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Terms, $2 Per Annum, in Advance. Second Year, No. 41-Whole No,, 91.
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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
SONG.
ill! wander with lue. dourest,
‘or still the seeue is fuirest,
Where passion glows in young devotion’s eye;
Fliere still the flowers are springing.
I'bere still the birds are singing,
With ever-glimpsing beauty through the sky :
loads cannot dim the splendor,
Phat crowns the scene so tender,
Where Faith, by Feeling won, no longer seeks
to fly:
For still, from Eden’s treasure,
i ‘nr Fate has pluck’d one pleasure —
The clearest that survives our race’s overthrow ;
And still, in Faith kept holy, ■
Though life and hope be lowly,
Young hearts may have their Eden yet below ;
Not wholly lost the glory,
That made Earth’s golden story,
If hearts, by Faith made strong, with love may
overflow. FLORIO.
UNION.
Imitated from the German of Novalis.
BY JACQUES JOURNOT.
No more each other spurning,
Soul unto soul is turning,
With deep and ceaseless yearning,
For lYace, and Love, and Home ;
And know we, by this token,
That no love link is broken ;
The promise has been spoken.
That all that buds shall bloom t
brother, without shrinking,
My hands with thine I'm linking.
Light from thine eyes I'm drinking.
Turn not their glance front me ;
Beneath one dome star-lighted.
My heart and thine love-plighted.
Are by one hope united:
One Heaven for me and thee.
-rr — - - ■ -~a
From the Southern Literary Messenger.
FANNIE OF CLARE.
A TALE OF OLD READING.
“ From tlie period of its consecration, we find
filename of Reading Abbey occurring frequent- i
ly in all the histories of the times. Parliaments
and councils were holdcn there ; legatees receiv
ed. traitors executed, king , queen? and princes I
Imri’ 1 in it? holy precincts.” —Mist Milford.
Nothing could have been more imposing :
limn the old Gothic abbey. Its immense
Urches, supported by massive columns,
Sf'cined destined to stand after the Church
Pad wasted beneath the Reformation : to
fiand, even though its stupendous fretted
J les echoed the responses of the Liturgy,
■> r the long prayers of ihe Puritan. It was
• grand structure. The most antique form
■>! architecture was represented in its low
•nil heavy doorway, where was carved a
•'inch of reeds converging and plaiting at
■he top. So also with its low, stained
■vindows; so low, in truth, that they al
ftmst touched the old graves downward. —
these old graves, too, had now become so
tumerous, that some had one side of their
esting-places walled with the stone which
ormed the basement of the abbey!
This, the righteous Henry had founded
learly forty years before the period of
jhich we are to tell, and had dedicated to
[*• Mary and St. John. And the pious
Mibot, who had the good fortune to be
intrusted with the execution of the charter
lamed for it by the King, took more delight
111 Performing no part thereof than that
*’hich provided “that, seeing the Abbot of
aadynge hath no revenues but what are in
iimimon with his brethren ; therefore, who
-IVcr i by devise, consent, and canonical
liection, shall be made Abbot, shall not
b'stow the alms of the monastery on his
a . v kindred, or any others, but reserve
” em for the entertainment of the poor and
1e Grangers.” So it will be judged that
bnie blessed the upright and kind monks
ln ‘l sisters of the monastery, more than the
)OHr and the strangers, for nowhere were
bey better attended or provided for.
h “'as a lovely spring evening, near the
middle of the twelfth century, as the sun
was sinking in the west, when the first
scene of our tale may be regarded as intro
duced, with the sounding of the deep
mouthed bell for vespers at the abbey. It
did not seem to be an ordinary occasion.—
It clearly was not, as the prayer for the
“peaceable arrangement and disposition of
all things, between his Highness, the King,
and all neighboring States, ’’ plainly indi
cated. An engagement between Henry 11.
and the Welch was momentarily antici
pated.
There was one, however, who glided
across the long dark aisle unperceived, and
now knelt on a cushion, far back to the
left ol the choir, and then buried her face,
bathed in tears, in her hands. Finally,
however, the Evening Hymn to the Virgin
swelled out from the choir, as holy incense
breathed by angels.
