Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Flowers and plants of scriptur...
 The lilies of the field
 The French conscripts
 Wild flowers
 Beauties of the field
 The funeral at the gate of...
 A midnight visit to Mount...
 Garden flowers
 Socrates, the citizen teacher
 Why not?
 Wild fruits
 The unseen hand
 Faith and obedience
 Exotic fruits
 The stars
 "Little Lotte"
 Seasons of prayer
 Freshwater shells
 The problem solved
 A Welsh tombstone
 Sea shells
 The sea-shore
 Can she be spared?
 The spring as an emblem of the...
 Sea weeds
 The morning revel
 Yellow leaves
 Old Humphrey on kindness and...
 The well-spent day
 The millennial Sabbath
 Back Cover

Group Title: Christian garland, or, A companion for leisure hours
Title: The Christian garland, or, A companion for leisure hours
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00015588/00001
 Material Information
Title: The Christian garland, or, A companion for leisure hours consisting of original and selected pieces in poetry and prose
Alternate Title: Companion for leisure hours
Physical Description: iv, 251, i.e. 252 p., 8 leaves of plates : col. ill. ; 17 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Religious Tract Society ( Publisher )
Kronheim & Co ( Engraver )
Publisher: Religious Tract Society
Place of Publication: London
Publication Date: 1855
Copyright Date: 1855
Edition: New ed.
Subject: Natural history -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Christian life -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1855   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1855   ( lcsh )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1855   ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1855
Genre: Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
General Note: Contains poetry, fiction, and non-fiction.
General Note: Illustrations chromolithographed by J.M. Kronheim & Co.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00015588
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: ltqf - AAA8100
notis - ALF9882
oclc - 02421931
alephbibnum - 002219697

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter 1
        Front Matter 2
        Front Matter 3
        Frontispiece 1
        Frontispiece 2
        Frontispiece 3
    Title Page
        Page i
        Page ii
    Table of Contents
        Page iii
        Page iv
    Flowers and plants of scripture
        Page 1
        Page 2
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
    The lilies of the field
        Page 7
    The French conscripts
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 26a
    Wild flowers
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
    Beauties of the field
        Page 32
        Page 33
    The funeral at the gate of Nain
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
    A midnight visit to Mount Vesuvius
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
    Garden flowers
        Page 60
        Page 60a
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
    Socrates, the citizen teacher
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
    Why not?
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 102a
    Wild fruits
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
    The unseen hand
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
    Faith and obedience
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
    Exotic fruits
        Page 130
        Page 130a
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
    The stars
        Page 135
        Page 136
    "Little Lotte"
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 161a
    Seasons of prayer
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
    Freshwater shells
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
    The problem solved
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
    A Welsh tombstone
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 182a
    Sea shells
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
    The sea-shore
        Page 189
        Page 190
    Can she be spared?
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
    The spring as an emblem of the resurrection
        Page 202
        Page 203
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
        Page 209
        Page 210
        Page 211
        Page 212
        Page 213
        Page 214
        Page 215
        Page 216
        Page 216a
    Sea weeds
        Page 217
        Page 218
        Page 219
        Page 220
        Page 221
    The morning revel
        Page 222
        Page 223
        Page 224
        Page 225
        Page 226
        Page 227
        Page 228
        Page 229
        Page 230
        Page 231
        Page 232
        Page 233
        Page 234
        Page 235
        Page 236
        Page 237
        Page 238
    Yellow leaves
        Page 239
        Page 240
    Old Humphrey on kindness and discretion
        Page 241
        Page 242
        Page 243
        Page 244
        Page 245
        Page 246
        Page 247
    The well-spent day
        Page 248
        Page 249
        Page 250
        Page 251
    The millennial Sabbath
        Page 252
        Page 253
        Page 254
    Back Cover
        Page 255
        Page 256
        Page 257
Full Text

I jl






The Baldwin Library

/- 4 . I I , --J! -








Instituted 1799.


THE FRENOH CONSCRIPTS . . ...... . . 8
WILD FLOWERS, with an 'Engraving . . .. . 27
BEAUTIES or THE FIELD . .. .. . 83
GARDEN FLOERS, with an Engraving. . . .60
MoNING ................. 65
WIr NOT? ........ ........ 90
WILD FRUITS, Wilt a n . . . . 103
TIE UNSEEN HAND . . . . . . .108
FAITH AND OBEDIENCE . . ... ... 521
EXOTIC FRUITS, with an Engraving . . . 130


THE STARS ................ 135

" LITTLE LOTTE" : . . . . . 137
FRESHWATER SHELLS, wilt an .Engraving ..... 162

SEASONS OF PRAYER. . . . . . .. 167

THE PROBLrE RESOLVED. . . . . .170
A WELSH TOMBSTONE ... . . . .180
SEA SHELLS, will an Engraving . . . .. .183

THE SEA-SHORE . . . . . . .. .89

CAN SHE BE SPARED P . . . . . .. 191

SEA WEEDS, with an Engraving. . . . .. .217

THE MORNING REVEL . . . . . .. 222
SENSIBILITY . . . . . 229

AUTUMN . . . . . . 231
YELLOW LEAVES .. . . . .. .239

THE WELL-SPENT DAY .......... . .248


"Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice art,
In beds and curious knots, but nature boon
Pour'd forth profuse, on hill, and dale, and plain,
Both where the morning sun first warmly smote
The open field, and where the unpierced shade
1Embrown'd the noontide bowers."

ONE striking feature in l 1....:1 'y of the Bible is its
continual reference to the imagery supplied by the
material world. Coming forth from the inmost heart
of the inspired writer, and destined to influence every
human faculty, the words of Holy Writ appeal to the
sentiments and affections, as well as to the under-
standing of man, in all ages. They call his attention
to the beauty of the world around him, and render all
outward loveliness subservient to holy and devout
emotions by the vividness with which it depicts eternal
truth. The flowers of the field, fading so quickly; the
grass, withering even before it grows up; the shadow
that declineth, are all remembrancers of man's mortality.
The trees and high hills were not looked on carelessly
by the inspired writers. They understood all their
meanings, and from them, as from the voice of the
-turtle, and the coming of the crane and the swallow,
they gathered thoughts of God.


And so it is now, that when we walk abroad in fields
and gardens, by river side, or on mountain summit, the
reader, familiar with his Bible, is reminded of its truths
by innumerable associations. God never meant, when
he inspired these lessons, that we should be inattentive
to the objects whence they were drawn. Besides the
various references made, in the pages of Holy Writ, to
natural objects in general, there are more than three
hundred places in which plants are mentioned. Some-
times they occur in Scripture narratives, and tell us of
ancient usages; often they remind us of the character,
soil, and climate of the scenes of some of the most
solemn events of history; in some cases they serve to
identify the spots on which they once flourished, as
those on which they flourish still; but more often they
are emblematic, and are types of persons or of events,
or serve as figures by which the feelings of the reader
shall be raised from things seen to those which are
unseen. But they were never intended to be regarded
merely as ornaments of poetry. They had all their
lessons, from the lily of the valleys and the rose of
Sharon, which foreshadowed a coming Lord, down to
the thorn and thistle, which tell us, even yet, of man's
sin and sorrow.
We are not idly employed when seeking to identify
with the descriptions of the sacred writers the various
trees and flowers to which they allude. In many
instances this must be the labour of the learned man,
and requires patient thought and investigation, as well
as much skill in ancient languages, and in the botany
of eastern lands. But every patient study of God's
word is sure to bring valuable results, and to show not


only how well fitted for illustration were the- emblems
employed, but also how true to all that recent science
has discovered are its statements ; while the labour of
one man on the subject may serve to enlighten the
thousands whose time and toil must be otherwise em-
ployed. A great deal has been discovered, during the
last few years, respecting the botany of Scripture; and
though much remains so uncertain that we wish we
could read the volume of the wise man, who spake of
them, from the cedar of Lebanon to the hyssop of the
wall, yet is our knowledge of the subject far more accu-
rate now than at any former period of modern times.
Coming years and further study may teach us more;
for that Bible in which the way of salvation is made so
plain as that a little child can understand it, has yet its
depths, to be explored by the Christian philosopher and
the man of science.
The rose, the lily, and the vine, are perhaps the most
interesting of all the plants of Scripture, for they have
all been given us as figures of Him who was not only
the Lord of nature, but the Lord and Saviour of im-
mortal souls. In all times men have desired to know
which of the flowers of the East was the rose of Sharon.
Yet even now we are not certain of its identity. Older
writers thought it was a large and deeply-coloured rose.
Later writers have thought it was the rose of Damascus.
The plain of Sharon.is still beautiful, with its bright
grass and numerous wild flowers; but no thorny rose-
,bush is there. All over its plains and grassy slopes,
however, may be found numerous clumps of the rose-
flowering cistus, whose rich pink blossoms, shaped like
those of our wild brier, are thought by some writers to


be the rose of Sharon. But when we consider how,
from earliest ages, the true rose has been the favourite
flower of the East, and that in other parts of Palestine
wild roses are blooming still, we can hardly doubt that
the rose of Sharon, though it grows there no longer,
was some one of those lovely roses which yet grow
wild, or are cultivated, in the Holy Land.
Neither can we exactly tell which was the lily either
of the Old or New Testament, though, in the account of
Solomon's temple, in the Canticles, and in the references
of the prophets, we find it frequently mentioned.
Dr. Royle thinks that the lily of the Old Testament
is not the same flower as that on which our Saviour
looked when he reminded the disciples of God's un-
ceasing love and care, and of their duty of unwavering
faith and hope. The former flower has been thought
to be the violet, or the jessamine; but the use of it, as
forming an ornament of molten brass for the pillars and
brazen sea, as well as the reference, in the Canticles,
to "feeding among the lilies," induces Dr. Royle to
believe that the lily was the beautiful lotus once so
plentiful on the waters of the Nile, and still so common
on streams of the East. Amidst the many opinions
formed on the subject of the lily alluded to by the
Saviour, the most likely seems that which concludes it
to be the Martagon lily of our gardens.
But if we are not certain of these two flowers, there
are many plants of Scripture on which we can entertain
no doubt. The vine of Eshcol yet grows in the
neighboring Hebron, and many of the hill-sides of
Palestine still resound to the shouts of the vintage.
The tall cedars of Lebanon are green as they might


have been when David looked on them ,it ',1.7, and
compared them to the righteous man; and these vege-
table monuments of past ages yet send forth, at eventide,
the "smell of Lebanon." Sweet valleys lying among
the hills of Judah are fragrant now with the myrtle-
bough, and far away over the spring landscape the
flowering almond-trees are beautiful to look upon. The
broad shadow of the sycamore flickers on the ground
of the wayside, and might serve to conceal the listener,
as once it hid Zaccheus; and the fig-tree, whose fruits
formed a chief source of the food of Israel, is there still
to shelter and to nourish the tribes who wander under
its shade. The rich blossom or fruit of the pomegranate
reddens among its verdant branches, and the rarer
bay-tree now occasionally reminds the traveller of the
moment of sadness in which the Psalmist once looked
upon it. The willow waves its grey-green foliage by
several streams of the Holy Land, and still fringes
the waters of the Euphrates and the Tigris, where
captive Israel once uttered their lament in strains
of sweet poetry. The garden has its rue, and anise,
and mint, and cummin; and the modern traveller yet
looks on the lodge of the garden of cucumbers, in which
the watcher dwells. The palm-tree, once so charac-
teristic of its scenery, is almost gone, but the wheat
and the barley are still in Israel's land, but not in glory
and richness as in the day when his was the land of
corn and of wine. Pleasant now to the Christian's
memory are the thoughts suggested by the olive hills
yet scattered over with those old trees, on which David
looked when he went up the mountain sides in sorrow,
and which still cluster at the foot of the Mount of


Olives, in the garden which witnessed the agonies of
spirit of the blessed Saviour. But more striking than
all are the thorns and thistles which abound in Palestine,
rendering some of her hills impassable, and entangling
the foot of the traveller on spots once rich in culture.
God was angry with that land, and he smiles not on it
as once he did; yet it still waits for the glorious time,
when, literally and figuratively, its deserts shall again
rejoice, and blossom like the rose.
A. P.


MATT. vi. 28, 29.
FLOWERS of the field! 'tis yours to preach
Lessons of truth, and humbly teach
The faithless and the proud:
Array'd in garb of lovely hue,
OuR FATHER'S care we trace in you;
And still to Him who made you, true,
Ye warn the thoughtless crowd.

Let those of feeble faith, whose breast
With doubts and fears can never rest,
Consider how ye grow:
Ye toil not with perplexing care:
Ye do not spin the coats ye wear,
Nor paint those colours bright and fair,
In which ye sweetly glow.

The hand of Him who built the skies,
Adorns His flowers with varied dyes,
And clothes each beauteous plant;
Th' Eternal One, whose sovereign power
Can make earth's haughtiest despot cower,
Stoops to regard the humblest flower,
And tend each little want.


