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At present we shall content ourselves with quoting a few passages from Mr Bowles' last poem, the Missionary-not that we think it, with all its manifold beauties, by any means his best, but because we suspect that it is the least known of all his productions.

We give the author's words in his preface, in order to explain the groundwork of the subject.

"The circumstance on which this poem is founded, that a Spanish commander, with his army, in South America, was destroyed by the Indians, in consequence of the treach ery of his page, who was a native, and that only a priest was saved, is taken from history."

The poem opens with the following

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In other days, when, in his manly pride,
Two children for a father's fondness vied,-
Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife, to wield
His lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield.

Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade,
Lightsome of heart as gay of look, they play'd,
Brother and sister: She, along the dew,
Blithe as the squirrel of the forest flew;
Blue rushes wreath'd her head; her dark brown hair
Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare;
Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made,
That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade;
Light was her form; a clasp of silver brac'd
The azure-dyed ichella round her waist;
Her ankles rung with shells, as, unconfin'd,
She danc'd, and sung wild carols to the wind.
With snow-white teeth, and laughter in her eye,—
So beautiful in youth, she bounded by.

Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland;

fine description of the scenery of South The tame Alpaca stood and lick'd her hand;

America:

Beneath aerial cliffs, and glittering snows,
The rush-roof of an aged Warrior rose,
Chief of the mountain tribes: high, overhead,
The Andes, wild and 'desolate, were spread,
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,

And Chillan trail'd its smoke and smould'ring fires.
A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest-
Hung, scarce discover'd, like an eagle's nest.
Summer was in its prime;-the parrot-flocks
Darken'd the passing sunshine on the rocks;
The chrysomel and purple butterfly,

Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs,
With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flow'rs,
The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,
The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still.
And look! the cataract that bursts so high,
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,
And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;
Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling dews,
Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.

Check'ring, with partial shade, the beams of noon,
And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,
Here, its gay net-work, and fantastic twine,
The purple cogul threads from pine to pine,
And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe,
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.
There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens
white,

The sunshine darts its interrupted light,
And, 'mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes,
With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes.

So smiles the scene;-but can its smiles impart
Aught to console yon mourning Warrior's heart?
He heeds not now, when beautifully bright,
The humming-bird is circling in his sight;
Nor e'en, above his head, when air is still,
Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill;
But gazing on the rocks and mountains wild,
Rock after rock, in glittering masses pil'd
To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high

She brought him gather'd moss, and lov'd to deck
With flow'ry twine his tall and stately neck,
Whilst he with silent gratitude replies,
And bends to her caress his large blue eyes.

These children danc'd together in the shade,
Or stretch'd their hands to see the rainbow fade;
Or sat and mock'd, with imitative glee,
The paroquet, that laugh'd from tree to tree;
Or through the forest's wildest solitude,
From glen to glen, the marmozet pursued;
And thought the light of parting day too short,
That call'd them, ling'ring, from their daily sport.
In that fair season of awak'ning life,
When dawning youth and childhood are at strife;
When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands
Tiptoe, with glist'ning eye and outspread hands;
With airy look, and form and footsteps light,
And glossy locks, and features berry-bright,
And eye like the young eaglet's, to the ray
Of noon, unblenching, as he sails away;
A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung,
A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung,,
With slender lance, and feathers, blue and red,
That, like the heron's crest, wav'd on his head,→→
Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy,
Lautaro was the loveliest Indian boy:
Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow,
Or track'd the jagguar on the morning snow;
Startled the Condor on the craggy height;
Then silent sat, and mark'd its upward flight,
Lessening in ether to a speck of white.

But when th' impassion'd Chieftain spoke of war,
Smote his broad breast, or pointed to a scar,-
Spoke of the strangers of the distant main,
And the proud banners of insulting Spain,-
Of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke,
And his red Gods, that wrapt in rolling smoke,-
Roar'd from the guns the Boy, with still-drawn
breath,

Hung on the wond'rous tale, as mute as death;
Then rais'd his animated eyes, and cried,
"Olet me perish by my father's side!"

