of life's sinful stain 
 No spot nor wrinkle on the soul remain. 
 
 He views his image now ! The victory's won, 
 The last dark shadow from his child is drawn ! 
 The veil is rent away ! In endless peace, 
 The soul beholds its Saviour face to face. 
 
 Is this death's seal ] The impression O how fair ! 
 Look, what a radiant smile is playing there ! 
 That was the soul's farewell : the sacred dust 
 Awaits the resurrection of the just.
 
 120 THE OPAL. 
 
 Call not the mourners, when the Christian dies, 
 While angels shout him welcome to the skies. 
 Mourn rather for the living dead on earth, 
 Who nothing care for his celestial birth. 
 
 Death to the bedside came, his prey to hold : 
 All he could touch was but the earthly mould ; 
 This to its native ashes men convey 
 The freed soul rises to eternal day ! 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 BY ROBERT MORRIS, ESQ. 
 
 REST for the weary freshness, strength and rest ! 
 O Sleep ! thy balm is to the troubled breast 
 As time to sorrow. Gently dost thou take 
 The arrows from the heart about to break, 
 And with thy stealthy step and quiet eye, 
 Around the couch in grateful ministry, 
 Thy form as noiseless as the foot of love, 
 Doth like the spirit of an angel move. 
 Upon the brow of toil thy hand is laid, 
 And light and peace are where were care and shade. 
 The traveller woos thee to his turf-formed pillow, 
 The sea-boy courts thee on the tossing billow. 
 Life may not be without thee, gentle Sleep, 
 But with thee mid the desert, on the deep- 
 Still to the care-worn heart some joy remains, 
 Some sunny spot amid thy mystic plains.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY ; 
 
 THE WORSHIP OF JUPITER, OR THE WORSHIP OF CHRIST. 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE BROTHERS," " CROMWELL," ETC. 
 
 He heard 
 
 Her ardent legate before Ctesar's throne 
 Plead for his sacred country, and invoke 
 Her genius, like a soul, informing still 
 The limhs of her vast empire ; and he thought 
 The spirit of Rome's fortunes ever there 
 Was hovering o'er them, and inspired his tongue 
 To strive for their religion, the old rites 
 Hallowed by custom and endeared by years 
 Of conquest and dominion. 
 
 ATTILA, B. iv. 130. 
 
 AGES had passed, long ages, since on the green forest 
 tops of Rome's unpeopled hills the shepherd twins sat 
 watching, each in his augural temple, the flight of 
 those fierce birds of prey which were to give its name, 
 its monarch, and its doom to the intended city ! since 
 Romulus bedewed the trenches of his young capitol with 
 a brother's life-blood, so consecrating it and its inhabi- 
 tants, by the dread councils of the Sibyl, to the grim 
 patronage of Mars, the homicidal god ! Ages had 
 passed since Stator Jove first checked the panic flight of 
 the half-beaten Romans, and crowned their refluent 
 11
 
 122 THE OPAL. 
 
 charge with triumph ! since in the fight of Lake Regillus, 
 the great twin brethren, Castor and Pollux, fought in the 
 van of Rome, and laved their toil-worn steeds in the well 
 hard by Vesta ! A mighty empire had grown up among 
 the woody solitudes, where the wolf howled and the 
 eagle yelled in undisputed sovereignty an empire fed by 
 the blood of nations, and fostered by the breath of battle, 
 her emblems, the most puissant bird, the most rapa- 
 cious beast of prey her policy, incessant and unsparing 
 warfare and her religion the fell worship of grim idols, 
 monstrous and terrible conceptions of barbarous and 
 sensual imaginations ! A mighty empire the mightiest 
 that earth has ever witnessed the bounds of her domi- 
 nions were the limits of the then known universe her 
 tongue, the universal language her law, the law of na- 
 tions her history, the records of the world ! 
 
 Ages had passed, and nations had passed with them 
 cities had crumbled from the earth races, victorious 
 races, been extinguished or, if not utterly extinguished, 
 so changed and altered and debased, that no analysis 
 could trace the civilized and courtly hero, or the wild in- 
 dependent savage, in the sleek flatterer, or the sullen slave. 
 Ages had passed, since he whose conquering emblem was 
 the arch-harlot Venus, spurred through the Rubicon to 
 win an empire, the price of which was death ! Ages, since 
 the Redeemer, born in the manger, expiated by the 
 felon's death on the vile cross the sins of all mankind for 
 ever and for ever ; and gave a sure hope to the faithful, 
 a very present help in time of trouble ! 
 
 The small, despised and persecuted sect, the few and 
 scattered remnant of the martyred people, had grown up
 
 THE TRIUMPH OP CHRISTIANITY. 123 
 
 year by year into a vast and countless multitude. " Par- 
 thians, and Medes, and Elamites, and the dwellers in Me- 
 sopotamia, and in Judea, and Cappadocia, in Pontus, and 
 in Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, in Egypt, and in the 
 parts of Libya about Gyrene, and strangers of Rome, Jews 
 and proselytes, Cretesand Arabians," had heard and be- 
 lieved the wonderful works of God, had taken up the cross 
 of his ever-blessed Son, and cried aloud through the ut- 
 termost nations the glorious tidings of the one faith that 
 leadeth to salvation the one faith that shall ere long 
 compass the round world with its glory, and fill the uni- 
 verse with hope and happiness and peace. 
 
 The statue of winged Victory had been removed 
 already from the chamber, wherein convoked no longer 
 within the precincts of a heathen temple the senate held 
 their consultations ; and, although it had been restored 
 by the apostate Julian, and tolerated for a while by Va- 
 lentinian, by an edict of Gratian it had been finally and 
 for ever banished from the Julian Curia. The emperors, 
 however, had waged no farther war than this jagainst the 
 old religion ; the statues of the antique gods still claimed 
 the superstitious veneration of the multitude; above four 
 hundred temples, chapels, and shrines remained to satisfy 
 the popular devotion ; and still the fumes of sacrifice and 
 holocaust went up to the offended heavens. Still the 
 mad orgies of the Dionysian rout, chanting their furious 
 dithyrambs, wielding the ivied thyssus, and frenzied by 
 the red blood of the grape, made the night hideous with 
 their dissonant and furious exclamations. Still the emas- 
 culate priests of Cybele beat the dread drum and clanged 
 the brazen cymbal in loathsome mimicry of the de-
 
 124 THE OPAL. 
 
 merited Atys. Still the helmed Salii leaped with their 
 flowery tunics and bright breastplates, bearing in trusty 
 guardianship those sacred shields of Mars, with which 
 Rome's date of glory was esteemed coequal. 
 
 The legions, it is true, were now no longer mustered 
 under the golden effigies of wolf or eagle ; the human 
 hand no longer was the standard of the unconquered 
 manipules. These had the mystic labarum replaced, since 
 the great day when Constantine, (rushing down from the 
 Alps armed to preserve his country from the tyrannic 
 usurpation of Maxentius,) saw in the bright Italian skies 
 above the noonday sun, the sign of the Redeemer, a 
 broad and blazingcross, and in that emblem conquered ! 
 The labarum, that mighty cross of carved and jewelled 
 gold, from which depended the rich purple banner em- 
 broidered with the monogram of the most holy Saviour ! 
 And thus it had been proved that it was not on the ancient 
 gods alone, that ancient Roman valour depended for suc- 
 cess and victory. 
 
 But heathendom was not content to bow submissive to 
 the new faith of Jesus. Those who still held to the time- 
 honoured pagan creed were half ashamed, and half in- 
 dignant, to succumb under the spiritual yoke of a reli- 
 gion devised by fishermen and artisans, undecked by 
 aught of glowing ceremonial, offering nothing to the 
 senses, inculcating not pride, nor valour, nor renown, as 
 the virtues of the Christian, but the slave's attributes of 
 patience and humility and mute fortitude beneath the chas- 
 tening rod. Too intimately had the glories and the gran- 
 deur of old Rome been associated with the worship of 
 the great gods of old too closely were all the household
 
 THE TRIUMPH OP CHRISTIANITY. 125 
 
 customs, all the domestic every-day observances of the 
 people, connected with the old superstitions ; and, above 
 all, too deeply was the pride of many of the patrician 
 houses engaged in the maintenance of a belief in those 
 superb and sensual divinities who used whilom to walk 
 the earth, and from whose intercourse with some terres- 
 trial beauty they boasted their own half-divine descent 
 that willingly or tamely they should cast aside their high 
 pre-eminence above the nations they, the descendants, 
 the peculiar people, the irresistible and favoured race of 
 the great Mars Quirinus. 
 
 The Christians, although numerous, and counting in 
 their assemblages many of the noblest of the Roman 
 houses, the race of the Anniades, the sons of Probus 
 and Anitius, Brutus and Bassus, and the glorious clan 
 of the Paulini, were still but a minority among the sena- 
 tors. By absence only from the acts, profane though 
 legal still, of an adverse majority, could they express 
 their hatred and disgust of the false gods and fiendish 
 ceremonials which still obtained in the empire. And 
 now, by the last struggling effort of anti-christian zeal, 
 the embers of religious strife were again fanned into 
 bright flame. Three several deputations of men the 
 most considerable and renowned in the empire, had 
 been successively appointed by the Senate and the priest* 
 hood, to represent the grievances of the dishonoured 
 gods of Rome, and to demand the restoration of the 
 altar sacred to Victory, and the proud statue of the 
 winged goddess, in the hall of the petitioning assembly. 
 The first to Gratian, who refused them audience ; the 
 second to Valentinian ; the third to Theodosius ; and 
 11*
 
 126 THE OPAL. 
 
 now a fourth was ordered to the three emperors united , 
 Valentinian, Theodosius, and Arcadius the August. 
 
 The conduct of this all-important deputation was left 
 to one well fitted to maintain the dignities of ancient 
 customs ; well worthy to set forth the cause and plead 
 for the infringed immunities and violated honours of dei- 
 ties themselves. Symmachus, first and proudest orator 
 of his day, president of the Senate, Pontifex Maximus 
 and chief of the old college of Etruscan augurs col- 
 lege so old that it existed before the vast cloacae were 
 quarried through the hills of Rome by a race long ago 
 extinct, when Romulus built on the Palatine procon- 
 sul of the rich province of Africa, and prefect of the 
 city. Nor was a weaker or less influential personage 
 appointed by the Christians to maintain the cause of the 
 Redeemer against what they believed to be the powers of 
 darkness. 
 
 For it was not perhaps uncharacteristic of the age, 
 essentially addicted to credulity and superstition, that 
 while the pagans would have in no respect objected to 
 the admission of the God Christ to an associate altar 
 and divided honour with Mars and Jupiter, Saturn and 
 Pluto, and the Cyprian harlot the Christians, instead 
 of setting down the false gods of the heathens as merely 
 the absurd and horrible conceptions of the impure idola- 
 trous imagination and unregenerated heart of barbarous 
 man, gave to them a species of grim and sublime autho- 
 rity, dignifying them as it were into the most puissant of 
 those rebel angels who fell with the son of the morning ; 
 and who, as they believed, still exercised their fiendish 
 influence and hate of the Most Highest by striving with
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY. 127 
 
 inveterate malice to seduce men from their allegiance 
 who still informed their priests, their augurs, and their 
 archimages with wisdom that pertained not to salvation, 
 still ruled the elements of nature still spoke in the 
 dubious oracle still haunted the prophetic shrine. 
 
 Therefore, to meet the eloquent and powerful advocate 
 of heathen institutions, the Christians nominated Am- 
 brose, the venerable, pious, and learned archbishop of 
 Milan, to hold up the pure faith, and plead for the wor- 
 ship of the one God, with his one-begotten Son, and 
 Spirit, uncreate, invisible. 
 
 And now the day had come big with the fate of more 
 than empires. Never so great a plea was heard. Never 
 convened on grounds so great and all-impressive so gor- 
 geous and time-honoured an assembly. 
 
 The Roman Senate ! how strange and thrilling are 
 the memories that rush into the breast at those then 
 little words. These then were the descendants, the lineal 
 descendants, and present representatives of that august 
 assemblage, which for above twelve centuries had swayed 
 the empire of the universe. These then were the suc- 
 cessors of the rustic sages, whom Romulus convened 
 under his straw-built shed to order the religious rites and 
 civil customs of his young kingdom ! Successors of 
 the bearded sages who sat immoveable and fearless upon 
 their ivory thrones, awaiting the wild onslaught of Bren- 
 nus and his Gaulish savages, serene in godlike majesty, 
 unwilling to survive their country ! Successors of those 
 stern patriots, who met without the walls, to receive the 
 embassage of the subdued and captive Regulus, whi- 
 lom their honoured consul ; and sent him back to die,
 
 128 THE OPAL. 
 
 that glorious exile, confirmed by his own matchless elo- 
 quence foretelling woes unspeakable to his loved city. 
 
 Si non periret immiserabilia 
 Captiva pubes ! 
 
 Successors of those undaunted seniors, who, when the 
 breathless herald of red Canna had scarcely panted 
 forth his tidings of disaster and defeat, as yet unparal- 
 leled, when Hannibal was all but thundering at their 
 gates, and was already boasting how he would plant the 
 Punic standards in the forum, and pitch his camp in the 
 Suburra, marched forth in all their majesty to meet their 
 vanquished general, that general whose rash daring had 
 lost all, and driven his wiser colleague to die " prodigal 
 of life" upon the field of Carthaginian glory ! to meet 
 and how to meet the rash and reckless Varro ? with 
 anger, and reproach, and penalties, for that by fighting 
 wrongly he had fared foully, and brought shame upon 
 Rome's eagles 1 No ! but with thanks honours and 
 thanks to the brave, although unsuccessful champion, 
 who, in the evil hour, " had not despaired of the repub- 
 lic !" Successors of the men who listened daily to the 
 vote, and applauded the opinion of that elder Cato, who 
 at each meeting of their body, while yet the Punic arms 
 laid waste the fields of Italy, decreed no peace with 
 Carthage but absolute annihilation ! Successors of 
 those legislators, whose souls had thrilled to the divine 
 eloquence of Cicero, when in full conclave he poured 
 forth the vials of his thunderous declamation upon the 
 cowering head of the fell Catiline ! of those who stir-
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY. 129 
 
 red not from their seats to avert the doom of the first 
 greatest Caesar, when the homethrust of Brutus smote 
 him down in his hour of pride, not that he loved Caesar 
 less, but that he loved Rome more ! of those, who left 
 the flower of their high order, praetorians, consulars, 
 greater than princes, weltering on the dire Pharsalia, 
 when liberty and Brutus died together ! of those, who 
 once again in later days, when even the name of free- 
 dom had been almost forgotten, made one last effort for 
 their sacred country, and on the death of a licentious 
 emperor, convoked their members to Jove in the capitol, 
 and gave the watchword Liberty, to the few fainting 
 cohorts who shuddered at the name which they lacked 
 manhood to defend ! 
 
 Such was the body -which was now convened in the 
 vast Julian senate-house, to judge between the rival doc- 
 trines, to pass that sentence, which should stamp for ages 
 the history of a world's religion. Nor changed although 
 it was, and fallen from those old times of grand sim- 
 plicity, when Cincinnatus left his plough in the unfinished 
 furrow to take upon himself the dictatorial wreath, and 
 his work done, his country saved, resigned that supreme 
 sway and turned back to his little fields in time to sow 
 and harrow that same glebe which he had turned up ere 
 his brief authority ! Nor, changed although it was, did 
 it lack many a noble name, many a name that made the 
 heart bound mindful of past glory, as the lip spoke it 
 and many a virtuous heart and all-capacious intellect, 
 many a tongue instinct with eloquence, that could arouse 
 its hearers like a trumpet, many a soul of fire, many a 
 spirit worthy of old Rome.
 
 130 THE OPAL. 
 
 They met in that vast hall, whose very atmosphere 
 was memory and glory they met, a glorious concourse ! 
 From the gray hair and flowing beard of wrinkled age, 
 down to the scarcely bearded chin and crisped lovelocks 
 of boy patricians, each lustre of man's life had there its 
 representative the bowed and frail octogenarian, whose 
 clear dark eye alone bespoke the intellect untamed by 
 years; the hoary counsellor, still ripe in wisdom and 
 erect in frame, though the joints might have stiffened, and 
 the corporeal strength departed ; the veteran of a hun- 
 dred fields, with brow of bronze and frame harder than 
 steel, with grizzled hair, and eye cold, unimpulsive, yet 
 full of energy and calm collected firmness ; the world- 
 defying warrior in the full flush of manhood, with the 
 old Roman mould of features, aquiline, keen, and 
 haughty, and the outflashing fiery eye, quick as the 
 eagle's ; the wild imaginative youth, the idol of the sex, 
 full of high dreams and fitful fancies, hot hopes and 
 glowing aspirations, soon to be quenched in the cold 
 world. All these were gathered there, the senators of 
 Rome, in their high robes of state, not now, as in the 
 olden time, all clothed alike and simply in tunics of 
 white woollen, with the broad purple facings on the 
 breast, which alone indicated their proud dignity, and 
 snow-white togas edged with a purple hem ! For these 
 luxurious and effeminate days, such plain and moderate 
 attire would have been held unseemly, mean, and dis- 
 graceful to a man of birth and station. Tunics all wore, 
 flashing with every rich and gorgeous hue that can be 
 fancied, among which shone most frequent and resplen- 
 dent the brilliant Tyrian scarlet. Embroidery and tissues
 
 THE TRIUMPH OP CHRISTIANITY. 131 
 
 wrought of gold and silver, and garbs of silk sold but a 
 few years previously, and sold as it was thought cheaply 
 at their weight in gold, were common in that glittering 
 assemblage. And for the old white woollen toga, robes 
 were indeed worn ample and studied in their graceful 
 flow, and giving dignity to those who wore them ; but 
 these too, like the tunics, were of all tints, all fabrics, 
 and all fashions. Some of Calabrian wool dyed purple, 
 with a rich warp of golden threads varying the darker 
 texture ; some of gay Oriental silks, blended with hues 
 delicate as the last sunset reflection on the fleecy clouds; 
 and some of that Egyptian byssus, or flaxen gauze, so 
 thin and precious that it was oftentimes called woven air, 
 by the imaginative writers of that poetic clime. 
 
 And now the Emperor, the mighty Theodosius, as- 
 sumed in person the curule chair of ivory raised on its 
 dais, his lictors with their fasces clustered behind him, 
 and his praetorian guards in all the glitter of their mag- 
 nificent accoutrements. Stately and grand in person as 
 he was famous for his deeds in arms, having twice saved 
 the empire once from the savage Goths by Adrianople 
 and the banks of Danube, and once again from the 
 fierce Maximus, the murderer of his benefactor Gratian 
 he occupied the highest place, here in the western 
 capital, which he had visited in order to assist his impe- 
 rial friend and pupil in putting an end to the abuses so 
 prevalent in Rome, which the weak tempers of the yield- 
 ing Valentinian gave him no power to suppress. 
 
 A wreath of golden bays, the only crown which had 
 ever decked the brows of Rome's imperial line a decora-
 
 132 THE OPAL. 
 
 tion borrowed from the green garland, with which the first 
 who sat upon that throne of thorns was wont to cover 
 his bald temples glittered among the dark locks of the 
 stern and haughty soldier, whose keen high features and 
 bright eagle aspect might have beseemed the founder of 
 the empire. He wore a scarlet sagum, the military 
 dress, or surcoat of the day, elaborately wrought with 
 golden borders, from under which flashed now and then, 
 when its folds were displaced by any sudden movement, 
 his complete panoply of blue Iberian steel. His knees 
 and legs were bare, only a pair of gilt and jewelled 
 sandals guarding his naked feet. But over all flowed 
 the broad draperies of the toga palmata the old triumphal 
 robe of dignity, worn only by the victor up from the 
 field of Mars along the sacred road even to the Capitol, 
 during that pomp sublime, which was deemed by the 
 simple fathers of the commonwealth so rare and godlike 
 a distinction, that it was necessary for a slave to stand 
 behind the victor in his ivory car, whispering in his ear 
 the admonition, " Remember that thou art a man," lest, 
 charmed too much by his extraordinary elevation, he 
 should forget his nature and so believe himself a god. 
 
 This gorgeous dress had now become the wonted garb 
 of the lords of both the empires, and it indeed was 
 worthy of their state. Wrought with the finest wool, 
 dyed with the richest tints of the Tyrian crimson, and 
 all inwoven with palm branches, from which it had its 
 name, in threads of solid gold, it would have far outvied 
 the bravest shows of modern royalty. 
 
 But it was not the glittering armour, nor the crimson
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY. 133 
 
 robe ! not the clear golden bays, nor the tall sceptre, 
 surmounted not now by the rapacious eagle of the de- 
 stroying Mars, but by the cross and monogram of the 
 redeeming Saviour. It was the man himself the man 
 and soldier, higher even then in the people's estimation 
 than the mere emperor the man and soldier shining 
 out amid the degenerate line of base and vicious and 
 effeminate princes, as worthy to be numbered with the 
 heroes of old Rome, with the Horatii and the nobles of 
 the Fabian house, the Scipios and the Marcelli the iron 
 champions of the Republic, while yet her march was 
 onward. 
 
 He rose, and leaning with his left hand lightly upon 
 the Christian sceptre, announced to the assembled sena- 
 tors in clear calm tones, that they were convened to 
 hear the legate Symmachus and good Ambrosius of 
 Milan contend concerning the two creeds of Jupiter and 
 Jesus the old faith and the new and to judge whether 
 of the two was best for Rome to follow. " Listen then, 
 fixedly, that ye may decide wisely !" he concluded his 
 brief harangue " judge slowly, but decree finally 
 knowing that cautious judgment begets wise decision 
 and not forgetting that, this day, ye decide not the cause 
 of mortal men, but of immortal gods ! that ye judge, 
 this day, not for yourselves only, but for Rome, for all 
 Italy, for all the Roman Empire, which is the universal 
 world ! not for your own lives only, nor for your sons', 
 nor your sons' sons' but for innumerable ages, for all 
 time. Remember this, O Conscript Fathers, and be 
 your great decision worthy all nations and all ages !" 
 And with this grand though simple exhortation he 
 12
 
 134 THE OPAL. 
 
 resumed his seat, and signed to Symmachus, the deputy 
 of Rome's pagan priesthood, of the majority of Rome's 
 pagan senate, most eloquent so said the voice of fame 
 of all Rome's splendid orators to commence his 
 pleadings, the exordium of that day's never to be for- 
 gotten cause. 
 
 He rose, a noble-looking man, already past the prime 
 of manhood, but not yet tending in the least toward 
 decrepitude or weakness. Far from it : his port was 
 erect and firm as a warrior's on the deadly trench, 
 before the entering foes rush on to storm it. He stood 
 for a moment speechless, with his eyes turned upward, 
 as if in mute appeal to those whose cause he was about 
 to undertake, for their support and succour ; then gazed 
 around him for a space as if impressed so much by 
 the magnitude of his subject that he lacked words to 
 clothe his thoughts. Then he commenced in slow, deep, 
 regular, melodious accents, that wondrous speech, the 
 fame of which, together with itself, has come down to 
 these days, and which, if it appear to us scarce worthy 
 of the vast encomiums heaped upon it, we must judge 
 rather from its effect on those to whom it was delivered, 
 than by our calm and dispassionate judgment. We 
 read it not with minds full of the memories which 
 crowded to the souls of those who heard it, which made 
 them fancy that the very air of the senate-house was 
 burthened by the presence of those old deities, awaiting 
 the decision that should secure to them their ancient 
 seats, or banish them for ever from the walls which 
 they had rendered free, and great, and glorious ; with 
 which they claimed coeval life and power.
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY. 135 
 
 Symmachus pleaded for his sacred country. 
 
 " As soon as this, your noble senate," he began, all 
 ears attent to catch the slightest syllable that fell from 
 his lips, " most noble, and for ever yours," addressing 
 the two emperors, " perceived that all abuses had been 
 put down by law, and saw that the fame of recent days 
 had been rendered clear by its pious princes, following 
 the authority of an age so upright, it gave a tongue to 
 the grief which it had so long stifled in its bosom, and 
 ordered me once more to be the organ of its sorrowful 
 complaints. Why, why was it so long denied audience 
 by unjust rulers? why but that it was destined that 
 your justice, our imperial lords, should not be wanting, 
 O Valentinian, Theodosius, and Arcadius, illustrious 
 conquerors, august triumphal arbiters ! 
 
