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Nor can I concur with him who said that · Half a word upon the spot is worth a whole cart-load of recollections. An epistolary journal grows not unlike old wine. As for oblivion, its cold shadow can never attain to Baden-Baden. Indeed, it is, after all, greatly to be wished that the ‘Fool's Paradise' were less rife with those matchless associations which make the American reminiscent, on his return home, wish to HEAVEN that the Atlantic were LETHE, so that he might have drowned his pertinacious mistress Mnemosyne, the Syren who will continue to sing sweetly and maliciously in his ear.

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JOB TIRST, 16 5 3.

With his household, quaint and simple, l 'FATHER, tell us of the Quakers,'
In his manly prime,

(Did the children say,) By the fire-light sat a QUAKER, 'How the cruel Pilgrim rulers In the winter time;

Drove the Friends away; Moved in feeling by the pealing Tell us how they whipped and killed Of the Christmas chime:

them Little looked he to the outward;

In that olden day,
Feasts and holy days,

When they hung poor MARY DTER — To his inward faith and worship,

Cruel men were they.'
Were as worldly ways;
But he scoffed not at the symbols

Of the people's praise.

FEARFUL was the inward conflict
Little loved he art or music,

Ere he made reply,
And his fire-light falls,

For his nature, brave and martial,
In fantastic shape and semblance,

Broke so bold and high
O'er ungarnished walls:

Into flame along his forehead,
But he loved the blessed teaching

Lightning from his eye,
Which the chime recalls.

As the martyrs of his people
All so still he sate, and solemn,

Passed in spirit by,
While his own high thought, Looked he like a warrior waiting
Throned upon his ample forehead,

For the battle-cry.
Such a stillness wrought,

So the fiery indignation
That the mystic spell of SILENCE

Through his pulses ran,
All around him caught.

For a moinent, ere the Christian
Sweetly looked they in that circle,

Triumphed o'er the Man;
Wife and children three;

And his tones were deep and thrilling Two brave boys beside the mother

As the tale began:
Hushed their boyish glee;
And a fair young girl was kneeling
At her father's knee.

Sate the Puritanic rulers,

In a stately row,
ENDICOTT, with scowl and scorning

On his lip and brow,
OUTWARD, with its sweet evangel While a herd of vulgar bigots
On the ear of TIME,

Thronged the court below; Upward far, to meet the star-light, | Then came MICHELSON the Marshal, - Swept the sounding chime,

Filled with savage ire, As the centuries shall hear it

Through the motley crowd of gazers,
Ever more, sublime.

Thrusting Mary DYER,
From the ages dim and distant, With her quiet, grave demeanor,
Through the pealing bell,

In her quaint attire;
Rolled anew the inspirations

As the people pressed asunder
From His lips that fell,

Round her foot-steps close,
On the ancient Mount of Olives, From the bar she gazed serenely
By Samaria's well,

O'er a host of foes; While the echo star-ward dying, Then, the clerk commanding silence, Seemed each martyr's knell.


In their light the mists and shadows

From the future roll.

Lol I see a power arising 'ARE you that same Mary DYER,

Ye shall not control;
With blasphemous breath,

E'en the LORD of Hosts, in mercy, Whom our erring mercy saving

Seeking all your land;
From the gulf beneath,

Judge and ruler, priest and people, Banished from the jurisdiction

In His presence stand;
Under pain of death ?'

And your boasted power He holdeth

In His mighty hand. Calm and steadfast then she answered:

Cease your cruel persecutions "Truly I am she,

Ere these days expire, Whom your General Court appointed

| And He cometh in His judgments To the gallows-tree,

With consuming fire,
Where ye sent our faithful martyrs

As of old He came to Edom,
When ye banished me.
Lo! I come again to bid ye

To Sidon and to Tyre,
Set God's servants free!'

And ye reap a bloody harvest,

Reap as ye have sown, * By the council that condemned you

And the lofty spires ye builded
You were fairly tried ;

Reel and thunder down,
And we reaffirm the sentence,'

And the wo of desolation
ENDICOTT replied:

Fills your ruined town;
In the prison until morning

In deserted habitations
Safely you abide;

Only Death may dwell,
Then, be hanged upon the gallows

When God leaveth no one living

Of His wrath to tell. Where your brethren died. • Look not for a second respite —

Cease, oh! cease your persecutions Hope for aid from none;

All may yet be well.'
Fixed the awful fate that waits you

So she ended. Awe and silence
With to-morrow's sun.'

O'er the council fell.
* Then,' replied she, slow and solemn,
'Let God's will be done ;

'And did God,' asked little Mary, To the power that kills the body

'All the town destroy?' He hath bid us yield; Weapons of a carnal warfare

"Wait and hear the story ended,' Are not ours to wield;

Said the elder boy: He will clothe us in His armor - 'If they ceased their persecutions, Guard us with His shield.'

GOD would not destroy.'



THEN she seemed to rise in stature,

| MORNING O'er the Pilgrim city
And her look was high;

Breaking still and sweet, And there was a light of glory

Heard the deep and mingled murmur Beaming from her eye,

Of the hurrying feet,
As she were by angel-presence

And the voices of the people
Touched to prophesy.

Thronging to the street;
Startled by the transformation

From afar the heavy rolling
Sate the rulers proud;

Of the muffled drum,
Wondering at her awful beauty

With the measured tread of soldiers Gazed the vulgar crowd;

And the general hum, While her words went through the still- Warned the captive in the prison

That the hour had come.
Ringing clear and loud.

All her simple garb arranging

With a decent care,

Knelt she in a holy silence,

Lost in secret prayer,
Now I feel prophetic visions

While her radiant face attested
Filling all my soul:

God was with her there.