5

The Warrior blesses his young son, and the family retire to repose, when

Gray smoke whose column stains the cloudless sky, their slumbers are suddenly broken by

He cries, "Oh! if thy spirit yet be fled

To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead,-
In yonder tract of purest light above,
Dear long-lost object of a father's love,
Dost thou abide? or like a shadow come,
Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home,
And passing with the breeze? or, in the beam
Of evening, light the desert mountain stream?
Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard,
In the sad notes of that melodious bird,
Which, as we listen with mysterious dread,
Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead?
"Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away,
Thine eyes yet view the living light of day;
Sad, in the stranger's land, thou may'st sustain
A weary life of servitude and pain,
With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam,
And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream,

the attack of a fierce band of Spaniards, who, notwithstanding the des perate resistance of the distracted father, bear off, as their prize, his young son Lautaro.

Sev'n snows had fall'n, and sev'n green summers pass'd,

Since here he heard that son's lov'd accents last.
Still his beloved daughter sooth'd his cares,
While time began to strew with white his hairs.
Oft as his painted feathers he unbound,
Or gaz'd upon his hatchet on the ground,
Musing with deep despair, nor strove to speak,
Light she approach'd, and climb'd to reach his cheek,

Held with both hands his forehead, then her head
Drew smiling back, and kiss'd the tear he shed.
But late, to grief and hopeless love a prey,
She left his side, and wander'd far away.
Now in this still and shelter'd glen that smil'd
Beneath the crags of precipices wild,
Wrapt in a stern yet sorrowful repose,
The Warrior half forgot his country's woes,--
Forgot how many, impotent to save,
Shed their best blood upon a father's grave;
How many, torn from wife and children, pine
In the dark caverns of the hopeless mine,
Never to see again the blessed morn-

Slaves in the lovely land where they were born;
How many, at sad sun-set, with a tear,
The distant roar of sullen cannons hear,
Whilst evening seems, as dies the sound, to throw
A deadlier stillness on a nation's woe!

The Chief is interrupted in his melancholy musing by the call of his countrymen to arms, and their applying to him as their leader. His address to the sun is, we think, very poetical, and the concluding lines are characterized by Mr Bowles' usual pathos.

The Mountain-chief essay'd his club to wield, And shook the dust indignant from the shield. Then spoke:

"O Thou! that with thy ling'ring light Dost warm the world, till all is hush'd in night; I look upon thy parting beams, O Sun!

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And say, Ev'n thus my course is almost run.'
"When thou dost hide thy head, as in the grave,
And sink to glorious rest beneath the wave,
Dost thou, majestic in repose, retire,
Below the deep, to unknown worlds of fire?
Yet, tho' thou sinkest, awful, in the main,
The shadowy moon comes forth, and all the train
Of stars, that shine with soft and silent light,
Making so beautiful the brow of night.
Thus, when I sleep within the narrow bed,
The light of after-fame around shall spread;
The sons of distant Ocean, when they see
The grass-green heap beneath the mountain tree,
And hear the leafy boughs at evening wave,
Shall pause and say, There sleep in dust the brave!'
"All earthly hopes my lonely heart have fled!
Stern Guecubu, angel of the dead,

Who laughest when the brave in pangs expire,
Whose dwelling is beneath the central fire"

Of yonder burning mountain; who hast pass'd
O'er my poor dwelling, and with one fell blast
Scatter'd my summer-leaves that cluster'd round,
And swept my fairest blossoms to the ground;
Angel of dire despair, O come not nigh,
Nor wave thy red wings o'er me where I lie;
But thou, O mild and gentle spirit, stand,
Angel of hope and peace, at my right hand,
(When blood-drops stagnate on my brow) and guide
My pathless voyage o'er the unknown tide,
To scenes of endless joy-to that fair isle,
Where bow'rs of bliss, and soft savannahs smile;
Where my forefathers oft the fight renew,
And Spain's black visionary steeds pursue;
Where, ceas'd the struggles of all human pain,
I may behold thee-thee-my son, again.”

The next image presented is the repose of the Spanish general's army, and the reflections that employed him even in sleep, contrasted with the sad feelings of his page, Lautaro.

On the broad ocean, where the moonlight slept, Thoughtful he turn'd his waking eyes, and wept, And whilst the thronging forms of mem'ry start, Thus holds communion with his lonely heart:

Land of my Fathers, still I tread your shore, And mourn the shade of hours that are no more; Whilst night-airs, like remember'd voices, sweep, And murmur from the undulating deep. Was it thy voice, my Father?-thou art deadThe green rush waves on thy forsaken bed. Was it thy voice, my Sister-gentle maid, Thou too, perhaps, in the dark cave art laid; Perhaps, ev'n now, thy spirit sees me stand A homeless stranger in my native land;

Perhaps, ev'n now, along the moonlight sea,
It bends from the blue cloud, rememb'ring me.
"Land of my Fathers, yet-O yet forgive,
That with thy deadly enemies I live.
The tenderest ties (it boots not to relate)
Have bound me to their service and their fate;
Yet whether on Peru's war-wasted plain,
Or visiting these sacred shores again,
Whate'er the struggles of this heart may be,
Land of my Fathers, it shall beat for thee!"