 " Discharging then a double duty, I, as your prefect, 
 transact this public duty ; I, as their deputy, commend to 
 you the prayers of my fellow-citizens. Here there is 
 no opposition of men's wills to yours ; for men have 
 long since ceased to fancy that they can gain the favour 
 of their friends, if they oppose them. To be loved, to 
 be esteemed, to be adored, is worth far more than 
 empire. Who then shall say that contests such as this 
 can harm the commonwealth 1 Justly the Senate pur- 
 sues those with punishment, who have preferred their 
 individual power to the glory of their rulers. Our 
 grateful toil, however, keeps guard for the protection of 
 your clemency. For whom doth it concern so much as 
 ye, who are the glory of the time, that we defend the 
 institutions of our ancestors, the rights of our country, 
 and its sacred auspices 1 which glory is so much the
 
 136 THE OPAL. 
 
 brighter, as ye shall understand more clearly that 
 nothing can be lawful contrary to the custom of our 
 parents. We then demand again that old religion, 
 which was so long the safeguard of the commonwealth. 
 Emperors, without doubt, there have been of either 
 sect, of each opinion. A late prince restored the holy 
 ceremonies of those our fathers. One yet more recent 
 set them not aside. If then the religious veneration of 
 the former constitute no example, suffer at least the per- 
 mission of the latter to effect so much. 
 
 " For who is such a friend to the Barbarian, that he 
 would not restore the altar due to Victory ? We have 
 become of late so cautious, that we avoid the celebration 
 of such things ; let then that honour be at least restored 
 to the name which is denied to the divinity ! Already 
 your eternity of glory owes much to Victory, hereafter 
 it shall owe yet more ! Let men revolt from their 
 allegiance to that power, which never has availed them 
 any thing, but shun, oh ! shun, great emperors, to desert 
 that being that has so patronized and planned your 
 triumphs. This heavenly power of Victory is sought 
 and supplicated ; let no one therefore deny worship to 
 that which he deems worthy prayer. If then the 
 banishment of this great goddess is not entirely just 
 and fitting, at least, at least they should have spared her 
 decorations in the Senate. 
 
 " Grant to us, then, we do beseech, that what we 
 have received as children from our parents, that we as 
 fathers may hand down to posterity. Vast is the love 
 of custom. It was by right that the act of Constan- 
 tinus, now a god, was not of long existence. All things
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY. 137 
 
 should be avoided as examples, which recently esta- 
 blished have been as recently abolished. We now take 
 council to establish the eternity of your names, and 
 your glory, lest future ages may find something to 
 correct in these likewise. 
 
 " Where shall we swear hereafter to keep your laws, 
 and to obey your words ? by what religious oaths shall 
 the mind be terrified, so that it may not belie its own 
 true witness ? All places are indeed full of God, nor 
 is there any room of safety for the perfidious ; but 
 nothing has so great value to deter from crime as the 
 actual presence of religion. That altar holds fast the 
 unanimity of all that altar binds the singular faith of 
 each ; nor is there any thing which so securely ratifies 
 your sovereign sway, as this sworn rule which regulates 
 the whole course of affairs. Shall an asylum then be 
 opened for profane perjuries, and shall my noble princes 
 esteem this worthy of their approbation, who are de- 
 fended by a public oath ? But we are told that the 
 divine Constantinus did this same thing. Rather, oh ! 
 rather let us emulate the other actions of this prince, 
 who never had so erred, if any other had in the like 
 sort erred before him. For the fault of a predecessor 
 corrects the successor ; and oftentimes improvement 
 springs from the disapprobation of foregone example. 
 It was decreed by fate, that he, the parent of your 
 present clemency, could not escape from odium for so 
 strange an innovation. But shall we find so much as a 
 defender, if we shall imitate what we know to have 
 been done, and when done disapproved? Let your 
 eternal majesty rather select some other deeds of that 
 12*
 
 138 THE OPAL. 
 
 same prince, which it may bring more profitably into 
 use ! He stripped off nothing from the privileges of the 
 vestals ; he filled the vacant priesthoods up with nobles ! 
 He denied not the expenditures for the old Roman ritual, 
 and following the joyous Senate through all the streets 
 of the eternal city, beheld with placid countenance the 
 shrines ; read on the summits of the temples the inscribed 
 titles of the gods ; inquired the origin of those holy 
 places, admired the piety of their old founders ! and 
 when he journeyed into other regions, he preserved these 
 at least in their accustomed majesty. 
 
 " For every nation has its own customs, and every 
 country its own rites. The divine intellect of the 
 universe to various lands and cities has assigned various 
 guardians, various modes of worship. As souls are 
 allotted to new-born bodies, so fated genii are assigned 
 to new-born cities ! Expediency moreover speaks aloud, 
 which not the least asserts to men the existence of the 
 gods. For when all reason is obscured, whence shall 
 we better seek our knowledge of divinities than from 
 memory, and the annals of a prosperous state ? Now 
 then, if the long course of time can give authority to 
 religion, we must needs put faith in so many centuries 
 we must needs follow the example of our fathers, who 
 have so happily followed theirs, and with so glorious 
 fortune. 
 
 " I think I think, O princes ! that Rome herself 
 stands near to us, the mighty genius of our grand 
 Rome, and thus implores you with words words that 
 command your reverence 'Excellent princes, fathers 
 of your country, respect the length of years to which
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY. 139 
 
 my pious rites have given me to attain oh ! let me use 
 unto the end my old ancestral ceremonies. Never! 
 never shall you repent of it. Let me live in mine own 
 customs let me, for I am free ! .This faith it was, this 
 worship, that reduced a world to obedience to my laws 1 
 These sacred rites drove Hannibal defeated from the 
 walls hurled the Gauls headlong from the Capitol ! 
 and have I been preserved for this, that in my old age 
 I should be disgraced and humbled? For slow and 
 shameful is the compeUed improvement of the aged!" 
 Let us then ask peace from the gods of our country 
 pardon from the gods of the native soil. Is it just that, 
 whatever all men worship, that we should deem the 
 same ! We all look up to the same stars ; the heaven is 
 common which overhangs us ; the world which contains 
 us is the same ! What can it matter then by what path 
 every man arrives at what he deems the truth ? It is 
 not possible to reach by one road to so wonderful a 
 secret. But this dispute is suited only to men of leisure. 
 We have need now of prayers to your clemency, O 
 princes, not contests for the right. Consult then, mighty 
 lords, your own munificence, your own good wisdom, 
 your own justice, your own self-preservation ; for yours 
 is the empire which we would preserve in its pristine 
 purity yours is the safety of the laws, the strength of 
 civil privileges, the sanctity of the most solemn gods, 
 who have so often interposed to save this grand and 
 fair republic, both in its early youth, and in its splendid 
 womanhood, and who will still, so ye extend to them your 
 high protection, continue now in its vast old age to 
 shelter it from outward evil, and from internal wrong,
 
 140 THE OPAL. 
 
 and keep it green and fresh, mightier, and more glorious, 
 and more grand, for ever and for ever." 
 
 He ceased, and there was a hush that fell at once 
 most solemn and impressive over the mighty concourse. 
 The mind of the degenerate Romans was awakened, 
 and for a little space they remembered that they were 
 Romans. Then came a quick and rustling sound, as 
 if each one of all that great assemblage had at once 
 drawn a deep breath after the breathless expectation of 
 a long excitement. But then uprose Ambrosius, the old 
 noble prelate, to plead the cause of the Redeemer. His 
 tall thin figure, bent and emaciated by the joint effect of 
 years and the austerities of church discipline, his fine 
 expressive features wrinkled, and pale, and careworn, 
 his beard and hair white as the snows upon Soracte, 
 presented a fine contrast to the soldierly and upright 
 port of Symmachus ; so did the thin and shrill accents 
 of the aged prelate contrast the deep tones of the vigor- 
 ous pagan ; so did his simple and undecorated language 
 contrast the rounded and elaborate periods of the 
 eloquent impassioned advocate. 
 
 " Princes," he said, " and senators ! I do not seek, 
 like Symmachus to win your minds by a display of 
 words, nor to reach your understandings through your 
 fancies. I will not therefore excite your patriotism so 
 to work on your prejudices ; nor stir you to the love of 
 glory, so that thereby I may move you to the love of 
 God. He in his eloquent and superb speech has told 
 you that, because Rome grew mighty under the sway 
 of the old religion, therefore that religion must needs 
 be true ; and that because coeval, it must be the cause
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY. 141 
 
 therefore of her glories. To this, O princes, I reply, that 
 I too am a Roman that I can prize the glories, can thrill 
 at the victories, can reverence the antiquities of Rome as 
 much as Symmachus or any other. But it is not so ; no! 
 the hands and hearts of Romans built up the fame, even 
 as they built up the walls, of the great capital. The 
 sword of good Camillus beat Brennus back from the 
 half-conquered citadel, which Jupiter had launched no 
 thunders to defend. The arms, never subdued though 
 often beaten, of Scipios and Neros, of Fabii and Pauli, 
 prodigal of blood in their country's cause, drove Hannibal 
 despairing from the walls. 
 
 " Where were the gods of Rome, these guardian 
 gods what voice foreboding ill warned them of coming 
 evil, when the three hundred Fabii went forth to die on 
 the sad field of Cremera 1 When all the pride and 
 flower of Rome cumbered sad Cannse 1 Who ever hath 
 seen Victory this winged and crowned Victory, whose 
 exile from these halls he so indignantly bewails ? who, 
 I say, ever saw this bold and naked-bosomed harlot 
 striding the blast of battle, pointing the blows of heroes, 
 swaying the fate of empires ? Do ye ask, then, do ye 
 ask now who gives the splendid boon ? I answer you, 
 the heart, the hand, the will of every soldier ! Under 
 the arbitry of Him, the one and only God, even the Lord 
 of Hosts ! Nay more where are the towns, the nations, 
 the great emperors, the valiant heroes, the proud armies, 
 that have fallen to swell the might of Rome? They had 
 their gods their old gods, and their old religions. 
 Their orators recounted too their glories, and gave 
 praise for those glories to those old gods and to that
 
 142 THE OPAL. 
 
 old religion. Mars was not worshipped first on the 
 Quirinal, nor Jupiter upon the proud Capitoline ! Juno 
 loved Argos, Carthage ! She beat down Troy before the 
 Argive spear, and calmed the waves beneath the fleets 
 of the Phoenician city ! But she beat not the Roman, 
 when the short sword and pilum played havoc with the 
 phalanx ; when the destroying ploughshare erased the 
 very vestiges of Dido's palace ! Minerva sat on the 
 world-famed Acropolis ; her the Athenians sung with 
 hymns of praisefiil adoration, when she smiled upon 
 Marathon and Salamis, yea ! smiled upon the flight of 
 Xerxes. Where were her segis and her lance when 
 her long walls went down before Lysander 1 Where, 
 when the Roman Praetor gave forth his edicts from the 
 high seat of the Archons ? Where were the gods who 
 dwelt in Aero-Corinth, when all her costly treasures 
 were molten into bronze, and Mummius shouted among 
 her shrines in barbarous triumph ? Where were the 
 Doric gods, when Syracuse was taken, heavy with wine 
 and slumber, before the morning twilight ? These, 
 Romans, are the gods you worship they worshipped 
 them of old, and thanked them for their own glories, 
 and sat secure and confident in their protection ! Could 
 they not save these then? these mighty gods! these 
 great old gods ! could they not save the nations which 
 adored them or did they lack the will, and not the 
 power to save ? Romans, if they could not save Car- 
 thage or Corinth, Athens or Syracuse, or, mightier yet, 
 Troy, Nineveh, and Babylon, how shall they then be 
 able to save Rome ? Or if they betrayed these, how 
 shall you sit secure and confident, that they will not
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY. 143 
 
 betray you likewise ? Put not your trust in images of 
 wax and clay build not your temples on the sand, but 
 rather on the Rock of Ages. 
 
 " Tell me, who is this Jupiter, who, as you vainly fancy 
 thunders above the Capitol ? begot in incest, a rebel, 
 and a parricide, a murderer, an adulterer and a tyrant 
 a God. Tell me, I pray, wherein the Lord of Heaven 
 differs from his dark brother, the Lord of Tartarus except 
 in deeper dye. Who is this Venus, whom your virgin 
 daughters worship? a harlot, a false wife, a mere wan- 
 ton ! But why speak of Jupiter alone, or Venus 1 Show 
 me one god, of all with whom the legends of the lying 
 Greek have filled Olympus, one god or goddess free 
 from the taint of infamous pollution. The very thief has 
 his patron deity, and calls on Mercury the while he cuts 
 a pocket. The Roman matron stealing from out the 
 chamber of her drugged and lethargic spouse to seek 
 the wanton meeting, lisps forth in mincing phrase her 
 prayer to Venus for protection. The murderer stained 
 with his victim's blood, the drunkard reeling in his 
 cups, the very sorcerer plying his fiendish trade, can 
 palliate their guilt and point their patrons in Mars, or 
 Bacchus, or Persephone. Symmachus tells you that the 
 prince Constantine, whom he profanely styles a god, did 
 wrongly, when he removed winged Victory from this 
 august assemblage. He prays you, noble princes, to 
 replace the fluttering wanton upon the pedestal whence 
 he deposed her. But tell me, Romans, did Victory desert 
 Constantine, or did He. who showed to him in the heavens 
 his eternal symbol, who told him that ' in this sign he 
 should conquer,' cover his head in battle, and crown his
 
 144 THE OPAL. 
 
 days with triumph ? Symmachus tells us that his sue- 
 cessor, wiser than that good Constantino, replaced this 
 glorious emblem, resumed the ancient faith, set up the 
 thyrsus and the phallum, the foul signs of Bacchus or 
 Priapus, above the cross of Christ. Does he tell you 
 that the old gods gave victory to Julian ? Methought he 
 fell the vanquished though brave leader of a defeated 
 army ! Believe me, Romans, there is no safety in these 
 stocks and stones these fiends and demons. Listen to 
 what Paul said at Athens listen, and then judge whether 
 Jupiter is God, whom ye in your superstition worship, 
 or the One Everlasting, Uncreate, Invisible, Omnipotent ! 
 Your own old legends tell you that Jupiter was born, 
 that nymphs fed his infant lips; that frantic priests 
 drowned by loud music the discord of his nursing cla- 
 mours. They show his tomb in Crete. A precious God 
 indeed to worship, a God, who was born, and perished ! 
 But He whose name is I AM, who is from everlasting 
 unto everlasting who made all things himself, but was 
 not made of any one, nor born, nor begotten, but self- 
 existent and eternal ! he is a God indeed ! Him I declare 
 unto you ! 
 
 " ' God that made the world, and all things therein, 
 seeing that he is the Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth 
 not in temples made with hands ; neither is worshipped 
 with hands as though he needed any thing ; seeing he 
 giveth to all, life, and breath, and all things ; and hath 
 made of one blood all nations of men, for to dwell on 
 the face of the earth, and hath determined the times 
 before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation ; 
 that they should seek the Lord if haply they may feel
 
 THE TRIUMPH OP CHRISTIANITY. 145 
 
 after him, and find him, though he be not far from every 
 one of us ; for in him we live, and move, and have our 
 being ;' as certain also of your own poets have said, 
 ' for we are also his offspring.' 
 
 " Here then, O Romans, is a God worthy a mighty 
 nation able to save, and all-sufficient. Him seek, if ye 
 may find him ! Him, putting aside these idols which ye 
 now ignorantly worship, honour, and reverence, and bless, 
 and praise his name for ever, and pray to Him who is 
 indeed, as he hath spoken, ' a very present help in time 
 of trouble.' " 
 
 The weighty speaker ended the cause was pled the 
 victory was not a moment doubtful. Great Theodosius 
 rose, and put the question " Shall Jupiter be God of 
 Rome, or Christ the Saviour ?" 
 
 That was the most momentous vote that ever passed 
 a legislative body that vote made the world Christian 
 ay ! the world to its utmost ends, its secret places 
 then unknown its new hemisphere ! Had Britain, that 
 small distant province, divided from the whole world by 
 the stormy sea, continued as Rome's subject pagan, how 
 should America have known and worshipped her Re- 
 deemer ? 
 
 That vote was heard by earth, and registered by 
 Heaven its consequences are felt daily more and more ; 
 its blessed influence is borne on every wind that sweeps 
 the ocean to the remotest isles an influence that never 
 shall be stayed nor hindered, till the whole universe has 
 heard the joyous tidings till the whole universe shall 
 clap its hands, and sing hosannahs to its God and 
 Saviour. 
 
 13
 
 
 THE MILL. 
 
 BY MARY LOCKHART LAWSON. 
 
 FAR from my own dear land I roam, 
 A wanderer o'er the world's wide way, 
 
 Yet oft in dreams I see my home, 
 Live over youth's enchanting day ; 
 
 And climb once more the moss-grown hill 
 
 That looks upon the village mill. 
 
 Yes, softly beams before mine eyes 
 The tranquil beauty of that spot, 
 
 The mountain tops that kiss the skies, 
 The sparkling brook, the shady grot, 
 
 The busy wheel, whose ceaseless play 
 
 Dashed far and wide the silver spray. 
 
 Dim memories of departed years, 
 Of joy, and grief, are centred there : 
 
 I've roved its paths with hopes and fears, 
 In anxious thought, and voiceless prayer, 
 
 Until that rustic mill appeared 
 
 A silent friend, by time endeared.
 
 THE MILL. 147 
 
 You ask me why I fondly pine 
 
 O'er scenes that it were bliss to share, 
 
 When I again might call them mine, 
 And breathe in peace my native air ? 
 
 But think you to mine altered gaze 
 
 'Twould be the home of other days 1 
 
 Amid the careworn paths of life, 
 
 Too long a time my steps have stayed, 
 
 And earth and earth's debasing strife, 
 On every thought have cast a shade ; 
 
 And weariness would cloud my brow, 
 
 Were I amid those blessed scenes now. 
 
 For I have seen bright hopes depart, 
 
 And sorrow on my soul has pressed ; 
 But God has said, the faithful heart 
 
 Shall find eternal peace and rest ; 
 Oh then, when freed from every ill, 
 I'll calmly slumber near the mill.
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 
 
 YELLOW JACK. 
 
 BY C. F. HOFFMAN. 
 
 AMONG the passengers aboard of Ben Blower's steamer, 
 was a tall, gentlemanlike personage, of very mild address, 
 and adding a certain air of retenu to manners which 
 were characterized by a sort of natural frankness, that 
 could only flow from constitutional bonhomie of dispo- 
 sition. His countenance was both cheerful and intelli- 
 gent ; yet there too, without marring the candid openness 
 of his features, there would come ever and anon a fleeting 
 expression of impassioned thought, or tender sentiment, 
 which was singularly interesting ; and which, united to 
 the rich and ever-varying tones of the most eloquent 
 voice I ever listened to a voice, now clear and ring- 
 ing as a spring-brook in its sportiveness, now harsh and 
 withering in its tones of sarcasm, now again, feeling and 
 pathetic to a degree that was positively oppressive made 
 his whole character an exhaustless theme of curiosity to 
 me. I know not how long the charm might have lasted ; 
 but every conversation and interview developed some- 
 thing new in him. I could never get to the bottom, of 
 that man's character ; there seemed more in him, more
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 149 
 
 of " the human," than in any person I had ever been 
 brought in such close contact with for such a length of 
 time. I know not upon what plan such a mind as his 
 could have been constituted originally, nor by what pro- 
 cess it could have been fashioned afterward. I should 
 judge that he was by nature strongly impressible, from 
 the vividness with which every thing he had seen, heard, 
 read, or felt, seemed to have imprinted itself upon his 
 senses ; yet, his individuality was so thoroughly pre- 
 served, so rigidly prominent sometimes through every 
 emotion that he expressed, and every reminiscence that 
 he had treasured up, that I could not realize how his 
 nature had ever been thus acted upon by external circum- 
 stances. 
 
 I had frequently exchanged a passing salutation with 
 this gentleman, but our intimacy dates from the morning 
 when I found him standing by my side, an amused lis- 
 tener with myself to the story of Ben Blower, which I 
 have before related.* 
 
 " You came aboard, I believe, at one of the landings ?" 
 said he, politely accepting the cigar which I offered him. 
 
 " Yes, I have not been so low as New Orleans ; nor 
 did I dream that you were all running away from the 
 cholera there, when I took this boat." 
 
 " The cholera 's nothing, my dear sir ; you should 
 have taken the opportunity of seeing our beautiful city 
 before the fever season sets in. There is no spot in the 
 Union so interesting as New Orleans. No city which 
 
 * See " Wild Scenes of the Forest and Prairie," vol. ii. p. 142. 
 
 13*
 
 150 THE OPAL. 
 
 has had so much, and still has so much to contend 
 against on the score of prejudice ; yet whose unquench- 
 able enterprise and unrivalled situation, entitles her to 
 more consideration." 
 
 " You speak with the partiality of a resident," said I, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Yet I am not. I did once reside there, some fifteen 
 or twenty years ago ; and I assure you, you can have 
 no idea how I have been struck, on my late visit, with 
 the flourishing growth of the city, and the wonderful 
 change in the condition of its society since those days." 
 
 " It must have been as she was just after the last war 
 with England, that you remember New Orleans ?" 
 
 " Yes, about that time, or rather later. I think it was 
 in the spring of '18 or '19, that I first went down the 
 river. Never shall I forget that first dismal summer in 
 the now beautiful metropolis of the Southwest. New 
 Orleans, at the time I arrived in it, might well be called 
 the head-quarters of vice and iniquity. The town was 
 filled with an immense number of adventurers from every 
 country in Christendom, and the rapidity with which 
 fortunes were made, with the deadly perils encountered 
 by those who came hither to better their circumstances, 
 gave that dissipated, desperate and reckless character 
 to the motley population, which made New Orleans at 
 that time really the place of bad repute in which some 
 prejudiced persons still hold her. I arrived there, I 
 remember, on Sunday ; and sick of the varied sounds of 
 gambling, the rattling of billiards, dominos, and dice, 
 which seemed to form the Sabbath's amusement of my 
 hotel, I sallied out to take a stroll through the place, so
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 151 
 
 soon as the noonday heat was over. My steps first led 
 me to the shore, where the various crews of the keel- 
 boats and broad-horns from the upper country were 
 alternately carousing and fighting with Spaniards and 
 Frenchmen. I did not linger long among this riotous 
 assemblage ; but upon seeing a quadroon fruit-seller 
 borne down and dirked by a gang of fierce-looking 
 Spaniards, who were in turn beaten and dispersed by a 
 rush from the boatmen, who came to rescue one of their 
 number who had backed the poor quadroon, I thought that 
 I had better leave the place at once, if I would realize 
 the favourite boast of a Kentuckian at that time : ' I've 
 been fifteen minutes on the levee, and not licked yet.' 
 But I am boring you, my dear sir ?" 
 
 "Far from it, far from it, I assure you," I replied ; " to 
 me, nothing in our broad country is more interesting 
 than reminiscences like yours ; the changes from demi- 
 barbarism to sumptuous civilization is so rapid throughout 
 this western region, that the state of society half a gene- 
 ration back has all the interest, when compared with 
 that now existing, of the feudal memories of France con- 
 trasted with her present social condition." 
 
 The tea-bell here broke off our conversation, but 
 before passing to the eating saloon, my companion, 
 politely congratulating himself when I told him that I 
 was to be his fellow-passenger for the rest of this voyage, 
 handed me his card in exchange for mine. His real 
 name is unimportant to the reader, and in subsequently 
 placing at my service an unfinished MS. autobiography, 
 which he wished me to edit, he chose that of Washing- 
 ton Vanderlyn as the one by which he would be known
 
 152 THE OPAL. 
 
 to the public. The MS. was very imperfect, and, after 
 publishing one volume of it in the American Monthly 
 Magazine of 1836, (while editing that work a year or 
 two afterwards,) I waited long and vainly in the hope of 
 hearing farther from Mr. Vanderlyn, whose address 
 indeed I have now entirely lost. The following episode 
 in his life has never appeared in print before; and, 
 though many of its allusions must be lost upon the reader 
 as well as upon myself, it dovetails not unnaturally into 
 the conversation which I have just recorded. 
 
 " The grave-yard of New Orleans was at that day the 
 vilest place I ever saw. Several graves were always 
 ready dug, and, owing to the swampy character of the soil, 
 they filled with water instantly. There was a species of 
 tomb, however, above ground, built of brick ; they were 
 three stories high, and resembled a cluster of ovens in 
 appearance, each coffin filling one compartment. The 
 mouths of these were successively plastered up as the 
 occupant took possession ; but the cemetery around was 
 strewed in every part with bones and skulls ; the coffin- 
 cover of one man often served another for a tombstone, 
 and a man was scarcely allowed to get fairly settled in 
 his watery pit, before another grave was dug, perhaps 
 directly across him, and his remains, partially turned 
 up and dispersed, were exposed to every foot that might 
 chance to tread upon them. An old Spanish negro was 
 always at work here, preparing these inviting homesteads. 
 In his own language, he wondered that ' sometimes he 
 got the start of the dead by a dozen graves, 1>ut more 
 often they got ahead of him, by double the number.' 
 This worthy sexton, though he has been engaged for
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 153 
 
 seventeen years in the exercise of his profession, was but 
 a bungler yet. There is certainly no ' snug lying ' where 
 he makes the bed. A Roman Catholic funeral entered 
 this dreary domain while I was strolling thither one morn- 
 ing with Brashleigh. 
 