THE burning sun of the South of France had just
gone down, and a weary soldier, who trod languidly
along the bare and dusty road that led from the great
sea-port of Marseilles to a small and pleasant town,
about a day's journey from the former place, rejoiced in
the cooling air of evening. His aspect bore traces of
the hardship and fatigues of war in a foreign clime:
his face was browned by an African sun, and it seemed
as if his health had suffered by the same.
It was, in fact, the time when the French were at
war with the Algerines, and Eugine Dupr6 had com-
pleted his term of seven years' service in what is called
" the army of Africa." His service had been performed
with credit to himself, and he had obtained his congi,
or dismissal, after having been rapidly advanced to the
rank of sergeant.
And now some hills, yet at a couple of hours' distance,
rose to his sight, and close to them, Eugene knew, was
the home of his youth, his father's house, where he
hoped his mother's arms would receive him, and his
fond little sister's smiles make him forget his trials
and sufferings. Although he had been a good soldier,
and gained as such the regard of his superiors, Eugine


was glad to leave the army of Africa; while with it lie
had beheld and shared in many a dreadful scene. The
fierce war in Algeria he was well satisfied no longer to
bear a part in. There are some minds which will perform
well whatever duty they undertake; and that of a soldier,
though well performed by Eugene Duprd, was not that
which was most agreeable to his own disposition; the
law of conscription in France compels all men, after
eighteen years of age, to serve in the army for seven
years, should the state require it; and Eugene had
entered the army against his own inclination, as a
conscript. This had been peculiarly trying to him just
then, for he had been long attached to a young female
who lived in his neighbourhood, and circumstances had
appeared to promise favourably for their marriage; but
when Eughne was obliged to depart for the army, her
father would no longer listen to the proposal; lheeven
made the young man promise not to attempt to form
any engagement with his daughter, or even to write to
her as long as he was a soldier.
Euggne kept both promises : he had never heard from
Annette during his long absence from his home; and
now, as he was returning, and drawing nearer to it, he
was thinking if he should find all his friends as he had
left them, and laying before himself some pictures of
happiness, peace, and quiet, which were very pleasant
to the weary soldier's imagination. What busy thoughts
filled his mind as his native village came in view!
Would Annette be changed-was she already married
to another ?-had his'father grown much older ?-was
his mother's kind face the same as ever ?-and his little
sister, who was only ten years of age at his departure,


was she as pleasing, as playful as she had been ? Then
there was another old friend, though one much younger
than himself-Henry Vincent-who had made himself
so useful to his father during his absence, and had been
his little sister's companion and friend: he thought of
him, too, and wondered if Henry had grown up to be as
good, as generous, as truthful, as he promised to be
when a boy, and as his fine open countenance had once
declared him to be.
But while thus thinking, some weary, yet more hasty
steps led him into the village street, and he stood before
the draper's shop which his father kept. The shades of
evening fall suddenly in a southern clime; it was almost
dark when he paused at the well-remembered door.
And then he recollected how, in former days, he used
to dislike to stand behind that counter, waiting for
customers, and how Henry would take his place, and
make himself so useful; and though he did not feel
more disposed to like shop-keeping now than he had
done formerly, he felt he had been wrong then, and
owned in his heart that it is both wiser and happier
to be content with that state of life to which it has
pleased God to call us, not knowing but that to which
we should prefer to call ourselves would be found still
more unsuitable to us. Then, suddenly entering the
house, he crossed the passage, and there, assembled
round the wide kitchen hearth,-for the evening had
grown chill,-he beheld all the objects of his thoughts,
with the exception of Annette, to be sure : she was
not present. But there, at opposite corners of the wide
hearth, sat an elderly man and woman, silent, with their
figures bent forward, their arms on their knees, their eyes


fixed on the fire before them. Between them, in the
middle space, was a pale but interesting young girl, with
tears upon her cheeks; and a young man, of a kind and
open countenance, the pleasant expression of which was
darkened by some sorrow, and whose attempts to console
the girl at his side only seemed to increase her grief.
In surprise Eughne gazed at the scene before him.
But his step was heard, and his father, thinking a cus-
tomer had entered, rose to attend the shop : Henry
sprang up to save him the trouble.
Leave him, my son," said the old woman to Henry,
"leave him to attend to his business himself: he must
soon do so without assistance." Eugene, seeing he was
not recognized, requested permission to rest himself.
Even his voice was changed, and the father, saluting him
as a stranger and traveller, pulled off his cap, and politely
requested him to be seated at their hearth. But the
mother looked at the war-changed soldier, and with a
cry, opened her arms, and fell on the bosom of her son.
Then Eugene was clasped to his father's breast, and
then his loving sister's tears ceased to flow, or their
cause was forgotten in wonder and joy. And Henry
stood with smiling eyes and countenance, waiting for
his embrace to come. And now how happy was Eugene
Dupr All that had passed, vexations, and hardships,
and dangers, were quite forgotten: or actually converted,
in retrospect, into pleasures. It was pleasant to tell of
them; pleasant to see the interest with which they were
listened to; pleasant, above all, to give God thanks for
deliverance from them-to hear his parents do so.
Then he was rested and refreshed; his mother and
sister relieved his aching feet, and set out the neat


reviving supper, consisting partly of the fine rich grapes
of Southern France. Oh! how happy was the soldier's
return; how devout his thankfulness!
However tired a traveller may be, yet if he returns
to an affectionate family, it is usually late before he
retires to rest; there is so much to be told, and when
all is told, there is so much to hear.
Eugine, unlike most returned travellers, wished to
hear first; so when the supper was over, he asked his
sister Violette, whom he was surprised to find grown
into a young woman, to tell him of all the changes
that had taken place among their old friends.
"Oh! there have been many changes since you left
us, my brother," said Violette; "old Menon, whom you
remember so well, is dead, and your friend Andrd
married his daughter Elise, and keeps the house now;
and my old companion Julie has left this place, and
gone to live with a lady who travels very far, so they
say Julie will be likely to see even Paris before she
comes back."
"That is surprising," said Eugene, smiling; "but
have you no more interesting news to tell me ?"
"Why, yes; there is poor Antony and his lame
Oh !" cried Eugene, interrupting her, that may
be all very interesting, I confess; but then-in short,
why do you not mention those who are most interesting
to me ?-Annette, for instance, my old friend: you have
said nothing of her."
No, indeed, nor is it likely I should have done so;
you asked me to tell you of changes, brother;-now no
change has taken place with regard to Annette."


Ah! I thought she might be married! Well, I must
go and see her to-morrow morning," said Eugene.
No, she is not married," his sister replied, and
whenever she makes some purchase at the shop, she
always asks about you-and oh! brother, when we got
that dreadful letter to tell us how youhad beenwounded,
and nearly killed by the Arabs, and how you suffered
from the climate-ah!"-hissister looked at Henry, who
was listening to her, and stopping short in her speech,
put her hand over her eyes and burst into tears.
Eughne, thinking it was the recollection of his suffer-
ings that caused these tears, began to laugh at them, and
then, to divert her, commenced telling of many greater
hazards he had run, of wild scenes he had witnessed,
and fearful perils he had passed.
He was interrupted by his sister's sobs, and by a
request from Henry that he would not alarm her more.
Ah! said Eugene, it cannot be on my account
she is alarmed, else she would smile now that I am
safe. Look at me, my sister," he said, trying to remove
her hands; tell me what is the matter."
Violette could not speak, and Eugene, turning to his
father and mother, said, I saw Violette in tears when
I came in, but I forgot that in the general joy; I am
sure something is wrong; tell me, I pray you, what
it is."
Not till to-morrow, my son," said the mother;
you require repose."
"Eugene will not sleep while he is in doubt," said
the father; it is better he should know all now." Then
turning towards his son, the old man continued:-
You see Henry, my son, who sits beside you; well,


when you had left us, Henry supplied your place; only
less dear than our own son, he was as a son to us. I had
no need in the morning to regulate the shop, for Henry
was there, and all was done before I appeared. In the
evening, I had no trouble with my accounts, my books
were settled for me. His only amusement was to take
out Violette sometimes for a walk in the country. You
will not marvel that he became very dear to us; and
when he asked us for our daughter in marriage, we were
glad, for we thought we should live with our children
and children's children, and go down to the grave in
peace with their love and blessing."
Then are these tears of joy and happiness ? asked
Eugbne, kissing his sister's cheek: but her head drop-
ped on his shoulder, and she looked pale and faint.
No, my son; you must hear the rest;" said the
old man. Henry's name was enrolled in the con-
scription list, for men wanted for the army of Africa,-
the army you have left. Only yesterday, he drew a bad
number,-Henry is a conscript,-he must leave us for
A silence followed.
But a substitute," cried Eugene,-" lie can buy
one,-I have money, if you have not."
"A substitute for Africa cannot be got," said his
father; the time, too, is short; Henry must go."
But I will return, father Duprd," cried the young
man, Henry: we must hope and trust :-courage, dear
Violette," he added, but his voice was broken, and his
eyes dim with tears.
Eugine sat silent, his eyes bent down, and a look of
painful thought upon his brow. Mother, I am very


weary," he said at last, "I wish to repose." He kissed
his sister's youthful brow, and whispering the word
"Hope," was conducted by his mother to the chamber
that had been his in boyhood. There, as soon as he was
alone, the returned soldier fell on his knees, and prayed
long to God,-he wanted help and courage,-wanted
them more than in the hour of battle. He wanted
to form a resolution which he believed to be virtuous
and right, but which most strangely and unexpectedly
crossed all his expectations, all his hopes and plans.
He rose strengthened in it, for those who seek shall
find; and Eugine Dupr6 had sought for grace and power
to conquer the natural selfishness of the human heart,
and to follow the example which Christ left us, when
he loved us and gave himself for us.
But during that wakeful night,-for not even bodily
fatigue could prevent it from being wakeful,-some
painful thoughts would dart across the mind of the
released soldier.
Ah he would say to himself, as he impatiently
tossed on his pillow, I was so happy; I believed myself
so free; I was thankful to Providence for leading me
back in peace to my home, my family, my friends; why
am I then thus tried, why so sorely disappointed ? Why
is the cup of mortal happiness just presented to us, and
dashed away almost before we can taste it ? "
Eugine could not answer these questions then; but
he remembered some words spoken by Christ to his
apostle Peter; What I do thou kndwest not now,
but thou shalt know hereafter; and saying to himself,
Perhaps even I, insignificant as I may well judge my
concerns to be in the view of the Almighty, even I may


one day know the meaning of all this, and find it has
been for my good. At all events, as a soldier, when I
knew my duty I was bound to do it; as a Christian,
I can do no less."
Tired as he was, Eugene rose soon after the sun, and
went out. He walked through the village, and turned
towards a neat and comfortable looking house, with a
vineyard and garden around it, standing on the slope
of a hill, just beyond its outskirts. He looked at it,
but did not go there, as he had told Violette the night
before he would do. That house belonged to Annette's
father; Eugene would not now go to see her, there
would be no use, but perhaps mutual pain in doing so,"
he said to himself, as he passed it. I want to be
strengthened, not made weaker."
So he went on a little further, until he came to a
humble dwelling, occupied by the good old pastor, who
had been his teacher and guide in childhood, whose
lessons of piety had preserved him, by God's blessing,
from many of the temptations of the ungodly, from
many of the sins to which his life had peculiarly
exposed him.
He met the old pastor up, and, early as it was,
walking abroad, after the custom of France, with a
book in his hand. The conversation which passed
between the pastor and the soldier might be inte-
resting, but as we shall find its results in the scene
which followed, we shall pass over the recital of
their discourse. On his return from the pastor's
house, Eugene called on the authorities of the town,
or village, and having made all his arrangements
without announcing his intentions to his family,


he went back to meet them at their simple morning
The mother was preparing the breakfast; Violette,
pale as death, but having taken a strong resolution to
be calm in her newly arrived brother's presence, was
endeavouring to assist her, but in reality did what her
more active mother had to undo. Henry was arranging
some bills for Father Duprd, as the old man was called;
and Father Duprd himself was sitting in his large
chair, doing nothing, but looking as if he thought a
great deal. Into such an assembled party came the
returned soldier; his knapsack, which he had carried
the day before, once more packed up, and his cloak
strapped on it. He flung it on a chair as he entered,
laid his stout stick beside it, and having pulled off his
cap, and saluted the whole family round, beginning with
the mother, he inquired, in a manner too evidently
careless to be quite natural, if breakfast would be ready
ere the sun were much higher.
"It is ready, my son," said the mother.
"One would think, brother, you were going on the
high road again to-day," said Violette.
"And they would think rightly, my sister," said
Eugbne, seizing, as if in haste, on some of the pro-
visions of the table, but only to divert or conceal a
rising agitation.
"How-why ? the first day of your return ? where
are you going ?" said both father and mother.
"Yes, tell us where you are going," said Violette,
trying to smile, "you said you would go to see Annette
to-day; it is not so far, you will not require your
knapsack or walking stick."

"I'am not going to see Annette, my little sister, I
do not intend to go to see her. If you see her, tell her
I think the same of her as ever-that is all."
"Where then are you going ? is it a secret ?"
"No; I go to Marseilles first, then to Africa-to
Algeria, where I came from."
No voice echoed his words; they seemed to have
struck the whole party dumb and motionless. With
lips apart, yet moveless, and eyes fixed in wonder and
almost in fear upon the speaker, sat father, mother,
sister, and the young conscript Henry. Eugene
coughed to clear his own voice, and after a moment's
effort, spoke calm and firmly.
"Yes, my dear parents," he said, "all the arrange-
ments arc made; you must not be left without Henry;
he is more useful to you than I ever was, or now ever
could be, for I know nothing of your business. Yes,
Violette, you must not be deprived of your betrothed
husband; his is not a constitution to stand the fatigues
or the climate of Africa. Yes, Henry, you shall not lose
the reward dueto your love and attentions to our parents.
I am your substitute, only too happy that I arrived in
timeto make myself such, and to saveus all such sorrow."
Still for a moment there was no voice to reply, but
the silence was broken by a cry from Violette. Springing
from her seat, she threw her arms around her brother,
and held him convulsivelyembraced, as if such a restraint
must be sufficient to retain him amongst them. Henry
then came forward.
"This is well, Eugene, on your part," he said, "but
if you think me capable of accepting such a sacrifice,
you are mistaken."