I.
“ Mother of God!
Whoso melancholy brows and drooping eye,
Tell of the thorny path thy feet have trod,
Oh, look upon us from thy throne on high.'’
Then the fair girl, with a face calm as it
was beautiful, arose from her kneeling pos
ture and joined with a sweet, clear voice
in the beautiful stanzas following :
11.
“ By that sweet name—
The holiest one our hearts have ever known —
Mother, sweet Mother! 10, thine aid we claim,
Mother, sweet Mother, still watch o’er thine
own.
111.
“ In the dark hour,
When deatho’ershadows withhismighty wing.
Oh, be thou near us with thy gentle power,
And to oursouis the balm of healing bring.”
The shadows of night were now falling
around the Convent: and closing her man
tle about her, she glided out by the wide,
dark vestibule, with the soft step of a fai
ry, and as unperceived as the parting echo
of the music. That girl was Cannie of
Clare, the beauty of Reading; and the re
collection that her gray-haired sire, Roger,
Earl of Clare, was now with his king, in
danger of immediate conflict with a despe
rate neighboring province, was what af
fected her so deeply in her devotions at the
abbey.
Many were there who had wooed the
lovely heiress; but the two prominent ri
vals for her hand, now, were Henry of Es
sex, and Robert of Montford. The latter
was the one esteemed most favored by the
Earl, who had the most unbounded in
fluence with his daughter. Henry of p,s
sex, however, was regarded as having
surely won the heart of Cannie. And,
perhaps, when she dropped a scalding tear
for her father, in the monastery, she breath
ed a prayer for her lover, for Henry and
Robert were both in the King’s troops,
showing their loyalty to their sovereign,
and endeavoting to obtain the applause of
Roger, the father of her whose hand they
sought.
The apprehensions of the pious orders
at Reading were by no means unfounded.
News quickly came that Henry had just
engaged with a powerful force in fierce
conflict, and had well-nigh been complete
ly overthrown. It was also reported that
in all his ranks, none had been bolder than
the sovereign himself, being ever found in
the thickest of the skirmish. Little was
known of Montford during the fight, save
that lie was seen most of the time near Ro
ger; of Essex, it was known that he
fought bravely at the right hand of his
King. The Welch were desperate, and
superior to their antagonists in numbers—
for, from the condition of the borders at
that time, few had families at home to
keep them from war, and they had now
come to like it as well.
All at once the nobles of the King’s ar
my grew pale, and seemed discouraged, as
it was whispered from one to another
amongst them, that Henry 11. had fallen !
A large portion immediately gave way and
took to flight; and even Henry of Essex,
who had yielded to none in boldness and
valor, seeing the scattered troops, dropped
the royal banner, (for he was standard
beater to the King,) and left the field, fully
confident of the King’s death, and of the
impossibility of maintaining, with such
impaired numbers, a successful contest.
Destruction now threatened them all.—
Just at that crisis, Roger, Earl of Clare,
leaped into the hottest midst, and unfurling
the royal banner, exclaimed that a rein
forcement was there, and the King at its
head ! This was all that saved the small
remnant of the army from an universal
butchery.
During the entire latter part of the en
gagement, Robert de Monlfort was not
seen. This, however, was not inquired
into or accounted for. So soon, however,
as he returned home, he sent a challenge
■ for single combat to Essex, “for having
j basely and treacherously dropped the roy-
al banner, and fled from the troops, prov
ing himself a coward, unworthy his High
ness’ command.” Henry, with great indig
nation and passion, repelled the charge,
and readily accepted the challenge; and a
day was appointed by the King himself
when the difference should be settled.
To Cannie this was a sad blow, confi
dent as she was of young Henry’s fidelity
and courage. She had just been joining
her sisters at the abbey in hymns and
thanksgiving for the safe restoration of
the King and his nobles;.and when she
heard of the royal mandate, that the two
rivals should hold single combat at but a
short distance from Reading,* her heart
sunt within her, for she was justly appre
hensive that Henry’s extreme youth could
not prevail against the superior experience
and skill of Robert de Montford. When
the day appointed for the rencontre arrived,
she excused herself from being one of the
host of spectators who would be present
on the exciting occasion, on the plea of in
disposition.