 " The procession was headed by several priests, dress- 
 ed very fantastically, and bearing in their hands cruci- 
 fixes, tapers, &c. Upon approaching the hole for 
 grave it could not be called they commenced shouting 
 a requiem for the departed soul, and then, upon reach- 
 ing it, they murmured a brief prayer, and immediately 
 walked away, leaving the negro grave-digger to finish 
 ' the job,' for such this abrupt ceremonial really was. 
 The grave was filled with water, in which the coffin 
 floated when let down, and the old negro jumped upon 
 the lid to sink it, but did not succeed. Attempts were 
 then made by other negroes to sink one end at a time, 
 but their efforts were all in vain, until after working for 
 some ten minutes, one of them broke a hole in the end 
 of the coffin with his spade, and by pressing it down 
 until the water filled it, finally succeeded in sinking it. 
 The grave-digger continued to stand upon it, and with a 
 large hoe raked in the mud, bones, skulls, and every 
 other remnant of mortality which he had dug out. I had 
 never before witnessed so shocking and brutal a specta- 
 cle, even in the brief burials I have witnessed after more 
 than one bloody battle-field ; but what astonished me 
 more was the want of feeling evinced by the female rela- 
 tions who stood by until all was over. There were at 
 that time more than thirty large and small graves ready
 
 154 THE OPAL. 
 
 dug and waiting for their victims alas, how soon to be 
 yielded to them! 
 
 " Within a brief six weeks of this time the yellow 
 fever had set in as an epidemic ; several hundred strangers 
 had been swept away by it ; and at last, when I followed 
 one acquaintance after another to his last miserable 
 home, I only likened the appearance of this cemetery 
 to a field that has been freshly ploughed. The recollection 
 of those dismal days is too harrowing for memory to dwell 
 upon them, otherwise than by simply copying here the 
 details of a diary, which I kept for one who I thought 
 would feel a sad pleasure in perusing it, when the hand 
 that wrote it might be cold in death for ever. As I 
 have not the heart to abridge and remodel it now, I 
 ought perhaps to withhold it altogether, but this history 
 of my adventures would be incomplete without some of 
 its details ; and revolting as they may prove, they may 
 still have a wholesome effect upon the mind of some 
 querulous reader, who murmurs at the transient ills of 
 his condition, while such scenes of human suffering are 
 enacting among others of his kind. 
 
 " And may we not believe that one end which these 
 terrible visitations of Providence are intended to serve, 
 is to make us realize by contrast the good which is 
 habitually near us ? even as the complaining oak in the 
 Iroquois apologue, prized not the gentle dews which re- 
 freshed its foliage, until its boughs were alternately 
 reached by the tempest and withered by the drought ! 
 
 "August 8th, 18 . There is now no doubt that 
 ' Yellow Jack' is really among us in full force. Many
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 155 
 
 decided cases of ' black vomit,' which is here con- 
 sidered the only decided proof of his presence, are ad- 
 mitted to have occurred. Several of my acquaintances 
 are already down, and poor A. has been ill three days 
 and a half. If he lives through the next twelve hours 
 there is a chance in his favour, but I am sorry to say 
 there is scarcely a hope of that. 
 
 " Four o'clock, P. M. I have just heard that Mr. , 
 
 a rich merchant of Philadelphia, with whom I dine,d the 
 other day, is very desperate. His English servant died 
 of the fever this morning. Poor A. is no better. His 
 case excites much interest, as he is said to have a mother 
 and sisters at the north dependent upon him. But the 
 extreme and long-continued heat of these August suns 
 hardly leaves a hope in his favour. 
 
 " Eleven o'clock, P. M. A slight change for the 
 better in A.'s case. My Philadelphia acquaintance has 
 the 'black vomit,' and no earthly aid can now save him. 
 
 " Tuesday morning. Mr. and my friend A. 
 
 are both no more. I have heard of no death since the 
 prevalence of the fever which seems to have caused 
 more general and sincere regret than that of the latter. 
 
 o o 
 
 His high talent had already given him an enviable repu- 
 tation for so gay a man, and his gaiety and goodness of 
 heart won the praises of many friends, who, while they 
 live, will lament him. He could not be persuaded to 
 leave the place. He said that he had determined to ac- 
 climate himself, or to learn the worst, and when at last 
 he was attacked by this fatal fever, he still continued to 
 display that firmness of character and resignation to 
 death for which his memory is now so much admired.
 
 156 THE OPAL. 
 
 He continued to attend to his affairs, in some degree, 
 even to the day before his death ; and I find by a receipt 
 among his papers, which I examined and sealed up an 
 hour since, that he paid a tradesman's bill within the 
 twenty-four hours in which he breathed his last. The 
 unfeeling creditor must have seized some moment when 
 I had left his bedside, to jostle him upon the brink of 
 the grave. He was ill altogether but four days. On 
 the third, he told me that to-morrow he would be stiff". 
 I had still hopes of him, but thought it right, in case of 
 the worst, to ask him if he had any directions to leave 
 about his affairs. He gave a general reply, and requested 
 me to leave him then to his nurses, and call in the 
 morning for more particular instructions. I did so, but 
 the disease had made such progress in the interval, that 
 I found him too ill to talk on the subject. He said 
 simply that he was quite reconciled to his fate. A few 
 moments after the blood issued from his mouth and 
 nostrils, and prevented his adding more. He then 
 turned himself over, laid his head on his pillow, and 
 shortly after died without a groan or a struggle. His 
 death was the least shocking that I have yet witnessed ; 
 his countenance did not turn black or yellow, as is 
 generally the case when this hideous disease closes in 
 dissolution ; and his departure would have been perfectly 
 placid if it were not for the screams and agonized 
 lamentations in adjoining chambers, where others, shrink- 
 ing from their fate, disturbed with their cries the last 
 moments of my more manly friend. 
 
 "August 18th. The epidemic seemed to have abated 
 three days ago, but the warm weather of the last two
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 157 
 
 two days has imparted new violence to it, and the mor- 
 tality among strangers is now appalling. Almost every 
 acquaintance I have, except Brashleigh, is named in the 
 list of cases either dead or dying. But if we should 
 be favoured by a hurricane or earthquake Yellow Jack 
 may yet let up before the commencement of September, 
 which they tell me is generally the most fatal season. 
 The fever was on the anniversary of Tuesday actually 
 blown out of town by a tornado. 
 
 " I only hope if there be no such good luck for us, that 
 my stock of spirits may hold out some six weeks longer. 
 The fate of poor A. has dashed but not damped them. 
 I must cease from thinking of his loss. This is no 
 season to entertain grief. Is there aught irreverent in 
 speaking thus of the pestilence ? Indeed, indeed, I mean 
 it not so ! No, though a sort of physical recklessness, 
 so to speak, has come over me amid this ceaseless peril, 
 yet infelt, at my heart, the holy teachings of my youth 
 plead like remembered music, whose strains were never 
 more soothing than now. 
 
 " Moreover, I am determined not to be frightened to 
 death in any event ; and after all, what does it matter 
 how, where, and particularly when, a man situated like 
 me, ' slips his wind ?' The tearful eye of neither widow 
 nor orphan will ever be vainly raised towards heaven to 
 see if husband or parent be there. He leaves scarcely 
 a blank in the creation, and small as that may be, it is 
 soon filled by some other object. No, Gertrude, one 
 one at least will weep in one fond heart the void I 
 know will ne'er again be filled ! For thee for thy dear 
 sake let me still battle stoutheartedly with this accursed 
 14
 
 158 ' * THE OPAL 
 
 pestilence^ It has pleased Heaven to spare me thus far^ 
 while many whose health was as robust, whose hopes 
 were fairer than mine save only they had no saint like 
 thee to plead in prayer for them have passed away for 
 ever. 
 
 " August 19. Gertrude's miniature ! God bless the 
 bark that brought it to me ! and to-day, too ! how strange 
 that it should come upon the very anniversary of my 
 first whispered hopes ! It was kindly done in her to 
 send me that which, next to herself, I hold most pre- 
 cious ; and yet, oh ! how could she pen this letter, still 
 holding me to my pledge of honour ! This long, long 
 exile cannot be right ; is she not my love my own the 
 heaven-sworn wife of my bosom ? Is it not weakness 
 in me still to defer my rightful claim ? so fond, so faith- 
 ful, yet so unrelenting, so uncompromising, in what she 
 deems the maintenance of a principle. How incon- 
 ceivable is the character of woman ! how apparently 
 irreconcilable the blended firmness and tenderness of 
 her nature ! Did Gertrude but know the perils which 
 now environ me, she would perforce relent, and I might 
 make my own conditions as to leaving this living sepul- 
 chre. But no ! the pride of honour is as strong in my 
 bosom as the less vainglory of triumphant principle in 
 hers. The bright years of my youth are already gone, 
 and this ungenial climate is sapping the vigour of my 
 manhood. But in the now blasted state of my fortunes 
 I will make no further appeal, save from the grave, that 
 may be even at this moment yawning for its victim. Yet, 
 God of heaven ! it is bitter to survey charms like these 
 to know how nearly, in all their freshness and beauty,
 
 SCENES Olf THE MISSISSIPPI. 159 
 
 they migM be mine, yet dream that they must fade before 
 I can again behold their living reality. 
 
 " Time hath not touched one beauty of her face, 
 And Care his hand hath lain so gently there, 
 That e'en Affection's scrutiny can trace 
 No lines remaining where his fingers were. 
 
 " Time ! his light pinion hath but brought to her, 
 The woman's beauty girlhood's promise gave, 
 When first upon this night the whisperer 
 
 Hope made of me that beauty's willing slave ! 
 
 " Yet years, ay ! ten of them ten long, long years, 
 
 Ten years of love, that can not, will not, die, 
 Though bowed in hopelessness and steeped in tears, 
 In heart-wrung tears of mortal agony ! 
 
 " Ten years, o'er me o'er both of us have passed ; 
 
 O'er me, with each bright goal in life unwon, 
 O'er her with shadows only round her cast 
 From wings of love despairing and undone. 
 
 "Yet still I murmur not ; no ! did I dare, 
 
 With soul all heavenward here to plead in prayer, 
 'T would be that ever thus in life thy share 
 Of earthly ill, my loveliest, I might bear. 
 
 " The time will come, I know, I feel it must, 
 
 When love no more will make its vain appeal 
 An echo from thy heart when mine is dust, 
 My best, my only loved at last will steal !
 
 160 THE OPAL. 
 
 "August 21, 1 o'clock. Mr. H. died and was buried 
 yesterday. Every effort had been made by the kind woman 
 in whose house he lodged, and by his physician, to save 
 him, but in vain. On the evening of his death the bleed- 
 ing commenced, caused by the calomel, and continued 
 until he expired. The poor fellow appeared very anxious 
 to live, and several times in a paroxysm of mental agony 
 he clasped his arms around his nurse's neck entreating 
 her to save him. He endeavoured to talk, for he had 
 previously said that if he could not live, he had some- 
 thing to tell ; but it was too late, and the words died upon 
 his lips. He was a stranger, from Ireland, a meek, 
 modest, and good young man. He was followed to 
 his grave by Brashleigh and myself, and five or six of 
 his countrymen. He was a Roman Catholic, and strict 
 in his faith, but the priests were all pre-engaged else- 
 where and could nor attend, so we buried him without a 
 prayer. By adding a dollar to the usual fees of the 
 sexton we procured him a dry grave, although some 
 other poor fellow's bones were disturbed to make room 
 for him ; but this was nothing to the sexton, and he 
 shoveled away the bones of the first occupant, as if he 
 had no right to be there. When the coffin had been duly 
 deposited in its receptacle, he roughly cast in the mud 
 and bones, and said ' 't was finished.' A poor country- 
 man of the dead man was standing, with his arms folded, 
 listlessly gazing on this misshapen grave, thinking per- 
 haps that he might be the next to follow in the other's 
 footsteps. He looked up at the Spanish sexton, and told 
 him that his work was badly done ; the other gave an 
 insolent reply, and the poor Irishman meekly offered to
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 161 
 
 pay him something more to finish the grave with some 
 neatness, but his request was refused. He then took 
 the spade, shovelled more earth upon the heap, and, 
 patting it down, gave it at length the appearance of a 
 Christian's resting place ; then, muttering a short prayer, 
 and I could not help taking off my hat when he did 
 so he walked silently away. I thought that his breast 
 was full of the milk of human kindness, and that, poor 
 and humble as he was, he was an honour to the land he 
 came from. 
 
 " August 22. Brashleigh to-day received a letter from 
 a correspondent at Baton Rouge, in which the writer 
 inquires after his daughter, whom he had placed at 
 school in the convent here. The letter enclosed another 
 for the young lady, recalling her home to her parents, to 
 remain until the epidemic should have subsided. That 
 daughter, a lovely young girl of sixteen, is dead and 
 buried. 
 
 "August 23. I have just returned from the funeral of 
 the humane Irishman, which Brashleigh and I determined 
 upon attending. He died last night at midnight, and was 
 buried at seven o'clock this morning. 
 
 " I begin to find a strange and unnatural interest in 
 watching the progress of this pestilence. I have not 
 yet grown callous, like many around me, but my mind 
 derives a singular, and, I ought hardly to write it, a 
 pleasurable excitement from the mortality with which I 
 am beset. As people fall off, men and women, rapidly, 
 the thickening peril seems to partake something of the 
 bustling danger of the battle-field. Excitement will 
 indeed flag sometimes a little, at witnessing the glowing 
 14*
 
 162 THE OPAL. 
 
 eyes of an acquaintance, at beholding the earth closing 
 over youth and health ; for I cannot then help think- 
 ing what will be the anguish of fond parents whose 
 prayers are often wafted to Heaven on the pure breeze 
 of their native hills and valleys, invoking God to shield 
 their offspring from the plague and the pestilence 
 often, and long even after the object of their affection 
 has ceased to be. But then I remember that ' grieving's 
 a folly,' that in a few short years the hopes, the regrets, 
 the cares and pleasures of us all, will like those whom 
 now they agitate vanish into the tomb. Poor A. used to 
 philosophize in this way when upon the first appearance 
 of this epidemic, I urged every argument in trying to 
 persuade him to leave the city, unfortunately without pre- 
 vailing until it was too late. The hand of death was 
 already extended to grasp him. The breath of existence 
 was already fleeting away. He had a mother and sisters 
 who may one day need his help. He possessed the affec- 
 tions and plighted faith of a lovely woman. But in 
 heaven alone can they be united. These are strong 
 reasons for living and for wishing to live ; yet even he 
 left the world apparently with calm indifference. He 
 had just lived long enough to see his hopes of fortune 
 blighted ; the world had hitherto gone pleasantly on for 
 him, and though firm enough to sustain, he did not care 
 about encountering any more of its trials. 
 
 " I have been sitting up with Mr. , a young Eng- 
 lishman to whom I acted as groomsman at his wedding 
 in St. Louis a year since ; and I do not think he can 
 recover. His wife is in very delicate health, and expects 
 soon to become a mother. Her visit to his bedside this
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 163 
 
 morning, when she came to relieve my vigil, was distress- 
 ing beyond description. I have not yet lost all feeling 
 on such occasions, though the frequent sight of death 
 and desolation might almost make one gaze upon them 
 with indifference. Whole families have now been swept 
 
 away. A Mrs. was buried this morning, whose 
 
 husband died last week ; she left two infants, twins, 
 aged about sixteen months, both of whom have been taken 
 
 ill to-day. Her neighbour, Mrs. , who lost a sister 
 
 and two boys, five days since, has happily, as I think, 
 followed them to-day. 
 
 " An interesting youth from Boston, attached to the law- 
 office of a gentleman who has shown him true hospi- 
 tality, died yesterday. He was attacked early in the 
 season with a violent typhus fever, and one night that I 
 sat up with him, I thought every breath might be his 
 last. He suffered then dreadfully ; but recovered to live 
 a few miserable weeks, to see hundreds of his young 
 friends perish around him, is again stretched on the bed 
 of sickness, and expires at the age of nineteen after a 
 week of torture. 
 
 " There has been a great change in the weather, within 
 a few hours. It is now chilly enough for winter clothing, 
 and the clear, the bright blue and almost sparkling skies 
 above, could never be supposed to be dropping pestilence. 
 Yet, though the newspapers say the yellow fever is sub- 
 siding, the physicians assert that it is only because no 
 subjects are now left for its exercise. All the strangers 
 that were in town are either dead or stretched upon the 
 bed of sickness j among the latter are two or three 
 slightly known to me. Their days are numbered, and a
 
 164 THE OPAL. 
 
 few hours will probably send the last with whom I have 
 any personal acquaintance into eternity. 
 
 " Will there be any fresh supply of ' subjects?' We 
 have not yet arrived at the middle of the ordinary sickly 
 season ; will commerce suspend its operations till all 
 danger has really passed away? Four passengers of 
 the brig Shark, which arrived from a northern port 
 only a week since, died yesterday. The mate, whom I 
 have seen drunk in the bar-room of my hotel ever since 
 his arrival, was carried off to the ' swamp' early this 
 morning; where it is thought from his looks he lies pretty 
 well sobered. Poor wretch ! only three nights since he 
 was boasting that ' he was of too good stuff to be turned 
 into Fuller's earth.' 
 
 " August 25th. I have just returned from the funeral 
 
 of Miss , an agreeable and benevolent maiden 
 
 lady who, while paying an occasional visit here last 
 winter, was much against her own inclination induced 
 to remain and superintend the domestic menage of a 
 relative who two weeks since shifted his homestead to 
 the narrow house. She has now followed him. Brash- 
 leigh and I were the only northerners that attended her 
 obsequies ; and he was so overcome by the tainted air of 
 the place, that he turned off without approaching the 
 grave. Pah ! I'll go no more among these noisome 
 sepulchres, unless, indeed, old Fuller the undertaker 
 shall take me there ! I almost fancied that he glanced 
 like a ghoul upon Brashleigh when he saw him leaning 
 faintly against the gateway. Has the old sinner taken 
 offence at some of our rough jokes ? or can he really single 
 out his victims with ' an evil eye ?'
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 165 
 
 " September 2d, 18 . My Bible tells me that this is 
 my baptismal day, and I look back in vain to the twenty- 
 seven years I have passed, for a morning of more painful 
 interest than this. Brashleigh, in the room adjoining that 
 in which I write, is just hovering between life and death ; 
 his fever has been very obstinate, owing to the vigour of 
 his constitution. This is his fifth day, and if the black 
 vomit should not come on in a few hours, there may be 
 very great hopes of his recovery. I have been with him 
 incessantly have given him his medicines, which he 
 will sometimes refuse from others, and dare not leave 
 him for a moment, as I have found he takes advantage 
 of my absence to get up, and has more than once fainted 
 in consequence. 
 
 " Judge has just stepped in to tell me that poor 
 
 C. is no more ! His fever took an unfavourable turn on 
 the third day, and he died on the fourth. He was taken 
 ill after leaving my lodgings on AVednesday night, and 
 was pronounced out of danger on Friday afternoon. 
 His calomel had taken effect, and every symptom was 
 favourable ; but the fatal black vomit commenced on 
 Saturday, and on Sunday evening at ten o'clock he was 
 a corpse. He retained his faculties at intervals to the 
 last moment, and died as a man ought to die. 
 
 " He died on his birthday, aged twenty-four years. 
 On the same day last year, his brother died of the same 
 disease. Would I had followed sooner, if Brashleigh 
 survive not his present illness ! 
 
 " I am interrupted by my poor friend vomiting thank 
 Heaven ! there is nothing black yet ! 
 
 " I have just returned from running to tell the doctor
 
 166 THE OPAL. 
 
 that I think my patient out of danger, and I expect the 
 physician every moment. God grant that he may con- 
 firm my opinion. 
 
 " I commenced this system of journalizing, my dearest 
 Gertrude, in the faint hope that what I write might 
 reach you, and afford some relief to your anxiety for I 
 know that the newspapers will be filled with exaggerated 
 accounts, if to say the truth they can be exaggerated. 
 But I shall now, for reasons sufficiently apparent upon 
 the face of it, withhold this journal from you for the 
 present. The fact is the fever was never worse than it 
 now is, and it is generally thought it never was so fatal. 
 Nearly all the cases of illness when I made my last 
 entry in my diary, have terminated in death. This is 
 the stranger's grave the mortality is among them ex- 
 clusively, and as I have few acquaintances with the 
 natives, every day brings on the burial of a friend, and 
 leaves me more and more solitary in this desolate city. 
 
 " For myself I feel perfectly confident that I shall 
 escape the fever, and I may say that my spirits are 
 good, now that Brashleigh is out of danger, though it is 
 dismal to live in such continued anxiety for others. 
 One cannot form a friendship but it is almost sure to 
 be broken, and the incessant tales which one hears of 
 the sickness of one friend, and the death' of another, 
 are worse than the incessant tolling of a funeral bell. 
 Yet with all this, if I could only think that my Ger- 
 trude's feelings were at rest, I could be quite contented. 
 
 " Two o'clock, P. M. Brashleigh ! Oh God ! the 
 buoyant hopes, the prayerful thanks I breathed for him 
 this morning!
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 167 
 
 " Eleven o'clock at night.-^- Brashleigh has been almost 
 despaired of by his physician since the morning, but 
 again we are hoping for the best. We have commenced 
 giving him brandy and water ; thus far with very great 
 effect. If he does not grow worse during the night, he 
 may even yet be out of danger to-morrow. He has a 
 very powerful constitution, and I think with the blessing 
 of the Almighty we yet may save him. 
 
 " September the third, four o'clock, A. M. Brashleigh 
 is barely alive ; he has the black vomit and hiccough ; his 
 iron constitution still struggles with the disease ; but, oh 
 God ! the issues of life are with thee alone. 
 
 " September 20th, 18 . I am slowly regaining my 
 strength, and yesterday walked around the square in 
 the cool of the evening, to see a friendly Creole who 
 has been very kind to me during my illness. The dis- 
 interestedness of this gentleman must be rare among 
 the class to which he belongs, for I have never heard 
 the white Creole population accused of benevolence or 
 humanity, at this dreadful season. A shrug of the 
 shoulders, with the unvaried exclamation of ' pauvre 
 diablej is the sum total of their sympathy. But their 
 prejudices against Northerners will in time pass away, 
 and, meanwhile, the humanity of the quadroons is very 
 frequently displayed during the ravages of the epidemic. 
 Never can I forget their kindness to poor Brashleigh. 
 During his illness his bedside was never unoccupied by 
 some of these kind women ; fanning him, or administer- 
 ing some cooling beverage. Others again were con- 
 stantly sending him custards, and various kinds of
 
 168 THE OPAL. 
 
 drinks : after the fatal symptom of the black vomit 
 commenced, and his physicians ceased giving him 
 medicines, they entered upon a complete system of 
 treatment among themselves, and six or seven were 
 employed about him during the whole of the last day. 
 But alas ! he was too far gone, and every effort to rob 
 the grave of its victim was unavailing. My noble 
 friend at first attracted their sympathy by the firmness 
 of his conduct, of which they spoke in terms of asto- 
 nishment, saying that he was ' trop brave pour mourir.' 
 From the commencement of his illness until the moment 
 I knocked under myself, a period of six days and a 
 half, not a murmur, not a sigh, ever escaped him, and 
 his spirits retained all the elasticity they had possessed 
 when in health. He had often told me in earlier days 
 that he ' meant to die like a gentleman,' wherever or 
 however his fate might overtake him, nor did the manner 
 in which I ridiculed the phrase, prevent him from 
 defending it according to his own eccentric notions. 'A 
 deathbed,' he would say, ' a deathbed, my dear Van, is 
 the true test of the gentleman as well as the Christian. 
 It is there that good breeding and high courtesy will 
 receive its last trial, and he who is guilty of a breach of 
 that politeness which springs from a proper consideration 
 for others, even in his last extremity, he does not leave 
 the world like a gentleman.' 
 
