,-fi■
'''■'r'r THOMAS HEED
HIS BOOIO
THE
DEATH OF ABEL.
THE
DEATH OF ABEL:
BY SOLOMON GESSNER.
/7jV> -
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN, WITH ORIGINAL NOTES.
By FREDERICK SHOBERL;
And a C pious Memoir of
THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.
" Cain stood pallid and motionless with horror : a cold sweat bedewed his tremb¬
ling limbs; he beheld the last convulsive motion of his expiring brother, and th«
reeking blood which gushed from the wound." DEATH OF ABEL, p. 87.
To which is added,
DEATH,
A VISION;
OB, THE
SOLEMN DEPARTURE OF SAINTS AND SINNERS;
UNDER THE SIMILITUDE OF A DREAM.
By JOHN MACGOIVAN.
ALBION PRESS:
PRINTED FOR JAMES CUNDEE, IVY-LANE,
PATERNOSTER-ROW, LONDON.
1809.
18 oa
THE
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
J HAVE now ventured on a loftier subject, to discover whether
my abilities were equal to greater attempts than those in zohicli I
have hitherto employed them; a curiosity which every man ought
to feel. We frequently discourage a poet, who has succeeded
in one branch of his art, by endeavouring to confine him to that
particular sphere, as if he had discovered the bent of his genius,
and had displayed the extent of his powers, though his choice zoas
perhaps determined rather by exterior circumstances or by acci¬
dent, than by any peculiar impulse. If even the zoorld owed
no tribute of respect to the poet who attempts the sublimer sub¬
jects of so?ig, yet he will derive sufficient internal gratification,
from the composition of a more extensive performance. To fill
up the outline of a grand and comprehensive plan, to explore
the most secret springs of actions, to delineate characters, and
to detail circumstances zcilh clearness and perspicuity, affords a
thousand pleasures. All nature is to him an inexhaustible
magazine of all that is or ail that can exist, from which his
fancy selects every thing that can embellish his favorite subject:
his whole soul is in action, and talents must be developed, which
would probably have lain dormant for ever.
But it may be objected by some, if this practice were universal,
we should have nothing but epic poems and tragedies. Those
who entertain such apprehensions must be informed, that I only
mean to assert, that this species of composition affords the author
a infinitely
2
PREFACE.
infinitely greater and more varied pleasures, than performances
of smaller extent, and the same observation must, in my opinion,
apphj to the reader. Many, it is true, have not sufficient time
and leisurefor undertakings of magnitude; most are withheld by
very different occupations; many are deterred from the prosecu¬
tion of the hardy attempt and pay their court to some other
Muse that is less coy ; so that we shall still have master-pieces
in every department of poetry. It is not my intention to depre¬
ciate any of them-, for though I wish for more Homers, I
nevertheless think, that JEsop and Anacreon deserve the admira¬
tion of the zcorld.
That I have selected my present subject from the sacred writ¬
ings will be a matter of wonder to some and of offence to others.
The latter are principally people advanced in years, who are
prevented by very different pursuits from turning their attention
to the productions of modern poetry; who burn with honest
zeal for the dignity of religion, and who have, from their
youth, entertained prejudices against poetry, with which they
are acquainted only from the trifling performances the German
muse then had to boast, and zchich, with the exception of very
fezc, were neither known nor esteemed. At that time a poet was
considered in the light of a jester or merry-andrew. To these
I would beg to remark, and to these only I address myself—for
with those zoho have perused the scriptural poems with so little
sense of their beauties as to attach criminality to this attempt, it
would be as ridiculous to expostulate as to carry a lantern before
a blind man—to the former, I say. T would beg to remark, that
poetry has ever followed in the train of religion, and been of
service to its interests, because it affords the most suitable medium
for expressing sentiments of virtue and devotion. Its tendency
should be to afford refned delight to the understanding and to
improve the heart; to polish the mind and render it susceptible to
every thing that is excellent, even when most sportive, its wit
should
preface.
8
should be chastened, and it should inculcate the abhorrence of
every idea that is profane, indelicate or obscene.
\
For poetry of any other kind 1 entertain a sovereign contempt,
but when it answers to the preceding description, it is not unwor¬
thy to borrow its materials from religion. It selects a subject
from the sacred writings, because their authenticity is not disputed
by any one, who professes himself a christian, and because they
are more interesting to him than any other history. There too,
the muse has an opportunity of shewing in the clearest manner, the
influence of genuine religion on the mind of man in every situ¬
ation. Deducing the different characters from their history, it
seeks, by a combination of the most probable circumstances, to
develope and to place them in the clearest and most instructive
light. If the attempt, indeed, be made by persons whose talents
and judgment are inadequate to the task, it is possible that more
mischief than advantage might result from their productions;
but are not all bad expositions liable to the same objections.
It may likewise be observed, that the liberty I have taken is
one which has hitherto been permitted by all nations, and which,
even at the period of the Reformation, passed without censure.
At that time dramas taken from the bible, and whose virtuous
tendency only could atone for their want of poetical merit, were
allowed to be publicly perj'orrned.
But, it may again be objected, in this manner the bible will
become a mere fable. Has this, I would ask, been the fate of
any history ? Homer and Virgil have taken their subjects Jiom
ancient history; yet I never heard, that anyone was so prepos¬
terous as to think of supplying the details of history from their
performances, or tojorget. that they were poets and not historians.
There is another class of readers, that have too much refine¬
ment to be pleased with heroes who converse only on the subject of
" a 2 religion,
4-
PREFACE.
Religion, who are always serious and destitute of all pretensions
to wit. If their characters are correctly delineated according
to their manners and mode of thinking, how very different must
they be from the habits andfashions of the present limes! JVhat
simplicity of language and manners! they must appear just as
ridiculous to the fashionable world as Homer's heroes appeared
to many of the French, because they were not of their nation.
Fo such, therefore, I will say in confidence, that being like them
young, anxious to obtain applause, and particularly desirous of
procuring their suffrages, J will endeavor to model the same sub¬
ject in such a mariner as to please, them.
THE . ,
DEATH OF ABEL.
Paulo majoracanamus
Kon omnes arbusta juvanthumiles myrica?.
Virg. Eccl. IV.
BOOK. I.
Introduction—Abel and Thirza—Abel's morning hymn—Adam and
Eve—Mehala—Cain's soliloquy—Conversation in the bovver—Adam
expostulates with Cain—Anguish of Adam—Cain's repentance—His
reconciliation with his brother—Mehala and Thirza prepare a repast m
the bower.
J NOW aspire to sing a lofty strain, the situation of
our first parents after their lamentable fall, and him,
who, sacrificed by his brother's fury, first mingled his
dust with the parent earth. Repose now, soft rustic
pipe, with which I once chaunted the amiable simpli¬
city and the manners of rural life. Assist me, O Muse ;
„ who inspirest the poet's soul, when musing in the
£ranquil solitude of the midnight hour, either in the
mild radiance of the moon, in the obscurity of the
grove, or on the shadowed banks of the sequestered
stream. When holy transport fills his soul, his fervid
imagination soars aloft, and undaunted speeds its
flight through created nature, to the remoter regions
of
6
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Invocation.
of possibility, where it collects rich stores of the mar¬
vellous and the beautiful. With these treasures it
returns to rear the motley structure, while cautious
reason, asserting her mild dominion, assumes the
inspection over the work, approves, rejects, and seeks
harmonious combinations, llow swiftly fly the golden
hours of sublime enjoyment devoted to the delightful
occupation ! He is abundantly compensated for w atch¬
ing amidst the cricket's music, till the rising of the
morning-star, who obtains the love and esteem of those,
whose refined taste is delighted with all that is beauti¬
ful, and who excites in hearts endowed with sensibility
sentiments of vii cue. Succeeding generations justly
jevere the poet's urn embraced by the aged ivy, whom
the inuses themselves inspired to teach the world inno¬
cence and virtue. His fame survives with undimi¬
nished lustre when the trophies of the conqueror are
mouldered into dust; when the splendid mausoleum
of the inglorious monarch is scattered amidst the wild
bushes of the desert,, and its moss-covered ruins serve
only to aflo'd an occasional resting-place to the way-
lost wanderer. This celebrity nature has indeed grant¬
ed to very few ; to emulate them is a laudable attempt.
To this object he my solitary walks and all my lonely
hours devoted 1
The silent hours led on the rosy morning and be¬
sprinkled tl e shadowy earth with dew ; the sun, dart¬
ing his first beams behind the black cedars of the
mountain, gilded with glowing tints the clouds that
floated
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
7
Abel and Thirza.
floated through the dawning heavens, when Abel and
his beloved Thirza quitted their habitation, and re¬
paired to a neighboring bower of jessamine and roses.
Love and innocence beamed from the blue eyes of
Thirza, irresistible charms played upon her blooming
cheeks, and her light tresses, flowing over her youth¬
ful bosom and falling down her back, entwined her
slender waist. It was thus she walked by Abel's side.
His brown locks thickly shadowed his elevated brow,
and played about his shoulders ; contemplative dignity
was mingled with the sweetness of his countenance ;
decked with manly beauty, he appeared like an angel,
who is sent by the Lord to sooth the last moments of
the expiring sinner, or to convey a joyful answer to
the prayer of the solitary saint: though enveloped in
the veil of mortality, yet the exquisite beauty which
beams through it proclaims him an inhabitant of hea¬
ven. Thirza lopked at him with a tender smile and
said : " My beloved ! now, when the birds hail the
return of morn, sing I intreat thee, the hymn thou
yesterday coinposedst in the mead. What is more
delightful than to praise the Lord ? When thou sing-
est rny heart expands with holy transport, while thou
givest utterance to the sensations which I can only feel
but am incapable of expressing!" Abel, embracing
her, replied : " Every request of thy dear lips shall be
obeyed, my Thirza ! every wish I read in thine eyes shall
be gratified. We will seat ourselves here on the soft
moss, and I will then sing the hymn." They seated
themselves
8
THE DEATH OF ABEL
Abel's Song of Praise.
themselves beside each other in the fragrant bower,
whose entrance was gilded by the morning sun, and
Abel thus began :
" Retire, O sleep ! from every eye ; disperse, ye
hovering dreams ! reason returns to illumine the soul,
as the landscape is illumined by the morning sun.
Hail, lovely sun, behind the cedars ! by thee all nature
is decked with renovated splendor. Retire, O sleep !
from every eye ; retire ye hovering dreams to the shades
of night. Where are they, the shades of night ? They
have fled to the recesses of the grove, and the caverns
of the rocks, and await us there or in the umbrageous
bower, to yield us refreshing coolness amidst the sultry
heat of noon There, where the early morning-beams
awake the eagle, what exhalations, arising from the
glistening summits of the rocks and the mountain's
O O
brow, ascend into the pure atmosphere, like the in-
cence of burnt offerings from the altar ? It is Nature
which thus celebrates the return of morn, and offers
up her thanks to the Lord of the creation. To him
shall praise ascend from every creature, to him, the
maker and the preserver of all things. To praise him
the opening flowers diffuse their early odors ; to him
innumerable tribes of feathered songsters aloft in the
air, or from the branches of the trees, pour forth their
grateful melody. To praise him, the lion quits his
den, and the deserts resound the tremendous roar in
which he expresses his delight. Praise him, O my
soul 1 praise the Lord, the Creator and preserver; but
l chief
THE DEATH OF ABEt;
9
Abel's Morning Soug.
chief let the thanksgivings of man ascend to thee, let
him praise thee while every other creature yet slumbers,
ere yet the accents of the feathered warbler are heard
from the lofty branches or from the waving spray.
Let my lonely voice be heard in the twilight, and awaken
every creature to join in his praise. Excellent and
lovely is the creation in which he has displayed to
us unworthy sinners his wisdom and his goodness. All
my senses drink delight at this inexhaustible ocean of
beauty, and convey it to my ravished soul. How can
we utter thy praises, O almighty Being! Was it not
infinite goodness that prompted thee to quit the sacred
silence which reigned around thy eternal throne, to
call forth creation from nothing and this immeasurable
fabric of the world from the bosom of night ? When,
at his nod, the sun goes forth to chace the shades of
night, when Nature shines in renovated beauty, and
every slumbering animal awakes to pay its tribute of
gratitude, art thou notv dewy morning, an image of
the creation, a picture of that morn when the Creator
hovered over the new-formed earth ? Profound silence
pervaded the uninhabited expanse. At the voice of
the Almighty myriads of beings, infinitely varied in,
form and in beau-ty, fluttering on variegated wings,
soared aloft into the air, and sported in the flowery
meadows, among the bushes or in the shady branches ;
their warblings resounded through the astonished
groves, and the air rung with the praises of the Crea¬
tor. ■ He again spoke and called forth into existence
» all
10
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Abel's Morning Song.
all the animals which people the surface of the earth.
At his command the shapeless clod assumed innumer-
able forms ; the horse bounds over the turf from which
he sprung, and neighing shakes his flowing mane ; the
majestic lion, scarcely disengaged from the cumbrous
mass, endeavors for the first time to raise his terrific
voice ; a hill heaves with life, and the unwieldy ele¬
phant stalks forth. Thus were innumerable voices
at once employed in the praise of the Creator. Thus
thou each morning callest thy creatures from the im¬
potence of sleep; they awake, they behold around
them the richness of thy bounties, and join in a general
chorus of praise. The time will come, when the
whole eartn shall be peopled with men; then, O then
shall thy sacred altars blaze on every hill; from every
grove and every mead shall thanks and praises ascend
to thee, when the morning sun awakes the nations
scattered over the surface of the earth."
Thus sang Abel by the side of his beloved, who still
sat listening with devout attention ; then throwing her
snowy arm around his neck, she gazed on him with
tenderness, and said : " O my beloved, with what sub¬
lime devotion is my soul fiLIed by thy strains ! Thy
affectionate care not only protects my feebler frame,
but my soul is elevated under thy direction. When it
has lost its way and sees nought around but obscurity,
and sinks down in holy astonishment, thou raisest it up,
dispellest the gloom, and ehang=?st silent surprise into
profound adoration. Ah ! how often—in truth, in
every
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
11
Endearments of Abel and lhirza.
every solitary moment—I return thanks to the eternal
goodness with tears of joy, for having created us for
each other, for that perfect unison in all the thoughts
of our souls, in all the wishes of our hearts."
i
As she spoke, the tenderest and purest love gave
inexpressible sweetness to every tone of her voice and
to every gesture. Abel answered not, but the affec-
tion'with which he gazed on her, the fervor with which
he pressed her to his bosom spoke his sensations better
than any words could have expressed them. Ah ! how
happy was man, when enjoying content he required
nothing of the earth but the fruits which it willingly
yielded, when he asked nothing of heaven but virtue
and health ; before his dissatisfaction created insatiable
wishes, invented innumerable wants, and buried his
happiness beneath splendid misery. What more did
mankind then require to unite themselves in the ten¬
derest tics than love and virtue? No virtuous pair,
formed by heaven for each other, then consumed their
days in hopeless affliction, because penury and
wretchedness threatened to embitter their future lives,
or, because their passion was thwarted by parental
pride and tyrannical ambition.
They were still seated when Adam and Eve ap¬
proached ; they had overheard the morning-song
and the conversation of Abel and Thirza, and they
now entered the bower and embraced their children ;
whose happiness and virtue filled them with the sin-
is 2 cerest
12
THE DEATH OF ABEL
Cjiu's envy.
,cerest joy that ever smiled on the cheeks of affection¬
ate parents. Mehala, the wife of Cain, had likewise
■ entered the bovver ; Cain's harsh and impetuous dis¬
position had imprinted sadness on her brow, and dif¬
fused a soft melancholy in her black eyes ; paleness
overspread her cheeks, around which waved her dark
tresses. When Thirza embraced her beloved, and ex¬
pressed her transport at being created for him, Me¬
hala, who witnessed their endearments without the
bower, was unable to refrain from weeping ; but dry¬
ing her tears, she entered the arbour with a friendly
smile, and saluted her brothervand sister with tender
affection, Cain, who was at this moment passing
by the bower, had likewise heard Abel's song and seen
with what transport his parents embraced him. " What
raptures !" said he, fixing his indignaht looks on the
bower. " What embrac'es ! only because he has sung
a song. lie may well sing and compose hymns, as he
must otherwise pass his time in sleep, when idly re¬
clining by his flock in the shade. The sun scorches
me, n* my rugged toil; I have neither leisure nor in¬
clination for singing. When I have performed the
labors of the day my weary limbs require repose, and
inorning wakes me to new exertions. But that soft,
indolent youth, who would soon sink beneath the
oppressive weight pf my toils, they every where
pursue with their tears of joy and their tender embraces.
I hate such effeminate tenderness ; but me they teaze
not with their caresses, though condemned during the
]ive-long dayto till the unwilling soil. How they flow
>-those tears of joy ! "
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
13
Cain's envy.
Thus saying, he passed by to his field. They had
overheard his words in the bower. Mehala, paler
than before, sank on Thirza's shoulder, and wept;
Eve, sorrowfully reclining on her husband, likewise
wept over her first-born. " My beloved parent,"
said .Abel, " I will follow my brother to the field ;
I will embrace him ; I will say every thing that frater¬
nal love can suggest. I will embrace him, and he shall
not leave my arms till he promises to banish all resent¬
ment from his bosom, till he promises to love me.
Ah ! I have examined my whole heart and soul, to
discover how I may gain my brother s affection ; often
have I endeavored by my tenderness to open the way
to his heart; often have I penetrated it and auew enkin¬
dled his expiring love; but alas ! the gloom of envy
and discontent.as often returns and extinguishes the
flame."
" My beloved Abel," replied his sorrowful father;
<(I will myself go to him ; I will say every thing that
paternal affection and reason can urge. O Cain I
Cain! with what gloomy anxiety dost thou fill my heart.
Is it possible that the passions can rage with such tre¬
mendous violence in the bosom of the sinner, and
extinguish every spark of virtue and affection ! Wretch
that I am, what dark forebodings terrify my soul, when
I look.forward and contemplate the miseries of my
descendants! O sin ! sin ! what dreadful ravages
thou committest in the human soul !" Thus spokp
Adam,
14
THE t>EATH OF ABEL;
Conversation between Adam and Cain.
Adam, and in pensive melancholy left the bower and
repaired to the field of his first born. Cain perceiv¬
ing him apprpaching, desisted from his labor and thus
addressed him: "Why that sternness in my father's
looks? It was not with such a countenance thou em-
bracedstmy brother. I read reproaches in thine eyes."
Adam, in accents of mingled sorrow and tenderness
replied: " Be sainted, my first-born ! The conscious¬
ness of having deserved reproach causes tfiee to dis¬
cover displeasure in my eyes. Yes, Cain, thou de-
servest reproaches ! The grief, the anguish thou hast
implanted in thy father's breast bring me hither."
" Not affection," answered Cain, " that belongs
only to Abel."
" Yes Cain, affection," replied Adam; "heaven is
my witness that it was likewise affection. These tears,
this grief, this incessant anxiety which torments me,
and her, who with pain gave thee birth, these melan¬
choly days and restless nights—what are they but the
effect of the most tender love ? O Cain ! Cain ! if thou
lovedst us it would be the object of thy dutiful solici¬
tude to dry the tears of anguish from our cheeks, to
dispel the gloomy melancholy which embitters our
lives. O ! if yet thy heart retains any reverence for
that Being who sees into the inmost recesses of thysouj,
if a spark of filial love-yet glows in thy bosom ; by that
love,
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
15
.Adam expostulated With Cain.
love, I implore thee to restore to us our lost tranquil¬
lity, our extinguished joys ! Cherish no longer in thy
soul this obduracy, this gloomy resentment against
him whose affectionate heart is earnestly desirous
to eradicate this noxious weed from thy bosom. O
Cain ! is it possible that our tears of joy, that the rap¬
ture which the exalted purity of his piety and his vir¬
tue excite within us, should have filled thy soul with
rage and indignation f The angels who hover around
Us, behold with ecstasy every virtuous action ; the Ah
mighty himself looks down from his throne upon them
with gracious approbation. Wouldst thou change the
nature of beauty and virtue? It is not in our power,
or if it were could we resolve, O Cain ! to resist those
soft, those rapturous emotions and those sublime plea¬
sures with which they fill the soul? The rolling thun¬
der, or the horrors of the midnight tempest, call forth
no smile upon the cheek; nor can the violence and
the tumult of ungovernable passions produce pleasure
in the human breast."
Cain answered : " Am I then doomed io hear no¬
thing but these bitter reproaches ? If I cannot dress
my face in smiles, nor hid the tears of tenderhess to
overflow my eyes, shall my more manly firmness ho
branded with the most odious vices ? Bolder enter¬
prises and severer toils have ever been my choice; that
sternness which nature has imprinted on my brow I
cannot convert into soft smiles and tears, Can the
eagle coo like the harmless dof/e?
Aiain,
IS THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Adam expostulates with Cain.
Adam, with majestic gravity replied : " Wilt thou
deceive thyself? "Wilt thou carefully conceal from thy
observation those baleful passions which thou oughest
to subdue ? O Cain, it is not manly firmness, that is
imprinted on thy brow ; thy countenance and thy whole
deportment bespeak envy and discontent: these have
spread around thee dreary obscurity. Hence this
murmuring at thy labor, this unkind behavior to us all,
and this inquietude. Could we, O could we banish
the melancholy gloom, could we inspire thee with hap¬
piness serene as the vernal morn, then would our most
ardent wish be gratified. But, Cain, what cause hast
thou for uneasiness ? Are not all the sources of felicity
open to thee ? Doth not Nature offer thee all her
charms ? Is not every happiness, every pleasure
which nature, reason and virtue bestow on us, like¬
wise presented to thee ? But thou leavest those bles¬
sings untasted, unenjoyed, and complainest of misery.
Or art thou dissatisfied with that portion of happiness
which it has pleased the eternal Goodness to con¬
fer on-fallen sinners? Dost thou envy the lot of#
angels ? Know that discontent could enter even the
bosoms of angels, they aspired to become gods and for¬
feited heaven. Dost thou arraign the decrees of the
Creator, who with infinite wisdom presides over the
destiny of his sinful creatures ? While all created
beings join his praise, shall a mortal, a worm raise his
head from the dust, and presume to murmur against
him, whose nod governs the heavens; whose almighty
goodness is attested by universal nature; whose all-
9 ' seeing
THE DEATH OF ABEL. 17
gu. ,... ■ ■ ■
Adam expostulates with Cain.
)
seeing eye penetrates into the dark bosom of futurity,
and who can cause evil to be productive of good ? O
my son, my first-born ! let discontent no longer over¬
cloud every cheerful prospect, and conceal from thy
view every source of happiness !"
" What avail these admonitions?" cried Cain,
angrily. " I know that if I could be cheerful every
object around me would smile and be serene as,the
morning! Can I command the tempest to cease and
the impetuous torrent to stand still ? I was doomed
from my birth to misery; on the nativity of the first¬
born the Almighty has pronounced his severest male¬
diction. Those sources of happiness and delight of
which you take such cheering draughts, flow not for
me."
" Ah ! my son !" exclaimed Adam, while tears b'e-
dewed his cheeks; " yes—alas ! on all the offspring
of woman has the divine malediction fallen. But, my
beloved soil! why should God have poured on thee
our first-born, a greater portion of his wrath than on
us, the first transgressors ? He whose goodness is infi¬
nite could not have made such a distinction.---No,
Cain ! thou wast not born to misery; the Almighty
has called into existence none of his creatures to make
them unhappy. Man may indeed render himself
wretched ; by neglecting to enjoy the happiness be¬
stowed on him, he plunges himself into misery. When
reason is silenced by the tumult of raging passions, and
is subdued by the violence of impure, ungovernable
& desires,
IS
TIIE DEATH OF ABEL.
Angnish of Adam at the obduracy of his son.
desires, man must be wretched ; he converts the bles¬
sings Of life into sources of misery. Thou canst not
command the tempest to cease and the impetuous
torrent to stand still, but thou mayest call forth
reason to dispel the gloom which overshadows
thy soul. Reason can calm the tumult in thy bosom.
At her voice every vain wish, every sordid desire, and
every boisterous passion vanish like vapors before the
rising sun. Ah, Cain ! I have seen tears of rapture
bedew thy cheek, when consciousness of a virtuous
action has raised within thy soul the glow of delight.
Tell me, Cain, wast thou not then happy ? Was not
thy soul serene—serene as the unclouded sun ? Reca}
that emanation of the Deity—Reason ; then will her
companion, Virtue, convey every pleasure to thy heart,
then will every source of happiness flow also for thee.
0 listen to my admonitions, my sod ! The first duty
which returning reason imposes, is to go and embrace
thy brother; with what joy will he receive thee ! with
what tenderness will he press thee to his bosom !" '
"I will embrace him,"said Cain, "when I return
from the field ; my labor now, requires my care. I
will embrace him. But never shall my firmer soul
lie softened to that effeminate tenderness, which so
strongly endears him to you,, and draws so many tears
of rapture from your eves; to that tenderness \vhich
brought down a curse upon all mankind, when thou,
yielding to a woman's tears—But, wretch that I am !
1 was about to reproach thee. I reverence thee; my
father,
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
i
19
Cain's contrition.
father, and am silent.'-' Thus spoke Cain, and returned
to his labor.
Adam stood motionless; tears of anguish streamed
from his eyes. " Oh Cain, Cain T he exclaimed, " I
feel, alas! that I have deserved thy reproaches, but
yet thou shouldst have spared thy father; thou
shouldst have forborne a charge which like a peal of
thunder bursts upon my soul. Thus—O horrible,
O cruel presentiment—thus will my descendants, when
wallowing in guilt and overtaken by its punishment,
trample upon my dust and curse the first sinner !"
Thus spoke Adam, and with his face bowed towards
the earth, sorrowfully withdrew. He frequently lifted
up his eyes to heaven ; loud sighs burst from his tor¬
tured heart and he wrang his hands in speechless agony.
Cain beheld his anguish, and exclaimed : " How he
wrings his hands ! how he sobs and weeps !—and I
have reproached him—I have bitterly reproached my
fond and indulgent parent ! Whither does my mad¬
ness drive me ! Hell itself rages in my soul. It is I—
yes I, who spread the gloom of torturing anxiety around
them, who embitter and destroy every pleasure of their
lives. Wretch, thou art not worthy to associate with
men, thou shouldst dwell among the savage beasts that
prowl in the desert. He is already at a distance and
yet I still hear his sighs, as with unsteady and faltering
steps he retires.—Shall I hasten after him, shall I
embrace his knees, and by all that is sacred implore
his forgiveness ? Yes—I am sensible that my misery
c 2 proceeds
20
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Cain's contrition.
_ , -n
proceeds not from external causes : it is in my own un¬
guarded heart that those black clouds arise, whose
tempests chace every joy from me and them. O rear
son, virtue, return ! calm the wild tumult, and ex¬
tinguish this hell which rages in my bosom. See, yon¬
der stands my father, motionless ; his up-lifted hands
announce the attitude of prayer. I will hasten and
throw myself in the dust at his feet, wretch that I am !"
Cain then hastened to his father, who was leaning
exhausted against a tree. His weeping eyes were im-
moveably fixed on the ground. This sight deeply
affected the heart of his son, who fell at his feet and
embraced his knees. lie looked up to his father,
while tears trickled from his eyes, and said : " For¬
give me, my father!—But I am not worthy to call
thee by that name ; if thou shouldst turn from me with
horror, it is no more than I deserve. But see, O see
these tears of repentance, behold my anguish and for¬
give me !—I, wretch that I am, was deaf to thy ex¬
hortations, but when thou retiredst weeping and wring¬
ing thy hands, horror thrilled my soul, rouzed me from
my apathy, and now, now I weep at thy feet, I ac¬
knowledge my depravity, I see with abhorrence the
passions which had taken possession of my soul, and
implore forgiveness of the Almighty, of thee, my father,
of my brother, and of all whom I have offended."
" Arise, Cain ! arise, my son ! that I may embrace
thee," stammered the astonished father, and pressed
him
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
2 I
Cain's reconciliatien with his brother.
him with fervor to his heart. " That Being who dwell-
eth in the heavens beholds with pleasure these thy re¬
pentant tears. Embrace me, my son, my beloved
son!—O how hast thou changed my grief to joy ! O
blissful hour, in which my son, my first-born, restores
peace, tranquillity and every delicious sensation to our
bosoms, in which he embraces me with tears of tender¬
ness. Embrace me, support me, my son ! The excess
of my joy overpowers me. But let us not delay ; let
us go, that thou may'st also embrace thy brother."
They were now proceeding to seek him in the pas¬
ture, when Abel, accompanied by his mother, with
Mehala and Thirza, approached them from behind a
thicket. They had followed Adam, unperceived, and
had witnessed the scene, behind the bushes, by which
they were concealed. Abel ran with open arms to
meet his brother; he embraced hint, and pressed him
to his heart; he wept, and was incapable of expressing
his transport. " My brother, O my brother," he at
length exclaimed, and dost thou love me ! Let me,
O let me hear it from thy lips ! Thou lovest me—O in¬
expressible delight i7
"Yes, brother, I love thee," replied Cain, embrac¬
ing him. " Canst thou, O can you all forgive me my
unkindness ? Can you forgive me for having so long
.disturbed your peace, for having embittered your lives
with anxiety and grief? My soul, darting forth like
lightning from the surrounding gloom, has dispersed
£ the
22
THE DEATH OP ABEL.
Cain's reconciliation with his brother.
the furious tempest. The weeds which prevented the
seeds of virtue from springing up in my bosom are
eradicated, and shall never be suffered to grow again.
Forgive me, my brother, and never may the memory
of my past misconduct disturb our future felicity!"
"Never, never!" replied Abel, pressing him still
more closely to his heart. " Should we not forget the
transient uneasiness of a nightly dream, when we
awake on a spring mor ning, and delight and rapture
pervade our souls? O Cain, Cain! O that words
could express my joy, could describe to thee half my
transport! I can only weep, only press thee to my
breast and weep."
"While the brothers were thus locked in each other's
embrace, Eve, with tears of joy, beheld the tender
scene. "O my children !" she exclaimed, "my be¬
loved children! Never since first I heard thy lips, my
first-born! lisp the sweet name of mother; never have
I felt such rapturous sensations ! What an oppressive
burthen is removed from my soul, with what happiness
and with what exquisite delight is it now pervaded!
Now will each smiling hour pass away crowned with
pleasure! Harmony and peace are restored to, my
offspring, to those whom I nourished at my breast.
Yes, I am like a fruitful vine, which bears sweet
grapes; and is blessed by the passenger for its delici-/
ous fruit. Embrace my children ! embrace! and now
come, let me kiss away every tear from your eyes,
- each
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
L
23
Cain's reconciliation with his brother.
each of those precious tears with which fraternal af¬
fection has bedewed your cheeks!" Thus said Eve,
and with inexpressible transport embraced her sons.
Mehala and TEirza likewise embraced them, while
their eyes overflowed with tears of extacy. "O Thirza!"
said Cain's spouse to her sister, "what unspeakable
felicity! Let this day be a day of joy! Let us go; we
we will strew the fairest flowers on the table in the
bower; we will collect the finest fruits which our trees
afford; this day shall be spent in the enjoyment of
our happiness." Joy gave wings to their feet and
they hastened away to perform the pleasing task.
Cain and Abel went hand in hand, and Adam and
Eve, filled with the most exquisite delight, walked be¬
side them towards the hill. When they arrived, the
sisters had already spread the repast of various fruits
in the shadiest bower, which they had decorated with
fragrant flowers; brilliant colors and delicious odors,
combined to gratify their senses. They seated them¬
selves to their temperate noon-tide repast, accompa¬
nied by cheerfulness and joy; the hours passed rapidly
away in agreeable converse and mild evening arrived.
BOOK
2t
TI1E DEATH OF ABEL
Conversation in the bower.
BOOK II.
Conversation in the bower—Abel requests Adam to relate the event!
subsequent to the fall—Eve commences the narrative—Her farewel of
Paradise—Adam continues the narration—The storm—They pass the
lirst night in a cave—The dead bird—They arrive at a hill where they
resolve to fix their residence—Adam finds some sheep—Visit of an
angel—Adam's conversation with him—Message of the Almighty-
Adam erects an altar—Winter—Return of Spring—The Sacrifice-
Birth of Cain, of Mehala, Abel, and Thirza—Conclusion.
HILE with hearts full of rapture they sat in the
bower, the father of men thus said: "Now, my
beloved children, now we experience what exquisite
delight pervades the soul after a good acfion; we feel
that nothing but the practice of virtue can render us
truly happy. By virtue we are elevated to that felicity
enjoyed by the pure spirits who inhabit the celestial re¬
gions. On the contrary, every impure and unruly
passion drags us down and hurries us along into
gloomy labyrinths, where we are tormented by inquie¬
tude, anguish, misery and remorse. O Eve! could we
have imagined, when, hand in hand, we bade adieu, to
the blissful scene^ of Paradise, when we were the
only inhabitants of the extended earth, that so much
felicity was yet to be enjoyed in a world cursed for
our transgression ?*'
When
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
• 25
Eve relates the events subsequent to the fall*
When Adam ceased speaking, Abel thus addressed
him: "Father, now while the lovely evening ap¬
proaches, if nothing prevents thy longer stay in this
bower, if the solitary twilight does not summon thee
to more serious meditations, listen to my request, and
- relate to us once more the events of that time when
thou and my beloved mother were the only inhabitants
of the earth."
All now fixed their eyes in silent expectation on
Adam, impatient to know whether he would comply
with Abel's request. "How," said he, "can I refuse
to gratify thy wishes on this joyful occasion. I will
relate to you the events of those days in which sin¬
ners were cheered by such great promises, in which
they experienced such unmerited grace and mercy.
Eve, where shall I commence my narrative? Shall
I begin with the melancholy moment of our departure
from Paradise? But, my beloved, a tear already trem¬
bles in thine eye!" " Begin," said Eve, "withthetime
whqn, with streaming eyes I looked back for the last
time on Eden's blissful bowers, and sank on thy bosom.
But, the sensations I experienced, permit me to de¬
scribe myself; to spare my feelings, thou wouldst pass
too lightly over those dreadful scenes.
i
t —
" The flaming sword of the angel now waved at a dis-
1 tance behind us: with soothing compassion he had con¬
ducted us out of Paradise, he h&th reminded us of the
pomises and the infinite goodness of our offended Cre-
d ator.
2<5 .
THE DEATH OF AftEL.
Departure iroiji Paradise.
ator. We had descended to the earth, where we wander¬
ed through solitary deserts. Ilere we found no Eden, we
walked not among blooming flowers and fragrant
groves; they were thinly scattered over the surface of the
barren soil, like islands on theextended ocean.* The
vast earth, one dreary wilderness lay before us. Hand
in hand we passed along; I frequently turned aside to
weep, and ventured not to raise my eyes to the dear
object at my side, the victim of my guilt, the partner
of my misery. With eyes fixed on the ground he walk¬
ed beside me; then looking up, he gazed at the country
around us, and afterwards at me; he saw my tears, and
with speechless emotion pressed me sobbing to his
bosom. We were now descending the brow of a hill,
and the lofty Eden was gradually vanishing from our
view. I paused, looked back, and thus lamented : 'O
Paradise, my native Soil, perhaps I shall never more be¬
hold thy blissful bowers, in which thou, my beloved! if I
* The author appears to have been guilty of some inconsistency in
putting this simile into the mouth of Eve. He seems to have forgotten
for a moment the simplicity and comparative ignorance which must have
prevailed in the first ages, and to have blended with it ideas arising from
a .knowledge of the constitution and formation of the earth, that could
only have been acquired at a much later period. The reader will per¬
ceive from various parts of this performance that the author must have
been intimately acquainted with the immortal work of Milton, in which
the'poet represents the arch-angel Michael shewing to Adani from the
summit of a lofty hill the whole earth extended beneath him, and the
scenes that were to take place upon it. Gcssner undoubtedly carried
with him that idea when pcrUsing the above passage ; but yet it appears
extremely improbable that Eve should use a comparison which could Dot
possibly be fumliar either to herself or her children. T.
may
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
27
Departure from Paradise.
may still call thee by that tender name, desiredst a
help-mate of thy Creator, and from thy own side rc-
ceivedst heT who destroyed thy felicity! Ye flowers
reared by my care, for whom do ye pow diffuse your
fragrance? Ye shady bowers, who now walks in your
aromatic twilight? Ye blooming shrubs; ye groves,
for whom now ripen your various fruits ? Never shall
I behold you again; that balsamic air is too pure,
that spot is too sacred, for a being contaminated by
sin.' Alas! how is man fallen ! the friend of angels,
he who issued so pure, so happy from the hands of
his Creator! And thou too art fallen, O !—I dare not
call thee my beloved—seduced by me, thou art fallen !
0 'hate me not, forsake me not! Forsake me not I in-
treat thee by our common misfortune, by the gracious
promises of our merciful judge! I acknowledge I have
deserved thy hatred, thy abhorrence; but permit me
to follow thy steps, and by my services to alleviate
thy misery. Thy looks shall be my law, and in them
1 will read thy commands. Where thou dwellest I
-will collect flowers for thy couch, I will wander
through solitary wilds to procure the best fruits for thy
food; and O, how happy shall I be, if thou reward-
estmy feeble services with a single glance of affec¬
tion !' I said, and sank into his arms; he pressed me
with fervor to his bosom while his tears bedewed my
cheeks, and said: 4 Let us not, thou dear object of
my love! let us not aggravate our misery by keen re¬
proaches. We have both deserved a more severe
punishment than the Almighty has inflicted. Did not
d 2 our
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
^ ' j)
Departure from Paradise.
our judge when he passed sentence on our crime,
cheer us with his promises? Though they >are yet
veiled in sacred obscurity, yet mercy, infinite mercy,
beams forth from amidst the gloom. Had we been
punished according to our deserts, O, what would
then have become of us ? No, my beloved ! let us not,
by our murmurs and complaints, render ourselves un«
worthy of his favor; let them not pollute our lips
which ought only to breathe Yorth gratitude and devo¬
tion. He whose eye penetrates the profoundest
abysses of darkness, and discovers the inmost recesses
of the sinner's soul, will graciously accept the feeble
tribute of our thanks and praise, and will regard with
complacency our imperfect endeavours to please him.
Embrace me, Eve! Mutual affection shall alleviate
our common calamity; we will together oppose our
enemy, sin, and attempt to attain the highest degree
of perfection, of which our fallen nature is susceptible.
Peace and tender love shall ever abide with uj; by
sympathy and reciprocal assistance we will lighten the
burthen imposed upon us, and support each other un¬
der the expectation of death, whose progress it seems,
•is gradual and slow. Now let us descend to that spot
Where the poplars wave over the rock. Evening ap¬
proaches, and we shall there find a convenient place
'to pass the night.' Thou wast silent; I embraced
thee, and with my hair dried the tears from thy eyes.
We then descended the hill, to the poplar-trees which
Waved over the rock."
Here
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
29
Adam continues the narrative.
Here Eve was silent, and smiling tenderly at Adam,
he thus continued the narration. " Having arrived at
the poplar% we found in their shade, a cave in the
rock. 'See Eve,' said I, 'see what conveniencies na¬
ture still affords us; look at this charming grotto and
this limpid stream which flows beside it. Here let us
take shelter for the night; but I must secure the en¬
trance against the attacks of nocturnal enemies.'
'What enemies ?' asked Eve yitb emotion. ' Hast
thou not observed,'I replied, 'that the curse extends
to the whole creation, that the bonds of friendship
are dissolved between all living creatures, and that the
weak have become the prey of the strong ? Yonder in
the plain, I saw a young lion pursue with furious roar
a timid fawn, and I likewise perceived enmity among
the birds in the air. We no longer possess any power
^t»ver these animals, excepting over such as are weaker
than ourselves". Those which before fawned upon or
sported around us, the shaggy lion and.the spotted
tiger, now pass us with glaring eye-balls and a tre¬
mendous roar. By gentle usage we shall, it is true,
secure the attachment of some, and our reason will
protect us against the superior strength of others.'
' And 1 will go,'said Eve, 'to collect herbs and flowers
to form our couch, and to gather fruits from the neigh¬
boring bushes and trees.' I then entwined the shrubs
and branches that grew before the entrance of the
cave; while Eve, who never lost me from her sight,
with alarm .and anxiety, performed her task. She re¬
turned
30'
THE DEATII OF ABEL.
The tclnpeat.
turned with the fruits she had gathered and spread
them before us on the sweet grass.
"We then lay down upon the flowers in the cave,
and commenced our simple repast, which was sweet¬
ened by affectionate converse. Meanwhile a black
cloud extending itself over the face of heaven, gradu¬
ally veiled the setting sun. Profound darkness rested,
upon the earth, and Nature seemed, in silent horror,
to await her dissolution. A tempestuous wind arose;
it roared among the hills, and tore up the trees of the
forest; flames darted from the black clouds and the
thunder burst in awful peals. Eve sank with terror
on my throbbing bosom. 'lie comes/ said she, 'the
avenger comes! how terrible ! he comes to annihilate
us and all nature for my transgression ! O Adam !
Adam !" —Speechless and trembling she remained
clinging to my breast. ' My beloved,'said I, 'Ict us
kneel at the entrance of the cave, and pray to him, who
walketh amidst the darkness, whose thunders proclaim
bis approach, and whose lightnings mark his steps.
Thou who with inexpressible, with divine benignity
Jookedst down upon me, when T first received life
from thy creating band, how terrible art thou, when
thou appearest in judgment!' We then knelt at the
entrance of the cave, expecting our judge to pro¬
nounce from his thunder? the awful sentence; 'Ye
shall, die, and thou earth shalt be annihilated in my in¬
dignation !' Torrents of rain now descended from
heaven, the lightnings ceased to flash, and the thun¬
der
THE DEATH OF ABfcL.
.31
The tempest.
der rolled only at a distance. I i-aised my head.
'Eve,' said I, 'the Lord hath passed over us; he will
not now consume the earth, and we shall not yet
perish. How could his promise be accomplished if
he destroyed us with all our seed ? And eternal wis-
, dom cannot retract the promises it has made !' We
recovered from our terror, the clouds dispersed, and
the setting sun shone with inexpressible splendor; as
when hosts of angels hovering over Eden on fleecy
clouds, tinged them with brilliant fires, and diffused
throughout the atmosphere celestial radiance. Such
were now the splendors of the western sky ; all nature
smiled in renovated beauty and every color had ac¬
quired more vivid lustre. The setting sun shed on us
his departing rays as we knelt down with holy awe to
celebrate the solemn scene. Thus the first tempest
passed away over our heads. The glowing tints of
evening faded into twilight, and the moon shed a
milder lustre on the scattered clouds. We were now
for the first time chilled by the frost of night, as
we had before been scorched by the unusual heat of
the noon-day sun. We wrapped ourselves up in skins,
(thrown over us by our gracious Creator, before,our
-departure from Paradise, to shew that, in our misery
he would still protect and relieve us) and stretching
ourselves on the soft herbs and flowers In the cave,
awaited in each others embrace the approach of sleep.
It came, but unattended with that sweet delight which
blessed our slumbers in a state of innocence. Our
imaginations
9
32
v THE DEATH OF ^BEL.
Beautiful appearance of Nature.
imaginations were then filled only with smiling and*
agreeable images; inquietude, terror and remorse now
mingled witfi them, in dreams, forms of horror and
dismay. The night was calm and our slumbers were
not disturbed; but how unlike that night, my beloved
Eve, when 1 first led thee to the bridal bower! Never
had the flowers exhaled a sweeter fragrance; never
had the bird of night poured forth such an harmoni-
. ous strain ; never had the moon shed such soft radi¬
ance, as when Paradise celebrated the nuptials of the
first pair. But why do I dwell on ideas, which
awaken griefs that were hushed to repose ?
