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the southern sentinel
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDAY MORNING,
BY
T. L. O 31 AX CO.
TEX NEXT LOMAX, Principal Editor.
Office on Randolph street.
Citcnmj Department.
Cojfoccm bt CAROLINE LEE HENTZ
[WHITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
GLEANINGS;
From the Fields of Fact and Fiction.
BY FRANK BYLAKD.
C If APT E R I.
A Jaunt to Saratoga Springs, during the
Summer Yqration of 18—.
Will Montague and I were college
mates—and a finer fellow never matriculated
—I would like to sa v, never graduated. This,
however, l cannot do. Like many of his sex
and nature, he fell a victim to the shafts of
Cupid, before he had finished his “regular
course,” and was no more.
We had entered college at the same time,
and, as is not unusual among young men of
ardent feelings, were fiends from the begin
ning. Our second term had closed. The
•crowning event of the college carnival—the
Commencement Ball —was over, and in pos
session of a full stock of ennui and depres
sion, owing to the fatigue and excitement un
dergone for several days, Will and 1 were
deliberating on how we should dispose oi our
vacation season. Being Southerners, and
having been acclimating in a Northern lati
tude, for eighteen months, our considerate
guardians had interdicted our return in the
summer respite. For this disappointment,
they had made amends, by remittances lib
eral enough to carry us through even an ex
travagantly-passed holiday of ten weeks.
The world was all before* us, and with
nearly three months’ time—ail our own—and
our pockets well supplied with the circula
ting medium, it is not surprising that we
should have been in grave deliberation upon
holiday pleasures—Lest routes to take—pla
ces to visit, &o. Are.
“What say you to an excursion to the j
Falls, wiii r
“Should like well enough to see ’em, old !
fellow; but if you ever turn your head ex- !
cursion-wards, particularly to Niagara, you j
will he for the Lakes, next; and I'll be warn- ;
ble-cropped, as your Vermont chum was
wont to express himself, if you ever get me
committed to old Nep’s dominions again, ex
cept it he in the way of a small river. As
for getting out of sight of terra Jirma, I’m
dead set against it.”
Will’s aversion to water voyages was oc- !
easioned by our having been wrecked, with a j
narrow escape from the most awful death, j
while en route to college, some eighteen i
months before. It had given him a decided |
lif>rror of the sea, and all large bodies of wa
ter, which caused invariable opposition to all
inv proposals for a tour on the Lakes.
“Well, then,suppose we try the old North
ltiver, with its unsurpassed scenery, as a be
ginning ?”
c? O
“ I lie old North d—l! Frank, you are |
enough to provoke me into a forgetfulness of
my promise, never to swear again. Wasn’t
it on that same confounded river, that I lost
my every dollar, by a villainous pick-pocket,
a year ago ?”
“Well, that is no reason why 3-011 should
lose another pocket-book there this summer.
How do you know but that your luck might
change on another trial ?”
“You may placard me as a fool, if I make
the lisle. 1 believe the whole of ’em—officers
and all—are a thieving pack, and don't intend
to put myself into their rapacious clutches
any more. That’s the long and short of your
North River proposal.”
Will had lost sleep, and that he never conhl
do, without having his temper affected. When
really at himself, he was a pattern of good
nature.
“Fie! Fie! Will, 3-011 are too passionate,
this morning. lon do main- injustice, bv
your wholesale*charges. Now, 1 have made
two propositions, which 3-011 violently object
to. Do you name the place, and the time of
starting, and if our finances will cover expen
ses, I will go. 1 ’
He was silent.
‘■‘Shall we go, or remain ?’’ I enquired.
“Go.” i
‘Where ?’*
“To Saratoga.’’
“Saratoga!”
“Yes.”
“Well, when ?’’
“This afternoon.”
“So soon ?”
“Whv not
“I don’t know why, particularly. Your
plan was so unexpected, that I hardly knew
what I said.”
“It’s the onty plan I’ve had for a week
Do you acquiesce ?’’
“Certainly; I promised it.”
“Then, let's bundle up.’’
In an hour, we were off.
W ill summoned resolution, during the last
hour’s drive through an immense pine forest,
before reaching Saratoga, to explain his pen
chant for Saratoga, against the world.
“Ten days ago, Frank, I had a dream,
and ”
“A day-dream, was it ?”