 " In one interval of his illness, when his attendants 
 thought him out of danger, I sportively reminded JBrash- 
 leigh how nearly but a few hours before he had realized 
 an opportunity of reducing his favourite theory to prac- 
 tice. He answered with a grave humour, impossible to
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 169 
 
 describe upon paper, that he had been fully aware of 
 his critical situation, that both his blood and breeding 
 were subject to a trial,' and then, while a shade of sad- 
 ness passed momentarily over his countenance, added, 
 with the singular foreboding of a doomed man, ' This ill- 
 ness, Vanderlyn, will yet give you an opportunity of doing 
 justice to the principle which you ridicule as the fan- 
 tastic humour of your friend.' The result fully proved 
 the words of that noble and gifted though singular young 
 man. When, after his relapse, I informed him of his 
 situation, he received the tidings with as much indif- 
 ference as if they related to another person, while at the 
 same time thanking me for the communication, as for a 
 piece of intelligence it might be well for him to know, 
 and kind in me to communicate. He then, after appear- 
 ing for a moment busied in arranging his thoughts, gave 
 me his final directions in an unaltered voice, and re- 
 proached and shamed me for the want of firmness with 
 which I received them. Toward the last I had another 
 similar conversation with him. He had then had the 
 black vomit and hiccough all that day, and during the 
 night, which was already well advanced, I asked him 
 whether he had still any hopes of himself. He replied, 
 that it was a difficult question to answer, but that, as 
 in all probability he should die before morning, I had 
 better distribute the fruits and other delicacies for a sick 
 man which stood upon a table near his bed, among those 
 who were grouped around it, as they must need the 
 refreshment which could now be of no avail to him. 
 This singular consideration for others at that awful 
 moment, so touchingly realized the boast at which I 
 15
 
 170 THE OPAL. 
 
 had so often and so recently jested, that the scene 
 unmanned me completely, weakened as I was with long 
 watching, and under the influence of the disease, which 
 had already begun to act upon my own system. I soon 
 after left him. He grew worse during the night, 
 throughout which I heard every groan he uttered, and 
 thought the morning would never break. About dawn 
 the hideous features of his disease brought its termination. 
 In the last effort of expiring nature, he made a motion 
 for me to cross his arms upon his bosom ; when, turning 
 yet once more upon his couch, he threw up a substance 
 as black as a coal, and almost instantly breathed his 
 last. He was buried, as they told me, by eight o'clock 
 on the same day, but before that hour I was myself in a 
 raging delirium of fever. 
 
 " I paid a melancholy visit this morning to the church- 
 yard, or swamp, as it is generally called, but could not 
 distinguish the pile of mud and bones which covered 
 poor Brashleigh's remains, from the thousands of similar 
 mounds by which it was surrounded. The increase of 
 graves since my last visit to the cemetery is dreadful 
 indeed. While the fever contagion was at its height, a 
 dozen coffins were frequently lying unburied upon the 
 ground, just where ihehackmen had 'dumped' them, and 
 at one visit I paid the place while following the remains 
 of a mutual acquaintance with Brashleigh, the body of 
 two little Scotch boys, who had died in the hospital, 
 were found torn from their wretched coffin and stripped 
 of their grave-clothes, by some monster who could not 
 withstand the temptation of plundering articles so much 
 in demand.
 
 SCENES ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 171 
 
 " When looking around now upon the desolate scene, 
 1 thought that the last resting-place of the friend of my 
 youth might perchance have been invaded in a similar 
 manner, while I, the only living being that was near to 
 keep a vigil over his remains, lay tossing feeble as a 
 child upon the bed of sickness. I could not but shudder 
 at the dreary fate that had overtaken one so noble and 
 gifted ; of a youth so unblemished and promising, and a 
 manhood so rich in all that should adorn human nature 
 in its prime. He has gone like the sunbeam through the 
 forest, like the breeze upon the river, that gladdens and 
 enlivens the landscape for a moment, and then passes 
 away to cheer some other, some unknown scene. What 
 booted all his talent, and humour, and loftiness of charac- 
 ter? That busy mind, so fraught with schemes of wide- 
 spread usefulness ; that disposition, so rich in excellence, 
 yet careless of praise ; that soul, which aspired rather to 
 form itself into a model of what a man should be than 
 to grasp the awards of any outward ambition ; what 
 errand had that soul here, that it should be thus recalled 
 when just ripened for its best endeavour that it should 
 be thus dragged away, leaving no impress behind it, 
 save upon one lonely heart like mine ? Was his varied 
 study and accomplishment, his nice and almost subtle 
 knowledge of character, his practical skill in affairs, his 
 established principles, and tried courage in maintaining 
 them, were they all then permitted to unfold themselves 
 and ripen for nothing ? Did they mature from year to 
 year were they approved again and again alike amid 
 the horrors of the battle, the dissipation of the camp, and 
 the unwelcome leisure that often saps a vigorous mind,
 
 172 THE OPAL. 
 
 pining for active employment were all these valuable 
 faculties given, fostered, enlarged and fully tested in all 
 their original power and cultured excellence, for only 
 such a consummation as this ! 
 
 " Truly, the very object of living would seem to be that 
 we may die ; and death, instead of being a violence done 
 to our mortal nature a change and a rupture of our 
 condition of being is but the appointed climax of exist- 
 ence here the turning point in the tide of our immortal 
 souls! That tide, whose receding waves withdraw 
 them, like waifs flung for a season upon the shores of 
 this world, to be borne back again upon the eternal sea 
 which washes THE THRONE OF GOD !" 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 THE sun has set yet see ! the evening sky 
 
 Glows with his farewell glance a softened light, 
 More beautifully tender, though less bright 
 
 Than in the west is burning gorgeously. 
 
 Yet while we gaze, it fades, and like the eye 
 Of seraph, looking from his home afar, 
 Gleams faintly through the blue the vesper star, 
 
 How lovely in its pure serenity ! 
 This gentle eve ! with what a sweet control 
 Its influence sinks upon the prayerful soul, 
 
 Tired with life's ceaseless turmoil, and the weight 
 Of thoughts oppressive sure 'tis GOD'S good gift 
 That thus hath power our spirits to uplift 
 
 When fainting, earthbound, and disconsolate.
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 
 
 BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. 
 
 IT was the evening of a summer day 
 
 Serene and breathless ; gentle dews from heaven 
 
 Fell silently upon the grateful flowers, 
 
 That all the livelong day had bowed their heads 
 
 Drooping with heat, but now from every sod 
 
 Sent up their happy perfumes to the sky, 
 
 Purer than man's thanksgiving. From the brake 
 
 Tufted with jessamine, gushed the enchanting song 
 
 Of the rapt nightingale ; and round the well, 
 
 Filling their pitchers, underneath the palm, 
 
 The village girls, a gay and graceful throng, 
 
 Stood laughing. But anon a sadder mood 
 
 Fell on their spirits, as they thought of her, 
 
 Who lay even now, beyond a father's hope, 
 
 To smile, or raise her fair young head again, 
 
 Jairus' daughter. Hushed was all their glee ; 
 
 And their hearts smote them, as they homeward went, 
 
 That they did laugh but now, and she the while, 
 
 Their innocent playmate, dying perchance dead. 
 
 He was a ruler of the synagogue, 
 A dark grave man, not cheerful, but austere 
 And stern withal, though pious. He had known 
 15*
 
 174 THE OPAL. 
 
 Sorrow and suffering, and had weaned his heart 
 From earthly things to fix his hope on high. 
 Yet ever would his gloomy brow unbend, 
 As the blithe carol of that little maid, 
 Or the clear treble of her joyous laugh, 
 Spoke music to his ear, and won his soul 
 To smile on her, when darkest. 
 
 He had watched 
 
 Long days beside her couch, and marked the change 
 Creep o'er her face, the shadow which death casts 
 Before his coming. Save his own, no hand 
 Had smoothed her pillow ; none had raised but he 
 The chalice to her lips, which still were wreathed 
 Into the painful semblance of a smile, 
 Striving to thank him for 't He broke no bread, 
 Nor tasted wine, but sat in desolate grief, 
 Since the first night the fever smote his child, 
 Rending his garments, and with ceaseless prayer 
 Seeking the Lord ; until all hope was o'er, 
 And it was evident that, ere the sun 
 Should leave the plain, her soul must pass away. 
 But while he mourned a neighbour entered in, 
 And told him how the Son of Man was nigh, 
 Teaching the people on this side the sea. 
 Then he arose, and went his way, and fell 
 Before the feet of Jesus, where he stood, 
 And earnestly besought him, crying, " Lord, 
 My little daughter lieth, even now, 
 At point of death. I pray thee, come to her, 
 And lay thy hands on her ; and she shall live." 
 And Jesus went along with him. And they 
 Who had been gathered round him, followed on, 
 And thronged him. And a certain woman there, 
 Which had been wasted by a flow of blood 
 Twelve weary years, came in the press behind
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRtTS. 175 
 
 And touched his garments' selvage for she said, 
 " If I but touch his clothes, I shall be whole !" 
 But he perceiving turned himself about, 
 And asked the crowd, who touched his raiment's hem 
 Then she, in fear and trembling, being healed, 
 And knowing that was done in her, fell down 
 Confessing. And he said to her, " Arise, 
 Daughter, and go in peace ; thy faith alone 
 Hath made thee whole !" 
 
 And while he yet did speak, 
 Came handmaids running from the ruler's house, 
 Which said " Thy child is dead, why troublest thou 
 The master farther 1" But when Jesus heard, 
 He said unto the father " Yet fear not ! 
 Only believe !" 
 
 And thence he suiFered none 
 To follow after him, save James, and John 
 Brother of James, and Peter ; and he came 
 Into the house a pleasant house and fair, 
 Shadowed by olives, and a creeping vine 
 That wound about the casements, with green leaves 
 In the calm sunshine twinkling, and the plash 
 Of a cool fountain from the inner court 
 Murmuring pleasantly. But now the voice 
 Of men that wept, and women's shriller wail 
 Filled all with tumult, and the sound of wo. 
 He said to them " Why make ye this ado? 
 And wherefore weep ye 1 the maid is not dead ; 
 But sleepeth !" 
 
 And they laughed him to scorn ! 
 Then did he put them forth, and taking none 
 But her that bore the maiden, sorrowing now 
 With an exceeding sorrow, and the sire, 
 And those that came with him, he entered in 
 Where she was laid.
 
 176 THE OPAL. 
 
 Her face was very pale, 
 Paler than her white vestment ; and her lips, 
 Parted a little, wore almost the smile 
 Which constantly played over them in life, 
 Nor had in death quite passed from them. Her hands 
 Were folded on her breast. Some fresh bright flowers, 
 Sweets to the sweet, scattered their perfume round, 
 Emblems of beauty's briefness soon to die. 
 But when he took her by the hand, and cried, 
 " Damsel, I say to thee, arise !" a blush, 
 A warm bright blush, shot o'er the ashy face, 
 Conscious and beautiful the pallid lips 
 Waxed rosy, and breathed forth an odorous sigh, 
 And she upraised her eyes with a clear light, 
 Alive and lustrous ; and arose straightway 
 And walked. 
 
 Astonished were all they that saw, 
 With great astonishment; and yet their joy 
 Was mightier than their wonder was, or wo 
 Had been. The father, the austere dark man, 
 Who had not wept before for very dearth 
 Of tears and agony of soul, wept now. 
 But these were tears of thankfulness, not grief.
 
 THE MISSION UNFULFILLED. 
 
 FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF A DECEASED FRIEND. 
 BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 " You wonder at my despondency, Ingoldsby, and ask, 
 how, with my prospects in life, I can ever indulge even 
 momentary gloom ? I am not surprised at your ques- 
 tion, for, to outward seeming, every thing is well with 
 me. I am rapidly rising in an honourable profession, 
 I possess youth and health, blessings in themselves 
 beyond all price, my wife is one of the loveliest of her 
 sex, and my father's fortune promises me a future of 
 ease and competence. Whence then springs the thorn 
 which pierces my bosom? Alas! 'Every heart knoweth 
 its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not 
 therewith.' My whole life has been a conflict, a fruit- 
 less struggle between antagonistic impulses, and in now 
 disclosing to you the secret history of my feelings, I am 
 yielding to an instinct which I can neither comprehend 
 nor subdue. 
 
 " My family belong to that class of persons who pay
 
 178 THE OPAL. 
 
 the most scrupulous respect to the dictates of what the 
 world calls ' propriety,' and are strictly attentive to all 
 the conventional forms of religion, without possessing a 
 single idea of moral responsibility, or heartfelt piety. 
 They are of those who go to church because it is 
 respectable to do so, and who keep the letter of the 
 commandments because the open violation of them is 
 rather ungenteel. My father fancied he had fulfilled 
 his duty when he taught his children to avoid low com- 
 pany, to cultivate gentlemanly tastes, and to pay the 
 most unbounded deference to the worldly code of honour; 
 while my mother was perfectly satisfied if we always 
 appeared well dressed and well behaved. The Bible 
 was our Sunday book. We read it with due emphasis 
 and discretion, while our parents dozed in their easy 
 chairs during the interval between the church services ; 
 and we liked it as a means of helping to wear through a 
 tedious day. But we were never taught to regard it as 
 a rule of conduct ; we were never instructed in its 
 sublime truths ; never won to love it as the fountain of 
 all goodness. 
 
 " It was during a prolonged illness which befell me 
 when I was about thirteen years of age, that I first 
 received any other impressions of religious faith. The 
 nurse who attended me was one of those gentle, patient, 
 loving creatures, who are so peculiarly fitted to minister 
 to suffering humanity. Her naturally strong mind had 
 received no other cultivation than such as her humble 
 piety could bestow. In all mere worldly knowledge she 
 was utterly unskilled, but in the solemn truths of Chris- 
 tianity she was deeply and thoroughly versed. It was
 
 THE MISSION UNFULFILLED. 179 
 
 strange to see how elevated became her tone of thought, 
 how refined her language, how almost poetic her ideas, 
 when she discoursed of that pure light which had 
 illumined her soul. She was then no longer the humble 
 and unlearned menial ! she was a teacher of sublime 
 truths; and I have sometimes listened to her earnest and 
 powerful appeals, until an awe has crept over me, and I 
 have almost expected to see her form expand into that of 
 an angelic messenger of mercy. 
 
 " Naturally dreamy and imaginative in my character 
 I was yet extremely reserved. The tone of persiflage 
 and ridicule which pervaded the whole family, the dis- 
 position to sneer at any thing like sentiment, and the 
 unsparing contempt which was visited upon every thing 
 like genuine feeling, early taught me the necessity of 
 shutting up my heart from the gaze of those nearest 
 and dearest to me. There was none to sympathize with 
 me in the deep joy which thrilled my soul when I drank 
 in the sweet music of air, and earth, and ocean ; none 
 whose heartstrings vibrated in unison with mine own, 
 when the contemplation of creation's wonders had called 
 forth the voice of prayer and praise in my soul ; 
 none to draw the pure waters of affection from the bub- 
 bling fountain of deep love which ever welled up within 
 my bosom. A shrinking dread of that ridicule which 
 the world considers the test of truth, while it is, in fact, 
 only another evidence of the adroitness of falsehood, 
 taught me to conceal my real nature under the mask of 
 levity. The purest and best instincts of my soul were 
 repressed ; my sweetest impulses were controlled by a 
 coward fear of that ' dread laugh,' and while my heart was
 
 180 THE OPAL. 
 
 actually overflowing with reverential love to the God 
 who had lavished such blessings on an evil world, I was, 
 in outward show, the most reckless, thoughtless, light- 
 minded, of my whole family. 
 
 " Alas ! for the being whose childhood thus becomes 
 an acted falsehood ! Alas ! for him who, ere he leaves 
 the paths of * youth's delighted hours,' has seen the 
 trail of the serpent over life's fairest flowers ; and has 
 thus early learned that to be false to his own instincts, 
 is to be true to the icorlcTs sense of right ! 
 
 " My illness came just at the moment when my cha- 
 racter was most impressible and its results were inef- 
 faceable. The languor which bodily suffering left upon 
 me, seemed to be peculiarly favourable to mental ac- 
 tivity, and never had my intellect been more vigorous 
 than at the moment when my physical powers were 
 completely prostrated. The teachings of my good 
 nurse were not lost upon me. She gave a lofty direc- 
 tion to my vague aspirations after the good and the 
 true ; she showed me how to seek the fountain of all 
 knowledge ; she taught me the priceless value of an 
 immortal soul, and though I shrunk from disclosing 
 even to her the extent of her influence, yet I inly 
 resolved that my future life should bear witness to its 
 good effects. It was then that my heart first throbbed 
 with the strong, and, alas ! unsatisfied impulse, which 
 has been so long my torment. 
 
 " My disease had reached its crisis, and no hope 
 remained of my recovery, when I fell into a state of 
 torpor, so profound that nothing but the faint vibrations 
 of my pulse gave evidence of my existence. At length
 
 THE MISSION UNFULFILLED. 181 
 
 even these ceased ; I was sensible of a. frightful feeling 
 of suffocation and oppression, and then all consciousness 
 was over. I have been since told that nearly forty -eight 
 hours elapsed while I lay in seeming death ; but I re- 
 member nothing that then occurred. My first vivid 
 sensation was of a voice, which seemed to be speaking 
 within my heart, for I heard no sound, and yet I felt 
 the words, even as a deaf man may feel the warm 
 breath which propels the syllables that are uttered by a 
 familiar friend. The tones seemed to sweep over my 
 soul, warming it to new life, and yet refreshing its dull 
 torpor, as the summer wind passes over the wearied 
 frame of the sleeping wayfarer. The words were these: 
 * Thou hast been within the valley of the shadow of 
 death, but thy time is not yet : from the portals of the 
 tomb thou art sent back to fulfil thy mission : go and 
 teach !' 
 
 " No human lips uttered these solemn accents. They 
 were breathed into my soul, not spoken to my senses j 
 and yet I felt their vibration as if it had been actual 
 sound. The next moment the chain which bound my 
 faculties was loosed. I heard with my outward ear, 
 and the voice of wailing arose from some one beside me. 
 Slowly and painfully I lifted the heavy lids, which 
 seemed to lie with leadenlike weight upon my eyes, and 
 looked out, with dim and dazzled gaze, upon the objects 
 that surrounded me. My first glance fell upon my 
 mother, who wept beside me ; my next took in all the 
 awful array of death ! I was shrouded and sheeted for 
 the grave ! A start of horror restored me to perfect 
 consciousness, and, though many days elapsed ere my 
 16
 
 182 THE OPAL. 
 
 nerves recovered their healthy tone, yet the grave had } 
 for that time, lost its victim. 
 
 " I was then a mere boy, but the impression which 
 that terrible event left upon me was most enduring. I 
 could give but one interpretation to the oracular voice 
 which had awakened me from my dreamless sleep, and 
 from that moment I vowed to devote my life to the ser- 
 vice of God, as a minister at his holy altar. But even 
 then, with all this fearful sense of responsibility hanging 
 over me, I dared not avow my feelings and my wishes. 
 I knew that my extreme youth would be regarded as a 
 reason why I should be met with ridicule, and I resolved 
 to prosecute my studies, silently and secretly, with the 
 view to the future dedication of myself to the church. 
 My temper was naturally weak and vacillating. I clung 
 with superstitious tenacity to my belief that my destiny 
 had been clearly marked out for me, and yet worlds 
 could scarce have tempted me to avow my intentions to 
 those who ought to have been most interested in my 
 welfare. 
 
 " As years passed away, I found the task became still 
 more difficult, and trusting to some lucky chance in fu- 
 ture, I allowed my life still to be the acted lie which it 
 had been from childhood. I was convinced then, as cer- 
 tainly as I am now, that I had heard the voice of my 
 guardian angel in the decree which had revealed to me 
 my vocation ; and yet I dared not obey it openly. I 
 dreaded the ridicule of those who never enter the secret 
 chambers of their own hearts to listen to the solemn 
 echoes which are there awakened. I feared the sneer 
 of those who know not what it is to look into the
 
 THE MISSION UNFULFILLED. 183 
 
 mysteries of their own being, and learn how clearly 
 the instincts of the soul are revealed in the oracular lan- 
 guage of impulse. 
 
 "I had numbered my fifteenth summer, when my 
 father one day came to me, wearing a countenance full 
 of joy, and holding in his hand an open letter. 
 
 " ' I would not inform you of my intentions,' said he, 
 * lest I should only have stored up disappointment for 
 you ; but I may now tell you that for the past year I 
 have been using my influence to procure you a cadetship 
 in the Military Academy of West Point, and this letter 
 contains the tidings of your appointment.' 
 
 " Words cannot convey an idea of my overwhelming 
 anguish at this address. I believe I must have grown 
 pale and trembled, for my father took occasion to read 
 me a long lecture on the virtue of personal courage, and 
 the glory of military enterprise. In spite of my cow- 
 ardly dread of his anger and ridicule, I ventured to 
 stammer out my own wishes respecting my future voca- 
 tion. Never shall I forget his look of blank amazement, 
 and the withering smile of contempt with which he re- 
 plied : 
 
 " ' You have singularly mistaken your own capacity, 
 my son ; it would be quite impossible for you to make a 
 figure in the pulpit ; you have none of the brilliant genius, 
 none of the fire of eloquence, nothing in short which 
 could reconcile me to the idea of seeing a son of mine 
 devote himself to the church. You could never rise 
 above mediocrity, and such a position would be to me 
 a daily mortification.' 
 
 " ' But I might do good even if I achieved not great-
 
 184 . THE OPAL. 
 
 ness,' was my reply ; ' the weakest instruments are some- 
 times employed in the saving of souls.' 
 
 " His lip curled with a sneer of bitter scorn as he said, 
 ' Where learned you such cant terms ? One would 
 think you had been brought up on the threshold of a 
 conventicle. Nothing but the most brilliant talents can 
 excuse the presumption of a man, who stands up in the 
 place of a teacher to the multitude ; and you shall never, 
 with my consent, swell the crowd of " fools," who " rush 
 in where angels fear to tread." ' 
 
 " I was abashed and confounded. The cold reasoning 
 of the man of the world seemed like truth to my weak 
 resolve, and, still trusting to some future chance, I left 
 home to enter upon the duties of a profession the most 
 repugnant of all others to my feelings. 
 
 " I cannot describe to you all the misery I endured 
 during the next few years. Tell me not of sorrows and 
 disappointments and mortifications ; there is no sorrow 
 like that of him who feels on his conscience the weight 
 of a broken vow ; no disappointment like that which 
 crushes the hopes of an immortal soul ; no misfortune 
 like that which dooms a man to the daily falsifying of 
 his own nature, to the hourly conflict between the 
 impulses of spiritual life and the exigencies of mere 
 earthly existence. Among the varieties of character 
 which made up the sum of our little world at West 
 Point, it was impossible for any one to decide whether I 
 should be classed with the high-minded or with the base. 
 Every thing by turns ; at one time an unwearied stu- 
 dent, at another a confirmed idler, now full of lofty 
 virtue, and again yielding to every temptation, some-
 
 THE MISSION UNFULFILLED. 185 
 
 times braving fatigue and danger in the pursuit of duty, 
 and at others shrinking from the slightest trial or discom- 
 fort with cowardly weakness ; it was difficult to say 
 whether I merited the esteem and respect or the contempt 
 and reproach of those around me. No one understood 
 me, for no one had a clue to the labyrinthine maze of 
 my feelings. They knew not that I was fighting against 
 myself, and that, while at one time I used the weapons 
 from a spiritual armory, at another I encased myself in 
 the base panoply of earthly passions. 
 
 " If you had ever known the guilt and misery of drug- 
 ging into artificial slumber an awakened soul, I should 
 have no difficulty in making you understand my suffer- 
 ings. I believed then, even as now, that I had been 
 rescued from the grasp of death, and set apart, as an 
 instrument to work out some mysterious purpose of 
 heaven ; and yet I was earnestly setting myself in defi- 
 ance of the declared will of Providence ; I was endeavour- 
 ing to destroy my own faith, because I dared not brave 
 the consequences of obedience to its dictates. 
 
 " Do you not believe, Ingoldsby, that each of us is sent 
 into the world to fulfil some definite mission ? I hold it 
 to be most religiously true. The old man, who sinks 
 beneath the burden of fourscore years, has worked out 
 his mission in toil and weariness ; whether he has ful- 
 filled it to the salvation or to the destruction of his soul, 
 remains between him and his God, but, whatever it was, 
 he has fulfilled the purpose for which he was sent. The 
 fair girl who blossomed in beauty and virtue, only, as it 
 seemed, to wring the hearts of those who saw the flower 
 blighted in its bloom, has fulfilled her task, when called 
 16*
 
 186 THE OPAL. 
 
 to lay aside the weight of clay ; merciful has been her 
 destiny, for her work is done ere the soil of earth could 
 touch her spirit's snowy wings. The child of a few 
 brief summers, nay, of a few brief hours, he who 
 but tasted one draught from life's cup, then put it 
 aside for ever, though his existence was but as the 
 springing of a wild flower, yet has he finished his 
 task, and fulfilled his mission. Oh ! who can look on 
 that delicate little frame, who can think of the myste- 
 rious mechanism of that brain which is at once so mate- 
 rial and so spiritual, who can watch beside the couch 
 of that pure creature, whose complicated machinery of 
 being was put in motion but for death to stop its work- 
 ings for ever, who can see the sudden rending of that 
 harp of a thousand strings, and not believe that this 
 single vibration of its chords in earthly ears, was in 
 obedience to the hidden purposes of Him who fashioned 
 it ? and who can doubt that in the ' better land,' it will 
 again be attuned to sweeter and more unbroken harmony 1 
 
 " But what must death be to him who knows that life 
 has been only a struggle against noble impulses? to him 
 who feels that the whole aim of his existence has been 
 to ' quench the spirit?' 
 