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At the Marshal's brutal summons Seemed she in transfiguration;
Came she, firm and meek,

Such a light was shed,
Saying: 'All this show to escort Like a halo from her spirit
One so poor and weak?'.

Round about her head,
But they beat the drums the louder That o'er all the ghastly gibbet
When they heard her speak.

The effulgence spread.

ARMS were clashing, eyes were flashing,
In that thick array,

Then one WEBB, the burly captain,
As the Puritan exulting

Rising, roughly said:
Rode along the way;

Mary, be your blood upon you;
For he led the hated Quaker

Falsely you are led;
To her death that day.

By the Law, which you have broken,
Were they men, brave men, and noble, Not by us, 't is shed.'
Chivalrous and high,

And he gave the fearful signal,
Marshalled thus against a WOMAN,

While she meekly bowed;
And no champion by ?

Fell the fatal drop beneath her;
Were they husbands, sons, and fathers, Women shrieked aloud,

And their households nigh, And a cold and dismal shudder
When they led a WIFE and MOTHER

Ran through all the crowd.
For her faith to die?

On the scaffold MARY DYER

For the people stood awe-stricken
Standeth silent now,

When the deed was done;
With the martyr's crown of glory Some who seemed to feel a shadow
Kindling round her brow:

Stealing o'er the sun, And her meek face bent in pity

Feared the dreaded day of vengeance
On the crowd below:

Had that hour begun;
Then Priest Wilson, full of scorning, some believed they saw the spirit
Cried: 'Repent! repent!'

With their outward eyes,
But she answered: 'I have sought you, In its shining shape and semblance
By our FATHER sent;

Glorified, arise,
Sought you, cruel persecutors,

With a slow majestic motion
That you might repent.'

Floating to the skies;
Will you leave us, leave us ever,

Ever upward, upward ever,

Star-like, out of view,
Vex us never more,

Smiling as it joined the angels,
If your vagrant life we give you,

Smiling still, adieu ;
As we gave before:

And all these believed the martyr's To your distant home and kindred

Faith and Word were true.
Once again restore?'

Moved the mighty deep within her Nor in vain had MARY DYER
For a little space,

Lived and prophesied,
And a surge of human feeling

For the noble Pilgrim people
Broke across her face;

Curbed their ruler's pride.
Then out-shone the greater glory Though the scorned and hated Quakers
Of the heavenly grace,

Grew and multiplied,
As all loves of earth descended

For their faith one other martyr
To their lower place,

Was the last who died. *

* The incidents of the poem are purely historical ; the actors, their names and titles, are all real; and times and places are according to the annals.

Mary Dyer was a respectable woman, the wife of a reputable inhabitant of Rhode-Island, and the mother of several children. Believing it to be her duty to accompany two friends to Boston, to induce the authorities to repeal the sanguinary laws against Quakers and other dissenters, they went there in September, 1659. The three were arrested 'for being Quakers,'tried as heretics, and banished under pain of death, being allowed two days to depart. Found subse




It was a dismal, rainy day when we dropped our anchor near Iona. Wet and weary, I first set foot on the sands of this famous island. The Christian pilgrim, wandering over the plains of ancient Judea, standing for the first time in the streets of the modern Jerusalem, can hardly realize that he is upon the spot which has been rendered memorable by the life and the death of the Son of God. Disappointment may come at first; but as he reflects, amid the sacred places which our Saviour frequented while on earth, imagination more easily cements the present with the past history of our race and the world, and then kindles up, as the thought steals on, that the hoary hills which stand around the sacred city have been witnesses of events which not only connect the present with the past, but which link all the present and all the past with the great, unbounded, and never-ending future. The traveller, also, who feels sympathy with the advance of Christian learning, truth, and civilization, can hardly fail to have his sensibilities awakened as he visits cities and islands which were frequented by the early followers of the Cross. Iona is a sacred spot. As we approached it, there was some feeling of disappointment. True, in my own experience, were the lines of Wordsworth:

How sad a welcome! to each voyager
Some ragged child holds up for sale, a store
Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore
Where once came monk and nun, with gentle stir,
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer.'

quently within the jurisdiction, they were again arrested and sentenced to death. The two men were executed on the afternoon of October twenty-seventh, and their dead bodies subjected to the most revolting indignities : denied burial, or coffins, or clothing, they were thrown naked into a pit, which happening to fill with water, alone protected them from beasts of prey.

MARY Dyer was reprieved under the gallows at the intercession of her son, and sent home; but returning in April following, she was again arrested, the sentence confirmed, and she led to execution on the morning of June first, 1660.

The distance to the gallows was one mile; and the drums were ordered to beat whenever she attempted to speak on her way thither. On the scaffold her life was again offered her, if she would for ever depart the jurisdiction ; but she could not accept such conditions.

Her meekness, Christian endurance, and death, aroused great sympathy in the colonies, as well as in England, and she was the last but one of the Quakers put to death in America, for the royal mandamus of CHARLES II., requiring their liberation from prison and exemption from persecution, was signed by the King, September ninth, 1660, and proclaimed in New England about two months after ; whereupon the Quakers held a general thanksgiving in Boston.

History has few examples of greater suffering, or of higher heroism, than were endured and exhibited by the early Quakers in various parts of the world; and the author of MARLY DYER proposes to commemorate the great events of Quaker history in a series of similar lyrics, comprising about ten in number, to appear from time to time in the KNICKERBOCKER, if they shall prove acceptable to its readers.

The second 'Lay' will have for its subject the visit of MARY FISHER (a Quaker lady of beauty and culture, who had been scourged and imprisoned repeatedly in New England) to Sultan MAHOMET IV., at Adrianople, fifty years before Madame MONTAGUE's journey there, and which, taken all in all, is an act of the purest heroism in human annals.

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