"Forbear, young man, to prevent it," said a mild,
yet solemn voice from the door: they turned and saw
the old pastor. "Young man," he repeated, "beware
how you tempt the goodness of a gracious Providence,
who in so singular a manner appears to have interposed
to save you, perhaps, from death, this youmg girl from
a life of pining sorrow, your aged father and mother
from years of anxiety, toil and grief. Would you
have them left to mourn over the blighted life of their
only daughter, daily to witness her fears, and to have
their latter days harassed by cares which they hoped
now would devolve upon you ?"
Henry bent his head before the pastor; the eyes
which had sparkled with a pride that refused to accept
so noble a sacrifice on his account, now filled with
tears, as he felt the truth of what was said.
"These considerations," the pastor continued, "in-
fluence Eugene; his constitution is prepared, his duty
is known, and a return to it will be both less irksome
and less dangerous. He feels that his departure from
the army left a vacancy, and that he might thus
look upon it as the means of your being a conscript.
He would suffer if he were to witness the ,!l n" of
those he loved. These are considerations to induce
you all to submit to lose again him who so lately was
found; but if they are not sufficient-still I say, beware
-beware how you interfere to stop the performance
of a good and noble purpose. My friends, your son and
your brother is a Christian; Christ is his great com-
mander; he would :I.-. I. i. Christ has led; the
Saviour loved us and gave himself for us, He was our
substitute, our sacrifice. In an inferior manner let his


servant follow our Divine Leader; God will bless this
brother's sacrifice-"
And you too will bless me, my parents," cried the
soldier, sinking on his knees before his father and
mother. "Let me take your blessing with me, for I
must be gone-by making speed I can regain my place
in my old regiment, where my loss was regretted; my
former rank will I doubt not be restored to me."
But the parents could not speak; they threw them-
selves sobbing on his neck. At that moment an excla-
mation of terror from Henry drew all their attention to
poor Violette, who had fallen from her chair in a faint.
"This is well," said the pastor, in a low voice to
Eugene, "let Henry carry her to another room, and
leave the domestic and him to attend her. She will
soon recover."
"And I meantime may depart," said Eugene; but a
pang shot to his heart, even as he saw his wished-for
departure expedited. "Give me then thy blessing,
sir," he added. Let my father's, my mother's, my
sister's, and her husband's, follow me where I go. Give
me thy blessing, and pray that the blessing of God may
go with me."
The old Pastor blessed the young soldier in the name
of God.
"And thou shalt be blessed, my son," he added:
"whatever be the temptations, trials, perils that beset
thee, the grace and blessing of God will be a shield for
thee; he can cover thy head in the day of battle.
Jacob served seven years for a wife, and they seemed
but as a few days from the love he bore her: thou
wilt serve a few years for a sister, a father, a mother.


I know thy sacrifice is great, but should it ever appear
painful, think of the sacrifice that was made for thee
when the Son of God left the glory he had with the
Father, and suffered banishment, toil, pain, and death in
our miserable world, for us men and for our salvation.":
Then the Pastor saying, Let us pray," the parents and
son knelt, and peace came to their hearts. They rose,
and tottered with outstretched arms to their noble son;
they pressed him to their hearts; they wet his head
with their tears; and while they lifted up their voice
and wept, they found words to bid him go and do as
his brave and unselfish heart dictated. Soothed by
their consent, the soldier departed as he had come,
from his home and native place.
When Henry heard he had gone, he muttered, almost
angrily, "No matter, I shall get to Africa almost as
soon as he."
It was at first his resolution to start off, and super-
sede the necessity of his brother's sacrifice. But this
resolution soon became less firm, and gradually melted
away, when he found himself called upon to comfort
Violette, and assist her father.

Well, years passed away: long years -perhaps
longer in the judgment of Eugene Dupr6 than in that
of either Henry or Violette. Time, however we may
seem to reckon it, moves, notwithstanding, in the same
equal pace, in joy or in sorrow, in pleasure or pain. It
passed on, and more than the term of service passed
away. One summer, in the south of France, was ex-
cessively hot; 'even the vines and olives that cover the,


fields, much as they love the sun, looked as if they had
had too much of its beams.
Most people preferred travelling at night, and indeed
it was at night, and very early in the morning, that
people most went abroad. On one of this summer's
bright mornings a traveller entered the village, where
the family of Duprd resided, at a very early hour; it
was not yet five o'clock, but the Place-as the planted
piece of ground, allotted for the recreation of the inha-
bitants of French towns, is usually called-was already
occupied by early risers, enjoying the cool of the
morning by walking, or sitting on the seats beneath
the shade.
A young happy mother occupied a large chair on
this Place; a child, of about a year old, was creeping
round her knees, with one hand leaning on them, the
other 'stretched to a little urchin of about double its
age, who was tempting the little sister to trust her
tottering steps, and run to catch the delicious bunch of
grapes he held provokingly to her and withdrew again.
The traveller had dismounted from his tired horse,
and led by the bridle a fine animal, which would have
been coal black, except for streaks of foam plenti-
fully scattered over its shining coat. Pitying its heat
and fatigue, the traveller stopped to loosen the saddle
girth, and the animal suddenly shaking itself, scattered
a shower of foam over a fine boy of perhaps five years
old, who stood admiring and wondering beside it.
Come here, Eugine, come here directly, my son,"
cried the young woman, who sat with the two younger
children. The traveller, who wore the military undress
of an officer, turned, and throwing loose the bridle of


his horse, which was too well trained to stir, caught up
the little boy, and kissed him warmly, then running to
the young mother, cried aloud, "Violette, Violette, my
sister-is it not ?"
The voice was the voice of Eugine Duprd; but the
face, the figure-ah! both were changed: the one was
sallow and sharp, the other was wasted. Violette at
first doubted; doubt soon gave way; but joy, grief, and
gratitude strangely mingled, as she clung to her restored
brother, weeping and laughing, pressing her little chil-
dren into his arms, and calling him to look at Eugine,
his namesake, whom she flattered herself would be like
him; her firstborn, whom she called after the brother
who had sacrificed his own happiness to her's.
Not sacrificed, I trust, my sister-only delayed,"
said Eugene, as holding his little nephew's hand in one
of his, and leading his horse with the other, he walked
with Violette and her children to his father's house:
the boy touching his sword, gazing into his face,
admiring his horse, and wondering if this tall, grave-
looking officer were the uncle whom his grandfather
and grandmother, and his own parents, had always told
him he must try to be like, because he was so good,
and loved the good of others.
And now EugIne Dupre was at home again; the
soldier had become an officer, for such an event is not
uncommon in the French army; and in his home he
found that all was peace, and comfort, and happiness:
there he had been the means of promoting these bless-
ings, and there he now returned to enjoy them. And
who can tell what joy and wonder, love and exultation,
filled the humble abode of father and mother Duprd,


when it was inhabited by their always loved, and now
honoured son. But before the mother had done ad-
miring, and pitying, and caressing him, Violette drew
near, and whispered,
Dear brother, in your last unhappy visit "
"Oh! do not call it unhappy, sister; say, rather, my
last blessed visit: look at your children, your husband,
our dear parents---"
"God, indeed, has blessed a brother's sacrifice!"
said Violette, as her tearful eyes wandered round the
group he named.
But, brother, I only wanted to tell you that in your
last-yes, I will call it, blessed visit,-you left me a
message for Annette-poor, dear Annette! I gave it
to her, and Annette is not changed."
And I am not changed," said Eugene smiling.
Scarcely more than an hour afterwards, Eugbne Dupre
stood leaning his arms on a small wooden gate, which
opened into a sort of yard at the side of that farm-house
in the vineyard, on the slope of the hill, just outside his
native village. A neat and modest-looking woman came
out, with a flat basket in her hand, containing food for
a variety of fowls which were kept there. They flew
fluttering about her. She was not young-thirty years
is considered a good age in France-and she was not
remarkably pretty, but her countenance was very sweet,
and gave the beholder an idea of one that might be
trusted in.
She was surprised to see an officer leaning against
her father's gate; but, perceiving that he looked ill,
she supposed he was fatigued with walking up the hill,
and, advancing to the gate, politely asked him to walk


in and rest. Eugbne perceived that he was not known;
he almost feared that he himself was forgotten, although
he knew well his person was greatly changed. He
wished to know this.
"There was a soldier in my regiment," he said,
"who knew you, Mademoiselle."
Ah! was it Eugine Dupr6 ?" said Annette.
You have not forgotten him, then, Mademoiselle,"
said Eugene, rather slyly, "he has not forgotten you."
I have never heard from him," said Annette, looking
Because he promised your father never to write to
you while he was a soldier;-but he promised you, too,
never to forget you. He has kept both promises for
many long years:--dear Annette, do you not know
me? Eugbne Dupr6 is a soldier no longer."

And Eugene was happy, and Annette was happy;
the whole family of Dupr6 were happy; and, last of
all, the good old pastor was happy,
The brother's sacrifice was ended; the old man felt
that his prayers had been heard, and the blessing he
asked for had been given. He was soon called to assist
at a happier scene than that of Eugene's departure for
Africa: he married him to Annette, and saw them
established, with her father's full approbation, in the
pleasant farm-house which he thenceforth resigned to
Eugene's father and mother, brother and sister, re-
joiced in the joy of him who had sacrificed his happiness
to theirs. Little Eugene loved to sit at his uncle's side,


and listen to tales about wild Arabs, and tried to re-
member that his mother constantly told him, it was
far better to try to imitate his uncle's virtues, than to
wish to share his adventures.
Was there ever a selfish heart made so happy as that
of Eugene Dupr ? No, a purely selfish heart is a
miserable, a barren, a forlorn one. Selfishness is the
characteristic of our nature-a fallen nature. Christ
came to raise and restore that nature: his character
was the only entirely unselfish one ever seen or known
in this world:-He became poor, that we might become
rich-He died, that we might live.
It is wrong to believe that any human virtues, any
self-denying actions, can entitle us to the favour of
God, for that favour is procured to us through his well-
beloved Son alone; but it would be wrong, also, to
think that these are not acceptable in his sight; and
that his blessing is not sure to come upon those who
set Christ Jesus the Lord always before them, and
endeavour to follow in the steps of his most godly
life. S. B.


Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow,
The wild red-rose, the speedwell's peeping eyes,
Our own blue-bell, the daisy, that doth rise
Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow,
And thousands more of blessed forms and dyes.
I love you all."

WILD flowers, how much do we owe them Scattered
by millions on our pathway, they are little heeded
by some who tread them down without one look at
their beauty, without one thought of the skill by which
they are fashioned. And yet to many hearts what a
tale of blessing do they bring! The busy man is
toiling onwards; the curse pronounced in Eden when
man fell, that by labour he should eat bread, falls
heavily upon him. His heart is full of cares, not for
to-day only, but for to-morrow; but some little wild
flower catches his eye, and he remembers that, like the
lily of the field, he should walk hopefully and trustingly
on the ways of life. The wanderer travels on alone
and cheerless, but a wild moss is springing at his foot,
and he feels that God is everywhere. The stranger in
some strange land sees a daisy, and home and its sweet


remembrances come vividly before him, and the voices
of those who loved him in childhood, and who love
him still, seem there to cheer him. And the sick man,
as he looks out upon the green blades of the spring
cornfield, likens it, with the apostle, to that glorious
body which shall arise from the seed about to be sown
in God's garden, when he too must lay him down to die.
Thoughts of sweet scenes and sweeter voices; of
childhood, and its innocent delights; of the sounds of
trees, and the rippling of waters, and the rustling
corn; of the noonday sun and the evening twilight,
are often brought before us by the sight of a wild
Truly God gave us a source of great enjoyment
when he made them so plentiful, when he gave them to
man as common things. If we wander by the stream,
listening to its soft music, there we find them clustering
on its surface, or crowding among the verdant sedges and
grassy banks through which it flows. And white crow-
foots lie in patches, and rich blue forget-me-nots peep
up from the waters, and the tall yellow iris waves like
a banner, and brooklimes, and water-violets, and water-
cresses, show their blue, and lilac, and snowy blossoms.
On the banks the yellow flowers of the silver-weed
glisten among the grey green leaves, and the sweet
odour of the queen-of-the-meadows is wafted far away
over the land, like a sweet strain of melody; and, as
we linger, looking on the beauties of the crystal
streamlet, we see that we are not the only beings who
delight in its flowers, though to man alone has God given
the intellect and the imagination fully to enjoy them.
Yet among these pond-weeds and duck-weeds which lie


on the stream, and among the crowding leaves of those
alders and willows which throw their shadow over it,
are countless living creatures, revelling in activity and
joy; and little shell-fish lie hid there, and birds and
winged insects stoop there for their meal; and the stately
swan or moorfowl glide calmly among the plants to
satiate their longings.
We turn away from the stream to look on the green
meadow, only to see the abundance of Nature. Grasses
of many kinds, each well marked to the botanist by its
form of leaf, and stem, and flower, so constant in the
most minute particulars as never to mislead him, are
crowded there Who shall count the number of those
blades of grass which form the green carpet ? which
are not alone delightful to our tread, and soothing to
our sight in all their variations of sun and shadow,
but on which the flocks and herds find herbage and
resting-places. They are bright and beautiful, in mass
as well as in detail, as, speckled in spring by their
millions of daisies, and buttercups, and speedwells, and,
in the later year, by the golden hawkweeds, they lie
stretched out before us; while not one of all those
grasses or flowers, beautiful as it seems to us there,
has not also an unseen beauty,-a beauty which it
needs the most powerful microscope to reveal to us.
-i. .1II,. : it and examine it minutely, and we may
perhaps see its delicate 'petals, as well as its green
leaves, fringed and studded with minute hairs, which
serve to keep them warm and to collect the dews from
the atmosphere; and little glands which we saw not
before, disclose where its scent lies hid; and the won-
drous contrivances of its pistils and stamens show


how its seed is perfected; and the very seed-vessel
which holds those seeds is, in its form, fitness, and
arrangement for the dispersion of its contents, in
itself a history,-a history of power and exquisite skill,
compared to which man's ablest invention seems poor
indeed. And when the heat of the sun bids us seek
the woodland shadow, we find there the flowers fitted
for the shade, and which would grow there only. That
sunny meadow would not have suited the sweet lily of
the valley, which, enwrapped in its broad green leaves,
hides beneath the bough of the tree, any more than the
crowds of buttercups could have flourished without the
full rays of the sun, and amidst the frequent drippings
and moisture of the trees.
The cornfield, so rich with its bending grain, has, too,
its own wreath of blossoms. The scarlet poppies tower
amidst it, and rich purple thistles, and bright blue suc-
cory, and pale lilac scabious, and deeper-coloured corn-
cockle, and azure blue cornflowers, and many a blossom
of the cultured field are there, to delight the lover of
wild flowers, though they please not the cultivator.
Even the sandy plain has the sandwort and spurry-
flower, and rich gorses and brooms lend their golden
beauty to the heath, with blossoms that seem like
butterflies ready for a flight; while a sweet perfume
rises from the heather-bells which are swinging in
multitudes among their dark and delicate foliage, now
in richest tints of purple, now arrayed in fainter rose
colour. The tall and bushy ling, elegant both in flowers
and leaves, serves, too, to shelter from the burning sun
the little yellow tormentils and the graceful bluebells,
which, on light stem, are bending beneath its shadow;

while the bee is telling amidst them all a tale of
summer airs and blue heavens:
He speaks to the ear, and they to the eye."
The very cliff by the sea has its own blossoms, and
pale sea-lavender, and pink thrift can find a home
among its crevices; and the samphire, smiling far above
the reach of the wave, looks down on the yellow poppy
which gladdens the sand or shingle, Even the salt
marshes have their flowers, from the tall lilac starwort
and pale green southernwood, down to the lowly sea-
side pearlwort. The bog on which our foot can scarcely
tread has a whole store of wealth for the botanist; and
amid the large mosses, whose decay shall, in the course
of centuries, form a firmer soil, the richly fringed bog
bean, and the glittering sun-dew, and the yellow
asphodel, and the orchis, and the large pimpernel, and
the spearwort, and many another flower rises up before
his view. The old castle frowns down from the height,
but the snapdragon, and the ivy, and the gay wall-
flowers, have found a way to reach to its very summit:
and the mountain peak glitters with snow, and yet, near
to the eternal ice and frost, the blue gentian and the
saxifrage lift their heads in fearless beauty; while all
the way downwards on those heights wave pinks, and
stonecrops, and other flowers, until we reach the green
and luxuriant valley beneath. Not a spot is there on
earth on which theplant can take root, but there God has
sown it in beauty, as if to bid us learn everywhere, in
all places, and in all times, a lesson of "the flower of
the field." A. P.