"The morning sun had already exhaled the glisten¬
ing dew, when we opened our eyes; a few solitary
birds were singing upon the trees, for the earth then
contained no other animals than those which, after the
• # X
curse, had fled out of Paradise, that the garden of
the Lord might not be polluted with death. We went
to the entrance of the cave, and having offered up
our morning adoration, I said to Eve: 'Let us pro¬
ceed farther; when I survey the extended country, I
perceive that we may select for our abode some spot
which affords superior advantages of beauty and fer¬
tility and more numerous resources for our subsist¬
ence. Seest thou yon stream that winds through the
verdant valley? The green summit of that hill beside
it, appears to be crowned with a garden of trees.'
'I follow thee, my beloved, whithersoever thou mayst
" conduct
THE DEATH OF ABEL. 33
tor . . , , « ■,
The Dead Bird.
and we pursued our course to the hill. On the way-
Eve perceived a bird fluttering round in little circles
in apparent distress, and uttering plaintive cries;
after which it perched, motionless, and with ruffled
plumage, upon the low bushes. She approached
it, and discovered another bird extended life¬
less on the grass, before the little mourner. She
stooped down and examined it for some time; at
length taking it up from the ground she endeavored to
awaken it. ' It will not awake,' said she, laying it from
her trembling hand upon the grass. 4 It will never
awake more!' Tears gushed from her eyes. 'Thou
pretty mourner,' said she, addressing the other: 'per¬
haps ; ah ! perhaps it was thy mate ! It is I—thou in¬
nocent sufferer; it is I—wretch that I am, who have
brought misery and distress upon every creature!' She
wept aloud and, turning to me, exclaimed: 'What
a horrible, what a fatal evil! every sense is suspended,
every limb refuses its office ! What is this ? It must
be death ! O! horror thrills my frame ! If this be
death, and the death with which we are threatened,
O how terrible ! And if it should thus tear thee from
me—O Adam!—I tremble!—I cannot support the
thought!' Her tears flowed more copiously, as she
bent in an agony of grief towards the ground. I
raised her up and embraced her. ' Cease, my be¬
loved,' I exclaimed, 'to aggravate our affliction and
distress; let us place our trust in him who with infi¬
nite wisdom governs the whole creation, and who,
though he appears clothed in terror as our judge, is
t ever
34
THE DEATH OF ABEL
Adam and I've fix their habitations on a hill.
ever accompanied by mercy and by love. Let not
our imaginations seek to anticipate the dreadful scenes
of futurity, nor our reason dwell continually on our
misery. By so doing we should blind our eyes to the
demonstrations of his wisdom and benignity, and
plunge ourselves still deeper into affliction. He guides
our destiny with infinite goodness and wisdom ; let us
then proceed with humble confidence, under his di¬
rection, and with holy reference, with devout awe,
offer up to him the tribute of our gratitude !'
"We now resumed our course towards the hill, and
passed through the fertile thickets with which its foot
was encompassed. On the summit a lofty cedar
reared its head far above the surrounding fruit-trees;
its wide-spreading branches afforded a grateful shade,
and a limpid stream ran among the flowers beneath.
Here a vast extent of country opened to our view ; its
distant boundaries were blended with the misty air.
'This place,' said I, 'affords an image of Paradise, a
convenient abode; another Eden, I know, we shall
never find. Receive us, O cedar into thy friendly
shade ! Ye various trees, be your fruits, which'I will
not pluck with heedless ingratitude, the recompence
of my industrious culture !' Almighty Being! deign to
look down from heaven on this our dwelling, listen to
our supplications, accept the incense of our gratitude
and devotion, w hich through these thick shades shall
each day and hour ascend to thee ! Here by the sweat
of our brows will we procure our food ; beneath this
shade,
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Adam discovers some sheep.
shade, my beloved Eve, shalt thou with pain bring
forth children, and here we will wait the approach of
death. Deign, O God ! to look down with compla¬
cency on the abode of sinners !' Thus I prayed, while
Eve knelt by my side, with her tearful eyes devoutly
fixed on heaven.
" I then began to construct a habitation beneath the
shade of the cedar; and fixing in the earih a circle of
strong stakes, I interwove them with slender twigs.
Eve was meanwhile employed in guiding the stream
among the flowers; in binding up and pruning the
luxuriant foliage of the shrubs, in supporting the
■drooping plants and in gathering wild fruits ; and thus
we enjoyed the first repast earned by the sweat of our
brows. As I went to the river to procure reeds for
the roof of our hut, I saw five sheep, white as the
floating noon-day clouds, and a young ram in their
midst grazing on the shore. I advanced gently to¬
wards them, to see whether they would shun me like
the lion and the tiger, which once sported at my feet;
but they fled not at my approach, and I drove them
before me with a reed to the hill, into the luxuriant
grass, where Eve was constructing a bower of the
over-arching shrubs. She did not perceive the little
flock, till their blpatings drew her attention. She then
looked round, and loosing the branches from her
hands, at first paused with a timid air, and then ex¬
claimed : 'O, they are tame and gentle as in Paradise!
Welcome, ye engaging companions! you shall dwell
E 2 with
56 THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Eve's addv-f.
with us; here ye will find luxuriant pastures, fragrant
herbage and a limpid stream. IIow delightful it will
be, to see you gambol around us in the grass, while
we are occupied in the culture of our trees and
ghrubs f She said, and patted their woolly backs.
"Our habitation was now completed, and Eve and
I were seated at the entrance in the shade, gazing on
the extended landscape, when Eve thus interrupted
the silence: 'The prospect before us is beautiful and
diversified, and this hill is decked with numerous
kinds of vegetable productions; but if we select the
most useful and agreeable of those which cover the
face of the country, we shall then produce a resem¬
blance bearing the same proportion to Paradise, as we
were informed by the angels who there visited us, that
Paradise itself bears to heaven. Ah ! how enchanting
was that blessed spot! There Nature shed her mildest
influence; there her product'ons displayed a profusion
of luxuriant beauties; unnumbered flowers blended
their variegated tints; blossoms and fruits were inter¬
mingled in gay confusion; innumerable species of
trees, extending their grateful shade, formed an endless
mixture, every part of which was more agreeable and
more magnificent. Of these we see very few around
us; perhaps since the curse, the earth is incapable 'of
producing them, or Nature, with sparing hand, has
distributed tbem over different regions: and, Adam,
I have already observed that death and corruption
(which must be the natural consequence of death)
have
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
37
l.ve's address.
have extended their ravages throughout the whole ere-
O O
ation. I have seen the fruits fall and decay, and the
flowers fade; I have beheld the withered shrubs and
trees stripped of their foliage and their fruits. Young
shoots, indeed, spring up beside the decayed plant,
fresh fruits supply the place of those which have
fallen, and the scattered seeds of the faded flowers
give birth to a blooming progeny. Thus, Adam, shall
we once return to the dust, and thus shall we be re¬
newed in our children.*
* The celebrated Herder'has enlarged on this subject in an exquisitely
beautiful passage, in one of his performances 'entitled, "God." Speak¬
ing of death, he says: "Observe the flower, how she hastens into blos¬
som. She draws to herself sap, air, light, and all the elements, which she
prepares in order to assist her growth, to furnish the vital juices and to
produce blossom: blossom succeeds and disappears. She has now spent
all her power, her love and life to become a mother, to leave behind
images of herself, and to propagate her kind. Her energies are exhaust¬
ed and consumed in the restless service of nature; and it maybe said that,
from the c ommencement of her life, she has been working her own destruc¬
tion. But, what else is destroyed than a form she can no longer retain,
and which having reached the highest degree of beauty and perfection of
which it is susceptible, again hastens to decay. But she does not under¬
go this change as a dead being—which would be a gloomy reflection—
to make room for youthful and vigorous successors, but rather as a living
being in the full enjoyment of the pleasures of existence. She was the
author of their existence, which she propagated under a form of the most
perfect beauty, in the ever-blooming garden of Time, where she herself
likewise flourishes. For she dies not with the form under which she ap¬
pears; the power of the root continues; she will awake from the sleep of
winter and again shoot fortii in renewed, vernal, and youthful beauty
with the daughters of her existence, now friends and sisters, by her vir¬
gin side. Thus there is no such thing as death in the creation. It is
only a hastening away of that which cannot remain; that is, the opera¬
tion of an ever-vouthful, restless, unextinguishable power, which from
* , "She
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Allan's reply.
" She was silent, and touched with melancholy, I
replied : 'Far other cares, my beloved ,Eve, oppress
my heart! How willingly would I resign all the advan¬
tages, all the delights of Paradise ! But, to be banished
from that spot, where God, veiling his insupportable
radiance, deigned to render himself visible to our sight
and to walk among the groves, while solemn silence
attended the presence of the Deity;—this, this it is
that afflicts me, this is to me the most painful loss. IIow
often, in prostrate adoration, have I dared to address
him, while the Almighty listened with benignity to the
voice of his creature, and vouchsafed to answer me 1
Put, alas 1 this glorious privilege of pure spirits we
have forfeite. Can the most pure walk among sin¬
ners ? can he walk upon that earth, on which he has
pronounced his malediction ? It is true, that from his
throne he looks down on us with compassion, and that
his mercy to us in our miserable state exceeds our ut¬
most hopes. It likewise appears, that his angels still
visit the earth to execute his commands ; but they veil
their celestial splendor; they deign not to become visi¬
ble to our eyes, and hasten to leave this seat of cor¬
ruption; for we are unworthy to hold converse with
spirits who have not offended the Most High.'
its very na tire, cannot rema'n a moment inactive, but is always co-ops-
rating in ti e most admirable manner in its own existence, and that of as
many others as it is capable of producing. Can you imagine a more ex¬
quisitely beautiful law of wisdom and goodness in the system of transfor¬
mation, than that by which every thing hastens with rapid career, to re¬
newed, youthful vigor, and is consequently subject to progressive alter¬
ation from one moment to another?" T.
"We
THE DEATH OF ABEL. 59
» .
Ibcy are visited by an angel.
" We thus conversed, and wrapped in profound con¬
templation, gazed with melancholy emotions on the
earth before us, when a resplendent cloud gradually
descended. It now rested upon the hill, and from it
issued a celestial form whose' countenance beamed
with majesty and sweetness. We hastily arose, and
bowing down our heads, advanced towards him, when
the angel thus addressed us : " He whose throne is in
heaven has heard your conversation. Go,' said he,
to me, 'and inform these children of affliction, that I
am not circumscribed by the boundaries of heaven,
but that every point of my creation is filled u ith my
presence. Who maketh the sun to shine, and who
guideth the stars in their course? Who causeth the
earth to bring forth fruits, and day and night to follow
each other? Who giveth life and breath to all created
beings; who preserveth them; and who preventeth
thee from sinking into death and corruption? I am
with thee, saith the Lord, and thy most secret thoughts
are known to me.'
"Thrilled with holy awe, I raised my eyes dazzled
with the radiance that surrounded me, and said:
'How inconceivably great is the mercy of the Lord !
In compassion to our misery he sendeth his angels to
comfort sinners. Ah! I stand overwhelmed with
shame, before thee; 1 scarcely dare to raise my eyes
to thee; but permit metto communicate to thee my
melancholy forebodings. I feel, I perceive with sa¬
cred awe, that the presence of the Almighty extends
to
40
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Conversation will) the angel.
to the whole creation. How can beings polluted by
sin ask or hope, that he, who is purity itself, should
more distinctly manifest his presence? Hut will not
my posterity, sinking perhaps still deeper into sin, be¬
come more wretched, and will not their conceptions
of the most perfect of Beings be enveloped in dark¬
ness and obscurity? For, in the same manner as I
have fallen, may they not likewise fall into the lowest
depths of guilt? When I shall be no longer with
them to testify his goodness, every worm will, it is true,
proclaim it; but will not the voice of Nature be too
weak to make an impression on the minds of men, if
the Almighty continues to hide his countenance from
them ? This thought it is that continually oppresses
me.'
—"The celestial being deigned with benignity thus to
answer:' Father of men ! fie in whom all creation lives
and moves, will not forsake thy descendants. Often
will their sins provoke him to grasp his thunders and
to manifest himself in his judgments, and sinners,
trembling in the dust, shall acknowledge the power
and the justice of their God. But more frequently
will he make himself known by his mercies. When
they have wandered from his ways he will graciously
call them back ; he will raise up among them holy men,
who will enlighten their understandings, and lead
them from the wilderness of error and guilt into the
paths of the Lord. Fie will send prophets among
them to announce the judgments or the mercies
of
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
41
Conversation with the angel.
y ■
of the iVIost High, while still concealed in the bosom
of remote futurity; to convince them that Eternal wis¬
dom guides and determines every event. Often will
he speak to them by angels and by miracles; and there
will be some righteous men to whom he will himself
descend from his throne, till at length the great mys¬
tery of salvation shall be revealed, and the seed of the
woman shall crush the serpent's head.'
" He was silent; the smile of benignity that beamed
on his countenance emboldened me again to address
him. Celestial friend ! if a sinner dare call thee by
that name—yet angels cannot hate him whom the
Eternal doth not hate, him, to whom the infinite mer¬
cy of the Lord is so wonderfully manifested, that hea¬
ven is lost in astonishment, and the soul, humbled in
the dust, is unable to express its gratitude—O, allow
me to ask thee, if thou art permitted to remove the
veil of obscurity that envelopes these sacred mysteries.
What means the Almighty's promise, ' The seed of the
woman shall crush the serpent's head,' and what im¬
ports the curse, 'Thou shalt die?'—'What I am per¬
mitted to unfold,.' answered the angel, ' I will not con¬
ceal from thee. Know then, Adam, that when thou
hadst sinned, the voice of God.pronounced from his
throne: 'Man is fallen and he shall die.' An awful
darkness suddenly veiled the eternal throne, and
solemn silence reigned in heaven. Not long prevailed
this solemn silence; the darkness was dissipated from
before the throne, and never before was the brightness
of his majesty so gloriously displayed to his angels,
•F excepting
42
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Conversation with the angel.
excepting when his creative voice passed forth into the
immeasurable void, and called those suns and stars
into existence. His voice again resounded through
the regions of heaven: 41 will not turn my face from
the sinner; the earth shall bear witness to my infinite
mercy. The seed of the woman shall crush the ser¬
pent's head. Hell shall not boast its victory and death
shall lose its prey. Rejoice, ye heavens!' Thus spake the
Eternal. The archangels overpowered by the resplen-.
dent effulgence of his glory, had sunk before it, had not
the insupportable radiance of the throne been speedily
tempered. The inhabitants of heaven then celebrated
the sacred mystery of infinite grace. But the manner in
which God will accomplish his atonement with sinners
is not yet revealed to the archangels themselves. We
only know, and I am permitted to inform thee, that
death is deprived of its power; that it releases the spirit,
which in its mortal habitation can have butan imperfect
knowledge of God, from the weight of the curse; and
that while the body moulders in the dust, the soul
ascends to enjoy like us everlasting bliss.—And now
hear, what the Lord saith to thee: 41 will be gracious
to thee and to thy seed, and there shall be a sign between
* us that I will remember this great promise. Raise an
altar upon thishill; on the annual return of theday I gave
thee this promise, a flame shall descend from heaven
and settle upon thy altar. Thou shalt then sacrifice a
young lamb, and the flames shall consume thy offering.'
And now I have revealed to thee what it is permit ted to
created beings to know. I am moreover directed by
the
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
43
The guardian angels of the earth.
the Most High, to shew you, ere I return, that ye are
not so solitary as you imagine, and that this earth,
though it has incurred his curse, is yet inhabited by
pure spirits, who, by the command of the Eternal, watch
over your safety and your happiness.' The angel then
approached and touched our eyes. Words are too weak
•to describe the beauties of the scene that opened to our
view. The earth was peopled with innumerable,celes¬
tial spirits, more beautiful than Eve when she first is¬
sued from the hands of the Eternal, .and with soft voice
awakened -me to her embraces. Some bade light ex¬
halations to arise from the earth, and bore them
aloft on expanded wings, that they might descend in
gentle dews and fertilizing showers; others reposed be¬
side the murmuring streams, watching lest their springs
should fail, and vegetable nature be deprived of its humid
aliment. Many were dispersed among the meadows
and tended the growth of fruits, or painted the open¬
ing flowers with the radiant tints of evening or the
azure of tbe sky, and breathed upon them, that they
might diffuse balmy odors around; while others were
employed in various occupations in the shady groves.
From their glittering wings they wafted gentle breezes,
which, whispering among the foliage, or fanning the
fragrant flowers, played upon the surface of the wind¬
ing brook and the dimpled lake. Some, reposing from
their labors, were seated in the cooling shade, and, un¬
heard by human ear, chanted, in chorus, to their gol¬
den harps, the praises of the Most High. Many were
walking on our hill, or reclining in the sha^e of our
f 2 bowers,
44
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
The guardian angels of the earth.
bowers, and often regarded us with looks of celestial
tenderness; hut our eyes were again overspread with
darkness, and the ravishing scene vanished.
" These,' said the angel,' are the tutelary spirits of the
earth. Many of the beauties and wonders of nature
are too delicate and too refined for mortal sense; but it
is the pleasure of the Creator that none of them should
be lost, and they enrapture and delight innumerable
heavenly beings. They are likewise appointed to di¬
rect nature in her secret course, to assist her in her va¬
rious operations, according to the immutable laws
prescribed by the Creator. They are also occupied in
protecting men and in watching their actions; unseen
they often ward off impending dangers; they accom¬
pany him in all his ways, and convert apparent evils
to real benefits. They are the silent witnesses of thy
domestic happiness, and behold thy most secret actions
with smiles of approbation or with mournful displea¬
sure. By their agency the Lord will bless natrons with
abundance, or chastise them when they have gone
astray with famine and distress, that he may recal them
by the voice of calamity.'
"Thus spoke the angel, and again withdrew into
the resplendent cloud, while we knelt down, and, filled
with inexpressible transport, stammered forth with tears,
our gratitude to,the Eternal for his infinite mercies.
" I then built an altar on the brow of the hill,' and
Eve
THE DEATH OF ABEL. 45
- , ■ ■ ■ • J - ■ • ■■ ■ ■ :. - " :.
Adam builds an altar.
Eve was incessantly employed in creating an imitation
of Paradise around the sacred spot. All the flowers
which she found in the meadows and on the hills she
planted near the altar, and refreshed them each morn¬
ing and evening with pure water from the murmuring
Stream. ' Ye guardian spirits who hover round me,'
ghe exclaimed, ' complete this work of my hands, for
without your aid my labours are unavailing ! O ! let
these flowers bloom here with greater beauty than in
their native soil, for this place cis consecrated to the
Lord.' I meanwhile planted the wide circle of trees,
which threw a silent, solemn shade around the altar.
<{ Amid these occupations the scorching heats of
summer passed away; autumn, with its variegated tints
Was already at an end; inclement blasts succeeded, and
the mountains were shrouded in a foggy mantle. We
beheld with grief the joyless appearance of Nature, and
knew not that the earth, exhausted by its profusion, re¬
quires the repose of winter to recruit its strength: for be¬
fore the fall, the flowery spring, the summer and the au¬
tumn went hand-in-hand, and smiling, bestowed, all at
the same moment, their rich and various gifts. The
gloom diffused over the face of nature continued to in¬
crease; the plants had withered; only a few solitary
flowers still bloomed in the meads and around the altar,
and drooping, seemed to mourn their approaching
decay; when furious winds stripped the trees of their
discolored foliage, shook the fruits from the branches,
and, accompanied by torrents of rain, howled over the
46
THE DEATH OF ABEt.
The first winter.
all-desolate plains and covered the mountains' melan¬
choly summits with snow.
With painful anxiety we beheld this scene of
desolation, believing, that the curse was now begin¬
ning to take effect on the earth. ' Will nature then lose
all the remains of her beauty? The earth was poor in
comparison to Paradise, yet still it afforded sufficient of
comforts and conveniencies to sweeten our lives; but if
the divine malediction spreads such devastation over
the earth, how gloomy, how miserable will be the re¬
mainder of our days!' Such, at first, were our reflec¬
tions; but we soon encouraged each other to banish from
our hearts every discontented thought,and to trust with
devout reliance in the Lord. We now collected a store
of fruits; these we dried on the hearth to preserve them
from corruption and decay; and I strengthened our hut,
that it might protect us from the storms and the rain.
In the mean time our little flock wandered cheerlessly
on the hill, in quest of the scanty herbage which sprang
forth from amisdt the desolation. I often went myself
to meads and hills to collect a supply of food for them
in their fold. Slowly and heavily passed the days of this
rainy and tempestuous season; but the enlivening sun
soon returned and dissipated the gloomy clouds, while
gentler winds chaced the lingering mists from the
mountains. Nature again began to smile in youthful
beauty; the earth was covered with lovely verdure ; a
variegated multitude of flowers decked the meads and
expanded to the sun's genial influence; the bushes and
trees glowed with innumerable blossoms, and joy and
gladness
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
47
lietiirn of spring.
gladness'reigned throughout all nature. Thus bloom¬
ing spring, the gay morning of the year, revisited the
earth; among all the trees of the groves none flourished
with so much beauty as those which I had planted
round the altar, and Eve with joyful surprise beheld the
flowers she had planted near the sacred spot, again
revive or push forth tender shoots. In vain, my children,
should I attempt to describe our extacy; full of inex¬
pressible joy we approached the altar; the sun poured
his purest radiance on,the sacred spot; all nature
seemed to join in the praise of the Lord; the flowers
filled the air with the most delicious odors, and the trees
strewed the altar with their variegated blossoms. The
little winged inhabitants of the grass chirped forth their
joy, and the birds incessantly warbled from the lofty
branches. We knelt down ; tears ofjoy falling from our
eyes, mingled with the morning dew on the flow ers; our
fervent thanksgiving ascended to the God of nature,
to that God who is goodness itself, and who, from
apparent evil, bringeth forth good.
" I now began to cultivate a little field on the hill,
and to sow in the earth the seeds I had collected, or to
transplant to the hill the fruit trees I found scattered
over the adjacent country: and nature, .chance or re¬
flection, often furnished me with means and inventions
for alleviating my toils. Often too did my ignorance of
the proper seasons, and of the sdils suitable for differ¬
ent plants, render my labors abortive. Often has my
imagination in vain attemptpd to discover some little
con-
48
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
The sacrifice.
contrivance to ease my fatigues, and still oftener should
I have failed had not guardian angels whispered to my
soul.
" One morning as at early dawn, I looked out of my
hut towards the altar, I perceived the flame of the Lord
blazing upon it amidst the dim twilight; the approach¬
ing sun gilded the column of ascending smoke. 'Eve!
I exclaimed, ' this is the anniversary of the great pro¬
mise. Behold, the flame of the Lord has descended
upon our altar; let us hasten forth. This day shall be
sacred to the Lord, and every other labor must cease.
Go thou and collect the fairest flowers to strew over
the sacrifice and I will slaughter the youngest of our
lambs.' I went, my children, and slaughtered the
youngest and fairest of our flock; it was the first living
creature I had killed. O, what a dreadful sight! Hor-
„ror chilled my blood, and my arm would have refused
its office, had not the sacred command of the Lord, given
me courage as it moaned under my trembling hands;-
the convulsive movements of its quivering limbs gra¬
dually grew fainter, till at length it lay lifeless at my feet.
Painful forebodings thrilled my soul; but I laid it upon
the altar, and Eve strewed it with fragrant flowers. We
knelt with devout awe before the altar ; our praises and
thanksgivings ascended to the Lord, who so graciously
remembered his promises; a sacred stillness reigned
around, as when the earth hallows the presence of its
Creator, and our ears were ravished with .the softest
strains of celestial music, which according angels min¬
gled with our prayers. The flame having consumed the
4 sacrifice
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
4.9
Birth of Cain.
sacrifice, expired on the altar, and a heavenly perfume
was diffused around.
"Not long, my children, after the sacred festival of
the solemn reconciliation, I vvas returning at sun set up
the hill, to repose from my labor, by the side of my be¬
loved. I sought her in the hut and in the shady bovver,
and found her seated, faint and exhausted, by the
stream, with thee, my first-born, lying on her bosom.
The pains of childbirth had overtaken her while em¬
ployed in her gentle labors by the stream. She be¬
dewed thee with tears of joy, and smiling on me as I
approached I salute thee, father of men!' she exclaim¬
ed. ' The Lord hath supported me in my pains, and
I have brought forth this son. When my eyes first be¬
held him, Icalled him Cain. O my first-born! the Lord
hath graciously looked down upon the hour of thy birth;
to his praise may all thy days be. dedicated! How
weak, how helpless is the offspring of woman! Cut
mayst thou flourish, like the opening flower in spring;
may thy life be an acceptable incense to the Lord!
Tears of joy likewise overflowed my eyes; I took thee
gently in my arms: ' I salute thee, mother of men!" said
I —' blessed be the Lord who supported thee in the
hour of affliction! I salute thee, Cain, the first of hu¬
man beings, that with pain has been born of woman! I
salute thee, the first of mankind, that entered into life
to leave it by death! O God ! look down with com¬
passion from heaven on thy feeble creature; shed thy
influence benign on the morning of his life. Ilowde-
O O
g lightful
50 THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Tirth of Cain.
lightful will it be to me, to instruct his youthful mind in
the wonders of thy grace! Each morning and each
evening shall his infant lips sound forth thy praise.
Yes, mother of men! thus shall thy offspring flourish a-
round thee Solitary like thee, stood yon myrtle, till
her lovely children sprang up around the maternal
stdm. Oft as spring renewed her beauties, a fresh pro¬
geny smiled around her early offspring, and now a fra¬
grant grove encompasses the parent tree. Thus my be¬
loved, (doth not the pleasing prospect mitigate thy
pangs ?) thus will our children multiply around this
hill. We shall then survey from this eminence, their
peaceful habitations spread over the plains. Jf death
doth not snatch us too early from their midst, we shall
see them, like the industrious bees, afford each other
mutual assistance in procuring the necessaries, the con¬
veniences and the comforts of life. Often shall we de¬
scend from this hill to visit our children's children in
their habitations and under their fruitful shades, to re¬
late to thein the wonders of the Lord, to encourage
them in the practice of virtue and piety, to participate
in their joys, and to console them under afflictions.
Then shall we, from our hill, behold a thousand altars
smoke around; the ascending incense shall envelope
us in sacred clouds; and through them shall our pray¬
ers arise for the whole human race. And on the solemn
day of reconciliation, when the fire of heaven descends
on the first sacred altar, then shall they all assemble on
the hill; in their midst we will offer up the accustomed
sacrifice, while they kneel in an extended circle around
us.'
HEATH of ABJEE„
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
51
Birth of Mebala, Abel and Ihirza.
us.' Thus I spoke, while my heart glowed with soft
emotion, and with tender affection I kissed thy infant
cheek, my son! Thy mother then received thee in her
feeble arms, and having assisted her to. rise from the
flowery turf, I supported her to our hut. Thy littlh
limbs soon acquired strength and activity; joy beamed
from thine eyes, and smiles played upon thy cheeks.
Thou wast already able to sport with tender feet among
the flowers; thy little lips already began to lisp thy in¬
fant thoughts, when Eve brought forth Mehala, thy
spouse. With joy thou dancedst around the little
stranger, kissedst her, and coveredsther with new-blown
flowers. Eve then brought forth thee, Abel, and lastly*
thee, Thirza, his beloved. O ! what transport filled
our hearts, when we beheld your youthful sports and
innocent pleasures ; when we saw your tender minds es¬
say their unfolding powers and gradually arrive at ma¬
turity. Then, with anxious care, we watched over you,
to guard your passions and inclinations from every per¬
nicious influence, that, like the tender shoots in spring,
they might flourish, and jointly diffuse around the fra¬
grant incense of virtue. For, while as infants ye yet
sported at my knees, I perceived that the mind of man
brought forth in sin, like the earth cursed by the Al-
t
mighty, requires cultivation, and that the utmost vigi¬
lance and care are necessary to train it in the paths of
virtue. And now ye are grown up from tender shrubs
to fruitful trees: blessed be the Lord for his innumer¬
able mercies to us all! May tender love and pure vir¬
tue ever dwell in your hearts, and the blessing and fa-
g 2 vour
52
THE DEATH OF ABEL'.
Conclusion of Adam's narrative.
vour of heaven will continually rest on your habita¬
tions!"
Adam was silent. As when a gentle youth wanders
in the grey twilight of morning, by the side of his belov¬
ed, and listens to the song of the nightingale, whose ten.
der strains alone interrupting the universal silence, ac¬
cord with their feelings and draw tears from their eyes;
long after the warbler has ceased her melodious notes,
the enraptured pair continue to listen ; so they remain¬
ed for a considerable time listening in mute attention
around the husband and the father. Every part of his
narraiive had excited their sympathy; sometimes the
tears bedewed their pallid cheeks; at others they glowed
with gaiety and smiles. They then expressed their gra¬
titude to the father of men; Cain likewise returned
thanks; but he,unmoved, had neither wept nor smiled.
BOOK
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
They leave the bower.
53
BOOK III.
Conversation of Abel and Thirza—Conversation of Cain and Mehala—
Anamelech—His Journey to the earth—His Soliloquy—He pitches
upon Cain as a fit instrument for the execution of his horrid designs—
Adam's illness—His address to his family—Affliction of Eve—Abel's
Prayer—He receives from an angel flowers and herbs with directions
how to use them for the relief of his father—Envy of Cain—Adam re¬
turns thanks to the Almighty for his recovery—Cain and Abel offer sa¬
crifices on the occasion—Soliloquy of Cain.
rJ^HEY now left the bower. Abel tenderly embraced
bis brother, and each pair pursued their moon-light
way to their respective habitations. " What pleasure fills
my soul!" exclaimed Abel, embracing his beloved;
t( my brother, my dear brother is no longer estranged
from me—he will love me ! With what delight I be¬
held the tears which to day bedewed his cheeks ! No,
not so grateful are the dews of spring to the flowers,
as those tears are to me. The storm which raged
in his bosom is calmed; tranquillity and joy are re¬
stored to us. Thou who, with infinite benignity,
watchedst over the first of men, while they were the
solitary inhabitants of the spacious earth, O chase
from 'his bosom every tumultuous passion, that they
may never resume their empire in "his soul!"
Thirza
54
THE DEATH OF ABEL
Conversation of Cain and Mchala.
fc.. .. ,.i.— ... . -
Thirza embraced him; soft rapture beamed from
her countenance; "The gentle rain" said she, "is not
so refreshing to the parched fields, nor was the return
of spring after the first melancholy winter so delightful
to the lonely inhabitants of the earth, as were to me
the tears of our brother's returning love ! O blissful
hour! Youth and gaiety again sit on our parents'
brows; every bosom is filled with delight and joy. 0
blessed moment! Nature seems to glow with more
than usual beauty, and thy beams, thou silent moon,
are to me m6re soft and soothing!" Thus did she
pour forth the effusions of her joy.
In the mean time Cain, accompanied by his Me-
hala, proceeded towards his hut. She gazed on him
with tenderness, pressed his hand to her lips and said :
"What gloom, my beloved, overspreads thy brow?
Cannot the tranquillity restored to thy bosom, impart
serenity to thine eyes and cheerfulness to thy counte¬
nance ! It is true thy firmer mind has ever been more
reserved in the expression of thy pleasures, which thy
heart enjoys in silence. But, what joy played on
every cheek, what rapture beamed from every eye,
when thou, my beloved, with fraternal affection, em-
bracedst thy brother, when the Almighty blessed thee
from his eternal throne, and hovering angels shed tears
of transport around us! Suffer me, my beloved, by the
tender affection that glows within my breast, by the
soft rapture that overflows my heart, suffer me to press
thee
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
55
i Conveisation of Cain and Mehala.
thee to my bosom!"* She said, and pressed him with
fervor to her throbbing breast.
Cain returned her embrace and said: "I am of¬
fended—yes, I am displeased at your excessive joy.
Does it not seem to say to me: ' Cain is amended;
hitherto he has been a wicked man, he hated his bro¬
ther?' Ridiculous! shall it be concluded that I was
vicious, that I hated my brother because I did not
continually pursue him with tears and embraces ? Ne¬
ver, no, never did I hate my brother; but that soft¬
ness, that effeminacy with which he stole from me all
your hearts, this it was that filled me with disgust!
And, Mehala ! it is not without cause that care clouds
my brow. How great was our father's imprudence in
relating to us the history of his shameful fall and all
its unhappy consequences ! Why should we know, and
be so often told, that through his and Eve's disobedi¬
ence we have forfeited Paradise, that through their
crime we are overwhelmed with misery ? Were we ig¬
norant of this, we should more patiently endure our
wretchedness, unconscious of the loss we have sus¬
tained." Mehala repressed the tears with which grief
* The poet could not more impressively or more strongly have de¬
scribed the rugged and unbending disposition of Cain than by the con¬
cluding words of Mehala's address. Before she begins to speak, she
only ventures to press his hand to her lips; and at length, in the most pa¬
thetic manner, implores permission to embrace him,—a favor which we
may rationally conclude had often been denied her. T.
filled
56
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Conversation of Caitfand Mchala.
filled her eyes, and looked at her husband to discover
whether she might venture to reply. " O my beloved!'
said she, with gentle accents, "be not angry! I can¬
not restrain my tears. Forgive me if I implore thee
not to suffer the scattered clouds of melancholy again
to gather over thy head ; and not to convert those things
which should lead thee to contemplate the infinite
grace and mercy of the Almighty into sources of
misery and wretchedness ! Reproach not our affection¬
ate father and our indulgent mother for relating the
wonders which God has performed for fallen men, in
order to inspire our souls with the warmest gratitude,
and with devout resignation. O, reproach them not!
—them, who behold with inexpressible anguish every
tear of sorrow, who are deeply afflicted by every ges¬
ture in us that bespeaks pain or grief. Resist, my be¬
loved, O resist returning discontent; suffer it not again
to take possession of thy heart, and to obscure thy days
and ours with melancholy gloom !" She was silent, and
with tearful eyes gazed tenderly on him; a smile tem¬
pered the sternness of his countenance. "I will resist
returning discontent; embrace me my beloved, never
more shall it obscure your days and mine with melan¬
choly gloom!" He said, and pressed Mehala in his
embrace.*
* We have here a charming picture of the irresistible influence of a
virtuous and accomplished woman over the most savage disposition.
Cain had heard unmoved the pathetic narrative of Adam, he had beheld
4 Long
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
57
Anamelech.
Long had Anamelech (by that name he was known
in hell) observed the conduct of Cain: though a spirit
of inferior class, yet in pride and ambition he was
equal to Satan. Often forsaking his despised associates
he withdrew into solitudes, where streams of sulphur
crept through the parched land, between vast, smok¬
ing rocks, whose black summits were shrouded in eter¬
nal tempests. The tremendous reflection which the
flames that blazed beyond the mountains threw upon
the clouds, shed a dusky twilight over his gloomy path.
When hell with tumultuous shouts of triumph congra¬
tulated her king, when, returning from the new crea¬
tion, he proudly related from his throne how he bad
seduced the new-formed pair, and had obliged the
Lord of heaven to pronounce upon them the decree of
death; the black poison of envy rankled in the bosom
of Anamelech. 4 Shall only he, and those who are
proudly seated around his throne, enjoy honor and ap¬
plause, while I unnoticed, am confounded among the
contemptible multitude consigned to the obscurity of
hell? No—I will do such deeds as shall fill hell with
astonishment; Satan, like the lowest spirit shall pro¬
nounce my name with reverence !' Thus he thought,
and in solitude meditated projects for desolating the
earth, for spreading misery and wretchedness among
the human race. These he executed with such success
unmoved the transports of the happy family on his reconciliation with his
brother; but his soul was not proof against the tears and tender re¬
monstrances of Mehala. T.
H that
53
the death of abel.
J 'asMge of Anamelech to the earlli.
that even hell itself heard his name with horror. It
was he who in a later age, excited a ruthless king to
destroy the innocent infants of Bethlehem; smiling,
he beheld the human fiends, who dashed those hapless
\ictims against the walls dripping with their blood, or
plunged the reeking swords into their bosoms, while
in the trembling arms of their shrieking mothers. He
hovered, exulting, over the lofty pinacles of the town,
listening to the cries of the dying infants and the la¬
mentations of their disconsolate mothers ; with infer¬
nal joy he saw the mutilated limbs of the little man¬
gled victims scattered around, and trampled under the
feet of their murderers; and beheld their mothers, fa¬
thers, brothers and sisters rolling, in the bitterness of
anguish, in their innocent blood.
"I will arise," he exclaimed, "I will ascend to the
earth. I will learn the import of the sentence: 'Thou
shalt die.'—I will go and accelerate the destruction of
man." Then passing through the portals of hell, he
pursued the path which Satan had first traced through
the awful empire of Chaos and ancient Night.* As
when a corsair equipped for depredation, steers with
full saii through the wide-extended sea, till arriving at
night on Hesperia's coasts, the pirates surprise the tran¬
quil inhabitants of some peaceful village, and carry
off its active youths, while parents, sisters and discon-
* In allusion to Satan's journey to the earth so admirably described in
the second book of Milton's Paradise Lost. T.
sol ate
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
59
Soliloquy t f Anamelech.
solate brides, with weeping eyes pursue from the shore
the lessening bark of the merciless ravishers—thus did
Anamelech with rapid p<ice, long continue his course
through the darksome empire of night. At length ar¬
rived on the frontiers of the creation, the exterior
orbs afforded him a gleaming light-— As he, who me¬
ditating some horrible murder, repairs in the dead of
the night to the metropolis, which lies before him in
the plain illumined by ten thousand lamps, cautiously
advances, anxious to avoid the light; so Anamelech
with equal timidity traversed the regions of created
space. Having discovered the earth he hesitated not
long to seek the abode of man; his piercing eye soon
perceived it, and he alighted in a shady thicket.
"And this," said he, "is the earth which the Almighty
has cursed ; at a distance I beheld Paradise guarded
by flaming swords ;—a delightful spot resembling the
celestial regions; this they have forfeited for ever !
But this earth is not a hell; perhaps by abject prayers
they have appeased his anger; perhaps their coarser
frames are subjected to pains and afflictions, of which
celestial spirits and ethereal substances are not suscep¬
tible ; for here I could be happy, but for the hell which
I carry within my bosom.—I see celestial spirits walk¬
ing amidst these shades; I must endeavor to elude
their observation, lest they defeat all my designs. On
yon hill I perceive the family of sinners, but they do
not appear to be wretched ; perhaps, their misery com¬
mences with death;—mine be the task to hasten its
arrival. I will tempt them to such deeds—for it ap-
h 2 pears
60
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Anamelcch resolve® to make an instrument of Cain.
pears their hearts are open to every seduction ; and if
Satan's simple artifice succeeded in corrupting them,
while they were yet perfect, how much more easily will
they fall now, in their present degraded state, now
that they are laden with the malediction of their God!
1, will tempt them to such deeds, that their heavenly
guardians shall forsake the earth with horror, and that
he who created them shall annihilate them with his
thunders, or precipitate them into the abyss of hell;
then from the black shores shall we witness, with
shouts of triumph shall we witness these favorites of
heaven, struggling amid the flaming billows ! In yon
field stands one of them, who bears on his brow the
marks of gloomy discontent; if I may trust the fea¬
tures of his countenance he is a proper instrument for
executing my designs. I will approach him; I will
make myself acquainted with all his propensities and
all his thoughts."
The evil spirit had hovered over Cain and his wife
and had listened to their conversation. They had scarce¬
ly entered their hut, when he stopped and with a sneer
exclaimed: "Suffer not the scattered clouds of melan¬
choly again to gather over thy head : let not returning
discontent take possession of thy heart!—No—what
is good shall never spring up in that ungrateful soil;
I will destroy it. And the clouds of discontent will
I collect over thy head, dark and thick as those which
6hroud in impenetrable gloom the summits of the in¬
fernal mountains. Indeed the task is easy ! thou re-
callest
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
61
Illness of Adam.
eallest them thyself; I have only to assist thee ! De¬
lightful employ! I will assist thee to accumulate them
over thy brows; misery, wretchedness, new and yet
nameless wretchedness shall overwhelm mankind; the
remainder of thy days shall be veiled in darker gloom,
black as the night on which no morning dawns,
shrouding the regions of hell."
The lovely morning sun again returned, inspiring
cheerfulness and joy. Cain had already seized his
implements of husbandry and was going to his field;
Abel had tenderly saluted him, and was. about to con¬
duct his flock to the dewy mead, and Mehala and
Tbirza were preparing to go to the garden that sur¬
rounded the altar, when Eve with sorrowful aspect
quitted her habitation. With anxious solicitude they
all advanced to meet their weeping mother, and to in¬
quire the cause of her sorrow. Eve; gaz'mg on them
with eyes bedewed with tears, in broken accents replied:
" Alas, my children ! did you not hear dreadful groans
issue from our dwelling? Acute pains came in the
night upon your father; he now struggles with the
agony which pierces all1 his bones, he strives to restrain
every sigh that escapes from his oppressed bosom, sti¬
fles all complaints and endeavors !o console me. Alas.l
my children, dark forebodings, distract my soul, audi
my tortured heart refuses all consolation. Often when
he lies still without sighing, he appears to. be lost in
serious contemplation; he then moans with agony,
cold dews stand upon his forehead and the tears he had
repressed
62
THE HEATH OF ABEL.
Adam's address to his children.
repressed burst in torrents from his eyes. Appre¬
hensions—the most terrible apprehensions, oppress my
shuddering soul. Support, my children, your wretch¬
ed mother, and let us go to the hut!" She now re¬
clined weeping on Mehalas shoulder, and accompa¬
nied by the mournful train of her children, returned
to her habitation.
They stood sorrowfully around the bed of their fa¬
ther; he now lay more tranquil, and his countenance
and his gestures evinced that, amidst the excruciating
sufferings he endured, his soul was still master of itself,
lie gazed on the mourners with a tender smile, and
said: "My beloved children the hand of the Lord
hath afflicted me with pain and anguish, which prey
upon my vitals. Blessed be his name, whose wisdom
governs all things. If he has ordained these pains to
dissolve the bands that unite my soul to this body,
and it be his will that this mortal frame should return
to its native dust, with devout resignation I will await
the awful hour, and even in my expiring moments I
will praise him, the Lord of life and death. My soul,
delivered from the body oppressed by the Creator's
curse, will then be able to praise him in more elevated
strains. Yes, Almighty Being! with such encouraging
hopes thou inspirest the soul of a mortal! It is just
that I should be the first to give back my dust to its
parent ear,th; but O God ! be thou my support, let
cheering hopes enliven my soul; forsake, O forsake
me not in the awful hour of my dissolution, when the
last
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
63
Adauj's address to his childien.
last tremor thrills my frame ! Afflict me not Eve, and
ycu, my beloved children, with your excessive grief.
O, how ye stand overwhelmed with deep, with silent
sorrow ! ah ! distress me not I beseech you with the
sight of your anguish. Perhaps these pains are but
the forerunners of the gradual approach of death,
wlfpse arrival maybe deferred to a distant hour; per¬
haps the Lord will remove the pains with which I am
now afflicted. But prepare your souls, that they may
not sink beneath the weight of grief, if he should be
O O '
pleased to call my spirit from its dust, if he should
summon me away from> this earth and separate me
from you." The father of men paused, tears bedewed
his cheeks, as with silent emotion he gazed on his fa¬
mily.* His eyes were fixed successively on each, but
longest and most sorrowfully on Eve. He then con¬
tinued: "It is true the sight of the death of the first
sinner will be awful and horrible. May he support
you who in our wretchedness never forsook us, and
who, in that trying hour, will not forsake me. Now
leave me, my children, go and pray for me; perhaps
a soft slumber may refresh my weary limbs."