“Now, out upon you, and a truce to fun! I
am serious, and have something serious to
communicate. It was a bona fide dream,
and Occurred at night; but has haunted me
every day since. Now, will you be silent ?”
I assented, and M ill went on with his
vision.
Jj I
VOL 111.
“I had a dream. We wore at Saratoga,
and Irene teas there, too. lam not supersti
tious, Frank ; yet I am as satisfied that she is
there, and that we will meet to-night, as I
am that I hear the melancholy music among
these forest harps overhead. I can tell 3'ou
how she will be dressed, and in what part of
the room I shall first see her. The color will
be white. A rosebud resting on her bosom,
will be her only ornament, and in the North
east corner of the saloon, we are to meet.”
I sat beside him trembling with fear for
poor Will’s intellect. What he said sounded
like insanity.
Jane Ryland—a cousin of mine, an or
phan and an heiress—was then, as I verily
believed, in a remote Southern State. Will,
in the wildness of what her guardian called
a boyish passion, had sought and won the
promise of her hand, two years before. For
three months thej- “dreamed of all tilings free,’’
and were as happy as two such juveniles
could be, who, because of the opposition of
a grim old guardian—a sort of man-duenna
over his rich young ward, whom he evidently
designed for his soif —were compelled to have
all their interviews clandestinely, and brief at
that. At the end of that time, they stumbled
into a lovers’ quarrel, and in the impulse of
the moment, granted one another a mutual
release from ail obligations. Will left home
for college before a reconciliation could be
effected, for which I was most anxious.—
Will was too proud to seek it afterwards, and
thus within a fraction of two ye-,us had pass
ed. lie still loved, although he had not con
fessed it.
II is dream was not surprising; but the
confidence with which he spoke of its fulfil
ment, made me apprehensive for bis sanity.
1 was puzzled how to treat his revelation.
“Will,” said 1, “do you love Irene?”
“Why ask?” replied lie mildly, but with
deep earnestness. “Why ask me? What
else but love, (he destiny of love, is impelling
me on now—driving ne to Saratoga—for
cing me to confess to you w hat I have with
held, ever since that fatal ”
Ilis voice trembled, as memory heaved up
from .her wide sea, the wreck of hopes,
wrought the night they parted in anger. I
was still troubled for his mind. He saw it in
my perplexed countenance, and continued
with a smile:
“My dear Frank, you think me mad. lam
not. God has spoken to the souls of men
when asleep, in ail ages, when emergencies
demanded. Why not to me? This night
will convince you ; and when, in a week from
to-dav, you see—as you shall—lrene as m3’
wife, you will stand treat to3’our whole class,
next commencement day—w ill you not ?”
“Every day of the exercises, Will, if you
will promise to be in attendance.”
“I will be on hand, old fellow.”
T his brought us in sight of the village of
Saratoga, and at the same time the supper
bell sent its welcome out upon the evening
breeze. We put whin, and in a few mo
ments were snugly stowed away in a couple
of most infantile rooms, in the bachelor’s
wing of glorious old Congress Hall. We
took our tea privately-, and after paying our
devoirs to the bath-house, and a due atten
tion to our toilet, which the clouds of sand
and dust through which we had passed made
necessary, we hastened to the ball-room,
where the babble of a thousand tongues—
more or less—bad been calling us for half an
hour.
Will and I were strangers to all. lie had
great confidence in my chaperonship, not
withstanding he was 1113’ senior by- three
years. So, surrendering himself to my gui
dance, we began our wanderings, amid that
dense mass of humanity. Os course we were
ignorant of the points of the compass, having
paid no attention to sun-rise or sun-set. I
was quite loquacious. Every thing, and eve
ry body, amused me. Will was silent. He
was all eyes—especially as we neared a cor
ner of the room. While passing the fourth
and last, lie trembled like an aspen. At last
we had cleared it, and without meeting Irene.
“For God’s sake, Frank, let me have air!”
I hurried him on—passed through the wrong
door—found myself in the drawingroom —
was making my way to a visible outlet with
my almost fainting companion, when a sweet
voice arrested me with the words:
“Cousin Frank!”
“Irene, as I live!'* and seizing her hand, I
was in the act of wringing it, in the excess
of my joy, when NVill fell to the floor in a
state of unconsciousness. Without even ex
cusing myself to Irene, I called for assistance
and conveyed him to his room, where, in a
few moments, he revived.