YE Field Flowers the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildlings of Nature, I doat upon you,
For ye waft me to summers of old,
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of broken glades breathing their balm;
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note,
Made music that sweeten'd the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildlings of June;
Of old ruinous castles ye tell;
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Ev'n now what affections the violet awakes !
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore!
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks
In the vetches that tangled their shore !


Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear,
Had scathed my existence's bloom;
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow near my tomb.


IT is hardly necessary to advert to the manner in
which the circumstances connected with this incident
have been recorded by the pen of inspiration. He
who wrote a narrative so brief and expressive, emphatic
in its conciseness, and most touching in its simplicity,
must himself have been deeply affected; nor could he
have been the man to impose on credulity. No
fictitious scene is here.-We know that the young are
not too young to die; that the nearest relations are
not too close to be sundered; that the happiest heart is
not secure against the pangs of sorrow. We have
heard the lamentations of the widowed heart; we have
sat down and wept by the side of the mother as she
mourned in bitterness of soul over the corpse of her
child; we have seen death making its resistless way
into the mansion of health and peace-sparing not
even the only son-until that once so happy wife and
dating mother was left alone to tell the talc of woe.
What an idea of sorrow is compressed in these few
words; There was a dead man carried out, the only
son of his mother, and she was a widow'!" It is all told
as it happened: the gate of every city has furnished
many a parallel to the funeral at the gate of Nain.


The door of the sepulchre has not yet closed over the
human family-ere long we may be carried out and
borne to the house appointed for all the living. Hence
the interest we necessarily take in a narrative attested
by every day's observation of human life; embodying
no indistinct idea of the toils and trials and issues
of our common humanity; recalling to many a grief-
stricken heart the facts in its own bitter experience,
and teaching lessons of urgent moment to every dweller
in this vale of tears.
Whatever diversity there may be in outward circum-
stances, as the social affections of our nature open an
equal source of pleasure to all, we may suppose that
this woman, to whom our subject in part refers, had
vested her happiness in the domestic relation. But
when her dream of conjugal bliss had vanished, so far
from realizing that she herself had become a living
witness of the instability of all earthly happiness, her
heart turned with a warmer grasp to her only son.
With what intense affection does she scan those
features, which image to her mind, as in a mirror, the
face now shrouded from her view! How do his ex-
panding faculties and budding promise elate her heart!
He is to cheer the gloom of her loneliness-to support
the feebleness of her declining steps; and when she
herself shall be laid upon a dying bed, he will be by
her side to perform each little act of filial kindness,
and to attend to her last request; to see her body
consigned to the selected spot, and to water her grave
with his tears. Such was the dreaming language of
the widow's heart. Though we may see the approach
of death toward others, we have little apprehension


of its invading our own circle. The more we love,
the less can we admit the thought of being severed
from the objects of our affection. The child, for
example, is so entwined in the mother's heart-so
blended with all she either proudly hopes for or fondly
anticipates-that she cannot realize its mortality. Even
when the breath has parted from its lips, she cannot
feel that the clay-cold form she presses to her bosom
no more contains the living spirit of her child. Long
is it before we come to realize the sad breach which
has been made in the circle of our affections; and then,
awaking as for the first time to the perishable nature
of all our earthly comforts, we feel that at any moment
another object of affection may be cut down-that the
morrow may again summon us to entomb the cherished
hopes and joys of years-that we may yet be found at
the very hearth where now so many endearments
cluster, solitary and forlorn. Thus is it also in our
relation to riches and honours: though we may have
been often told that honour is a bubble, and that riches
take to themselves wings, yet in the time of our pro-
sperity we virtually say, "I shall not be moved." But
how slight the circumstance which may strip us of our
riches, and leave us shorn of our honours! Oh, the
vanity of the world and the creature! How many
monitions have we that these are fading honours-
perishing riches-dying comforts! Even the more
secure we may feel in our possessions, the greater our
danger-the more we love, the stronger, I had almost
said, the probability of our speedy bereavement. God
does not take from us what we can most readily spare.
He knows that often no means short of a bleeding


heart can wean us from a soul-destroying world.
Hence, the source of our securest income sometimes
fails; the greenest wreath oftimes withers; the most
beloved, the only son may be taken away. Such is the
lot of mortals; our deepest afflictions are nurtured in
the bosom of our warmest affections. We love, as it
were, only to grieve-joy but to sorrow-hope but to
despair. Shall we impeach the goodness of our
Maker ? The fault is not in God, but in ourselves: we
enshrine an idol in the heart where God alone should
reign; we seek for perfect happiness where it is not
to be found. The troubles in which our earthborn
affections involve us-the sorrows in which our earthly-
joys terminate-the graves that open for our loves
almost as soon as they ravish our hearts, all are ordered
in mercy, to teach us that no gift may exclude the
homage due to the Giver; to remind us, as we are so
apt to lose sight of our deathless interest, that the
creature is not our God-the world not our final
If we are ever disposed to mourn over our sins, it
is when we see in our lost comforts, in our buried
loves, the evidence of a sin-offended God. If ever
disposed to give our hearts to God, it is when he has
cut the cords which bind us to earth; when the voice-
less lips of him with whom we were linked in bonds
of love, are speaking to us as it were from the other
world, bidding us to prepare for death and eternity.
How does God illustrate the riches of his grace; what
glory does he gather to his own name, when though
stripped of our creature comforts we feel that our
essential interest is undisturbed; though the rod has


bruised us, we are enabled to bless the chastening
hand of our Heavenly Father !
"'Tis over now-and oh; I bless thee, Lord,
For making me thus desolate below;
For severing, one by one, the ties that bind me
To this cold world; for whither can earth's outcast
Flee-but to heaven P "
It is the Christian's prerogative to triumph over
losses which desolate the worldly heart; to rejoice in
hope amidst the darkest ills of life. Herein may be
seen the beneficent adaptation of Christianity to the
wants of our nature. No religion, for a being so
constituted and conditioned as man, were worth a
moment's thought, which does not come to him with
such bright discoveries of God and immortality, and
convey to him such precious promises.
Return we now to the gate of the city." Affecting
scene! He who bade so fair to live, is now stretched
upon that bier, a wan corpse, borne along by strong
men to its bed of dust. And there follows the widowed
mother, slowly, sadly; her heart still yearning in its
bitter agony over the remains of her only son. Ah,
what grief is hers; such as no other earthly ill could
have caused! She would have toiled through sleepless
nights, or groaned in bondage, or gone down herself
to the cold grave, to save her boy. And now, in less
than one brief hour she may not even look upon that
face so beautiful in its quiet sleep; the damp, dark sod
will press upon it, and she must go back to a lone
hearth. What is life now to thee, poor, broken-hearted
woman ? Who can share thy sorrows, or will heed thy
woe ? See how many pass by without one sigh of pity,


so bent are they on their cold, selfish ends. The
rich and the powerful may not deign to notice the
lowly procession, much less pause to sympathize: so
little do they reflect in their prosperity what life in its
changess may bring about for them. But there, where
the dead man was carried out, is One who could not
have turned away in cold indifference. It is JEsus,
the Friend of suffering humanity; he might have been
a stranger to her, but she is no stranger to him. Oh
what love was blended with authority when he came
and touched the bier! What tenderness beamed from
his face as he said unto the afflicted mother, Weep
not!" If no other instance of the kind had been
recorded of our Lord, this alone would serve to prove
that his was a tender, feeling heart-a T. ei-l" ;" of
sympathy and love. Most remarkable is it, while
serving to reveal to us in an attractive light the depth
and tenderness of his sensibilities, that the power by
which he could raise the dead was never exercised save
in behalf of an only brother, an only daughter, and an
only son. It was not that he lamented the dead; he
felt for the living. He could not see misery without
a tear. He could not pass by suffering without tendering
relief: such was the heart of Jesus. No wonder that
our misery touched his heart, and brought him down
from heaven to earth, and rendered him willing to
suffer the humiliating death of the cross, that man
might be saved from the bitter pains of death eternal.
There can be no scriptural ground for either error or
doubt as to the beneficent object of his mission. This
is he who, before taking on himself our nature, gave
that gracious charge to his evangelic prophet, Comfort


ye, comfort ye my people;" who affirmed as he entered
on his self-denying ministry of love, "The Spirit of
the Lord God is upon me; because the Lord hath
anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor;" whose
last command to his disciples was, that they should
proclaim the glad tidings of great joy to every creature;
who has himself gone to prepare a place for us, and
who will come again "and receive us to himself, that
where he is there we may be also."
In a world like this, where trouble and trial inevitably
await us at some stage of our pilgrimage, and sin
mingles its sad ingredients in every cup of earthly joy,
what do we need so much, yet so seldom find, as
sympathy and succour? The heart knoweth its own
bitterness :" it may be the cold grasp of want, or the
sharp anguish of calumny-the pangs of neglected
love, or of bereaved affection-the struggles with some
besetting sin, or the forebodings of unrepented guilt.
But why turn to man, who, by your tale of sorrow,
may be only awakened to a sense of his own deeper
woes ? We call it sympathy when the ear kindly listens,
and the eye moistens into tears; and so it is. In the
hour of trial, any one is welcome who brings not with
him the heartless laugh or frigid apathy of the selfish
worldling; but what can sympathy avail, except to tell
us that some other, from his own sad trials or boding
cares, knows how to feel for us?-powerlqss is it to
console, though it may afford a momentary relief to
the aching heart. What, then, do we not owe to God
for such a Friend as Christ ?-one who "bore our grief,
and carried our sorrows." Go tell him of your griefs,
for he was the Man of sorrows; go lean your aching


head on his bosom, for it is full of compassion. Oh
that you could be induced to take him at his word!
Weary and heavy laden, I know that he would give
thee rest. Poor stricken one I know that he pities
thee, and waits to bind up thy wounds. So great is
his compassion, not only would he heal the broken,
heart, but cleanse the polluted soul; not only console
the mourner, but save the sinner.
Weep not!"-those words, uttered in the accents
of Divine benevolence, methinks must have made their
way to the heart of that sad, solitary woman, and
stayed her tears. But, wonderful to relate he who
thus spake to the mother, said to the corpse of her
son, Young man, I say unto thee, ARISE !"-" And
he that was dead sat up, and began to speak, and he
delivered him to his mother."
We can image to our eye scenes more captivating
to the fancy, or recall historic scenes of more thrilling
interest to the earth-bound vision; but none surpassing
this in its influence over the mind, which, while sympa-
thizing with the woes of humanity, pants after deliver-
ance from the power of death. Even the resurrection
scene at the mouth of the cave, though bespeaking the
same Divine energy, and revealing the tenderness of
the same sympathizing heart, is wanting in one element
of pathetic interest: she who bare him is not there
when Lazarus comes forth, to disclose the depths of
a mother's joyous love. But here-and yet we may
not attempt to describe what can only be realized in an
interval of serious, susceptible thought-a mother, but
a moment since weeping over the bier of her only son,
now clasping to her bosom that son brought back to


life-the multitude filled with awe and wonder; and
there in the midst of them, HE who had wrought this
miracle, oblivious of self, in his calm enjoyment of
others' happiness. Tell us, sceptics! is not a greater
than Socrates here? or if you cannot withhold a
tribute to his wonder-working beneficence, will you
dare to class him with the prophets of old? Alas !
that sunlight evidence, such as never irradiated the
person of a mere prophet, can be rejected through
man's proud reluctance to bow to Him whose right
alone it is to reign. What prophet ever exercised
independent power ? It is worthy of emphatic remark,
that in every recorded instance of restoration to life
through human agency, the prophet or the apostle
recognized his dependence, and invoked Almighty aid.
Thus Elijah cried unto the Lord," before the dead
man was raised through his agency. Elisha prayed
unto the [Lord" that the Shunamite's son might be
restored; and, in like manner, as became a mortal,
Peter, before accosting Tabitha, kneeled down and
prayed." But Christ, as became the Arbiter of quick
and dead, spoke in his own name; he relied on his own
power; he uttered but a word, and it was done.
" Arise," said he; and he that was dead sat up, and
began to speak!"
To accredit the record, except so far as it embodies
the supernatural, were to do violence to all the rules of
historic criticism; and especially as it preserves the
same lucid brevity and serene simplicity in reporting
the most astounding with the most familiar occur-
rences; but to admit its authenticity, and nevertheless
to deny the Divinity of the Mighty Actor in this