The supposed appearance of the Genius of the Andes, which opens the second canto, is extremely well-conceived, and the imagery which dismisses the Spirit possesses great beauty. The military preparations of Valdivia are described in the same style of grandeur-in particular the warhorse and dress of the general and his page Lautaro.

The sun ascended to meridian height,
And all the northern bastions shone in light;
With hoarse acclaim the gong and trumpet rung,-
The Moorish slaves aloft their cymbals swung,-
When the proud victor, in triumphant state,
Rode forth, in arms, through the port-cullis gate.
With neck high-arching, as he smote the ground,—
And restless pawing to the trumpets' sound,-.
With mantling mane, o'er his broad shoulders
spread,-

And nostrils blowing, and dilated red,-
The coal-black steed, in rich caparison
Far-trailing to the ground, went proudly on:
Proudly he tramp'd, as conscious of his charge,
And turn'd around his eye-balls, bright and large,
And shook the frothy boss, as in disdain;
And toss'd the flakes, indignant, of his mane;
And, with high-swelling veins, exulting press'd
Proudly against the barb his heaving breast.

The fate of empires glowing in his thought,-
Thus arm'd, the tented field Valdivia sought.
On the left side his poised shield he bore,
With quaint devices richly blazon'd o'er;
Above the plumes, upon his helmet's cone,
Castile's imperial crest illustrious shone;
Blue in the wind th' escutcheon'd mantle flow'd
O'er the chain'd mail, which tinkled as he rode.
The barred vizor rais'd, you might discern
His clime-chang'd countenance, tho' pale, yet stern,
And resolute as death,-whilst, in his eye
Sat proud Assurance, Fame, and Victory.

Lautaro, now in manhood's rising pride, Rode, with a lance, attendant, at his side, In Spanish mantle gracefully array'd: Upon his brow a tuft of feathers play'd: His glossy locks, with dark and mantling grace, Shaded the noon-day sun-beams on his face. Though pass'd in tears the day-spring of his youth, Valdivia lov'd his gratitude and truth: He, in Valdivia, own'd a nobler friend; Kind to protect, and mighty to defend. So, on he rode: upon his youthful mien A mild but sad intelligence was seen: Courage was on his open brow, yet Care Seem'd like a wand'ring shade, to linger there; And though his eye shone, as the eagle's, bright, It beain'd with humid, melancholy light.

In the exultation of the hour, Valdivia addresses the attendant youth, asking if he thought it possible that the Indians could withstand such an army as was now before them. The following is the answer of Lautaro:

"Forgive!"-the Youth replied, and check'd a tear,"The land where my forefathers sleep, is dear!My native land!-this spot of blessed earth, The scene where I, and all I love, had birth!— What gratitude fidelity can give,

Is yours, my Lord !-you shielded-bade me live,
When, in the eircuit of the world so wide,

I had but one, one only friend beside.
I bow'd-resign'd to Fate; I kiss'd the hand,
Red with the best blood of my Father's land?

But mighty as thou art, Valdivia, know,
Though Cortez' desolating march laid low
The shrines of rich, voluptuous Mexico,-
With carcasses, though proud Pizarro strew
The Sun's imperial temple at Peru,-
Yet the rude dwellers of this land are brave,
And the last spot they lose will be their grave!"

Then first, when Valdivia turns away in anger, and Lautaro retires from the scene, we are introduced to the Missionary. The scenery, in the midst of which stands his oratory, again gives occasion for the exercise of that power of description, which Mr Bowles possesses in a degree equal to the best poets of his country. We give a part which impressed us with the most lively pleasure.

Just heard to trickle through a covert near,
And soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear,
A fount, like rain-drops, filter'd thro' the stone,-
And, bright as amber, on the shallows shone.
Intent his fairy pastime to pursue,

And, gem-like, hovering o'er the violets blue,
The humming-bird, here, its unceasing song
Heedlessly murmur'd all the summer long,
And when the winter came, retir'd to rest,
And from the myrtles hung its trembling nest.
No sounds of a conflicting world were near;
The noise of ocean faintly met the ear,
That scem'd, as sunk to rest the noon-tide blast,
But dying sounds of passions that were past;
Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire
The lessening echoes of the distant choir.