“I knew she was here, and that we should
meet,” were his first words, as soon as we
were alone.
“\S ell, but the rosebud, Will! I saw none!”
“I did,” was his reply.
“Then I challenge you to sa.y that it was in
the corner we met.”
“I do say it.”
“Come, now, Will, you know we were pas
sing in a straight line from one door to the
other.”
“Aou mistake, Frank,” he quietly’ persist
ed ; “the doors do not face. Our direction
was intended to be diagonal, but the crowd
diverted us from it, threw us into a corner,
and there we met her.”
“Well, grant it, for argument’s sake; still
you must give in, as to its being the North
east corner.”
“I would stake my existence on it. Go
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA. FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 21, 1852.
and enquire, and you will find it as I say.”
To satisfy myself-—for I had become exci
ted in the strange and concuirent circum
stances—and to seek out Irene, for the pur
pose of explaining m3’ sudden disappearance,
I determined to go. ~
“Hold a moment, Frank,” said Will, as I
turned to leave. “I must see her—must see
her to-night—it is destiny. Procure for me
an interview. Tell her in\- sorrow for the
past, m3 7 agony for mouths —sue for pardon
—onl3’ let me have an interview for twenty
minutes, and I will bless her and 3'ou, while
I live.’’
lie was excited. It was the first betra3'al
of it, that he had given by bis voice, since
he had first spoken to me about it. i left
him.
Upon enquiring, I ascertained that it was
the North-east corner, and on examination,
Irene was white-robed, and wore a small moss
rose in her bosom.
“Is your friend an invalid ?” enquired Irene,
w hen i told her the reason why I had left her
so abruptly. She had evidently not recog
nized him.
“Far from it,” I replied.
“Has he quite recovered, cousin ?”
“Enough so, Irene, to desire an interview
with you.”
“An interview with me!”
“Yes; why not?”
“You jest, Frank. I am unknown to him,
and ”
“Not so, cousin,” I interrupted. “\ou are
well known to each other, and have had
more than one interview of 1113- procuring, in
days lang syne.’’
I watched her countenance. The white
ness of death came over it. I led her out on
the long colonnade; and there, on that July
night, with the white moon-light without,and
the blaze of swinging candelabras from with
in, I plead ‘.S ill's cause. 1 had prejudice to
contend against, and pride; 3’et love aided
me; for Irene loved him.
“I will see him, Frank, and I know’ to what
it will tend. M3 7 heart draws me on, while
my judgment whispers me to pause.”
“Why should there be contention between
the two, Irene ? Is not Will Montague all
you could ask ?’’
“He is; 3 - et my guardian has his plans,
and they should be ”
“A curse on the old scoundrel, and his
plans to boot!” I indignantly ejaculated.
“Hush, Frank, for Heaven’s sake! don’t lie
so violent. He —George Redford—will hear
you.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes; and has order?, no doubt, from Lis
father, who has not 3'et arrived from New
York, to watch me narrowly.”
“And old Dick is absent, then! That is
something in our favor.’’
Irene then poured out her wrongs to me.
Dick Redford—as vile a compound as ever
wronged an orphan—her guardian, had at
tempted to poison her mind toward .Montague;
had cajoled and flattered, threatened and ter
rified her alternately, with a view’ to involving
her in an engagement w ith his son—which
he had partially done. She had some esteem
for George Redford—for he differed from his
selfish father, in many respects—but enter
tained no higher feeling.
“And now,” sail she, as she concluded, “let
me return. My long absence will be noticed
by Mrs. Redford. In half an hour, call for
me, and after dancing a quadrille with you,
L will suffer you to resign me to—to Will, out
on the colonnade. And mind now’, cousin
Frank, all that I have intimated to you, about
—about—pshaw ! I mean that you are to
cultivate silence. It is a crowning virtue in
all negotiations, and that is your present vo
cation, l plainly see.”
We had entered the room, and George Red
ford was before us. I exchanged salutations,
and passed her to him.
“The third quadrille is yours, cousin. Be
in your place now-, or I will bestow m3- gra
cious self upon the first applicant.”
“I will remember, and look to 1113- interest.”
We parted.
Forty minutes more, and Will and Irene
disappeared from the colonnade, and were
lost in the garden, between the hotel and the
spring. Twenty minutes fled—twenty-five—
I was becoming impatient. George and his
mother supposed Irene with “cousin Frank.’’