miraculous scene, is an inconsistency too egregiously
palpable not to be intuitively detected, save by a mind
which prejudice has blinded, or error hopelessly per-
verted. Evidently no doctrine of Christianity is
at once so interesting and elevating as that which
reveals its founder in the twofold aspect of both God
and man. I love to contemplate him in the mysterious
constitution of his person-the blending of all that is
lowly with all that is dignified; all that is z -i, .. 1 ",, -
with all that is commanding-tenderness without
weakness, authority without sternness, stainless virtue,
weeping benevolence, superhuman power-yes, God
manifest in the flesh. If I am attracted by his tones
of mingled softness and majesty, so am I awed by the
sublimity of his deeds of mercy. If there is some-
thing in those accents of love that wins my confidence,
there is more in that mighty voice of his which
commands my homage. I see in such a miracle not
less the power than the compassion of God; not less
the authority of a Sovereign Lawgiver, than the bene-
volence of a Divine Saviour. I cannot doubt that
he is not only willing, but able to give me the consola-
tions I need; not only willing, but able to forgive my
sins, to sanctify my heart, to save my soul, to rescue
my body from the power of death, and make it like
unto his own glorious body. Let me but know that
I have a place in his heart, and I cannot doubt his
infinite ability to relieve the wants and woes of my
poor fallen nature. He who in the exercise of his own
independent authority could cleanse the leper, open
the eyes of the blind, stop the raging of the sea, and
raise the dead, might without infringement on the


rights of Deity say, "Thy sins are forgiven thee! "-
without arrogance declare, Without me ye can do
nothing "-without any feigned or impotent sympathy,
invite the weary and heavy-laden to come unto him
for rest; "-without any mockery of the woes of our
nature, say unto us, Weep not." All power has been
given unto him. He is the Consolation of Israel-the
only Mediator between God and man-the Great
Deliverer from the power of death and hell.
But though we need relief as well as sympathy, the
scepticism of the natural heart may be at times de-
tected even in its hour of trial. The bereaved think
only of their loss-their heart is in the grave; even
there, where others have been laid never more to
return-where the earth-worm preys on the remains of
their loved ones, and no miracle will now be wrought
to restore their dead to life. Be it so; but why dis-
turb that dust which sleeps so gently in the hope of
a glorious resurrection at the last day? or why call
back again to a life of sin and sorrow the already sancti-
fied spirit of your friend? He who afflicted you cer-
tainly knows best what is most for your good. He
who fills heaven with his gracious presence can fill the
void in your heart. And what are a few more years
of communion with an earthly friend, compared with
preparation for a world of final reunion with the loved
and lost on earth ? Other and higher ends had Christ
when he approached that bier, than merely to restore
a son to his mother, or to furnish another proof that
he was the Messiah sent of God: it was to proclaim
to a dying world that death is not the end of man;
that there is a life beyond the grave-another world,


far above the sins and sufferings of this, where all his
followers shall meet at last-parents restored to their
children, and children to their parents, who here fall
asleep in Jesus, there reunited in love and peace, never
more to part!
But, solemn, affecting thought, there may be an
end even to the compassion of Jesus Christ! The day
approaches when mercy will give place to vengeance-
compassion to "the wrath of the Lamb." He who so
often said to the sons and the daughters of afflicted
humanity, "Weep not," will then say, "Depart, ye
cursed!" Fearful truth!-there is power in Christ to
destroy as well as to save; there is to be an exhibition
of his power, transcendantly magnificent-infinitely
greater than any this earth has witnessed. At his
command, Time shall be no longer"-the dead, both
small and great, shall rise and stand before God-
"the elements shall melt with fervent heat;" and at
the word of this same Being, the righteous shall enter
into life eternal, and the wicked go away into everlast-
ing punishment. Alas for those who will not accept
as their Saviour Him who will be their final Judge! I
know that men in their devotion to the world are prone
to ascribe all Christian solicitude in their behalf to
ascetic views; but He who sympathized with a poor
afflicted woman, could have had no heart to occasion
unnecessary alarm; much less could he have made
such tremendous announcements of coming wrath, un-
less he uttered the "true sayings of God."-Even so;
every unbeliever is in danger of the judgment of the
last great day.


"GREAT and glorious are thy works, 0 Lord God
Almighty!" said the psalmist; and never have I been
more impressed with all the feeling which the excla-
mation indicates, than when I stood in the calm of the
midnight hour in the desolate and singular region of
Mount Vesuvius.
Familiar as we all are from childhood with descrip-
tions of that often visited volcano, my own view of
it far exceeded any ideas I had formed of it; for my
companions and myself did not see Vesuvius in that
quiescent state in which so many travellers have ascended
its cone, and even descended a portion of its crater. We
saw it in a remarkable and splendid state of activity.
When frst approaching Naples in the road from
Rome, we beheld a white column of smoke rising high
up into the pure and sunny atmosphere. See," said a
gentleman who accompanied us from Rome; "there is
We regarded it with curiosity, but with a strong
sense of disappointment. It was curious, indeed, to
see the smoke when we knew it proceeded from internal
fire; but without that knowledge it would not have
presented any extraordinary spectacle.
The day had been intensely hot, and tired of so long


a journey, we longed, on our arrival at Naples, for the
shades of evening to refresh us. They came, -and I
went out upon a stone platform, on which opened the
window of my room at the top of the house, to enjoy
the freshening air and lovely view of the Bay, over
which the softened light of retiring day was yet lingering,
and blending gradually with the clearer one of the
rising moon. Then first I beheld the fire of Vesuvius;
a dark red spot on the mountain side, issuing from an
orifice near to the crater, but not from the crater itself.
It was not a blaze, but a deep burning light, seen
through and behind the mists which followed the depar-
ture of the sun.
I went to call my friends to see it: some delay took
place in finding them, and when I came back to the
platform, an exclamation of wonder and delight broke
from us all. That dark red spot of light had, appa-
rently, spread out, or flowed on into a long wide
stream, to have descended the entire length of the
great cone, and reached the plain below. It was only
the increasing gloom that rendered it visible.
I afterwards watched it many a time, as it appeared
gradually to unfold, lengthening, and widening, and
brightening as the strong sunlight faded, until I saw its
long, deep, fiery shadow rest over the clear blue waters
of the bay. Instead of a white column of smoke, we
then saw a pillar of fire rising up from the crater high
into the quiet air, through which shot up innumerable
sparkles, presenting a singular display of natural fire-
works, dispersing as by the force of an internal explosion,
and falling in a glowing shower on the outer sides of
the crater, which soon presented the aspect of a heap of


fire. From time to time large stones, red-hot, were
flung up from the burning and unquiet centre; we saw
them fall, roll down the sides of the crater, and lose
their brightness.
It was a source of pleasure and interest which I can
scarcely express, to sit on that pleasant platform, and
watch the workings of that ever-burning mountain; and
in the stillness of the warm moonlight nights I have lain
upon my bed, and gazed upon it from my window,
ever at work, yet ever varying, while the deep coppery
red of its shadow seemed almost to form a bridge of
fire across the unbroken water which lay between.
The beautiful aspect of Vesuvius by night, as well
as the intense heat of the weather, determined us to
choose that time for its ascent; indeed, we could have
attempted it at no other. That night was one which I
shall not forget, and I bless God who gave me the
capacity in my mind, as well as body, to enjoy it.
The form of Vesuvius is remarkable: it has two
summits, and rises in a gentle swell from the sea-shore.
The lower region or base of the mountain presents a
strong contrast to the upper. At five o'clock on a
charming afternoon we left Naples in a carriage, hoping
to traverse this lower region in time to see the sun set
from the more elevated one. We engaged the carriage
to carry us to the Hermitage, situated at that part of
the mountain from whence the real difficulty of the
ascent begins; for it is an instance of the rare facilities
which our times afford to exploring travellers, that a
carriage-road, rather difficult, but perfectly practicable,
has been made upon Mount Vesuvius; a circumstance
which produces much indignation, and meets with great


opposition, from the numerous guides and conductors
whose business it was to supply mules and ponies for
that purpose.
The road has not been formed solely for the con-
venience of curious travellers; an observatory has
been erected on Mount Vesuvius, and a carriage road
on this account has been made up to the Hermitage,
which may be said to terminate the first of the two
distinct regions into which the mountain is divided.
This lower region, which we thus traversed, is one of
the most fertile, populous, and lovely that can be con-
ceived; the higher is the most awful, stern, and
singular that is commonly to be seen. The first region,
both on the side of the coast and inland, is covered
with towns and villages, the sites of which have been
swept over by the destroying lava, and again built on by
their persevering inhabitants. Portici, the most consi-
derable of these, is about six miles from Naples, and
at the foot of Vesuvius. Underneath this town, and
below its royal palace, lies buried, at the depth of
seventy feet, the ancient city of Herculaneum, the first
town known to be destroyed by the eruptions of
We entered its buried, but partly re-opened theatre,
still underground, and in darkness. How strange and
interesting a sight! Its passages, choked up with lava,
tell a fearful tale. The seats for the spectators are yet
to be seen, but awful is the recollection of the fate of
those who filled them. The stage, too, is visible, but
nearly two thousand years have passed since its actors
were swept away. Of the whole city little more than
this half-excavated theatre is re-opened. The safety of


the town above it would be endangered by further'
excavations; and Herculaneum, which tradition says
was founded by the hero Hercules, remains entirely
covered by lava, cemented by a mixture of water,
and beneath the weight of the shower of ashes that
destroyed it. "It is choked up as completely as if
molten lead had been poured into it."
Pompeii, which has been so beautifully brought to
light, was destroyed by cinders, with which so much
water did not mingle, and which, being less cemented,
were more easily removed. The town was discovered
only twelve feet below the surface of the ground.
In the smaller town of Torre del Greco, the lava which
in later eruptions nearly overwhelmed it is still to be
seen, but the love of the inhabitants for their homes, or
the inconvenience of a remove, causes them to rebuild
or repair the dwellings which the volcano destroys or
injures. The whole road from Naples is indeed almost
a continuous town.
Even when these towns are passed, the whole base of
the mountain presents scenery of the richest and most
luxuriant, as well as cultivated nature. The productive
vines, orange-trees, figs, pomegranates, and numerous
plants and trees which are exotics to our clime, bor-
dered the road, and gave it additional interest, while
every advancing step opened to us a more charming
prospect, as the lovely plain from which we ascended,
the bay with its islands of historic and classic celebrity,
and the busy town of Naples with its villas and gar-
dens, became more revealed to us, bathed in the rich-
ness of a rapidly sinking sun.
What a contrast was this to the upper region of the


same mountain! A scene of perfect desolation: an
immense cone, flat on the top, and formed almost
entirely of ashes and cinders, which in the ascent yield
to the foot that toils up it, traced on all sides by broad
black lines, the marks which the burning lava has left,
and which can be distinctly seen at a considerable
distance. There is here no vegetation, no trace of life:
nothing but the ceaseless volcano appears to be in
Vesuvius has not always been ascended by travellers
when in the excited state in which we visited it. Many
persons have recorded their entrance into the crater,
or at least their inspection of it, and the common
feat of throwing stones into it. An approach to that
crater in the night I describe, would probably have
been death.
One of the travellers who relates an ascent of this
volcano when in a tranquil state, speaks as follows:-
"When we reached the summit, we found ourselves on
a narrow ledge of burnt earth or cinders, with the
crater of the volcano open before us. This orifice, in
its present form, (forit varies at almost every eruption,)
is about a mile and a half in circumference, and may be
about three hundred and fifty feet in depth. Its
eastern border is considerably higher than the western.
Its sides are formed of ashes and cinders, with some
rock and masses of lava intermingled. They shelve in
a steep declivity, enclosing at the bottom a flat space of
about three quarters of a mile in circumference. We
descended some way, but observing that the slightest
movement brought great quantities of stones and
ashes rolling together from the sides, and being called


back by our guides, who assured us we could not go
lower with safety, nor even remain in our station, we
re-ascended. We were near enough to the bottom,
however, to observe that it seemed to be a sort of crust
of brown, burnt earth, and that a little on one side there
were three orifices, like funnels, from whence ascended
a vapour, so thin as to be scarcely perceptible."*
Such was the state of the crater in the year 1802.
A later, though in these travelling days, not a modern
traveller, has left us his description also.
"When you arrive at the top, it is an awful sight...
As you approach the great crater, the crust on which
you tread becomes so hot that you cannot stand long on
one spot: if you push your stick an inch below the
surface, it takes fire, and you may light paper by
thrusting it into any of the cracks of the crust ....
Altogether it was a most sublime and impressive scene.
The look down into the great crater is frightfully grand,
and when you turn from the contemplation of this
fearful abyss, you are presented with the most forcible
contrast, in the rich and luxuriant prospect of Naples
and the surrounding country, where all is soft and
smiling as far as the eye can see."t
But now the crater presented to our eyes a glowing
mass, over which a fiery shower was almost constantly
descending, forming a spectacle which, in the gloom
and stillness of night, was at once grand and terrific.
My anxious desire was to get to the lava stream, which
I had watched from my window, and the representations
and, I am almost ashamed to say, entreaties of some of
our party could not dissuade me from the attempt. We
Eustace's Classical Tour in Italy, t Diary of an Invalid.


