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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.