They were unconscious of Will’s being there;
for I had shunned them, in apprehension of
having to recite a catechism of news, in
which my chum—his health—manner of pas
sing vacation—present whereabouts, &c. t
would be included in the interrogations.—
Thirt3’ minutes were numbered, and in agony
of dread for the poor doves, I left the breezy
colonnade, and stole down to the garden.—
The walk leading to the spring was thronged
with promenaders—-with Northern Hebes
and Southern Psyches, glorious and queenly
in their beauty, as seen in the streaming
brightness of the moon, and hanging on the
arms of Northern and Southern knights.—
los, with their Jupiters, were there. So they
seemed to my \mung and burning imagina
tion ; for I was then but nineteen.
Drawing rear an alcove, I heard the voices
of my truants —low, tremulous, and agitated
—in earnest colloquy. Irene was urging
something. Will was resisting. It was the
postponement of some matter, to which they
had agreed, and of whose purport it required
no Yankee to guess. Irene was eloquent.
Will was warm—violent. He pleaded desti
ny. She laughed at his the on - , hut such a
laugh it was! encouraging and half acquies
i cing. He referred to his strange vision—his
confidence in it, expressed to me be fore its
realization— spoke of the danger of fighting
against God—the divineness of the warning
&c.
The night was waning. I was anxious for
the denouement of the scene. I entered the al
cove in the midst of the most impassioned
part of Will’s appeal. He wore a w ild look,
and Irene was in tears.
“ Fake me back, cousin,” she said implo
ringly, as I stood before them. “Oh, take me
back. I must not, 1 cannot consent to your
rash proposal, Will. It is too hasty. You
w'ould repent of it, lam sure. Think-longer,
and give me time to think, and I pledge my
self to answer you.’’
“When?”
“Indeed, Will, don’t ask me when, now 7.
I hardly know- what I am doing or saving. It
seems so like a dream. Talk with Frank.—
lie is my early and true friend. I w ill do as
he says.”
“To-morrow night, then, at this place, and
at this hour, let Irene’s decision be given/’
proposed I, anxious to end a conference that
had been prolonged far beyond the iimit
first assigned it.
The parties agreed ; and in a few moments,
Irene, white as the snowy robe she wore,
was seated Ly’ Mrs. Redford, in the saloon.
*******
We stood together—the same trio—at the
appointed time, beneath the light of smiling
stars, that seemed to share in the joy of at
least two members, in our little group. Will
bad triumphed. Irene was his by solemn be
trothal. She had consented to an—what
shall I, \v ho am from principle, as a general
thing, opposed to elopements and eloping
misses, of an equivocal, bread and butter
school ago, call it? — an — an —an elopement.
I will out with it; for that was its proper
name. A cs, she had consented to it, and 1
had not only recommended, but had plead for
it. Her covetous guardian opposed her mar
riage from selfish considerations. Will was
wortly of her—she loved him. I belie ved his
sanity depended on his success, so terribly en
graven had his fire-traced vision been, on his
mind. I feared also hen- power to resist all the
influences which old Dick (Nick it ought to
have been) Redford would exert over her;
and I—l—yes, / counselled her to fly with
Will Montague to Boston, and become his
w ile.
The flight, marriage, &c.., I will leave to the
imagination of the reader; but that “treat”
which I promised to stand every day next
commencement occasion—the remembrance
of it is grievous unto my pocket, to this hour!
Will was there, as happy and as boastful a
fox as ever was curtailed. And Irene—but of
her, I may not venture to speak, lest I length,
en this already frightfully long tale (tail!) to
an extent that would insure its repose among
the rejected “gleanings” of the Sentinel office.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
SKIXXEI) ALIVE.
Translated from the French.
BY ERNEST SOLE.
Avery rich stranger, named Suderland,
was naturalized in Russia, and banker to Iler
Majesty, Catherine, whose esteem and con
fidence he enjoyed. One morning he was in
formed that his residence was surrounded bv
guards, and that the Master of Police desired
an interview with him. The officer, whose
name was Relietv, presently entered with an
air of consternation.
“Monsieur Suderland,” said lie, “I find my
self, w ith deep sorrow 7, entrusted bj- m y gra
cious sovereign, w ith the execution of an or
der, the severity of which astounds and fright
ens me. lam ignorant, too, b3 7 what crime,
or by what dereliction, you have excited her
Majestv-’s resentment to such an alarming
degree.”