left our carriage at the Hermitage, singularly miscalled,
and I was mounted on a mule, which took me along a
path about three quarters of a mile further on, while the
gentlemen proceeded on foot. The guides were pro-
vided with large torches, perhaps eight feet long; at
the spot where I dismounted, these were lighted, and
the glare they flung around revealed the most singular
scene I ever beheld.
A field of blocks of lava, of that dark colour it
assumes when cold, lay stretched beside us; ashes,
cinders, and those sharp, hard masses, covered the whole
space, up to the cone, from whose red summit the pillar
of flame shot out in fitful variations, while fiery stones
descended from the skies they had been thrown to, and
fell, sometimes back into the burning crater, some-
times beyond it; glowing ashes, more like sparkles from
blazing wood, dispersing around, diffused a fiery light
on the midnight sky, and red-hot cinders made the out-
side of the crater one brilliant, and apparently burning,
though not blazing mass.
It was over this field of lava I was to walk: our guide
said it was impossible I could do it, and offered to
remain with me while the stronger members of our
society visited the living lava in my stead. But, as I
saw the man would be glad of any excuse to get off the
toil of an expedition for which he was paid, but which
he had to make too often, I would not yield to his per-
suasions, but, on the contrary, persuaded myself that
interested motives induced him to influence my friends
against my accomplishing my desire. I set out on the
blocks of lava with a good heart, for I firmly believed
that a path had been made through them, and would


soon be found; a delusion which, I believe, enabled me
to effect my object; for had I known that I was really
to walk for more than a mile on the sharp, hard, un-
steady blocks, almost like pointed irons to the feet, up
ridges and into furrows, guided only by the fitful light
of torches, for the moon had not then risen-had I
known this from the beginning, I fear I should not
have persisted, but turned back with the less reluctant
guide, as I had promised to do if weary. How like is
this to the pathway of life How many would shrink
from tracing all its steps, if they knew the end from the
beginning! Better is it to be led on in ignorance,
trusting that as our day is, so shall our strength be.
Weary, indeed, I was, and several times ready to give
up; but some little assistance, some kind solicitude, or
some encouraging words, again cheered me to go
In ascending Vesuvius, I am aware that ladies and
even gentlemen need not, unless they wish it, undergo
any fatigue, or make any exertion. A little money
obviates all this, and they maybe carried up in a chair,
or pulled up by guides, and satisfy their own curiosity
at the expense only of other men's labours. Mine,
however, was a different expedition, and in this place
no such assistance could be given. Yet was I not well
repaid ? and would not the friends who had patience
with me, and helped me in my difficulties, be repaid'
too, if they knew the lasting enjoyment which the
memory of that night afforded ?
At length the increasing heat told of our approach
to the fiery region; the air was sulphureous, and gave
a choking sensation; it was also loaded with smoke.


The ground grew hotter and hotter; we mounted a
ridge of cinders, and there, at the other side, 1 beheld
my lava stream. I stood beside it, on the brink of the
bed it had tracked for itself. It was a river of fire,
about thirty feet broad, slowly moving on; over the
top was heard a slight fizzing sound, just such as
cinders make. A light smoke rose from it, but much
less than might be expected.
The ground was so hot, and my feet so sore, that I
found it impossible to stand for a moment on one
spot; my shoes were almost entirely burnt off. One
of my friends, catching my hand, caused me to bend
over the stream to see the lava in motion; I could
only compare it to a thick muddy stream on fire, and
moving through masses of matter spread over the
surface. But as I bent over it, the oppressive atmo-
sphere suddenly overcame me; I felt a dizziness and
sense of faintness, and catching the arm of the guide,
precipitately descended the ridge of cinders that
bounded my lava stream, and hid myself from it with
still more eagerness than I had sought it.
It required, indeed, some fortitude to conceal my
state, or to struggle against yielding to it; but, aware
of the consternation which I should occasion, I was
enabled to do both, and sat quietly on a block of lava
out of sight, till the effect of the heat and suffocation
passed away. After a walk of equal toil, occupying
at least an hour in returning, as it had done in going,
we once more arrived on smooth ground, and when I
saw my mule patiently awaiting my return, I was too
glad to mount to my former seat, leaving the gentlemen
to continue their way alone to the summit of the cone,


where several parties, both of ladies and gentlemen,
had preceded them, attended by chairs and porters,
and guides with leather straps round their waists, in
which a feebler traveller being enclosed, he or she is
pulled up by the stronger animal. I did not covet
either mode of ascent, and as they could not approach
the crater, I knew they could not have so good a view
of it as I had from a lower station: at least self-love
comforted itself with such conclusions, as I wandered
back alone to the Hermitage.
The moon had risen in all its brightness; it was
about half-past one o'clock in the morning, and its
unclouded presence more than supplied the absence of
the milder light of the uncertain torches which the
party had taken with them. As their voices died away,
and the shouts of the guides calling to their fellows
became fewer and more distant, I was glad to find the
Italian youth who was my cicerone, noisy as all natives
of Naples are, had loitered behind with some chance
comrade; for I enjoyed the silence of the hour and
strange splendour of the scene too much to wish to
have it broken by such nonsense as he had been
addressing to his mule, to which he gave the favourite
title of Macaroni.
In quiet musing I rode along, and might have gone
too far; for the mule, deserted by its master, and left by
me to its own guidance, took a wrong path; the shouts
of the noisy Italian, as he missed me from the right one,
apprised me of the fact; he came running after his
Macaroni, and guided both wanderers back. I began
to think that meditation and musing, at midnight, were
not suitable to Mount Vesuvius; an idea that was not


removed on my entrance into the court of the Hermit-
age, which was filled with donkeys, ponies, guides,
carriages, and servants. There I was joined by two of
the gentlemen whom I had left, and who, finding
themselves sufficiently fatigued by their walk to the
lava stream, had followed me back.
Thirsty and tired, we entered the Hermitage, thinking
it to be, as in fact it is, an inn which went by that
name. I was, however, rather surprised to find the
owner of the house to be a calm, respectable-looking
monk; his grave countenance, brown frock, cord,
rosary, crucifix, agreeing ill with the aspect of the
place, which was incessantly filled with parties going
to, and coming from the scene we had left.
At a table in the scantily furnished room sat a
comfortable-looking priest, with some bread, cheese,
apples, and a bottle of common wine before him. We
were glad to join in his supper: he informed us that
he was the chaplain who said mass in the adjoining
chapel, and he smiled good-humouredly when I asked
if that house were really a hermitage.
Certainly," he replied, and there is the hermit,"
nodding his head to where the monk sat at a distance.
"A solitary ?" I persisted.
Yes," he answered with a laugh, "a solitary who
is in society."
It was a singular scene and a singular place. There
were some young Germans and Italians present, and
the conversation that ensued was only broken up by
the advance of the grave and silent hermit, whose voice
I did not hear, and who now in silence, and with
gravity, approached the table, removed the bottle of


wine, and replaced it by another, adding, also, a fresh
supply of the bread, cheese, and apples. This movement
we took as a hint that our part of the repast was over,
and the table prepared for other guests. The priest
withdrew, and the party separated. For my part I re-
tired to the carriage, fell asleep, and forgot that I was
on Mount Vesuvius, until awakened by the voices of our
absent friends, whose fatigue scarcely allowed them
power to mount into the carriage : it was then three
o'clock, and that last exertion made, it was at once put
in motion, and preceded by our guide, carrying a flaming
torch, we began to descend on our return to Naples.
Before we reached it, the sun had risen on our heavy
and dazzled eyes.
I have put this little sketch on paper while its
subject is still fresh on my mind, and shall I not add
a few lines drawn from the reflections to which my
midnight excursion gave rise? A scene so grand and
terrific must, one would think, fill every mind with
solemn thoughts. The destruction of Sodom and
Gomorrah was brought before me, as I viewed the
gloomy vestiges of what was once the ancient city of
Herculaneum; and perhaps there is no other scene more
calculated to convey an idea of the doom which the
Scriptures either describe or predict. Some authors
conjecture that not more than 20,000 persons have
perished in the several eruptions-about forty-which
are known to have taken place of Mount Vesuvius.
This number is probably greatly underrated; yet the
very idea of one of these fiery devastations, of the
overthrow of a single town or village, fills us with
horror; we wonder at the hardihood, or indifference,


that suffers people to dwell happily and at ease just
beneath that burning crater. Yet what is our own
position in this world ? What is it to the careless and
godless dwellers therein, but a vast volcano, their
resting-place whereon is a thousand times more inse-
cure than that of the dweller on Vesuvius ? There an
earthquake may prove the signal for flight, the groans
of the working mountain may give a timely warning;
but of a more awful destruction we are told that it
shall come suddenly, in a moment, as a thief in the
night, even when men are saying, Peace and safety!
"Peace and safety!" these are sweet words, but
applicable only to the Christian, to the man, woman, or
even child, who has found peace and safety in the
salvation of Jesus Christ. .The Redeemer is the ark
of refuge. Oh! it is well if we are hid in him when
the "blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the
wall." There is no salvation in any other. Happy
is it to know that such is the case, else we might be
weary in seeking, and disappointed in finding that peace
and safety which he offers. But there is salvation in
Jesus Christ; and trembling in fear, hardened with sin,
or overwhelmed with sorrow, we can hear his voice
saying, Come unto me," and hope, that kept by his
love and power, we shall find peace and safety even in
that hour which shall try all them that dwell upon
the earth.

And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace,
Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron brown;
And lavish stock that scents the garden round,
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed.
Anemonies; auriculas enriched
With shining meal o'er all their verdant leaves;
And full ranunculus of glowing red:
No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud
First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes."
IF wild flowers have their own claim to our regard, so
that we would seek to cherish, both in ourselves and
others, a love of these beautiful objects of God's care,
so too have the flowers of the garden their own
peculiar advantages. Many of them have brighter
tints than any which chequer the green landscapes of
our native land, for they have been brought from the
sunny regions of Southern Europe, or of Asia, or
Africa, or from those lands of tropical America in
which vegetation revels in full luxuriance. They were
wild flowers once, decking with beauty the countries
in which skies, and birds, and insects, and flowers, have
deeper and more glowing colours. In some cases the
care and skill of man has rendered them larger and
fuller of petals than they were in their native haunts.
In some even their tint has been brightened by the


appliances of art; but often they bloom on our parterres
with far fainter lustre than that which ornamented them
in more congenial climes, while in some instances, they
will not bloom at all in our gardens or hothouses, and
still oftener, though we may have the blossom, yet we can
afterwards procure from the plant no ripened fruit.
Sweet as are our wild flowers with their soft breath-
ings borne to us upon the breezes; lovely in all their
associations with deep recesses, dark glens and woods,
and mountain streams, and sunny meadows, yet they
can neither rival the garden flowers in their perfumes,
nor in their longer continuance. Frail as are all
flowers, yet those of the field are especially so, for the
garden flower is often fuller of petals, and double
blossoms are usually less fragile than single ones. We
can have them too at all seasons of the year, and when
the cold autumnal, and winter, and spring winds have
swept before them all the ornaments of our country
scenes, save some solitary daisy, or some little chick-
weed whose starry flowers fear neither cold nor heat,
there then are blossoms which grace the gardens; and
Christmas roses, and aconites, and laurustinus, and the
snowdrop, and the crocus, and other bright flowers,
can bloom amid wind and snow.
Garden flowers often interest too by the care which
we bestow on them, and are
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less
For the peculiar pains they have required;"
for it is a blessed thing in our nature, that the object
which has most needed our love, is almost sure to get
a fuller share of it than that which needed it not. Few
can watch the gradual development of a garden flower,


clearing away from its leaves and stems the caterpillar
or snail, or slug, which would fain make a meal of it;
supplying the absence of the summer shower, by the
mimic rain; teaching its tendrils to twine about some-
thing stronger than itself, or sheltering it with care
from sunshine or from cold, without some additional
interest derived from that sense of appropriation which
makes it peculiarly their own. And the God who made
the love of flowers and the pleasure in rearing them so
natural to us, who has thus linked our hearts to nature,
has bid them whisper to us of a more unworldly life,
calling us away from the earth and its cares and joys,
to finer and more elevated tastes and sympathies, and
often to holy thoughts of Him.
Though sin soon expelled our first parents from the
garden in which God had placed them, yet the love of
the garden remained in man, and we find traces of it in
earliest history. Doubtless the necessity of cultivating
herbs and fruits for food led men in remote ages to
the formation of gardens, but as civilization extended
itself, flowers would be reared as a source of refined
enjoyment. The orchards and gardens which Solomon
planted, had evidently sweet-smelling flowers and trees.
The ancient Persian gardens have been renowned from
the oldest times by Xenophon and other writers; and the
garden of Alcinous, described in the Odyssey, had its
shadowy trees and its luxuriant fruits, its clear foun-
tains and its flowers, and some of the latter bloomed
in every season of the year. The Athenians had their
flower gardens, and at their flower markets, even in
winter, the nosegay of sweet violets was not wanting;
while men were there, whose profession it was to make


garlands of flowers, which should convey sentiments of
love and friendship to those skilled in their language.
In the later ages of Rome, when flowers came to be
used at banquets, many were doubtless cultivated for
this purpose. The Roman gardens had also shady walks,
and fountains and statues. Philosophers of old talked
with their disciples amid the walks of the garden,
while the citizens of ancient Rome had too, like the
modern artizan of London, a mimic garden in the culti-
vated flowers of the boxes which graced their balco-
nies. In their clearer climate, the flowers bloomed
more brightly than with us; but though those of our
great city are sometimes sadly disfigured, and rendered
pale by smoke and dust, yet they have their blessings
too, and the scent of the box of mignonette in the
street window is often most welcome to the passer-by,
bringing with it memories even sweeter than itself.
It is well that the practice is so general in our
country places, of cultivating the little garden of the
cottage: it is pleasant to think that the little plot,
well filled with pinks, roses, and columbines, belongs
to a home of comfort; for we know well, that neither
the careless nor the wretched will cultivate flowers.
The honeysuckle, the jessamine, and the China rose,
which are peeping in at the casement, are giving their
own sweets and home delights to the man of toil. It
is pleasing to think, that in the gardens of larger
houses, the culture of flowers affords recreation to some
whose leisure is but little, and furnishes a good and
healthful employment to many whose lot is not one of
labour. Though fashion has her influence on the choice
of the flowers which are to be reared, and tulips, pinks,


auriculas, and dahlias, have each had their reign of ad-
miration and culture, and though many flowers once
admitted to the select garden are left now but to the
humblest, still in some cases taste will prevail over
fashion, and flowers of commanding beauty and sweet
odour will be the delight of all times and places.
Pliny ranked the rose as first of all flowers, and the lily
as second, and even to the present age there are few
who would dispute their claims. In our time so many
varieties of the rose are cultivated, that he who should
to-day tell their number, would perhaps have to alter
it to-morrow, as some new variety should be presented
to him. It is still the queen of flowers, as it was in
the time of the Romans. With them its early blossoms
were in so great demand for garlands on festive occa-
sions, that the rose was procured from Egypt, until the
gardeners of the ancient city found a method of forcing
it by placing plates of talc over the bushes, and
sprinkling them with warm water. Cleopatra, when she
wished to deck her banquet with roses, paid a sum equal
to two hundred pounds for the supply of these flowers.
The Persians have long held their celebrated "Feast
of Roses;" and Hafiz makes his hero say, Call for wine,
and scatter roses round;" while we find one mentioned
in the Apocrypha, who said, Let us crown ourselves
with roses, before they are withered." The Scripture
makes frequent mention of the rose, and the old Jewish
writers say, that Jerusalem was distinguished from all
the other towns in Judsa, as by several other parti-
culars, so in this especially, that no gardens nor trees
were planted within its walls, save rose-bushes.
A; P.