 " It was but a short time before the completion of my 
 course of education, that a man, whose name is but 
 another word for apostolic virtue, was appointed chaplain 
 at West Point. To you, who know him better as Bishop 
 
 , I need not describe him, but even you could form 
 
 little idea of the effect of his presence and preaching upon 
 the young and fiery spirits who composed our little band. 
 We beheld a man, still young, with a form delicate almost
 
 THE MISSION UNFULFILLED. 187 
 
 to fragility, a face beaming with noble thought, an 
 eye filled with inward light, and a brow stamped with 
 the signet of heaven. We heard a voice deep-toned, 
 rich, and in its vehement bursts of eloquence as harmo- 
 nious as the sweep of the forest wind, or the diapason of 
 the majestic cataract. We listened to truths which were 
 uttered by lips that seemed ' touched with a live coal 
 from the altar ;' to truths which came to our minds 
 clothed in the language of clear and logical reasoning, 
 and to our hearts in the words of earnest and impas- 
 sioned persuasion. Few among us remained insensible 
 to his influence. For my own part, I confess that this 
 is the only portion of my life upon which I reflect with' 
 out regret. Where good impressions were so general, I 
 was not ashamed to confess them ; and among the many 
 who then openly professed their faith, my name was 
 numbered. 
 
 " Still, my father had imbued me with such a distrust 
 of my own powers, that I blushed to be regarded in the 
 light of a candidate for the service of the temple ; and 
 continued to guard my secret wishes as carefully as if 
 they had been actual sins, while I was gradually be- 
 coming stronger in my resolves. 
 
 " I need not tell you that I finished my studies with 
 sufficient honour to satisfy even my father's doubts of 
 my capacity. My ambition had no other aim than that 
 of securing his consent to the change of profession on 
 which I had determined ; and I laboured unremittingly 
 to obtain such a reputation for scholarship as would 
 lead him to think favourably of my purpose. Whether 
 he suspected my design, and took early measures to
 
 188 THE OPAL. 
 
 thwart it, I know not ; certain it is that I had no sooner 
 left West Point than I received orders to proceed with a 
 detachment of soldiers to a military post on the frontier. 
 I had already determined to resign my commission, but 
 the code of honour forbids such a renunciation of duty 
 while under orders ; and without subjecting myself to 
 lasting disgrace, I could not immediately withdraw from 
 the army. There seemed to me something base, too, in 
 receiving an education and a livelihood at the hands of 
 my country, and then flinging off the badge of devotion 
 to her service as soon as I had enjoyed all the benefits 
 she could bestow. The world again came in to silence 
 my inward teachings, and again I yielded to her false 
 dictates. 
 
 " Of my long and dreary sojourn at the military post 
 of , on the extreme borders of civilization, sur- 
 rounded by all that can demoralize and unchristianize 
 the spirit, I have told you in years gone by. You know 
 of my follfes and my faults, of my wasted lime and 
 dissipated talents ; and of that dark and dreadful period 
 of my life, when passion and pride and revenge led me 
 to lift my hand against the companion of my duties. 
 You know of my duel with poor Charles ; you 
 know that my soul bears the stain of blood -guiltiness ; 
 red red it gleams before me ever, -and even so will 
 that fearful spot glow before the bar of judgment. 
 
 " During my whole life I have had occasional seasons 
 of repose, like the lull of the winds in the midst of the 
 tempest; or rather like the torpor which comes upon an 
 over-excited brain, an insensibility like that produced 
 by the ' fat weed which grows on Lethe's shore.' It
 
 THE MISSION UNFULFILLED. 189 
 
 was in such a season, when the vultures of remorse 
 seemed to have ceased their fearful banquet, and when 
 that quiet had come upon me, which seemed to me to 
 proclaim ' Ephraim is turned to his idols, let him 
 alone,' it was at such a time that I met with her who 
 is now my wife. Fascinated by her beauty and her 
 womanliness, I yielded myself up to the sweet intoxica- 
 tion, and though I knew that I was forging new fetters 
 upon my will and upon my conscience, I yet wooed and 
 won my bride. My reputation for military prowess 
 was a subject of pride and pleasure to her whom I now 
 loved more than life, and I could not bear to disturb her 
 early moments of happiness by resigning those honours 
 which she so much prized. Beside, my conscience was 
 becoming callous and obdurate. The keenness of my 
 self-reproach had ceased, and I could silence my busy 
 thoughts or forget them amid the pleasures of social 
 excitement. 
 
 " But now I am fully and entirely awakened to the 
 hopelessness of my condition. One after another my 
 children have been taken from me in infancy and laid 
 in the silent grave, an atonement for their father's sin. 
 As I stood beside the coffin of my last and loveliest, I 
 felt the same inward voice that had spoken to me in my 
 boyhood. It told me that my child had finished its task, 
 and that its mission had been to awaken in its father's 
 bosom that remorse which now can never slumber. I 
 now find no sympathy and no solace. My wife regards 
 me with wonder and sometimes with awe, as if she 
 feared for my reason ; she cannot comprehend my 
 nature. My ideas of a future life are gloomy and ter-
 
 190 THE OPAL. 
 
 rific. I have struggled so long against the instincts of 
 the soul, I have fought so determinedly against the 
 impulses of a higher nature, I have despised so often 
 the warnings of my guardian spirit, I have plunged so 
 deeply in error, in my vain efforts to escape the dog- 
 gings of my inexorable conscience, that now I am given 
 over to the tormentors, and there is no hope, no peace 
 for me. 
 
 " Yet do not suppose that the world knows of this 
 suffering. The misfortunes which come from external 
 circumstances may trace their characters on the cheek 
 and brow ; but it is the inner man which suffers from 
 these conflicts of the soul. I am gray and worn in 
 heart, while my step is as firm, my bearing as soldier- 
 like, ay, and my arm as strong to do and dare, as if 
 ' my bosom's lord sate lightly on its throne.' After 
 years of inaction and idleness, I am now ordered to 
 Florida. I am now but a puppet in the hands of others. 
 I have no hope, and scarce a wish for any thing else ; 
 my destiny is now marked out ; my path is shown by 
 the clouds and darkness that overshadow it. Yet I have 
 nothing to blame save my own weakness. I lacked 
 moral courage, and I must now pay the awful penalty of 
 spiritual vacillation. Alas ! alas ! we hew out for our- 
 selves broken cisterns, and then wonder that we find no 
 water to cool our fevered lips. We follow some by- 
 path across the desert, and when we reach no cooling 
 shade, we lie down beside the treacherous mirage, and 
 fancy ourselves at rest. 
 
 " Let no one ever hope to find peace who begins life by 
 being false to himself. Let no one check his soul's high
 
 THE MISSION UNFULFILLED. 191 
 
 impulses, and crush his own instincts in deference to the 
 world's vain will. I tell you, Ingoldsby, the homage of 
 a universe would never compensate for the loss of one 
 noble thought or one good deed. I am one whom the 
 world calls happy, fame, military fame, the laurel 
 dipped in blood, is mine, wealth has been lavished 
 upon me, my affections have been satisfied in the 
 attainment of their object, and to outward view my lot 
 has been one of singular good-fortune. But have not 
 all these things been given to show me the vanity of 
 earthly possessions when the heart is at war with itself? 
 Has not my cup been filled with blessings only to ren- 
 der more bitter the drop of wormwood in the bottom of 
 the chalice ? Every flower which has decked my path 
 has given out poison in its perfume; upon the portal of 
 my home seems inscribed the awful ' Mene mene tekel 
 upharsin' and upon my grave might be traced, with a 
 pen of iron, the single word ' Miserrimus.' 
 
 " You will, perhaps, look on all this as the workings of 
 a diseased imagination. I would it were so ! but my 
 sufferings during the past fifteen years are no fancied 
 ills. The heaviest evils that can befall humanity, the 
 utter desolation of every earthly joy, the destruction of 
 every trace of this world's happiness, the most abject 
 and unbroken misery would be welcomed, if they would 
 but bring me annihilation of my mighty woe. All the 
 catalogue of human ills can number nothing so wither- 
 ing to the soul as the consciousness of neglected duties. 
 When death comes to me, whether he watches beside 
 my couch of pain, or prepares for me a soldier's last 
 bed amid the everglades of Florida, he can inflict no
 
 192 THE OPAL. 
 
 pang so terrible as the consciousness of having borne 
 through life the weight of an unfulfilled mission.' 1 '' 
 
 On the back of the foregoing manuscript was en- 
 dorsed, in the handwriting of Mr. Ingoldsby, the follow- 
 ing words : 
 
 " Poor Gordon ! what a wreck was here ! Six months 
 after the date of this most singular developement of 
 diseased sensibility, he was killed by a random shot, 
 and literally found a soldier's grave amid the ever- 
 glades of Florida."
 
 THE PRAYER OF A BEREAVED MOTHER.* 
 
 GOD ! hear my prayer for thou alone wilt hear ! 
 
 From man I turn despairing, and bereft 
 Of all the treasures that my soul holds dear : 
 
 Not one, not one of my young darlings left ! 
 At morn I miss them, when, from weary sleep 
 
 Waking, I strive the solemn void to fill 
 With their sweet faces ; bitterly I weep, 
 
 Weep, weep and wonder if they love me still. 
 
 At eve I miss them, when the twilight throws 
 
 Its long, broad shadows o'er the quiet earth ; 
 How, tired of play, they murmured for repose 
 
 And hushed awhile their free, melodious mirth ! 
 Oh, what a thrill of pure delight was mine, 
 
 When their warm kisses drank my gushing tears, 
 When for a moment beams of joy would shine 
 
 Through the dark track of desolated years. 
 
 * In this poem, I have attempted alas, how feebly ! to express the 
 sorrow of a mother after being compelled, by the cruel rules regu- 
 lating cases of divorce, to yield the custody of her children. No 
 matter whether she be guilty or innocent, the common-law, outraging 
 nature, inflicts upon a woman the sharpest punishment she can be 
 made to feel. When will legislators learn to be humane ? When 
 will just statutes do away with unjust precedents ? 
 
 17
 
 194 THE OPAL. 
 
 Thou know'st my innocence, my wrongs, my pain. 
 
 The cruel wrongs I, unrepining, bore ; 
 Thou know'st this bosom is as free from stain 
 
 As theirs whose loss in anguish I deplore. 
 I cannot yield them are they not mine own ] 
 
 Mine, from the hour they drew their earliest breath. 
 In health, in sickness mine, and mine alone 
 
 Mine, till, oh God ! thou mak'st them thine in death. 
 
 My heart, my heart will break ; I cannot still 
 
 This throbbing grief, this life-consuming fire 
 I bow submissive to thy mighty will ; 
 
 And yet, I pray thee, grant my soul's desire ! 
 Let me behold them, let me once more hear 
 
 Their gentle voices, or but one faint sigh, 
 Muttered in fondness, undisturbed by fear, 
 
 And I will fold them in my arms and die.
 
 A MORNING AT ROME. 
 
 BY JAMES ALDRICH. 
 
 COMING out one morning in the month of January last, 
 from the cafe Bon Gout, in the Piazza Spagna, which 
 is frequented by all strangers at Rome who are fond of 
 a good breakfast, I stood by the door, reflecting what 
 should be my employment for the day. The atmo- 
 sphere was delicious ; the air warm and balmy, and the 
 pleasant sunshine full of that life and health-giving 
 principle which it seems nowhere to possess in so great 
 a degree as in Italy. 
 
 On the broad marble steps leading up to the church 
 of the Trinita cTmonti, on the Pincian Hill, a party of 
 Neapolitan gipsies, or brigands as they are termed, 
 dressed in their peculiar costume, with brown cloaks of 
 a coarse stuff, and high steeple-crowned hats, fantas- 
 tically decorated with ribands and feathers, were basking 
 idly in the sun. Some of them were asleep, others were 
 eating their scanty breakfast. I had observed them 
 lying about in the same place every day that I had been 
 at Rome. How they subsisted, having no visible means
 
 196 THE OPAL. 
 
 of support, was a problem I could never solve, nor, 
 indeed, could I find any one able to solve it for me. 
 Sometimes, on passing close by the group, one of the 
 boys, without moving from his reclined position, would 
 address me with the supplication universal in Italy, 
 Carita ! per V amour di Dios, while, perhaps, a few of 
 the party would look up at me with an expression of 
 careless indifference. 
 
 Before me, standing beside the fountain which ever 
 enlivens the Piazza with its musical murmurs, stood a 
 crazy-looking old carriage, somewhat in the form of a 
 Roman chariot ; this was a public vehicle ; a hackney 
 coach ; attached to it were too sorry-looking horses, 
 with their heads hanging on a level with their knees, 
 apparently ruminating over the fallen greatness which 
 surrounded them. On the box sat Antonio the coach- 
 man, whose acquaintance I had previously made, fast 
 asleep : the reins and whip had fallen from his hands. 
 
 Having determined in what manner to spend the 
 morning, I went up to Antonio, aroused him from his 
 slumber, and, bargaining with him " by the hour," 
 directed him to drive to the Coliseum by way of the 
 Foro Romano. We passed slowly through the desolate 
 Via Sacra, with the ruins of colossal temples on either 
 side, by the Arch of Titus, still in a tolerable state of 
 preservation, by the Palatine Hill, once covered with 
 the palace of the Caesars, but of which only the moulder- 
 ing foundation walls remain ; and lastly, by the noble 
 Arch of Constantine, still covered with fine bas reliefs, 
 being one of the best preserved and most interesting of 
 the ruins of antiquity.
 
 A MORNING AT ROME. 197 
 
 Following the grass-grown road, Antonio drove close 
 up to the principal entrance to the Coliseum, where a 
 guide was ready to conduct me through that wondrous 
 labyrinth of crumbling walls and stupendous arches. 
 
 The undisturbed silence and solitude in which that 
 vast edifice reposes, with stupendous masses of moulder- 
 ing ruins on one side, and the level waste Campagna, 
 overgrown like a churchyard with rank grass and 
 weeds, stretching far away on the other, adds greatly to 
 the feeling of melancholy experienced on beholding it. 
 But to feel the vastness and solitude of the Coliseum, 
 as I afterwards learned, one must visit it at night. The 
 effect is greatly heightened by moonlight, when one half 
 of the ruin reposes in softened radiance, and the other 
 rests in full deep shadow. 
 
 Forth at the silent midnight hour, 
 By ruined temple, arch, and tower, 
 I walk to feel their soothing power. 
 
 The Coliseum vast and lone 
 Invites me ; on some fallen stone 
 I sit and list the wind's low moan. 
 
 Through rifted walls the moonlight streams 
 Against dark shadows, and there seems 
 An echo from the land of dreams. 
 
 Dim spectres then encompass me 
 I know not rightly if they be 
 Great shadows of Eternity [ 
 17*
 
 198 THE OPAL. 
 
 Or beings of the mind's dark wave 
 
 Whatever meaning they may have, 
 
 They bring me strange thoughts of the grave. 
 
 But for a moment these remain, 
 Then on the river of my brain 
 There glides a sweet celestial train 
 
 Of spotless seraphs, clothed in white, 
 On outspread pinions, golden bright, 
 With glitt'ring plumage all bedight. 
 
 Down floating an enchanted stream, 
 Like one who dreams he's in a dream, 
 I start, as on a sudden gleam 
 
 All shadows from before me flee, 
 And with clear eye entranced I see 
 The azure of Eternity ! 
 
 But to return to the more sober realities of prose : it 
 were impossible to convey to the reader's mind an idea 
 of the soothing influences produced by this immense 
 relic contemplated alone and by moonlight, when the 
 silence of night is unbroken by the least discordant 
 sound. At such an hour one wanders under its stupen- 
 dous arches as in a dream ; the things of the day are 
 for the time forgotten, and only the shadows of the past 
 are present. 
 
 At the dedication of the Coliseum by Titus, the 
 games lasted one hundred days, during which several 
 thousand gladiators and more than five thousand wild
 
 A MOBBING AT ROME. 199 
 
 beasts were killed. The arena is oval in form and sur- 
 rounded by a strong wall, erected to prevent the infu- 
 riated animals from rushing on the spectators. A long, 
 dark, walled passage, through which the gladiators and 
 beasts entered the arena, is preserved unbroken to the 
 present day. Independent of the platform called podium, 
 on which were seats for the emperor and his family, 
 and the vestal virgins, there were one hundred and seven 
 thousand seats for spectators, each one separated from 
 others, and numbered. Several of the largest palaces 
 of modern Rome were built of materials taken from the 
 Coliseum ; but the like desecration of this and other 
 ancient edifices has long since been prohibited. In the 
 middle of the last century, fourteen chapels, with the 
 mysteries of the passion of our Saviour, were built in 
 the arena, and in these the ceremony of the via crucis 
 takes place every Friday. Many of the early Christian 
 martyrs suffered in the arena, where they were sen- 
 tenced to be devoured by wild beasts. 
 
 After lingering an hour in the Coliseum, I directed 
 Antonio to drive to the Protestant cemetery the most 
 beautiful, and, to the stranger, the most melancholy 
 spot in the vicinity of Rome. The cemetery is divided 
 by a broad public road, which winds along the base of 
 a gentle declivity ; that part of it which is on the plain, 
 is surrounded on three sides by a deep moat ; on the 
 other side is the lofty pyramid of Caius Cestius. When 
 Antonio had found the keeper, he came and opened the 
 gate of a little bridge which spans the moat, and I 
 walked into the sacred enclosure; it was the 20th of 
 January, yet the graves and the spaces between them,
 
 200 THE OPAL. 
 
 were so thickly covered with violets and daisies, it was 
 impossible to make a step without crushing some of 
 them. There was the little simple headstone at the 
 grave of Keats, with this inscription, which he requested 
 might alone mark his tomb : 
 
 " Here lies one whose name was writ in water." 
 
 On a small marble headstone, near the pyramid, 1 
 read the following inscription : 
 
 " William, son of Percy Bysche Shelley and Mary 
 Wollstoncraft." 
 
 Shelley never outlived the grief occasioned by the 
 death of that beloved child. The following beautiful 
 fragment on the melancholy event was published after 
 his death : 
 
 " My lost William, thou in whom 
 Some bright spirit lived, and did 
 
 That decaying robe consume 
 Which its lustre faintly hid, 
 
 Here its ashes find a tomb ; 
 But beneath this pyramid 
 
 Thou art not if a thing divine 
 
 Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine 
 
 la thy mother's grief and mine. 
 
 " Where art thou, my gentle child ? 
 
 Let me think thy spirit feeds, 
 Within its life intense and mild, 
 
 The love of living leaves and weeds, 
 Among these tombs and ruins wild ; 
 
 Let me think that through low seeds 
 Of the sweet flowers and sunny grass, 
 Into their hues and scents may pass 
 A portion "
 
 A MORNING AT BOMB. 201 
 
 Perhaps no great man's character was ever so gene- 
 rally misunderstood as Shelley's. " Of all men," says 
 Leigh Hunt, who knew him well, " he was the most 
 misconstrued, in its being supposed that he had no reli- 
 gion. In more than one sense of the word he was all 
 religion all for a sense of duty and of divineness, only 
 he would have enlarged the sphere of the dutiful. So 
 far from supposing that this ' universal frame was with- 
 out a mind,' he was much inclined, with the pious Bishop 
 Berkley, to suppose it all mind." 
 
 The Protestant cemetery is devoted to the burial of 
 strangers who die at Rome ; and no place in the world 
 urges upon the mind such melancholy reflections, such 
 silent and profitable admonitions of the vanity of human 
 life, and human ambition. On that beautiful plain, and 
 on the side of that verdant hill, a host of young and ardent 
 aspirants for fame " have pitched in heaven's smile their 
 camp of death ;" poets, painters, and sculptors, " the 
 inheritors of unfulfilled renown," there repose, who were 
 cut off in the morning of existence, ere the prize for 
 which they were toiling was won ; and many who in 
 life mourned over broken affections, whose hearts were 
 living sepulchres, there sleep, un wrecked by dreams, 
 beneath a green coverlet, prankt with wild violets and 
 daisies. 
 
 " Go thou to Rome, at once the paradise, 
 
 The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 
 And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, 
 And flowering weeds and fragrant copses dress
 
 202 THE OPAL. 
 
 The bones of desolation's nakedness, 
 Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead 
 
 Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, 
 
 Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead, 
 A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread." 
 
 Satisfied with my morning's ramble, and not desiring 
 to have my feelings disturbed by new scenes, I bade 
 Antonio return to the Piazza Spagna.
 
 

 
 THE DESERTED WIFE. 
 
 BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON. 
 
 
 
 WHY tarries he so long 1 , while she that one, 
 
 So fond and true, so beautiful and bright 
 Now sits in cheerless watchfulness alone, 
 
 Waiting his coining through the tedious night 1 
 And as the chimes upon the distant bell, 
 
 Mark mournfully and sad his lingering stay, 
 Each echoing peal seems but the gloomy knell 
 
 Of joys departed, pleasures passed away. 
 
 He was her heart's first choice. On him was poured 
 
 The full, rich treasure of her garnered love 
 And when the storm-clouds of affliction lowered 
 
 And burst in fury round him, he could prove 
 In her the faithfulness, nor change, nor chill 
 
 Might even weaken that devotion high, 
 Which in all trials marks the woman still, 
 
 Glowed in her breast with all its fervency. 
 
 But he was all unworthy. From her side, 
 
 Error allured and evil thoughts beguiled 
 Love, reason, virtue, lost their power to guide, 
 
 For passion beckoned, and the tempter smiled. 
 And still his path is downward but that love, 
 
 Which, in its fulness, pardons all the past, 
 Implores with tears the Guardian Power above, 
 
 To bring the wanderer safely home at last.
 
 THE INTRIGUE, THE ASSASSINATION, AND 
 THE PUNISHMENT. 
 
 EVENHANDED JUSTICE IN SPAIN A MILITARY EXECUTION 5 PROM 
 
 NOTES AND OBSERVANCES ON THE SPOT. 
 
 B T N. C II E E V E Jl, M.I). 
 
 Ved que historia, 
 
 Que a entrambos en un punto, o cxtmno caso ! 
 Los mala, los encubre, y resucita 
 Una espada, un sepulchre, una memoria. 
 
 CERVANTES. 
 
 IN the neighbourhood of the city of Malaga, on the 
 banks of the Guadal-Medina, the traveller may observe, 
 among other pleasant habitations, a beautiful hacienda, 
 or country-seat, which attracts a melancholy notice, 
 when some of the associations connected with it are 
 revealed. Amidst the orange groves and olive orchards 
 of that lovely climate, many a place has its story of 
 intrigue and murder, which the beauty of the region 
 would belie. This romantic spot was the dwelling of a 
 young lawyer, amiable in his deportment, affable in 
 society, and enjoying a reputation superior to all sus-
 
 JUSTICE IN SPAIN. 205 
 
 picion of crime. I shall not describe his whole name, 
 because the transactions to which I refer, are yet com- 
 paratively recent, and it is enough for my purpose to 
 designate him as Don Juan. On a bright and glorious 
 day while I was in Malaga, I saw him publicly shot, in 
 the presence of ten thousand spectators, in an open 
 space on the banks of the Guadal-Medina, on the city 
 side, where the eye could rest directly on his beautiful 
 residence in full view beyond. 
 
 One of Don Juan's acquaintance and friends in the 
 city was the husband of a lovely wife, possessed of some 
 property in her own right. Between this woman and 
 Don Juan there was an intimacy, which, but for the 
 dreadful tragedy I am going to relate, might never have 
 worn the appearance of guilt, but only of friendship. 
 Her husband, Don Jose, was of a frank, unsuspicious, 
 open-hearted nature, and both were young. Whether 
 the guilt of the crime resting on her and Don Juan were 
 greater on her side or his, it is difficult to say, or who 
 was the tempter to the deed of blood, which resulted in 
 her misery and his destruction. 
 
 In a small village called Priego, a few leagues from 
 Malaga, there lived a man named Jose de la Rosa, by 
 profession a common day-labourer, married, and the 
 father of six children. He had, as the Spaniards say, 
 ten murders on his soul tcnia diez muertes being 
 one of those mercenary assassins, whose most profitable 
 trade, in such a country as Spain, is blood, and in whom 
 undiscovered crime had effectually seared his conscience. 
 As he appeared at the execution in the square in Malaga, 
 he was of an elevated stature, regular features, and 
 18
 
 206 THE OPAL. 
 
 strongly knit, powerful frame, denoting immense vigour 
 and physical strength. His face was of a citron colour, 
 his eyes black, large, and very wide apart, and the 
 whole expression of his countenance dark and fearful in 
 the highest degree. If you had met him of an evening 
 in the narrow streets of Malaga, you would have felt 
 anxious till you found yourself in safety at your own 
 door. 
 
 This man might have been seen one night in the 
 beautiful month of October, when the grape-harvest had 
 closed, stepping out from Don Juan's residence, muffled 
 in a rough Spanish capa, and making his way from the 
 river towards the mountains. The price at which Don 
 Juan had secured his services was never known, but he 
 had promised him perfect security, and a personal par- 
 ticipation in the crime, by his own presence, to make all 
 sure, when he should meet his victim. The arrange- 
 ment was completed, and on a certain night when 
 Don Juan knew the intended movements of his friend, 
 this murderer was to meet him across the bridge in 
 the city, and to be guided by him till, in sight of his 
 object, he might post himself, without mistake, for the 
 assassination. 
 