* Every reader of sensibility must agree that this affecting pause of
Adam speaks w 1th more impressive-eloquence to tire heart than the strongest
language. In many parts of the pathetic scene described in this book, the
author doubtless had a surer guide than imagination. He copied from na¬
ture; and many of the sentiments he here introduces, were probably those
which a similar occasion suggested to himself and his family. The same
subject is known to have furnished him with the idea of one of his
Idyls. T.
The
64
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Mis meditation!.
The father of men* was silent, and his weeping chil¬
dren stooped to kiss his feeble hand. "Yes, father," said
they, "we will go and offer up our ardent supplications
for thee; may softest slumbers recruit thy exhausted
strength, and O may our prayers be accepted; and be¬
fore thou shalt awake may the Lord remove the pains by
which thou art afflicted!"
Suppressing their sighs, they went from his bed, and
left the cottage; Eve only remained. "I will now en¬
deavor to slumber,"said Adam; " O weep not thou dear
object of my love! or my renewed affliction will chase re¬
pose far from me." lie now covered his face with the
skins which composed his couch, anxious toconceal from
his wife the anguish which overwhelmed his tortured soul.
"Is this,"thought he,"is this the awful hour? Yes, it must
be; and with what horrors it is accompanied! O God!
O God! forsake not an expiring sinner. But terrible as
thou art, how sweet would be the consolation, wert thou
even clothed in still greater terrors, if my death could
exempt my offspring from the punishment of my crime.
But no; on all that are born of woman thou wilt once
pour forth these horrors, this awful gloom ; for what
but a race of mortal sinners can issue from my loins?
All who receive life from me shall die! shall, like me, be
torn from the objects of their fondest affection, from
those who impart to life its noblest pleasures. O Eve
my beloved! how wilt thou once weep over my senseless
dust! O awful, O tremendous idea ! will not my inani¬
mate relics tremble, when forlorn orphans deplore the
4 loss
THE DEATH OF-ABEL.
65
Meditations of Adam.
tender parents ; when helpless parents weep over an
only son, the support of their old age ; when the bro¬
ther mourns his sister, wfyen the fond wife laments the
husband of her affection, or the bride with frantic an¬
guish bewails the youth she loved. O curse me not, my
children! curse not my mouldering dust! It is just that
the hour of death should be armed with terrors; it is just
that we should feel the whole weight of the divine male¬
diction in our expiring moments—those moments which
remove us from this life of sin, for it is death that de¬
livers us from the curse, and conveys our spirits into the
regions of bliss. O curse not then my mouldering dust,
my children! No, this life is not life ; it is but a rest¬
less dream, a foretaste of existence. Disperse then, ye
clouds which darken my soul! By death I shall be re¬
moved into life, where I will wait to receive them with
the fondness of a father, who, having first awaked on a
beauteous morning of spring, enjoys the cheering rays of
the morning sun, till the objects of his affection rise from
their slumbers And rush into his embraces." Such were
the meditations of Adam, till a soft slumber stole upon
him, and brought with it tranquillity and ease.
In the mean time, Eve sat in an agony of grief by his
side ; she wept, and in a low voice, lest she should dis¬
turb the slumberer's repose thus gave vent to her an¬
guish : " O what misery do I experience! On me, On
me pour forth a double portion of affliction, O curse,
thou consequence of sin! All the pangs, all the wretch¬
edness you endure, ye much-loved objects, I brought, it
i was
66
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Eve's lamentations.
was I who first sinned. If thou diest—O how I trem¬
ble! what horror chills my blood— can the last expiring
pang be more terrible ? O Adam, if I who involved thee
in misery am doomed to behold thee expire, in thy last
agonies cast not on me a glance of scorn or indignation >
O O O )
and curse me not, O my children, curse notyour wretch¬
ed mother ! It is true no reproaches have yet escaped
your lips, but is not every sigh that heaves your bosoms,
every tear that bedews your cheeks a cu tting reproach ?
Listen, O Almighty Being ! listen to my earnest suppli¬
cations ; remove the pains that afflict him ; or, if they
are the forerunners of death, if—horrible idea! his body
is to return to its native dust, in mercy separate me not
from him ; let me die by his side ; let my soul first de¬
part, that I may not witness his agonies; it was I who
first transgressed!" Eve w as silent, and wept in bitter
anguish by the couch of the slumberer.
Cain repaired to his fields ; the tears were dried from
his cheeks. " I could not refrain from weeping," said
he on the way, " as I stood by the couch of my father:
his sighs and his words pierced my very soul. But—I
hope he will not die. O God! preserve the life of my
beloved parent! I was unable to forbear weeping ; but I
could not melt to such effeminate tenderness as my bro¬
ther. Will they still say that my disposition is rugged
and unbending? Will they imagine that I love my father
less ihan Abel, because I did not sob like him? I love
my father,—love him as tenderly as he; but I cannot
command my tears to flow."
Abel,
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
67
Abel's prayer.
Abel, oppressed with sorrow, wandered in the mead;
tears still streamed from his eyes. Casting himself on
the earth, he concealed his face against the turf, whose
flowers he bedewed with his tears, and addressed this
prayer to the Almighty:
" O thou, who, with infinite wisdom and goodness,
presidest over the destiny of mortals, accept the hum¬
ble tribute of my praise ! 1 venture to supplicate thee
in our distress, for thou hast permitted the sinner to re¬
lieve his heart by pouring forth his sorrpws to thee. Can
it be expected that thou shouldst reverse the decrees of
thy wisdom in compliance with the intreatiesof a miser¬
able worm? Wise and good are thy dispensations, O
Lord ! I only pray for strength and fortitude to endure
our affliction. But, if it seemeth good to thy wisdom, re¬
store to us—O restore to the afflicted wife her husband;
to her who weeps disconsolate by his side, restore him,
who shared with her joy and sorrow, and in whom her
life is bound up. Restore to his mourning children their
beloved parent, and defer to a distant period the hour of
his death. At thy command, O Lord! pain and anguish
shall be removed; the effusions of devout rapture and
heartfelt gratitude shall ascend to thee from the habita-
• O
tions of mortals. Suffer him who gave us life to remain
longer among us ; permit him still to declare to us thy
infinite mercies, to instruct his children's children to lisp
thy praise! But, if thy wisdom have decreed that he
shall die—O pardon me, if my tongue falters and my
soul shudders at the painful thought—if my father must
i 2 die
6$ THE DEATH OF ABEL.
n JiugH presents 11- vnf find hubs k Abel lo cure his father. ^
die—support him in the awful hour of dissolution ! for¬
give our tears, our anguish and lamentations; impart
strength and comfort to our afflicted bosoms. Forsake
us not in our distress, preserve us from sinking under
the weight of calamity, so that, even in our misery we
may praise the dispensations of thy wisdom!"
Thus prayed Abel; bowed in the deepest humility,
- he still remained prostrate on the earth, when he heard
a rustling noise, and balmy odors perfumed the air. lie
raised his head from the ground, and a guardian angel,
beaming with celestial beauty, stood before him. A
garland of roses entwined his brow, his smile was
lovely as the dawn of the spring morning. "Friend!"
said he in gentle accents, "the Lord hath graciously
listened to thy prayer. He hath commanded me to
assume a material form, and to convey to you comfort
and relief in your affliction. The eternal wisdom,
which incessantly watches over the welfare of every
created being, whose care is equally extended to the
creeping worm and to the empyreal seraph, has in
mercy commanded the earth to produce from its bosom,
remedies for the relief of its inhabitants, whose bodies
are now subject to pains, infirmities,and all the noxious
influences which nature, since the curse, exercises upon
them. Receive, my friend ! these flowers and herbs j
they possess healing qualities. Go, boil them in pure
water from the spring, administer the draught, and re¬
store health to thy suffering father."
The
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
69
Abel administers the healing draught o his father.
The angel gave him the flowers and herbs and dis-
O o
appeared. Abel, filled with unutterable transport,
stood motionless. "O God! "he cried, "what am I,
a sinner in the dust, that thou shouldst thus graciously
listen to my supplication? How can a mortal thank
thee? IIow can he sufficiently extol thy infinite mer¬
cies, when the powers of celestial choirs are inade¬
quate to record thy praise?" Joy gave wings to his
feet; he hastened to his hut, and, with eager impa¬
tience, prepared the healing beverage. He flew with
it to the habitation of his father, where Eve sat weep¬
ing beside his couch, while Thirza and Mehala stood
overwhelmed with grief, by her side. They beheld
with astonishment his eager haste, the joy that sparkled
in his eyes and the smile wdiich played on his cheeks.
" My dear mother, my beloved sisters ! " he exclaimed,
"return thanks to the Lord, dry the tears of sorrow
from your eyes ; the Almighty has listened to our sup¬
plications, and has sent us relief. An angel appeared
to me as I prayed in the meadow, and gave me herbs
of healing power. ' Boil them,' said he,' in pure water,
administer the draught, and restore health to thy suf¬
fering father.' They heard him with rapturous asto¬
nishment, and their lips overflowed with gratitude and
praise. Adam, having taken the fragrant draught,
raised himself on his couch, and with fervent devotion
returned thanks to the Lord; then taking his son's
hand, he pressed it tenderly to his lips, bedewed it with
tears, and said ; " Blessed be thou, my son, by whom
the Lord has sent me relief; whose pure virtue is ac¬
ceptable
70
TIIE DEATH OF ABEL.
Ciiiu's visit to his f.ithei's cottage.
ceptable to him, and to whose prayers he vouchsafes to
listen. Blessed be thou, my son'" Eve and her
(laughters likewise embraced him by whom the Al¬
mighty had sent relief and comfort.
While this scene was passing in Adam's habitation,
Cain returned from the field. "Anxious apprehen¬
sions torment me," said he; "I will go to my father's
dwelling, perhaps my assistance may be wanted : per¬
haps, alas, he may expire, and I shall not receive a
parting blessings from his lips." lie, therefore, hast¬
ened from the field, and beheld with astonishment the
general transports and the endearments bestowed on
his brother, on whom he heard his father pronounce
his blessing. Mehala joyfully advanced to meet him,
and throwing herself into his arms, related how the
Lord had sent relief by the hand of Abel. Cain ap¬
proached his father's bed, kissed his hand, and said;
"I salute thee, father! Praised be the Lord who has
again restored thee to us! But hast thou no blessing
for me, father? Thou hast blessed him bv whom the
Lord sent relief; bless me too, thy first-born, my fa¬
ther !" Adam, gazing on him with tenderness, press¬
ed his son's hand in his. " O Cain ! Cain ! " said he,
" blessed be thou, my first-born ! May the grace of
the Lord descend upon thee ! May peace ever dwell
in thy bosom, and undisturbed tranquillity in thy soul!"
Cain then advancing to his brother, embraced him,
for he felt that he could not avoid it as every one else
had embraced him with transports of tenderness. He
left the hut, and retiring into the darksome recesses,
5 of
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
71
Cain's envy of his brother.
of a grove, * he paused to give vent to the gloomy
ideas that pervaded his soul. "Tranquillity, undis¬
turbed tranquillity !'' he repeated : " how is it possible?
—how can I enjoy tranquillity? Was I not obliged
to implore the blessing which unasked he bestowed on
my brother? It is true, I am the first-born, a glori¬
ous privilege ! unfortunate wretch that I am ! I have
the first right to misery and contempt. By the hands
,of my brother, the Lord sent relief-; he is always fa¬
vored with the means of acquiring a superior portion
of their affection. How should they regard me whom
the Lord hath disregarded, and whom the angels pass
by unheeded? They appear not to me, they pass me
with contempt; yes, when I spend my strength in the
labors of the field, and the sweat pours from my sun¬
burnt brow, they pass me with contempt, to seek him
whose delicate hands are employed in playing with the
flowers, or who idly reclines by the side of his flock,
or from excessive tenderness weeps because the setting
sun tinges the clouds with crimson, or because the dew
glitters on the variegated herbage. Woe to me, that
I should be the first-born ! on me alone the full
weight of the malediction appears to have fallen.
For him all nature smiles; I alone earn my bread by
the sweat of my brow; I alone am miserable ! Wrap-
* The poet well knew th.it the mind, eagerly seeks those scenes and
situations that are congenial with the sentiments and passions by which it
is occupied. Hence the predilection of the gloomy mind of Cain at this
moment, for the darksome recesses of the grove. T.
ped
72
the death of adee.
Adam's prayer and thanksgiving for his recovciy.
ped in these gloomy meditations he wandered in the
grove.
The sun was setting behind the blue hills, his de¬
parting rays lingered on the summits of the mountains,
and tinged the clouds with glowing crimson, when
Adam said: "The sun is retiring behind the hills; I
will go out into the verdant arbour before our hut,
and ere the day closes I will leturn thanks to the Lord
who has relieved my affliction." lie arose from his
bed; youthful vigor animated his limbs, and Eve and
her daughters accompanied him into the bovver before
the hut. The landscape still glowed with the soft tints
of sun-set, and Adam, kneeling down, contemplated
with rapture the lovely scene. "Here, almighty Be¬
ing!"' said he with fervent gratitude and devotion,
"here I again appear before thee, to praise thy un¬
speakable goodness ! Ye pains, that racked my limbs
and like fire consumed my vitals, whither are ye fled f
But, amidst the violence of my anguish, my soul
trusted in the Lord; he listened to our supplications,
and deigned to look down from his eternal throne ; the
pains ceased to rage, and health and vigor returned.
Death shall not yet seize me as his prey; I am still
spared to praise thee in this mortal body, to experi¬
ence new wonders of thy inexpressible mercy, which
thou shewest to fallen man. O, I will praise thee,
thou almighty Being! from the dawn of the morning,
till the rising of the evening star. While my soul in¬
habits this mortal body I will send forth praise and
thanksgiving,
THE DEATH OF A^EL.
73
Adam's prayer and thauksgiuog for liis recovery.
thanksgiving, and when jny spirit quits this abode of
dust, then, O God of mercy! then shall it trium¬
phantly ascend to thee, and live and behold thy glory !
Ye resplendent angels, look, down on the dwelling of
sinners, on the abode of death ! This earth, whose
mountains trembled and whose charms vanished, when
sinners fell and ye turned your faces from us, is still
the theatre of the wonders of his infinite mercy ; look
down, and with sacred awe praise it in more worthy
strains; for man, alas, can only weep and stammer
forth his amazement. I salute thee once more thou
lovely sun ! thy morning-beams darting from behind
the cedars, found me struggling with anguish ; with
sighs I greeted thy rays as they gradually enlightened
my hut; thy evening radiance glows behind the moun¬
tains, while I kneel before the Lord who hath relieved
me, and who before thou hast retired has restored me to
health. I salute you, ye lofty mountains, yeTiills scat¬
tered over, the plain, I salute you ! my eyes ;1 again
behold you gilded with the mild rays of the morning
and evening sun. I salute you, ye tuneful birds ! your
song shall again delight mine ear and awake me early
to praise my Creator. Ye limpid streams ! I salute
you; again shall my limbs repose on your flowery
banks ; again shall your soft murmur soothe me to re¬
freshing slumbers. Ye groves, ye bowers ! again sball
J wander beneath your shades, when I resign my soul
to serious, solitary contemplation; then shall I again
enjoy your grateful coolness. O Nature, beauteous
nature, once more I salute thee ! Praise and thanks-
is: givings
74
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Abel proposes to C in to Mciiftce on the joyful occasion.
givings be unto the Lord who has removed my pains
and has preserved me from sinking into the dust!"
The father of men thus poured forth the effusions
of his gratitude to the Lord ; all nature in solemn si¬
lence seemed to hallow his prayer, and every object
appeared to welcome his return to life and health.
The sun poured his departing beams through the foli¬
age of the arbour, and sank behind the mountain;
youthful zephyrs wafted around him the ambrosial
perfumes of the flowers, and the birds warbled their
melodious strains and hopped among the branches.
Cain and Abel now entered the arbour, and with de¬
light beheld their father restored to health. Arising
from prayer, he embraced his wife and children, while
his eyes overflowed with tears of joy, and he returned
to his hut. "My brother," said Abel, addressing him¬
self to Cain, "how shall we express our gratitude to
the Lord ; who has heard our supplications and has
restored to us our beloved father? I will go to my
altar, and now, while the moon rises, I will sacrifice
the youngest lamb of my flock to the Lord. Wilt thou
also go, my beloved brother, to thy altar and sacrifice
to the Lord ?"
Cain casting on him a side-long glance, replied:
"Yes, I will go to my altar and sacrifice to the Lord
what my barren fields afford.'*—"My dear brother,"
rejoined Abel, mildly, "the Lord heedeth little the
lamb that burns before him, or the fruits of the field
which
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
7 5
Sacrifice* of Abel and Cain.
which are consumed by the flame, if the heart of him
who offers them, but glow with sincere and ardent de¬
votion."
Cain answered: " Fire will doubtless soon de¬
scend from heaven to consume thy offering, for it was
by thee that the Lord sent relief to our father; but
me he deigned not to notice. I will however go and
sacrifice. My bosom glows with lively gratitude, and
our father who has been restored to our prayers is as
dear to me as to thee. The Lord deal with me, mi¬
serable creature, according to his good pleasure ! "
Abel tenderly embracing his brother, returned:
"Alas! my brother, should envy take possession of
thy bosom because it was by me that the Lord sent re¬
lief? If he vouchsafed to make me the instrument of
his benefits, was it not in answer to the prayers of us
all? O my dear brother subdue this gloomy disposi¬
tion; the Lord sees the inmost recesses of the heart and
hears the slightest murmurs. Love me with the same
unfeigned affection I bear to thee. Go, offer up thy
sacrifice; but O, suffer no impure passion to mingle
with thy devotion; so shall the Lord graciously accept
thy praise and thanksgiving and from his everlasting
throne look down and bless thee."
Cain answered him not, but departed to his field.
His brother looked after him with concern and went
'
to his meadow j each approached his altar. Abet
k 2 slaughtered
THE DEATH OF AfeEL.
Cain's sacrifice rejected.
Slaughtered the fairest of his young lambs, laid it upon
the altar and having strewed it with aromatic herbs
and fragrant flowers, kindled the sacrifice. lie then
knelt with sacred devotion before the altar, and with
a pure heart poured forth the tribute of his praise and
thanksgiving to the Lord. The flame of his sacrifice
o O
ascended aloft amidst the darkness of the night. The
Lord had commanded his winds to cease, and solemn
stillness to reign around; for the sacrifice was accept¬
able to him.
Cain placed the fruits of the field on his altar, set
fire to his offering and knelt amid the gloom of night.
A furious blast howled through the forest, a whirlwind
dispersed the sacrifice and enveloped the affrighted
Cain in flames and smoke. lie retired trembling
from the altar: a terrific voice issuing from the awful
7 O
darkness pronounced these words: " Why tremblest
thou, and why is horror imprinted on thy countenance ?
Repent, and I will forgive thy sin; if thou continuest
in thy wickedness thy crime and its chastisement shall
pursue thee for ever. Why h'atest thou thy brother
who honors and loves thee with unfeigned affection?"
Tbe voice ceased ; Cain retreated trembling from
the altar, and hastened through the gloom of night,
pursued by the stifling smoke which the tempestuous
wind dispersed around. • lie shuddered, and a cold
sweat bedewed his limbs. Looking up, he beheld at a
distance tflie column of flame from his brother's sacri¬
fice,
THE DEATH OF ABEt.
77
Prayer of Cain.
fice, rising aloft amidst the darkness. Filled with des¬
pair, he turned his eyes from the hated object, while
his quivering lips exclaimed: "Yonder, yonder, is
the sacrifice of the favorite! I cannot endure the
sight; another look Would kindle all hell within my
bosom, and I should—with trembling lips, I should
curse him. O death! O destruction ! where shall I find
you ?—Come and put a termination to my misery! O
father, father, that fatal crime ! Shall I present myself
before thee, with haggard despair imprinted on my
face, shall I expose to thee all my misery, that thou
mayest feel the full weight of wretchedness entailed
upon thy offspring? No, endure thy misery, but tor¬
ture not thy father! Seized with horror he would ex¬
pire in my sight, and my anguish would be but aug¬
mented. Yes! on me rests the anger, the curse, the
contempt of the Lord ! of all created beings that in¬
habit the earth I am the most wretched; the beasts of
the field, the worms that crawl on the earth are envi¬
able in comparison to me. O God of mercy !—-if
thou who art a just God canst be merciful to me !—
cease to pour out thy wrath upon me, or destroy me !
—But—wretch that I am ! — has he not said that if I
repent he will forgive my sin—has he not bidden me
to chuse forgiveness or misery, everlasting misery?
Yes, I have sinned; my multiplied offences rise in
judgment against me and demand thy vengeance, O
God of justice !—How just is thy displeasure ! The
farther man strays from the paths of virtue and inno¬
cence, the deeper he involves himself in wretchedness;
and
7s the death of abfl.
Prayer of Cain.
and this it is that renders me so miserable. O, I will
return from my transgressions; let my crimes which
now accuse me, be blotted out from thy sight! Have
mercy on me, O God ! have mercy on me!—alleviate
my wretchedness or annihilate me ! "
«3
WOK
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Cain leaves his hut before day-light.
79
BOOK IV.
Cain, disturbed by Mehala's grief, leaves his hut before day-light—He
lies down to sleep beneath a rock—Cain's dream—Abel discovers him
asleep—His imprecations on awaking—Expostulations of Abel—Cain
kills his brother—His remorse and horror—Exultation of Anamelech
—An angel is sent by the Almighty to conduct the spirit of Abel to
heaven—Conversation of the soul with the angel—Abel's farewell of
the earth—Song of the angels—Cain's despair—His sentence—Adam
and Eve discover the corpse of Abel—Their anguish and lamentations
—An angel appears to comfort them—Adam's prayer.
dews of night still descended, the birds slum¬
bered in silence, darkness yet rested upon the val¬
ley and pale twilight on the mountain's brow, when
Cain, overwhelmed with melancholy, left his hut.
Mehala, unconscious that he overheard her, had wept
over him in the hours of night, and with uplifted
hands had preferred her prayers for him to heaven.
He left his hut; his voice sounded amid the solitary
silence of the twilight like distant thunder. "Hate¬
ful night!" he exclaimed, "what gloomy images sur¬
rounded me ! What accumulated horrors ! But my ima¬
gination was lulled to repose, frightful dreams ceased
to torment me, and I should have slumbered in peace,
had I not been disturbed by her sobs and lamentations.
Ha! must I then only wake to misery? Must I not
4
enjoy
80
tiie death of arel.
Cain f ills asleep beneath a rock.
enjoy a single hour of tranquillity? Why did she
weep? For me ; and she is yet ignorant that my sacri¬
fice was rejected. O these tears, these sighs, these la¬
mentations ! they are insupportable to me, they have
deprived me of repose for the whole day. Smiles of
approbation accompany even the most indifferent ac¬
tion of my brother, while I am continually pursued by
melancholy and reproach. O Mehala ! I love thee ;
I love thee as myself; O , why shouldst thou embitter
the few hours of my repose ? "
He now paused beneath a bush that overhung the
rock. "Here, O here," he exclaimed, "refuse me
not thine aid, thy refreshment, gentle sleep ! Mow
wretched am I! Exhausted I sought thee in my habita-
O •/
tion, and scarcely hadst thou covered me with thy sha¬
dowy pinions, when the voice of lamentation chased
thee from my couch. Here, here I shall not be dis¬
turbed, if inanimate nature have not conspired against
my repose. O earth, which, subjected to the severity
of f&e curse, requirest such incessant toils to preserve
life, or rather to prolong my misery, suffer me to enjoy
a few happy moments of repose from my labors !" He
said, and threw himself upon the dewy turf. Sleep
soon shrouded him in its sable mantle.
Anamelech had accompanied his lonely steps, and
now stood beside him. "Deep sleep,"said he, "has
sealed his eyes; I will recline by his side, and will pre¬
sent to his imagination such dreams as shall promote
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
81
Cain's dream. j
my purpose. Aid me then, imagination, with all
thy influence; collect every image that can contribute
to work up consuming envy, stormy rage and every
passion that tortures his soul, to the highest pitch of
distraction !" Thus spoke the fiend and reclined by
his side. At this moment a furjous blast shook the
forest, howled through the thicket and agitated the
locks that shaded the brow and cheeks of Cain. But
in vain did it agitate the forest, in vain did his locks
O V ' V
play about his brow and his cheeks, sleep had too closely
sealed his eyes.
lie beheld, in a dream, avast plain, over jvhicb were
scattered lonely huts, the abode of poverty and simpli¬
city : this field was cultivated by his children and his
grand-children, regardless of the scorching noon-tide
rays which descended on their embrowned shoulders,*'
with laborious industry they collected the scanty pro¬
duce, or prepared the rugged soil for fresh seed, or
with bleeding hands pulled up the briars and thistles
which over-ran their fruits and stole from them the
nourishing juices; while their wives were engaged in
the cares of their wretched habitations and prepared
the frugal repast. Eliel his eldest son novv^appeared
before the slurnberer; with tottering step he bore a
heavy burthen from the field. He threw it from his
shoulder and reclined exhausted against it. " How
wretched is this life !" exclaimed he, with a deep sigh,
" how full of toil and hardship ! How heavily falls the
curse on the' offspring of Cain. Has he who created
l the
£2 THE DEATH OF ABEL.
.4
Cain's dream.
the earth, since lie pronounced his malediction banish¬
ed them entirely from his sight; or shall the curse op¬
press only the children of the first-horn? In yonder
smiling plains inhabited by the offspring of Abel, who
have driven us from them and assigned us the deserts
for our portion; yonder, where in effeminat® indolence
'they recline beneath voluptuous shades, nature appears
to have exclusively showered her blessings ; every com¬
fort of life, every pleasure is bestowed on the happy
favorites; our portion is poverty and toil." Eliel, again
lifting the burthen on his shoulder, with fainting steps
proceeded to his hut. The slumberer now beheld a
flowery plain ; limpid streams in wanton windings me¬
andered through the dark shades of over-archingbushes;
now they murmured before verdant bowers, and now
between long rows of trees, reflecting in their placid
currents the variegated splendors of blossoms and of
fruits. Sometimes they collected into tranquil lakes ;
here the cooling zephyrs sported in the waving citron-
grove, and there the fig-trees afforded the flowers a
grateful shade. Nor Tempe nor Gnidus possessed
such beauties; Gnidus, where on glistening columns
rose the temple of Venus, the abode of the fabled god¬
dess and her voluptuous train.—Snow-white flocks
wandered in luxuriant pastures, and cropped the fra¬
grant herbage, while the enamoured swain, crowned
with garlands, poured forth his sweetest strains for his
beloved fair-one, half reclined in the luxurious shade.
► There beneath a high-arched bower, assembled youths,
am! maids beauteous as the Loves and Graces. The
grateful
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
83
Cain's dream.
grateful beverage foamed in ample bowls, and golden
fruits glowed among the flowers that covered the ta¬
bles ; while the music of lovely voices and the soothing
harmony of instruments filled the air. A youth arose
in the midst of the sportive assembly: " My friends !''
Said he, " Fsalute you. Listen to my counsel. It is
true that Nature smiles upon us, that she has collected
all her beauties around our dwellings ; but yet they re¬
quire care and cultivation, a labor that is too fatiguing
for us, whose lives are devoted to softer and more
pleasing employments. To the hand accustomed to
touch only the soft strings of the harp, the culture of
the fields is painful; to the head which formerly re¬
clined in the shade, while its delicate locks were en¬
twined with roses, it is painful to be exposed to the
scorching sun. I w ill communicate to you, my friends,
an idea, with which doubtless some guardian angel has
* O ZD
inspired me. Let us, ami'd the obscurity of night, re¬
pair to yonder fields, where dwell the sons of labor J
and when, weary with the toils of the day, they have re¬
tired to rest, let us surprize them in their huts, bind,
and lead them away captives to our habitations; the
men shall perform for us the labors of the field, and their
wives and daughters shall, my fair country-women ! be
the servants of your pleasures. But this plan must be
executed in the night: for though we far exceed them
o o
in number, yet it is better to avoid a doubtful and dan_
gerous contest." Thus spoke the youth, and the joy¬
ous crowd shouted their approbation. Night had now
enveloped the earth in darkness ; shrieks of horror and
L 2 wretchedness
84
Abel discovers bis brother asleep.
wretchedness, mingled with,shouts of triumph, issued
from the huts. The night glowed with the flames which
ascended from the humble cottages, and tinged the dis¬
tant waves that broke around the reddened shore, By
their light the slumberer beheld his sons With their
wives and children boundand driven like aflockof sheep
before the offspring of Abel.
Such was the dream of Cain,* who trembled in his
sleep ; when Abel, having discovered him beneath the
bush' that overhung the rock, approached. With eyes
full of affection he gazed on him, and whispered in soft¬
est accents : " Soon mayst thou awake, my brother, that
I may pour forth the tender sentiments of my heart to¬
wards thee ; that I may embrace thee ! But, let me
suppress my wishes; ye zephyrs that sport among the
* We have hitherto seen in Cain, a man whose gloomy imagination
represented every thing in an unfavorable point ot view, tormented
it is true by envy and discontent, but not thoroughly depraved
and destitute of virtuous sentiments. He did not yet hate Abel.
Yielding, in spite of the remonstrant e, of his relatives and the -warning
of a supernatural power, to the baleful influence of his passions, he is
gradually led to the commission of bis unnatural crime. Nothing could
have been more happily imagined than the circumstances described in this
hook; and we here find the powerful sentiment of natural affection per¬
verted by the bewildered imagination of the wretched Cain into a mo.
ti\ e of hatred of his brother. Can any thing be conceived better calcu¬
lated to inflame his passions to the highest pitch of fury than the scene
presented to his mind in his dream; and is it any wonder that, in the first
unpul-e of his rage, he should wreak his vengeance on him, vhom he re¬
garded as the cause not only of his own wretchedness but of that misery
■which was reserve.! for his unborn offspring? T.
i bushes,
THE DEATH OF ABEL
85
, Cain enraged with his dream.
bushes, be still; ye melodious warblers be silent, nor
chase from him refreshing repose, when his weary limbs
perhaps still need its influence ! But—how pale, how
agitated he appears!—Rage is imprinted on his brow,
Wherefore do you disturb him, ye visions of horror?
Retire and suffer his soul to enjoy repose. Gome ye
pleasing images of domestic delights and tender endear¬
ments, ofallthatis excellent in the moral and lovely in
the natural world ; come, and fill his imagination with
gaiety and delight; come like the mild vernal morn,
that joy may smile upon his brow, and that when he
awakes his lips may overflow with gratitude and thanks¬
giving." He said, and with eyes of anxious tenderness
gazed on his brother.
As a shaggy lion couched at the foot of a rock, (whom
the terrified wanderer with trembling step, takes a wide
circuit to avoid) if the swift arrow, in its rapid flight
suddenly pierce his side, springs up with dreadful roar
to seek his enemy, and destroys the innocent child play¬
ing with the flowers in the grass—so Cain started from
his slumber, foaming with rage, which like a black cloud
lowered on his brow. He stamped upon the ground :
" Open, O earth !" he exclaimed, " and hide me : bury
me in thy deepest abyss! lam wretched, and—O mad¬
dening prospect! my children are doomed to misery !
But no, thou wilt not open; in vain I call upon thee#
the Almighty Avenger will not permit thee ; he has de¬
creed that misery should be my portion; and to aggra¬
vate my wretchedness, he withdraws the veil, and dis-
'' closes
86
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
lmpree.itinns of Cain.
closes the infernal horrors of futurity. Cursed, cursed
be the hour when my mother first brought forth with
pain ! Cursed be the place where the pains of child¬
birth came upon her ! May all that grows upon it pe¬
rish ; may he who attempts to cultivate it, lose his sped
and his labor; and may horror seize those- who pass
over the spot!"
Thus raved the wretched Cain, when his brother,
pale as death, approached with faltering steps. " My
brother!" he exclaimed, " but no !—some rebellious
Spirit, hurled from heaven by the thunders of the Al¬
mighty, has assumed bis form and utters these blasphe¬
mies 1—Where is my brother? O where art thou my
brother ?—I fly to bless thee P
" Here ain I,'' thundered Cain, " here ! thou smiling,
whining favorite of the Avenger and of all nature;
thou whose viperous race will once exclusively possess
all the blessings of this world ! Yes it must be so. It
is fit that a tribe of slaves should be born to attend on
the favorites—beasts of burthen to. labor for them, that
the enjoymentof their pleasures may not be interrupted
by the thought of toil.—Ila!—Ilell with all its tor¬
ments, rages in my bosom !"
" Cain, my brother!'' said Abel, while astonishment,
anxiety, and tenderness, were imprinted on his counte¬
nance, "what hateful dream has deluded thee ? I came
with the early dawn to seek thee, to embrace thee, to
bless.
THE DFjATll OF ABEL
87
Cain kills Abel.
bless thee with the approaching day. But—O what
stormy passions rage within thy breast; how unkindly
thou receiyest my tender love ! When, O when shall
we see those blessed days, those days of delight, when
peace shall reign among us, when uninterrupted love
shall fill the soul with sweet tranquillity and every
smiling pleasure; those days, for which our anxious
father and our fond mother look forward with such so¬
licitude ? O Cain! Cain! how dost thou destroy the
sweet hope we cherished, when I wept with transport
in thy embrace ! If I have offended thee, my brother
•—unconsciously offended thee—by all that is sacred I
entreat thee, dispel the tempest that rages in thy soul^
forgive me, and permit me to embrace thee !" He said,
and approached to clasp his brother in his arms: but
Cain started back. "Ha! Serpent!" he exclaimed,
" wouldst thou twine thyself about me ?"' Rage nerved
his arm, and swinging a ponderous club, it swept
through the air and descended on the head of Abel.
The hapless victim sank at his feet; with a look of for¬
giveness he fixed oh him his dying eye and expired. His
blood distained his golden locks and flowed at the feet
of the murderer.
Cain stood pallid and motionless with horror : a cold
sweat bedewed his trembling limbs; he beheld the last
convulsive motion of his expiring brother, and the
reeking blood that gushed from the wound. " Ac¬
cursed blow !" he exclaimed. " Brother !—awake—
(itwake my brother ! How pale is his face; how fixed
his
£8
THE DEATH OF ABEL-
Exultation of Anamelreh.
his eyes; how the blood streams from his head!---
Wretch that I am !—O what horror seizes me !—What
infernal torture !" Thus raving, he furiously hurled
from him the blood-stained chib, and with his clenched
fist struck his forehead. With faltering step, he ap¬
proached the corpse and endeayored to raise it from
the ground. Abel! my brother !—awake! Ha!—
how his bleeding head droops;—how helpless!—Dead!
O, horror, he is dead ! I will flee ! Support me, trem¬
bling limbs !" lie said, and rushed into the neighbor¬
ing thicket.
Elate, the seducer stood near the bleeding victim ;
his bosom swelled with prid.e, and his form dilated with
joy ; high and horrible he towered, like the black co¬
lumn of smoke ascending from the blazing ruins of the
solitary hut, whose inhabitants quietly pursued their
rustic toil, while the flames consumed their domestic
conveniencies, their little all.—Thus stood Anamelech;
he gazed first on the murderer with a hellish smile, and
then on the corpse. " Welcome," he exclaimed, " 0
•welcome, pleasing sight! I behold for the first time the
earth moistened with human blood ! The murmuring
current of the sacred springs of heaven, before the
Thunderer hurled us from the abod.es of bliss, never
afforded me half such pleasure ; the melodious harps
of the arch-angels never sounded so soothing as the
last sighs of this, expiring youth. Thou glorious inha¬
bitant of the new creation, thou last, thou noblest .ef¬
fort of the Maker's hand, what a pitiful figure art thqu
9 now!
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
89
Exultation of Anaroelech.
now! Rise, sweet youth; rise thou friend of angels !
Be not so slow in the performance of thy slavish du¬
ties of prostration and prayer ! But, he moves not;
his own brother has extended him in the dust. It ia
by such deeds that I will raise myself from obscurity;
by deeds which Satan himself shall envy—I will now
hie me to the throne of hell; what raptures shall I feel
when its vaulted roofs re-echo with my fame! I shall
move in triumph among the crowds of vulgar spirits
whom no such enterprize has ennobled .!" He turned
to look once more with scornful triumph on the slain;
but the hateful features of despair checked the rising
smile of scorn and the pride that sat on his brow.
The Almighty commanded the horrors of hell to seize
him, and he was overwhelmed with a sea of torture.
He cursed the hour of his creation ; he cursed eter¬
nity replete with torments, and fled.
The last sighs of the dying ascended to the throne
of the Almighty, and demanded vengeance of eternal
justice. A peal of thunder issued from the sanctuary.
The golden harps were silent and the eternal hallelu¬
jahs were suspended. Thrice the thunder echoed
through the lofty vault of heaven; it ceased, and the
voice of the Most High, issuing from the silvery cloud
which envelopes the throne, summoned one of the
arch-angels. He advanced, veiling his face with his
resplendent wings. "Death," said the Almighty "hath
seized his first victim from among mankind, and I en¬
trust thee with the sacred charge of assembling all the
JU souls
90
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Address of tlie Almighty to the angel of death.
souls of the righteous. I myself cheered the soul of
Abel as he expired. Henceforward shalt thou attend
the last moments of the just; when the damps of death
bedew his brow, when his voice falters and the last con¬
vulsive pang seizes his frame, then give his soul the
assurance of everlasting felicity ; that with eyes full of
transport he may once more look round him and die.
Descend now to the dwelling of mortals, to meet the
spirit of the brother murdered by his brother ; and thou,
Michael, attend him and pronounce against the fratri¬
cide the sentence due to his crime/' The Almighty
was silent and again the thunder thrice echoed through
heaven's vast concave. The archangels pursued their
course through the silent ranks of celestial spirits, and
having passed the portals of heaven, they descended
through the bouodless space, among innumerable suns
and orbs, to the earth.
The angel of death now summoned the soul of Abel
from its ensanguined dwelling. With a celestial smile
he * obeyed ; the purest and most essential parts of the
* I expect to be censured by many for applying the relative pronoun he
to the soul of Abel; such persons, however, T can assure, that this is not
the result of a desire of singularity. Till some general standard be
adopted for regulating the English language, a writer mu t in numerous
instances be guided entirely hy his own judgment; and the present ap¬
pears to me to be a case in point. In different authors we find the hu¬
man soul distinguished by the different relatives, she and it, though in
all the foreign languages with which I am acquainted the soul is of the
feminine gender. Every one will admit that it would be highly ridicu-
body
THE! DEATH OF ABEL.
91
Conversation between the angel of death and the soul- of Abel.
body flew off, and mingling with the balmy odors waft¬
ed by gentle zephyrs from the flowers, which sprang
up in the radiant circle encompassing the angel, they
enveloped the soul, forming an etherial body. With
rapture unknown before the spirit gazed on the celes¬
tial messenger.
With heavenly benignity the angel approached and
said: " Welcome from thy covering of dust: embrace
me. I rejoice that I am the first to welcome the-' to
bliss; myriads of spirits wait thy coming. Welcome
thou righteous soul ! Eternal joy, inexpressible feli"
city in the presence of God, shall be the recompence
of thy virtue. O, welcome to my embrace, the first
who hath exchanged this frail covering of dust for im¬
mortal bliss !"
" I embrace thee, celestial friend ! Iembrace thee!"
said the soul, and paused, overpowered by the sense of
his felicity. " O what unutterable extacy! When,
enveloped in my habitation of dust, I was wont to
contemplate during the solitude and stillness of mid¬
night, I felt the presence of my God and the charms
of virtue, and wept with transport—what was this but
lous to apply the masculine relative to the soul of a woman ; to reverse
the case appears to me to be just as preposterous. The neuter, which we
employ almost exclusively for inanimate objects, seems equally improper.
Would it not be most natural to apply to souls individually the gender of
the bodies they inhabited J T.
m 2 the
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Conversation between the angel of (ieuth aad the boui of A\tl.
the faint dawn of the bliss I now experience ! O ! I
am now more deeply sensible of the pleasures of virtue;
I feel more powerfully the inexpressible sensation of
the divine presence ! What thoughts arise w ithin me!
lovely as spring, bright and resplendent as the sun!
Celestial friend ! I embrace thee ! Eternal bliss is
mine; I shall incessantly praise him who rewards with
unspeakable bliss the efforts of his creature to lead a
life of purity and virtue."
Thus the spirits conversed and dissolved in the re¬
ciprocal embrace. " Follow me, my friend," said the
angel, " foilow, my flight and quit the earth. The dear¬
est objects thou hast left behind, those mortals who are
virtuous will follow thee; ere many years pass over
their heads they will follow thee to the regions of bliss.
Now hasten to receive the congratulations of the
blessed spirits who await thee; to join in the songs of
eternal thanksgiving and praise."
" I follow thee, celestial friend!" replied the soul.
" O what rapture, what bliss ! Farewel, my beloved
kindred whom I leave behind on the earth ! when
I
the term allotted to your lives is completed, when the
hour of death arrives, and thou, my friend, descendest
to meet their departing souls,I will approach the throne
of the Eternal, and implore his permission to accom¬
pany thy flight; that with rapturous emotion I may
behold their spirits exchanging their habitations of dust
for eternal bliss. Thee, Thirza ! my dearest! thee
too
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
9 3
Abel's ascent from the earth.
✓
too shall I behold, after thou hast long wept over my
mouldering relics ! When thou hast reared thy lisp¬
ing infant to the practice of virtues bright as thine, I
shall behold thee expire; with unutterable delight, I
shall receive thee on quitting thy habitation of clay, in
my fond embrace !"
Thus spoke Abel, as accompanied by the angel he
began to ascend from the earth. lie turned to breathe
his departing blessing on the spot that contained the
objects of his affection, when his eye glanced on his
brother, on whose countenance were imprinted horror
and guilt. lie clasped his hands over his head, while
his haggard eyes rolled wildly around. Then clench¬
ing his fist he struck his throbbing breast, and throw¬
ing himself, in an agony of despair, on the earth, he-
rolled in the dust. Tears of compassion flowed from
Abel's eyes ; he turned from the horrid scene and
found himself surrounded with a numerous company
of angels. The tutelar spirits of the earth attended
him to the confines of the terrestrial atmosphere.
' There, embracing with fervor the heaven-bound tra¬
vellers, they reposed on a crimson cloud, and accom¬
panied their flight through the realms of asther with
a parting hyinn. The lovely tones of the lute and of
the silver strings of harps were mingled with the me¬
lody of their celestial voices. Thus in responsive
strains sang the tutelar spirits of the earth :
" He ascends, the new inhabitant of heaven as-
1 «ends !
.94
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Song of the angeli.
r" . 1 ■ 1 -a-
cends ! beauteous—beauteous as the returning spring,
attended with joy and gladness and every smiling de¬
light. Hail him, ye stars dispersed through the illimi¬
table expanse; hail your sister-planet, the earth.
Glows it not with more than usual beauty—the earth,
which, though laboring under the Creator's curse, nou-'
rishes in its dust, beings worthy of heaven? What
splendors surround it! A fresher verdure smiles in-
its plains, a brighter radiance glows upon its hills.
"•He ascends, the new inhabitant of heaven as¬
cends ! Myriads of angels wait his arrival at the por¬
tals of heaven ; impatiently wait to salute the first spi¬
rit that ascends from the earth, to embrace him and to
crown him with never-fading roses. O how great will
be bis rapture when entering the regions of heaven, he
joins, in the aromatic twilight of ever-verdant bowers,
in the praises of him, from whom this unspeakable fe¬
licity is but an emanation !