MoRN is the time to wake-
The eyelids to unclose-
Spring from the arms of sleep, and break
The fetters of repose;
Walk at the dewy dawn abroad,
And hold sweet fellowship with God.

Morn is the time to pray-
How lovely and how meet
To send our earliest thoughts away,
Up to the mercy-seat!
Ambassadors, for us to claim
A blessing in our Master's name.

Morn is the time to sing-
How charming 'tis to hear
The mingling notes of nature ring
In the delighted ear!
And with that swelling anthem raise
The soul's fresh matin-song of praise!


Morn is the time to sow
The seeds of heavenly truth,
While balmy breezes softly blow
Upon the soil of youth;
And look to thee, nor look in vain,
Our God, for sunshine and for rain.
Morn is the time to love-
As tendrils of the vine,
The young affections fondly rove,
And seek them where to twine;
Around thyself, in thine embrace,
Lord, let them find their resting-place.
Morn is the time to shine,
When skies are clear and blue-
Reflect the rays of light divine,
As morning dew-drops do;
Like early stars be early bright,
And melt away like them in light.
Morn is the time to think,
While thoughts are fresh and free,
Of life, just balanced on the brink
Of dark eternity;
And ask our souls if they are meet
To stand before the judgment-seat ?
Morn is the time to die,
Just at the dawn of day,
When stars are fading in the sky,
To fade like them away-
But lost in light more brilliant far
Than ever merged the morning star.


Morn is the time to rise,
The resurrection morn-
Upspringing to the glorious skies,
On new-found pinions borne,
To meet a Saviour's smile divine-
Be such ecstatic rising mine!
J. L. G.


IT seems but yesterday, though many years have
elapsed, when for the first time I entered the chapel
of -- College, on a sabbath morning, in the
.company of some three hundred fellow students, all
clad in scarlet gowns. Every thing around told of
former days. The windows, the walls covered with
ancient paintings of the apostles, the carved roof and
the carved stalls, all carried us back to the age of
another faith, and of other manners. In the centre of
the chapel, conspicuous to every eye, lay the tombstone
of bishop Elphinstone, the founder of the college, and
beside it, beneath our feet, lay the tombstone of Hector
Boethius, its first principal. Every thing was strange
and striking, but nothing so strange and striking as the
sermon we heard that day. In seats of their own,
elevated above those of the students, on the right and
left of the preacher, sat our professors, in Genevan
gowns. The text has vanished from memory. One
characteristic of the sermon alone remains, and that can
never be forgotten. The name of Jesus Christ did not
once occur in it. But of Socrates we heard much. The
beauty and dignity of virtue were painted gorgeously
and sentimentally. The immortality of the soul was


spoken of, probably discussed, and all in connexion
with the names of Socrates and Plato. To me ssch
preaching was novel and mysterious. But the remem-
brance still imparts interest to every inquiry into the
life and opinions of the great Athenian who forms the
subject of this sketch.
To understand any man's position in relation to the
history of mind and of the world, we must acquaint
ourselves with his age and circumstances. The death of
Socrates took place 400 years B. c. At what stage of its
history and progress has the world at this date arrived?
Turn to Judma. The series of ancient prophets has
ceased; the ministry of Malachi has terminated some
twenty years before; Rome is 350 years old; the Tar-
quins have been expelled from the throne one hundred
years; and the republic is full of ambition and vigour;
but her days of greatest power, and, as men will have it,
of greatest glory, are still far in the future. Alexander
too, and the revolution which he is destined to effect,
are yet to come; the great Macedonian is born half a
century after the death of Socrates. Demosthenes,
being the contemporary of Alexander, belongs of course
likewise to the then future; but the days of Cyrus are
past, and the glory of the eastern empires is fading. The
philosophy of Greece is not in its dawn and infancy, but
has worn itself out, when Socrates appears to rescue it,
and give it a new direction. Nearly 200 years have
passed since Thales asked, "Whence are all things ?"
and concluded, "Water is the beginning of all things."
All attempts towards the solution of the problem of
existence have ended in the production of a class of
philosophers, whose name was chosen in pride, but is

now the synonym for an unsound and fallacious rea-
soner,-the Sophists. They are the reigning wise men of
Athens at the appearance of Socrates. And some will
have us to believe that they are a much calumniated
race. We know them only from their adversaries, and
the descriptions which Plato gives of them are
probably exaggerated.
The philosophy of the Sophists, such as it was, sprang
from the manifest failures of their predecessors. Their
father, Protagoras, was a porter of Abdera, and attracted
the notice of his countryman Democritus, who taught
that self-existent and eternal, but invisible atoms, were
the rudiments and first principles of all things. The
doctrines of Protagoras ended in scepticism, in a con-
viction of the vanity of all endeavour to penetrate the
mysteries of the universe. But, while many sceptics
contented themselves with this conviction, Protagoras
and his followers turned their attention in another di-
rection. "If there were no possibility of truth, there
only remained the possibility of persuasion. If one
opinion were as true as another,-that is, if neither were
true,-it was nevertheless desirable, for the sake of
society, that certain opinions should prevail; and, if
logic was powerless, rhetoric was efficient." Having
discarded all essential difference between truth and
falsehood, the next step was, to discard all essential
difference between right and wrong. The variety of
laws and ordinances which they observed to prevail in
different states, impressed them with the conviction,
that there are no such things as right and wrong by
nature. This therefore became a fundamental precept
with them. "For men, there was no eternal right,


because there was no eternal truth." "That which
appears just and honourable to each city," said Prota-
goras, "is so for that city, so long as the opinion is
Whether the Sophists carried out these dogmas,
either theoretically or practically, to all the wicked and
shameless consequences which flow from them logically
and legitimately, may well be questioned. But their
own boast was, that they could make the worse appear
the better reason. To teach this art, they demanded
enormous sums, and, to learn it, enormous sums were
readily given, and given by many. It is said, that
Protagoras made ten times the gain by his profession
of Sophist that his contemporary Phidias, the greatest
of statuaries, could make by his. As a body, the Sophists
were wealthy and powerful. They were dazzling,
rhetorical, and shallow. They professed to teach every-
thing; and both themselves and their disciples were
filled with vain conceit, pride, and arrogance. Their
popularity is easily accounted for in a state like Athens,
where every man was a lawyer, every man a politician,
and every man a speaker, and where everything de-
pended on argument and popular declamation.
The Sophists were the philosophers of Athens when
Socrates appeared. The great battle of his life was
with them. In this city, the home of freedom, of art,
of civilization, of poetry, of philosophy, and of eloquence,
Socrates was born, taught, and died.
He was the son of a sculptor, and learned his father's
profession. Some accounts represent him as having
attained such eminence as a sculptor, as to have some of
the Graces which he executed placed on the walls of

the Acropolis, close beside the Minerva of Phidias. A
wealthy Athenian, named Crito, who afterwards became
his most reverential disciple, is said to have withdrawn
him from the workshop, and to have educated him. In
early life he indulged in the speculations of philosophy,
but relinquished them, on finding that they led to no
satisfactory result, and ended only in scepticism.
Socrates had attained middle age before he appeared
in the character of a teacher, and we know little of his
previous life. He performed military service in three
battles, and distinguished himself in each. In the first,
the prize of bravery was awarded to him. Various
anecdotes are told of him during his campaigns. In
spite of the severity of winter, when the ice and snow
were thick upon the ground, he went barefoot and
lightly clad. On one occasion it is said, that he stood
before the camp for four and twenty hours on the same
spot, absorbed in meditation.
The conduct of Socrates in civil life has been a sub-
ject of much dispute. Some would make him a bad
citizen, and an abettor of tyranny; while others can see
in his entire course nothing but virtue of the highest
order. His bravery as a soldier, his admirers say, was
surpassed by his bravery as a senator. He had that
high moral courage, which can brave not only death but
opinion, which can defy a tyrant, and also defy a tyran-
nical mob. The only state office he ever held was
that of Senator. The Athenian senate consisted of the
500 who were elected from the ten tribes; every 35th
or 36th day, one tribe had the presidency; these were
called Prytanes. Of the fifty Prytanes, ten had the
presidency every seven days; each day, one of these ten


enjoyed the highest dignity, with the name of Epistates.
He laid everything before the assembly of the people,
put the question to the vote, examined the votes, and,
in short, conducted the whole business of the assembly.
He enjoyed this power, however, only for a single day.
For that day he was invested with the keys of the
citadel, and the treasury of the Republic.
Socrates was Epistates, on the day when the unjust
sentence was to be passed on the admirals, who had
neglected to bury the dead after the battle of Arginuse.
. .. The Prytanes, with Socrates at their head, re-
fused to put the illegal question to the vote. The
people became furious, and loudly demanded that those
who resisted their pleasure should themselves be
brought to trial. The Prytanes wavered-yielded;
Socrates alone remained firm, defying the threats of the
mob. He stood there to administer justice, he would
not administer injustice. In consequence of his refusal,
the question could not be put to the vote, and the as-
sembly was again adjourned. The next day, a new
Epistates and other presidents were chosen, and the
admirals were condemned."
There is one relation in which there is no doubt that
Socrates acted with indomitable courage and patience.
Who has not heard of Xantippe, his wife ? Lamprocles,
his son, on hearing his father descant on the anxieties
of parents, and all their efforts to care for their
children, is reported to have said: "Although my
mother had done this and a thousand times more, no
man could bear with so much ill-humour." Do you
not think it easier," said Socrates, to bear the anger of
a mother than that of a wild beast ? " No, not of such


a mother," was the son's reply. "But what harm
has she done you? Hath she kicked you, or bit you,
as wild beasts do when they are angry ? "No, but
she utters such things as no one can bear from any-
body." Socrates reasoned, but the son rebelled. The
wise man's imperturbable patience has become pro-
verbial, "I do with Xantippe," he said on one occasion,
"like those who would learn horsemanship : they do not
choose easy tame horses, or such as are manageable
at pleasure, but the highest mettled and the hardest
mouthed; believing if they can tame the natural heat
and impetuosity of these, there can be none too hard
for them to manage."
But it is especially as a philosopher and teacher that
Socrates is remembered and admired. And yet he
never delivered a lecture in his life, wrote no books,
opened no school, convened no assemblies. He was
a citizen who had certain notions in his head, and who
resolutely and untiringly talked out those notions
wherever he had an opportunity. From early morn
till late eve, it was his custom to wander about and
talk and dispute with everybody. He is now in the
market-place, and now in his friend's house-now in
the workshop of the artizan, and now in earnest dis-
cussion with the senator or magistrate-here with the
statuary and painter, and there with the sophist-
questioning everybody, and provoking everybody. He
was what a historian has more correctly than politely
called him, a universal bore-a bore to the multitude who
believed themselves very wise, but whom he laboured
to convince that they knew nothing.
You could not be many days in Athens without


seeing Socrates, for no man was more in the streets
than he. And having once seen him you could never
forget him. Were history silent, imagination would
delight to embody in our notion of his ,person, those
ideas of the dignity and beauty of virtue which we are
traditionally taught to associate with his name. We
should paint to ourselves a large commanding form,
with symmetry in every limb and dignity in every
feature. But alas history has been too minute and
specific to allow us to fashion a Socrates for ourselves.
And yet, we should not say alas! forit only teaches us
by another example that the mind is the measure of
the man. It is not the testimony of enemies we have
on this subject, but of friends, and of his own reputed
conversations as recorded by his admirer Xenophon.
The frequent comparison to which his appearance is
subjected is with Silenus, a demigod, who was repre-
sented as a fat and jolly old man, riding on an ass.
The fauns and satyrs in general were called Sileni
from their partial but imperfect approximation to the
human figure. Socrates had a flattened nose, with
wide and upturned nostrils, projecting eyeballs, thick
lips, with a squat and unwieldy figure.
Now, imagine Socrates wandering barefoot through
the streets of Athens. He has no philosopher's cloak.
He is a simple citizen, of most ungainly figure, but of
most fascinating tongue. A citizen, who compels his
neighbours to listen to him, and yet they seldom listen
without being ashamed or humbled. The Athenians
are not a nation of sculptors and painters, of poets and
philosophers merely, but of men, with all the passions
and sensibilities of men. And the habits andteachings

of Socrates, while they draw around him admirers and
devotees, come into frequent and ungrateful collision
with their passions and prepossessions.
The manner of this Citizen-Teacher was very peculiar.
As we have said already, he delivered no lectures and
taught no classes. But he met on the street, it may
be, some one whom he supposed to be in error, or whom
he supposed to be unduly self-complacent, or ambitious,
or profligate. It may be a wild youth, or an aspiring
democrat, or a pretending Sophist. Socrates asks a
question. The question is simple and inoffensive. It
is answered. A second question arises out of the
answer; and a third, and a fourth. And the questioned
party is led on unconsciously to conclusions the most
adverse to himself. And the crooked and crabbed old
man (as the tortured citizen is disposed to call him),
who has thus entrapped his neighbour, leaves him to
writhe in the agony of self-confusion, or sends him
away with the mortifying impression, that he has made
a fool of himself.
With these questioning, Socrates mingled more or
less argument of his own, according to circumstances.
But we are compelled to acknowledge, that much of
his argument, as preserved by Plato and Xenophon, is
sophistical, in the now common sense of that word,
and so much so, that it must have been by design;
such argument often serving the purpose he had in view
as well as any other, namely, to convince the man that
he was not the wise and great man he took himself for.
This mode of questioning and argumentation, leading
men to unexpected conclusions from their own admis-
sions, has been called the Socratic Method, or the


