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And he had been at Inverness;

And Peter, by the mountain rills,

His forehead wrinkled was and furr'd; A work one half of which was done

Had danced his round with Highland lasses; By thinking of his whens and hows ;

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And half by knitting of his brows
Beneath the glaring sun.

There was a hardness in his cheek,
There was a hardness in his eye,
As if the man had fix'd his face,
In many a solitary place,
Against the wind and open sky!

The narrative of Peter's losing his way has some faults of prolixity and excessive minuteness, but also abounds in picturesque touches. The scene where he finds the Ass is thus pourtrayed:

And so, where on the huge rough stones
The black and massy shadows lay,
And through the dark, and through the cold,
And through the yawning fissures old,
Did Peter boldly press his way.

Right through the quarry- and behold
A scene of soft and lovely hue!
Where blue, and grey, and tender green
Together made as sweet a scene,
As ever human eye did view.

Beneath the clear blue sky he saw
A little field of meadow ground;
But field or meadow name it not;
Call it of earth a small green plot,
With rocks encompass'd round.

The Swale flow'd under the grey rocks,
But he flow'd quiet and unseen ;—
You need a strong and stormy gale
To bring the noises of the Swale
To that green spot, so calm and green!

Now you'll suppose that Peter Bell
Felt small temptation here to tarry,
And so it was, but I must add,
His heart was not a little glad
When he was out of the old quarry.

And is there no one dwelling here,
No hermit with his beads and glass?
And does no little cottage look
Upon this soft and fertile nook?
Does no one live near this green grass?

Across that deep and quiet spot
Is Peter driving through the grass-
And now he is among the trees;
When, turning round his head, he sees
A solitary Ass.

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My honest friend, with such a platter, You should have been a little fatter,

But come, Sir, come with me!'

But first doth Peter deem it fit
To spy about him far and near;
There's not a single house in sight,
No woodman's hut, no cottage light-
Peter you need not fear!

There's nothing to be seen but woods
And rocks that spread a hoary gleam,
And this one beast that from the bed
Of the green meadow hangs his head
Over the silent stream.

There is a long description of Peter Bell's contest with the Ass, and his endeavours to make it come away with him, which many readers will consider as given at too great length, but which has pathos. The passage also derives interest from the fluctuations in the mind of the ruffian, between exasperated cruelty and the fear of being observed and detected, which is awakened by every echo. But one of the most striking passages is, where he observes the dead body. It exemplifies the terrible images which fancy may frame, in looking upon an obscure watery mirror, by an uncertain light.

Whereat, in resolute mood, once more
He stoops the Ass's neck to seize—
Foul purpose, quickly put to flight;
For in the pool a startling sight
Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees.

Is it the moon's distorted face?
The ghost-like image of a cloud?
Is it a gallows there pourtray'd?
Is Peter of himself afraid?
Is it a coffin, or a shroud ?

A grisly idol hewn in stone?
Or imp from witch's lap let fall?
Or a gay ring of shining fairies,
Such as pursue their brisk vagaries
In sylvan bower, or haunted hall?

Is it a fiend that to a stake

Of fire his desperate self is tethering?
Or stubborn spirit doom'd to yell
In solitary ward or cell,

Ten thousand miles from all his brethren ?

Is it a party in a parlour?

Cramm'd just as they on earth were cramm'd--
Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent and all damn'd!

A throbbing pulse the Gazer hath-
Puzzled he was, and now is daunted;
He looks, he cannot choose but look;
Like one intent upon a book-
A book that is enchanted.

Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell
He will be turned to iron soon,
Meet Statue for the court of Fear!
His hat is up-and every hair
Bristles and whitens in the moon!

After he has mounted the Ass, and is riding in search of the cottage of the deceased, various striking passages oc◄

cur.

But now the pair have reach'd a spot
Where, shelter'd by a rocky cove,
A little chapel stands alone,
With greenest ivy overgrown,
And tufted with an ivy grove.