" We celebrated, with songs of praise we cele¬
brated the day, when thy youthful soul descended from*
its Creator to animate thy mortal frame. We beheld
• every virtue flourish in thy opening mind, like lilies in
the spring. Unseen we attended all thy steps; with
transport we watched all thy actions, marked all thy
wishes, witnessed all the tears, which flowed from the
pure source of virtue—And now O fly to meet him ;
crown him with celestial roses; now that he is released
from the bondage of mortality!
"Yonder
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
95
Despair of Cain,
- - 1 ;
>" Yonder lies bis bod}', yonder jt lies like a droop¬
ing flower ! Receive back his dust, O parent earth !
let each returning spring deck with fragrant flowers the
turf that covers his relics ! * We will celebrate, with
songs of praise, each revolving year, we will celebrate
the day, on which the first righteous spirit ascended to
the abodes of bliss!"
Thus they sang and descended on the radiant cloud
to the earth.
Cain, urged by despair wandered in the recesses of
the neighboring thicket. lie attempted to flee; but in
vain he sought to escape from the horrors that over¬
whelmed him'—like a traveller around whose bodysome
venemous serpent has firmly coiled itself; in vain he
flees, in vain the wretch struggles to disengage himself
from his terrific assailant; his venemous fangs already
lacerate his bosom and convey the fatal poison to his
heart. " O, that I could escape from the sight of his
bleeding corpse !" exclaimed Cain, " If I flee, his blood
pursues and .bathes my very footsteps ! Whither—
wretch that I am !—O whither shall I flee ! His last
* This poetic idea Collins has clothed in the language of poetry in the
following beautiful lines:
When Spring with' dewy fingers col d
Returns to deck their hallow'd mo'uld:
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. T.
look !—
96
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
'Ilie arch-angel Michael pronounces his sentence.
3 , .J * . ■ - ■ . ■ = • i . ,
look!—O wlmt have I done?—O execrable deed f
Thou fillest my soul with the torments of hcjjl !—I
have destroyed the unborn murderers of my chil¬
dren. *—What sounds, like the sighs of the dying issue
from yon bushes ?—Away trembling feet; haste far
away from the pursuing blood; far away from the awful
theatre of death ! Carry me—ye trembling limbs,
sprinkled with a brother's blood, carry me—to hell!"
He said and was about to flee.
A black and gloomy cloud descended before him,
" Cain, where is thy brother ?" exclaimed an awful
voice from the darkness.—" I know not, wretch that
I am ! I km not his keeper," replied Cain with faltering
accents, and starting back pale with horror. Thunder
burst from the cloud; the bushes and the herbage
around him were wrapped in a blaze, and the arch¬
angel stood before the terrified Cain. On his brow
were seated the awful judgments of the Lord; his
right arm wielded a flaming thunder-bolt, and his left
was extended over the bending, trembling sinnner. He
spoke and again the thunders rolled. " Stop, tremble,
and hear thy sentence. Thus saith the Lord: What
hast thou done ? Thy brother's blood crieth to me
from the earth, and now art thou cursed on the earth,
* Cain alludes to his dream in this reflection, from wkich he seems
inclined to derive, if pos.sible, some satisfaction. Conscience, however,
gives him no respite, arid instantly chases the rising sentiment of plea¬
sure. T.
which
THE DEATH OF ABEL. gj
v%u ass= ■ ■
Sentence of Cain. I
which hath drunk the blood of thy brother shed by
thy hand. To thee it shall be for ever barren, for
ever shalt thou wander a fugitive and a vagabond on
its surface !" Convulsive tremors and the torments of
hell seized the appalled sinner; his head was bowed
towards the ground. As stands the impious atheist,
w hen the Almighty in judgment commands the earth
to tremble, when the domes of prophaned temples are
levelled, and the palaces of sinners are swallowed by
the yawning abyss ; when, amidst the convulsion of
nature, his ears are assailed by the shrieks of the dying
and he is enveloped in the black clouds and flames
which issue from the riven earth; thus stood, thus
shook the fratricide. lie attempted to speak, but his
trembling lips refused their office; at length in falter¬
ing accents and without venturing to look up, he stam¬
mered : " My crime is too great—too great ever to
be forgiven! Thou hast cursed me on this earth;
where, O where can I hide myself from thy pre¬
sence ? I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond on the
face of the earth. O that the first who meets me
may slay me !"'
" Sevenfold vengeance shall fall upon him who
sheds .thy blood," said the tbunderer. " Incessant
anguish and gnawing remorse shall be imprinted on
thy brow; so that every one who meets thee shall
say: That is Cain, the fratricide; and, struck with
horror, shall quit the path pursued by thy wandering
feet.' The angel pronounced this sentence and va-
n nished.
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Cain's remorse.
rushed. Awful thunders issued from the retiring
cloud ; a whirlwind tore up the bushes and howled in
the thicket, as howls a criminal condemned to suffer
the most"excruciating torture.
Cain stood, a long time, motionless ■, despair glared
in his eyes; wild winds agitated his erected hair. At
length casting a fearful glance from beneath his con¬
tracted eye-brows, " Had he but destroyed me !" he
exclaimed with quivering lips—" had he but annihi¬
lated me, that no traces of my existence might be left
in the creation f Why did he not blast me with his
lightnings—why did not his thunder-bolts bury me in
the depths of the earth ? But no—he preserves me for
everlasting torments. The outcast of the whole cre¬
ation, forsaken by God, abhorred by all nature, abhor¬
red by myself, I am already haunted by those fiends
which will incessantly pursue me, torturing anguish,
remorse, despair !—Cursed be thou, O arm ! which
wieldest the implement of murder; mayst thou wither
on my body, like the blighted branch of a tree! Ac¬
cursed be the hour in which a dream from hell deluded
me 1—O Nature ! why dost thou not manifest signs of
thy abhorrence ? O earth, wherever my foot wanders
thou art cursed ! Where art thou, that I may curse
thee, thou who inspiredst the maddening dream ! Art
thou returned to hell ?—O, mayst thou ever experience
the pangs that rend my soul—I cannot curse thee
more !—I la ! yonder J see him—yonder I discover the
flames of hell. See, the fiends gaze on me with tri¬
umph r-
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
99
Adam and Eve leave their cottage.
umph ! Smile on, ye spirits of perdition ! smile at
my misery !—or if ye know what it is to feel compas¬
sion, pity me ; for Satan himself never felt such pangs
as mine 1" Thus raved Cain, till exhausted and
speechless he sank on the stem of a tree uprooted by
the storm, llere he seated himself for some moments
in pensive agony; he then started up, shuddering,"-and
exclaimed: " Who rushed past me?—My murdered
brother! O, I heard his dying groans, I beheld his
streaming blood ! O, brother ! brother ! have pity on
my inexpressible anguish and pursue me not!" Ut¬
tering a deep sigh, he again sealed himself motionless
and silent..
In the mean time the father of mankind, accompa¬
nied by bis wife, left his habitation. " How lovely are
the beams of the morning sun!" exclaimed Eve;
" gilding, with mildest ray, the mist that hovers over
the distant horizon. Let us wander amid the beau¬
teous scene, through the glistening dew, till the hour of
labor summons thee to the held, and me to my do¬
mestic occupations. O my beloved ! how beautiful is
the earth ! Although accursed, it still bears the same
proportion to Paradise, forfeited by my transgression,
as thou in the first days of thy innocence to the angels
who there deigned to visit us. See ! my beloved! how
all nature rejoices; every bush, every tree resounds
with songs of thanksgiving ; the domestic animals sport
around the huts and with cheerful voice or frolic ges¬
tures hail the first beams of morn."
n 2 " Vesk
100
the death OF AO el
Conversation of Adam and Eve on leaving thr-ir cottage,
*" ' - r ■
" Yes, my beloved," answered Adam, " the earth
is beautiful; though subject to the curse it still exhibits
traces, indelible traces of the infinite goodness of the
Almighty to us, who by our shameful fall, by the
blackest ingratitude, had , rendered ourselves totally
unworthy of his beneficence and compassion. Yes,
our God is more gracious and more merciful than our
fongues can express or our imaginations conceive.
Let us go, my beloved, to the flowery pastures where
Abel's flock wanders amid the dew; we may perhaps
find our pious child chanting some new hymn of praise
to his Creator."
" Permit me, my beloved," said Eve, "'to tell thee
the design I had formed before I quitted the hut. I
took the fairest figs in my store, and placed them with
some dried grapes in this basket, I will go to the field,
thought I, to Cain, my first-born, and present him
these fruits that they may refresh him. while resting in
the shade from his labor; for, my beloved ! I would
omit no attention which can contribute to remove the
gloomy idea, that our affection for him is less tender
than the love we feel for his brother."*
* Could the poet more strongly or more naturally delineate that de¬
licate sensibility and nice discrimination for which the female mind is so
peculiarly dtstinguishi d r—It is traits like this, it is the truth, the adlie-
r* nee to nature which prevail in all Gessntr's works, that procure them
the adrnir.rcioM of v a hers of every nation, rank and religion. T.
" How
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
101
Ihry discover the corpse of Abel.
*' How attentive, my beloved Eve, is thy fond
care," answered Adam ; " I thank thee for thy more
prudent counsel. Let us go to Cain, that he may not
say, that all our love is reserved for Abel; perhaps,
amid the beauties of this delightful morning, we shall
find his heart more open to the impressions of tender¬
ness." They said, and hastened, Eve carrying the
basket on her arm, to the field. " O what happiness,"
said they as they went, " if the charms of nature,
which awaken in the bosom sentiments of virtue,
should have rendered his heart susceptible of tender
impressions !''
They had just come from behind a thicket and Eve
had advanced a little before. " Who lies there r" ex¬
claimed she, starting back with affright—" Adam,
who is it that lies there?—He reclines not like one
asleep, but like a person who has been thrown on the
ground ; his face is turned towards the earth.—Those
golden locks are Abel's!—Adam !—O why do I shud¬
der?—Abel! Abel! my beloved ! awake!—Turn to
me thy fair face ever expressive of dutiful affection!
Awake! O awake! from that unnatural sleep!"—
They now advanced nearer. " O horror !" exclaimed
Adam, starting back, " blood!—blood trickles from
Iris brow;—his head is bathed with blood !"■—" O Abel,
my beloved !" cried Eve, raising his stiffened arm, and
sank, pale as death, on Adam's throbbing bosom. Both
stood mute with horror, when Cain, who, frantic with
despair, was wandering through the thicker, uncon-
sciously
IOC
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Grief of Adum and Eve over the corpse of Abel.
sciously approached the corpse. He gazed on the
body; he beheld his father, in silent agony, support¬
ing his fainting mother in his trembling arms. " I killed
him," he exclaimed; " tremble at the horrible confes¬
sion ; 'twas I that killed him! Cursed be the hour,
O woman ! in which thou brought'st me forth ! I mur-
dered him !" cried Cain, and fled.
Pale, silent and motionless, the unhappy pair long
remained insensible. Adam first awoke from the le¬
thargy of grief. " Where am I ?" he cried, in broken
accents,—" what horrors overwhelm my soul! O God!
O God !—yonder he lies !—O wretched, wretched
father ! what an accumulation of horrors 1 His bro¬
ther murdered him; he confessed his guilt; he cursed
us and fled. An icy dullness freezes my soul! He
■who cursed us is my son ; he who here lies in his blood
is likewise my son ! Wretch that I am ! what misery,
■what torments have 1 brought on myself and my pos¬
terity ! O Abel! Abel !—And thou too, Eve, dost thou
not again awake to wretchedness? Hast thou expired
inmy arms? Am I left alone in my misery?—But—
praise be to thee!—the chillness of death steals through
my veins to my throbbing heart—the shades of dark¬
ness close around my languid eyes! O, Death, delay
pot!—welcome with all thy terrors!—Still thou de-
layest !rr-0 God 1—Abel—my son ! my dear son !"
He said, apd wept over the corpse, while the dew^s of
(death mingled with his tears. " And dost thou again
awake, my beloved Eve!" he continued ; " and dost
9 thou
TIIE DEATH OF ABEL.
m
Grief of Adam and Eve over the corpse of Abel.
thou again open thine eyes to inexpressible misery !
What a sight awaits thee, dear partner of my sor¬
rows !"
" Adam !" replied Eve, in dying accents—" No ; the
terrific voice of the murderer no longer thunders in
my ears! He cursed us !—O curse me alone, thou
fratricide ! It was I—wretch that I am—'twas I that
first sinned. O Abel ! my darling child !'' She now
sank from Adam's arms upon the corpse : " My son i
my beloved son !" she cried, and bathed the clay-cold
body with her tears. " O God ! his fixed eyes no lon¬
ger turn to me ! Awake my child, awake ! In vain,
alas 1 in vain I call thee ! He is dead !—This, this is
death : the dreadful punishment pronounced on sin !
And I,—O torture inexpressible !—my soul shudders
at the thought—I was the first sinner ! O Adam, my
beloved husband ! each tear thou sheddest is to me a
keen reproof; it was I who seduced thee ! From me—
from me, thou wretched parent, demand thy son's
blood ; from me, afflicted children, demand your bro¬
ther ! Curse me—me alone, thou fratricide! I was the
first sinner. O Abel! O my son ! thy streaming blood
accuses me thy wretched mother !'' She said, while
showers of tears bedewed the corpse.
With a look of unspeakable sorrow Adam gazed on
his wife. " Eve !"' he exclaimed, " I implore thee
by our misery—by our affection I implore thee ! cease
these bitter reproaches against thyself whom I so ten-
J 04 ' " THE DEATH OF ABED.
Grief of Adam and I've over the corpse of Abel.
derlylove—they afflict, they torture me inexpressibly.
O.the dreadful consequences !—We have both sinned ;
but yet God will look down upon our anguish with
pity. Yes—Almighty Father! thou wilt permit us
in the midst of our misery to address our supplications
to thee! thou hast not utterly destroyed the sinner!
We live, my beloved Eve ! though the body sinks into
dust, the soul survives, and if we have pursued the
paths of virtue, our spirits will be rewarded with eter¬
nal bliss. O what comfort! what soothing consola¬
tion ! But alas ! he fell by his brother's hand !—O God!
be was murdered by his brother !"
" Yes, my beloved son," exclaimed Eve, while her
tears flowed more abundantly, " a horrible death hath
released thee from this world of woe; have not we
who are left behind to struggle w ith affliction just cause
to weep ? Iiow he lies extended in death ! The smile
of tenderness has fled from his altered cheek, faded
and stained with his own blood ; those lips will no more
address me in angelic accents ; and these fixed eyes
will no more overflow with tears of pleasure, at be¬
holding the transport, the ardent love with which I
witnessed his virtue ! Into what misery are we sunk !
O sin! sin ! what odious forms dost thou assume ! each
more horrible than the other; I thy mother, thy
wretched mother—I am the mother of thy murderer !
O Abel! my beloved !" She said, and sank speech¬
less on the stiffened corpse : she remained long insen¬
sible. " Wretch that I am !"' exclaimed Adam, inter¬
rupting
THE DEATH OE ABpL.
105
Grief of Adam and Eve over the cqrp9e of Abel.
rupting the melancholy silence, " how forlorn am I! how
mournful, how desolate is all around me ; misery, un¬
speakable misery has spread a gloom over all nature.
Alas! he is dead! he who was the comfort, the joy of
my life. The support of all my hopes—my beloved Abel,
is dead! Alas! and Cain—O horrible thought!—and
Cain is a fugitive, a monster, abhorred by all nature !
O God ! who beholdest our misery, forgive, forgive our
excessive grief; forgive us if we writhe in the dust
O ' © »
before thee like the worm crushed by the foot of the
heedless passenger!"
He now stood pale and mute, as the statue of af¬
fliction on the moss-clad monument, or in the gloomy
solitude of the cypress grove.* His head was bowed,
his eyes were fixed on the melancholy scene ; a dreary
silence reigned around. With faltering steps he at
length approached Eve, and taking her feeble hand
from the corpse, he pressed it, with fervor, to his heart.
" Eve, my beloved wife," he exclaimed, bending over
her, " awake, my beloved, awake ! Raise thy tearful
eyes from the distressing object; sink not beneath the
weight of affliction ! Has thy sorrow destroyed all
recollection of thy husband, all tenderness for me ? O
raise thine eyes to ine, beloved wife ! It is just that we
* This idea is doubtless borrowed from the well known lines of our
British bard—
—Like Pity on a monument
Smiling at Grief.—
o should
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
An angel appears to eomUnt th« m.
should feci all the horrors of death, that we should
experience, in their full extent, the misery and the
fatal consequences of our fall! But to writhe in
the dust, obstinately refusing all consolation, is im¬
pious, is criminal ! It implies the reproach that
Eternal justice has punished us more severely than
we deserved. O, Eve ! rouse thyself from this
culpable despondency, lest the Almighty should with¬
draw from us, unworthy sinners, all the sources
of consolation which yet remain."' Thus spoke
Adam. Eve raising her tearful eyes from the corpse,
turned them first to Adam, and then fixed them on
heaven: "O God K forgive me a wretched sinner!
Forgive me, my husband, my beloved ! my grief is in¬
expressible. And dost thou still love me, the cause of
all this misery, of this unnatural murder, of the shed¬
ding of this innocent blood ! O Adam, let me bathe
thy hand, this corpse with my tears, let me mingle
ihem with this blood !"
Thus mourned the first pair, reclined against each
other, when a celestial figure approached them. Fra¬
grant flowers springing up as he trod marked his light
footsteps: peace sat upon his radiant brow; consola¬
tion and sympathy sparkled in his eyes, and beamed
in the celestial charms of his countenance. A white
r-obe, brighter than the silvery clouds which veil the
moon, flowed over his majestic form and descended
in resplendent folds. The heavenly messenger ad.
vanced, and nature glowed around him with fresher
verdure.
THE DEATH OF ABEL
107
Address of th-- .mqolto Adam and Eve.
-
verdure. " Eve," exclaimed Adam, "raise thy mourn¬
ful eyes, repress thy sighs; see yon celestial form ap¬
proaching; behold what benignity, what consolation
appear in his countenance. A ray of comfort already
bursts through the darkness of our misery. Weep
not Eve l Arise, let us hasten to meet the celes¬
tial messenger." Eve reclined on her husband, and
.the angel stood before them.
He gazed for a moment with fixed attention on the
first victim of death, then turned with heavenly benig¬
nity to Adam and his wife. His radiance diffused
around them a brighter light. In soft, melodious ac¬
cents he said : " I salute you who weep over your
v son's inanimate dust! The Almighty hath permitted
me to visit you in your affliction. Among the angels
that hover around you mortals, on the earth, none
loved Abel so tenderly as myself. I was ever by his
side, when the commands of the Most High did not
summon me away. Often when his imagination, en¬
raptured with the love .of virtue, poured forth its ef¬
fusions in hymns of praise, which hovering angels
frequently repeated, I inspired him -with heavenly
thoughts, such as the embodied soul is capable
of conceiving. Weep not then, in comfortless
despair, as if his spirit too were dead ; immoderate
grief becomes not immortal spirits. Death has re¬
leased him from the oppressive fetters of mortality;
his virtue, his reason, and his desire of knowledge
ar.e now perfected; he is happy, more happy than
o 2 ' human
108 THE DEATH OF ABEL.
■ ■ ■ . , "i: .'...a.
Adam endeavors to console Eve.
- 1 , ■ da
human imagination can conceive, in the society of
angels, in the presence of his God. Weep for him,
my beloved, but refuse not consolation ; ye are sepa¬
rated from him but for a short time; soon will death
summon you to rejoin him ; he will appear, it is true,
in different forms, but to the pious he is always a
long-expected friend. Adam! the Almighty com¬
mands thee to restore this mouldering body to the
dust; dig a pit and cover it with earth." Thus spoke
the angel, and surveyed them once more with a look
of celestial benignity, which conveyed the soothing
balm of consolation to their distracted souls. Thus
does the cooling draught from the limpid, murmuring
stream, refresh the weary traveller, who having long
wandered amid the arid sands of burning deserts,
is ready to faint with parching thirst, when he sud*
dcnly discovers the silvery current: joyful, he re*
poses, for its murmuring course leads his delighted
eye into a country, where nature smiles in all her
beauty, where the benevolent host will receive him
beneath his shade, and will provide him with every
grateful refreshment.
Adam, filled with holy extacy, gazed on the de¬
parting angel. " Accept our grateful thanks, celestial
friend !" he exclaimed. " O God, how great is thy
mercy ! thou beholdest our misery and sendest thine
angels to comfort us. Shall we, who are surrounded
by thy presence, who are the objects of thy tender
mercies, whose every, sigh is marked by hovering an¬
gels—
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
109
Adam carries the corpse towards the cottages.
gels—shall vve mourn like condemned spirits in the
dust? Shall we incessantly lament, and shall our souls,
destined for everlasting felicity, obstinately refuse con¬
solation, because our short passage through this life is
clouded by affliction? Some tears indeed must ftow
for the beloved youth, snatched from our embraces,
but how much more ought vve to offer up our prayers
and tears for the sinner! O God! banish him not
entirely from thy presence ; he was the first fruit of my
loins the first that Eve with pain brought forth. Let
us not cease, my beloved Eve ! to supplicate the Al¬
mighty in his behalf. Can we doubt his mercy, when
we know with what loving-kindness he treated us,
what great promises he gave us, when trembling be¬
fore him vve expected not mercy but judgment? Let
us not delay my beloved to execute the commands of
the Lord ; I will bear the corpse to our hut, and vve
will there commit the precious dust to the earth."—
" My beloved," said Eve, "my soul rises superior to
its sorrows ; by thy courage and firmer virtue I support
myself, as the weak ivy clings to the stubborn oak."—
Adam lifted the corpse on his shoulders, and weeping
under the melancholy burthen, proceeded towards the
huts, while Eve bathed in tears, walked by his side.'
BOOK
110
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
ttising of Thirza.
BOOK. V.
Conversation of Thirza and Mehala—They meet Adam bearing the
lifeless body of his son—Their grief and lamentations—Josiah and
Eliel the children of Cain—Interment of the corpse—Adam's prayer
on the occasion—Horror and remorse of Cain—Nocturnal visit of
Thirza to the grave of Abel—Cain overhears her lamentatinos—fte
visits his wife and children with the intention of leaving them for
ever—Mehala resolves to accompany him in his flight.
rJ1JIlRZA had now awaked from unquiet slumbers,
and sprang with secret anxiety from her couch of
skins. So springs the affrighted wanderer, reposing
his wearied limbs beneath an over-arching rock, when
a terrific dream, inspired by his guardian-angel, repre¬
sents the craggy mass descending over his head; hor¬
ror urges his steps, the rock falls ; he seeks the com¬
panion of his toilsome journey, ignorant that he is
entombed beneath the ponderous ruin. " What hor¬
rid images," she exclaimed, " have haunted my
dreams ! gloomy phantoms which I am unable to de¬
scribe. Welcome, lovely light, thou hast chased them
from my brow 1 Welcome ye flowers, my pleasing
charge ! your mingled morning odors shall refresh my
harassed senses!" And you, ye gay inhabitants of the
air, how jovfully ye warble your morning strains!
My
TI1E DEATH OF ABEL.
112
Her mind oppressed with unusual ten ors.
My voice shall mingle with your melody; my praises
and thanksgivings shall ascend together with those of
all renovated nature ! Praise, O my soul! thy Cre¬
ator and Preserver: him whose ever-wakeful Provi¬
dence guards us when wrapped in the sable mantle of
night and slumber. O !—to thee ascend my praises
and thanksgivings together with those of all renovated
nature !" She had now left the hut and walked,
among the new-blown flowers, while the morning ze¬
phyrs robbed them of their early sweets. " But still,"
she continued, " anxiety oppresses my bosom; my
heart still throbs. Whence this unusual, this name¬
less solicitude ; glopmy as the clouds, when like
mountains they overcast the horizon, when the voice
of joy is silent, and the awe-struck earth awaits the
coming tempest. Where art thou Abel ! my brother,
my other self ! Pursued by gloomy anxiety, I hasten
into thy arms, as hastens the wanderer, benighted
amid the black solitude of the forest, when terror
gives wings to his feet.''
She said and hastened away ; when she was met by
Mehala who was just leaving her hut, " Welcome!
my beloved sister !" said Mehala, " whither art thou
hastening, with thy loose-flowing tresses, unadorn'd
even by a single flower?"
'* I am hastening," replied Thirza, " I am hastening
into the arms of my beloved ; unusual terrors have
disturbed
112 THE DEATH OE ABEL.
■■ ==ag . - ■ ■ ■ > — . „■ ...
Conversation of Mchalu and 1'liiiz.i.
disturbed my slumbers ; and they still oppress my
bosom. The charms of the morn ins have not dis-
o
persed them, and now I am hastening to rrry beloved.
O ! in his arms they will be dissipated, though the
blooming spring, though the smiles of all nature are
unable to chase them away."
"Where, O my happy sister!-' exclaimed Cain's
wife, with a sigh, " where could I hope for consola¬
tion, did I not find it in the affection of our parents,
in thine, Thirza, and that of thy beloved Abel! Yes,
to you, 1 can unbosom the care and sorrow which
Cain's discontent accumulates over my days. Alas !
to him all the beauties of nature are only sources of
melancholy; the labor which the cultivation of his
field requires, is to him an insupportable burthen;
but, above all, his enmity to his virtuous brother,
afflicts my heart !''
Mehala wept; her tender sister embraced her,
while tears trembled in her eyes. " Dearest sister,-1
said she'—•" O, how often does that reflection force
bitter tears from my beloved and myself, during the
sleepless hours of night; and how often are our ar¬
dent prayers addressed to the Almighty in his behalf!
O, may a beam, of his grace disperse the dark shades^
that cloud his bosom, and favor the growth of those
baleful weeds which stifle all his virtues! Then
peace and tranquillity would again flourish around
t our
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
113
Conversation of Mehala and Thirza.
our dwellings, and sorrow be chaced from the brows
of our tender parents."
" Alas !" replied Mehala, with tears; " such has
been my prayer in many a midnight hour ! In silent
anguish I raise my hands towards heaven ; sometimes
while I weep and pray, my sorrow bursting forth in
loud sobs, has awakened him ; then in a voice of thun¬
der he complains that I disturb his slumbers, and de-
Hi • • •
prive him, as he says, of the only blessing he enjoys in
this miserable life, on this earth so severely cursed by
the Avenger. Ah Thirza ! this is my prayer, while I
sit engaged in domestic occupations in my hut; my in¬
nocent children Aveep around me, when they behold
my sorrow and my tears; they caress me, and enquire
with lisping accents the cause of my affliction ! Ah
Thirza ! I wither in my grief, like the drooping flower,
from which the thick foliage of some over-hanging
bush intercepts the refreshing dews and the genial
sun-shine. This morning before day-break he quitted
our hut, and never did such a melancholy gloom
darken his countenance ; anger flashed from his eyes,
that glared beneath his contracted brows. He cursed,
as he passed over the threshold—I heard him and
trembled—he cursed the hour of his birth; and such
was the salutation with which he greeted the smiling
morn. It is true, Thirza, and thou must have often
observed, that his virtue sometimes breaks through the
gloom : his heart is then open to tender impressions; he
p weeps
TIfi- DEATH OF ABEL.
Affliction of Mehala and Thtrza on beholding Abel's corpse.
weeps and regrets that he has offended us, and im¬
plores forgiveness. But, alas ! the light soon disap¬
pears ; as in the tempestuous days of winter, the sun
darts forth a chcaring ray, but dark, gathering clouds
soon intercept his genial beams. Still, Thirza, still I
cherish a hope—and will never cease to implore the
Almighty—that a serene spring may at length dissipate
them entirely.*
Thus spoke Mehala, when Thirzn having listened
some moments, turned pale and exclaimed, trembling:
" What sounds of anguish issue from yonder trees?—
Never have I heard lamentations like these, sister!—
Yonder among the trees! Ah! they approach !—
O God !"—Thirza sank into the arms of her sister.
Adam, with faltering steps, advanced from among
the trees; on his shoulder he bore the melancholy
bu*thenofhis son's lifeless body; Eve walked beside
him; she often raised her face expressive of the bit¬
terest anguish to gaze on the bleeding corpse, and
again concealed it with her tresses, dripping with her
tears.
Thirza, pale as death, reclined in the trembling
arms of her sister ; Mehala sank beneath the burthen ;
trembling and fainting herself, she was no longer able
to support her sister.—As when three lovely maidens,
united by the bonds of the tenderest affection, repair
band
THE HEATH OF ABEL.
115
Affliction of Mehala and Thirza.
hand in hand in the serene summer's eve to the white
cornfield; sudden the awful thunder bursts over their
heads, and the lightning strikes them senseless to the
earth; two of them awake from their lethargy, and
behold with consternation their companion, converted
into a heap of ashes; with equal horror, the sisters
when they awoke, beheld the corpse of the murdered
Abel. Adam had placed it upon the turf, and was
supporting his weeping wife. " Where, where am I r"
exclaimed Thirza. " O God !—he still lies there !—
Abel!—O why did I awake ?—Hateful light!—Alas !
Mehala ! he still lies there !—he is dead ! O horror!
—it bursts over my head like the pealing thunder !—
Hateful light h—'why did I awake ?"
' " Thirza," exclaimed Mehala in trembling accents,
" cease—O cease to terrify thyself with the horrid
thought—on me too it falls like a thunderbolt!-—
Thirza!—Alas, she sinks again!—Awake, Thirza!
let us go to him ! We have not yet beheld misery in
all its forms : he is not dead—let us go to him; thy
voice, thy embraces will revive him."
Thus spoke the sisters ; faint and trembling they
supported each other, and with faltering steps ad¬
vanced towards the corpse. " O how our parents
stand and weep !—What terrors seize me 1" exclaimed
Thirza as she approached near the body. " Abel!—
Abel!—my beloved—my happiness, my life, my all,
p 2 , awake!—
116
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Affliction of Meliala and Thirza*
awake!—O heavens! thou awakest not!-—Abel!—
listen to my lamentations—listen to the voice of thy
wretched wife !" She threw herself beside the corpse
to embrace it, but started back with a loud shriek at
the sight of the wound, and the blood which disfigured
the face. She sat speechless and motionless, pale as
the sculptured marble; despair glared in her fixed and
open eyes. Mehala wept beside her; she raised her
hands and streaming eyes to heaven, and then bathed
the corpse with her tears.
Adam, sympathizing with their anguish, wept and
thus attempted to console them. " O that I could
alleviate your affliction, my beloved daughters ! Ah,
resign not yourself to such excessive grief! While
Eve and I mingled our tears over the corpse, an angel,
beaming with celestial beauty, came to us with conso¬
lation from heaven. ' Weep not,' said he, ' restrain
the violence of your sorrows. Commit to the earth
your son's inanimate body ; his soul, freed from the
fetters of mortality, enjoys bliss superior to any of
which you are able to form a conception. You are
separated only for a short time, after which ye shall
rejoin him in the abodes of everlasting felicity !' Let
us not then, my beloved, dishonor the deceased by
inconsolable affliction !"
Thirza still sat speechless and insensible, while
Cain's wife, clasping her hands over her head, thus
vented the effusions of her, grief: " Father ! father,
suffer
TIIE DEATH OF ABEL.
117
Affliction of Mchala and Thirza.
suffer us to weep. Ah ! how thou liest .extended in
death, thou who wast our delight and our consolation.
Alas ! Abel! we have lost thee, and till the hour of
death, our sweet employment shall be to weep for
thee. Yes, thou hast entered that state of bliss,
which thy pious soul contemplated with such devo¬
tion, and to which we, whom thou hast left behind,
look forward. Alas ! we are left to weep for thee ■
out of the shades of death to weep for thee! We
have lost thee, and till the ardently-expected hour of
death arrives, our sweet employ shall be to weep for
thee ! Cain ! Cain ! where wast thou when thy brother
expired ? O ! hadst thou been present at that mo¬
ment to embrace him with fraternal affection, to im¬
plore his parting benediction, his languid arms would
have clasped thee to his bosom; his dying lips would
have blessed thee. O what sweet, what soothing con¬
solation would the remembrance have diffused over
thy future days !—But—O heavens !—what new an¬
guish overpowers my mother ?-—She faints !—O fa¬
ther, what horror overspreads thy countenance ?—
Dreadful foreboding !—Adam ! Eve ! Where is Cain?
•—Where is my husband ?"
Eve had sunk upon the ground. " Whither, O
whither!" she exclaimed, " doth eternal vengeance
pursue him ? O heavens ! the wretch ! die—but no!—
Let the black, the horrible idea be confined within
my bosom and there only inflict the torments of hell !
O wretched mother ! what must I " Speak out,
mother!
1)8
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Affliction of Mehala and 'I hirza.
mother !" cried Mehala, " spare me not; let me know
the full extent of my misery ! Frightful apprehen¬
sions already distract my soul. My father ! my mo¬
ther ! O spare me not!"—" Cain, oh inexpressible
anguish ! Cain has killed him, Mehala ! O Thirza,
Cain has murdered his brother !" exclaimed Eve, and
agony deprived her of utterance.
Silent horror thrilled the wife of Cain ; no tear es¬
caped from her fixed eye ; cold dews bathed her hrovv,
and her pallid lips quivered.* " He has killed his
brother !" she at length exclaimed ; " Cain, my hus¬
band, has murdered his brother ! O horror !—Where
art thou, fratricide?—Whither, O whither hath thy
crime pursued thee !—Has the thunder of heaven
already avenged thy brother?—Art thou no more ?—
Wretch ! where art thou ? WThither hath despair dri¬
ven thee? Thus Mehala exclaimed, and tore her
hair.
" Fratricide!" exclaimed Thirza, "ah ! how could
* Gesner had studied the effects of the passions both as a poet
and as a painter; hence the minute accuracy with which he is ena¬
bled to describe them. In the present picture, what can be more
naturally delineated than the mute affliction of the amiable sisters.
Thirza does not, like Mehala, merely deplore the loss of a brother; she
was united to Abel by the still stronger ties of conjugal love. Her silence
continues till another powerful passion, detestation, taking possession of
her soul, restores to her the power of speech; at the same time that Me¬
hala, who had before felt nothing but grief, is in her turn struck dumb
with horror at the dreadful intelligence that Cain had murdered his
brother.
1 "Fratricide!"
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Affliction of Mehala and Thirza.
he—such a virtuous, such an affectionate brother,
whose dying eyes must have beamed with love towards
him ? O Cain! cursed, cursed be " " O Thirza!
curse him not, Thirza ?" cried Mehala, " curse hiin
not, he is thy brother; he is my husband. No; let us
rather pray for the sinner ! the virtuous victim of his
fury, when he sank bleeding at his feet, viewed him
with an eye of compassion, and breathed forth a bles¬
sing on his murderer. Even now he intercedes for
him before the throne of the Eternal. Let our prayers
ascend from the dust, and unite with his. O curse
him not, Thirza! curse not thy brother!"
" Whither does my anguish hurry me?" said
Thirza. "I have not cursed him, Mehala; I meant
not to curse the wretched Cain 1" She sank upon the
corpse, kissed the blood-stained cheeks and the cold
lips in speechless agony, and at length exclaimed in
broken accents: " O that I had been near thee when
expiring to kiss once more thy pallid lips, once more
to receive the assurance of thy affection ! O that thy
closing eyes had bestowed a parting glance on me,
and that I had died in thy last embrace!—O that my
pale corpse were now extended beside thine ! But
alas ! I am left-—left to endure inexpressible anguish!
Every object that once delighted me will but aggra¬
vate my grief. Your green twilight, ye verdant
bowers will feeem to ask me : ' Where is he who, with
tender transport, embraced thee beneath our shades?'
The wandering streams will murmur to me : ' Where,
forlorn Thirza, is thy beloved ?'—In your shades, ye
bowers
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Affliction of Mcliala and Thirza.
bowers ! on your banks, ye streams, will I breathe my
ceaseless sorrows ! For ever, alas ! for ever have I
lost him ! O ! for ever shall I behold those fixed and
sightless eyes, that pale face, that blood which stains
his forehead and crimsons his pallid cheeks ! Flow—
flow my tears ' flow incessantly on his faded form!
This senseless dust was once the habitation of the
noblest spirit. Every virtue was there displayed in
lovely perfection, beamed in the mild lustre of his
eyes, smiled on his cheeks and played upon his lips:
but his soul, too pure, too blest for communion with
mortals, for intercourse with me, is fled for ever '
Flow then my tears, flow incessantly over his faded
form, till my longing soul leaves its dust to mingle
with his !"
Thus mourned Thirza, and wept over the corpse.
Eve, with increased anguish, beheld the sorrows of
her daughters. " O my children!" she exclaimed,
" how your grief aggravates my own, how your la¬
mentations rend my heart! How bitterly they re¬
proach me !—me, by whom sin, misery and death were
brought into the world ! Forgive ! O forgive your
wretched mother; pardon her who bore you with
pain!"—"O mother!" exclaimed her daughters,
throwing themselves at her feet and embracing her
O O
knees; " by the pangs thou hast endured for us, we
implore thee, cease these cruel reflections; increase
not our sorrows with new afflictions. O thou who
hast borne us with pain ! consider not these sighs,
these
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
121
Adam prepares a grave.
these tears as reproaches ! Could we command our
grief, not a sigh should escape our bosoms, not a tear
should moisten our cheeks. But, how can we resist
the imperious commands of nature, how restrain these
expressions of the most ardent affection ! 'Tis na-
ture> 'tis'affection that command our tears to flow."
While they still embraced their mother's knees, and
their tearful eyes were tenderly fixed upon her, Adam
said : " My beloved ! let us no longer cease to fulfil
the command of the Most High ; let us restore this
faded form, the object of our tears and lamentations
to its native earth. The lenient hand of time will
soften our grief; and reason will assist us to conquer
our sorrow ; it will then be as the longing of a bride
for the day which is to give her to the arms of her be¬
loved."—" Restore this precious dust to the earth
whence it sprang," said Thirza, fixing her weeping
eyes on Adam. " But, dear father! sutler me once
more to bathe it with my tears, and then consign it to
the earth !" She said, and sank with extended arms
upon the corpse.
Adam now began to prepare the grave, while Eve
and Mehala stood weeping beside him. In the mean
time, the two innocent children of Cain, leaving their
cottage, with timid step advanced hand in hand. " Jo-
siah! my beloved !" said the golden-haired Eliel,
" what lamentations are those ? Let us approach
nearer. Look how Abel lies there—how pale, and
how is hair is stained with blood ! lie looks, brother,
just like a lamb that has been slaughtered for a sacri-
e fice. *
12<3 TIIE DEATII OF ABEL.
Intprmefit of Abel.
fice." "Beloved Eliel!" answered Josiali, who was
the youngest, " see how Thirza weeps over him, and
he does not even look at her. Let us go away: I
tremble, I shudder at the sight; let us run to our mo¬
ther, who is weeping too." The children now hasten¬
ed to Mehala, and clung around her. " Mother said
they, "why do you all weep? Why does Abel lie
there like a lamb for the sacrifice ?" Mehala embraced
the little innocents, and weeping over thein replied :
" Death, my dear children, has separated the soul of
Abel from his body; he is gone to enjoy eternal hap¬
piness in the company of the angels." " Then he will
never awake," said Eliel, sobbing, " he will never
awake—Ife, who taught us such pretty hymns, who
loved us so dearly, who used to take us on his knees,
Josiah, and tell us about God and the angels, and the
wonders of nature—he will never wake more ! 0,
how will our father weep when he returns from the
field !"—Thus the children prattled forth their artless
sorrow; they clung weeping to their mother and hid
heir faces in the folds of her garment.
Adam had now dug the grave. " Awake, Thirza!
my beloved ! awake ! Let us not delay to commit
this dust to the earth ; let us, Thirza, no longer delay
to fulfil the command of the Lord !" He said, and
approaching, took her tenderly by the hand. She had
lain motionless upon the body, and now awoke from
a holy vision. " Yes," said she, " I have seen him;
arrayed in celestial splendor I have beheld my be-
f loved !
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
123
Adam's prayer.
loved ! ' Weep not, Thirza! weep not, I am blessed ;
thou wilt soon rejoin me, where death shall never se¬
parate us more!' Thus he addressed me, a heavenly
smile beamed on his countenance as he retired, and
celestial radiance marked his footsteps." While
Thirza spoke, sublime consolation illumined her face.
" Commit, my beloved father ! commit this moulder¬
ing dust to the earth." She said, arose and placed
herself beside her mother and sister. Eve and her
daughters covered their faces with their flowing
tresses, while Adam, weeping, wrapped the corpse in
skins, placed it in the grave and threw the earth upon
it. " Now, my beloved wife ! now, my dear chil¬
dren !" said he, " let us address our solemn supplica¬
tions to the Most High ; let us kneel around the grave !"
They obeyed; and Eliel and Josiah knelt beside their
mother. The father of men, folding his hands on his
breast, pronounced this prayer:
" Thou, who dwellest in the highest heaven, God !
Creator ! whose justice and whose mercy are alike
infinite and eternal; prostrate before the grave of the
first dead, we sinners, humbled in the dust, address
our supplications to thee ! O let our prayers as¬
cend to thy throne ; deign to look down on this vale
of death, this abode of sin ! Great are our crimes,
but still greater is thy eternal mercy. What are we
impure sinners before thee ? And yet thou turnest
not thy countenance from us ! We groan under the
misery which we have brought upon our own heads,
and thou lookestdown with compassion upon our dis-
Q 2 tress.
124
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Adam's prayer.
tress. Thou wilt still permit us to offer up our sup¬
plications to thee; for thou hast not abandoned the
sinner. Not only the smiling spring and the serene
sky proclaim thy praises ; thy majesty is announced by
the rolling thunder, bursting from the black clouds;
the howling tempest and the jarring elements pro¬
claim thy power. Let the smile of joy, let the tear of
affliction praise thee ! We have seen death, that
child of sin; in a hideous form he has visited our
dwellings ; guilt, horrid guilt led him by the hand.
My first-born—my soul shudders !—my first-born has
murdered his brother ! O turn not thy countenance
from me, if I venture to supplicate for the offender.
O, my God ! cast him not off for ever ! Look down
upon the sinner, that his soul may abhor his crime,
that he may humble himself in the dust before thee,
and with tears of repentance implore thy pardon. And
when, overwhelmed with remorse and anguish, he
supplicates thy forgiveness, then, O God ! deign to
shed a beam of "consolation on his soul. Reject not!
O Almighty Father ! reject not my petition ! I have
fulfilled thy command ; the earth, moistened with our
tears, covers the body of the slain ! O listen to our
prayer, which ascends to thee from the grave of the
first who has returned to his parent earth. O Lord,
hear our prayers ! hear us, when in the sleepless mid¬
night hour they ascend to thee ; when at the rising
and the setting of the sun we supplicate thee for him.
—Praise, eternal praise be to thee who hast taken to
thyself the soul of the departed. Death has seized
his
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
125
A darn's prayer.
his first victim ; like him we shall follow each other
to the silent grave, to immortality. O thou, whose
nod created the heavens, and at whose command the
world arose from nothing ! the heavens and the earth
shall pass away, but thou art eternal! We dwell in
bodies of dust, and this dust shall be dissolved; but
thou art unchangeable. Thou wilt bestow eternal
bliss on the repentant sinner, on him who mourns be¬
cause his virtue is so inadequate to his wishes, because
it is still sullied by human frailties. Such thou wilt
gather from the dust, thou wilt elevate them to eternal
happiness, to purity, angelic purity: for—O, cheering
promise ! the seed of the woman shall crush the ser¬
pent's head ! Rejoice, O earth ! praise him, all na¬
ture! We will glorify his name, even when over¬
whelmed by the weight of misfortune. Man has
fallen—O how is he fallen from the original dignity of
his nature; but God hath not cast him off for ever,
and even in his judgments he remembers mercy. He
fell—he, whom the Almighty created perfect; and after
his fatal transgression, the sinner, trembling before
his Maker, awaited in unspeakable anguish, the sen¬
tence of an eternal curse, an everlasting punishment.