The combat was a most violent one.—
Montford, being the challenger, commenced
the attack with great vigor, and Essex for
some length of time was content to ward
off his thrusts. At length, angered by
some taunting word from Montford, Essex
rose upon his horse and returned the at
tack with fearful energy. It now became
a moment of the greatest excitement.—
Montford was pale, and his eyes glassy.
Essex burned with passion, and now ob
viously had the advantage of his competi
tor. Just at this instant, a word of encour
agement to Montford, escaped involuntari
ly the father of Cannie. At this, Henry’s
heart sank within him. He knew that
there was nothing now that he could ex
pect in life hut a disappointment of his
love ; and such a life he did not desire.—
The unhappy youth sprang above his sad
dle, and with one blow, almost severing
the left ai m of Montford, fell to the ground
bleeding from many wounds, and appa
rently lifeless. Montford at the same mo
ment leaped from his horse to take advan
tage of the youth’s fall; but the King
sternly rebuked it as “unworthy,” and
forbade further harm to him. He ordered
that the body, which every one believed
lifeless, should be buried with all military
pomp and honor in Reading Abbey. And
thither it was carried, attended by the chor
isters of the convent, chanting a Dona Re
quiem for the soul of the departed.
But one was not there, who was wont
to raise her sweet voice amongst them.—
Senseless, pale and death-like, Cannie lay,
at the first intelligence, amid the noise and
frighted confusion of the domestics. Some
feared that she would not recover: she
cared not—for the one she lived to love
was gone.
The body of Essex bad scarcely arrived
at the convent chapel, before signs of life
exhibited themselves. It was, however,
several days before he came to his senses.
He found himself lying on a clean cot in
a small room, and near him an old and
trembling friar was mumbling over his
beads before a small stone crucifix hewn
out in the wall. For a long time, Henry
spoke nothing : finally, however, he lifted
his hands feebly to his forehead, and ad
dressed the old man in a voice almost like
a whisper.
“ Father,” he said, endeavoring to call
his attention.
“Aye—in a moment.” And the old
man continued, without turning his eyes.
“ Father,” said Henry again, not having
heard or heeded his reply.
“In a moment—just one moment, I say,' 1
he said pettishly. At last, the old man
turned his small, smirking eyes full upon
him.
“Tell me, father, what has happened I”
Henry asked.
“ Yea, verily, what hath happened !”
“ You ought to know.” The old man
gave here a short, dry chuckle.
u ] yi
“ Yes, you,” said the old man, with ano
ther short, dry laugh, like the sound of a
dry leaf in autumn on frozen ground.
“ But 1 do not —tell me—why am l
here ?”
“These will tell you the whys and
wherefores better than I ” And with this,
the old man raised up the bloody raiment
of which Essex had been divested.
Henry groaned and turned over, as some
feint of the truth flashed upon him. Yet
he was too weak to note any thing, other
* “Tradition assigns as the place of this com
bat, a beautiful green island, nearly surrounded
with willows, in the midst of the Thames, to the
ea-t of Caversham bridge. A more beautiful
spot could not have been desired for sucb a com
bat. It was in sight of the Abbey, and of the re
markable chapel erected in the centre of the
bridge, of which the foundation still remains,sur
mounted by a modern house.”— Stowe.
than of his contest, and si turned again to
the old man, earnestly beseeching the re
cital of all that had happened. The old
man, after some persuasion, told him all :
how he had fought and fallen—embell sh
ed, however, as he wished.
“And Robert de Montford—what of
him ?” exclaimed Henry, when the old
man paused.
“ Montford—your victor I”
“ The same.”
“ Ha—Robert is now making merty as
the son-in-law of Roger and as his hir.
The old man here gave another dry
laugh. It very soon ceased, howver,
when he saw the ghastly hue which over
spread Henry’s countenance : and fesring
that he was about to die, the friar rose
very hastily, and was about to call the Ab
bott, and would have done so, but for
Henry.