The meek and holy character of Anselmo is amply expressed in the lines

There was no worldly feeling in his eye,The world to him" was as a thing gone by." The lessons of piety and resignation by which he instructs his young convert Lautaro, and the relation of the tale of his misfortunes, are given with that sweetness and simplicity which the character demands, and which indeed pervade the whole poem.

The adopted daughter of the Missionary has become the wife of Lautaro, which is the tie that binds him to the Spaniards. Another personage is now introduced, and one, the novelty of which is extremely pleasingnot that we mean to say that an inconstant lover is by any means new, but the mixture of gayety and melancholy of warmth of heart, and instability of principle, forms the charm which envelopes Zarinel the minstrel. He comes to Anselmo to relieve his conscience by a confession of his cruelty to an Indian maid," who trustThis, ed, and was by him deserted. it will be readily conjectured, was the daughter of Atacapac, and sister of Lautaro, who found him in distress, pitied and led him to her father's hut. "The father spoke not:-by the pine-wood blaze, The daughter stood-and turn'd a cake of maize. And then, as sudden shone the light, I saw Such features as no artist hand might draw. Her form, her face, her symmetry, her air,Father thy age must such recital spare

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She sav'd my life and kindness, if not love,
Might sure in time the coldest bosom move-
Mine was not cold-she lov'd to hear me sing,
And sometimes touch'd with playful hand the
string-

And when I wak'd some melancholy strain,
She wept, and smil'd-and bade me sing again-
So many a happy day, in this deep glen,
Far from the noise of life, and sounds of men,
Was pass'd! Nay! father, the sad sequel hear-
'Twas now the leafy spring-time of the year-
Ambition call'd me: True, I knew, to part,
Would break her generous and her trusting heart-
She saw my look, and shuddered to behold
True, I had vow'd-but now estrang'd and cold,
She would go with me-leave the lonely glade
Where she grew up, but my stern voice forbade
She hid her face and wept,- Go then away,'
(Father, methinks, ev'n now I hear her say)
Go to thy distant land-forget this tear-
Forget these rocks,-forget I once was dear.-
Fly to the world, o'er the wide ocean fly,

And leave me unremember'd here to die!
Yet to my father should I all relate,
Death, instant death, would be a traitor's fate!'-

Yet notwithstanding her pathetic remonstrances, ambition conquers love -he leaves "her sorrows and the scene behind,"-and for this he craves absolution from her father. Though all Anselmo's admonition is equally excellent, we think these two lines all-expressive:

"First by deep penitence the wrong atone,
Then absolution ask from God alone!"

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The

The succeeding canto presents many sublime and terrific scenes. different appearance of the several Indian warriors, particularly Caupolican their solemn invocation of their country-gods"-their denunciations of vengeance against the tyrants who invade their rights,-is told in the most forcible manner, and bear the attention along with eager impetuosity during the continuance of these mysterious ceremonies, and examination of the unfortunate Spanish captive, who, as he tremblingly pronounces the name of the hostile commander, and casts the billet into the trench, excites the renewed rage of the assembled avengers.

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Captive.

"Valdivia!"-
At that name a sudden cry
Burst forth, and every lance was lifted high.
Warrior.

"Valdivia!Earth upon the billet heap;
So may a tyrant's heart be buried deep!".
The dark woods echoed to the long acclaim,
"Accursed be his nation and his name!"

Their appalling conference is interrupted.

It ceas'd; when, bursting from the thickest wood,
With lifted axe, two gloomy warriors stood:
Wan in the midst, with dark and streaming hair,
Blown by the winds upon her bosom bare,
A woman, faint from terror's wild alarms,
And folding a white infant in her arms,

Appear'd. Each warrior stoop'd his lance to gaze On her pale looks, seen ghastlier through the blaze. "Save!" she exclaim'd, with harrow'd aspect wild; "Oh, save my innocent--my helpless child!" Then fainting fell, as from death's instant stroke.