“I ! sir,” cried the banker, “I am equally
unadvised, and m3- surprise far exceeds 3’our
own. But w hat is the order ?”
“Indeed, sir, I have not the courage to
communicate it.”
“What!” exclaimed Suderland, “have I
forfeited her Majesty’s confidence?”
“If that were all, you w'ould not see me so
much distressed. Confidence lost, may be
re-established.”
“\ er3 7 w 7 ell; does she think of sending me ;
back to m3 7 own country ?”
“That wouid indeed be unfortunate, but j
your wealth could purchase happiness any
where.”
“My God!” cried the victim, “will she
banish me to the inhospitable wilds of Si
beria ?’’
“Alas! one might return from banishment.’’
“Will she imprison me?”
“You might escape.”
“Heavens! will she condemn me to the
dreaded laceration of the knout?”
“That punishment is awful, but it spares
life.”
“What!” screamed the terrified banker,
choking with fright, “is my life imperilled ?
The Empress—so good, so clement—who
addressed me so kindly, so condescending’3 7 ,
not two da3 7 s since—would she ? But 1
cannot believe it. For pity’s sake, go on—
death would bo less cruel than this unendu- ;
rable suspense!’’
“Well, my dear sir,” said the officer, with
lugubrious voice, “m3- gracious sovereign has j
ordered me to skin you.”
“To skin me!” slowly ejaculated Suder- !
land, regarding the police officer with a fixed. !
| incredulous stare. “Mao, you are mad, or
the Empress has lost her reason. You could
; not have received such an unheard of order,
without seeing its diabolical barbarity.”
“Alas! sir, I did what I dared to do under
the circumstances. I expressed my surprise
—mv grief. I hazarded humble remonstran
ces. But my august sovereign, reproaching
me for my hesitancy, ordered me in an irrita
ted, imperious tone, to comply with her com
| mands, adding these words, which yet tingle
! in mv oar, ‘Go, and remember it is your du
ty to execute, unmurmuringly, whatever coin
mission I may condescend to entrust you
with.’ ”
It would be impossible to paint the aston
; ishment, anger and despair of the poor bank
| er. After permitting him to indulge freely
his rage, the officer told him he would allow
a respite of fifteen minutes to prepare for his
terrible fate. Suderland imprecated, raved,
begged, implored—pressed him to allow
him to write a note to the Empress. The offi.
cer, overcome by his persevering entreaties,
carried a note from the unhappy man to an
influential nobleman, not daring to appear in
the presence of the despotic Catherine, with
out executing her order. The nobleman
thought the Magistrate crazy, bade him fol
low, and instantly repaired to the palace.—
Being introduced, he explained his mission.
Catherine listened to the strange recital.
“Just Heaven!” she cried, “how horrible!
Truly, Reliew is a fool! Count, run! and or
j der the insane wretch to deliver my poor
banker from his foolish terrors, and to set him
| at liberty.”
The nobleman soon returned, and found
! the Empress convulsed with laughter. “1
: see plainly,” said she, “the cause of this in
conceivably ludicrous scene. 1 have had for
some years past a beautiful dog, of which 1
was very fond, and I had called it Suderland,
because it was a present from my English
friend. The dog is just dead. 1 ordered iie
liew to have him skinned; and as he hesitated,
I I evinced some temper, thinking that a fool
j isii vanity made him feel the commission a
; degrading service. That is the cause of this
| ridiculous farce.”
Extracts from the Classics.
THE FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEyT
FRO'I KING HENRY VIII ACT 111, SCENE 11.
| Wol. So farewell to tlie little good you bear me.
j Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
| This is the state of man ; To day he puts forth
j Tlie tender leaves of hope, to morrow blossoms,
! And bears his blushing honors thick upon him :
; The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;
| And, —when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
i His greatness is a ripening,—nips his root, “
j And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur’d
! Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
| This many summers in a sea of glory ;
| But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
! At length broke under me : and now has left in?,
j Weary, and old with service, to tlie mercy
; Os a rude stream that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye ;
I feel my heart new-opened : O, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes’ favors.
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
i That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ;
And when he falis, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Enter Cromwell, amazcdly.
Why, how now, Cromwell ?
Cloin. I have no power to speak, sir.
Wol. What, amaz'd
At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder
j A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep.
! I am fallen indeed.