“ Stop !” he cried hoarsely and quickly.
“ What?” said the old man timidly.
“Sit down and tell me more—tell me
all.”
The old man shook his head doubtfully;
but presently seemed to bethink himself,as
of something he had to do, and then sat
down close lo the bed, peering upon Hen
ry with a lack-lustre eye.
j “ And Cannie,” asked the half-detd
youth eagerly—“ what of her—what does
she think—and say ?”
“ Why, she has been persuaded of tie
truth of the charges made against you, and
has even rejoiced in your—”
The old man stopped quickly here, and
ran forth for assistance, for Henry had
swooned now, most surely.
It was a long time—many days and
weeks—ere the young man’s senses return
ed. When he recovered them, however,
he found in his room the Abbot and the
sisters of the Abbey, attending and minis
tering to him with great care. His illness
after this was very long; his life being, at
limes, almost despaired of. So soon, how
ever, as he recovered health, he signified
his intention of remaining in the monaste
ry, and finally obtained the garb of the
monastic order of the old Reading Abbey.
The Earl of Clare had suspected the
love of his daughter for Henry of Essex,
but had never had that suspicion so con
firmed as when the death of the young no
bleman was announced to her. He was
very much enraged, as are all other fa
thers, when their children show signs of
disloyalty ; and he immediately determin
ed, with an oath, that she should marry
Robert de Montford, and none other. And
accordingly, when he heard that Henry,
had revived on his atrival at the Abbey,
where he was taken from the field, he
gave command that she should not be un
deceived with regard to his death ; and
also employed the friar, who has been in
troduced above, to inform him that Cannie
had voluntarily and happily been wedded
to his rival, Robert de Mqptford.
*****
Henry of Essex had been a monk for
five years, and with much trouble he was
chastened and purified. He was even yet
young ; and his face bore a look of melan
choly sweetness. He had lived there, lov
ed by all as a good and pious man, and
now, at the death of the old Abbot, he had
been promoted to that position.
Shortly after this, he was sitting, one
evening, thinking of by-gone days and ear
ly sorrow; and anon dropping a tear when
he saw the form of the loved one, in fancy
—of her, whom he now believed the happy
wife of Montford. He was aroused from
a reverie into which he had fallen, by be
ing informed that one of the sisterhood was
very much indisposed—indeed, very near
death : and it was the duty of the Abbot
to visit such. He immediate arose, and
having prayed, went out to visit the sick
| one.
The sick person did not open her eyes,
i or take the coverlet from her face, when
’ Henry first entered ; and approaching gen
! tly, he knelt beside her bed : and for thq
fiist time for live years, Cannie of Clare
and Henry of Essex met!
“ Listen, father,” murmuied she feebly,
“I must confess while i have breath.”
The venerable Abbot inclined his ear,
and heard her confession; and in it he
heard the sad story of her life after he had
fallen. How she had been kept in igno
rance of his life; and after a long season
of annoyance, imprisonment, and harsh
; treatment, she had escaped only by secret
ly seeking an asylum there, where she had
been almost as long as he. With the
greatest emotion, he too told his story, and
in anguish prayed that the drooping flower
might not be so soon blasted, and that they
might yet be happy in each other’s love.
And it was so. Nothing under heaven
hut love could have warmed that flower
into life and beauty again. The cheek
I again recovered its color, the mouth again
its smile, and the deep blue eyes again
beamed with tenderness for Henry.
So soon as she was recovered entirely,
Henry left with her, for a remote portion
of the kingdom, where they lived in great
happiness. When Roger was grown old,
lie heard of their marriage, and wrote,
freely’ offering his forgiveness, and asking
them to return to bless his old age with
affection. It need not be added, that they
complied. And Henry long perpetuated
the honorable house of Clare, blessed with
the devotion of the beautiful Cannie.
PAUL DENTON:
OR,—
THE TEXAS CAMP-MEETING.
BY CHARLES SUMMEKFIELD.