What less could he expect ? But all nature celebrates
the great, the glorious mystery, that he shall crush the
serpent's head ; though it is true, this gracious promise
of the great atonement is yet enveloped in a sacred
obscurity, impenetrable to every created being. Shall
we then prophanely mourn in the dust, if the dream of
life be checkered with joy and affliction, till the soul is
freed
126
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Remorse of Cain.
freed from the fetters of mortality ? Then those who,
while clothed in dust, pursued the paths of virtue, and
loved God, who, by his infinite goodness and the won¬
ders of his grace, kindled in their hearts the sacred
flame, shall assemble in the abodes of bliss. My
prophetic eye penetrates the sacred veil of futurity;
I see those whom death has removed from the earth,
a countless multitude pure as the flames of the celes¬
tial altars. They are mingled with hosts of angels,
and are engaged in chanting incessant hymns of praise'
before the throne of the Eternal. O how is my soul
elevated; my spirit experiences raptures unknown
before. Praise be to thy infinite goodness! I am lost
in sacred transport—transport which I can only feel
but am unable to utter !"
Adam ceased his prayer, but long continued in
silent extacy, while his wife and daughters likewise
remained kneeling in mute devotion round the grave.
Nature in awful silence hallowed the solemn scene;
and not a cloud passed across the azure expanse of
heaven.
Evening soon approached, accompanied with cool
twilight and calm tranquillity. Cain, agitated by hor¬
ror and remorse, had wandered through the wilder¬
ness; exhausted with fatigue, he cast himself upon
the earth, and, fixing his eyes on the rising moon, his
terrific voice resounded amid the stillness of evening.
" Yonder, above the black hill, the full moon sailing
through
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
127
Remorse of Cain.
through the dusky sky, sheds brightness afld tranquil¬
lity around. All beneath the starry firmament of
heaven breathes silence and repose, man only excep¬
ted ; the voice of mourning and lamentation ascends
from their dwellings. I—wretch that I am—have
brought misery into their habitations. Those sighs,
those groans that pierce the nocturnal air, call down
vengeance on me. This day—hear it ye stars! hear
it O moon, turn still more pale and hide thy beams—
this accursed day, thy sister earth has drunk the blood
of the first slain—the blood of my brother, shed by
my hand ! O henceforth withhold from me your ge¬
nial influence: withhold it from the field I cultivate
and the ground on which I tread ! I have murdered
my brother!—Conceal me, gloomy darkness ; hide me
from the eye of nature! Shrouded in thy sable mantle
I will flee—flee with my misery, to some desolate re¬
gion where no human footstep was ever imprinted on
the mouldering grass. I will dwell among craggy
rocks, distilling putrid streams into the swampy abode
of loathsome reptiles; where the branches of lofty
trees thickly interwoven above my head, the retreat of
birds of prey, intercept the light of heaven. There
will I pass my days amid solitude, anguish and re¬
morse. When sleep seals my languid eyes, haunted
by images of horror. 1 shall behold my murdered bro¬
ther, I shall see his mangled head, and his blood¬
stained locks !"
Thus
128
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Hcmorsc of Cain.
Thus Cain poured forth his lamentations amid the
darkness of night. He ceased; long he remained ab¬
sorbed in silent misery ; no bird of night interrupted
the melancholy stillness ; a gentle murmur only floated
around. Shuddering he gazed on the landscape, and
exclaimed : " Mourn for me, ye hills! ye groves,
mourn for me ! I am wretched, inexpressibly wretch¬
ed—misery like mine surely deserves compassion.
Mourn for me, beauteous nature! to me, alas ! no
longer beauteous ! Weep for me, ye silent witnesses
of the presence of an all-merciful God;—to me no
longer merciful—to me only the Eternal Avenger!"
He paused and again began: " Ah ! I can now weep ;
that relief was before denied me. Flow—flow my
tears, ye precious testimonies of my softened misery;
despair is converted into plaintive sorrow. Deign, O
earth! to receive my tears, though I am accursed on
thy surface; refuse not these tokens of my inexpres¬
sible misery !—what a thought rises within my bosom!
—My tears flow faster—Yes—now, shrouded in the
veil of night, I will go to the habitation of the mourn¬
ers ; I will once more see and bless them—Bless
them ?—The angry winds would waft thfe intended
blessings from my lips; wretch that I am ! I cannot
bless them ! Yet I will go—I will go and bless them
and weep over them, and then—ah ! and then tear
myself from them for ever !—tear myself from thee,
Mehala! and from my beloved infants for ever!"
Agony interrupted his speech ; he was silent and pro¬
ceeded
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Abel's bower.
ceeded towards the cottages, watering the lonely path
with his tears.
I
He now passed by a verdant bower, planted by his
murdered brother on the gentle declivity of the liiil.
" Flourish," said he, when he had completed it,
" flourish and spread a soft, refreshing shade, that in
your twilight succeeding generations may relate-—Here
Eve brought forth her first-born, here with tears of
joy she welcomed him into the world—him, the first
comfort of her solitary days. She called him Cain ;
she hung over him with unspeakable rapture; she
kissed his infant cheeks, and said : ' I have received
a man from the Lord." With averted face the mur¬
derer passed the spot; dews of anguish trickled from
his brow, and his trembling limbs were scarcely able
to support their burthen.—Such horrors seize the
wretch, who presented poisoned viands to his father,
returning faint and hungry from the field; when
lie passes by his grave, and is pursued by the
rustling and the fragrant perfumes of the garland with
which his duteous sisters have entwined their parent's
urn.—Cain had now passed the place and approached
the huts. The moon shed on them a pale light through
the thick foliage of the over-arching trees; an awful
silence reigned around. He gazed and wept and vvrang
his hands; long he remained silent; inexpressible an¬
guish racked his bosom, as he stood shuddering aimd
the dreary stillness. " How silent,'' he at length ex¬
claimed in low accents, " is the voice of affliction !
130
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Despair of Cain.
llut hark-—what sounds!—are they not sighs; are
they not the groans of sleepless anguish, that issue
from the cottages? Here—hidden in darkness, and
pursued by hell, shudders the wretch who made you
the abodes of sorrow, who has chased from you peace
and every social delight.' And do I venture to breathe
the air pierced by the sighs of the mourners; dare I to
intrude on the spot sanctified by the sorrows of the
pious, by sorrow for my crime ?—Flee, wretch !—pro-
phane not the sacred place !—Yes, I will flee—only
a moment longer shall my despairing eyes gaze on you;
permit ine—permit a wietch to weep here a little lon-
gm—thep will I flee!—Blessings, eternal blessings be
upon you, ye——-Ah ! wretch!—Wilt thou prophans
those sacred names—names that express the softest
tics, the noblest sensations of the human heart? O
that with the shades of night, your sorrow might de¬
part from you, and, uniting itself with the misery I
already feel, accompany me in my wanderings through
the earth, cursed for my sake ! O that you could for
ever forget him whose image fills your souls with ago¬
ny— O that ye could for ever forget me ! Dreadful
wish of extreme misery!"
Cum, concealed in the dark shade, now wept and
wrang his trembling hands, when he heard the foot¬
steps of some one slowly approaching through the
gloom. A cold shivering, like the chilness of death,
seized his soul; he attempted, but in vain, to flee,
and sank powerless among the bushes.
Thirza
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
131
Lamentations of Thirza over Abel's grave.
Thirza had, during the melancholy night, forsaken
her solitary couch. Drowned in tears she pursued
her way, and seated herself on the dewy turf beside
the grave She wrang her hands, and gazed with
fixed eyes on the star-besprinkled heavens ; then,
sinking on the grave, she moistened the fresh earth
with her tears. " Here, here," she cried, " my peace,
my every joy lie buried ; here beneath this earth,
which drinks my tears. Alas ! is there no rest, no re¬
lief for me in the tearful hours of night? O, How ye
tears! my heart can experience no other relief than
that of weeping over his grave, than that of sighing
away the tedious hours on this spot, amid the death¬
like silence. It is true, my-beloved! I have beheld
thee arrayed in heavenly splendor ! But can I refrain
from mourning for thee? In this life of sorrow thou
art torn from me for ever !—My grief had overpower¬
ed my senses as I lay beside the dear pledge of our
love; refreshing sleep had sealed his eye-lids; he
smiled in his slumbers, ignorant, alas ! of the miseries
of mortality,uriconsciousof the loss he hassustained. In
vain I sought repose on the forlorn, conjugal couch ;
dreary solitude and restless anguish now await me
there, where in thy arms I found tenderness and
sweetest rest. They, alas ! are fled for ever—are torn
from me—O misery ! by the handoTa brother ! Where
is he ?—Where is the wretch ?—Whither has his guilt
driven him ?*—O God of mercy ! reject not my ardent
prayer, when my unwearied supplications ascend to
thee in his behalf. O reject not his repentance, when,
r 2 humbled
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Lamentations of Ihirza over Abel's grave.
humbled in the dust, he mourns his crime, and with
tears implores thy forgiveness !''—Grief and emotion
here deprived her of utterance. At length, raising
her eyes to heaven, she continued : " How often ! O
how often !—thou placid moon ! wast thou the silent
witness of our endearments, when arm in arm we wan¬
dered alone in thy silvery twilight, while his dear lips
taught me the sacred precepts of virtue? Here now
lies his mouldering form ; thy melancholy beam il¬
lumes his grave; here lies his fathers hope—his mo¬
ther's joy—here, alas ! lies my Abel—my husband !"
Long she paused absorbed in deep, in silent sorrow;
at length her melancholy eyes wandered over the still
landscape. " How lovely gleams the moon-light on
yonder bower!" she exclaimed, " what cheering re¬
flections penetrate the gloom of my affliction—bright,
O moon ! as thy beams piercing through the darkness
t of night. How gleams the bower where thou, my be¬
loved Abel, embraccdst me, amid the radiant twilight
of evening! ' What happiness,' saidst thou, pressing
me to thy bosom, while tears of tenderness and devo¬
tion bedewed thy cheeks^—' what happiness it is to he
virtuous! what felicity to love, him, from whom all
these beauties emanate ! what felicity when all our ac¬
tions are approved by surrounding angels ! What
pleasure is equal, to the sensation of the presence of
God in this creation replete with beauties, to the con¬
sciousness of virtue, which draws tears of transport
from our eyes! To him whose life is devoted to the
practice of virtue, death, in any form, is not terrible;
1 - for
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
133
Lamentations of J hirza over Abel's grave.
for we know—O God, ho>v inexpressible is thy mercy
to sinners !—that the immortal soul, separated from
its frail habitation, shall ascend to the regions of ever¬
lasting bliss.'—e O my Thirza,' saidst thou, pressing me
more ardently to thy bosom ; ' if I quit this habitation
of dust, if I attain eternal happiness before thee,
weep not long over my mouldering relics ! What is
the period of life allotted thee by the Creator, com¬
pared with that eternity, in which we shall enjoy to¬
gether never-ending felicity !' ' My beloved,'. I re¬
plied, clasping thee more fervently in my embrace -
£ and if the angel of death should summon me first
from this dust, mourn not long over my inanimate
corpse; we shall meet beyond the grave in the abodes
of eternal bliss.'—O sink not, rriy soul, beneath the
weight of thy misery ! Reject not the sublime consola¬
tions that are offered thee ; remember thy immortality,
and looking beyond thy present affliction, fix thy
steady gaze on that bliss, which approaches to chase
the gloomy, the varying scenes of mortal life. If, in¬
deed, the soul were to perish when the body sinks
into dust—O whence could I then derive consola¬
tion ? I should mourn in despair over thy grave, and
implore the Almighty in mercy to annihilate me ; but
our spirits are immortal. No ; I will not ignobly sink
beneath the weight of my grief! Ye angels! who,
unseen, hover around me, ye shall witness my efforts
to conquer my sorrows—my soul is immortal like
yourselves ! My tears still flow ! O flow, ye tears !
sacred to his mpuldering dust, who is gone before me
to
134
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Anguish of Cain on hearing the lamentations of Thirza.
to the regions of eternal bliss ! Over thy grave, my be¬
loved !—my tears again flow faster !—O sink not my
soul, into comfortless sorrow !—over thy grave will I
raise a verdant bower ; there will I indulge my tears
sacred to thy memory ; there will I pass my most so¬
lemn hours, and contemplate in holy extacy the mo¬
ment when we shall be re-united to part no more!!''
She said, and rose from the grave. " Now," she con¬
tinued " my soul had found relief, but—O, horrid
thought !—his brother murdered him !—-O Almighty!"
she cried, sinking again on her knees, " hear, O hear
my supplications ! Let the sinner find mercy. This,
my fervent prayer, shall ascend to thee, when the star
of evening glows amid the twilight, and at the ruddy
t dawn of th.e rising day !'"
In the mean time the wretched Cain lay trembling
in the thicket, the prey of agonizing despair. " I will
flee !" he exclaimed. " Begone vile w retch ! away
from this sacred spot ! Alas ! I cannot flee !—Crowd
not around me, ye—O ye forms of hell, suffer me to
escape !—Suffer me—suffer me to flee—to fee from
the sacred spot, ye infernal furies!—I cannot flee—
wretch that I am !—IIow she mourns !—and yet
i
I cannot flee !—Her lamentations cease. O virtue,
virtue, what hopes, what consolations are thine
-—by me, alas ! forfeited for ever. No hope, no sha¬
dow of hope remains for me !—Now, now I feel the
full extent of my wretchedness—torments—new and
nameless
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Anguish of Cain on hearing the lamentations of Tliirza.
nameless torments.—Ilell in its deepest abysses, knows
not torments keener than mine.—She prays—ah ! she
prays for me, forme !—and dost thou not hate me, dost
thou not curse the fratricide?—Unspeakable goodness
—O what do I feel at this bright display of virtue ! —
My guilt appears more horrible ; gloomy and black as
the deep caverns at the entrance of hell. I feel—I
feel the aggravated horrors of infernal torments, of
agonizing remorse ! —And thou prayest for me,
Thirza !—Vain, vain are thy supplications ! No;
God cannot "listen to them—he is just!—She retires
from the grave of her slaughtered husband. — Mayl— ,
wretch that lam—dare to tread the same path ; may
I venture to shed tears of inexpressible anguish 011
her footsteps ! No—begone—yonder hillock, gleam¬
ing in the moon-light, is his grave !—away from the
sacred spot—flee, murderer!"—He said, and shudder¬
ing retreated. He fled ; but again he stood still, and
in despair, wringing his hands bedewed with tears, he
exclaimed : " O, I cannot—I cannot flee ! How could
I leave you, Mehala !—my children !—how could I
forsake you for ever, without once more deploring my
crime before you ; without humbling myself in the
dust at thy feet, my beloved 1 Perhaps thou mayst
shed tears of compassion for me, perhaps thou mayst
bless me ! — But how can I—accursed by the Al¬
mighty—how can I expect thy blessing ! O hate me,
execrate me, my crime deserves it ! Then will I flee,
ladcu with the curse of all nature! —with thy maledic¬
tion !
O
136
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Cain proceeds to his cottage.
tion ! O horror ! infernal, inexpressible horror ! no,
I have not power to flee. My clearest wife 1—my be¬
loved children !—I come to mourn my guilt, to hum¬
ble myself in the dust before you, and then—then,
will I forsake you forever !" Cain now passed at a
distance from the grave, and proceeded towards his
cottage, fie approached his dwelling, he paused and
shuddered. Pale as a corpse, he long stood trembling
without, till at length with faltering step he passed the
threshold.
Mehala sat by the pale light of the moon, herself
pale as the moon veiled in clouds; she mourned and
lamented on her solitary couch, and her weeping in¬
fants were sobbing around her. She beheld her husband,
and uttering a piercing shriek, sank senseless on the
bed; while the terrified children hastened to meet
their father and grasped his knees. " Father, dear
father! comfort her, comfort our poorjnother! Alas!
what affliction has come upon us ! How we rejoice to
see thee returned father! What has detained thee so
long?'"—Thus stammered the children, clinging around
their father. He stood shuddering in their midst,
while his tears flowed in streams upon them." Over¬
come with inexpressible agony, he was unable to speak;
he sank in the dust at the feet of his wife. The chil¬
dren now redoubled their, cries ; Mehala awoke and
beheld her husband at her feet, moistening the dust
with his tears. " O Cain ! Cain !"she exclaimed, sob¬
bing and tearing her hair. "Mehala," replied Cain,
with
THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Cain's reception of Mehald.
with filtering accents, " forgive, O forgive ine ! if-r
w retch and murderer as I am—I presume once more
to weep, to humble myself in the dust before thee. O
permit me this last, this only consolation in my misery.
Now accursed by God, pursued by inexpressible tor¬
ments, I will flee—will wander a fugitive on the earth.
0 curse me not—curse not thy wretched husband !"
" Cain ! Cain !" exclaimed Mehala, in a tone of acutest
sorrow, "murderer of the best of brothers, my hus¬
band I O wretched, wretched Cain ! what hast thou
done?"' Cain raised his eyes to her, and with a look
expressive of tire anguish which rent his heart, ex¬
claimed: " Cursed he the hour, in which a dream
from hell deceived me ! I hoped, alas ! to rescue
these weeping children from future misery, and slew
him—accursed be the hour—and slew my virtuous
brother ! And now—now the torments of hell will
for ever pursue me for the horrid deed I Forget me,'
Mehala ! forget thy husband 1 Curse me not, my be¬
loved wife ! O curse me not 1 Now accursed of God,
1 will flee—flee for ever from thee, from my children'.'
The children shrieked around him, they wrang their
little hands over their curled heads, and Mehala sank
beside him. " Receive these tears, receive these tes¬
timonies of my pity," said she, weeping over him;
" thou wouldst flee, Cain,—wouldst wander alone
through the solitary earth ! O how could I dwell in
this hut, while thou, a houseless fugitive, wouldst lan¬
guish in the solitude of the desert ! No, Cain 1 I will
accompany thee; how could I suffer thee to wander
s forlorn
T1IE DEATH OF ABEL.
Mchain resolves to accoinp.tny her,husband in his flight.
forlorn in the wilderness. What cruel inquietude
would torment me! Would not every melancholy
tone that struck my ear, fill my soul with anguish and
terror ? ' Perhaps it is he,' should I say to myself,
' perhaps he is groaning, helpless and forlorn, in the
agonies of death !' She said, and Cain gazing on her
with mingled transport and surprize, exclaimed : " 0
God !—what do I hear?—It is, yes,- it is Mehala ! it
is not the delusion of a dream—O God ! what words!
•—No, Mehala, it is consolation enough for a wretch
like me, that thou dost not hate, that thou dost not
curse me !—No, thou virtuous woman, it is not fit that
thou shouldst share -with me the punishment due to
the most heinous of crimes. O remain among the
dwellings of the righteous, on which rests the blessing
o o * O
of the Lord ! Thou shalt not share my misery. For
get the wretch, the outcast from all nature, who knows
noplace of rest; forget thy miserable husband—but
cuise me not!''—" No, Cain! no,'' replied Mehala,
" I will accompany thy flight; I will follow thee with
our children into the wilderness ; 1 will mourn with
thee, share thy misery, and perhaps help to assuage it.
My tears shall mingle with those of thy repentance;
my prayers shall ascend with thine to the throne of
God; these children shall kneel around us and lisp
forth supplications for thee. God despiseth not the
repentance of the sinner. Yes, Cain ! I will flee with
thee. We will unceasingly weep and implore the mercy
of the Almighty till he vouchsafes to shed a beam of
cqrnfort to sooth and cheer thy despairing soul;—for
4 Cain'
THE DEATH OF'ABEL.' 12$
. 1 •
Cain and his family leave their cottage.
Cain, God listens to the prayer of the penitent
sinner." '
" O!" exclaimed Cain, " what shall I call thee ?—*
angel of consolation ! What comfort already beams
on my darkened soul ! Mehala ! my wife ! yes, now
I may venture to embrace thee. O that I could ex¬
press my emotions ! Nor the most fervent embrace,
nor all my tears can speak them !'' Cain now bowed
his head to her bosom ; his soul was incapable of ex¬
pressing the gratitude, the sensations that filled his
heart. He then went from her side, embraced his
children, and returning to Mehala, pressed tier with'
ard,or to his breast. This tenderest of wives now took
her youngest infant to her bosom, and supported her¬
self on her husband ; another little one held by his fa¬
thers hand, and Eliel and Josiah, wiping the tears
from their cheeks, tripped gaily before them. Mehala
looked around her with tears. " Blessed be ye, whom
I leave behind me !" exclaimed she. " Soon will I
return from our future dwelling to implore your bless¬
ing for myself and my penitent husband !" Fixing her
eyes on the cottages, she paused and wept, as if
irresolute; when suddenly balmy odors, like the per¬
fumes of spring, filled the air. " Go, generous wife
said the sweet voice of some invisible spirit; " in re¬
freshing dreams I will inform thy mother of thy vir¬
tuous resolution, and that thou hast accompanied
thy penitent husband to implore pardon for him of
the Almighty Judge."
The
1^0 THE DEATH OF ABEL.
Cain and his family ictl.c to desert regions.
They now passed through the moon-light, often
pausing to look back and weep; and advanced into
desolate regions, on which had never yet been im¬
printed the footsteps of man.
END ON THE DEATH OF ABEL.
MEMOIRS
OF
SOLOMON GESSNER.
Though we are justified in expecting in the life of the-
hero or the statesman a succession of brilliant actions and
extraordinary events, yet the reverse is the case with re¬
gard to many great and distinguished characters. If the
Jives of authors in general are barren of historical details,
still more so is that of the poet in particular. .Accustomed
to the contemplation of the beautiful, his soul chiefly lives
in an ideal world, and revels amid the beauties of its own
creation, of which he very rarely finds resemblances in com¬
mon life. Hence he shuns the busy crowd, whose foolish
wishes and whose vain pursuits have no charms for him ;
and with nicer discrimination chuses his occupations and
amusements. Far from withdrawing, however, from the sa¬
cred obligations of duty, he fulfils them, to the best of his
ability, but without bustle and without ostentation. He
loves to retire from the tumult of the world into the narrow
circle in which his soul finds more congenial commerce;
b and
VI
emd his sweetest hours are those which are spent in the con¬
templation of the beauties of nature, or are devoted to the
muses, to friendship, and the enjoyment of domestic feli¬
city.
Such a man was Solomon Gessner. His actions are con¬
tained in his immortal works, and afford few materials for
history. The events of his life will not reward the eager¬
ness of mere curiosity; but the philosophic observer will
with pleasure contemplate his moral and intellectual cha¬
racter, and trace the gradual developement and cultivation
which his genius and talents received either from his own
efforts, from accident, or exterior circumstances.
Solomon Gessner was born at Zurich, on the first of
April, 1730. His father, Conrad Gessner, was a member
of the great council of that canton, and his mother was of
the respectable family of Hirzel. The name of Gessner was
already known in the walks "of literature, and many mem¬
bers of the family had been eminently distinguished for
their talents.' Conrad Gessner, who flourished in the six¬
teenth century, and acquired the name of the German
Pliny, raised himself, by means of the most indefatigable
application, and rn spite of indigence and every species
of affliction, to the rank of one of the most celebrated lite¬
rary characters of his age.* With the name of this great'
man, no small portion of his talents was in later times inhe-
* This author is by Boerhaave emphatically styled moustrum eruJitionis, a
prodigy of learning. Mr. Coxe, in his Letters on Switzerland, justly observes:
" Those who are conversant with the works of this great scholar and naturalist,
cannot repress their* wonder and admiration at the amplitude of, his knowledge
in every species of erudition and the variety of his discoveries in natural history,
which was his peculiar delight. Their wonder and a'dmiration is still farther
augmented, when they consider the gross ignorance of the age, which he helped
to enlighten, and' the scanty succors he possessed to aid him in thus extending the
- bounds of knowledge; that he composed his works and made those discoveries
which would have done honor to the most enlightened period under the compli¬
cated evils of poverty, sickness, and domestic unensiness," He was born at Zu¬
rich in the year 1516, and died in 1564.
rited
Vsi
rited b.y one of bis descendants. The naturalist, John Gess-
ner, who died a few years since, is indeed better known
through the friendship and esteem of a Hailer, and the ad"
miration of those who enjoyed the opportunity of becoming
acquainted with the extent and profundity-of his knowledge
in various branches of literature and erudition, but particu-
,larly botany, than by the small number of his works. Tire
-merits of his brother, Jacob Gessner, are known to all the
lovers of numismatic science.
Compared with men of such distinguished talents, the
slender progress of our author in the early period of youth,
was not calculated to produce a very favorable opinion of
his genius. Unfortunately, obstacles of considerable mag¬
nitude, opposed the early developement of his youthful
mind ; the care of his education when at home was confided
to an ecclesiastic alike deficient in mental attainments and
exterior accomplishments; and in the public schools which
he also attended, the instruction was confined to the rudi¬
ments of the Greek and Latin languages, and the method,
still following the ancient practice, had less of accuracy than
of stiffness and pedantry. The memory was burdened with
words and phrases, and tormented with rules whose meaning
the teacher never took the trouble to explain, or whose ne¬
cessity he never illustrated by the simple principles of
thinking and speaking.
A method so defective could not he productive of much
benefit to those whose imagination possessed equal power
with their understandings. As the true without the beau¬
tiful, ideas without imagery have no charms for them, they
are never tempted to supply the deficiency in the mode pf
instruction by their own speculations. On the contrary they
make amends for the dry insipidity of the schools, by in¬
dulging in the sweet reveries of a lively fancy, or by some
kind of amusement, To this class belonged young Gess-
per. He early manifested a decided attachment to the arts
.... b ? of
viii
of imitation. Like Lucian of old, he ofteft employed his
school-hours in modelling figures of various kinds, groups of
men, animals, and other objects in wax ; and his industry^
like Lucian's, was frequently rewarded by his instructor in
a manner not the most agreeable to his feelings. This how.
ever made but little impression ; for scarcely had the fingers
of the young artist recovered the effects of the punishment,
when he resumed his former occupation; and he always
returned home, if not with a rich store of words and rules,
yet with a fresh stock of waxen figures to amuse his little
sisters. To the gratification of this propensity he devoted
every leisure hour, as well as every moment he could steal
from business, and expended on the same object every pen¬
ny he could save.
To this first favorite occupation of young Gessner was
soon added another. By some fortunate accident the His¬
tory of Robinson Crusoe fell into his hands. The youthful
artist immediately became an author ; one story after ano¬
ther in imitation of that celebrated performance issued
from his pen. But he was soon interrupted in this exercise
of his juvenile faculties; and his authorship experienced
the same fate at home as his imitative talents at school. His
preceptor, on the discovery of his new amusement, instead
of rejoicing at this effort of activity in a child, who had till
then been considered as indolent and averse to employment,
instead of deducing from it the necessary data forjudging
of his talents and directing his genius, merely consi¬
dered how injurious such a fancy would infallibly prove to
the study of the ancient languages, or rather to the labo¬
rious task of learning by heart the vocabulary and rudi¬
ments. He therefore resolved by the force of the most dis¬
agreeable impressions to eradicate such an alarming incli¬
nation ; and remunerated the first-fruits pf bis pen, with a
severity that would have been sufficient to deter many 9
young writer. This remedy, however, was calculated to
operate
ix
operate only on a weak mind, and not on one pregnant with
the fire of ardent genius. He continued his work not with
less industry, but with more circumspection, and the fruits
of his clandestine labor were a multitude of juvenile essays,
which shortly before his death he committed to the flames.
Of their character and contents, nothing farther is known
than that all his Crusoes were great sinoakers, and that be
let loose upon them an abundant portion of hurricanes and
tempests.
The influence of these amusements on his progress in the
study of languages daily became more apparent. The
complaints of his preceptors concerning his incapacity and
stupidity grew more violent and more frequent, and filled
his parents with the liveliest concern. In order to make
amends for his natural want of talent, he was now compelled
to exert more than ordinary application, and no means that
were expected to produce the desired effect were left un-
tried. On a certain occasion, when his father was about tp
give a splendid entertainment, the young pupil, who alrea¬
dy longed for the delicacies of which it was to consist, re¬
ceived the dreadful intimation that, unless his next-theme
was executed much better than usual, he should neither
taste nor see the least morsel of the expected dainties. To
prevent such a serious mortification, Gessner had recourse
to an extraordinary contrivance. On the day on which he
was to perform his task, he cut his hand with a pen-knife,
and with his blood wrote an agreement, in which he pro¬
mised to devote himself to the Almighty to all eternity, if he
would grant success to crown his efforts in the present in¬
stance. With tips paper in his pocket he fell checrfuHy to
work. Unfortunately, however, his bill on heaven came
back protested; his theme swarmed with blunders,'and a
gevere chastisement terminated the drama of which Gessnef
had expected a very different conclusion.
His French biographer asserts that even Bodmer himself,
/ wh*
X
who awakened the genius of so many men of talents, and
whose company was so much sought hy the youth of his
native town, was mistaken in his opinion of Gessner. The
father of the latter, he asserts, took his son to his celebrated
fellow-citizen, intreating him to try whether he could
elicit from him a spark of dormant talent. After a short
examination Bodmersent back the boy to his parents, with
the melancholy assurance, that there was no ground to hope
he would ever learn more than to read and write and the
first rules of arithmetic. This anecdote may be true, but
it does not appear to be sufficiently authenticated. Be this
as it may, M. Hottinger, whose sources of information
entitle him to implicit belief, declares, that M. Simler,
well known in the walks of literature, by his " Collection
of documents illustrative of the ecclesiastical history of
Switzerland," raised the dejected spirits of Gessner's pa.
rents by the most flattering hopes. " This youth," said
he, " of whom such an unjust opinion is entertained, pos¬
sesses latent talents which will infallibly be sooner or later
unfolded, and will raise him far above the mediocrity of his
most shining companions."*
It is frequently the case that children are more correctly
appreciated by their play-fellows and companions than by
their instructors. Io the ordinary intercourse with his
* An ancient popular tradition was still at this period handed about at Zurich,
concerning a school boy who having long been accounted one of the greatest
dunces, all at ones excited the astonishment of his teachers by his answers.
They naturally enquired the cause of this sudden change, and at last, by threats
and more impressive methods, they ofcl ged the boy to confess, that to ensure his
advancement in the school he had made an agreement with the evil spirit to whom
he had delivered the contract written with his bbod. lie was immediately re¬
moved by the ecclesiastics to the cathedral, whore they cortinued engaged iq
ardent and incessuit prayer, till at length the evil spirit dropped the paper, which
descended through the air amidst the ordinary token of Satan's presence. It i,i
nut improbable thagGessner might have heard of this circumstance, and have been
desirous ot improving upon it; but at any rate he chose his associate with rather
tnore circumspection.
equals
*1
equals each soon finds the place to which his talents entitle
hidl. There the youth is neglected rather on account of
his own negative importance, than from caprice in his as¬
sociates, excepting he be kept back by natural timidity, of
by some defect mental or corporeal. He, on the contrary,
Who is the leader of'the rest in their little sports, is less in¬
debted to the blind partiality of his companions, than to a
Correct estimate of their true interests ; for at this early age
ambition, and all the 'ow passions which so often invert the
natural order in civil society, have but little scope. The
boy seeks not illusion, but pleasure, and willingly yields in
every thing to him who knows better how to procure it than
himself. At least so much appears certain, that esteem at
that period of life is always grounded on the possession of
some striking qualities, though not always the most essen¬
tial, and that a boy who is raised to a distinguished place
by his equals, cannot be destitute of talentSi
Though but little is known concerning the hours of Gess-
ner's childhood passed out of the school, yet the following
anecdote which he himself used to relate, appears to prove,
that he then acted among his young companions the same
part, which in niaturer age he assumed, rather out of com¬
plaisance than inclination, among his friends.—A number of
boys with whomGcssner used to associate in the evening,
once determined to provide themselves with guns, pistols,
sticks, or Such weapons'as they could procure, and to march
in a military style in the vicinity of the town. Gessner
was chosen their commander. Confident that he should do
honor to himself and bis tank, he placed himself at the head
of his little corps of heroes. His eyes were divided between
the windows of the houses by which, he passed and his feet,
which he lifted as high as possible, In this manner they
proceeded through one of the principal streets of the city,
where several maid-servants were standing near a fountain,
Gessner, delighted at having found a theatre for tire dis-
play
2
xii
play of his abilities, held up his head and neglected no
expedient to give himself a truly martial air. With plea¬
sure he observed a smile of approbation in the faces of the
female spectators ; but, as he approached it was converted
to his no small astonishment into a burst of laughter j which,
before he had time to discover the reason, was answered by
a loud laugh at some distance behind him. Turning round,
he perceived that the latter proceeded from his little troop
which he had supposed at his heels. The rogues had ob¬
served that their leader was so absorbed by the thoughts of
his military rank as to have entirely forgotten his troops,
and for their own diversion took this method of reminding
him of them'. »
Hence it appears beyond dispute that Gessner's compa¬
nions entertained a much higher opinion of him than his
teachers. Though the latter were at a loss how to act, yet
his associates found him a useful acquisition in their sports,
and were not ashamed to yield the first place to one who at
school was always obliged to be contented with the last.
His dislike , to scholastic studies, as we have already seen,
was not the result of indolence of disposition, nor dull, im¬
penetrable stupidity. He always wished to be employed,
but never chose to do any thing excepting what was agreea¬
ble to his taste ; and the vivacity of his temper frequently
carried him to a degree of wildness and extravagance.
Gessner's parents perceiviug all their efforts to advance
their son at school, unsuccessful, resolved to try an expe-
ment which has often been found productive of advantage
to children who have before been despaired of. The same
effect which attends transplanting in vegetables, is often
produced in the human species by the change of place and
circumstances. New connections aind objects excite new
ideas, weaken former impressions, and thus facilitate the
developement of talents and faculties, which were perhaps
kept back only by an unfavorable combination of ideas.
A di-
xiii
A divine in the country, the Rev. Mr. Vogell, in conse¬
quence of the education he had given his son, had obtained
great reputation for scholastic learning and abilities as a
teacher. In his house young Gcssner was placed as a
boarder. Here the youth, relieved from the incessant per¬
secutions of ignorant instructors, the reproaches of inca¬
pacity and indolence, and the daily humiliation of seeing
himself excelled by all his companions, enjoyed repose,
and under milder treatment his mind was stimulated to
adopt good resolutions. It would, however, have been in vain
to think of entirely recovering the time he had lost. The
rudiments of the languages, and the dry details of elemen¬
tary studies, were irreconcileable with the more agreeable
occupations to which he was habituated ; and therefore an
intimate acquaintance with the ancients was what he could
never be expected to attain. He, nevertheless, made suffi¬
cient progress to read some of the Roman poets in the ori¬
ginal, and the Greek writers in the literal Latin version,
which, for particular reasons, he preferred to the best
French and German translations. His want of erudition
was richly supplied by his poetic instinct and by his uncom¬
monly accurate and delicate conception, which enabled
him to seize each hidden beauty better than the most minute
and critical knowledge of languages could have done.
His intercourse with the son of his instructor was of great
advantage to him in anotheV respect. M. Vogelii was not
only a passionate admirer of ancient literature, but a lover
of the belles lettres in general, and eagerly perused the best
German authors, particularly the poets. Through him
Gessner became acquainted with the works ot Brockes,
which kindled in the soul of the youth a spark that was
soon fanned into a flame. He devoured the book with an
avidity equalled only by the satisfaction with which, in ma-
turer years, he described the happiness imparted by this first
friend of his poetical career. Even after he had read all
c the
/1
xjv
the best poets, as well ancierlt as modern, after be had him¬
self produced inimitable models, the works of the neglected
Brookes still remained dear to him, and he returned from
time to time to their perusal with pleasure. It cannot be
doubted that he was first led by that correct painter of na¬
ture to the observation of minute beauties, to the correct¬
ness in the details which gives to all his pictures the charac¬
ter of truth and the charms of novelty. But he only profit¬
ed by his lessons in the same manner as the artist possessing
the greatest genius may learn of a master far inferior in ta¬
lents. His accurate judgment and refined taste soon taught
him to avoid the little and labored manner, which prevail in
•the accumulated details of the poet of Hamburg; but yet
Brockes remained his inseparable companion from the first
moment of his acquaintance with his works.
The developement of his poetic talents, commenced by
his intercourse with the muse of Brockes, was powerfully
promoted by the relative circumstance of his situation.
Berg, the place where he resided, is situated in one of the
most agreeable parts of the canton of Zurich. Here nature
unfolded to the eyes of the delightful youth, those charms
which are concealed in cities, or which are at least rarely
observed by their dissipated inhabitants. Here his senses
drank copious draughts of that pleasure, which the enjoy¬
ment of a pure air, the serene sky, the flowery mead, the
murmuring stream, the verdure of the fields and the dark
shades of the forest impart to every virtuous mind. Here
his heart, susceptible of every soft impression, conceived the
first ideas of that imaginary world, which he soon afterwards
peopled with the amiable offspring of bis magic fancy. His
favorite retreat was a delightful spot in a wood at some
distance from his dwelling. Thither he often repaired with
his friend Brockes, the free perusal of whose works was not
yet allowed him, to taste stolen pleasures, which for that
very reason were the sweeter. There, amid the melodious
strains
XV
strains of the feathered songsters, jyid the sweet murnuir
of the neighbouring stream, be enjoyed the truth and beauty
of those pictures whose charms were heightened by his
lively fancy, and for which the scenes before hiin might have
furnished the originals.
Hitherto Gessner had been carried away by the impe¬
tuous vivacity of youth ; his senses and imagination lost in
the unsteady round of evanescent impressions, had been oc¬
cupied only with the transient enjoyment of the passing mo¬
ment; but now the soft emotions of tenderness and sympa¬
thy were awakened in his soul, and with them his mind ac¬
quired greater firmness and his character more stability.—
The daughter of his instructor, a girl possessing an ex¬
cellent heart, and nearly of the same age as himself, was his
daily companion. The sweetness of her disposition, and
the blooming charms of her youthful person, soon began to
acquire an ascendancy over the heart of the susceptible
youth, and brought to maturity that most pleasing of all
human passions, which wakens all the dormant faculties of
the soul, softens the manners, ennobles 'the sentiments and
diffuses around inexpressible charms over the whole crea¬
tion.
Such a situation might have inspired any youth with
poetic fervor; how then, could Gessner's mind resist tire
torrent of sentiments and images that rushed upon his soul?
A mind like his could not retain the impressions it had
received without combining them to form new objects; a
heart like his was obliged to communicate its sensations,
were it only to the trees and the inanimate objects by which
he was surrounded.. Berg, appears, in fact, to have been
the cradle of his muse. A considerable number of poetical
essays, which, to judge not only by the character of the
writing and the orthographical errors, but likewise by the
subject and manner, must belong to his first attempts, un¬
doubtedly belong to this period of his life. IIis genius
scarcely
xvi
scarcely awakened, and as yet uncertain of its powers, ap¬
pears to have exercised itself in various kinds of composition,
and by turns to have attempted rhyme and blank verse, prose
intermixed with poetry, fables, talcs, satires and anacreontic
odes. In some, though but few of these pieces may be per¬
ceived traces of the manner of Brockes in the minute details
and the profusion of descriptive epithets. Others seem to
breathe the more manly tone of Hagedorn's compositions,
and others for tenderness and spirit may sustain a compa¬
rison with the best productions of Glcina. There is not one
of these essays of his youth, and partly of his infancy, which
is totally unworthy of his subsequent excellence, and many
of them afford evident demonstrations of his future talents.
Notwithstanding all the grammatical errors, the faulty
rhymes, and the bad choice of expressions, they are not desti¬
tute either of correct judgment or refined taste. Charming
fictions and images, which enchant no,less by their novelty
than by their beauty, not rarely embellish them. Through¬
out all reigns that artless simplicity, which free from all pre¬
tensions and the vain desire to please, disdains all borrowed
splendor and is the almost inseparable characteristic of true
genius. In a word, we discover in them the dawn of ta¬
lents, which require nothing but practice in the mechanical
part of the art in order to produce master-pieces.
After a residence of about two years at Berg, Gessner re¬
turned to his family. With a mind unconcerned about the
future, for which he had formed no plans, and devoted en¬
tirely to the cultivation ol his poetic talents, he probably
lelinqu'sh. d entit. ly to his parents the disposal of his future
life, provided only the profession for which they destined
him, was not too adverse to his favorite pursuit. For this
purp ose the circumstances of his family were extremely
favorable. His father was a printer and bookseller, and it
could not escape the observation of the son that in a business
in which Richardson had composed his voluminous works,
a poet
xvii
a poet might likewise enjoy something of life. He probn.
blv reflected that the continuation of a business already
established would allow him much more leisure to follow his
literary pursuits, than any new line of life which would re¬
quire more rigid application. He also thought more per¬
haps of the books that he should read and write, than of those
which he should sell. It is at least certain that he never dis¬
turbed the happiness of his life by any very serious reflec¬
tions on the future.
If Gcssner's residence in the country had been favorable
to the developement of his genius, his situation on his return
to Zurich contributed not less to give it the last degree of
perfection. lie sought the society of men at that time most
distinguished for their talents, and was a frequent visitor at
the house of Mr. Rahn, which was the rendezvous of the
first geniuses of Zurich. There Gessner formed an acquaint¬
ance with several young men, which was afterwards ma¬
tured into intimate friendship; in this number were Stein-
bruchel, Tobler, and Sebulthess the translator of the Greek
philosophers.
From the daily intercourse with such men, Gessner could
not fail in a short time to derive great ad vantage. In learn¬
ing, most of them were his superiors, and all bad a more
intimate acquaintahee with the best writers of France, Eng¬
land and Germany. In their company his knowledge of
books was enlarged, his mode of thinking on various sub¬
jects was corrected, bis confused notions were converted
into clear ideas, and his principles acquired greater firm¬
ness and precision. Two books of poems preserved sepa¬
rate from those already mentioned, must evidently be as¬
signed to this period of his life. This forms the second
epoch of his poetry, which must be fixed between bis
eighteenth and twenty-first year. All these pieces, except¬
ing two, are love-sonnets, in the same measure as those of
Anacreon ; and some of them are distinguished by the pleas¬
ing
xviii
ing gaiety, the delicacy of sentiment, and the native sim¬
plicity of the Greek poet. Traces of imitation may here
and there be discovered both in the general plan and in
distinct ideas. Though, upon the whole, they manifest a
more firm and manly style and more mature powers, they
yet contain many inaccuracies and many harshnesses in the
versification, which appear almost incredible; and the or¬
thographical errors are still frequent and striking. Out of
all these pieces he has introduced but one into the collection
of his works.
We have already seen how Gessner contrived to amuse
himself during the tedious hours of school. To die passion
for modelling in wax succeeded that for drawing. This
was originally, and for a long time continued to be, nothing
more than a love of imitation, and he followed the pursuit
merely on account of the gratification he derived from the
exercise and the improvement of his talents. He never en¬
tertained an idea of becoming an artist, or dreamt of the
possibility of abridging the road to perfection by means of
rules or the instructions of others.He therefore proceeded
without plan or choice, and drew what came into his head,
sometimes objects from nature, sometimes the inventions of
his genius, and sometimes imitations of works of art accord¬
ing as his humor or chance directed. A circumstance which
occurred in the year 1749, induced him even then to con¬
vert this amusement into a serious occupation, and to devote
his attention to the study of the art.