Crmn. How does your grace ?
j Wol. Why, well;
j Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now ; and I feel within me
j A peace above all earthly dignities,
| A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur’d me,
1 humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders,
These ruin’d pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy : too much honor :
O, ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.
Crow. 1 am glad your grace has made that right
use of it.
Wol. I hope I have : I am able now, methinks,
(Out of a fortitude of soul I fee!,)
To endure more miseries, and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad ?
Crow. The heaviest and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the king.
W >l. God bless him 1
Croin. Tlie next is that sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord chancellor in your place.
Wol. That’s somewhat sudden :
But he’s a learned man. May lie continue
Long in his highness’ favor, and do justice
For truth’s sake and his conscience ; that his bones,
W hen he lias run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphan’s tears wept on ’em !
What more ?
Croin. That, Crnnmer is return'd with welcome,
Install’d lord archbishop of Canterbury.
WoZ. That's news, indeed.
Crom. Last, that the lady Anne,
M horn the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view’d in open, as his quern,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pulled mo down.
O Cromwell,
The king has gone beyond me; all my glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever :
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;
I am a poor, fallen man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master: Seek the king;
That sun, I pray, may never set ! I have told him
What, and how true thou art ; he will advance thee ;
Some little memory of me will stir him,
(I know his noble nature,) not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, i
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.
Crom. O, my lord,
Must I then leave you ? must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master ?
Bear witness, all that have not, hearts qf iron.
I With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord,
j The king shall have my service ; but my prayers,
| For ever, and for ever, shall be yours,
j Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries ; but thou hast fore'd me
| Out of thy honest truth to play tlie woman.
Let’s dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ;
And, —when I am forgotten, as I shall be ;
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Os me more must be heard of, —say, I taught thee ;
Say, Wolsey,—that once trod the ways of glory.
And sounded ah the depths and shoals of honor,—
Found thee a way, out of Ills wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fail, and that that ruin’d me.
Cromwell,l charge thee, fling away ambition ;
By that sin fell tlie angels ; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by’t ?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee :
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right lnind carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not :
Let all the ends thou aim’st at, be thy country’s,
Thy God's, and truth’s ; then, if thou fail’st, O
Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ;
And, pr’ythee, lead me in :
There, take an inventory of all I have,
! To the last penny ; ’tis the king's : my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all
j 1 dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Ilad I but serv’d my God with half the zeal
! I serv'd my king, he w ould not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Crom. Good sir, have patience.
Wol, So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do well.
[Siiakspeare.
PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.
Now I saw in my dream, that by this time
the pilgrims were got over the Enchanted
Ground, and entering into the country of
Beulah, whose air was very sweet and pleas
ant; the way lying directly through it, they
solaced themselves there for a season. Yea.
here they heard continually the singing of
birds, and saw every day the flowers appear
in the earth, and heard the voice of the turtle
in the land. In this country the sun shineth
night and day: wherefore this was beyond
the V alley of the Shadow of Death, and also
out of the reach of Giant Despair; neither
could they from this place so much as sec
Doubting Castle. Mere they were within
sight of the city they were going to ; also
here met them sotne of the inhabitants there
of; for in this land tlie shining ones com
monly walked, because it was upon the bor
ders of heaven. In this land also the con
tract between tlie Bride and the Bridegroom
was renewed ; yea, here, “as the bridegroom
rejoiceth over the bride, so doth their God re
joice over them.” Here they had no want of
corn and wine; for in this place they met with
abundance of what they had sought for hi all
their pilgrimage. Here they heard voices
from out of the city, loud voices, saving,
“Say ye to the daughter of Zion, Behold, thy
salvation eometh ! Behold, his reward is with
him!” Here all the inhabitants of the coun
try called them “the holy people, the redeem
ed of the Lord, sought out,” etc.
Now, as they walked in this land, they had
more rejoicing than in parts more remote
from the kingdom to which they were hound ;
and drawing near to the city, they had yet a
more perfect view thereof. It was builded of
pearls and precious stones, also the streets
thereof were paved with gold ; so that, by
reason of the natural glory of the city, and
the reflection of the sunbeams upon it, Chris
tian with desire fell sick ; Hopeful also had a
fit or two of the same disease: wherefore
here they lay by it a while, crying out be
cause of their pangs, “If you see my Be
loved, tell him that 1 atn sick of love.”