During the last week of September, 1836,
the first successful Camp-Meeting was held
in Eastern Texas. I employ the epithet
“successful,” because several previous fail
ures had apparently rendered nil efforts of
alike kind perfectly hopeless. Indeed,the
meridian, at that period, was most uncon
genial to religious and moral enterprise.—
The country bordering on the Sabine, had
been occupied, rather than settled, by a
class of adventurers almost as wild as the
savages whom they had scarcely expelled,
and the beasts of prey which still disputed
their domain of primeval forests. Profes
sional gamblers, refugees from the jail, ab
sconded debtors, outlaws from every land,
forgers of false coin, thieves, robbers, mur
derers, interspersed among a race of uned
ucated hunters and herdsmen, made up the
strange social miscellany; without courts,
or prisons, or churches, or schools, or even
the shadow ot civil authority or subordina
tion—a sort of unprincipled pandemonium ,
where fierce passion sat enhtroned, wav
ing its bloody sceptre, the naked bowie
kr.ife ! Let no one accuse me of exagger-
I ation, for the sake of dramaticeffect; I am
! sp akingnowof Shelby county —that home
; of the Lynchers—the terrible locale , where
ten years later, forty persons were poison
ed to death a: a marriage supper !
It will be i jvious that, in such a com
munity, very few would be disposed to pa
tronize camp neetings ; and accordingly a
dozen differei ’ trials, at various times, had
never collect I a hundred hearers, on any
single occasi i. But even these were not
allowed to \t rship in peace; uniformly,
the first day or night, a band of armed des
peradoes, headed by the notorious Watt
Foeman, chief judge arid executioner of the
Shelby Lynchers, broke into the altar and
j scattered the mourners, or ascended the
pulpit and treated the preachers to a gra
tuitous robe of tar and feathers ! Hence,
all prudentevangelists soon learned to shun
the left hank of the Sabine, as if it had been
infested by a cohort of demons; and two
whole years elapsed without any new at
tempt to erect the cross in so perilous a
field.
At length, however, an advertisement ap
peared, promising another effort in behalf
of the Gospel. The notice was unique, a
perfect backwood’s curiosity, both as to its
tenor and mode of publication. Let me give
it verbatim et literatim :
“ Barbecue Camp-Meeting.
“There will be a Camp-meeting, to com
mence the last Monday of this month, at
i the Double Spring Grove, near Peter Brin
son’s in the county of Shelby.
“The exercises will open with a splen
did barbecue. Preparations are being made
to suit all tastes; there will be good bar
becue, better liquor, and the best of Gos
pel ! “ Paul Denton,
“Sept. 1, 1836. Missionary M. E. C.”
This singular document was nailed lo
the door of every public house and gro
cery ; it was attached to the largest trees at
the intersections of all cross-roads and prin
cipal trails; and even the wandering hun
ters themselves, found it in remote dells of
the mountain, miles away from the smoke
of a human habitation.
At first many regarded the matter as a
hoax played oil by some w icked wag, in
ridicule of popular credulity. But this hy
pothesis was negatived by the statements
of Peter Brinson, proprietor of the “Double
Spring Grove,” who informed all inquirers,
“ that he had been employed and paid, by
a stranger calling himself a Methodist mis
sionary, to provide an ample barbecue, at
the period and place advertised.”
“ But the liquor—the better liquor—are
you to furnish the liquor too ? ” was the in
variable question of each visitor.
“ The missionary said he would attend
to that himself,” replied Brinson.
“He must be a precious original,” was
the general rejoinder. A proposition which
most of them afterwards had an opportuni
ty to verify experimentally.
I need hardly add that an intense excite
ment resulted. The rumor took wings;
flew on the wind ; turned to storm —a storm
of exaggeration—every echo increased its
sound, till nothing else could be heard but
“the Barbecue Camp-Meeting it became
the focus of thought, the staple of dreams.
And thus the unknown preacher had in
sured one thing in advance, a congregation
embracing the entire population of the coun
try, which was, it is likely, the sole purpose
of his stratagem.