To the inquiries of the Chiefs from whence they come, the answer is, that the ship in which the Spanish woman was being wrecked, and the seamen having borne her and her child to shore, they were attacked and massacred by the Indians, leaving these two helpless beings now brought there for the sacrifice. They are saved by the intercession of the Mountainchief. This is the speech of Caupoli

can:

"White woman, we were free, When first thy brethren of the distant sea Came to our shores! White woman, theirs the guilt! Theirs, if the blood of innocence be spilt! Yet blood we seek not, though our arms oppose The hate of foreign and remorseless foes: Thou camest here a captive-so abide, Till the Great Spirit shall our cause decide." He spoke the warriors of the night obey; And, ere the earliest streak of dawning day, They led her from the scene of blood away.

The Spanish woman is next represented bound, and pale, and weeping over her slumbering child, when a female voice resounds through the gloomy solitude, and an Indian maid appears, who, impelled by compassion, has been induced to visit, and endeavour to relieve the captive; on hearing whose story, when she is told that the wretched mother was following a beloved husband, the tender recollections of the Indian are awakened,

and finely shewn in her empassioned

exclamation.

"Oh! did he love thee then? let death betide,
Yes, from this cavern I will be thy guide.
Nay, do not shrink! from Caracalla's bay,
Ev'n now, the Spaniards wind their march this way.
As late in yester eve I pac'd the shore,

I heard their signal-guns at distance roar.
Wilt thou not follow? He will shield thy child,—
The Christian's God,-through passes dark and wild
He will direct thy way! Come, follow me,
Oh, yet be lov'd, be happy, and be free!
But I, an outcast on my native plain,
The poor Olola ne'er shall smile again!"
So guiding from the cave, when all was still,
And pointing to the farthest glimmering hill,
The Indian led, till on Itata's side,

The Spanish camp and night-fixes they descried:
Then on the stranger's neck that wild maid fell,
And said, "Thy own gods prosper thee!-Farewell!"

Canto the sixth. From the festivities of "the Castle Hall" Lautaro retires to "wander by the moonlight sea," his bosom torn with sad remembrance. A scene of great interest there ensues between him and the unhappy Olola, whom at first he knows not; but after she had fled, a sudden thought flashes on his mind that he has beheld his sister.

Zarinel, whose minstrelsy, meanwhile, had delighted the revellers, now languid and weary from the past

VOL. VI.

gayety, and with a mind at variance with itself, seeks the shore.

As thus, with shadow stretching o'er the sand, He mus'd and wander'd on the winding strand, At distance, toss'd upon the foaming tide, A dark and floating substance he espied. He stood, and where the eddying surges beat, An Indian corse was roll'd beneath his feet: The hollow wave retir'd with sullen soundThe face of that sad corse was to the ground; It seem'd a female, by the slender form; He touch'd the hand-it was no longer warm; He turn'd its face-oh! God, that eye though dim, Seem'd with its deadly glare as fix'd on him. How sunk his shudd'ring sense, how chang'd his hue, When poor Olola in that corse he knew! His keen eye, like a startled eagle's, glanc'd Lautaro, rushing from the rocks, advanc'd; 'Tis she!-he knew her by a mark impress'd From earliest infancy beneath her breast.

"Oh, my poor sister! when all hopes were past Of meeting, do we meet-thus meet at last?" Then, full on Zarinel, as one amaz'd,

With rising wrath and stern suspicion gaz'd; (For Zarinel still knelt upon the sand,

And to his forehead press'd the dead maid's hand.)} Speak! whence art thou?

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Upraising, answered,

Pale Zarinel, his head

"Peace is with the dead! Him dost thou seek who injur'd thine and thee? Here-strike the fell assassin-I am he!

"Die!" he exclaim'd, and with convulsive start
Instant had plung'd the dagger in his heart,
When the meek father, with his holy book,
And placid aspect, met his frenzied look,-

He trembled-struck his brow-and, turning round,
Flung the uplifted dagger to the ground.
Then murmur'd-" Father, Heav'n has heard thy
pray'r-

But oh! the sister of my soul-lies there!
The Christian's God has triumph'd! Father, heap

Some earth upon her bones, whilst I go weep!"