Socratic Dialogue. In the hands of most men, it is an
unsafe and unfair weapon. It presents too strong
temptations to a man, to exhibit his skill and tact, at
the expense of his honesty and simplicity; while it is
scarcely possible for the most honest man to escape the
logical meshes, into which a skilful and dishonest
questioner seeks to draw him.
But in the hands of Socrates, this method accom-
plished important purposes. Philosophy, we have seen,
had exhausted itself in speculations regarding the origin
and nature of things. The Sophists were ascendant,
and though their fundamental principles were, that
truth and error, right and wrong, were not essentially
diverse, they professed to communicate all kinds of
knowledge, and to fit men for all high and important
stations in life and in the state. In labouring to con-
found such pretensions, Socrates might have done no
good, he might have left his fellow-citizens in the con-
fusion of feeling, that they knew nothing. But he
laboured at the same time to divert them from vain
speculations and empty pretensions, to what was
practical and intelligible. It is on this account he is
said to have brought philosophy down from heaven to
One example of Socrates' method, will enable the
reader to enter into the life of this great man, though
it must be given in a very abbreviated form.
Euthydemus, surnamed the Fair, is a young man.
He has collected many of the writings of the most
celebrated poets and Sophists; is much elated, and fan-
cies himself superior to any other of the same age, both
in knowledge and abilities; and does not doubt to see


himself the very first man in Athens, whether to manage
the affairs of the state or to harangue the people. He
is too young to be admitted into the public assemblies;
and it is his custom to go into a bridle-cutter's shop
near the Forum. Socrates, accompanied by some of his
friends, follows him one day into the bridle-cutter's;
a remark is made about Themistocles; and Socrates, to
pique Euthydemus, says, "It is monstrous folly for any
one to imagine, that whilst the knowledge of the very
lowest mechanic art is not to be attained without a
master, the science of governing the republic, which
requires for the right discharge of it all that human
prudence can perform, is to be had by intuition."
Euthydemus hears the remark, but seems as if he did
not hear it, and takes care to avoid the company of
Socrates as much as possible. Circumstances, however,
bring them together again ere long. Socrates says to
some of his friends present, that no doubt Euthydemus
will speak his mind the very first time he is in the
assembly, if there should happen to be any business of
importance in debate; and that his first speech must
resemble that of a man who should solicit the voices of
the people by saying, "It is true, gentlemen, I never
once thought of making physic my study; I never once
applied to any one for instruction; and so far was I
from desiring to be well versed in this science, I even
wished not to have the reputation of it; but, gentlemen,
be so kind as to choose me for your physician, and
I will gain knowledge by making experiments upon
The laugh is immediately turned against Euthydemus,
and, though he no longer avoids the company and


presence of Socrates,he affects themost profound silence.
At last Socrates succeeds in drawing him into conver-
sation. They have met in the bridle-cutter's shop, and
are alone. "Is it true, Euthydemus," said Socrates,
" that you have collected so many of the writings of
those men whom we call wise ?"
Most undoubtedly it is true; neither shall I give
over collecting till I have gained as many of them as I
well can."
Truly," said Socrates, "I admire you much for
thus endeavouriug to accumulate wisdom rather than
wealth; for by this, Euthydemus, you plainly discover
it to be your opinion that gold and silver cannot add
to our merit; whereas we furnish ourselves with an
inexhaustible fund of virtue, when we thus treasure up
the writings of these great men."
Euthydemus is delighted. He has gained the appro-
bation of the universal fault-finder. But his joy is of
short duration.
"What employment do you intend to excel in, Euthy-
demus," said Socrates, "that you collect so many
The young man is now inextricably in the meshes of
the questioner. He is carried on in spite of himself
through a long conversation, in which as in a mirror,
he sees himself a child and a fool.
0 Socrates," he exclaimed, I will not deny to
you that I have hitherto believed I was no stranger to
philosophy, but had already gained that knowledge so
necessary for the man who aspires after virtue. What
then must be my concern to find, after all my labour, I
am not able to answer those questions which it most

imports me to know; and the more, as I see not what
method to pursue whereby I may render myself more
Have you ever been at Delphos ?"
"I have been there twice."
Did you observe this inscription somewhere on the
front of the temple-' KNOW THYSELF ?'"
Yes, I read it."
"But it seems scarcely sufficient to have read it,
Euthydemus : did you consider it ? and in consequence
of the admonition, set yourself diligently to find out
what you are ?"
I certainly did not," said Euthydemus; "for I
imagined I must know this sufficiently already; and
indeed it will be difficult for us to know anything, if we
can be supposed to be at a loss here."
"But for a man to know himself properly," said
Socrates, "it is scarcely enough that he knows his
own name. He who has purchased a horse, does not
imagine he has made the proper trial of his merit, till
by mounting him he has found out whether he is
tractable or unruly, strong or weak, fleet or heavy, with
everything else, either good or bad, in him: so likewise
we should not say, He knows himself as he ought, who
is ignorant of his own powers, or those duties which,
as a man, it is incumbent on him to perform."
The youth is then compelled to listen to many beau-
tiful sentiments on the nature and importance of self-
knowledge, till he professes himself fully convinced of
its excellence.
You know what things are good, and what evil?"
said Socrates, resuming the conversation.


"Certainly," replied Euthydemus; "for otherwise I
should know less than the very lowest of our slaves."
Show me then, I pray you, what you think good,
what evil."
The poor youth is again entrapped and humbled.
He is drawn into a discussion, in which he flounders
miserably, and at last he rushes out of the bridle-cutter's
shop, "full of confusion and contempt of himself, as
beginning to perceive his own insignificancy." Unlike
many, however, whom Socrates only disgusted, Euthy-
demus courted his society, became attached to him, and
sat at his feet to be taught, says Xenophon, "those
things which it most imported him to know."
The opinions of the Citizen-Teacher on the most
important subjects will appear in the two following
Aristodemus, surnamed the Little, is a sophist and
a sceptic. He neither prays nor sacrifices to the gods,
nor yet consults any oracle; but, on the contrary,
ridicules and laughs at those who do. Socrates has
many arguments with him, and reasons thus : "Which
seems to you most worthy of admiration, Aristodemus ?
-the artist who forms images void of motion and
intelligence; or one who has the skill to produce
animals that are endued, not only with activity, but
understanding ? .... He who at the beginning made
man, endued him with senses because they were good
for him; eyes wherewith to behold whatever was
visible; and ears to hear whatever was to be heard.
For say, Aristodemus, for what purpose should odours
be prepared if the sense of smelling had been denied ?
and why the distinctions of bitter and sweet, of savoury


and unsavoury, unless a palate had likewise been given,
conveniently placed, to arbitrate between them, and
declare the difference? Is not that providence, Aristo-
demus, in a most eminent manner conspicuous, which,
because the eye of man is so delicate in its contexture,
hath therefore prepared eyelids like doors, whereby to
secure it, which extend of themselves whenever it is
needful, and again close when sleep approaches ? Are
not those eyelids provided, as it were, with a fence on
the edge of them to keep off the wind and guard the
eye ? Even the eyebrow itself is not without its office,
but, as a penthouse, is prepared to turn off the sweat,
which, falling from the forehead, might enter and annoy
that no less tender than astonishing part of us. .....
And canst thou doubt, Aristodemus, whether a dispo-
sition of parts like this should be the work of chance, or
of wisdom and contrivance ?" Aristodemus professes to
be satisfied in the end that "man must be the master-
piece of some great artificer."
In a conversation with Euthydemus, Socrates is
represented by Xenophon as saying: "Even among all
those deities who so liberally bestow on us good things,
not one of them maketh himself an object of our sight.
And He who raised this whole universe, and still up-
holds the mighty frame, who perfected every part of it
in beauty and goodness, suffering none of these parts to
decay through age, but renewing them daily with un-
fading vigour, whereby they are able to execute what-
ever he ordains, with that readiness and precision which
surpass man's imagination, even he, the Supreme God,
who performs all these wonders, still holds himself
invisible, and it is only in his works that we are capable


of admiring him. But consider, my Euthydemus, the
sun, which seemeth as it were set forth to the view of
all men, yet suffereth not itself to be too curiously
examined, punishing those with blindness who too
rashly venture so to do. And those ministers of the
gods, whom they employ to execute their bidding,
remain to us invisible: for though the thunderbolt is
shot from on high, and breaks in pieces whatever it
finds in its way, yet no one sees it when it falls, when
it strikes, or when it retires. Neither are the winds
discoverable to our sight, though we plainly behold the
ravages they everywhere make, and with ease perceive
what time they are rising. But if there be anything in
man, my Euthydemus, partaking of the Divine nature, it
must surely be the soul which governs and directs him;
yet no one considers this as an object of his sight.
Learn, therefore, not to despise those things which you
cannot see. Judge of the greatness of the power by the
effects which are produced, and reverence the Spirit
which has produced them."
These extracts present as favourable a specimen as
may be found of the theology of Socrates. It is very
obvious that this philosopher had some very beautiful
conceptions of God. It is equally obvious that he
believed in inferior deities. This remark does not
depend on inference. We have express statements on
the subject from himself and from his admirers. "It
was ever his practice," says Xenophon, "to approve
himself a strict observer of the answer the Pythian
priestess gives to all who inquire the proper manner
of sacrificing to the gods, or paying honours to their
deceased ancestors: 'Follow,' saith the god, 'the

custom of your country;' and therefore Socrates, in all
those exercises of his devotion and piety, confined him-
self altogether to what he saw practised by the republic;
and to his friends he constantly advised the same thing,
saying it only savoured of vanity and superstition in
all those who did otherwise." The statement will be
confirmed by his own defence on his trial.
How long Socrates moved about as a teacher in the
streets and in the shops of Athens, we have not the
means of knowing. The general statement is, that he
began to teach about the middle of his career.
In his 72d year he was brought to trial, on the
following indictment : "Socrates is criminal; inasmuch
as he acknowledges not the gods whom the republic
holds sacred, but introduces other and new deities. He
is likewise criminal because he corrupts the youth."
From this accusation it has been erroneously inferred
that Socrates was a martyr to his faith in one Supreme
God. But all who are acquainted with the history of
Greece are agreed that his trial was a political one.
He had created for himself many enemies, who only
availed themselves of a popular accusation to get rid of
him. And there were some things in his teaching, no
doubt, which afforded some shadow of evidence in sup-
port of it. He despised the fables in which the poets
recounted the deeds of the popular deities, and on this
ground might be charged with denying the gods which
the republic held sacred. He spoke in a mysterious
style of a demon, or genius, or spirit, which revealed
many things to him, which commanded him to do this,
or forbade him to do that, and on this ground might
plausibly be charged with introducing new deities.


What Socrates meant by his daemon is still a ques-
tion with the historians of philosophy. Some think
that he only meant his conscience. But if he meant
nothing more, he certainly threw an air of needless
mystery around a very simple matter, and ascribed to
it things which do not well correspond with the attri-
butes and functions of conscience. According to
others, Socrates believed implicitly in supernatural
communications, and that these proceed from a peculiar
demon, who, according to the doctrine of Plato, "is
allotted to every man, who is a witness and guardian of
his conduct in life, who, without being visible to any
one, is always present, and who is an arbitrator not
only of his deeds, but also of his thoughts. This
demon presides over the man inquisitively, participates
of all that concerns him, sees all things, understands
all things, and dwells in the most profound recesses of
the mind." If this was the belief of Socrates, it was
natural for him to regard all strong impressions and
convictions of duty, all sudden thoughts, and all vivid
presentiments, as the voice of his demon.
As to the charge of corrupting youth, it was indig-
nantly repelled by Socrates, and is likewise by Xenophon
and Plato. Nor are we aware of any evidence by which
it was supported.
As to the main charge, Socrates himself is reported
to have said: "What I chiefly marvel at, 0 ye judges!
is this; whence Melitus infers, that I esteem not
those as gods whom the city holds sacred. For that
I sacrifice at the appointed festivals, on our common
altars, was evident to all others, and might have been
to Melitus had he been so minded." After his con-


demnation, he said, "That I, in anywise, should be
more troubled and cast down than before my condem-
nation, I see not; since I stand here unconvicted of
any of the crimes whereof I was accused: for no one
has proved against me that I sacrificed to any new
deity; or by oath appealed to, or even made mention
of the names of any other than Jupiter, Juno, and the
rest of the deities, which, together with these, our city
holds sacred; neither have they once shown what were
the means I made use of to corrupt the youth, at the
very time that I was inuring them to a life of patience
and frugality."
Though found guilty, the likelihood is that his
judges would not have condemned him to death, had he
humbled and submitted himself to their mercy, and
sued for pardon, in the style common to persons in his
position. But he was bold, undaunted, and self-com-
placent, and exasperated his adversaries. "Somewhat
haughty, perhaps," says an admirer, "but the haughti-
ness of a brave soul fighting for the truth!" The
injustice of his sentence is granted, but what truth he
was fighting for we find it difficult to ascertain. Four
hundred years after, another, a stranger, was charged
on the same Mars' Hill, with being a setter forth of
strange gods. But instead of labouring to wash him-
self from the charge of unbelief in Jupiter and Juno,
and the other deities of the Athenians, he boldly denied
the divinity of every one of them, and proclaimed the
unity, spirituality, and government of One Living and
True God, and that in sublimer terms than any orator or
philosopher of Athens had ever attained. He had truth
to contend for, and the God of truth was with him.

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