 It was half past eleven on the night of the 30th, as 
 Don Jose, accompanied by a watchman, was returning 
 unsuspectingly to his home in the city from an evening 
 visit at the house of a friend. They had arrived at the 
 entrance to one of the dark and narrow streets, with 
 which Malaga abounds. Here Don Juan and La Rosa 
 had posted themselves, expecting to meet Don Jose, and 
 awaiting his coming. At the farther corner of the street
 
 JUSTICE IN SPAIN. 207 
 
 they had both stopped, and as Don Juan saw his victim 
 advancing with the watchman, he hastily said to La 
 Rosa, Ahi viene ! ahi viene ! there he comes ! there he 
 comes ! and then fled swiftly to his own house, not re- 
 maining to see the end of the murder, but as quick as 
 possible placing himself quietly in bed. Before the 
 night finished he was taken thence by armed soldiers, 
 for his execution ! 
 
 Don Jose and the watchman, continuing their way up 
 the street, were met suddenly by a tall athletic man in 
 the common garb of a paisano or rustic, muffled in a 
 cloak. As he came up with Don Jose, neither he nor 
 the watchman being in the least on their guard, the mur- 
 derer drew forth a savage knife concealed beneath his 
 capa, and plunged it with such tremendous violence into 
 the breast of the unfortunate young man, as to make a 
 wound six and a half inches deep, completely dividing 
 the heart. The blood of the poor victim, impelled by 
 the spasmodic contractions of the heart, spouted into the 
 air, and sprinkled to a considerable height the walls of 
 the street. Thousands of horror-stricken spectators 
 were gathered the next morning to gaze upon the stains. 
 On receiving the dreadful stab, the murdered man 
 breathed forth one sad cry, the gurgling rather of his 
 death-agony, and fell lifeless. 
 
 La Rosa, having finished the murder, instantly took 
 to flight. He might have killed the watchman, had he 
 chosen, and then robbed his victim, who had upon his 
 person a watch and chain of much value ; and the fact 
 that no attempt of this kind was made, indicated, by
 
 208 THE OPAL. 
 
 itself, a concealed interest and agent in the murder. 
 The watchman, though thrown for a moment from his 
 guard, by the horrible catastrophe which passed before 
 him with such electric rapidity, at once gave chase to 
 the murderer, who, in making his escape, intended to 
 have taken a street close at hand, by which he might 
 easily have effected it. This was the Calle de las siete 
 revueltas, the Street of the Seven Turns, a literal defini- 
 tion of its geography, so that it would have been exceed- 
 ingly favourable for La Rosa's purpose; but, being hotly 
 pursued by the watchman, he missed his aim, and rushed 
 down a Calle-juela sin salida, a narrow lane without an 
 outlet, and a very short one too, at the end of which he 
 was brought to a dead halt by the huge impenetrable 
 walls of high buildings on three sides of him, leaving no 
 possible way of retreat but that by which he had entered. 
 Here he was brought to bay, like a raging bull ; and being 
 knocked down and slightly wounded by the lance of the 
 watchman or sereno, he was, with other assistance, at 
 length secured, and carried immediately before the cap- 
 tain-general. 
 
 I have mentioned the Spanish appellation of the watch- 
 man, sereno ; it is interesting to state that the serenos or 
 watchmen in the south of Spain, probably have taken 
 their name from the loveliness of the climate. It is not 
 unlikely that the term came to be applied to them from 
 the fact, that in crying the hour and the state of the wea- 
 ther as they do, the climate is so delightfully mild and 
 agreeable, that they can generally say sereno, fair, serene. 
 The sound of their fine melodious voices, heard in the
 
 JUSTICE IN SPAIN. 209 
 
 deep stillness of midnight, ringing through the clear 
 crystal atmosphere of Andalusia, has an indescribably 
 serene, romantic, and thrilling effect. 
 
 Ave Maria purissima ! 
 Las doce-e y media-a, 
 Y sereno-o ! 
 
 They cry the hour, with a prolonged and musical repe- 
 tition of the syllables, preceded by the name of the Holy 
 Virgin, and almost always you hear the sereno-o, at the 
 close, to tell the sleepers how quiet and beautiful are the 
 heavens above them. Too frequently, beneath all this 
 quiet and beauty, deeds of violence and blood are trans- 
 acted, fitter for the murky atmosphere of the Valley of 
 the Shadow of Death. 
 
 At the time of the event I am relating, the city of 
 Malaga, on account of the disturbed state of the country, 
 had been put under martial law. This is the reason 
 why justice, in most cases so dilatory, was in this case 
 inflicted with such rapid and terrible severity. The war 
 with Don Carlos had not yet been concluded, and the 
 captain-general of the kingdom of Granada, who 
 usually lives at that city, was residing in Malaga. 
 These circumstances gave me an opportunity to see 
 some phases of Spanish life, which I could not otherwise 
 have witnessed, and also, as my readers will find, 
 brought before me in detail the course of a capital trial 
 before a military tribunal. The captain-general took 
 it all into his own hands, and proceeded with an unre 
 18*
 
 210 THE OPAL. 
 
 lenting energy, rapidity, and sternness, completely over- 
 whelming. 
 
 It was about midnight when the watchmen hurried 
 their captive before him. The efforts of the murderer 
 having been noticed in rubbing his hands to efface from 
 them the bloody .vestiges of his crime, the captain- 
 general ordered them to be bound between two tablets 
 of wood. He also caused to be gathered up the hat, the 
 cloak, and the faja, or sash, of the assassin, which he 
 had thrown off at different points during the close pur- 
 suit of the watchmen, and also the knife with which the 
 fatal blow had been given, and which was found near 
 by the yet palpitating body. The captain-general also 
 immediately nominated an officer to act as attorney- 
 general in the case, on the part of the government, and 
 then proceeded to the business of taking the depositions. 
 There was no possibility of denying the fact, and con- 
 sequently La Rosa confessed the crime ; and seeing 
 himself utterly lost, if alone, designated as his accom- 
 plice the young lawyer Don Juan. 
 
 Here commenced a drama of the judgment, like to 
 the horrible solemnity of which it would be difficult to 
 find any counterpart in the judicial proceedings of any 
 other country. In the dead of night a body of men 
 rapidly and silently surrounded the city residence of 
 Don Juan, his father's house, and took him from his 
 bed, where he had scarcely had time to close his eyes, 
 even if his conscience would have let him, and hurried 
 him before the captain-general, to confront his despe- 
 rate accuser. La Rosa entered into the most minute
 
 JUSTICE IN SPAIN. 211 
 
 details of the premeditation of the murder, with all the 
 circumstances of the diabolical transaction, affirming 
 that Don Juan had tempted, persuaded, and induced him 
 to commit the crime, having, for this purpose, offered 
 and delivered to him certain sums of money. What 
 could Don Juan answer ? The unexpected discovery 
 and capture of the hired murderer, in the very perpetra- 
 tion of the crime, and the suddenness with which the 
 bolt of justice had fallen, were overwhelming ; neverthe- 
 less, he might hope to escape. He maintained the utter 
 calumny of the accusation. " Prove your charge ! 
 Am I to be condemned on the testimony of a common 
 assassin? I defy the proof. It is a murderous false- 
 hood." 
 
 If there had been any delay, a skilful lawyer might 
 have contrived a powerful defence. But the parties had 
 no time even to sleep upon the transactions. The in- 
 vestigation was followed up with a terrible activity and 
 despatch. And it was of such a nature as if dead men 
 could tell tales as well as living witnesses. At seven 
 o'clock in the morning, another careo, or confronting, 
 took place between the prisoners. But being still dis- 
 cordant in their testimony, they were conducted to the 
 Sagrafio, or parish church connected with the cathe- 
 dral, where the body of the murdered man had been 
 carried, soon after the assassination took place. While 
 the soldiers had been taking Don Juan from his bed, 
 others had laid the body on its bier within the solemn 
 shadows of the cathedral. Thither the multitude of an 
 awakened city poured, and there, under the dim arches
 
 212 TIM: OPAL. 
 
 of the temple, before the lifeless and gory remains of 
 the victim, La Rosa solemnly swore to the charges he 
 had before made against his accomplice, and face to face 
 accused him of the murder. The countenance of the 
 assassin haunts me now, his citron face, and black eyes, 
 like lamps in a cave, desperate and wrathful. " In the 
 name of God, I swear that I killed this man, Don Jose, 
 instigated and hired thereto by Don Juan, who is the 
 murderer !" La Rosa had nothing to conceal, and this 
 oath to the bloody corpse of his victim carried with it 
 into the soul of the assembled multitude a deep, damn- 
 ing conviction. 
 
 Meantime, during this fearful scene, Don Juan re- 
 mained abashed and confounded. He uttered nothing 
 but a few indistinct articulations. Then, when the 
 assassin had finished his adjuration, the attorney-gene- 
 ral commanded Don Juan to take the hand of the corpse, 
 and curse the murderer 'maledecir su ascsino. Pale 
 and conscience-stricken, he dared not do it, but as in a 
 revery, gazed stupidly, and uttered only some confused 
 mutterings. So finished the trial by oath in the cathe. 
 dral, with the murdered man's body. 
 
 Next, at the motion of the attorney-general, the 
 prisoners were conducted together to the spot where the 
 crime was perpetrated, and there again interrogated on 
 its details. They were carefully guarded between a 
 piquet of soldiers, La Rosa with his arms pinioned at 
 the elbows, his bloody hands still between the tablets of 
 wood, and Don Juan enveloped in his capa, and full of 
 gloom, remorse, and anxiety. They were accompanied
 
 JUSTICE IN SPAIN. 213 
 
 by the different officers engaged in taking the deposi- 
 tions, one of them carrying, wrapped in a handkerchief, 
 the bloody knife of the murderer. 
 
 This weapon was one of those Spanish knives in ge- 
 neral use among the peasantry of Andalusia, with which 
 they frequently fight their bloody duels, and give the 
 deadly stab in moments of furious passion, or in cool, 
 rankling vengeance. I have one of these knives in my 
 possession, and I am sure that the ideas of piracy and 
 murder attached in every one's mind to the term " a 
 long Spanish knife," have a most natural and legitimate 
 origin. It has a blade about twelve or fifteen inches in 
 length, and two inches wide at the haft, tapering gradu- 
 ally to a sharp point, for about three inches from which 
 it is double edged. It is made to open and shut like a 
 jack-knife, with a strong spring, into a handle of brass, 
 the back of which is composed of a piece of steel, which 
 the peasants use to strike fire, when they wish to light 
 their cigarritos de papel. The most singular and 
 characteristic part of this knife is the inscription on the 
 side of the blade. It is a very distinct and significant 
 couplet, reading as follows : 
 
 Quien a' mi amo ofendiere 
 De mi la venganza espere. 
 
 This may be rendered exactly into English rhyme, thus : 
 
 He who my owner doth offend 
 
 On my keen vengeance may depend. 
 
 This was the weapon of La Rosa the murderer. Doubt- 
 less it had done similar work in his hands before.
 
 214 THE OPAL. 
 
 Thus they moved on from point to point in their in- 
 vestigating process ; and never before or since have I 
 witnessed such a procession as that. As it passed from 
 place to place, literally " making inquisition for blood," 
 followed by an immense rushing multitude, eager to get 
 sight of the prisoners, the impression was terrific. An 
 intense interest pervaded the whole city ; all eyes were 
 strained to gaze, all ears erect to hear, and every tongue 
 dwelt in accents of horror on the details of the tragedy. 
 At the spot where Don Jose had been stabbed, the pro- 
 cession rested, and the criminals were questioned as to 
 the route which they took from their place of rendezvous 
 to the point where they expected to meet their victim. 
 La Rosa, with a sort of malignant satisfaction, described 
 the whole scene. 
 
 During the course of the day, fifty-one witnesses 
 were examined. The murderer also went into more 
 detailed and astounding disclosures, showing in part the 
 sums of money paid beforehand, the cool, calculating 
 deliberation in all preliminary arrangements for the 
 murder, and their patience in awaiting their doomed vic- 
 tim. The monster persisted in all his previous state- 
 ments, and spoke of his crime with such a terrible tran- 
 quillity and self-possession, that the tones of his voice 
 grated with a horrid dissonance upon the ear. Don 
 Juan remained silent, absorbed in dreadful forebodings 
 ae to the result. At eight o'clock in the evening the 
 depositions and confessions of the day were concluded. 
 Then at four in the morning the assassin and his accom- 
 plice Don Juan, with their legal defenders and the whole 
 body of the witnesses, solemnly ratified their testimony.
 
 JUSTICE IN SPAIN. 215 
 
 This was the day of the trial, and the interest and 
 agitation of the public rose to a still higher pitch. New 
 confrontings took place, and at twelve o'clock the cause 
 passed into the hands of the counsel for the accused. 
 An immense multitude thronged every avenue leading to 
 the convent of San Felipe, where the council was held, and 
 anxiety and impatience were portrayed on every coun- 
 tenance. It is difficult to convey to my readers an idea 
 of the course of a criminal process, where there are no 
 pleadings, nor trial by jury, nor any thing like it, but 
 where bundles of papers simply pass from one side to 
 the other, and accusations and defences are read. At 
 half past six in the afternoon the defence returned the 
 cause, and at eight in the evening the counsel of war 
 were called together, to hear the accusations from the 
 attorney-general on the part of government against the 
 prisoners, and their defence on the part of their coun- 
 sel, and from all the data and evidence before the court 
 to give sentence. 
 
 The speech of the attorney-general was short. He 
 demanded capital punishment against both criminals. 
 The defence followed. That of Don Juan was read by 
 his defender ; it was animated and logical, and excited 
 in the audience a deep interest. Tha of La Rosa was 
 simple and laconic, being merely an appeal to pity. 
 The accusation and defence being concluded, it would be 
 natural to suppose that thereupon the opinion of the 
 court would be made up, and sentence pronounced ac- 
 cordingly ; but now ensued one of the most extraordi- 
 nary scenes which can be conceived in the course of a
 
 216 THE OPAL. 
 
 judicial trial, casting around it a deeper solemnity and 
 horror than any of the preceding steps. 
 
 The defence being concluded, the bloody corpse of 
 the unfortunate Don Jose was solemnly transferred from 
 the cathedral, where it had lain amidst wax-lights and 
 masses, and was brought before the council ; the two 
 criminals were then posted beside it, and a new con- 
 fronting took place. La Rosa, the cold-blooded and 
 hardened assassin, maintained the same stern and ma- 
 lignant composure with which he appeared from the 
 first. If he could not escape himself, he was resolved 
 that his accomplice and master in the crime should not. 
 He restated and insisted on his charges against Don 
 Juan, and entered into such a multitude of particulars, 
 that the narrative excited fresh horror and indignation. 
 Meantime, Don Juan himself endeavoured to assume the 
 air of carelessness and defiance ; he smoked his cigar, 
 maintained his innocence, persisted in denying the accu- 
 sations of La Rosa, and declared that it was all im- 
 posture and calumny. 
 
 Next, the president of the council directed the simulta- 
 neous transition of the tribunal, the prisoners, the attor- 
 ney-general and the counsel for the accused, together with 
 the ghastly corpse of the murdered victim, to the place 
 where the assassination was perpetrated. What made this 
 solemn act more appalling, was the circumstance of its 
 being performed at the dead of night, before an immense 
 concourse of spectators, the expression of whose motley 
 faces, as they gazed on the dead body and on one ano- 
 ther, grew wild and deep in the torch-light. Again La
 
 JUSTICE IN SPAIN. 217 
 
 Rosa, standing beneath the bloody stains upon the wall, 
 confirmed all his previous statements, and with singular 
 coolness and serenity repeated the minutest details of 
 the crime. After this, the tribunal was dissolved, and 
 its opinion, given in writing, passed into the hands of 
 the captain-general, for his confirmation or disapproba- 
 tion. The sentence being for the execution of both 
 criminals, he made not a moment's hesitation to sanction 
 and perform it ; although the family and friends of Don 
 Juan, being rich and powerful, and among the first in 
 the city for respectability and influence, made immense 
 efforts for the young lawyer's rescue. It was said that 
 ten thousand dollars were offered by them to the captain- 
 general, if he would only commute the punishment to 
 imprisonment for life in the Presidio of Ceuta, a Spanish 
 fortress for criminals on the coast of Africa, nearly 
 opposite Gibraltar. 
 
 The tribunal being dissolved after the solemn night- 
 scene with the corpse, the sentence being confirmed, and 
 the execution appointed, Don Juan and La Rosa were 
 placed, at ten o'clock of the same morning, in the chapel 
 of the convent. entrar en capUla, to prepare for their 
 approaching death. Entrar en capilla is an expression, 
 for which in English we have no exact equivalent. 
 When it is said of a criminal in Spain, "estaen capilla,'''' 
 you need no other statement to inform you that in a few 
 hours, or a day or two at farthest, his execution will 
 take place. While in the chapel he is constantly 
 attended by priests, who say the death masses and ad- 
 minister the sacraments, and thence he goes forth, 
 accompanied by his confessors, to the place of punish- 
 19
 
 218 THE OPAL. 
 
 ment. But all the masses and extreme unctions in the 
 Romish world, could not soothe the conscience of one of 
 these murderers. The unhappy young lawyer passed 
 that day and the following night in a febrile delirium, 
 amid the dreadful anxieties and reflections natural to his 
 situation. From the moment of his being placed en 
 capilla, all hope forsook him. The murderer La Rosa 
 made no change from his hardened and desperate 
 serenity. 
 
 At three o'clock in the afternoon of the second of 
 November, they came forth from the capilla, in the con- 
 vent of San -Felipe, on their way to execution. An im- 
 mense mass of the population of Malaga had assembled 
 to witness the concluding melancholy act of this tragedy. 
 In the midst of a strong detachment of troops of the line, 
 the muffled drums playing the dead march, went La 
 Rosa, walking erect and firm, with perfect self-posses- 
 sion ; at some little distance, sad and distressed, followed 
 Don Juan, walking between two priests, listening to their 
 exhortations, and saluting his friends and acquaintances 
 as he passed. When the melancholy procession arrived 
 at the barrio, or the open space on the banks of the 
 Guadal-Medina, where he could behold on the opposite 
 side the beautiful country-seat which he owned, his eyes 
 filled with tears as he looked upon the pleasant spot for 
 the last time. Little had he anticipated, while projecting 
 his murderous intrigues, that not far from the same spot 
 he should suffer an ignominious execution, along with a 
 common assassin, the hired instrument in accomplishing 
 his designs ! 
 
 It was evident that La Rosa feared, even to the last.
 
 JUSTICE IN SPAIN. 219 
 
 that Don Juan might escape. In a regular trial by jury, 
 the lawyers might have made much for Don Juan's 
 defence out of La Rosa's malignity. Several times on 
 the way from the chapel to the place of execution, the 
 assassin turned his head and looked back, suspicious that 
 his partner in the crime might not be coming. " Viene 
 ese caballero ?" said he, " Is that gentleman coming ?" 
 
 An open space on the west side of the Guadal-Medina 
 had been designated for the execution, and thither had 
 been carried the corpse of the murdered young man ; 
 the captain-general being resolved that no circumstance 
 of horror should be wanting, to deter others from the 
 commission of similar crimes. And indeed the whole 
 conduct of the affair produced an impression on the city 
 such as never had been made before. 
 
 The fatal square being formed, La Rosa again, in a 
 loud clear voice, insisted on the truth of all his declara- 
 tions. Beneath the solemn adjurations of his confessor, 
 he declared that he forgave Don Juan, and begged the 
 bystanders to pray God to pardon him ; and then, in the 
 true spirit of the Romish system, prayed them to say a 
 Credo, and a Salve to the Virgin del Carmen. This 
 was probably the particular appellation under which he 
 had been accustomed to make his own ora pro nobis to 
 the Virgin Mary Maria del Carmen. 
 
 The criminals being seated together on the fatal bench, 
 La Rosa turned to Don Juan, and with an expression of 
 the most bitter sarcasm, asked, " Es esta la felicidad 
 que usted me prometia ?" " Is this the happiness you 
 promised me V Don Juan, turning to his confessor, 
 besought him to interpose. " For Dios que no me mate
 
 220 THE OPAL. 
 
 ede hombre antes de tiempo !" " Far God's sake do not 
 let that 'man kill me before tfo time /" What more 
 dialogue of this kind might have passed I know not ; 
 but certainly it was a foretaste of the wild world of the 
 lost, for the murderer and his tempter thus to be brought 
 together. 
 
 As I stood with a company of Spanish friends on the 
 banks of the Guadal-Medina, opposite the place of exe- 
 cution, expecting the consummation of this tragedy of 
 justice, it was a moment of most painful interest. Na- 
 ture seemed not at all to sympathize in such a scene. 
 The deep blue sky was cloudless, the bright rays of an 
 autumnal sun poured down with a mild and genial 
 warmth, and our temples were fanned by an air of such 
 transparent purity and delicious balminess, as to render 
 the very breathing of it a luxury. In the natural world 
 all was innocent, serene and lovely, and here we were 
 to witness the doom of men who had crimsoned the 
 earth with their brother's blood ; plotting and accom- 
 plishing a midnight murder under such circumstances, 
 that no peaceful citizen could be safe for a moment, if 
 such crimes went unavenged. 
 
 As the appointed moment arrived, precisely at four 
 o'clock, an officer's sword was raised in the air, and 
 gleaming in the bright sunshine as it fell, gave the 
 signal for the death-volley. A quick, sharp report, and 
 the curling smoke from a dozen muskets, told that all wag 
 over. The body of Don Juan was followed to the grave 
 by the lawyers of Malaga ; that of Rosa was buried by 
 La Caridad, the brotherhood of charity. 
 
 This execution was on the whole most salutary in its
 
 JUSTICE IN SPAIN. 221 
 
 effect on the city of Malaga. I hardly ever knew such 
 an instance of sudden and awful retribution. Had the 
 captain-general acted with less decision and prompti- 
 tude had the case bsen managed with the usual chi- 
 canery and delay of Spanish law tribunals, it was thought 
 that Malaga would have become the theatre of fearful 
 and bloody riots, which would most certainly have been 
 turned by their leaders into occasions for gratifying party 
 animosities and political vengeance. The excitement 
 was intense, and it needed but the torch applied, to 
 kindle it into a flame, that would well-nigh have burned 
 up the city. As it was, even amidst the Carlist war, a 
 calm succeeded to the agitation of the public mind, and 
 men felt more secure than before ; for in the midst of 
 the horrors of the civil conflict, no man in Spain could 
 have predicted that such an assassination in any city 
 would have been overtaken with vengeance. The fact 
 that it was so overtaken, and that with such stern sum- 
 mariness, helped to save Malaga from the bloody tumults 
 of the revolution. 
 
 Not a man doubted the guilt of Don Juan, neither was 
 there at the time much doubt as to the participation of 
 the wife of his victim in the murder. It was rumoured 
 that on one previous occasion they had together attempted 
 to poison Don Jose. The public authorities considered 
 her as implicated in the crime ; so she was arrested, 
 and for several weeks guarded by soldiers at her own 
 house. It was thought that she would be publicly exe- 
 cuted by the garroie, a mode of execution not unfre- 
 quently practised in Spain under the civil law. It is 
 a very simple, though dreadful way of terminating life, 
 19*
 
 222 THE OPAL. 
 
 perhaps invented by the Inquisition. The criminal sits 
 in an arm-chair, and an iron collar is placed round his 
 neck, uniting by a screw behind, so that when the fatal 
 moment arrives, a turn or two of the screw produces 
 such a degree of compression, as to cause instant death. 
 The wife of Don Jose escaped this evil, being gradually 
 forgotten by the public, after the execution of Don Juan 
 and La Rosa ; an amount of justice quite unusual in 
 Spain amidst the shocking corruption and bribery of the 
 legal courts. I should hardly be believed if I were to 
 relate some illustrations of the nature of justice in Spain. 
 And some of my own personal experience of the manner 
 in which a gang of robbers will set all danger at defiance, 
 and accomplish their schemes in the open villages in 
 open day would corroborate the wildest romance. 
 
 In the daily occurrences of human life, as well as in 
 natural scenery, Spain is still as she was in the days of 
 Don Quixote, one of the most romantic countries in the 
 world, and is constantly exemplifying the verity of the 
 adage, that truth is stranger than fiction.
 
 LINES TO THE SOUL. 
 
 BY WILLIAM PITT PALMER. 
 
 Hoepes, comesque corporis ! 
 
 EMPEROR ADRIAN. 
 
 MYSTERIOUS power ! where is thy seated home 1 
 
 In the dark chambers of the haunted brain 1 
 Or dost thou, like a restless Naiad, roam 
 
 The deep meanderings of the purple vein, 
 For ever coursing in thy swift career 
 
 Life's crimson river in its mazy round ? 
 