Dying insensibly away

From human thoughts and purposes,
The building seems, wall, roof, and tower,
To bow to some transforming power,
And blend with the surrounding trees.

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Deep sighing as he pass'd along,
Quoth Peter, In the shire of Fife,
'Mid such a ruin, following still
From land to land a lawless will,
I married my sixth wife!"

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on,
And now is passing by an inn
Brim-full of a carousing crew,
Making, with curses not a few,
An uproar and a drunken din.

I cannot well express the thoughts
Which Peter in those noises found
A stifling power compressed his frame,
As if confusing darkness came
Over that dull and dreary sound.

For well did Peter know the sound;
The language of those drunken joys
To him, a jovial soul I ween,
But a few hours ago had been
A gladsome and a welcome noise.

Now, turn'd adrift into the past,
He finds no solace in his course ;-
Like planet-stricken men of yore
He trembles, smitten to the core
By strong compunction and remorse.

And further on there is the following singular versification of methodistical eloquence :

A voice to Peter's ears ascends,
Resounding from the woody glade :

Though clamorous as a hunter's horn
Re-echoed from a naked rock,
"Tis from that tabernacle-List!
Within, a fervent Methodist
Is preaching to no heedless flock.

Repent! repent !' he cries aloud, While yet ye may find mercy ;-strive To love the Lord with all your might; Turn to him, seek him day and night, And save your souls alive!

Repent! repent! though ye have gone
Through paths of wickedness and woe
After the Babylonian harlot,
And though your sins be red as scarlet
They shall be white as snow!'

After the house is found, and the widow has been made acquainted with her loss, the poem proceeds:

And now is Peter taught to feel
That man's heart is a holy thing;
And Nature, through a world of death,
Breathes into him a second breath,
More searching than the breath of spring.

Upon a stone the Woman sits
In agony of silent grief-

From his own thoughts did Peter start;
He longs to press her to his heart,
From love that cannot find relief.

But rous'd, as if through every limb
Had pass'd a sudden shock of dread,
The Mother o'er the threshold flies,
And up the cottage stairs she hies,
And to the pillow gives her burning head.

And Peter turns his steps aside
Into a shade of darksome trees,
Where he sits down, he knows not how,
With his hands press'd against his brow,
And resting on his tremulous knees.

There, self-involv'd, does Peter sit
Until no sign of life he makes,
As if his mind were sinking deep
Through years that have been long asleep!
The trance is past away-he wakes,—

He turns his head-and sees the Ass
Yet standing in the clear moonshine,
"When shall I be as good as thou?
Oh! would, poor beast, that I had now
A heart but half as good as thine!'
His father through the lonesome woods,
-But He-who deviously hath sought
Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear
Of night, his inward grief and fear-
He comes escaped from fields and floods;-
With weary pace is drawing nigh-
He sees the Ass-and nothing living
Had ever such a fit of joy
As had this little orphan Boy,
For he has no misgiving!

Towards the gentle Ass he springs,
And up about his neck he climbs;
In loving words he talks to him,
He kisses, kisses face and limb,-
He kisses him a thousand times!

This Peter sees, while in the shade
He stood beside the cottage door :
And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild,
Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child,
Oh! God, I can endure no more!'

A few more stanzas bring the tale to a conclusion. It will probably be considered as one of the best which have been produced by this author, and has every chance of circulating more extensively than some of his other writings. It is as likely to attract popular attention as Coleridge's Christabelle, for instance, which had a considerable success.

ON THE STATE OF RELIGION IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND.