But, being a little strengthened, and better
able to bear their sickness, they walked on
their way, and came yet nearer and nearer;
where were orchards, vineyards, and gardens,
j and their gates opened into the highway.
I Now, as they came up to these places, be
hold the gardener stood in the way ; to whom
the pilgrims said, Whose goodly vineyards
and gardens are these ? He answered, They
are the King’s and are planted here for his
own delight, and also for the solace of pil
grims. Bo the gardener had them into the
vineyards, and bid them refresh themselves
with the dainties ; he also showed them there
the King’s walks and arbors where he de
lighted to be : and here they tarried and slept.
Now 1 beheld in my dream that they talk
ed more in their sleep at this time titan ever
they did in all their journey; and being in a
muse thereabout, the gardener said even to
me, Wherefore musestthou at the matter? it I
is the nature of the fruit of the grapes of these
vineyards, “to go down so sweetly as to j
cause the lips of them that tire asleep to j
speak.’’
Bo 1 saw that when they awoke, they ad- j
dressed themselves to go up to the city. But, j
as 1 said, the reflection of the sun upon the
city (for the city was pure gold) was so ex- j
treinely glorious, that they could not as yet
with open face behold it, but through an in
strument made for that purpose. So 1 saw,
that as they went on, there met them two
men in raiment that shone like gold, also
their faces shone as the liffiit.
These men asked the pilgrims whence they
came; and they told them. They also ask
ed them where they had lodged, what diffi
culties and dangers, what comforts and !
pleasures, they had met with in the way;!
and they told them. Then said the men that 1
met them, Y ou have but two difficulties more !
to meet with, and then you are in the city.
Christian then and his companion asked |
the men to go along with them : so they told 1
them that they would. But, said they, you
must obtain it by your own faith. So 1 saw \
in my dream, that they went on together till
they came in sight of the gate.
Now I further saw, that betwixt them and
the gate, there was a river; but there was no
bridge to go over, and the river was ve
ry deep. At the sight, therefore, of this
river the pilgrims were much stunned; but
the men who were with them said, You must
go through, or you cannot come at the gate.
The pilgrims then began to enquire if there
was no other way to the gate. To which
they answered, Yes; but there hath not any,
save two, to wit, Enoch and Elijah, been
permitted to tread that path since the foun
dation of the world, nor shall until the last
trumpet shall sound. The pilgrims then, es
pecially Christian, began to despond in their
mind, and looked this way and that, but no
way could be lound by them by which they
might escape the river. Then they asked the
men if the waters were all of a dentil. They
said, No; yet they could not help them in
that case, for, said they, you shall find it
deeper or shallower as you believe in the
King of the place.
They then addressed themselves to the
water, and entering, Christian began to sink,
and Crying out to his good friend Hopeful,
he said, I sink in deep waters; the billows go
over my head; all his waves go over me.
Sehih.
Then said the other, Be of good cheer, my
brother: I feel the bottom, and it is good,
j Then said Christian, Ah! my friend, the sor
rows of death have compassed me about, I
shall not see tlie land that flows with milk
and honey. And with that a great darkness
and horror fell upon Christian, so that ho
could not see before him. Also here he in a
great measure lost his senses, so that he could
i neither remember nor orderly talk of any ot
I those sweet refreshments that he had met
j with in the way of his pilgrimage. But till
| tlie words that he spoke still tended to dis
cover that !?e had horror of mind, and heart*
fears that he should die in that river, and nev
er obtain entrance in at the gate. Here also,
| as they that stood by perceived, lie was much
i in the troublesome thoughts of the sins that
! he had committed, both since and before he
! began to be a pilgrim. It was also observed
! that he was troubled with apparitions of liob
i goblins, and evil spirits; for ever and anon
I he would intimate so much by words.
Hopeful therefore here had much ado to
keep bis brother’s head out of the water; vea,
sometimes he would be quite gone down, and
then, ere a while, he would rise up again half
dead. Hopeful did also endeavor to comfort
him, saying, Brother, 1 see the gate, and men
standing by to receive us; but Christian
would answer, It is you, it is you they wait
for; for you have been hopeful ever since I
i knew you. And so have you, said he to
: Christian. Ah, brother, (snjd he,) surely it l
| was right he would now arise to help me; but
I for my sins bo hath brought me into the
! snare, and left mo. Then said Hopeful, My
I brother, you have quite forgot the text where
it is said of the wicked, “There are no bands
in their death, but their strength is firm ; they
are not troubled as other men, neither aro
they plagued like other men.” i hese troub
les and distresses that you go through in
these waters, are no sign that God hath forsa
ken vou; but are sent to try you, whether
j you will call to mind that which you have
! heretofore received of his goodness, and live
upon him in your distresses.