 Or art thou found 
 Cradled within the heart's impassioned sphere, 
 
 Rocked by its solemn pulses, whose quick beat, 
 Like a weird death-watch at a dying ear, 
 
 Is chronicling the moments few and fleet, 
 Thy earthly span that bound 1 
 
 And what art thou, invisible 
 
 And unimagined form! 
 Wrapped in this dark, material shroud, 
 Like lightning in the muffling cloud 
 
 Of midnight's brooding storm ! 
 Thy presence makes me what I am ; 
 
 Thy being is my own ; 
 And though thou quickenest every sense, 
 
 Thou art to all unknown.
 
 224 THE OPAL. 
 
 Frail, feeble nursling of the dust, 
 
 With reason's glory crowned, 
 Man measures earth's stupendous globe, 
 
 And marks its mighty bound : 
 His search has solved the mystic tides 
 
 In their alternate course ; 
 And sunward traced the viewless winds 
 
 Up to their flaming source : 
 Yea, his far ken hath read the skies 
 With all their starry blazonries 
 
 That o'er us nightly burn ; 
 Hath marked the planet's boundless ring, 
 And fixed the certain years that bring 
 
 The comet's dread return : 
 Yet, spirit ! when his curious zeal 
 
 To thy deep quest applies, 
 How like to groping blindness shows 
 
 The wisdom of the wise ! 
 
 Art thou a portion of the clay 
 
 That forms thy natal twin, 
 Typed by the mortal chrysalis 
 
 Its grosser shell within 1 
 Say, shall the grave for ever mock 
 
 Faith's high and holy trust, 
 And the worm waste thee as 'twill waste 
 
 Thy fellow of the dust 1 
 No ! though awhile to earthliness 
 
 Bound by a brittle tie, 
 Germ of the Universal Soul, 
 
 It is not thine to die ! 
 
 This truth, so fraught with joyousness, 
 
 So grateful and sublime, 
 Defied the grasp of sage and seer 
 
 In the far olden time ;
 
 LINES TO THE SOUL. 225 
 
 Though oft with yearning zeal they sought, 
 Nerved with the powers of mightiest thought, 
 
 To force the Stygian bars 
 That held them from thy doubtful fate, 
 Then died with bosom desolate 
 
 As night without her stars ! 
 
 Then fear not thou whose being's hope 
 
 May match the cherubim's, 
 Though this dark mask of breathing clay 
 
 Awhile its glory dims ; 
 For if on earth's probative scene 
 
 With thousand snares bespread, 
 Thou in the dust Temptation's lures 
 
 Unfalteringly shall tread ; 
 True to thy better nature, true 
 
 To virtue's stern behests, 
 And to that warning oracle 
 
 Shrined in all human breasts ; 
 Thou 'st all to hope, and nought to fear 
 From that which men call fortune here, 
 
 Or chance or fate adverse, 
 Comes it with want's imperious stress, 
 Ingratitude or friendlessness, 
 
 Or death's relentless curse : 
 For, ever in thy lornest hour, 
 Shall Faith still point the promised dower 
 
 That waits thy blest remove. 
 Cycles of unimagined years, 
 Unknown alike to change or tears, 
 Where all is peace and love. 
 
 Therefore bear nobly up, my soul, 
 
 Against all power of ill, 
 And with unshrinking fortitude 
 
 Thy destiny fulfil.
 
 226 THE OPAL. 
 
 So when thy jubilee shall come, 
 
 As come it must to all, 
 And death shall kindly bid thee pass 
 
 From penance and from thrall ; 
 Thou, like caged bird to freedom given, 
 Thy bands of earthly durance riven, 
 With joyous wing shalt rise, 
 From all the foes that haunt thee here, 
 Sin, sorrow, scorn, and doubt and fear, 
 Up to thy native skies !
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH. 
 
 BY H. HASTINGS WELD. 
 
 " WILL the baby die, mother ?" 
 
 The inquirer was herself a child, and the look of 
 earnest curiosity with which she watched her mother's 
 face, to gather from that the reply which the parent 
 could not speak, testified to that precocity of intellect, 
 that early developement of intelligence which is the lot 
 of the children of the poor. To us, this union of 
 matured perceptions with juvenile features, is among the 
 most painful of the traits which distinguish the offspring 
 of those whose every step is a contention with obstacles, 
 whose every gesture seems a buffet with the world. 
 But if the face of the daughter was painfully interesting, 
 that of the mother was no less so. Though still young, 
 toil, anxiety, and care, and, above all, grief, had marked 
 her countenance with the evidences that young though 
 she might be in years, in experience she had lived out a 
 lifetime. She was bending over the cradle of an infant, 
 whose quiet sleep seemed the suspension of its little 
 being. Pale and wan, she seemed scarce farther from 
 the grave than her infant charge, in watching whose
 
 228 THE OPAL. 
 
 almost imperceptible breathings, her whole attention was 
 absorbed. 
 
 " Will little sis die now, mother ?" the elder child 
 again asked. There was a volume of meaning in the 
 tone in which the inquiry was put. It expressed the 
 resignation which all in that little household had made 
 the conviction that their well-beloved infant companion 
 was sick unto death ; and all that Mary could hope in 
 answer was, that the moment of the departure of the 
 innocent was not yet not that instant. A half an hour 
 seemed a long future a day seemed years. Who that 
 has watched the life of a child wasting away has ever 
 forgotten it ? The unconscious sufferer, incapable alike 
 of appreciating its danger, or of communicating its 
 feelings to the earnest affection which surrounds its bed, 
 the meekness of endurance the supplicating glances 
 from the eyes of a dying child oh ! how deeply do they 
 move the heart ! When man sinks from his strength, 
 or woman wastes from her loveliness into the arms of 
 death, at each stage of the disease the invalid can com- 
 municate with attendant friends ; at each pause-like re- 
 spite in the journey through the valley of the shadow, 
 adieux may be re-exchanged between those who are to part 
 at the grave, but to meet again beyond it. But where the 
 babe, in pain, but unconscious from what cause or to 
 what end, looks up imploringly to her who, though now 
 powerless to aid, has hitherto been its solace, the mother 
 feels she could willingly die with her child, if she could 
 make the sufferer understand that it is death the death 
 appointed to all which is slowly but surely stilling the 
 pulses of its innocent heart.
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH. 229 
 
 So felt the young wife and mother but still she spoke 
 not. No sound broke the stillness of that house in the 
 forest no hum of passengers, no notes of busy life, in 
 discord with the scene, mocked the silent grief of the 
 mother and sister of the dying child. There was a 
 melancholy appositeness in the solitude of the place, 
 and in the stern and natural simplicity without and 
 within the dwelling. The light vernal winds moved the 
 branches of the primeval tree of the forest which shaded 
 the humble cabin, and, as the sun stole in between at 
 the open door among the leaves, the shadow of a lesser 
 branch of the tree trembled to and fro upon the infant's 
 lips, as if it emblemed there the flickering of its breath. 
 This painfully beautiful thought entered the mind of the 
 mother and while she still dwelt upon it, the door was 
 darkened the poetic vision was lost, and her husband 
 and her brother entered with a noiseless step. The boy 
 had plucked a violet in the vain hope of attracting the 
 dying child's attention. It had withered in his hand 
 as he walked, and while he stood over the couch, struck 
 with the alteration which in a few hours had taken place, 
 he let it fall upon the pillow. The mother took it up 
 she looked at the withered blossom of spring, and then 
 at the withered flower of her maternal hopes. Turning 
 to her husband, she sunk upon his neck, and wept. 
 
 The child was dear to them. Exiled, in part perhaps 
 by a truant disposition, and that restless spirit of enter- 
 prise and adventure which is characteristic of the 
 American people, they had wandered far, before they 
 had here pitched their tent. Accustomed in New Eng- 
 land to the comforts which industry places within the 
 20
 
 5i30 THE OPAL. 
 
 reach of all to the refinement of mind which education 
 creates to the social habits which the institutions and 
 manners of New England foster and above all, to the 
 religious privileges which bless the descendants of those 
 who sought a new world to worship God after their own 
 consciences, the Far West for many a weary month 
 seemed to them a solitude dreary indeed but never 
 quite a solitude. They had early learned that there is 
 One from whose presence no creature can be banished ; 
 and isolated as they were in the mighty forest, the 
 little family never forgot that He lives, of whom it is 
 written, " If I take the wings of the morning and dwell 
 in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall Thy 
 hand lead me, and Thy right hand uphold me." 
 
 To mother to father to sister and to the brother 
 who had accompanied them in their wanderings, the 
 birth of that child had been as a new creation it had 
 consecrated for them a new home, and created a tie 
 which had bound them to the spot. The gift of God's 
 mercy to them, it had been as a ray of light which 
 made the desert blossom as the rose. All their hearts 
 clung to the little stranger ; every feeble opening of the 
 precious bud was watched every glimmer of future 
 intelligence in the child was to them as the earnest of 
 coming perfect day. The smiles of its infantile joy had 
 been the sunshine of their hearts. The tree before their 
 door appeared greener and stronger when the little one 
 crowed its admiration in looking up, and vainly strove 
 to grasp its branches the clearing about the door was 
 thought of only as little Ellen's playground- the house, 
 which seemed before her birth dull and narrow and
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S SABBATH. 231 
 
 / 
 
 dark, was now a paradise on earth, since there the 
 cherub first saw the day. Any shelter would have 
 seemed a palace to them in which the babe could stand 
 upright to learn to walk. 
 
 And now the hand of death was on these hopes and 
 silently they waited the fearful consummation of his 
 work. Thought was busy with both father and mother, 
 one sentiment they held in common. But a week 
 before had any one doubted in their presence, that their 
 cottage was an elysium, each would have eloquently 
 defended it ; but now to each it seemed already a char- 
 nel-house, and they felt as if the damp of death was on 
 its walls. The mother's mind wandered back to the 
 home of her childhood to the pleasant places which 
 she had deserted for the forest to the cheerful house, 
 and friends sympathizing in her joy, when Mary, her 
 eldest, was born. She conned over, one by one, the 
 kind faces which would there have crowded around her, 
 in a scene like this. She remembered the village pas- 
 tor, who would have been ready with his words of con- 
 solation, words fitly chosen, " like apples of gold, in 
 pictures of silver." She recollected the kind physician, 
 and can we wonder if she felt, in her grief, that his 
 skill might at least alleviate and postpone, if not avert 
 the death which threatened her dearly beloved infant? 
 
 The father, as he mused, thought not of the past, 
 but of the future. To him, as to her, longer residence 
 in that spot seemed insupportable but while visions of 
 the home she had left occupied the mind of the mother, 
 the father looked forward to still another new home, as 
 if, by retreating from mankind, he could remove from
 
 232 THE OPAL. 
 
 exposure to disease and death. To neither could their 
 recently pleasant dwelling longer be tolerable with 
 both, the place would seem to create none but melan- 
 choly associations. But he felt at last that it was his 
 duty to struggle to check repinings against God's provi- 
 dence ; and looking for aid to that source whence alone 
 support in all affliction should be sought, he opened the 
 sacred volume. 
 
 His eye fell upon the history of Hagar in the desert. 
 In a low but distinct tone he read of the despair of 
 the exile in the wilderness, and while their daughter 
 was expiring far from human aid, the parents felt with 
 the Egyptian woman that they " could not see the death 
 of the child," and like Hagar they " lifted up their 
 voices and wept." As he proceeded in reading, " and 
 the angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, what 
 aileth thee Hagar 1 Fear not !" the quick perception 
 of the mother caught a movement in the cradle. All 
 flew at once to the child's side, prepared to witness its 
 last breath. But as to Hagar in the wilderness, so had 
 God been merciful to them. The crisis was past a 
 gentle perspiration stood upon the sufferer's brow its 
 eyes opened and a faint smile played around its lips. 
 Affection, ever ready to catch at the slightest ground of 
 hope, was this time not deceived. As the child now fell 
 again into a sleep, but a sleep like that of welcome rest, 
 instead of the feverish slumber which had before ha- 
 rassed their affection, the emigrant family knelt in joyful 
 thanksgiving, too deep and heartfelt for loud words. 
 The dead was alive again. 
 
 Joyous was the following Sabbath ; nor did the happy
 
 THE EMIGKANT'S SABBATH. 233 
 
 family forget that Being to whom their gratitude was due 
 for the great mercy vouchsafed to them. The mother 
 had already renewed the youth of which affliction had 
 despoiled her, and little Mary, as she leaned affection- 
 ately on her mother's shoulder, smiled that awe-mingled 
 gratitude which children as well as adults may feel, 
 though incapable of other expression than the silent and 
 natural workings of their happy faces. With cheerful 
 hearts they worshipped him who " dwelleth not in tem- 
 ples made with hands," and heart and voice responded 
 Amen ! as the father of the little household said, with 
 the sweet singer of Israel, " O give thanks unto the 
 Lord, for he is good : for his mercy endureth for ever." 
 
 20"
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON, ESQ. 
 
 'Tis home ! I mark the creeping ivy twine 
 
 Above, around its weather-beaten wall 
 I pass the arbour, and the clustering vine, 
 
 The stone-laid portal, and the dusky hall. 
 I enter but my footsteps' echoes fall 
 
 Upon a listless ear, for thought is rife 
 With recollections of the past, and all 
 
 The fond dreams buried, wake at once to life. 
 
 They come like shadows, bringing back to sight 
 
 The loved and cherished of my early years 
 Those years, when every season breathed delight, 
 
 And earth was lovely when nor griefs, nor cares, 
 Nor anguished thoughts, nor sad foreboding fears 
 
 Of future ills, nor disappointment's blight, 
 Had swept across my heartstrings, bidding tears 
 
 Mar the fair beauty of creation's light 
 
 My father ! Through the dim and shadowy view 
 Of time's long vista, I behold thee still 
 
 Form, feature, air, mein, gesture, all are true 
 And lifelike, as when erst in tones that thrill
 
 THE RETURN. 235 
 
 E'en yet upon my heart my truant will 
 Thy counsels, grave and holy, mildly drew 
 
 From error's thorny path, and strove t' instil 
 Youth's lesson what to shun, and what pursue. 
 
 Source of my being, watchful was thy care, 
 
 Faithful thy zeal, earnest and strong thy love 
 Thou art my father still, for thou dost wear 
 
 The same calm smile that I was wont to prove 
 A token of thy pleasure I will bear, 
 
 As onward on life's toilsome march I move, 
 Within my heart the consciousness, that there, 
 
 All which is good was planted by thy love. 
 
 And thou, my mother, sainted spirit, hail ! 
 
 My heart throbs wildly as thy form I see, 
 And would, but cannot, breathe the wond'rous tale 
 
 Of all I owe thy kindness unto me 
 Thy love was bliss, and now its memory 
 
 Falls, like the dew upon the thirsty vale, 
 Refreshing, cheering for I know the tie 
 
 Which bound thy heart to mine will still prevail 
 
 Triumphant over death. A mother's love 
 
 Is an undying feeling. Earth may chill 
 And sever other sympathies, and prove 
 
 How weak all human bonds are it may kill 
 Friendships, and crush hearts with them but the thrill 
 
 Of the maternal breast must ever move 
 In blest communion with her child, and fill 
 
 Even heaven itself with prayers and hymns of love. 
 
 And yet another group I see, around 
 
 The household hearth, where once were gathered in
 
 236 THE OPAL. 
 
 Brothers and sisters, and the cheerful sound 
 Of jocund laughter, and the merry din 
 
 Of mingled voices, told that death and sin 
 
 Could boast few trophies on that hallowed ground- 
 
 They stand before me, bright and pure, as when 
 Around that home-built altar peace we found. 
 
 Stay, loved ones, stay ! Alas ! the shadowy throng 
 
 Which wakened blissful memories have fled 
 And now I muse, in loneliness, among 
 
 Scenes of departed joys. All, all are dead, 
 Save one, the dreamer. Azrael's shafts were sped 
 
 Swiftly, and they, the beautiful, the young, 
 The vigorous and active, to the bed 
 
 Of the cold charnel-house were borne along. 
 
 And I am now alone. We shall not meet, 
 
 Loved ones, again on earth. Ye cannot come 
 From the bright presence of your God, to greet 
 
 The storm-tossed wand'rer in his dreary home. 
 But oh ! though destined longer here to roam, 
 
 May the Almighty guide his erring feet 
 In the same path ye trod, that he may come 
 
 And meet ye, ransomed, at the mercy seat.
 
 LYRIC POETRY. 
 
 BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 IT seems to be generally conceded that the era of dra- 
 matic poetry is at an end. Although some of the most 
 recent specimens in this department of literature have 
 commanded a certain degree of public attention and eli- 
 cited the applause of critics, they evidently, when com- 
 pared with the old English tragedy, belong to a differ- 
 ent school and possess an inferior interest. The object 
 of the writer seems to be not so much to depict inward 
 struggles as to narrate a tale and chronicle a few gems 
 of expression. Modern plays, even of the best kind, 
 seem rather as scaffoldings to support a story or con- 
 venient threads on which to string the pearls of thought, 
 than " mirrors of nature" or profound pictures of life 
 and humanity. The King of Sparta, when he saw a 
 machine for casting stones, called it " the grave of 
 valour" so the refined machinery of our social state 
 may be regarded as the sepulchre of that freshness of 
 feeling, that heartiness of self-developement, that frank, 
 adventurous and bold character, which marks the dawn 
 of civilization, and is the fertile source of a powerful 
 literature. The surface of society in this age is too
 
 238 THE OPAL. 
 
 level to be picturesque. The scope for mental and phy- 
 sical enterprise is too constrained for striking display. 
 The motives now at work are for the most of a personal 
 and contracted nature. The element of heroism finds 
 its chief activity in endurance. Life, indeed, is the same 
 scene of struggle, exposure and excitement, but its ener- 
 gies are alive chiefly to the moral experience of each 
 man, instead of being exhibited, as in the chivalric ages, 
 upon the broad arena of the world and before the gaze 
 of multitudes. 
 
 The diffusion of knowledge seems to have produced 
 the same effect upon epic poetry that social refine- 
 ment has upon dramatic. Men are no longer divided 
 into the grossly ignorant and greatly learned. There is 
 an immense intermediate class, whose vocations prevent 
 extensive erudition, but whose rninds are awakened by 
 popular education, and improved by intercourse with supe- 
 rior intelligence and occasional reading. Hence scholar- 
 ship is not the rare distinction it once was, nor literary 
 enjoyment the exclusive privilege of a few. These, 
 among other considerations, give weight to the remark 
 of a distinguished writer, that the " era of universal indi- 
 vidualities is past." Nor is this the only reason for the 
 decline of epic poetry. Literature is so common a luxury 
 that the age has grown fastidious. The moralist is ex- 
 pected to allure men to virtue by his beautiful rhetoric. 
 Philosophy must be illustrated by charming metaphors 
 or captivating fiction ; and history, casting aside the 
 tedious garb of formal narrative, is required to assume 
 a scenic costume, and teem with the connected interest of 
 a fascinating tale. The poet, too, must distil his roses
 
 LYRIC POETRY. 239 
 
 and touch his harp at graceful intervals. His auditors 
 will grow weary over an elaborate production, unless it 
 is wrought out with rare felicity or boasts some novel 
 attraction. The nice appetite of a modern reader is soon 
 sated. However his poetical taste, fifty pages of blank 
 verse are too formidable to be adventured, and the mere 
 sight of half a dozen cantos of heroics provoke a yawn. 
 The times are too busy, outward activity too absorbing, 
 and the calls upon attention too unremitted to permit us 
 to engage in those long and wide-sweeping literary forays 
 in which the Germans are so fond of indulging. Ac- 
 cordingly, poetry has taken a form more favourable to 
 its circulation. It has cast off its ponderous armour 
 and donned a more courtly dress. It seeks to concentrate 
 its spirit in diminutive and graceful forms. It woos the 
 magic process recorded in Arabian tales, and has dis- 
 covered the art of contracting its vital elements into 
 minute shapes, and soaring on gossamer wings. Lyric 
 poetry is thus in vogue from the peculiar circumstances 
 of the age. It obtains not less on account of the in- 
 creased personality, if I may so speak, of man himself. 
 A series of external events, however well described in 
 stately verse, are now deemed less entertaining than a 
 single incident or emotion freshly portrayed from a living 
 mind. The individual is thought more interesting than 
 the mass. A single encounter attracts more spectators 
 than a promiscuous battle. We have had leisure, in our 
 unadventurous times, to discover the finer points of inte- 
 rest in the great picture of human life. Christian civili- 
 zation has worked a daguerreotype process upon the com- 
 mon and universal light of mind. It is at length revealed
 
 240 THE OPAL. 
 
 that a profound interest attaches to the humblest of our 
 fellow-creatures. The scions of aristocracy can sit for 
 hours upon their splendid ottomans, amid mirrors, vases, 
 and all the paraphernalia of fashionable luxury, conning 
 with tearful eyes the memoirs of a parish boy ; and the 
 accomplished daughters of a pampered nobility can quote 
 the homely expressions of Jeannie Deans instead of the 
 elegant sentimentality of Metastasio. Sensibility to the 
 universal and quiet facts of human nature, renders the 
 poetic records of an individual's experience singularly 
 attractive. The truth is now acknowledged, that a poet 
 may be personal without being egotistical. The regret, 
 the love, or the hopes poured forth in his song, are 
 indeed tinged with his idiosyncrasy, but they are essen- 
 tially the same as sway the bosoms of his race, and 
 even what is peculiar in their phases doubtless finds its 
 reflection. Lyric poetry survives the drama and the 
 epic, because it is indissolubly entwined with individual 
 destiny. The latter may be buried in the grave of na- 
 tionality, but the former has a permanent home in the 
 bosom of man. It is common to lament this revolution 
 in poetic taste and practice. It is frequently cited as an 
 evidence of mental degeneracy. There was adequate 
 cause for this at those periods when the lyric was more 
 artificial : at the early part of the seventeenth century, 
 or instance, when verses were written only to bestow de- 
 grading adulation or embody extravagant similes, which 
 profanely assumed to express love, and overflowed with 
 false wit, the concetti of the Italians, and a thousand 
 tinsel absurdities. But the objection does not hold when 
 applied to the legitimate lyric, and especially to those of
 
 LYRIC POETEY. 241 
 
 a period when the love of freedom and humanizing sen- 
 timent abound, and find their sweetest experience in song. 
 Poetry is too earnest now to be devoted to the minute 
 portraiture of a metaphysical passion, whose fanciful 
 display proves its hollowness. The lyrists of our day 
 have too often struck the deep chords of the heart, to 
 expect effects from cold associations of imagery or 
 forced tricks of versification. 
 
 There is abundant cause to rejoice in the popularity 
 of lyric poetry. It has one advantage over the more 
 pretending branches of the art, which cannot but endear 
 it to the lover of his race. It is more penetrating and 
 diffusive. Let not the philosopher frown upon the lesser 
 vehicles of thought and sentiment. They reach many 
 bosoms that would otherwise remain wholly unblessed 
 by their genial influence. No error has more im- 
 peded human progress than the cumberous arrange- 
 ments of its mistaken friends. In this regard, nature 
 teaches a subtle wisdom. The gentle beams of the 
 serene moon sway the mighty sea, and the noiseless dew 
 freshens the whole world of vegetation. It has been 
 said that tracts, in earlier times, disseminated more 
 knowledge than volumes, and we all know that periodi- 
 cal literature has proved a mightier agent in the world 
 of opinion than learned quartos. The romance of 
 history has threaded a wider range in the shape of 
 legendary ballads, than in that of elaborate chronicles ; 
 and lyric poetry has wafted the seeds of truth and the 
 flowers of fancy to many a desert nook of the earth. 
 While the men-of-war of literature the Iliads and 
 Divine Comedies have swept proudly before the breeze 
 21
 
 242 THE OPAL. 
 
 of June, on the broad ocean of life, lyrical compositions, 
 when born of the true heart and the fervent imagination, 
 have glided, in meek beauty, into the lonely bays, or 
 borne their freights of love to the unvisited shores of 
 some solitary isle. Lyrics are like sacred sparks of 
 Promethean fire, floating down to light up a happy glow 
 in the shadowy soul. They are as spring blossoms, 
 gently dropping from the tree of knowledge, to cheer 
 the passing pilgrim ; stray Peris from the bowers of 
 Paradise, creeping playfully into the chambers of the 
 heart ; single strains of rare music, waking long echoes ; 
 wild flowers, springing by the wayside and in the stony 
 interstices of life's rude pathway. They catch the eye 
 of the toiler in the corner of a newspaper, and impart a 
 momentary but sweet refreshment. They greet the ear 
 of pleasure's votary, in the gay saloon, borne on the 
 wings of some insinuating melody, and the impression 
 lingers with a healing charm, to soothe the wounds of 
 vanity and soften the iciness of pride. In hours of 
 listlessness or depression, they come self-invoked, from 
 the caves of memory, bringing repose and freshness in 
 their perennial bloom. " A wave of genuine Helicon," 
 says Lamb, " is your only Spa for these hypochondri- 
 acs." As the falcon launched trustingly heavenward is 
 lost to view, the course of the higher poetry often soars 
 beyond the ken of the multitude ; and as the humbler 
 birds carol blithely round our dwellings, so the meeker 
 lays of the muse linger tunefully about the heart. 
 