The seventh canto is taken up with niards, till the final engagement, all the warlike preparations of the Spawhich is conducted with great spirit and dignity of expression. The following is the energetic account of the

decisive moment:

With breathless expectation, on the height, Lautaro watch'd the long and dubious fight: Pale and resign'd the meek man stood, and press'd More close the holy image to his breast. Now nearer to the fight Lautaro drew, When on the ground a Warrior met his view, Upon whose features Memory seem'd to trace A faint resemblance of his Father's face; O'er him a horseman, with collected might, Rais'd his uplifted sword, in act to smite, When the Youth springing on, without a word, Snatch'd from a soldier's wearied grasp the sword, And smote the horseman through the crest: a yell Of triumph burst, as to the ground he fell. -Lautaro shouted, "On! brave brothers, on! Scatter them, like the snow!-the day is won! Lo, I! Lautaro,-Atacapac's son!”

The Indians rally inspired with fresh courage, attack the enemy anew, and in a few moments the fate of the Spaniards is decided. The shouts of victory ascend-Valdivia is made prisoner. Anselmo, too, is carried away captive, and Zarinel expiates by death his injuries to Olola.

The last canto records the fate of the devoted Valdivia, which Lautaro is unable to prevent. The aged and mortally wounded Atacapac survives but to know and embrace his son.

The Missionary is preserved, and, in

C

the Spanish woman and her infant, Lautaro finds his wife and child.

The last duties are paid to the remains of the Mountain-chief; and such is Anselmo's concluding prayer:

"Here, too," he cried," my bones in peace shall rest! Few years remain to me, and never more Shall I behold, oh Spain! thy distant shore! Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave O'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave.

O may it-(when the sons of future days
Shall hear our tale, and on the hilloc gaze,)
O may it teach, that charity should bind,
Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind!
The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear
Thy voice, O Christ! and drop the slaught'ring spear.
"Yet, we condemn not him who bravely stood,
To seal his country's freedom with his blood;
And if, in after-times, a ruthless band
Of fell invaders sweep my native land,-
May she, by Chili's stern example led,
Hurt back his thunder on the assailant's head;
Sustain'd by Freedom, strike th' avenging blow,
And learn one virtue from her ancient foe!"

THE CHRISTIAN AND CIVIC ECONOMY OF LARGE TOWNS, BY THOMAS CHALMERS, D. D. *

No. I.

Ir is the intention of Dr Chalmers to publish, quarterly, the successive chapters of a work on the comparative habitudes of a city and a country population. The subject is one of mighty importance, and we have no doubt that broad lights will be streamed upon it from his powerful and original mind, lifting up into general knowledge truths that have long been lost sight of even by the wisest philanthropists. We shall have much satisfaction in following Dr Chalmers throughout his interesting inquiries and speculations, and shall endeavour to lay before our readers a condensed view of the leading arguments of each Number of his work. It is well observed by him, in the preface to the first Number, that there is a great deal of philantropy afloat in this our day. At no period, perhaps, in the history of the human mind, did a desire of doing good so earnest, meet with a spirit of inquiry so eager, after the best and likeliest methods of carrying the desire into accomplishment. Amidst all that looks dark and menacing, in the present exhibitions of society, this, at least, must be acknowledged that never was there a greater quantity of thought embarked on those speculations which, whether with Christian, or merely economical writers, have the one common object of promoting the worth and comfort of our species. It must be confessed, at the same time, that much of this benevolence, and more particularly, when it aims at some fulfilment, by a combination of many individuals, is rendered abortive for want of a right direction. Were

the misleading causes to which philanthropy is exposed, when it operates among a crowded assemblage of human beings, fully understood, then would it cease to be a paradox-why there should either be a steady progress of wretchedness in our land, in the midst of its charitable institutions; or a steady progress of profligacy, in the midst of its churches, and Sabbath schools, and manifold reclaiming societies.

The great and leading position which Dr Chalmers advances is this, that the same moral regimen which, under the parochial and ecclesiastical system of Scotland, has been set up, and with so much effect, in her country parishes, may, by a few simple and attainable processes, be introduced into the most crowded of her cities, and with as signal and conspicuous an effect on the whole habit and character of their population-that the simple relationship which obtains between a minister and his people in the former situation, may be kept up with all the purity and entireness of its influences in the latter, and be equally available to the formation of a well conditioned peasantry-in a word, that there is no such dissimilarity between town and country, as to prevent the great national superiority of Scotland, in respect of her well principled and well educated people, being just as observ able in Glasgow or Edinburgh, for example, as it is in the most retired of her districts, and these under the most diligent process of moral and religious cultivation. So that, while the profligacy which obtains in every

Glasgow: Printed for Chalmers and Collins, 18, Wilson Street.

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