In that year he made a journey to Berlin, where his fa¬
ther had placed him in the house of an eminent bookseller,
for the purpose of introducing him to his future profession,
llis master undertook his,instruction with a degree of accu¬
racy rather too minute, and thought proper to make him
pass regularly through all the gradations of his business.—
He was accordingly employed in packing parcels, and wag
charged with the performance of every firing that by right
belongs
xix
belongs to the duty of a shop-boy. Gessner, who for some
tifne past had been no stranger to his abilities, found these
occupations by no means suited to his taste. On the other
hand, the brilliant scenes and the inviting pleasures of the
capital were powerful allurements to dissipation ; and the
frequent intercourse with some of his young countrymen
who had repaired to Berlin, not to engage in business, but
to see the world, rendered his situation completely insup¬
portable. After a little consideration, he adopted his reso¬
lution ; and quitting his employer, took an apartment in or¬
der to resign himself without interruption to his passion for
the fine arts and the pleasures of society.
This hasty step excited the displeasure of his parents ;
they probably regarded it as a determined effort to disen¬
gage himself from the disagreeable burden of business, to
throw off all subjection, and to give himself up to the unre¬
strained enjoyment of all the pleasures afforded by the
place where he resided. As the best expedient to recalhim
to order, they resolved to make him feel his dependence;
his bills were not honored, and Gessner found himself em¬
barrassed. lie possessed, it is true, a sure method of ex¬
tricating himself, and it was presumed that he would em¬
ploy it: but neither inclination nor his high sense of honor,
would allow him to have recourse to its aid. He now re¬
flected how he could relieve himself without the assistance
of others, and without degrading submissions; and when he
imagined that he had discovered an expedient, he shut him¬
self up in his apartment. His friends neither saw nor heard
any thing of him, and his gay countrymen expected him in
vain. They sought him at his lodgings and always found
the door locked. They watched for him in coffee-houses
and in the public promenades, but with no better success,
and no one knew what had become of him. At length
° f
after a seclusion of some weeks, he went to Hem pel, the
painter to the king, whose friendship he had before ob¬
tained,.
XX
taiiicd, and requested that he would accompany him to his
apartment; all the walls were hung with newly-painted,
landscapes, lie then conjured Heinpel by his friendship,,
and the faith of an honest man to say, if, after these speci¬
mens he considered him capable of attaining such a degree
of proficiency in the art, as would not only procure him sub¬
sistence but likewise esteem and reputation. Hempel long
surveyed the pictures in silent attention, His earnest looks
and the shaking of his head seemed to denote a surprise,
the explanation of which Gcssner awaited in anxious sus¬
pense. At length the artist inquired from what originals
o he had copied. Gessner assured hint that the subjects were
all of his own invention, at the same time complaining that
the pictures would not dry. It proved, on inquiry, that he
had mixed his colours with olive-oil instead of linseed-oil.—
Hempel, bursting into a loud laugh, said : " Well, I see you
have not long studied the art. But a beginner, who is igno¬
rant of the rudiments and composes such pieces, what may
he may not be expected to produce in ten years time!"
Gessner was now firmly resolved, in case his parents in¬
sisted on his return to his former occupation as the price of
their support, to devote himself to the study of the art, and
with that view to make a journey to Holland. He how¬
ever had no occasion either to recur to that measure or to
repent the step he had taken. His parents were soon re¬
conciled to him, and gave him permission to remain at Ber¬
lin with the liberty to follow his own inclinations. He en¬
joyed die pleasures of life and the amusements of the great
world, with all die ardor of youtli and the consciousness of
independence, hut with more prudence than is usually ma¬
nifested at his age, and never without having some noble
object in view. His gay companions did not exclusively
possess him, and he was often found in places where he
could obtain instruction as in those which he frequented for
amusement. lie was much in the company of literary men
7 and
XXI
and artists, especially of Krause, Hempel, Raniler, and
Sulzer.
With Ramler he was particularly intimate. They often
met, and Gessner enjoyed Frequent opportunities of admir¬
ing the correct ear, the refined sensibility and the celebrated
talent of declamation possessed by that elegant poet and ri¬
gidly severe critic. For a long time his timidity prevented
him from submitting any of his essays to Ramler's inspection.
He discovered in them talents highly worthy of encourage¬
ment; but his ear, which no heauties of composition could
deceive, listened with suspicious vigilance to every syllable
and to every fleeting sound. He not only remarked some
harshness of expression or inharmonious measure, but there
were whole verses which he would not allow to be poetry.
How great was the disappointment of Gessner! he had
imagined that the file would be sufficient to remove every
asperity, and was frequently sent back to the anvil. In the
contemplation of the very great obstacles which a Swiss has'
to encounter from the difference between his dialect and
the pure German standard, he despaired of ever being able
to comply with such rigid rules. Ramler perceived his
embarrassment, and advised him to resolve his verses into
harmonious prose. This circumstance related by Ramler
himself, affords a satisfactory explanation of the reason why
Gessner voluntarily resigned an advantage, with which no
poet before him imagined that he could dispense. As he
Was conscious that this defect was owing not to his ear but
to the vicious dialect of his country, he justly concluded
that the rhythm of measured prose would be equally pleas¬
ing to the reader; while on the contrary, a single bad
verse is a greater disgrace to a poem the more faultless it is
in other respects. It is for this reason that he has Composed
very few pieces in verse, and even some of these, possibly
for the sake of uniformity, lie has printed as prose ; as for
instance his Dedication to Daphne, which precedes the Idyls,
d and
Xxii
and the pretty song : When 1 see the shepherd, he. in Daphnisv
Rainier afterwards put into verse several of his poems, and
they were published in two small volumes. It is doubtful
whether this compliment or his advice rendered the greater
service to Gessner.
From Berlin Gessner went to Hamburgh. He had pro¬
cured a letter of recommendation to Hagedorn ; but before
he presented it, he wished to become acquainted with the
father of German poetry, without such an introduction, and
if possible to merit his regard on his own account. He
therefore repaired to a coffee-house which Hagedorn fre¬
quented, and watched for an opportunity of entering into
conversation with him. It was not long before he found
one, and his success exceeded his most sanguine expecta¬
tion. He had read with rapture the works of that charm¬
ing poet, and found his society not less agreeable than his
writings. Hagedorn was equally delighted with the com¬
pany of the young stranger. The second and third day,
they again met; both appeared, though silently, to have
made the appointment. At length Hagedorn was desirous
of knowing the name of the stranger, for whom he had al¬
ready conceived such friendship. It was not till then that
Gessner delivered the letter of recommendation, assur¬
ing him at the same time, that not the gratification of
idle curiosity, but to endeavour to gain his esteem and
friendship, was the motive of his visit to Hamburgh.—
After what had passed, it may easily be imagined how this
declaration was received. Hagedorn was seldom to be
seen afterwards without his Swiss friend, and often took
him to Harvstehude, in whose delightful shades they en¬
joyed each other's society. Gessner never recollected tins-
period of his life but with delight, and he never heard the
name of Hagedorn but his eyes sparkled and his whole soul
animated'his expressive features.
At length Gessner returned to Zurich; he had in his tra¬
vels-
xxlii
,» **
■vels corrected and fixed his taste, and had acquired that
polish, without which no work of genius can please the re¬
fined reader, or insure immortality. This period was the
golden age of poetry in Germany. Klopstock, Ramler,
Kleist, Gleim, Uz, Lessing, and Wieland appeared within
the circle of a few years. At Zurich the poetic fervor was
stronger than in any other place. Breitinger, and more
particularly Bodmer, was adored by many of his young
fellow-citizens as the god of taste. Many whose genius had
been awakened by those two celebrated men, distinguished
themselves in the study .of philosophy, the languages and
poetry. The taste for the latter was soon communicated to
the fair sex; many females of talents and education
read the best German poets, not merely for amusement but
to form their taste; and the arrival of Klopstock and his
residence at Zurich raised this enthusiasm to the highest de¬
gree; Such was the disposition of mind in which Gessner
on his return found his literary fellow-citizens. Scarcely
had Klopstock quitted Zurich, when Wieland supplied his
place and maintained the poetic fervor. Gessner derived
every possible advantage from this state of things without
taking the least share in the extravagancies of other vota¬
ries of the muse. His great and enlightened understand¬
ing, and his quick perception of every thing ridiculous, pre¬
served him from this mania; and the circle of his daily
companions was free from every species of fanaticism.—
INiife, Steinbmchel, Hirzel, Ulrich, Vogeli, Schulthess and
many others of his associates and friends had enlightened
their understandings and formed their tastes by the study
of the philosophy of Wolf and Baumgarten. In their cheer¬
ful society the shafts of their severest ridicule were directed
against every extravagance of the imagination; and there
was no error of the understanding but what experienced the
keenness of their satire.
d 2 The
Xxiv
The first es«ay which Gessner gave to the world was the
Song of a Siciss to his Mistress on her appearing in Jrmoitr.
Th is piece is comprehended in the little collection of poems
which have been mentioned as forming the second epoch
of his poetry. It was first inserted by him in a periodical
work entitled, Crito, which was published in the year 1751,
at Zurich, bv some of Bodiner's friends and pupils, and to
which Bodmer himself sometimes contributed. A letter
prefixed to it introduces this piece as a translation, the ori¬
ginal of which had been found in a miscellaneous collec¬
tion of ancient stories and songs. This disguise was pro¬
bably assumed by the author that he might listen undisco¬
vered to the opinions of the critics and poets, whether
favorable or otherwise; but there is every reason to sup¬
pose that little notice was taken of it, either by the one or
the other.
His second essay, which followed after an interval of
about a year, scarcely attracted any more attention than
the first. It was the piece entitled Night, which he pubT
lished separately, in 1753, without his name. Though he
himself attached so little value to this performance, that in
a letter to the French translator of his works, he calls it,
" a caricature composed in an hour of folly or intoxication,"
it is nevertheless a specimen vyhich justly excited the high¬
est expectations. The folly in which it was composed was
no other than that on which Plato in his Phmdrus has given
a panegyric ; and to this intoxication the god of poetry un¬
deniably contributes. The successful painter of nature ap¬
pears throughout this performance, which displays that
novelty of imagery, that freshness of coloring, those soft and
delicate touches which embellish the objects without daz¬
zling the eye. His prose appears perfectly formed; its so¬
norous periods and harmonious cadence are not less pleas¬
ing to the ear, than the delightful melody of the most en¬
chanting poetry. That this essay, in the form in which it
first
XXV
first appeared, had some defects which the author's maturer
judgment and more polished taste corrected at a later pe¬
riod, cannot be denied. The addition of the ingenious fic¬
tion of the origin of the glow-worm, one of the most beau¬
tiful passages in the piece, was one of the improvements
which he made in it subsequent to its first publication. In
Germany, this attempt neither made a deeper impression
nor experienced a better fate, than many other fugitive
pieces, which vanish as soon as they appear. At Zurich it
acquired the author the vague and often equivocal charac¬
ter of a bel esprit.
Accident furnished him with the occasion of composing a
more extensive poem. In his father's library he had found
Amiot's translation of Longus, which suggested to him the
idea of his Daphnis. Those who are conversant with the
Greek writer, will perceive that Gessner has borrowed no¬
thing farther from it than merely the idea of a pastoral epic
poem. At the time when he was engaged in the compo¬
sition of this piece, he passed much of his time in the com¬
pany of Hirzel, the celebrated author of the Philosophic
Peasant, and other works. Their mutual passion for the
belles lettres had united them in the closest bonds of inti¬
macy ; they frequently spent w hole days together, unmind¬
ful of the regular hours of meals, or taking some slight re¬
freshment in their room, that they might pursue without in¬
terruption the favorite object of their discourse; and while
thus engaged the hour of midnight frequently stole unper-
ceived upon them. Gessner had submitted to the judgment
of his friend, the greatest part of Daphnis, when Ilirzel
advised him to give a higher coloring to his characters, to
put them more frequently in action, and to intersperse more
moral throughout the whole piece. At the last expression
Gessner shook his head, and began to laugh. " What,"
said he, " I turn moralist? Indeed that character would
?uit me admirably!" He however resolved to comply with
his
his friend's advice; and to this we ai'C indebted for the two
episodes of La in on and die virtuous Aristus'of Croto'na,
both of which are considerable embellishments of the'poem.
How much he profited in his other works by the observa¬
tions of his friend, is evident: the moral purity,' and the ar¬
dent love of virtue*which pervade his poems, are charms by
which his muse is eminently distinguished.
When the poem was ready for publication, considerable
difficulties still remained to be surmounted on the part of
the censorship. All such love-stories were considered to be
but little conducive to edification, and the employment of
heathen deities by a christian poet gave great offence. An
ecclesiastical censor protested against the motto :
Me jurat in gremio docta legisse pud la, fyc.
as indecent. However strange this may at present appear*
yet those will not be surprised at it who are acquainted with
the powerful prejudices and the spirit of those times : such
will only wonder that a phenomenon, so singular as Daphnis
then was at Zurich, should not have been absolutely prohi¬
bited. At length permission was given for its publication
provided the motto should be suppressed, and neither the
author nor the place where it was printed should be named;
these conditions were strictly fulfilled in the first edition,
which appeared in the year 1754.
This poem completely established Gessner's eharacterasa
man of genius among his fellow-citizens. Daphnis and the
Sympathies of VVieland were seen by turns on the toilettes
of all the ladies; and the author was universally called the
gentle Gessner.
In the year 1756, lie published Inkle and Yarieo in the
form of a pamphlet; but (his poem he never introduced into
any collection of his works prepared by himself. The first
time
tr /
XX Vll
time it appeared qmqng them was in the small edition, pub-
ed in 1789, sqon after,his death.
His Idyls, which likewise appeared in 1756, attracted
considerable notice, both in Germany and Switzerland. As
the idea of ^Daphnis ,\vas suggested by Longus, so the pe¬
rusal of Theocritus inspired the design of the Idyls. But in
these, as in the former work, he is indebted to his predeces¬
sor only for the general idea of ,that species of poetry-
though bis modest muse has professed to copy from the
Greek model. It is impossible not to perceive that he has
not sought, like Virgil, to soften the rudeness offensive to
modern manners which prevails in the pastorals of Theo¬
critus, by a fastidious delicacy, or elegance without genius;
nor does he, like some French poets, blend with the sim¬
plicity of pastdral life, a courtly refinement and gallantry
which produce the most striking and repulsive contrast; hut
he has opened for himself a path entirely nevy.
With the criticisms of the celebrated Blair on these Idyls
every reader is acquainted. Their character is very ably
described by M. Hottinger ip the Memoirs of the Electoral
Society of Manheim ; and as Gessner's fame is principally
grounded 011 this species of composition, the reader will not
be displeased to find those, observations introduced here.
" Gessner has created a pastoral world for himself, ami
has peopled it with the most amiable and happy beingsof the
golden age. They are the offspring of his fancy, who re¬
flect the noble sentiments of his own virtuous soul, and are,
in fact, rather ideal characters thqn men. We can scarely
venture to address his shepherds as our fellow-creatures,
and the kisses of his shepherdesses seem too pure for our
lips. The swains of Theocritus have more of passion,
and their affections are more sensual; their innocence is
the simplicity of the children of nature, in the infancy of
mankind, when they were corrupted neither by the progress
of civilization nor the manners of polished life. Arch with¬
out
xxviii
out vice, and sly without cunning, they always interest us ;
nor do they lose our hearts even when they offend against
the moral principles of modern times. Gessner's shepherds
are of a species superior to human beings; they possess all
the simplicity of the primitive ages, combined with all the
delicacy of sentiment of civilized life. The excellent qua¬
lities of their hearts arc innate, not acquired ; the delicacy
of their sentiments, is, as it were instinctive, and the recti¬
tude of their passions is perfectly conformable with both.—
His pastoral world is placed in a favored climate, glowing
with more brilliant colors, illumined by a more resplendent
sun, and a moon of purer silver, and whose inhabitants are
worthy of their blissful abode. Their love is pure as aether,
their imaginations untainted as the crystal current distilling
from the rock. Benevolence is their employment; the
beauties of nature, filial piety, the praise of the deity, and
every milder virtue inspire their songs. The most licen¬
tious of his fauns is more virtuous than the shepherds of
Theocritus.
" All Gessner's shepherds indeed have nearly the same
character, and that of each individual is less strongly mark¬
ed. The sentiments of one are those of all the rest, and
we imagine that we see but one person, only in different cir¬
cumstances. This being the case, we should naturally ex¬
pect that frequent repetitions and a monotonous sameness
would be the infallible consequences: hut how admirably
has he avoided those faults! What variety of scenes, what
diversity of situations; and with how many'shades, of vir¬
tue, of love, of pity and of tenderness has he not embel¬
lished these pictures! ITow sweetly the infant lisps the same
sentiment which the youth expresses with greater ardor, and
the old man with a pleasure mory calm and more mild ! How-
inexhaustible is his fund of images, how various his points
of view, how different; his turns, and what an impression of
novelty on each recurring thought!
.» " Those
xxix
u Those who are acquainted with Gessher as a painter,
and have considered his best pictures with attention, must
have made the same observation with respect to them. He
is never more happy than when he paints from imagination.
Groves, temples, edifices in the noblest style, ruined monu¬
ments, craggy rocks, cascades, bathing nymphs and little
Satyrs joining with shepherd-boys in the sprightly dance
compose the subjects of his finest pictures. All have the
Same character, and yet very different points of view; all
breathe the same spirit, and yet one is not copied from
another.
" There is no poet of the sentimental class, who without
affectation so easily draws from our eye the sympathetic
tear; none who with such softness and delicacy combines
so much firmness and manly wisdom. The sweetness of his
poesy resembles the careless ornaments of the shepherdess,
and his simplicity is like her blush after the first kiss.
" Theocritus and Gessner are both great and both unri¬
valled in their way. To which of the two the prize shall
be attributed must depend on the character of the judge.
If Pan is to decide, Theocritus will obtain the lyric wreath;
but if Apollo, he will crown Gessner with roses bathed in
the dews of morning."
This small volume contributed not a little to increase the
celebrity of Gessner's muse; the public opinion soon pro¬
claimed him an amiable poet, and placed him on an equality
with his Greek predecessor. However flattering such a
comparison may appear, this distinction was not granted
without a degree of coldness and reserve, which forms a
singular contrast with* the enthusiastic applause, with which
many works of far inferior merit have been received in
Germany, both before and since. This might perhaps be in
part owing to the geographical, political and literary rela¬
tions of the Swiss and the Germans, and to the criticisms of
Bodmer, which long irritated the latter, and partly to the
e taste
XxX
taste and character of the nation, who have a particular
relish for what is strong and energetic. On the contrary, a
poet like Gessncr can be enjoyed only by readers of the most
refined taste and nicest sensibility.
In this respect the native country of the poet was not an
exception ; the Idyls were there pronounced to be charming
and delightful, but only few attached to those terms the
idea of something great and uncommon. His personal
character doubtless contributed in no small degree to throw
him into the shade. His admirable simplicity, which, in
the ordinary concerns of life completely concealed the
author, the harmless good-humour of the philanthropic
youth, the shafts of whose wit were not directed by malice
or the ambition to shine, but only served to promote social
pleasure, his respect for every kind of merit and his defer¬
ence for every man of profound erudition and extensive at¬
tainments—all these qualities tended at that period, and
even much later in life, to mislead many in the opinion they
formed of him. His amiable modesty so very rare in a poet,
was regarded as a silent acknowledgment of his inferiority;
and as they were at a loss how to reconcile with this opi¬
nion the splendid poetic talents he could not be denied to
possess, they said : " He is a poet it is true, hut he is fit
for nothing else." There were even some who imagined
that Gessner was formed of a certain instinctive, mecha-
cical principle, for writing Idyls as the beaver for building.
Bodmer himself went so far as to say, that he was an excel¬
lent writer of pastorals, but that he was destitute of the
talents necessary for the conception and execution of an
epic poem.
Notwithstanding the extraordinary modesty of the author
of the Idyls, he felt piqued at such a derogatory opinion of
his genius, and this was the real motive which induced him
to compose the Death of Abel, the preface to which con¬
tains some pretty plain hints at this circumstance. Though
7 this
this poem, which was published in 1758, isnof entitled to the
first place among the productions of his muse, jet it suffi¬
ciently justifies his claim to excellence in more than one
species of poetic composition.
In Germany this poem met with some very severe judges,
particularly the critic whose strictures upon it are introduced
into the Libra))/ of Belles Lettres and Liberal Aits. His
censures are not altogether unfounded, hut are much too
severe. He often lays a stress on certain points which a
candid judge will pronounce to be exaggerated ; and there is
much of which he has taken but a partial view, and which
he has seen in a light totally fallacious. It was less by the
intrinsic merit of the poem than by this criticism that its
fate was decided in Germany, while in France, England,
and other countries, it met with the most flattering recep¬
tion, even before they were acquainted with the Idyls, and
not only made the author's name known, but also acquired
him celebrity.
In 1702 Gessner published a collection of his works in
four volumes, the last of which contained nothing but new
pieces, excepting the Song of the Swiss and Night. These
were the First Navigator, some new Idyls, and sonnets, and
two dramatic pieces Evauder and Erastns. The latter was
received with great applause, and though rather a sketch
than a finished piece, yet it. was admired no less for the
plot, and the various affecting situations, than for the cha¬
racters, which are both well conceived and well expressed,
especially that of honest Simon. In these respects the
severest critics were obliged to do it justice; but, on the
contrary, the most indulgent thought the action not suf¬
ficiently lively, and found fault with the scenes.
A sentence much more severe was passed on Evander;
the plan was censured as defective, the fable, the situations,
the characters and the developement were thought too com.
inon to produce the least effect. This criticism is indeed
e 2 • not
xxx ii
not totally unfounded ; for the subject of the drama is not
only borrowed from Longus; but its plan and characters are
neither free from defects, nor new uor striking. Still
Evander must be acknowledged an admirable performance.
That Gessner had some other object in view than to pro¬
duce a perfect drama, and that this object was in a high
degree poetic cannot be doubted. It was not by the insipid
story of two children of noble birth who form a mutual
attachment in the disguise of a shepherd and shepherdess;
it was not by the trivial developement which unites the
lovers at the very moment when they imagined themselves
separated for ever, nor any other paltry contrivance of a
similar nature, that Gessner could hope to charm his rea¬
ders. All this is nothing more than the canvas on which he
has laid his colors. The object which the poet had in view
T^as evidently no other than to form a striking contrast be¬
tween the pure sentiments of nature, the amiable innocence,
the happy content and simplicity of pastoral life, and all the
ludicrous and lamentable restraints of social institutions. It
is to this point that every thing tends; and those are the most
beautiful scenes of the piece in which this design is mostap
parent. How admirably has the author there expressed the
pure language of nature! how every word from the lips of
innocent simplicity conveys the keenest satire ! How little
and contemptible appears the imaginary wisdom of the
polished attendants of a court contrasted with the ignorance
of those children of nature ! what justness of sentiment do
they manifest in every answer, and what enchanting simpli¬
city in every question ! The scenes to which these observe
tions more particularly apply, are those which are occupied
by the conversation between Evander and the pztitnwtrex
the officer, the courtier, and tire sage, and between Alcimna
andjrer attendants. These are replete with irony, which
is never so refined as when reason speaks through the organ
of ingenious simplicity to raise the laughter of fools; for
a fool
SKxiii
a fool is most ridiculous when he joins the laugh excited by
satire, levelled without his knowing it, against himself.
It is universally admitted that the First Navigator is en¬
titled to one of the most distinguished places among the
productions of Gessner's muse. He himself always gave it
a decided preference. Nothing, in fact, can be conceived
more perfect: the materials are selected with great judg¬
ment and discrimination; the plan is perfectly natural;
and the execution happy; the characters are well drawn,
and that of Melida in particular charms by its unaffected
simplicity.
After the publication of the above-mentioned volume,
Gessner suffered several years to elapse in silence. His
taste for the imitative arts had during this interval become
his favorite passion; it seemed to have gained the entire
dominion over him, and to have withdrawn him for ever
from the muse of song. At length in 1772, a second vo¬
lume of ldyfc, together with his Letter on Landscape-painting
made its appearance. Exclusive of their poetic merit, in
which they are equal to bis earlier productions, they are
peculiarly interesting on another account. Several of
them, as the Autumnal Morning, are descriptive of the do¬
mestic felicity of the author; and others, like Daphnis
and Chloe are grounded on particular circurnstapces of his
life.
This was the last work that Gessner published ; and hav¬
ing now accompanied him to the end of bis literary career,
it may not be amiss to take a view of the, reception his
writings experienced in foreigu countries, and particularly in
France.
Soon after the publication of the Death of Abel, a copy
qf that work accidentally fell into the hands of M. Huber,
a native of Germany, but who had settled at Paris. He
was a man of extensive knowledge and correct taste; he
<sqjoyed the friendship of Rousseau, Diderot, Grimm, and
other
xxxiv
other celebrated literary characters ; and was well qualified
to make known in France the pleasing productions of Gess-
ner's muse. The sale of his translation of the Death of
Abel was so rapid, that at the end of a fortnight it was
found necessary to print a second edition, and before the
conclusion of the year a third. Encouraged by this suc¬
cess M. Huber next undertook the translation of the first
collection of Idyls; in this task he had the uncommon good
fortune to be assisted by men of distinguished talents, and
among the rest by the celebrated M. Turgot and Diderot.
The success of the work equalled the most sanguine expec¬
tations, and the literary journals vied with each other in their
encomiums on the author. The Idyls were soon in every
body's hands, but none professed a more passionate admi¬
ration of Gessner than Rousseau.* The duchess of Choi-
seuil, at that time all-powerful, invited Gessner to fix his
* The following is a translation of a letter which Rousseau wrote on this occa¬
sion to M. Huber:
"SIR,
" I was labouring under the most cruel bodily afflictions at the time when I re.
ceived your letter ; I mechanically opened the book supposing I should shut it
again immediately, but 1 never closed it till I had read it through, and placed it
beside me for a second perusal. This is the real truth. I am convinced that your
friend Ge-sner is a man after my own heart; from this you may judge what I think
of his translator and friend through whom alone I am acquainted with him. I am
ia particular highly pleased with you for having ventured to banish from our lan¬
guage that silly and disgusting jargon which deprives every image of truthand
every sentiment of life. Those who attempted to set off and embellish nature pos¬
sess neither soul nor taste, and were never acquainted with her beauties. Six years
I have now passed in my retreat a life nearly resembling that of Menalcas and
Amyntas, to which I am as much attached as they, but which I cannot procure
when I please ; and I assure you, Sir, that I have enjoyed more uf life during
these six years, than in all the preceding part of it. You now make me wish for
the return of spring that I may take new walks with your charming shepherds,
that I may divide my solitude with tbem, and in their company revisit rural scenes
not inferior to those which M. Gessner and you have so ably described. Salute
him from me, I request you ; and accept my thanks and salutations.
" ROUSSEAU."
residence
XXXV
resilience at Paris, but lie excused himself on account of
the sacred ties which bound him to his native land and re¬
commended his translator to her patronage.
Various translations soon appeared of the First Naviga¬
tor, Daphnis and Gessner's two dramatic pieces ; but none
of them were so fortunate as his New Idyls. These were
translated by Henry Meister, a fellow-citizen of the author,
since distinguished by many works of genius as an acute
philosopher and a man of the purest taste. A residence of
many years at Paris had not only rendered him master of
the language, but he was thoroughly acquainted with its
most subtle refinements.—Diderot eagerly seized this oppor¬
tunity to give the world a striking proof of his friendship and
esteem for Gessner. He proposed in the most obliging
terms, through their mutual friend, M. Meister, to publish
with the Idyls two moral tales he had recently written.—•
This proposal was as free from pride as from any interested
motive; for at this period Gessner wanted the recommend¬
ation of Diderot as little as Diderot wanted his. " It would
give him the sincerest pleasure, (such were his own words)
to appear in the same volume with Gessner." The proposal
was received with the same sentiments as it was made, and
the Idyls and Tales accompanied each other in both lan¬
guages in 1772.
From this time and even at an earlier period Gessner was
esteemed in France as a classic author of the first rank,
whose writings the poets of that country have translated,
imitated and employed in various ways. They have fur¬
nished the materials for numerous dramatic pieces, many
of which obtained very great applause. There is scarcely
any modern poet of whose works so many editions have
been printed in every variety of size and shape.
From the French capital Gessner's fame soon extended
over the rest of Europe. In England aud Italy he found the
most
Jcxxvi
most numerous admirers; but there is scarcely a civilized
country in which he has not been naturalized.
We have hitherto considered Gessner only in his poetic
character and remarked the developenient of his genius: it
now remains to treat of him as an artist. But as he has
himself illustrated this part of his career in his letter to
Piissli the painter, little remains to be added on that sub¬
ject.
Gessner had attained the age of thirty before he resolved
to devote his serious attention to the art9. Till that time
his essays in drawing and engraving were merely an amuse¬
ment, and his study of works of art was nothing more than
a natural predilection for every species of the beautiful;
he pursued it only for pleasure, without having in view
either profit or reputation. But in this instance, as in every
other, some powerful motive was required to induce him to
exert his genius and to rouse him from that repose in which
his easy disposition was so fond of indulging. This once
accomplished, there were no obstacles however great that
his persevering application was unable to overcome. About
this period he became acquainted with a man who, like
himself, was a lover of the arts, and possessed a valuable
collection of paintings, drawings, and prints. Mr. Heideg¬
ger felt esteem for his talents, took delight in his company,
and with pleasure inspected his essays in drawing and en¬
graving. Gessner had free access to his house and cabinet;
he soon formed an intimate friendship with his son, and it
was not long before he conceived a strong attachment to his
daughter.
Mademoiselle Heidegger was a young lady endowed
with rare accomplishments of mind and person. Without
aspiring like many of her contemporaries to distinguished
literary attainments, her mind was sufficiently cultivated to
prevent her ever appearing to disadvantage in any com¬
pany ;
xxxvii
pany; and what she wanted in acquirements was abun¬
dantly supplied by her refined sensibility, the vivacity of
her understanding, and the keenness of her wit, A tali
and graceful person, an intelligent eye, and smiling lips
armed with the unerring shafts of satire, announced her su¬
periority to every female circle in which she appeared and
kept the empty coxcomb at a respectful distance. Her
character contained a rare mixture of dignified pride and
condescending sweetness, of youthful impatience and ma¬
ture deliberation; of exasperating severity and indulgent
tenderness; of masculine energy and female delicacy; which
rendered it difficult to decide whether she most deserved to
be loved or admired.
The discovery of such a phenomenon in his native city,
was a circumstance for which the youthful poet was by no
means prepared : his heart was taken by surprize. The
collection of pictures, the original cause of his visits, was
soon forgotten; his whole attention was absorbed by an
object in which bis feelings were more deeply interested.—
This was no sooner perceived by Heidegger and his daugh¬
ter, than they confined themselves in their conduct towards
their new friend, within the narrow limits which the most
delicate sense of honor prescribed. The consequence was
an explicit declaration on the part of the lover, who felt
that the happiness of his life depended on the possession
of a female whom he loved to distraction : but he had to
encounter a strenuous opposition on the part of his parents.
Neither the family nor the personal character of Made¬
moiselle Heidegger afforded room for the slightest objection;
but the circumstances of the parties were far from answer¬
ing the high expectations justly grounded on their respective
merits. At- length by the interference of some of his
friends, Gessner obtained the consent of his parents, and
his union with the object of his attachment crowned all his
wishes.
f He
xxxviii
He had now entered upon a new career. He had mar¬
ried as a poet; but his understanding was too enlightened
not to perceive, that the duties of a husband and a father
were incompatible with the enviable ease of poetic impro¬
vidence. He seriously reflected in what manner he might
prepare to meet the expences of a family without beiug
burdensopae to his parents. For this purpose he conceived
that his pen would not furnish an adequate resource: he
therefore resolved to have recourse to those arts which he
had before cultivated for amusement, and to make them
the subject of his serious study.
Such a determination, without a lively consciousness of
his powers, and a perseverance proof against every kind of
obstacle, would, at bis age, have been more than bold. In
his letter to Fiissli he has treated of the difficulties he met
with, the errors he at flrst committed, the models he stu¬
died, and the method he followed, in a manner highly in¬
structive for every young artist.
We have already seen from the anecdote concerning
(jlessner's residence at Berlin, what exertions he was able to
make, particularly in this line. It would however he a
great injustice to confound his application with the mecha¬
nical industry of an ordinary artist whose only object is emo¬
lument. Gessneiy it is true, hoped by his talents to sup¬
port his family with credit, but he was actuated by another
motive equally powerful—the desire of fame. The charac¬
ter he gives in his letter of a true artist:—that he should
glow with the warmest, passion for his art; that he should
dream of it at night, and in the morning awake with new
enthusiasm to ptfrsue it; that he should not seek to take .ad¬
vantage of the had taste of his age, hut paint only for the
applause of real judges, for true fame and for posterity;—
may with the greatest propriety be applied to himself.
The thoughts of his art occupied his whole soul: his sweet¬
est hours, his solitary reflections and every moment of re¬
creation were all devoted to this object. He not only con¬
templated
xxxix
templated with silent rapture the grand scenery of nature;
he was frequently seen by his friends in his walks to linger
over objects which they scarcely observed. The silvery
current of a placid brook gliding between its grassy banks,
the decayed trunk of a tree, a fine tuft of foliage, the play
of light and shade and a hundred similar objects attracted
his minutest attention.
His ever active imagination was employed even when
circumstances seemed the most to require repose. Thus in
a dangerous illness, when the scanty light in his apartment
produced more striking effects of light and shade, his fingers
were once extremely busy with the coverlid of his bed.
" Do you see those masses of rock ?" he exclaimed to his
wife, while he disposed the folds first one way and then
another.—He had made considerable progress in the art;
his engravings had acquired him celebrity, and many of his
paintings bad commanded admiration, and he still conti¬
nued to exercise himself in designing with all the perseve¬
rance of a young beginner. The number of his studies
would be immense if he had not purposely destroyed so
many of them.
With such a genius and such industry his progress could
not but be uncommonly rapid. Nothing in fact, but the
inexperience of youth or a love of indolence can favor the
idea, that in any department of art or science genius may
dispense with application ; it is only by their union that true
excellence can be attained. Whoever has an opportunity
of comparing Gessner's first essays in engraving with his last
attempts, and his early pictures with his master-pieces,
must be astonished at the difference. There were, however,
moments in which his zeal was suspended and in which his
courage sunk into total despondency. When his industry
had in vain been exerted to the utmost, and his powers ex¬
hausted in striving to attain that perfection, the image of
which incessantly hovered before bis soul/ he was often
f 2 rendered
xl
rendered unjust towards himself and began to despair; and
at such times all the remonstrances of his wife an,d his
friends produced no impression. In vain they represented
that he obtained a high price for his performances, and that
they were eagerly purchased even before they were finished;
he listened with coldness and mistrust to the applause of
judges and the opinion of artists. All that could then be
done was to leave him to himself, till he had vented his
vexation in silent complaints, and was able" to resume his
long neglected labours, without regard to the ideal model
whose perfection he found it impossible to attain. The
confidence in his powers then returned, and his mind was
animated with new courage.
In his pictures, as in his poems, prevails a spirit which is
unique and inimitable. In both he appears as the success¬
ful painter of nature and as the favorite of two muses, whose
influence is equally obvious in all his performances. His
pencil delineated the happy beings, whose words and ac¬
tions are the subject of his poems, and transports us to the
happy plains which they inhabit. An inexpressible sweet¬
ness, grace and harmony pervade the whole physical crea¬
tion and produce an impression of its unison with the moral.
In the large edition of his works, the plates of which were
designed and engraved by himself, Gessner has left behind
a two-fold monument of his fame as an artist and a poet.
While he was thus employed in drawing, painting, en¬
graving, and at intervals with poetic composition, his excel¬
lent wife was by no means inactive. She divided with
him the care of educating their children; revived the
often drooping spirits of her husband, excited him to renew¬
ed exertions, and for many years managed, unassisted, his
bookselling business. By her prudence, her provident at¬
tention, and her other amiable qualities, she 'soon gained
the hearts of Gessner's parents, who afterwards heartily
rejoiced that their opposition had not prevented an union,
which
which they regarded as the most fortunate circumstance of
their son's life. .
Having now traced the most remarkable events of the
life of this distinguished author and artist, having accom¬
panied the gradual development of his genius, and its pro¬
gress to maturity : a few observations on his intellectual
and moral character, collected from the accounts of his
intimate friends, cannot fail to gratify the reader.
Gessner possessed an understanding clear and extensive,
and a judgment uncommonly correct. No distinction was
so slight, no shade so delicate, as to escape his acute .per¬
ception. His mind was rather penetrating than compre¬
hensive, rather aspiring than lively. It was not without
difficulty that he unfolded his ideas, and to arrange them
with perspicuity, he was first obliged to consider them in¬
dividually. On this account, all his judgments relative to
subjects not immediately connected with his own pursuits,
were short, but yet invariably just, and when he attempted
logical deduction, he was often at a stand. This produced
a certain diffidence of the correctness of his judgment,
which sometimes bordered on timidity. His natural saga¬
city led him to the same conclusions which the metaphysi¬
cian obtains by the analytical deductions of reason ; but, as
he had overleaped the intermediate ideas, which were con¬
sequently enveloped in obscurity, it was very natural that
he should himself sometimes doubt the accuracy of the re¬
sult.
These causes rendered him unfit for the part of a states¬
man or man of business. He was totally destitute of con¬
fidence in himself, a quality indispensibly necessary for
those characters ; nor did he possess that facility in the
development of complicated matters, nor that promptitude
of decision which they ought to possess in order to be pre¬
pared for every unexpected accident. Some have consi¬
dered it as a proof of indifference to the interests of his na¬
tive
xlii
tlve land, and others of want of capacity, that he so seldorti
took a part in the discussions in the public councils of his
canton : but both have done him injustice. Gessner took
as warm an interest in the welfare of his country as any of
his fellow-citizens, and when he had occasion to speak on
any point more immediately connected with his public si¬
tuation, and bad sufficient time to consider his subject, he
discussed it with such clearness and perspicuity, that many
were astonished that a man w ho could speak so well was
heard so seldom. The fact is, Gessner never spoke merely
for the sake of displaying his talents.
This perspicuity, of ideas, together with the utmost preci¬
sion in expressing them, was always at his command when¬
ever he took time to analyse the subject, and to collect and
combine his thoughts. Though he was incapable of ex¬
pressing himself, even on^matters of taste and art, with fa¬
cility and with satisfaction to himself; yet, when he took
up his pen, he never failed to display the utmost solidity
and correctness of judgment. His Letter on Landscape
Painting, his Preface to the Death of Abel, and particu¬
larly that to the Idyls, afford striking proofs of the truth of
this assertion.
His immortal works are the best testimonies of his re¬
fined taste, .and his tender and delicate sensibility. In few
writers of any age will he found such a high degree of aes¬
thetic and logical correctness : without the aid of any mo¬
del he formed his poetic language and the enchanting har¬
mony of his prose almost entirely himself. Few of his con¬
temporaries have so well supported their reputation ; almost
all bear the stamp of the time in which they wrote, and some
who were then esteemed classic authors, are now become
obsolete. The language of Gessner is still new and fresh
as at first; like Bacchus and Apollo he enjoys perpetual
youth. This must doubtless be attributed to the uncommon
delicacy of his taste ; other writers only kept pace with the
age
xliii
age in which they lived, but he advanced before it. What
he approved has stood the test of time, but what he re¬
jected has long been proscribed.
It was not only in those arts in which he was one of the
greatest master^, that he manifested this refined sensibility.
His organs were highly susceptible of the impressions of
every species of beauty.- His ear listened, with equal vigi¬
lance, to the magic notes of music and the harmonious
cadence of the human yoice. Connoisseurs have often ad¬
mired the truth and the accuracy with which he, who was
unacquainted with a single note, criticised the perform¬
ances of composers and virtuosi.
As his understanding and his taste were general, so like¬
wise was his sensibility. The same man who in his poems
delineates with such truth the smallest beauties of nature,
and the minutest charms of virtue and innocence, possessed
extreme susceptibility for every thing ludicrous. His sa¬
tirical humor, his comic powers, and that talent for gro¬
tesque representation, which few ever manifested in such a
high degree, he exercised only in his early years, and
scarcely any where but in the narrow circle of his select
friends. On these occasions he exhibited less with a view
to gain applause than from the amiable desire to please;
and sometimes even to put an end to the urgent, and not
always most agreeable importunities with which he was
assailed: for his youthful friends, who knew no higher gra¬
tification than the exercise of his comic talents afforded,
encouraged by his good-nature, not only employed entrea¬
ties but had iecourse so more cogent methods, so that he
sometimes found himself in the same situation as Molicre's
Mtdecin mulgre lui. He then selected a theme, or took a
given subject, on which he enlarged in a discourse abound¬
ing with wit and comic humor. Sometimes the entertain¬
ment consisted of a diverting story ; sometimes the repre¬
sentation of an original character in the most ludicrous
point
xliv
point of view : sometimes a parody upon some highly ad¬
mired, popular speaker, distinguished for false wit, bombast
and gross adulation ; or any other fit object of satire. At
the same time he seized the spirit and manner of his origi¬
nal with such correctness, that every idea and every expres¬
sion seemed to have been snatched from the soul of the
person he represented : and his discourse was heightened
by a mimic action perfectly corresponding with the sub¬
ject. No man ever possessed more completely the com¬
mand over his features ; there was not a muscle or a nerve
hut what he could direct at pleasure. Whenever he chose,
timidity, folly, or haughty superciliousness were expressed
in every trait, and defied his friends to discover in his coun¬
tenance the least trace of his heart and disposition, Even
on these occasions he seldom acted the improvisitore. He
withdrew for a few moments from the apartment, and when
he entered, stroke upon stroke followed each other in such
rapid snccession, that it was long after he had finished
speaking before his auditors could recover from the convul¬
sions of laughter which he had excited.
The late duke of Wirtemberg, while hereditary prince,
was once present at the meeting of the Helvetian Society at
Schiuznaeb, and accidentally entered into conversation
with llirzel concerning Gessner. " You are far from being
thoroughly acquainted with him vet;" said Hiizcl, and
began to describe this particular trait in the character of his
friend. The prince conceived the strongest desire to wit¬
ness a specimen of his comic talents, and entreated Hiryel,
if possible, to procure him that gratification. Gessner,
however, refused to comply with his solicitations: con¬
ceiving that the part of a merry-andrew was not perfectly,
suited to his character, and that such an amusement was not
exactly consonant with the purpose of their meeting. After
supper, all the Helvetians, who were more than usually
disposed to hilarity, were assembled in the saloon, and
* their
xlv
their request was urged with still greater warmth. They
pressed round the table at which Gessner was seated, but all
their entreaties were in vain. At length Count Dohna ad¬
vanced into the middle of the hall. " Well then," he
exclaimed, " if no one else will make diversion, I will."
With these words he commenced an uncommonly droll,
pantomimic dance. No sooner had Gessner cast his eye on
the count, than his comic humor was suddenly excited; he
sprung from his seat and joined in the dance. No evasion
was now of any avail; he was compelled to perform his
part. He had scarcely begun when the hall, as Homer
says, rung with unextinguishable laughter. Gessner was
too deeply engaged to take the least notice of what was
passing around him. He awoke as from a dream, when
Hirzel exclaimed : " For God's sake, give over ! Don't you
see these people ?" One of the company was, in fact,
extended on the floor and almost suffocated. The prince,
who had visited almost every country and every court in
Europe, declared, that he had never witnessed a scene so
truly comic.