 The genuine lyric is the offspring of sincere feeling, 
 the expression of poetic experience. Completeness and 
 unity of design are essential to its perfection ; for " song
 
 LYRIC POETRY. 243 
 
 is but the eloquence of truth." It is a common error to 
 wonder at the rarity of poetic production where the 
 gift is known to be professed. But lyrical inspiration is 
 not arbitrary, but spontaneous. In its very essence it 
 is occasional. A true poet of this order must be ex- 
 cited by some circumstances of interest, or some senti- 
 ment of power. The Lake poets have desecrated their 
 fame by writing artificially. Where their themes have 
 been true, their interest real, the result is always effec- 
 tive. 
 
 The lyric should illustrate a single great truth, or 
 exemplify one overpowering sentiment. When descrip- 
 tive, it is best adapted to portray isolated events or cele- 
 brate individual objects. A battle, a favourite tree, a 
 romantic incident of any sort, is thus succinctly sung, 
 and around such a nucleus gather the crystallizations 
 of thought in brilliant harmony. The lover can thus 
 breathe his daring hopes, or insinuate his affectionate 
 reproaches ; the bereaved twine an elegiac garland 
 around the tomb where his heart lies buried ; the devo- 
 tional utter their trust and gratitude, and the soul, 
 touched with the glories of creation, find a more genial 
 medium to whisper its orisons. The capabilities of the 
 lyric are as various as the events of life. Better mo- 
 ments are therein embalmed. Cheering truths are thus 
 familiarly enshrined consecrated tapers lighted before 
 the altars of the wayside. Lyric poetry is remarkably 
 adapted to our own busy and unimaginative country. 
 Who can estimate the germs of virtue or the refinement of 
 sentiment induced among our people by the lyrics which 
 the gazettes and school-books of the country have borne
 
 244 THE OPAL. 
 
 to the minds of millions? Recited by the child at the 
 fireside, chanted by the maiden at the piano, quoted by 
 the divine and the lecturer, they have disseminated an 
 atmosphere of taste and awakened the springs of genius. 
 Let those who are disposed to question our estimate 
 of lyric poetry as a means of culture and a herald of 
 fame, recollect the popularity of Berenger's songs in 
 France, the acknowledged influence of Goethe's and 
 Schiller's lyrics in Germany, and the ardour with which 
 the modern Italians cite Felicigo and Monti. Or rather, 
 let the objector scan his own mental history, and glance 
 at the actual renown of the bards of our own language. 
 Who reads any of Dryden's ambitious attempts in 
 literature ? Yet what schoolboy is not familiar with his 
 ode on St. Cecilia's day? How few comprehend the 
 philosophical system of Coleridge compared with those 
 who have been exalted by his Hymn in the Vale of 
 Chamouni, and thrilled under the touching sweetness of 
 his Genevieve ? Cowper's long poem to no inconside- 
 rable class of readers is indeed a Task ; but what heart 
 can fail to melt at the tenderness of his Lines to his 
 Mother's Picture ? Korner's few songs are cherished 
 memorials of his bravery and death, in a thousand 
 hearts. " Not a drum was heard nor a funeral note," 
 we are told, when the gallant Sir John Moore was 
 interred on a foreign soil, but the monody of Wolfe has 
 sent down the stream of time a picture of that lonely 
 sepulture which will be felt, when the solemn pageantry 
 of Napoleon's funeral has passed into oblivion. Gray's 
 Scholarship is as a forgotten tale, but his Elegy has 
 floated upon solemn wings through the wasting atmo-
 
 LYRIC POETRY. 245 
 
 sphere of years. The Cotter's Saturday Night has 
 hallowed Scotland to the imaginative, more than the 
 fame of all her battles ; and Heber's Missionary Hymn 
 has done more for the cause than the pleadings of a 
 hundred preachers. The poetry of the affections has 
 been scattered from the lyre of Mrs. Hemans, around 
 the hearthstones and graves of two mighty nations ; 
 and the songs of Moore enliven the feast and speak for 
 the lover, in the sequestered village, amid the halls of 
 pleasure, and on the lonely sea. 
 
 The waterfowl, thanks to an American lyrist, as he 
 skims the hazy air of twilight, now bears a consoling 
 truth to the hearts of mortals ; and the hero of modern 
 Greece has been canonized as a saint of freedom by a 
 bard of the New World. 
 
 Domestic life has gradually become the great scene 
 of human experience. Ambition aims at social distinc- 
 tion, and has lost its reverence for martial honour. The 
 same order of spirits that would have sacrificed every 
 thing for knightly preferment, are now content with 
 bearing off the honours of a conversazione. Men whose 
 earnest natures would have made them, in the fourteenth, 
 century, military leaders or bold na'vigators, now emu- 
 late the serener fame of diplomacy or letters, and " do 
 their sporting gentles." Existence has grown more and 
 more concentrated ; effort has assumed an individual 
 aspect ; comfort is estimated beyond glory, and Chris- 
 tianity has made men repose with a new confidence on 
 the meeker virtues ; and thus the bold and striking fea- 
 tures of humanity, upon which dramatic genius fixes its 
 regard, and to which the sympathies of ruder commu- 
 21*
 
 246 THE OPAL. 
 
 nities are strongly responsive, have, little by little, 
 assumed a softer tone, and a more delicate contour. 
 The muscular limbs of Michel Angelo's statues strike 
 our gaze with a startling effect. The old towers of the 
 middle ages look mysterious in their mouldering might. 
 The earnest eyes of the old female portraits, and the 
 heavy armour of the warriors wear a most formidable 
 appearance ; and so the impassioned adjurations of jeal- 
 ousy, the daring wickedness of ambition, the extrava- 
 gant fantasies of love, as drawn by Shakspeare, come 
 upon us like the mighty voices of a higher humanity, 
 the half-forgotten tones of a more earnest race.
 
 CHRIST WALKING ON THE SEA. 
 
 BY MRS. P. W. CHANDLER. 
 
 " Fear not it is I." 
 
 IN the dark hours, when the shades of night 
 
 Had gathered gloomily upon the wave, 
 And the huge billows' snowy-crested light, 
 
 But seemed as torches pointing to the grave 
 While the loud surge, which beat against the shore, 
 
 Gave utterance to its hoarse voice in the blast, 
 The weary mariners still plied the oar, 
 
 Though lost the hope to reach the shore at last. 
 
 Yet toiling on, they watched in wild despair 
 
 The waters, dashing by in horrid glee, 
 While their loud shrieks, which rent the troubled air, 
 
 Were lost amidst the roaring of the sea 
 As thus they gazed ere the fourth watch was past, 
 
 Each cheek was blanched anew with awful dread, 
 For, midst the angry howling of the blast, 
 
 They saw a shadowy form the waters tread.
 
 248 THE OPAL. 
 
 As yet it nearer drew, a softened light 
 
 Shone o'er the brow, and round th' angelic head. 
 And through the storming of that fearful night, 
 
 They heard his voice " 'Tis I, be not afraid." 
 " If it be thou, bid me come unto thee," 
 
 One doubting said, who on the frail ship stood ; 
 And Jesus answered, " Come ;" and on the sea 
 
 He walked, and safely trod th' opposing flood. 
 
 But when he saw around wave piled on wave, 
 
 His fears o'ercame him, and he, sinking, cried, 
 " Lord, save me, or I perish ;" and Christ gave 
 
 His hand, and raised him to the vessel's side. 
 So thou, my soul, in the dark hour of doubt, 
 
 Shalt to thy God for help and mercy turn, 
 Roll back the waves that compass thee about, 
 
 And from his succour faith's sweet lesson learn.

 
 MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON. 
 
 BY EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 THE natural scenery of America has often been con- 
 trasted, in its general features as well as in detail, with 
 the landscape of the Old World more especially of 
 Europe and not deeper has been the enthusiasm, than 
 wide the dissension, of the supporters of each region. 
 The discussion is one not likely to be soon closed, for, 
 although much has been said on both sides, a world 
 more yet remains to be said. 
 
 The most conspicuous of the British tourists who have 
 attempted a comparison, seem to regard our northern 
 and eastern seaboard, comparatively speaking, as all of 
 America, at least as all of the United States, worthy 
 consideration. They say little, because they have seen 
 less, of the gorgeous interior scenery of some of our 
 western and southern districts of the^vast valley of 
 Louisiana, for example, a realization of the wildest 
 dreams of paradise. For the most part, these travellers 
 content themselves with a hasty inspection of the natural 
 lions of the land the Hudson, Niagara, the Catskills, 
 Harper's Ferry, the lakes of New York, the Ohio, the
 
 250 THE OPAL. 
 
 prairies, and the Mississippi. These, indeed, are objects 
 well worthy the contemplation even of him who has just 
 clambered by the castellated Rhine, or roamed 
 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone ; 
 
 but these are not all of which we can boast ; and, 
 indeed, I will be so hardy as to assert that there are 
 innumerable quiet, obscure, and scarcely explored nooks, 
 within the limits of the United States, that, by the true 
 artist, or cultivated lover of the grand and beautiful 
 amid the works of God, will be preferred to each and to 
 all of the chronicled and better accredited scenes to 
 which I have referred. 
 
 In fact, the real Edens of the land lie far away from 
 the track of our own most deliberate tourists how very 
 far, then, beyond the reach of the foreigner, who, having 
 made with his publisher at home arrangements for a 
 certain amount of comment upon America, to be fur- 
 nished in a stipulated period, can hope to fulfil his agree- 
 ment in no other manner than by steaming it, memo- 
 randum-book in hand, through only the most beaten 
 thoroughfares of the country ! 
 
 I mentioned, just above, the valley of Louisiana. Of 
 all extensive areas of natural loveliness, this is perhaps 
 the most lovely. No fiction has approached it. The 
 most gorgeous imagination might derive suggestions 
 from its exuberant beauty. And beauty is, indeed, its 
 sole character. It has little, or rather nothing, of the 
 sublime. Gentle undulations of soil, interwreathed 
 with fantastic crystallic streams, banked by flowery
 
 MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON. 251 
 
 slopes, and backed by a forest vegetation, gigantic, 
 glossy, multicoloured, sparkling with gay birds and 
 burthened with perfume these features make up, in the 
 vale of Louisiana, the most voluptuous natural scenery 
 upon earth. 
 
 But, even of this delicious region, the sweeter portions 
 are reached only by bypaths. Indeed, in America 
 generally, the traveller who would behold the finest 
 landscapes, must seek them not by the railroad, nor by 
 the steamboat, nor by the stage-coach, nor in his private 
 carriage, nor yet even on horseback but on foot. He 
 must walk, he must leap ravines, he must risk his neck 
 among precipices, or he must leave unseen the truest, 
 the richest, and most unspeakable glories of the land. 
 
 Now in the greater portion of Europe no such ne- 
 cessity exists. In England it exists not at all. The 
 merest dandy of a tourist may there visit every nook 
 worth visiting without detriment to his silk stockings ; 
 so thoroughly known are all points of interest, and so 
 well-arranged are the means of attaining them. This 
 consideration has never been allowed its due weight, in 
 comparisons of the natural scenery of the Old and New 
 Worlds. The entire loveliness of the former is collated 
 with only the most noted, and with by no means the 
 most eminent items in the general loveliness of the 
 latter. 
 
 River scenery has, unquestionably, within itself, all 
 the main elements of beauty, and, time out of mind, has 
 been the favourite theme of the poet. But much of this 
 fame is attributable to the predominance of travel in 
 fluvial over that in mountainous districts. In the same
 
 252 THE OPAL. 
 
 way, large rivers, because usually highways, have, in 
 all countries, absorbed an undue share of admiration. 
 They are more observed, and, consequently, made more 
 the subject of discourse, than less important, but often 
 more interesting streams. 
 
 A singular exemplification of my remarks upon this 
 head may be found in the Wissahiccon, a brook, (for 
 more it can scarcely be called,) which empties itself into 
 the Schuylkill, about six miles westward of Philadelphia. 
 Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness 
 that, were it flowing in England, it would be the theme 
 of every bard, and the common topic of every tongue, 
 if, indeed, its banks were not parcelled off in lots, at an 
 exorbitant price, as building-sites for the villas of the 
 opulent. Yet it is only within a very few years that 
 any one has more than heard of the Wissahiccon, while 
 the broader and more navigable water into which it 
 flows, has been long celebrated as one of the finest 
 specimens of American river scenery. The Schuylkill, 
 whose beauties have been much exaggerated, and whose 
 banks, at least in the neighbourhood of Philadelphia, 
 are marshy like those of the Delaware, is not at all 
 comparable, as an object of picturesque interest, with 
 the more humble and less notorious rivulet of which we 
 speak. 
 
 It was not until Fanny Kemble, in her droll book 
 about the United States, pointed out to the Philadelphians 
 the rare loveliness of a stream which lay at their own 
 doors, that this loveliness was more than suspected by 
 a few adventurous pedestrians of the vicinity. But, the 
 " Journal" having opened all eyes, the Wissahiccon, to
 
 MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON. 253 
 
 a certain extent, rolled at once into notoriety. I say 
 " to a certain extent," for, in fact, the true beauty of the 
 stream lies far above the route of the Philadelphian 
 picturesque-hunters, who rarely proceed farther than a 
 mile or two above the mouth of the rivulet for the very 
 excellent reason that here the carriage-road stops. I 
 would advise the adventurer who would behold its finest 
 points to take the Ridge Road, running westwardly 
 from the city, and, having reached the second lane 
 beyond the sixth mile-stone, to follow this lane to its 
 termination. He will thus strike the Wissahiccon, at 
 one of its best reaches, and, in a skiff, or by clambering 
 along its banks, he can go up or down the stream, as 
 bests suits his fancy, and in either direction will meet his 
 reward. 
 
 I have already said, or should have said, that the 
 brook is narrow. Its banks are generally, indeed al- 
 most universally, precipitous, and consist of high hills, 
 clothed with noble shrubbery near the water, and crowned 
 at a greater elevation, with some of the most magnificent 
 forest trees of America, among which stands conspicuous 
 the liriodendron tulipiferum. The immediate shores, 
 however, are of granite, sharply-defined or moss-covered, 
 against which the pellucid water lolls in its gentle flow, 
 as the blue waves of the Mediterranean upon the steps 
 of her palaces of marble. Occasionally in front of the 
 cliffs, extends a small definite plateau of richly herbaged 
 land, affording the most picturesque position for a cottage 
 and garden which the richest imagination could conceive. 
 The windings of the stream are many and abrupt, as is 
 22
 
 254 THE OPAL. 
 
 usually the case where banks are precipitous, and thus 
 the impression conveyed to the voyager's eye, as he pro- 
 ceeds, is that of an endless succession of infinitely varied 
 small lakes, or, more pro]>erly speaking, tarns. The 
 Wissahiccon, however, should be visited, not like " fair 
 Melrose," by moonlight, or even in cloudy weather, but 
 amid the brightest glare of a noonday sun ; for the 
 narrowness of the gorge through which it flows, the 
 height of the hills on either hand, and the density of the 
 foliage, conspire to produce a gloominess, if not an abso- 
 lute dreariness of effect, which, unless relieved by a 
 bright general light, detracts from the mere beauty of 
 the scene. 
 
 Not long ago I visited the stream by the route de- 
 scribed, and spent the better part of a sultry day in 
 floating in a skiff upon its bosom. The heat gradually 
 overcame me, and, resigning myself to the influence of 
 the scenes and of the weather, and of the gently moving 
 current, I sank into a half slumber, during which my 
 imagination revelled in visions of the Wissahiccon of 
 ancient days of the " good old days" when the Demon 
 of the Engine was not, when pic-nics were undreamed 
 of, when " water privileges" were neither bought nor 
 sold, and when the red man trod alone, with the elk, 
 upon the ridges that now towered above. And, while 
 gradually these conceits took possession of my mind, 
 the lazy brook had borne me, inch by inch, around one 
 promontory and within full view of another that bounded 
 the prospect at the distance of forty or fifty yards. It 
 was a steep rocky cliff, abutting far into the stream, and
 
 MORNING ON THE WISSAHICCON. 255 
 
 presenting much more of the Salvator character than 
 any portion of the shore hitherto passed. What I saw 
 upon this cliff, although surely an object of very extra- 
 ordinary nature, the place and season considered, at 
 first neither startled nor amazed me so thoroughly and 
 appropriately did it chime in with the half-slumberous fan- 
 cies that enwrapped me. I saw, or dreamed that I saw, 
 standing upon the extreme verge of the precipice, with 
 neck outstretched, with ears erect, and the whole atti- 
 tude indicative of profound and melancholy inquisitive- 
 ness, one of the oldest and boldest of those identical elks 
 which had been coupled with the red men of my vision. 
 I say that, for a few moments, this apparition neither 
 startled nor amazed me. During this interval my whole 
 soul was bound up in intense sympathy alone. I fan- 
 cied the elk repining, not less than wondering, at the 
 manifest alterations for the worse, wrought upon the 
 brook and its vicinage, even within the last few years, 
 by the stern hand of the utilitarian. But a slight 
 movement of the animal's head at once dispelled the 
 dreaminess which invested me, and aroused me to a full 
 sense of the novelty of the adventure. I arose upon 
 one knee within the skiff, and, while I hesitated whether 
 to stop my career, or let myself float nearer to the 
 object of my wonder, I heard the words " hist ! hist !" 
 ejaculated quickly but cautiously, from the shrubbery 
 overhead. In an instant afterwards, a negro emerged 
 from the thicket, putting aside the bushes with care, and 
 treading stealthily. He bore in one hand a quantity of 
 salt, and, holding it towards the elk, gently yet steadily 
 approached. The noble animal, although a little flut-
 
 256 THE OPAL. 
 
 tered, made no attempt at escape. The negro advanced ; 
 offered the salt ; and spoke a few words of encourage- 
 ment or conciliation. Presently, the elk bowed and 
 stamped, and then lay quietly down and was secured 
 with a halter. 
 
 Thus ended my romance of the elk. It was a pet of 
 great age and very domestic habits, and belonged to an 
 English family occupying a villa in the vicinity.
 
 THE PURSUIT OF EASE. 
 
 IMITATION OF THE SIXTEENTH ODE OF THE SECOND 
 BOOK OF HORACE. 
 
 BY THE TRANSLATOR OF " SCHILLER'S TRAGEDIES." 
 
 FOR ease the harassed seaman sighs, 
 When cloudy night involves the skies, 
 
 Nor moon nor stars appear, 
 When fierce round Sunium's howling steep 
 He sees conflicting tempests sweep, 
 
 And deems destruction near. 
 
 For ease the roving sons of war, 
 The wild Croatian and Hussar, 
 
 Midst fields of carnage sigh ; 
 For ease, a blessing never sold, 
 Which not Peruvia's hidden gold, 
 
 Not India's gems can buy. 
 
 For neither wealth nor power combined, 
 Will calm those tumults of the mind, 
 Which force the wretch to roam, 
 22* 

 
 258 THE OPAL. 
 
 Will smooth the wrinkled brow of care, 
 
 Or chase the thousand griefs, that spare 
 
 Not e'en the monarch's dome. 
 
 How happy he, how truly blest, 
 Who, of paternal fields possessed, 
 
 Nor needs nor covets more ; 
 In active virtue fleets his day, 
 In peace his night, while far away 
 
 Lite's storms unheeded roar. 
 
 Poor insects of the passing hour, 
 
 Why do we toil, through pomp and power, 
 
 For happiness below ? 
 Why fly for ease to distant plains, 
 Whilst still within our bosom reigns 
 
 Our bosom's deadliest foe 1 
 
 The pangs of conscience can we shun 1 
 Alas ! we might as soon outrun 
 
 The lightning's winged speed ; 
 Still in the track of vice and pride, 
 Remorse ascends the galley's side, 
 
 O'ertakes the flying steed. 
 
 The soul whom reason's dictates sway, 
 Enjoys the sunshine of the day, 
 
 Nor pines at distant ill, 
 Assured that sorrows are his share, 
 That man's best state is mixed with care, 
 
 By heaven's unerring will. 
 
 Great fell in manhood's bloom, 
 
 Whilst , reversing nature's doom, 
 
 Yet lingers on the stage,
 
 THE PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE. 259 
 
 And whilst the boon's denied to thee, 
 Perhaps all-bounteous Heaven to me 
 Extends a peaceful age. 
 
 For thee what various joys combine ! 
 Power, talents, honours, all are thine, 
 
 Hereditary wealth ; 
 For me an humble lot will please, 
 An honest name, domestic ease, 
 
 Friends, competence, and health.
 
 FAITH. 
 
 BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. 
 
 I. 
 
 RESTLESS and oft complaining 1 , on his bed 
 Tossed a fair child, as burned along his veins 
 The fire of fever with consuming pains ; 
 And ever and anon he raised his head 
 From the hot pillow, and beseeching said 
 " Water ! oh, give me water !" By his side 
 The healer stood, and tenderly replied 
 " Wait yet awhile this potion take instead." 
 
 " No," cried the child " 'tis poison and will kill !" 
 His father took the cup " My son, be sure 
 This is a nauseous draught, but it may cure 
 
 Will my boy drink it ?" Then said he, " I will 
 I'm not afraid 'tis poison note I know 
 You would not give it, father, were it so." 
 
 n. 
 
 Oh, trusting childhood ! I would learn of thee 
 This lesson of pure faith, and to my heart 
 So bind it that it never may depart 
 
 Therefore shalt thou henceforth my teacher be ;
 
 FAITH. 261 
 
 For in thy perfect trust the sin I see 
 
 Of my own doubts and fears. The cup of life, 
 Drugged with the bitterness of tears and strife, 
 
 Shall I not drink it when 'tis proffered me 1 
 Yes for 'tis mingled by a Father's hand 
 
 And given in love for, rightly understood, 
 
 Trials and pains tend ever to our good, 
 Healing the soul that for the better land 
 
 Thirsts with a deathless longing ! Welcome pain, 
 
 Whose end is bliss and everlasting gain !
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 BY THE REV. S. F. SMITH. 
 
 THE breezes are cold as from Cedron they flow 
 And over Gethsemane quivering they go 
 But Jesus regards not the chill of the air, 
 He came to Gethsemane's garden for prayer ! 
 
 The heavens are covered with wild-looking clouds, 
 And darkness unwonted the soft twilight shrouds 
 But Jesus beholds not the terrors they wear, 
 He came to Gethsemane's garden for prayer ! 
 
 The hours of the night-shade pass sadly away, 
 And long is the time to the dawning of day 
 But though weary the hours he lingers still there, 
 He came to Gethsemane's garden for prayer ! 
 
 Thus Jesus prepared for that ocean of wo 
 That soon on his soul in its wrath was to flow 
 The dark scenes of pain he was strengthened to bear, 
 He was heard when those hours he devoted to prayer ! 
 
 My soul, when the tempest of sorrow is high, 
 O'erwhelmed with thine anguish, to God lift thy cry 
 Oh ! yield not thy thoughts to the woes of despair, 
 For God ever hears and will answer thy prayer !
 
 THE APRIL BIRTHDAY. 
 
 BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 DARK clouds my natal morning overcast, 
 And sullen lay each upland, grove, and field, 
 
 The tender germs shrunk from the chilly blast, 
 And on the swollen buds the mist congealed. 
 
 But noontide came, and from their vapoury shroud 
 Mountain and streamlet gloriously broke, 
 
 The verdure freshened, radiant grew the cloud, 
 And nature smiled as if her Maker spoke. 
 
 Effulgent skies the landscape now unfold, 
 To cheer each budding leaf and tendril pale, 
 
 While blades of herbage pierce the clammy ground, 
 And dead stalks rustle in the vernal gale. 
 
 On the peach boughs how delicate a bloom 
 
 With summer hopes the peasant's heart beguiles ! 
 
 While piny odours from his. quiet room 
 Lure the glad student to the forest aisles. 
 
 And breezes warm the prisoned earth release, 
 Bidding her throw her last cold chain aside, 
 
 And won by April's sweet and fond caprice, 
 Deck her wan bosom like a virgin bride.
 
 264 THE OPAL. 
 
 Be thou an omen of my future years ! 
 
 As pleasant sunshine cometh after rain, 
 Let smiles of hope yet triumph over tears. 
 
 And love illume the gloominess of pain ! 
 
 And as beneath the elemental strife 
 The seed doth ripen into fruit mature, 
 
 So may the shade and sunshine of my life 
 Bring truth to guide, and wisdom to endure ! 
 
 And when earth's brooding clouds shall disappear, 
 And all the mists of time are rolled away, 
 
 May light eternal from a higher sphere 
 Break on my vision like this April day ! 
 
 THE END.

 
 UiQSB LlBRAfli 
 
 
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