Then I saw in my dream, that Christian
was in a muse awhile. To whom also llojic
ful added these words, Be of good cheer, Je
sus Christ rnaketh thee whole. And with
that Christian brake out with a loud, voice, Oh,
I see him again; and he tells me, “When
thou passest through the waters, 1 will he
with thee; and through the livers, they shall
not overflow thee.” Then they both took
courage, and the enemy was after that as
still as a stone, until they were gone over.—
Christian, therefore, presently found ground
to stand upon, and so it followed that the rest,
of the river was but shallow. Thus they got
over.
Now, upon the bank of the liver, on the
other side, they saw the two shining men
again, who there waited for them. Where
fore being come out of the river, they saluted
them, saying, We are ministering spirits, sent
forth to minister for those who shall be heirs
of salvation. Thus they went along towards
the gate.
Now you must note, that the city stood up
on a mighty hill; but the pilgrims went up
that hill with ease, because they bad these
two men to lead them up by the arms; they
had likewise left their mortal garments behind
them it) the river; for though they went hi
with them, they came out without them.—
They therefore went up here with much anil
ity and speed, though the foundation upon
which the city was framed was higher than
the clouds; they therefore went up through
the region of the air, sweetly talking as they
went, being comforted because they safely
got over the river, and had such glorious
companions to attend them.
The talk that they had with the shining
ones was about the glory of tlie place; who
told them that the behuty and glory of it was
inexpressible. There, said they, is “Mount
Sion, the heavenly Jerusalem, the innumera
ble company of angels, and the spirits of just
men made perfect.” You are now going,
said they, to the paradise of God, wherein
you shall see the tree or life, and eat of the
never fading fruits thereof: and when you
come there you shall have white robes given
you, and j’our walk and talk shall be everv
day with the King, even all the days of eter
nity. There you shall not see again such
things as you saw when you were in the low
er region upon the earth; to wit, sorrow,
sickness, affliction and death; “For the for
mer things are passed away.” You are going
now to Abraham, to Isaac, and Jacob, and
to the prophets, men that God hath taken
away from the evil to come, and that are now
“resting upon their beds, each one walking
in his righteousness.” The men then asked,
What must we do in the holy place ? To
whom it was answered, You must there re
ceive the comfort of all your toil, and liavo
joy for all your sorrow ; you must reap what
you have sown, even the fruit of all your
prayers, and tears, and sufferings for tho
King by the way. In that place you must
wear crowns of gold, and enjoy the perpetu
al sight and vision of the Holy One; for
“there you shall see him as he is.’’ There
also you shall serve Him continually with
praise, with shouting and thanksgiving,
whom you desired to serve in the world,
though with much difficulty, because of the
infirmity of your flesh. There your eyes
shall be delighted with seeing, and your ears
for hearing tae pleasant voice of the Mighty i
One. There you shall enjoy your friends
again that are gone thither before you; and
there you .shall with joy receive even every
one that follows into the holy place after you.
There also you shall he clothed with glory
and majesty, and put into an equipage Jit to
ride out with the King of Glory. When ho |
shall come with sound of trumpet in the
clouds, as upon the wings of the wind, you
shall come with him; and when he shall sit
upon tlie throne of judgment, you shall sit
by him ; yea, and when he shall pass sentence
upon all the workers of iniquity, let theffi bo
angels or men, you also shall have a voice in
that judgment, because they were his and
your enemies. Also when he shall again re
turn to the city, you shall go too with
sound of trumpet and be ever with him.
Now, while they were thus drawing towards
the gate, behold a company of tiie heavenly
host came out to meet them: to whom it was
said by the other two shining ones, These aro
the men that have loved, our Lord when they
were in the world, and that have left all for.
his holy name ; and he hath sent us to <’etch
them, and we have brought them thus far on
their desired journey, that they may go in and
look their Redeemer in the face with joy.—
Then the heavenly host gave a shout, saying,
“Blessed are they that are called to the mar
riage-supper of the Lamb.” ddiere came out
tdso at this tj;qe to meet them several nf * u -
no. 2i.