To learning, in the strict sense of the word, Gessner
never made pretension; he was satisfied with those literary
attainments, without .which scarcely any man, however
great his genius, can he accounted a classic writer. There
was no subject with which he was so intimately acquainted
as the principles of painting and poetry. In the early part
of his life he studied Addison's Spectator and the volumi¬
nous works of Bodmer and Breitinger with unremitting
attention; and was fond of reading all the new works of
criticism in general that he could procure. Of the Latin
poets, he read some in the original and others in French;
the Greek poets he preferred in the Latin version, and
studied Homer in Damm's German translation. On the
other translators he set but little value. " These gentle¬
men," said he, " either by design or unintentionally, over-
g charge'
.xlvi •
charge the picture of Homer with their own coloring, with
which I would gladly dispense. What the Greek Homer
shys with manly simplicity, Damm faithfully repeats with
the simplicity of a child ; but I perfectly understand him,
and in his infantine prattle, I can discover the meaning of
the Ionian bard much better ihan in the most elaborate
translations." A work of which he was particularly fond,
w as Don Quixoite; and he generally read it once a year.
The basis of Gessner's moral character was uncommon
goodness of heart, and a cheerful, serene, and contented
disposition, which was pleased with every situation, and
derived from every object all the pleasure it was capable of
affording. He was warmly interested in the prosperity of
others, and rejoiced when he could contribute towards it;
he took delight in assisting the early efforts of genius, di¬
rected them by his advice, and supported them with his in¬
fluence. In his youth, his taste in the choice of society was
more select; he lived almost entirely for himself and the
muses; he neither sought nor loved any other company
than that of men of learning and talents, or of females of
refined taste and cultivated understandings. He, however,
gradually learned to accommodate himself to the society of
persons of every class, and willingly circumscribed himself
within the narrow circle of ideas of the most limited mind.
He took the greatest delight in the converse with blunt
honesty, or in the sweet prattle of infantine innocence and
simplicity. As soon as his own children could run alone,
he was their constant companion in all his leisure hours, and
took part in all their amusements. Even at a more ad¬
vanced period of life, he was fond of the company of good-
humored and well-behaved children. To rock them on his
knee, to toss them on his foot, or to contribute in any way
to their gratification, was to him a pleasure in which he
could forget his most favorite occupation. That hand,
which guided the pencil and the pen for immortality, was
often
xlvii
often- industriously employed in making a play-thing, to
afford.a momentary amusement to a sprightly boy.
In society, Gessner was a most amiable companion, ever
intent an enlivening the conversation by innocent wit, hu¬
mour and raillery full of ingenuous openness to his friends,
and of condescending and delicate attention to those with
whom he was less acquainted. For every good quality he
manifested the acutest observation, but for foibles and de¬
fects he appeared to have neither an eye nor an ear. Arro- '
gant pride and shameless impudence must have proceeded
to very great lengths, before they could weary his patience.
His displeasure seldom manifested itself but by the extreme
embarrassment into which he seemed to be thrown by his
anxiety to conceal his contempt. If he ever shewed a dis¬
position to anger, it was only when rude ignorance, mistak¬
ing his almost inexhaustible good-nature and his unassuming
simplicity, ventured to make him the bult of shallow wit
and pitiful raillery, in such cases an expressive look and
a keen reply never failed to remove the scoffer to a respect¬
ful distance.
It is natural to suppose that this great reputation attract¬
ed a crowd of visitors, who could not but be very trouble¬
some to a man of his industrious turn. Gessner never
courted a visit, nor did he ever refuse one. His door was
opened alike to the humble pedestrian and the prince, and
. to none more readily than to the man of merit. By one
traveller of the latter description, he thought himself amply
compensated for the interruption of twenty curious visitors,
who had come hundreds of miles to deprive him of a valu¬
able hour, in which they had nothing to say, but that they
likewise knew something of him, On this sabject he, never
complained but to his most intimate friends, or to his wife.
Sometimes indeed it happened, that he, who was no adept
in the arts of deception, was incapable of entirely conceal¬
ing his vexation from some one, who bad the misfortune to
g % follow
xlviii
follow several of those unpleasant intruders. This, if the
stranger wa9 a man of feeling, naturally produced some
effect on him; hut no sooner did Gessner perceive it, than
his excellent heart was filled with regret, and he endea-
vored, by every method in his power, to repair his fault.
Thus one day when he was engaged particularly con amort
on one of his pictures, he was continually interrupted by
strangers. One, or perhaps a whole company had scarcely
quitted him, before others were announced, and each visit
was more insignificant and uninteresting than the preced¬
ing. At length when evening approached, he consoled
himself with the certain prospect of being able to devote a
few hours undisturbed to his favorite employment, and re¬
tired to his room. He had no sooner seated himself than
some person knocked at the door. A hasty—" Come in P
and a loud ejaculation of ill-humor announced his temper
to the stranger. The door opened, and a little meagre man
entered ; pressed by indigence, he was endeavouring to ob¬
tain some petty, civil office. Stammering and trembling
he began to explain his errand; but Gessner would not
suffer him to proceed. Moved and ashamed, as soon as he
had learned his business, he offered him his hand, accom¬
panied him down stairs, and dismissed him with conde-.
scending affability.
It is natural to conclude, that a person of the character
already described, added to bis other good qualities, mo¬
desty, a virtue of which true greatness is seldom deficient,
and which never fails to accompany true wisdom. Gess¬
ner possessed jt in an extraordinary degree. A person who
did not know him might have passed weeks and months in
his company, without suspecting him to be an atithoi, and
still less one who was read and admired by every nation.
Even after his fame was firmly established, he still listened
with all the eager attention of a young beginner, incapable
of appreciating his own merits, to the criticisms of his friends.
Nor
• t
xlix
Nor did he trust entirely to their words; for when he read
to them any of his performances, his penetrating eye fre-
quently stole a glance at the countenances of his auditors.
When he shewed -any of his pictures, he was himself silent,
and heard with pleasure, not only the opinion of good
judges, but likewise the artless observations of every per¬
son who possessed any taste for the beautiful. Of his
works he very rarely spoke, even when the fairest oppor¬
tunity presented itself; and such was his reserve in this
point, that some of his intimate friends have declared, that
they never once heard him mention the subject.
While Gessner lived he was the centre, around which
moved all the man of genius, taste and talent, .and all the
friends of sound reason at Zurich Twice a week be had as¬
semblies at his house, which were frequented by the magis¬
trates, literati and artists. His ordinary companions were
Wyss, Hirzel, Stcinbruchel, Tobler,* Korrodi, Vogeli,
N'afe, Henry Fuseli, Merss, Leonard Meister, Burkli and
his brother-in-law Heidegger.
In the eaily part of his life he used to pass the summer
in a house delightfully situated in a charming country near '
the river Limmat. In his latter years he occupied a simple,
but convenient mansion in the midst of the Sihlwald, a
forest of which he was inspector. The house stood in a
small romantic valley, traversed by the river Sihl, and bor¬
dered by rocky precipices, whose summits are crowned
with woods of lofty pines. Thither he was followed by
his friends, who enjoyed in his company golden days.
* A iter Gessner's death Tohler has more than once been heard to express him¬
self concerning his friend to the following effect: "Gessner," said he, " em¬
bellished the spring of my life, and amid all the pleasing recollections of the
agreeable scenes of youth, his image is always present to my view. Often have
■we shortened the tedious winter evenings by reading the poets; and almost
every time that I visited him, he welcomed me with some new production of
his fascinating pen. His house was 6uch an academy of the arts and sciences as
ftings are unable to create."
1 JEIis
1
His country loved and honored him as one of her most
meritorious chilcfren. Though he neither courted, nor felt
himself qualified for political honors, yel he had scarcely
attained the age prescribed by the laws before he was
elected a member of the daily council.
His life, which had glided away like a. placid stream
through a flowery valley, was gently terminated by an
apoplectic seizure, of which he expired on the 2d of March,
1783. A monument, on which Nature and Poetry are re¬
presented weeping over his urn, was erected to his memory
by some of his fellow-citizens, in a charming spot in his
favorite walk near the confluence of the Sihl and the Li in-
mat.
Several admirers of his muse have expressed their grati¬
tude and respect for his memory in a similar manner.
Among these monuments is one in the celebrated gardens
of Arlesheim and another in the English park of prince
Lewis Batthyani in Hungary. A monument has likewise
been erected to the wife of the poet by his Hungarian
translator, M. von Kazincy, who has thus paid a handsome
tribute to the personified muse of Gessner; for it is well
known that in bis works, both as a poet aqd a painter,
he never failed to avail himself of the delicate taste she
possessed.
By his union with Mademoiselle Heidegger, Gessner left
three children. His daughter has since bestowed her band
on M. Zellweger, a partner in one of the most flourishing
mercantile houses in Switzerland. His eldest son has inhe¬
rited his talent for the arts, and the youngest, who in 1796
married an amiable daughter of the celebrated Wieland,
continues the business conducted with so much credit by
his father and grandfather.
From all that has been said concerning the author of
these volumes, it appears with what justice we may apply
to him his own words, dictated, doubtless, by the presenti¬
ment
H
ment of that immortality which awaited him—" Succeed¬
ing generations justly revere the urn of the poet, whom the
Muses themselves inspired to teach the world innocence
and virtue. His fame survives when the trophies of the
conquered are mouldered into dust; when the splendid
mausoleum of the inglorious monarch is scattered among
the wild bushes of the desert, and its moss-covered ruins
serve only to afford an occasional resting place to the way-
lost wanderer." He not only inculcated virtue by his
precepts, but he enforced those precepts by his example;
and thus established a claim to the love as well as the
admiration of posterity. The moral purity which pervades
every part of his works must ever be considered his chief
praise; to youthful innocence they may be with safety
entrusted, for they tend to excite none but virtuous emo¬
tions in the uncorrupted heart; and of their amiable author
it may with truth be said, that he left " no line which dying
he might wish to blot."
PREFACE,
BY THE J UTHOR.
nPHE favourable reception which Death, a Vision, has met with
by the more pious and thoughtful ; and the frequent ac¬
counts I have had of its usefulness, especially to the weary and
heavy laden Christian, have induced me to endeavour to make it,
as much as possible, still more acceptable, and to print it in a
larger type, as well as greatly to imprvoe several circumtances
therein related.
The subject is of the highest importance ; Death casts the dye,
and unalterably fixes, for ever fixes our existence, either in a state
of the purest holiness and consummate felicity, or in the blackest
horror, and most aggravated torments, in the howling regions of
infamy and despair. It is of universal concern : all are equally
interested in it; for" all must die." This point admits of no con¬
troversy ; nor can any man appeal from the awful decision. We
may in other things, perhaps allowably differ; but here our judg¬
ment must be unanimous, whilst we visit the tombs of our ances¬
tors, and daily tread upon dust once inhabited by immortal spirits.
Your fathers where are they? The prophets, do they lite for ever?
Burying - places discover graves of every dimensions, from the
infant of a span to the swain of tallest stature. The hoary head,
though frequently unnoticed, proclaims aloud the swift approach of
Death to venerable age, ripening for the grave by a series of bodily
infirmities. The young in years, the bloom of youth, and strength
of manhood, in this unequal war can make no greater resistance
than tottering weakness. Almost every day produceth fresh testi-
A 2 mon/
iv
PREFACE.
mony that youth is by no means an insurance from Death; nor
robust and brawny limbs a security from the grave. The greatest
monarch comes down here to a perfect equality with the basest
beggar : and the most delicate epicurean ranks only with the menial
drudge or scullion in the kitchen. Neither robes of the finest lawn»
nor crowns of the purest gold, have power to exempt their wearers
from the pains and horrors of a gloomy Death-bed, and its inevi¬
table consequences. How awful this consideration " God hath
appointed that all men once shall die ?" Must it not affect the mind
to think of entering into an unknown state of existence ■ A state,
of which nothing can in this life be learned but from the word of
revelation. And is it not still more awful to see, that notwith¬
standing the absolute certainty, and the vast importance of Death,
the far greatest part of mankind pay little or no regard to its dread
solemnity ? Men in general tvill be more curious and exact in their
enquiries after, even the most trifling commodity they purchase,
than about the most suitable preparation for Death. If a trades¬
man is about purchasing any valuable article, how diligent is he
to guard against imposition ? If a gentleman purchaseth an estate,
how inquisitive is he after its real value, and with what accu¬
racy does he examine the validity of his title : notwithstanding
he is to hold it, as it were, only by the hour, or rather by the
moment.
Strange it is, but it is true as strange, that the bulk of man¬
kind will take nothing upon trust, except their everlasting concerns.
O ! reader, if thou art one of this thoughtless herd, allow me to
tell thee, that thou hast a terrible death-bed, at least a terrible
death before thee, which will overtake thee, and will not spare
thee one moment because of thine unpreparedness. No ; if thou
remainest thoughtless, thou remainest also without excuse ; thou
hast had, thou still hast monitors enow. The passing bell, whose
doleful sound daily salutes thine ear, calls thee to remember thy
hiortality ; every newspaper that thou readest by the accounts of
heath in itj bids thee look forward to another world; yea every
pain, every symptom of disease summoneth thee to prepare for thy
jong home. Let no man therefore say, " he had no warning of
his mortality," seeing almost every thing in nature, if duly attended
PREFACE. *
to, proclaims it to thee. Yet man, thoughtless man, goes on
under a vain shew, and securely pursues earthly objects with as
much assiduity as if death had in reality no existence : and as if
there toas not an awful hereafter consequent upon dissolution.
Give me leave to deal plainly with thee for once, my reader,
for God thy judge, will one day, and that perhaps very soon be
plain; justly and strictly lexact with thee, and with every one;
will call thee to a severe account for the thoughtlessness of thy
ways, yea and visit upon thee, the sad effects of thine own incon-
sideration. Tremendous must that audit be which is untbought of,
and for which thou art unprovided ; like that man without the
wedding garment, the sinner shall remain speechless.
Thou pressest hard after the perishing riches of this world,
sometimes successfully, but frequently disappointed. And what if
thou couldest amass the wealth of the whole nation to thyself, so
that all thy mites should increase to talents, alas! what should
this profit, if thy soul is yet a stranger to that religion which is the
only preparative for an happy dissolution ? A bed of state will not
deter the approach of rude and uncivil disease, nor will embroi¬
dered curtains repel the shaft of Death ; the silver canopy over
thy face will not inspire thee with one ray of hope to preserve thee
from drooping on the prospect of losing thine all. Couldst thou
leave as many millions as thou dost pounds to surviving heirs, or
to charitable uses, it would not in the least open upon thy heart
the pleasing prospect of divine felicity; nor bribe the fangs of
hell from seizing thy despairing spirit; would not even purchase
thee a more tolerable station in the mansions of the damned, or
one moment's respite from thine unutterable woe. Vain and insig¬
nificant wealth, can only comfort in health and prosperity, but
boastetli not the power of relieving when in the greatest necessity.
Yet how many damn themselves by preferring thee, 0 delusive
wealth, to Jesus and his salvation ? O God open the eyes of blind
and thoughtless man, that he may be wise to consider his latter
•ed.
Art
PREFACE.
Art thou a man of pleasure, and is thine heart in public places
of resort? Iiow unworthy then the name of man? How much
niore excellent are the brutal ranks, which so faithfully answer the
several ends of their existence ? The very beasts that draw thee to
routs and assemblies, and serve to promote thine unmanly dissi¬
pation, will bring in their several accusations, and all thine enjoy¬
ments will be swift witnesses against thee. Go on in thy life of
festivity, let every day be a renewed carnival, and every returning
evening produce some new, some more pleasing revel than the
former; shut out from thine impious heart all thoughts of Gody
of religion, and holiness; yet know, whoever thou art, that thou
shalt die, and God will bring thee to an account for every moment
of time be has allotted thee, and every mercy be has conferred
upon thee. If thou livest without God in time, thou shalt also
die, without him, and be banished from him to eternity.
When disease shall seize thee, and Death presents his en.
venomed arrow at thy heart, order thou thy couch to be carried to
Vauxhall, Corneilly's, the Pantheon,orsome other haunt of pleasure,
and try if thou canst die with more composure amongst the shouts
of madness, and the busts of foolish laughter. Yea, shroud thea
in a mask and thou shalt see, that Death commissioned shall not
miss his aim, but amongst the giddy croud will select his destined
victim, and as soon dispatch thee at the Haymarket or Covent
Garden, as if secluded in the lonely desart. Shake off all re¬
straints of decorum, cast the admonitions of reason behind thee>
cease from reflection, and become the perfect brute, yet shalt
thou find that Death will present objects to thee which shall de¬
mand thy attention and bring thee to thyself again; for thou,
canst not fly from his quick researches.
But what shall we do seeing Death is inevitable ? Do ! Shake
off the sensual brute, and return to the exercise of reason. Re¬
member that you are endued with intellects capable of reflection;
that although, you should live brutal lives, you shall not have
the privilege of dying like them, but must make your appearance
before the eternal God, undergo the scrutiny of infinite holiness,
and be judged according to the deeds done in the body, whether
they
PREFACE.
y'l:
tliey have beea good or evil. If thou never bowedst thy knee to
the God that made thee, do it now, and beg of him to teach thee
to act becoming a rational being, accountable to thy Maker for all
thy procedure. Seek his will in the volume of Revelation* so
shalt tbou be taught that without holiness no man shall see the
Lord, and that there is no holiness but what ariseth from a being
horn again. Therefore ye must be born again, in order to die happy
and live for ever blessed.—Let whoever pleases laugh at the pro¬
position, their impious sneers will yield to thee no manner of ex¬
cuse, when God shall demand thy spirit. I therefore take my
leave of the thoughtless reader, by leaving this memento with him
9
4< Remember, 0 man, that thou must and shalt die."
Shall I now beg leave to address you whom God bath made
sensible of the necessity of a Saviour, and of the awful import¬
ance of an ever-during existence—Great are your privileges ! and
great your obligations. From Death you have nothing to fear;
come when it will, it must come to you in a friendly manner; for
it shall go well with them ihat fear the Lord. Mark, take parti¬
cular notice of that man, whose ways are perfect, whose heart is
sincere, and earnestly thirsts after, and strives to attain that
pleasing conformity to the divine will from which our first father
fell by transgression ; behold the upright, who is the same in his
family or closet, that you see him in the church assembly. The
end, the Death and Death-bed of that man, is peace, and holy
serenity and calm composure, which neither earth nor hell can
disturb. This peace which accompanies the latter end of the
Christian, is the peace of God, by him bestowed, and by him
maintained, and centers in the enjoyment of his sacred presence,
and is such a peace as never yet filled the bosom of an unconverted
sinner, and therefore absolutely beyond the comprehension of un¬
assisted reason. Life may be gloomy whilst in the tabernacle.
The way may be rugged and the path uneven, so that the
weary pilgrim may come halting to his end; but that shall
crown the work, and the peaceful end shall eradicate every sen¬
sation of former pain, so that your troubles shall be remem¬
bered only as waters that have passed away; and all before you
will be pleasing and delightful. A few days of adversity will give
4 place
PREFACE.
place to an eternity of pleasure; an eternity of undecaying com¬
fort being for ever behind and siill lo be enjoyed. In all your
afflictions with which an all-wise God sees meet to exercise you,
it will be for your consolation to bear their promised end in view.
Even in this life they shall bring forth in you the peaceable fruits
of righteousness, whilst they are working out for you, according
to the beautiful language of inspiration. " A far more exceeding
and eternal weight of glory."
What a beautiful climax; what an ascent of blessing is here,
springing from a source so unpromising ? That afflictions which
burden us whilst in this tabernacle should be called light, may to
inexperience appear something strange; yet light they are in com¬
parison of the weight of judgment due unto sin's demerit; light in
comparison of the unspeakable sorrows actually sustained by our
adorable Lord and Saviour; and light in comparison of that vast
weight of Glory, which God, our almighty Father, takes occasion
by them to work out in our behalf. Nor is it less strange to hear
our affliction, which frequently attends us from the cradle to the
tomb represented but as for a moment ; Yet when compared with
that perpetual felicity so fast approaching, life, though drawn out
to the days of Methuselah, sinks into nothing. Yet even this
light affliction, which is but for a moment, shall work for us a far-
more—exceeding—and eternal weight of glory. Here is a might
of glory instead of light afflictions—a great weight of glory—a
greater weight of glory—a/nr greater weight of glory ; far greater
than we can ask or think of, or in any ways deserve—a far more
greater weight of glory, than could ever have been attained by
the most perfect legal obedieuce—a far more exceeding greater
weight of glory—and to crown all—a far more exceeding greater
eternal weight of glory. To set forth the issue of the saints afflic¬
tions, this elegant apostle has exhausted the power of language-
Further he could not go; eternity must discover the rest. Let
patience then have its perfect work, and let contentment be the
object of your pursuit; it is no matter what bitter ingredients are
mingled in your cup; it is the prescription of infinite wisdom, and
therefore must be salutary.
Bui
PREFACE.
But Death is awful ; you now not how to bear the thoughts
of dying. Why should the weary have any objection to laying him
down to rest; or the hungry beggar to his entering into the ban¬
queting house. Death is indeed a dark and gloomy porch, but it
is the gate of thy Father's house; and will not the loving, the
longing child venture through a few moments gloom in order to
get at the dear embrace of a father so loving and compassionate.—
You must pass the gate, in order to enter the mansion that so long
has waited your arrival; and your Lord, your blessed friend and
fore-runner hath taken care to remove-out of the way every thing
noxious and finally hurtful; he shall vouchsafe his amiable and
lovely presence in the mount of straits and valley of thy fears;
and shall make thy death perfectly safe and salutary, perhaps even
desirable and easy. To the saint of God, for the most part the
bitterness of Death is past before Death itself arrives, so that upon
its arrival he does not fiud it to be that terrible, and tremendous
thing to die which he once apprehended. O my God, vouchsafe
rne thy sensible presence in my last hours, then shall I esteem my
Death an inestimable benefit, and my last hours the most precious
of my temporal life, and even with my dying breath I will magnify
the precious name of Jesus my beloved. «
Once more, let me recommend it to you as you wish to live
honourably, and to die in comfort, to cultivate these tempers and
principles that are likely to have your approbation on a Death-bed.
I am either greatly mistaken in respect to the nature of Christianity,
or some people of eminent rank in the church of Christ must under¬
go a very great revolution in the temper and disposition of their
minds, before they are likely to have a comfortable Death : an angry,
a revengeful, an implacable temper very ill agrees with the genius
of the gospel dispensation, and with our character as followers of
the meak and lowly Jesus, who, with his dying breath cried out
" Father forgive them for they know not what they do." Let this
ever be remembered, that it is not a well informed bead, and
clear knowledge of gospel truth which can either diffuse peace
through the heart, or imprint the image of Jesus upon the soul
if a sanctified heart, if heavenly tempers and dispositions of mind
B are
x PREFACE.
/
are wanting. The one may indeed give you the name, hut it is the
other that gives you the nature of a Christian. It has been^a
melancholy observation, in which I am afraid, there is but too
much justice, that some professors most eminent for gospel know¬
ledge, are most remarkably deficient in regard to the spirit of
Christianity, and think indeed that they ought to behave ill to
those who afe less clear in their doctrinal sentiments, or have the
unliappiness to differ from them in some favourite article. But
what an unfavourable idea is this likely to give infidels of, even the
gospel itself, as they are glad to lay hold of every blemish in the
Christian character, and to charge the blessed gospel with the de¬
fects of its abettors. I freely confess, that if I had not been
favoured with some acquaintance with the nature, power, and
spirit of the gospel myself, what I have seen of the spirit and con¬
duct of professors, must unavoidably have fixed 011 my heart an
'ndelible disgust against revealed religion in general: therefore it
is easy to account for the unhappy increase of Deists and Free¬
thinkers, so observable in Britain at this period.—There is such a
thing as saying without doing; as defending the truths of the gos¬
pel in word, and denying them in the spirit of our whole con¬
duct; ought not then every lover of gospel truth to look well to
bis spirit and conversation, lest be should effectually injure that
blessed gospel which lie desires to promote, and which alone can
yield him peace, and composure in his dying moments?
There is no way so likely to soften the tempers, and regulate
the passions of man, as to cultivate an acquaintance with Death¬
bed solemnities, and strive to keep an approaching eternity in view.
It is only in proportion to this, that we can either think or act
becoming the Christian. This habit of mankind, conversant with
eternity has many peculiar advantages connected with it, and is
of the greatest utility in the religious life ; such as making afflictions,
which otherwise would seem long and scveie, to appear what they
really are, but light and momentary : naturally leads us into such
an acquaintance with our own personal weakness, that we can bear
with the weaknesses of others, and exercise forbearance even to
our greatest enemies; makes the honour of religion, the peace
and tranquillity of the church, arid the spread of the Redeemer's
&lorj
PREFACE.
xi
glory the first objects of our pursuit; in comparison of which all
other concerns will seem but light and trivial. Besides that familiar
acquaintance with it which in the issue shall make Death itself de¬
sirable and easy; which is rarely the case with those, who are but
little given to bear in mind the solemnities of their dissolution.
The pilgrim cannot forget his native country, nor the exile the house
of his fathers ; how then can it be that the Christian under the exer¬
cise of grace shall forget the land of his inheritance ?
The following little tract was written within the immediate views
of Death, and when eternity made very awful impressions on the
heart of the author. The mode of it was chosen with a view to
make it more entertaining, whilst it conveyed the necessary instruc¬
tion to the mind. The substance of it notwithstanding is taken from
facts, which have fallen under his own observaton, and it is hoped
that through the divine blessings the truths conveyed in it, will
produce their evidence in the believing heart. I trust I can say tha'
I am thankful for the accounts I have beard of its usefulness, and
bless God that any feeble attempt of mine should be owned to his
people's edification. I have taken fresh pains in preparing this
edition for the press, and am persuaded that it comes now abroad
under greater advantages than in former editions. What alterations
I have made, are such as seemed to me calculated to promote its
usefulness, and make it more agreeable to the serious reader. I
have only to add, that I beg my reader to impute the plainness of
speech I have used in the preface, to the warm desire of seeing the
true .spirit of religion prevail amongst professors, and to be useful
to the souls of my fellow sinners.
Now that the holy Ghost may attend the reading of Death, a
Vision, with his special influence ; that it may answer the end for
which it is now again sent into the world is, and 1 trust shall be, the
author's prayer. Amen. .
DEATH,
DEATH:
A VISION.
PART I.
i
It was about twelve months ago that my mind, as
is but too frequent with me, void of stability,
rambled from one theme to another, and, for a con¬
siderable time, continued its vagary to that degree,
that I found myself utterly incapable of fixing my
attention on any subject that presented itself, how¬
ever interesting and important it might seem. At
last an awful subject, Death—all conquering
Death ! presented itself to me, and that not in a
very desirable manner, but in all the deformities of
an implacable enemy to nature. This unwelcome,
though important visitant, ingrossed my attention
in such a manner, that for a fortnight's space I
maintained an almost constant intercourse with that
awful production of Sin,—throughout the whole
length
14
DEATH : A VISION.
The subject introduced.
length of day, whether I was in the closet, at the
table, or taking a turn on the flowery banks of
Severn, my friendly neighbour, I was always em¬
ployed in viewing the features of his awful counte¬
nance ; marking, as well as I could, the proportion
of his parts, and duly observing his formidable re¬
tinue. It was thus I employed myself, whilst the
chearful sun illumined our horizon, and nature re¬
joiced in his genial rays : nor was I less intent oil
the awful subject, when silent night spread her sable
curtains over the kingdom, and invited the labourer
to refreshing rest: for either iny eyes resisted the
leaden influence of sleep, or the visiting slumber
brought the thoughts of Death along with it. One
particular instance of my nocturnal conversation
with that universal pillager, I esteem not unworthy
of a public hearing, therefore shall do myself the
pleasure of relating it.
It. happened, one night, after I had been deeply
ruminating through the day, on that awful subject,
that when I was in bed I could not compose myself
for several hours to rest, but numbered the clock
from eleven till two, so deep was the impression
which the exercise of the day had left upon my mind.
Then it was that I felt the power of an alarmed ima¬
gination ; for in one strain of thought I fancied I
beheld the dreaded monster approaching me with his
opened commission in one hand, and a resistless dart
in the other, with which he intended piercing my re¬
luctant
DEATH : A VISION.
15
The terrors of £eatb depicted.
luctant heart, and the hated grave close at his heels,
yawning with eager desire for a prey. The man who
knows the extent of his own fortitude, and the
prowess of nature's arm, will not brand me with
cowardice, though I tell him, that such a striking
discovery made my timorous nature shrink, and turn
its back on the inflexible enemy :
Hard work, alas! to join the fray with death,
Unless defended from his baleful string.
At another time I fancied, I saw the tyrant in the
form of a dragon, writhing his tremendous bulk
beneath the feet of a glorious personage, who bore
five ever-flowing wounds, which he received on the
day, that haughty Death imagined the heavenly
country was added to his earthly dominions. In¬
deed well might the insatiable tyrant conceive such a
presumptuous thought, seeing, strange as it may seem,
the Lord, the fountain of life himself, had fallen into
his hands, nor did the regardless monster pay the least
deference to his immaculate person. But well for
man it was, that as the Saviour fell, he seized the
king of terrors in his most hideous form, and
wrenched from him the fatal sting, the sad repository
of all his strength, and disabled him of the least hurt-
fulness to the chosen race. This holy Conqueror,
for reasons known to himself, and profitable to us,
was pleased to visit the dwellings' of the dead, and
for a season, submitted himself to the arrest of Death.
But
I'ff DEATH: A VISION.
Christ's victory over the power of Death.
But the third blest morning come, he shook the dust'
from him, hurst the barriers of the tomb, forsook
the confines of Death, and in holy triumph held
forth the poisonous sting, and said, I have overcome
Death, and him that had the power of death. When
i was indulged with this mental vision, I thought
that emboldened nature collected its force, and ad¬
vanced to gaze on the expiring monster. O ! thought
I, if I could always view that cruel adversary in his
stingless condition, sprawling at the feet of his won¬
derful conqueror, I could meet him with as little
fear, as a child would sport himself with a harmless
lamb. But alas ! I often looked forward with fear,
and sometimes with horror to that momentous period
that shall fix, for ever fix my state of existence, in
an unalterable station of weal or woe. To be inca¬
pable of discerning any thing alluring in life, any
thing attractive in this world, and yet to dread
a: departure from it; to have no satisfying dis¬
covery made of that world of spirits where
Immanuel reigns in triumph, nor of the safety
of the passage from earth to heaven, how dismal
the case ! How gloomy ! IIow threatning the pros¬
pect ! As I was meditating on these awful subjects,
gentle slumber seized me with its lulling charms, and
soon wafted me into the arms of downy sleep, where
I lay the rest of the night inactive in bodv, Death
having imprinted his image upon me.
In
i
DEATH : A VISION.
17
The Dream conimeuccd.
In the mean while, the more vigilant mind, after
her usual mahner, rambled abroad through unmea¬
sured space. Mounted on agil fancy, she soon ex-'
plored the Vast meridian from pole to pole: then
changing her course, she winged her flight across the
countries, from the eastern- depth to the occidental
shore, and in its rapid journey my fruitful fancy
lined out a numerous train of visionary objects; so
that now, I had work enough cut out for the re-
' C
sidue of the night, in turning over these phantoms
of the mind.
1
I dreamed, that in one place I beheld the most
beautiful garden that ever I had seen, represehted
by any type or print whatsoever, and which I pre¬
sume could be equalled only by Eden in its original
beauty. In the midst of this delightful garden arosp.
a fountain, not of water, but of a slimy substance,
bearing something of the1 resemblance of boiling
pitch. I thought the fountain flowed apace, aqd sent
forth innumerable streams to every quarter of the
globe, in such plenty, that it diffused itself abroad
through every corner of the land, insomuch that every
inhabitant was legs or.more bedaubed with the pol¬
luting matter. Gentlemen in scarlet and lace, ladies
adorned with silver and gold brocades, I beheld
smeared with the filth of the fountain : from the high
possessor of the royal chair, down to the despised
Lazar, all were polluted, though many of them per¬
ceived not the stain. Many of those streams joining
c in
18
DEATH: A VISION.
The votaries of Pleasure,
in one* composed a river of a prodigious force, which
passed through a spacious plain, and multitudes of
people of both sexes, high apd low, rich and poor,
of all denominations and persuasions, young and old,
I saw rolling in the filthiness of the stream, Seme
swimming, others wading ; some faster, others slower
down.the noisome channel; some sipping, others, lap¬
ping the foam of the unnatural billows, but all going
along with the stream* which I perceived disembogued
itself on the other side of this world, in a lake which
burnetii with fire and brimstone, where the worm
dieth not, and where the fire is not quenched. .
In another place I saw an infinite number of peo"'
pie, old and young, rich and poor, some decked with
ornamental embroideries, rich brocades, deljghtfyf
damaeks, &c. others hardly covered with deforming
rags; some with their coaches, landaus,, &c. attended
with a numerous retinue; some on horseback follow-,
ing a pack of hounds, others running on1 fpot, but
all pursuing the same chace. This promiscuous, body,
as I thought, formed itself into a circle of a wi.de-
diameter, around the mouth of a dreadful volcano.
Every member,of the mixed multitude held an un-i
interrupted pursuit around the ring. Those vylio-ijocie
in coaches, chariots, and landaus went foremost in the
mad procession ; those who strode the martial horse/
were next unto them; and the poorer sqrt who-
tramped on foot, hied after as fast as they- could.
When I beheld the ardour of the croud, I could not,
help
DEATH : A VISION.
19
And thitt" pursuits described.
help admiring what valuable prize it might be, which
prompted them' to run with such alacrity, and that
even within the view of danger ; till at length I espied
what are commonly called the pleasures of the flesh,
transformed into immaterial butterflies, a cloud of
which cut their uneven flight around the above-
named circle, and danced as wantons within a very
small distance of the first rank of the pursuers;
and many of them as straggling flies, mixed them¬
selves with the various ranks of the fag-end of the
multitude; and all the croud, as I thought, were
intent on catching the giddy flies, ever hoping and
ever disappointed.
Sometimes the pursuers got within arms-length
of the leading flies, then they snatched with eager
grasp, nothing doubting but the long-sought prize
at last was won. But, O the power of deceit! as
soon as the enthusiast opened his hand, he saw with
grief that the fly had eluded his diligence, however
often it flutttered near him. Thus disappointed,
they doubled their efforts, and increased their speed,
in order to accomplish the desired end ; but this, not¬
withstanding all their endeavours, I perceived to be
impracticable ; for although the butterflies always
kept in view, so subtle were they, they never could
be caught; and yet so alluring was their mazy dance,
that the mad pursuers, prompted with hope of attain¬
ing, could not be prevailed with to desert the chace,
although at every turn one or more of the company
c 3 fell
DEATH ! A VISION.
The eager pursuit after lichus ;
fell into the pit, from whence there is no redemption.
But as the volcano in the center received those whose
race was run, others from the outside joined the ranks,
and filled up the place of the persons lost. And thus
it was at every turn, for they were always drawing
nearer and nearer to the pit, and thus they continued
as long as I beheld them.
In a third place, I saw in a spacious field, a pro¬
digious number of people, mostly old, or middle-
aged, extremely busy, and working upon their hands
and knees, for whom I was touched with the ten-
derest emotions of pity, looking upon them to be in
a state of the most abject slavery, but could not for
a time comprehend the nature of their servitude,
being altogether unacquainted with so strange a sort
of labour. Their actions seemed much to resemble
those of a mole, for their hands and feet, and every
other organ, were closely employed but their heads,,
their plodding heads, were principally concerned in
the work ; and what before I took to be such servile
drudgery, I soon learned to be their chief, if not
their only pleasure. O ! with what alacrity did they
rout with their heads, mole-like, in the earth, in quest
of somewhat," but what it was I could not at first
comprehend, till after lending a close attention for
some time to their emotions, I perceived them to pick
up certain particles of yellow dust, with somewhat
of a brilliant gloss ; which, as soon as found, they
kissed and hid in a cavern very near the heart.
Many
DEATH t • A VISION.
21
Its uncertain effects.
Many of those diligent gentry I saw fall prostrate
before the refulgent heap, and thus addressed it ;
Gold! adorable gold ! Gold, thou blessed effect
of mine own industry, be thou ever preserved safe
in my possession, and I desire no other good, no
other blessing but thee. Increase, O increase upon
me! for thou answerest all things, and I can be
happy only in the possession of thee. Avaunt every
pilfering rogue ; ye poor and needy keep for ever
at a distance from my dwelling, and reap the reward
of your slothfulness. And, O my gold! continue
to rest in these blessed coffers, blessed only by thy
presence. Instead of roving, ever here take up thy
abode, for I vow, that my morning homage, and
evening adoration, shall be paid to none but thee."
I saw as I thought, some of them rout a whole sum¬
mer's day, and prove very unsuccessful, finding few or
none of those shining particles of dust; others were
more successful, and every time they dived into the
^arth, brought forth some less, others more of the
fulgent clay, and disposed of it so as to endue it
with such a generative quality, as annually to beget
and bring forth more of its own species. Others I
saw who routed long and sore, but no increase en¬
suing, they fell into a visible discontent, and cursed
the partial earth, which bestowed her favours, on
others, as they thought, less worthy than themselves.
Some there were who toiled long, and were, very suc¬
cessful in the routing way, haying heaped much of
that precious dust together, but to their lasting mor¬
tification
DEATH : A VISION.
The disappointments attendant on the acquisition of riches.
tificatioil some cunning neighbour, by a most masterly
artifice, got beyond and robbed them of the adored
metal. Others diligently routed both night and day
in the earth, and with the utmost care disposed of
their increase in some place of approved safety; but
,in despite of all their industry and care, they were
mortified to the last degree, when they perceived their
own children, who played about their knees, and
whom they loved above all things, next to their gold,
had been more dextrous in scattering the heaps abroad,
than they themselves in collecting them. Likewise
some there were, who by long and incessant fatigue,
had the pleasure of gathering much of this yellow
dust together, but ere they were aware, whilst stand¬
ing in an adoring posture before it, suddenly sunk
into the earth, and I saw them no more ; but where
they went to take up their abode, I do not at pre¬
sent determine; only this I saw, their memory was
soon forgotten, and the next heir reaped the fruit of
their industry. Others there were who with inde¬
fatigable diligence .had got almost enough of this
brilliant dust, but ere the fool considered that it
yvas perishable, he had the unspeakable grief of
seeing it all swept away by some shower, or burned
up by some flash of lightning, sent on purpose by the
angry heavens; on which disaster some of them be¬
came quite disconsolate, and went mourning even to
the grave. Others, of more heroic fortitude, having
sustained loss, immediately clapped down on their
hands and knees and went to work with their head
it*
DEATH : A VISION.
23
Ambition characterized.
in the earth, and routed with double diligence, re¬
solving by all means, just or unjust, to repair their,
ruined heaps. Having had a full view of this routing
brotherhood, I could not forbear thinking that a
people so very near resembling the mole in its dis¬
positions and actions, might, with a good deal of
propriety, be named Human Moles.
But tired with beholding the paltry actions of this
grovelling society, I thought I bent my course to ano¬
ther domain, where I saw a lofty tower, the top of
which transcended the hoary clouds, for aught I
know, as far as they are higher than the earth, perhaps
many times as far. The tower was built in a pyra-
lnidical form, divided into great variety of stories,
with a kind of winding way on the outside, which
led from one story to another; and you must think
tha,t a very dangerous way it seemed^ seeing it had
no battlements to guard its ascendants. On every
story were built certain pinnacles, or small towers,
beautifully adorned with garlands of flowers, plumes
of feathers, titles of state, names of honour, &c. and
on the top of the tower was a figure of clay, overlaid
with the appearance of gold. This image was formed
in the shape of a woman, beautiful at first sight, but
whose features appeared grosser the longer you
looked at her. She seemed to be crowned with gold,
adorned, with sparkling diamonds, and a zone studded
with precious stones begirt her swelling loins ; over
her head was raised au azure canopy, embroidered
with
DEATH : A VISION.
.Ambition the source of calamity.
with the finest gold. In one hand she held titles
and names, in the other a regal sceptre, and in an
invitingjposture she stood on a marble pedestal, with
this alluring motto wrote on her escutcheon; The
valiant hero xvho hath courage enough to climb up to
me, shall enjoy me, O what bustle was here amongst
people of all ranks, striving who should soonest as¬
cend. the sides of the tower ; each striving to possess
himself of some place of eminence, without consi¬
dering the dangers to which they were exposed by
their aspiration 1 Often have I seen the contention
of the turf, but never did I see such jockeying as was
here ; scarcely any thing but jostling and crossing the-
way .was to be seen amongst them. When one was
ascended a few steps above the vulgar level, and
fancied himself secure of a place of eminence, ano¬
ther prompted thereto by envy, or some other prin¬
ciple equally vicious, came up to him, tripped up his
heels, and precipitated him into the mote which sur"
rounded the tower : for it ought to be observed, that
this tower was surrounded by a horrible puddle into
which many of those who sought to ascend, w:ere
plunged with violence before they knew themselves
to be in danger, either by the jockeying of their
opponents, or even when seated upon the long-desired
pinnacle, by some eddy gust bursting from the bosom
of the tower, and precipitating them lower than they
had been before. However, some few there were,
who with indefatigable diligence attained almost the
top of the tower, and on the spiral point of the pin-
1 nacles
DEATH : A VISION. :
25
Effect of Ambition.
nacles they swaggered with waving arms, and in a
contemptuous manner looked on the gazing croud
who stood below, eager beyond measure to obtain,
a smile of their lordships: herein however I thought
the croud was greatly disappointed ; for no sooner
were any of these gentry put in possession of a pin¬
nacle, but instantly they drank of the obliviating wa¬
ters of Lethe, and totally forgot the men upon whose
shoulders they climbed to those seats of eminence.
Nevertheless, so deeply infatuated were those who
stood below, that they not only worshipped the gran¬
deur which they themselves had put upon them, but
stretched their expectation beyond imagination, of
receiving some convincing proof of their gratitude.
But former depressions utterly forgot, the worthy
gentlemen dwelt in their secure pomp, till, in an
unhappy hour, a ruffling blast burst swiftly upon
them, and furiously whirled them from their seats of
honour.
Some two or three ascended even to the marble
pedestal, where they sat adorned with plumes of fea¬
thers, but could hardly be seen of the populace beiow.
One thing concerning them I could not but think
remarkable: sometimes they appeared like a lamb,
then like a lion or a bear, and if at any time the
wind beat high upon them, they transformed them¬
selves into a willow, and bended beneath the blast;
otherwise into a stream, and thus they eluded the iron
hand of danger : and when the storm was over, they
d appeared
26
DEATH: A VISION.
The moat elevated in the world arc subject tt> the caprice of fortune.
appeared like themselves again ; and the haughty ma¬
dam looked down upon them with a smile of com¬
placency.
But of all the multitude there was only one who
sat immediately at her feet in a royal chair ; upon
whose head she rested her hand, and owned him her
darling son. This favourite was a blooming majestic
youth, in whose countenance was to be seen wisdom
and magnanimity written in legible characters; and
with deportment altogether different from those who
sat near him, he looked down with an air of affection
upon all the ranks below him.