ONE of the favourite arguments against Christian missions to any foreign country is, that religion is in a deplorable state throughout many parts of our own, and that every thing should be done to restore or promulgate its great truths at home, before we are at liberty to do any thing to disseminate them abroad. This argument, however, though plausible, is unsound-and has, we observe, been generally used by men who seem to think that different countries require different religions and that Christianity is not for all the nations of the earth. If once admitted, it would put an end to all missions-for that time is never likely to arrive, when any Christian people shall be, through all their ranks, enlightened by the spirit of the religion which they profess-and when no work shall remain to be done among

them by the ministers of that religion. If we must not turn our eyes to the darkness and misery of the heathen world, nor strive to dispel or relieve them, so long as a cloud hangs over any portion of the Christian world— then must we be forced to confess, that melancholy indeed are the destinies of man,-and that the religion which is from heaven must be confined within narrow limits upon earth.

It is surely a better and a nobler faith to hold, that man should care for man over all the families of nations-that all these families have, in common, certain great and eternal interests; that the spreading of knowledge and of truth, is the spreading of happiness and of virtue; and that it is not a reproach only before men, but the sin of ingratitude to God, to bask as it were in the light of his fa

vour, without seeking to communicate a portion of the saving splendour to them sitting afar off within the very shadow of death.

Those who think otherwise, and who would fain degrade the divine character of charity, by confining her duties within the limits of a vulgar adage, shew a lamentable ignorance of human nature. For how various are the thoughts-the passions-the feelings-and the imaginations of men and what multitudinous lights and shadows do they throw over the world oflife! How soon does one mind begin to differ from another mind-one heart from another heart-and how unlike in the silent progress of years have those men become, of whom it might have once been said, that they had but one common youth. This endless diversity of character is produced by the Ilaws of our nature-and vain, therefore, would it be, for any man reasoning on human life and all its momentous concerns, to pretend to draw, as it were, a geographical map of our duties, or to number them all in regular order of succession, or to determine from what point zeal and enthusiasm should start on their beneficent career -or to allot to one and to all the course over which that career is to be run. Different minds pause with passionate earnestness on different passages in the great Book of Nature. Voices are heard by us, all calling upon us from opposite quarters of the earth-associations, which have been insensibly and unconsciously forming within our minds from infancy, come at last to be principles of action, and thus the world is filled with countless passions, all countlessly combined, and all moving onwards to their own aims and ends, as if before a strong and a steady current of wind which nothing can resist. Such being the actual condition of the human mind among all great nations, it is obvious, that it will and ought to exert its energies as it thinks fit-and that it will for ever continue to shoot out the rays of its intelligence towards an unapproached and unapproachable circumference. A thousand different grand schemes for the diffusion of knowledge and the amelioration of human nature will be planned and executed. The imagination of one class, or sect, or body of men, will be stirred by objects that may seem uninteresting or chimerical to VOL. V.

another. The great work of improvement will be simultaneously carried on by labourers who, while they are all working apart, are yet all working in one spirit, and when imperfect schemes shall have become more perfect, and the success that has crowned some given confidence in many-it will be seen how truth assists truth from the remotest quarters of the earth, and that her fires, when once lighted, quickly spread, and shall not easily be extinguished.

We live in an age of great discoveries. Above all, the veil has been lifted up that concealed from our view the features of many nations-and we have looked into the interior darkness of the condition of barbarous life. We seek to carry into those countries à knowledge of the arts of civility-and we do more, we seek to carry into them a knowledge of religion-of the capacities and the duties of that nature to which the poor natives belong, but of which they know almost as little as they do of their God. Is this a good or a bad sign of the times? admit that there is some ignorant zeal-some flighty enthusiasm—some narrow bigotry-and some sullen fanaticism among the missionaries of these days-admit that some have taken a yoke upon themselves which they had neither strength nor fortitude to bear-that some have gone into regions where there was little or no rational hope of doing good-and that some may have been wholly lost to themselves and the cause which they once seemed to serve; yet, may all this, and more than all this be admitted, and the undeniable glory left to this generation, that they have shewn a strong feeling of the slavish and miserable degradation of savage or barbarous life-and that they have done much to raise and enlighten it. We devoutly trust that this spirit will never die away-and that encouragement will be given to every association of good and zealous men seeking to spread religion over the earth. It is impossible, from the constitution of our natures, that we can all be of one mind respecting the best means of attaining this great end. Accordingly, the attempt will be made in many di rections-and it would surely argue either lukewarmness or folly, to object to a scheme merely because it was not the very best possible to suffer one