I was travelling in that part of Texas at
the time, and my imagination being in
flamed by the common curiosity, I took
some trouble and attended. But although
my eyes witnessed the extraordinary scene,
l may well despair of the undertaking to
paint it—the pen of Homer, or the pencil of
Hogarth, were alone adequate to the sub
limity and burlesque of the complicated
task. I may only sketch the angujar out
lines.
A space had been cleared away immedi
ately around the magnificent “ Double
Spring,” which boiled up with force suffi
cient to turn a mill-wheel, in the very cen
tre of the ever-green grove. Here a pulpit
had been raised, and before it was the in
separable altar for mourners. Beyond
these at the distance of fifty paces, a suc
cession of plank tables extended in the form
of a great circle, or the perimeter of a pol
ygon, completely enclosing the area about
the spring. An odoriferous steam, of most
delicious savor, diffused itself through the
air ; this was from the pits in the adjacent
prairie, where the fifty slaves of Peter Brin
son, were engaged in cooking the promised
barbecue.
The grove itself was literally alive, teem
ing, swarming, running over, with strange
figures in the human shape, men, women,
and children, in every variety of outlandish
costumes All Shelby county was there
The hunters had come, rifles in hand, and
dogs barking at their heels; the rogues, re
fugees, and gamblers, with pistols in their
belts, and big knives peeping from their
shirt-bosoms ; while here and there might
he seen a sprinkling of well dressed plan
ters, with their wives and daughters.
The tumult was deafening, a tornado of
babbling tongues, talking, shouting, quar
reling, betting, and cursing for amusement.
Suddenly a cry arose “Col. Watt Foeman !”
Hurrah for Col. Watt Foeman!” and the
crowd parted to the right and left, to let the
lion Lyncher pass.
I turned to the advancing load-star of all
eyes, and shuddered involuntarily at the
devilish countenance which met my glance;
and yet the features were not only youth
ful, hut eminently handsome : the hideous
ness lay in the look, full of savage fire—
ferocious, murderous. It was in the red
dish yellow eye-balls with arrowy pupils,
that seemed to flash jets of lurid flame: in
the thin sneeiing lips with their everlasting
icy smile. As to the rest, he was a tall,
athletic, very powerful man. His train,
a dozen armed desperadoes, followed him.
Foeman spoke in a voice, sharp, pierc
ing, as the point of a dagger: “Eh ! Brin
son, where is the new missionary ? We
want to give him a plumed coat!”
“ He has not yet arrived,” replied the
planter.
•“ Well, I suppose we must wait for him;
but put the barbecue on the boards ; 1 am
hungry as a starved wolf.”
“ I cannot till the missionary comes ; the
barbecue is his property.”
A fearful light blazed in Foeman’s eyes,
as he took three steps towards Brinson, and
fairly shouted, “Fetch the meat instantly,
or I’ll fill your own stomach with a dinner
of lead and steel!”
This was the ultimatum of one whose
authority was the only law, and the plan
ter obeyed without a murmur. The smo
king viands were arranged on the tables,
by a score of slaves, and the throng pre
pared to commence the sumptuous meab
when a voice pealed from the pulpit, loud
as the blast of a trumpet in battle, “Stay,
gentlemen and ladies, till the giver of the
barbecue asks God’s blessing !”
Every heart started, every eye was di
rected to the speaker; and a whisperless
silence ensued, for all alike were struck by
his remarkable appearance. He was al
most a giant in stature, though scarcely
twenty years of age : his hair, dark as the
raven’s wing, flowed down his immense
shoulders in masses of natural ringlets,
more beautiful than any ever wreathed a
round the jeweled brow of a queen by the
labored achievements of human art; his
eyes, black as midnight, beamed like stars
over a face pale as Parian marble, calm,
passionless, spiritual, and wearing a singu
lar, indefinable expression, such as might
have been shed by the light of a dream
from Paradise, or the luminous shadow of
an angel’s wing. The heterogenious crowd,
hunters, gamblers, homicides, gazed in mute
astonishment.
The missionary prayed ; but it sounded
like no other prayer ever addressed to the
throne of the Almighty. It contained no
encomiums on the splendor of the divine
attributes; no petitions in the tone of com
mands; no orisons for distant places, times,
or objects; and no implied instructions as
to the administration of the government of
the universe It related exclusively to the
present people and the present hour; it
was the cry of a naked soul, and that soul
a beggar for the bread and the water ot
heavenly life.
He ceased, and not till then did I become
conscious of weeping. I looked around
through my tears, and saw a hundred faces
wet as with ram !
“Now, my friends,” said the missionary,
“partake of God’s gifts at the table, and
then come sit down and listen to his Gos
pel.”
It would be impossible to describe the
sweet tone of kindness in which these sim
ple words were uttered, that made him on
the instant five hundred friends. One
heart, however, in the assembly, was mad
dened by the evidences of the preacher's
wonderful power. Col. Watt Foeman, ex
claimed in a sneering voice : “ Mr. Paul
Denton, your reverence has lied. You prr.
mised us not only good barbecue, but better
liquor. Where is the liquor ?”
“There!” answered the missionary, in
tones of thunder, and pointing his motion
less finger at the matchless Double Spring,
gushing up in two strong colums, with a
sound like a shout of joy from the bosom
of the earth. “There!” lie repeated with
a look terrible as lightning, while his ene
my actually trembled on his feet; “there
is the liquor, which God, the Eternal,brews
for all his children !
“ Not in the simmering still, over smoky
fires, choked with poisonous ami
surrounded with the stench of sickening
odors and rank corruption, doth your Fa
ther in heaven prepare the precious essence
l of life—the pure, cold water. But in the
green glade and grassy dell, where the red
deer wanders, and the child loves to play,
there God himself brewsit; and down, low
i down in the deepest valleys, where the foun
-1 tains murmur and the rills sing ; and high
up on the tall mountain tops where the na
ked granite glitters like gold in the sun,
where the storm-cloud broods, and thethun
der-tones crash ; and away far out on the
wide, wild sea, where the hurricane howls
music, and big waves roar the chorus,
‘sweeping the march of God’—there He
brews it, that beverage of life, health-giv
ing water. And every where it is a thing
of beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop; sing
ing in the summer rain ; shining inthe ice
gem, till the trees all seem turned to liv
ing jewels—spreading a golden veil over
the setting sun, ora whitegauzearound the
midnight moon; sporting in the cataract:
sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail
shower; folding its bright cnow-curtains
softly about the wintry world ; and weav
ing the many-colored iris,that seraph's zone
of the sky, whose harp is the rain-drop of
earth, whose roof is the sunbeam of heav
en, all checkered o’er with celestial flow
! ers, by the mystic hand of refraction. Still
always it is beautiful —that blessed life
water ! No poison bubbles oil its brink ;
its foam brings not madness and murder;
no blood stains its liquid glass; pale wid
ows and starving orphans weep not burn
ing tears in itsclear depth’s ; no drunkard’s
shrieking ghost from the grave, curses it in
words of eternal despair! Speak out, my
friends, would you exchange it for the de
mon’s drink, alcohol ?”
A shout like the roar of a tempest an
swered—“No!”
Critics need never tell me again that
I backwoodsmen are deaf to the divine voice
j of eloquence ; for I saw, at that moment,
the missionary held the hearts of the mul
titude, as it were, in the hollow of I.is hand;
and the popular feeling ran in a current so
irresistible, that even the duelist, Watt Foe
man, dared not venture another interruption
during the meeting.
1 have just reviewed my report of that
singular speech in the foregoing sketch;
but alas! I discover that l have utterly
failed to convey the full impression as my
reason and imagination received it. The
language, to be sure, is there—that I never
could forget —but it lacks the spirit; the
tones of unutterable pathos, the cadences
of mournful music, alternating with crash
es of terrible power; it lacks the gesticu
lation, now graceful as the play of a gold
en willow in the wind, and anon, violentas
i the motion of a mountain pine in the hur-
lacks that pale face, wrapped in
its dream of the spirit-land, and those un
fathomable eyes, flashing a light such as
never beamed from sun or stars; and more
than all, it lacks the magnetism of the
mighty soul that seemed to diffuse itself
among the hearers, as a viewless stream of