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nation to remain in darkness, because, in our opinion, another had a prior claim to the blessing-and thus, in fact, to shut up, by imaginary difficulties, obstacles, and objections, all the numerous avenues by which the benefits of Christianity might have access into the heart of the heathen world.

We have been led to make these remarks, on the present occasion, by having frequently heard very excellent persons ask, why we should send missionaries to Otaheite, when, for example, in many parts of the Highlands of Scotland, the people are ignorant as in Otaheite. The question has, we think, been already answered. But we beg leave also to add, that a very gross mistake is involved in such a question. In no part of a Christian country-and more especially in no part of Scotland, can the people, in their most ignorant state, be so ignorant of religion as heathen savages. Religion is among them and around them. Political, or other causes, may have produced a decay of knowledge of faith-or of religious observances-and there may be -as indeed there is-much to be done for the religious welfare of that simple and interesting race. But it is grossly unjust to assert, that the spiritual condition of the Highlanders has always been, or is now, utterly neglected; and it is delightful to think, that there is no very distant prospect of the removal of the chief causes that have hitherto necessarily kept a considerable part of the population in a state of comparative ignorance with that of the inhabitants of the Lowlands of Scotland. It needs but a slight acquaintance with the geography of that country, to see what formidable obstacles nature herself has opposed to the general communication of knowledge-long, deep, solitary glens,-wide and pathless moors,-inland lakes, in winter stormy as the sea-arms of that sea stretching far up into otherwise inaccessible wilds -immense mountain-tracts here and there thinly scattered with life-and the bleak, winding rocky shores of friths, and of the great ocean. How is a population, dispersed through such a country by the endless necessities it creates, to be reached, controlled, and vivified, by the spirit of religious instruction? In those dim and melancholy places, will not the minds and hearts of men, oppressed by poverty and ignorance, sink into callous

insensibility, or into degrading superstitions? will they not be a low race in the scale of being?

It must, we think, have surprised and pleased every one who has travelled, with a cautious and observant mind, through the solitudes of the Highlands, to find the moral and religious condition of the people far better than could have been expected from the circumstances of their life. For ourselves, we cannot agree with those many pious persons who describe, in such dark and mysterious language, the utter oblivion into which true Christianity is there said to have sunk. We desire something more definite than those lamentations, which indeed leave us equally ignorant of what the Highlanders want, and of what their friends would bestow upon them. It is certain, that no right opinion can be formed of this people, without frequent and intimate communication with them; and that nothing can be more weak than merely from a few hurried glances over the more general features of their condition, (some of which are, in good truth, melancholy enough,) to describe almost the whole population as ignorant of real religion, and all its awful concerns. We enter into a few miserable huts, through whose smoke we see a seemingly wild and savage family. We endeavour to converse with them. They scarcely know the language in which we speak

all our trains of thought are different from theirs our images are all drawn from other objects—there is scarcely a point at which our minds can come into contact. We see them half-clothed, shrivelled, poor, speechless, and a-gaze; and we pursue our journey in pity of their abject estate. But in doing so, it is possible that we may be the objects of pity far more than they. That family may not be what it seems to us. Limited as their range of thought must be, those rude dwellers have hearts that love their native soil with love that is a virtuein no spot on all the earth is there stronger filial, and conjugal, and parental affection-in times of penury and extreme want, and such times are not rare, in that very hut there is endurance even unto the death, without one upbraiding murmur-and the trust in immortality is strong there as the feeling of life itself. Let, therefore, the lachrymose lamentations of

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