But strange as it may seem, this worthy person¬
age, notwithstanding his merit and elevated station,
did not appear to be the most happy man in the
world ; for it was not difficult to see anxious cares,
and perplexing fears, crawling as so many snakes
round the seat of majesty. I thought then, that surely
the higher a man is in station, he is the more empha¬
tically wretched, unless he can hug the servile chain
live the mutable sons of Proteus, or has learned to
live above the caprice of fortune. I thought in my
dream, that by what means soever any pinnacle threw
its rider, or however dirty his fall might be, that no
sooner was the place proclaimed empty, than num¬
bers strove who should first vault into it. Here I saw
a curate aiming at a vicarage, a vicar at a bishoprick,
and a bishop striving for an archiepiscopal see. Here
I saw
DEATH: A VISION.
27
Bvantifttl landscape.
I saw a valet aspiring to the fine gentleman, a baronet
aiming at an earldom, and a country squire coveting
the direction of the nation. Here I also saw a private
centinel aiming at a halberd, a halberdeer at a captain's
place, a captain earnestly suing1 for a regiment, and
Prude, my lady's woman, affecting the name of
Madam.—For my own part, when I saw the follies of
mankind, I could not help wishing that they were
again blessed with the right use of their reason.
At last, more stayed, I found myself in the middle
of a spacious field, decorated with all the variety of
nature, in bloom; the freshest verdancy was the
velvet-like ground-work, embroidered with a richer
variety of perfect colours than ever the delicate pen¬
cil of Apelles left on the stained canvass. I walked
along, admiring its beauties, ravished with the fra-
grancy of the full-blown flowers, which as oriental
gems, richly decorated the enamelled plain. Here I
beheld the glory of the divine Creator, sparkling in
every verdant pile which decked the spreading lawn,
in such a manner, that seeing could not satisfy the
eye. Nor was my ravished ear less delighted with the
tuneful voice of the early lark, as ascending she sung
morning anthems to her Almighty Preserver. Like
masters to music, equally fired with a sense of gra¬
titude, the blackbird and thrush, emulous of song,
poured their flowing harmony abroad through the
vault of ether, as if scorning to be out-done in praise
to their common Parent. Pleased to see the spangled
p 2 field
23 DEATH : A VISION.
Mali's superiority over every other part of the creation.
field join in concert with the feathered songsters, who
sent forth their. chirping melody from the flowery
hedges ; the one cheerfully singing, the other sweetly
smiling, the great Creator's praise : " O man," said
I, " lord of this lower creation, what blessings dost
thou enjoy beyond the most extensive privileges of all
thy neighbours, the inhabitants of air, earth, and
water! Conscience, reason, and understanding, an
erect posture of body, sole dominion over all the
numberless ranks of creatures, animate, and inani¬
mate, which possesses this earthly globe ; they are all
thine by divine donation ; they all were made for thine
enjoyment; such are thine invalued privileges, joined
with an ever-during existence, and a capacity fitted
for the possessing of an infinite good?"
" These are blessings peculiar to the state of
favoured man, and for which only depraved man is
capable of being unthankful. But oh ! let humanity
blush at the awful consideration; notwithstanding
all our enjoyments, we, only we men, are idle, when
universal nature joins in general concert to speak
the great Creator's praise. Ungrateful man ! shall
the sun, the moon, and stars, with all the hosts of
heaven, unceasing move in general concord, and har¬
moniously shew forth the praises of God? Must the
fowls of the aif, the beasts of the field, and all the
inhabitants of the waters, be concerned in the en¬
hancement of his manifest glories, and thou, above
all others, most beloved, and mo3t indulged, alone
remain
DEATH : A VISION,
29
Death pourtrayed.
remaim dumb in the general concert; worse than
dumb,' even refractory ? The horse, that now glories
to prance under thy weight; the vine which bleeds
to satiate thine intemperance; the people of the
feathered nations, whose little carcases must now in¬
dulge thy gluttony, will one day severally appear as
the swiftest witnesses against thee. Thou ungrateful
abuser of many blessings ! what will become of thee
when thy soul is demanded ? IIow wilt thou stand
before an infinitely holy God ?—Dreadful thine ac¬
count; for God is just, as well as beneficent."
I thought in mv dream, that as I was thus ru-
minating, I was greatly surprised, by seeing the
monster Death enter the field, through a breach
which Sin had made in its fences. He appeared at
first in form of a skeleton, with quiver and darts, as
he is usually drawn. The most barbarous rage, and
inflexible cruelty, sat brooding over his hollow eyes,
whilst his unseemly fingers grasped the irresistible
scythe : the mattock and spade, wrought in a field
of corruption, with the resemblance of empty shades
frisking over it, was the skeleton's flag. Close behind
him, almost treading on his heels, followed a lean,
ill-looking figure, with extended jaws ; at the sight
of which my blood chilled in my veins, and my flesh
shuddered with perfect aversion. Nor was this aver¬
sion peculiar to me, for I perceived that all nature
seemed to fly from its presence ; and, indeed, well
might nature tremble at the thoughts of an encounter,"
. " for
DEATH : A VISION-
Thcara izing power of Death the effect of Sir.
for the same hunger-bitten follower of Death cast
a languishing look on every object, and yawned with
desire to devour it.
I thought that Death was no sooner entered
the field, than this meagre and greedy attendant
addressed himself to him, in a craving manner, cry'
ing—Give, give : on which the cruel skeleton bran¬
dished his shafts, and fiercely threw from his un¬
erring hand, first at one, then at another object, till
whole nations fell almost at once beneath his fatal
javelin. One instance, in particular, I saw, of a
whole generation being swept away by one stroke of
his scythe. Such was the amazing power he had ob¬
tained from complicated Sin, that all, especially
mankind, tell at the first touch of the destructive dart;
and as soon as fallen, this detested monster licked
them up, and. the world saw them no more for ever.
Mere I saw, that this grand devourer made no dis¬
tinction betwixt this and that, but fed with as much
delight on the flesh of a beggar as on that of princes
and nobles, the celebrated beauty, and the youthful
hero, afforded no greater relish to the hungry grave,
than the country landlady or rustic strain ; old and
young, beauteous and unseemly, rich and poor, noble
and ignoble, were confusedly jumbled together in its
insatiable entrails.
At a very small distance from this king of terrors,
followed a tall, upright personage, of the exactest
symmetry
DEATH: A VISION.
31
"Jlic officii of impartial Justice. * •
symmetry in all her parts ; her mien was noble, and all
her gestures uniform. This royal and majestic per¬
son, sat on a seat of right judgment, held a pair of
equal balances in her hand, and had for her motto,
<c I judge according to everi) mans works." I
thought that this upright lady, who was in herself the
most perfect beauty, invested Death with dreadful
array, and equipped him in most of his terrors; as
every human creature who fell a prey to the Ravager,
was immediately weighed in her impartial balances.
O, said I, on seeing the procession, if weighed in
these equal and impartial balances, who is he that
shall not be found wanting ?
Last of all, in the train of the skeleton, followed
a monster of devilish birth, and of such a form as I
had never seen before; it kept its eye, as I thought,
continually fixed on the upright lady, whose name was
Justice, making inquisition for blood. To this mon¬
ster was given every person whose actions did not
weigh according to the rules of the sanctuary, and they
were all stored in its incorrupting bowels. What was
very strange, notwithstanding all the persons given to
this insatiable monster remained entire within it, it
continued as solicitous for more as it was the first
moment of its being. Then I thought of that sayingf
Death and Hell are never satisfied.
I stood a considerable time admiring the strange¬
ness of the scene, and soon I discovered something
more;
DEATH t A VISION.
The most exalted characters arc not exempt from the power of Death.
more; for Death metamorphosed himself into a
dragon of an enormous size, and approached near
the place where I had taken my standing for obser¬
vation. Fearful least I should be the prey at which
he aimed, I began to think of methods of resistance,
as I could not reconcile myself to the thoughts of
the grave; nor was I certified at that time, that I
should escape hell if he seized me. Up he came
within a very little distance of me, which greatly
roused my apprehensions of danger, but to my un¬
speakable joy he turned off to the left, followed by
his dreadful retinue, and turning my eye to that side
of the field, I soon discovered the prey at which he
aimed. A beauteous lady in all the grandeur of
life, decked with the richest silks, adorned with gold,
pearls, and precious stones; attended by a numerous
train of obedient servants, she herself glistening like
a goddess in the midst of them. Every attendant
carefully observed the glance of her eye, the wave
of her hand, or the nod of her bead, having learned
by these signs to read her ladyship's pleasure.
At first I was much amazed to see this jovial
company altogether unapprehensive of danger ; none
of them seemed to regard the monster's approach,
but maintained their jollity with as much delight as
j if Death had never been born. Touched with pity,
I waved my hand to awake their attention, and en¬
treated them to beware of yonder dragon; but at
that instant I beheld a god who is said to be presi¬
dent
DEATH: A VISION.
33
Consternation evinced by the inconsiderate on the approach of Death.
dent over this world, raise a dust, and spread a mist
before their eyes, so that they could not discern the
paths of the Destroyer ; therefore they rejected my
admonitions, scorned my fervor, and hid me begone
for a prating fool. But seeing their imminent danger,
and moved with concern for them, I disregarded
their clamorous speeches, hardened my countenance
against shame, and lift up my voice higher and
higher, using many arguments to persuade them that
the monster Death was even then at hand to
devour one or more of them: but all in vain ! for
they would receive none of my admonitions, and
mocked at my zealous concern. At last, unhappy
moment ! the inexorable tyrant came up with them,
and with his forked talons seized my lady in" the
midst of her jocularity. But, O how it would have
shocked you to see the consternation she was in,
when she first perceived herself envenomed by his
poisonous sting. Convinced that her time in this
world was just at an end, and to the last degree
unwilling to venture into a new state of existence,
so much unknown to the best of men, and the
dread of those who are ignorant of God, O what
would she not have given for a short reprieve ?
Never did criminal at the bar endure such horror
when the awful judge denounced the tremendous
sentence, as this wretched lady felt, on the dismal
prospect of futurity ! If gold and silver could have
redeemed her from Death, she would freely have
given as much as would build a cathedral, parted
e with
St
DEATH : A VISION.
Medicine iu»uificieut against the poison of Death.
with her attendants and finery, and lived in adversity
the residue of her days ; or if she might have been
exempted from the dreadful encounter, she would
even have given up the beloved pleasures of plays
operas, and dancing assemblies. But alas ! no bribe,
nor promise of future amendment, could turn aside
the resistless arrow, or procure the once gay delinquent
the shortest respite.
She implored the aid of her skilful physician, at¬
tended by the faithful apothecary; yea, a whole
troop of the faculty were summoned to exercise all
their wisdom, by any means tb resist the rapacity
cf the inexorable tyrant: but all in vain, for,sad
experience proved that no medicine, however skil¬
fully prepared, is a sufficient antidote against the
poison of Death's cankered sting; therefore the
lady, however reluctant, was forced to submit to the
monarch of terrors.
Lest the length of my dream should render it
tedious to my readers, if told at once, I shall divide
it into several parts and shall stop here for the first
time.
PART
DEATH : A VISION- 35
Art exhortation to au intimate acquaintance and fellowship with Death.
PART II.
IIavixg had a full view of all that past betwixt
Death and the lady, I could not forbear reflecting
on the folly of inconsiderate mortals, who are every
hour, for aught they know, exposed to Death ; and
yet live altogether strangers to a certain, an ap¬
proaching eternity. It is awful indeed to banish the
thoughts of futurity from the mind, and assiduously
bury every serious reflection in the moat of sensu¬
ality ! To rush from one profane delight to another?
fill unwelcome Death puts an end to our career,
and serves us as he did the unhappy lady. O what
profit is there, said I, in separating less or more time
every day for intimate fellowship with Death ? In all
probability, when grace is given so to do, our conflict
with that merciless tyrant is far from being so ter¬
ribly dreadful. It is true, I profess but a very small
acquaintance with men and things; yet I cannot
but conjecture, that one reason why this lady and
her acquaintance so utterly detested discourses con¬
cerning Death, might be, because such discourses
naturally tend to strip the pleasures of the flesh of
e 2 all
36
DEATH: A VISION.
The triumph over the terrors of Death
all their imaginary charms* Then, said I again, O
blessed, discriminately blessed of the Lord are
they, whose exalted pleasures can consist in the
most intimate acquaintance and fellowship with
Death ! They, and all they, are fit to enter the
lists with that formidable enemy who can in life
maintain converse with him without spoiling the
pleasure of the day.
I thought in my dream, that Death having
finished his business with madam, transformed him¬
self from the appearance of a dragon into the like¬
ness of a grave and not uncomely personage, cloathed
in a long flowing white robe, which hid all his native
deformities. Thus equipped he directed his course
towards me, which once again put me in a panic,
lest I should be the destined prey, notwithstanding
he was not now so terrible as before; but as the all-
directing Power ordained it, he passed by me, his
route lying now to the right. My attention being
wholly engrossed by the achievements of that ter¬
rible hero, 1 turned my eye after him, and at no
great distance beheld a man of a middle age and
C* O
upright mien, to whom he marched with all possible
speed. No sooner was this good man apprized of
his approach, than with a becoming serenity of
countenance he went forth to meet him, and thus
addressed him, " Come in thou blessed of the Lord,
jar I long to be dissolved, that my better part may
appear in the more immediate presence of the Con¬
queror.*
DEATII: A VISION.
37
evinced by the good and pious Christian.
queror." Death replied, " Thou guarded one, all
I have to do zeith thee, is to sign thxj dismission from
this stage of action, and open thy passage to the land
of immortalfelicity." He said, and instantly pierced
his heart with an arrow dipped in the blood of Im-
manuel; and as soon as the venerable man felt the
arrow rankling in his bosom, in holy triumph he
cried, O Death, where is thy sting! and where
thy victory. O desired grave ! Thanks, eternal
thanks be to God, who hath given me, even me, the
victory through my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.
Is this Death ? said I : Death, who of late
was so cruel, when he had to deal with a person of
a different turn of mind ; call him no more the
monarch of terrors! Yes, I will still give him that
name, for it is essential to his very nature ; if at
any time to any one, he be propitious and gentle,.
impute it not to any compassion in him, but to the
blood, the precious, the atoning blood of the Re¬
deemer; that blood, whose attractive virtue has
drawn the poison evert from the king of terrors;
malignant to all, save those whose hearts and
consciences by the divine Spirit are sprinkled
therewith.
However, I could not help thinking, that there
was something in the case of this good man, as re¬
markably to be desired as that of the lady was-
dreadful; and I could then say with Balaam, I trust
b " from
DEATH : A VISION.
He visits the abode of the dissipated and voluptuous.
from a better spirit, Let me die the Death of the
righteous, and my latter end be like his.
Death, having released from the clayey taber¬
nacle the waiting spirit of this sanctified disciple,
changed himself a second time into the appearance
of a dragon, wheted his sting, and put on all his
formidable tenors ; in which equipment, he bended
his course towards a magnificent palace, which stood
at some distance on this delightful plain. With
timorous heart, and careful steps, I followed as near
as I might with safety, and attentively watched to
see what the next execution would be. At this time
there happened to be a ball or dancing assembly in
the palace; an assembly of people, from whom
every serious thought was banished, and who were
wholly devoted to voluptuousness and dissipation.
As these people of pleasure intently pursued with
jovial glee, the musical mazes of the dance, invisible
Death stole in amongst and grinned ghastly upon
them: but inattentive to the enemy's approach,
they persevered in their jocularity till he cruelly
pierced the hearts of two of the company, in whom
the injected venom rankled, so as to prevent their
enjoying a future merry meeting. I trembled with
fear lest the rest of the company should be taken ;
but afterwards understood that Death, rapacious as
> he is, always narrowly inindeth the contents of his
commission, without which he never appears on our
mundane coast; but carries it along with him where-
ever
DEATH: A VISION.
ihe folly of in\iting Dcato without a due preparation.
ever he gees, and never seizeth hny, but those whose
names and places of abode are specified therein; so
that he is liable to no mistake, as he is falsely charged
with in the case of the two Ireneuss.
I was not a little diverted at the conduct of some
people, whom I heard crying out for Death
seemingly in good earnest, saying, " Where is propi¬
tious Death? O that I knew where I could find
him !'' but as soon as the terrible skeleton presented
himself, they fled for refuge to the doctors embrace
Others really amazed me, for they hunted through
the field in a silent pursuit of Death, and as soon
as they beheld him, plunged themselves into his de¬
vouring jaws.
Many such instances I saw, but must at present
forbear relating them, lest the length of my dream
should give occasion to people of a sensorious spirit,
to charge me with over-sleeping my time : but what
I saw filled me with' uncommon concern for my
fellow creatures, who are under the arrest of Death
before they are aware- hurried off from the stage
of action, before they well know themselves to be
mortal. Grieved to see the thoughtless stupidity of
blinded mortals, and the unretarded havock made of
them by merciless Death, I cried out in- bitterness
of soul, O that they were vise and understood this !
0 that they would consider their latter end!
As
AO
DEATH : A VISION.
IWankii i pi no to .veiKiU.il pleasures, will not receive serious admonition.
As I was thus breathing forth desires after the
happiness of my contemporaries, a venerable person¬
age approached and accosted me thus ; " Young man,
I perceive that the visible destruction brought upon
mankind, hath filled your heart with honest con¬
cern ; you mourn to them, but they will not lament ;
you pipe unto them, but they will not dance; rather,
for your pains, they will laugh you to scorn, and
bate you under the ridiculous najne of Fanatic.
Mankind prone to sensual pleasures, and enslaved to
fieshly lusts, will not, cannot bear your serious ad¬
monitions : but if you please to go along with met
J will shew you somewhat of the various Jorms of death,
as it is met with by saints and sinners ; which
discovery, if attended with the divine blessing, may
be of great advantage to you all the days of your
life.
Being naturally of an inquisitive mind, I readily
embraced the offered favour, gratefully thanked the
gentleman, and pleased myself with hopes of seeing
much of the monster Death, with whom I expect¬
ed, ere long, in cruel conflict to encounter.—Gut,
dear sir, said I, before we depart from hence, let me
beg to be acquainted with the story of yonder lady,
who was so rudely served by the merciless tyrant,
The lady, said he, after whom you inquire, was
named Teresa, the only daughter of a wealthy gen¬
tleman and lady in the neighbourhood ; she was
blessed with a person peculiarly elegant and pleasing^;
her
death: a vision.
41
Death of an accomplished female.
her countenance displayed the most agreeable soft¬
ness, and her snowy skin even vied with the feathers
of the swan for whiteness ; her shape was faultless
in the eye of the most discerning, in every part
finished with the most perfect symmetry.
Thus accomplished, she was taught from her
Cradle to value herself upon her beauty and gentility,
and her fond and foolish parents soothed her vanity
by all that their dotage could contrive; nor care nor
expence was thought too much to render her education
perfectly polite, and to set off the graces of her frame
to the best advantage : but little or no care was taken
to improve the infinitely more valuable soul.
Her taste for dress was so remarkably elegant;
her manner of dancing so particularly genteel ; such
was her great dexterity at cards ; and so singularly
happy was she in devising schemes, and forming
parties of pleasure, that she became the most cele¬
brated toast of the day. Thus she lived, ravished
with false pleasures, and dead to every serioiis and
divine principle, till Death seized her unawares, and
hurried her off from all her delights into a dreadful
and unthought-of eternity, where we leave her in a
state for ever unalterable, and go over to yonder
building, to see what may be learned there.
This said, he conducted me through the spacious
meadowr, towards a magnificent building of the most
f curious
42
DEATH: A VISION.
Terrors of approaching dissolution.
carious architecture, erected on four rows of columns,
partly of the Corinthian, and partly of the Ionic ordef,
in one corner of the enamelled plain; which palace
we entered without formality, my guide leading the
way. lie was now pleased to take me by the hand,
and lead me into a chamber, where were several peo¬
ple of both sexes, attending a sick man who lay in
dreadful distress on a bed of sorrow ; he was, to all
appearance, very near the expiring moment; every
one waited for the last convulsive throw. My guide
having, by some wisdom peculiar to himself, ren¬
dered us both invisible; unperceived either by him
or his attendants, we went up close to his bed-side-
He started—he stared, and his eyes rolled most
frightfully in his head, as if they had followed some
terrible apparition, suddenly traversing the room;
then he was seized with convulsive agonies which
distorted every one of his feeble organs. In this
strange confusion of mind and aw ful distress of body,
he vehemently struck with both hands and feet, as
if environed with deathly enemies, from whom he
desired an asylum of safety, and with an eye san¬
guine beyond conception, he looked on those who at¬
tended at his bed side, as if he would have said,
O that you could help me now in my last difficulties!
Ye were the companions and assistants of my for¬
mer pleasures; but now, alas, ye intermeddle not
with my pain. The redemption of the sonl is pre¬
cious, and ceaseth for ever. O that I had been
strangled in the birth, or dropped into the grave
from
DEATH; A.VISION. ' 43
r- l - v . - . . ■ . .. I- ■ ■ —
Terrors of approaching dissolution .
from my mother's breast, before I had begun my life
of rebellion !
I thought in my dream, that a neighbouring
minister came in with a design to assist the dying
man in his last extremity; he prayed for, and would
have conversed with him, but all to no purpose, for
the distressed delinquent continued in growing
anguish, and could not endure either his prayers or
conversation. The mourning relations procured what
assistance could be had' from the faculty, by all pos¬
sible. means to prevent the success of the ghastly
destroyer; but alas 1 his disease was beyond the
power of physic to suppress. Ilis trembling heart
beat thick with horror, and found not room suflU
* ~
cient for fair play in his rooiny chest, whilst the
rank venom of the deadly fever shot through his
bowels like a burning arrow, and drank up the
streams of life: yet, still studious for his relief, they
poured the physic into his tormented body, which
only served to augment his pain. Ah ! said I, how
feeble are all our friendly efforts, when our unhappy
acquaintance lias to do with Death? Alas! what
avails it to possess strong and brawney limbs, or
square and well-built shoulders, seeing a fit of com¬
mon sickness debilitates the most robust. O may my
glorying be founded on that which neither sickness
nor Death can destroy ! I was deeply affected with
this melancholy spectacle; his tender wife, and other
dear relatives, stood round his bed, bedewing it
r 2 with
44 DEATH t A VISION.
assaSEaasxaxsutc&an gaeaeg
Effects produced by the prospect of a dying sinner.
with floods of tears ; whilst, mad with despair, he tugs
eagerly for life, and in dying rage clenches what
comes next to hand. O my soul, sure it is a solemn
thing to die: and O tremendous to die in despair,
how dreadful ! Even his little children forgot to play
and learned to be serious. In a chamber adjacent to
that of their dying father, they looked wistfully on
each other, and gave* vent to their infant sorrows. I
could not stand the mournful sight, without mingling
my tears with theirs. My guide, perceiving the impres¬
sion which the affecting scene had made upon me,
rebuked my want of resolution, it being so much de¬
pressed before one half of the scene was unfolded;
and I, sensible of my defect, submissively yielded to
the reproof of my wise superior. I thought that,
pleased with my submission, he opened a box of in^
valuable ointment, and therewith anointed my eyes,
whereby they were so much strengthened, that I could
readily see things which in themselves are altogether
invisible to the unassisted natural eye. Then it was
I soon perceived that those convulsive pangs, dis*
toiled features, rolling eyes, wild and distracted looks,
&c. were not merely the effects of nature struggling
with the growing disease, but proceeded mostly from
a mental cause. A fearful avenue was opened be¬
fore him, leading into a dreadful eternity, at thi
not far distant end of which avenue, he beheld the-,
tremendous reward of all his ungodliness ; this, this
it was which caused such perturbation in his dis¬
tracted mind; this it was which made death so ter¬
ribly
DEATH t A VISION.
45
Efforts of Nature incapable of preserving the union betwixt aonland body,
ribly dreadful to him ; and this it is which affected
my mind now I relate the story,
I
Nature, utterly reluctant to be dissolved, ex¬
erted her strongest powers, and made her utmost
efforts to preserve the union betwixt soul and body
inviolate.—The alarmed soul, having such an undesi¬
rable prospect before her, shrunk down into the
lowest caverns of the heart, as it were to hide her¬
self from the researches of Death, which she saw
approaching to dislodge her, and joined issue with
shocked nature, to repel the power of the fierce de¬
stroyer. But soon, very soon, enfeebled nature,
having exhausted her strength, swooned into helpless
inactivity; then the frightened soul, finding herself
deserted by her weak ally, seemed half persuaded to
yield the debate. Then she quitted her interior
lurking places, and, quaking as she passed through
the lanes of life, ascended to the pale quivering lips,
where she sat astonished at the dire event. I thought
then of the propriety of those verses of the celebrated
Dr. Watts:
" Death S 'tis a melancholy day
" To those that have no God,
" When the poor soul is fore'd away,
" To seek her last abode ;
" In vain to heav'n she lifts her eyes,
" " But guilt, a heavy chain,
" Still drags her downward from the skies,
" To darkness, fire, and pain."
Dread
i
46
DEATH : A VISION.
Progress of the soul after death.
Dread amazement seized her, when she beheld lurk¬
ing in the chamber a train of ghastly furies waiting
to carry her thence: Precipitately back she fled,
resumed her possession of the interior regions, roused
up the residue of nature, fled to every avenue, and
wildly shrieked for help: But all in vain her unequal
resistance: for Death, like, a staunch murderer,
stood firm to his purpose, and closely pursued her
through all the lanes of life," till he drove her out
of the confines of mortality : At last the fatal moment
came, vanquished nature laid down her arms, the-
weary heart forbore to throb, and Death displayed
the trophies of victory all around.
Death having broke through all the redoubts of
desolated nature, the dismayed ghost, now forced
forth from her wonted -dwelling," remained in a de¬
fenceless condition, exposed to the insults of merci¬
less fiends, destitute of an asylum. Unhappy spec¬
tre ! as soon as she arrived at the pale portal of the
lifeless lips, she began to seek for a place of refuge;
she looked up towards heaven, but dreadful was the
prospect, for she beheld an incensed God loosing his
engines, and beginning to play his flaming indigna¬
tion upon her : to,shun this inevitable evil, she looked
downward, but equally terrible was her prospect
there ; with consummate horror she beheld the
yawning jaws of intolerable hell extended wide to
receive her. There being now no flying from the
environing evils, die swift messengers of destruction
t r seized,
DEATH : A VISION.
47
v The Lord condemns only in righteousness.
i_ —
seized, shouldered, and bore her away, to appear
before the judgipent seat of injured and incensed
justice, where she received the fearful, the irrevo¬
cable sentence, Depart from me, thou cursed, into
everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels•
But, oh t no tongue can express, no heart can con¬
ceive her struggles and shriekings, when she first
felt the tormenting touch of the intolerable talons of
hell! her lamentations ascended even to the relentless
throne of God.
I thought in my dream, that by this time, I was
almost dead with surprize and fear; but my benevo¬
lent guide imparted to me a cordial, in my esteem,
infinitely more valuable than all the wealth of the
Indies, by which I was much refreshed, and after
some time I addressed him thus :
O, Sir, what have I heard ! what have I seen !
surely this man must have been some vile, notori¬
ously wicked, and uncommon sinner, which makes
his latter end so terrible.
To which the venerable gentleman replied ; you
maybe assured, young man, that the Lord's judg¬
ment's are just, and that he condemns only in right¬
eousness; and if this man had not been a sinner, his
final sentence had not been such as you have heard
and seen. That he was a great sinner is certain, but
that he was greater than others I w ill not affirm, as
there
48
DEATH : A VISION.
Character of the sinner.
there* is but too much reason to believe, that there
are thousands in the world as wicked as he, who, if
boundless mercy prevents not, will meet with the same
condemnation with him.
This man, whose fate you so much deplore, was
named Conlumacio, a person ever addicted to rebel¬
lion: when young, he had the advantage of a reli¬
gious education, which was no small aggravation of
his future sins, as moral instructions were thereby
early impressed on his mind. From hence he was
constrained, however reluctant, to have some sense
of what is in itself either morally good, or morally
evil, and was often subjected to the sting of an un¬
easy conscience, especially after any gross out-breaking
in sin : those pangs of mind extorted from him many
promises and strong resolutions of amendment, and
oftentimes drove him to his knees in the closet, as
well as to an attendance on public worship frequently
on the sabbath-day.
You will not think it strange, I suppose, if I tell
you, that by his occasional attendance on the word
preached, together with his converse with religious
people, he attained a good degree of speculative
knowledge both of the law and the gospel. This
made him look on himself as a converted person,,
notwithstanding he possessed not one desire after
the heart-cleansing power of religion ; but, amidst all
his pretensions, allowed himself in secret sin, and
pretty
DEATH: A-VlSIOfo.
Chiii after of ContiMnacio.
pretty often his sins were obvious enough t'o 'behold¬
ers. As his religion was far from uniform, at some
seasons neglecting the word preached, he associated
himself with those whom he called good companions,
and enjoyed the pleasures which flow from drinking
dnd gaming; and so long as conscience was rnild^ he
laughed at the weakness, and narrow-spiritedness of
those, who could not relish the pleasure which he'
enjoyed in his indulged liberties'.
Titus it was with poor Cont'umacio, for the most
part, when health and prosperity stretched their' ,
Casy wings over his dwelling; for he' seldom dealt
in- religion, hut in cases of adversity, which though
not often, he was sometimes visited with, as you shall
hear.
It was the Lord's pleasure' to visit him on a cer¬
tain time with a violent fit of sickness, attendee} with
many symptoms Of imminent danger, insomuch that
he thought himself on the very brink' of eternity.
The dreadful apprehensions of approaching Death
impressed his mind with much sorrow for sin, and
gave birth to some hopes, especially with the less
intelligent of the gocHy, that the work might be real
and saving, and that his affliction might prove a sanc¬
tified means of his conversion. But, alas ! my friend,
all their hopes were blasted ere they well began to
blossom : for as his disease abated of its violence, his
convictions abated proportionality; till quite recovered
o from
50
DEATH: A VISION.
Erroneous opinions entertained by «be friends of Coolunucio.
from his bodily complaint, and then he was likewisei
relieved from the fever in his conscience.
There is an old saying, t( Afflictions never fail to
" make a man either better or worse," exactly veri¬
fied in this unhappy person, for he increased daily in
wickedness to that degree, that he laughed at every
thing sacred; for one warning after another being
disregarded, it pleased the Lord at last to leave
him, to work iniquity with greediness. Thus it was
that perverse Contumacio was hurried forward by his
carnal acquaintance, and his own vicious inclinations,
from one sin to another, till he hath brought himself
to what you have now beheld.
This awful account of the unhappy Contumacio
greatly affected me, and as I was deeply musing on
what I had heard and seen, my venerable guide thus
addressed me: Come, now let us take a view of
the friends of the deceased. And now my attention
was wholly engrossed with what passed amongst them,
the most of whom were bathed in tears.
Goi) rest his soul, says one, he was as good a
natured man as ever lived. Aye, that he was, says
a second, and as good a husband as any in the
world, and minded that that was good too -s though to
be sure, poor man, he was not without his failings,
but the best have their failings as well as he. Very
true, says a third, God help us, we are all frail
creatures;
DEATH: A VISION.
51
i 1ht Traiit of a dac rstimatiuo o4 future punishment deplored.
creatures ; poor uian, it is well for him that he has
got safe out of this troublesome world: it is better
for tliem that are dead, than for us that are alive ;
to be sure, he is the happiest of us all. Thus they
reasoned, and occasionally threw in consultations in
regard to the order of the funeral. '
I turned to my guide with amazement on my
countenance, and stared him full in the face, on
which he stopped me short before I had time to speak,
and thus it was he addressed me :
These people have no notion at all, of sin being
punished after death ; but whatever course of life a
person has led whilst here on earth, they take his
admission into heaven w hen he dies as certain. Hell
might never have been made as a place of punish¬
ment, for any notion which they have of it. Ifyou,
or any other person, were to tell these people, that
their departed friend has already taken up his abode
in those dismal, unfathomable depths, where the worm
of conscience dieth not, and where the fire of un¬
speakable toyment cannot be quenched, they would
look on you as an uncharitable, hard-hearted wretch,
unfit for the society of mankind. After all you have
heard and seen, you will no doubt think it strange,
that the minister who shall perform the funeral rites,
should commit the body of this man under the name
and character of brother, to the dust, in a sure and
certain hope of a blessed resurrection with the just,
g 2 not with-
52
DEATH: A VISION.
Some incoiiMstenciej* in the funeral service pointed out-
notwithstanding he is for ever separated from .them;
and yet I can tell you that such are the ecclesiastic
cal establishments of some nations, tiiat was not the
minister .thus to bury him, it might cost him no less
than degradation from his sacred office*.
* I have oftep (thought it a very great hardship upon conscien¬
tious niiriisters of the church of England, that by the office for
burying of the dead, they are tied to use the very same form over
the greatest/of saints ^nd the vilest of sinners, which must bean
heavy burden to an honest intelligent mind. The form is admira¬
bly adapted lo the burial of a saint, but in the highest degree pre¬
posterously false and absurd when used at the interment of a
wicked man, who dies impenitent and in his sins.
For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy ta
take unto himself the soul of our diar brother here departed.—This is
true of the,departed saint; but with what propriety can it be said
of a wicked man that he is a brother to the faithful ? Is the death
of such a man in mercy, in great mercy ? Hath C»cl indeed taken
the soul of the wicked sinuer to hiipself instead of denouncing
upon him the sentence exhibited in the word ? Depart from me ye
cursed into everlasting fire, Sec. Is this a taking of the soul to him¬
self in great mercy as exprest in the ritual.
We therefore commit his l/ydy to the ground—in sure and certain
hope of the resurrection to eternal life though our Lord Jesus Christ.
How can this hope of resurrestion to efemal life be sure and cer¬
tain, seeing the wicked shall certainly be raised to everlasting pu¬
nishment and shall be turned into bell with all the nations that
forget God. It would be well if some expedient was found for
easing the minds of the conscientious part of the clergy, either.by
accommodating tire rights to the death of a sipner as well gs that of
a saiijt, or Jeaving the ,rijiijister at-liberty to .use or not use this
form, as his discretion .migh^ dictate from b's knowledge of the
party deceased.
But
DEATH: A VISION.
53
The disordered state of the miud of Contutuaeio.
But my benevolent friend, may it please you to in¬
form me, whether any reason may be assigned, why
this man, although wicked, should be so troubled at
his death ; for I have somewhere read, that the
wicked have no bands in their death, and are not
» » 7
troubled as other men ? To which he replied, yes,
young man, you have so read, if you have read your
bible; but you .may know, that poor Contumacio
was thoroughly awakened to a sense of wrath on
account of his sins, and they appeared to hiin worse
than so many dreary ghosts, or, hideous spectres,
which made him, as you saw, so terribly alarmed,
when the invincible skeleton approached, and pre¬
sented the point of his envenomed shaft. A world J
ten thousand worlds would he have given, could he
for them have been told how to evade the fatal thrust.
But the stroke, not to be evaded, he was obliged to
•sustain; but oh ! may you never know such a latter
end !
IIrs great disorder of mind was partly owing to his
being possessed of a larger degree of moral know¬
ledge than some of his neighbours, so that very many
of his sins were committed against the light of his
own conscience, which made them the more dreadful
unto him. But the chief reason is, God doth some¬
times alarm the conscience of a departing sinner that
he may manifest his judgments for the convincing of
some, arid leaving of others without excuse.
If
j.j, DEATH : A VISION.
I
The Almighty manifests his judgment! for the benefit of mankind.
If you please, I would have you observe yonder
woman, who sits pensive at the other end of the
room ; perhaps her conversion is one end which the
Lord proposed by his judgments manifested in this
nnhappy man: and let me tell you, Novt/io, I am
of opinion that she will never forget this awful pro¬
vidence whilst she herself is continued in being.
Believe me, Jehovah's ways are in the deep waters,
and by far more intricate than the paths of the whirl¬
wind.—The great, the sovereign householder, hath
an indisputable right, if he sees meet, to burn his
wooden vessels, that with their ashes he may brighten
his vessels of gold and silver. Now yon have seen
this man, with this end, come along with me, and
another scene shall be unfolded.
i
PART
55
PART III.
I thought in my dream, that, according to his
directions, I followed my guide through diverse turn¬
ings, in this stately mansion, till we arrived in an
apartment, where was an old gentleman, laid on a
couch, dictating to an attorney, who sat by him^
writing his last will and testament. He signed, sealed,
and delivered the deed, and then with the greatest
yivacity proceeded to relate the various virtues of
his life, seemingly extremely pleased with the reca¬
pitulation.
IIe willed his children to follow his example : and,
the better to encourage them to such an imitation, he
told them, that it was but a small sum of money
which he and their mother possessed at their first
entrance on their marriage state; and how, by their
diligence and frugality, they had saved so and so,
mentioning the legacies which he had bequeathed in
his .will ; adding, that if they were diligent and frugal,
they might also, proportionably, increase that which
he
Sg DEAtfl : A VISION".
— ■ ■ f v ■■■■■■ ' . rt
The perturbed departure of Contdmacio contrasted
lie blessed God, he had procured for, them. ' He
added farther ; 'f My dear children, I am very ill,
and doubt I cannot recover ; the doctor gives me but
little hope, but it is what We must all come to, and
you are the witnesses* of my cohduct, ever since you
were capable of discerning betwixt right and wrong.
I have been just in all my dealings'; never imposed
on any man, and now, God help me, I am dying,
none that ever I dealt with can say to me, Thou d'ulst
itie wrong, 'or thou hast cheated me in this or thaft
This gives me great satisfaction in my present case.'
I thank God, I can now say, that I never swore an
oath in my days, but have often been angry with that
wicked practice in Others. I never was drunk, but
always detested that beastly and wastful sin ; nor,
as I remember, did I ever tell a lie ; but have always
minded my duty to God, attended at church and sa-
crament duly; and if ever I sinned at any time, I
was careful to pray for mercy, was sorry lor it, and
confessed to God, who is merciful, and will I hopd
pardon the frailties to which we are all subject. If at
any time I sinned, it was not with a wicked design,
for, I thank God, I have always had a good heart,
and meant well in what I did ; and it were a great sin
to disbelieve in the mercy of God. I hope that seeing
I have always believed in Christ, been diligent in pro¬
viding for my family, have carefully husbanded what
I got by my business, and have been mindful of my
duty to God, I have little reason to fear but it will be
well with me y and now, as in all probability I cannot
6 - recover*
DEATH : A VISION.
57
"\V itli that < f Avaro.
recover, I havd settled every thing/ I hope, to your
satisfaction, as well as my own, and can die in peace,"
—Thus it was that he instructed his children, in his
latest hours, and some of them confirmed all that he
said, by applauding the truth of every sentence.—
However, I thought all along, that I discerned a
secret joy amongst the young people; notwithstand¬
ing, for decency's sake, they assumed several of the
symptoms of grief; and was confirmed in my opinion^
by overhearing the eldest son, when the father said,
In all probability I cannot recover, to whisper se¬
cretly to himself, I hope you cannot; and when the
old man said, he had settled every thing to his
children's satisfaction, the son whispered again : Aye,
if you would make quick work of (lying. 1 then
thought how foolish it is in those parents who snatch
at every opportunity of amassing wealth for their
children, seeing that thereby they are so far from
gaining their love and esteem, that they become im¬
patient for their death, in order to be possessed of
their substance.
In the mean while the visitants of the old gentle¬
man comforted him against the fears of death, by put¬
ting him often in mind of his life so well spent,
which will, said they, no doubt, nmke you a happy
man, as soon as you are delivered from this afflicted
body.
tt
Notwith-
58
DEATH : A VISION.
The death, of Avaro.
Notwithstanding I was greatly surprised at the
ingratitude of young Phylargyrus in wishing the
death of his father : I could not help being well
pleased with the disposition of the old gentleman's
affairs ; and, turning to my guide, with satisfaction
visible on my countenance, I said,
Ah, sir ! what a happiness is it to be rich in good
works ! O with what pleasure may this man die;
when he looks back, and takes a view of a life spent
to such great advantage ! How vast is the difference
betwixt this and the other man's estate ! Contumacio
went distracted into Hell, but Avaro will doubtless
go joyfully to Heaven the next moment after his dis¬
solution.
To which my guide replied, I see, Novitio, you are
too prone to judge according to outward appearance;
not considering that appearance and reality are very
often two different things; hut wait with patience
only a little while, and you shall see an end of
Avaro, with all his happiness, which you so much
admire.
By this time I thought that old Avaro declined
apace, and evef-watchful Death, who attended on
his bed, imposed a fatal weight on his labouring
heart ; a dark mist beclouded his heavy eyes, and a
cold dew rested clammy on his forehead, so that every
pulse was expected to beat a finis. But as there yet
remained
DEATH : A VISION.
$9
Awful state of the sooj of Avaro after death#
remained a few sands in the mortal end of his glass,
he recovered a little, and, after some time, he said,
I thought I should have spoken 110 more; but I have
yet time to bid you farewell; farewell, my deaf
children ; I must pay this debt of nature, but my peace
is made with God, and I die comfortable. This said,
his head declined, his eyes became fixed, and all the
symptoms of immediate death were upon him.
It was now that my venerable guide bid me to
mind well who were in the chamber with us ; on which,
lending a close attention, I beheld several ghastly
furies, in all the deformities of reprobation, silently
lurking round the bed of the sick man ; but none of
them offered to come near to disturb his peace. The
good Veratio, rny benevolent guide, perceiving that
the discovery had struck me with horror, willed me
not to be afraid, for, said he, they will all be very
quiet till the old man's departure, and even then they
will discover themselves to none but him.
You will easily believe, that I now began to change
my opinion of Avaro, having seen who were his silent
attendants. The moment of separation come, the
beguiled soul took a kind farewell of the body, and
came forth from the interior regions, smiling with
hopes of the divine reward ; and as soon as she as¬
cended to the lifeless lips, she looked around to espy
her tutelar angel; but dreadful was her astonishment
when she perceived that there was no guardian near
H 2 to
60
death: a vision.
A^lvful state of the soul of Avaro.
1 —1
to bear her thence in safety, but a train of relentless
furies waiting to carry her to their dark abode ! With
infinite terror she turned about, and strove to regain
her former possession ; but now, alas! the gates of
mortality were shut, and the body refused to admit
its former tenant. The sly seducers, as so many mer¬
ciless tigers, leaped upon and seized her in the midst
of her horror and distraction. O what heart can con¬
ceive, what pen can describe, the dreary distraction
of the dismayed spectre, when she found herself
shackled by those cruel tormentors ! A faint descrip¬
tion thereof would make the stoutest heart to tremble,
and the ruddiest countenance to gather blackness.
The sly seducers, who attended him incognito during
life, remained quiet as possible till the deceived ghost
was safely dislodged, and then they assumed the devil
in all his infernal forms and tyranny; seized, fettered,
and bore her away, notwithstanding she resisted her
fury with inexpressible struggles. O my soul ! how
dreadful must the disappointment of that man be at
death, who in his life-time feeds upon the transient
hope of an hypocrite, and builds his expectance of
future happiness on a sandy foundation ! Instead of
being caressed in the bosom of everlasting love, he
is enfolded in the arms of eternal despair ; instead of
partaking of the ineffable joys of the righteous at
death, he is precipitately plunged into the gulph of
never-ending anguish.
O O
It
DEATH : A VISION,
6t
TU« hypociitc caunpt elude jthe eye of impartial Justice.
It was now I began to understand the meaning
of such sayings as these: The hope bj the hypocrite
shall perish; they look for peace, but behold, evil
cometh, &c.
Astonished at the event, I turned hastily to my
guide, and asked him how it came to pass, that a man
of so many good works should at last become a prey
to devouring flames ? Sir, said I, how is it ? Can it
possibly be consistent with the goodness and equity
of God ? To which the worthy gentleman meekly
replied : , ,
I tell you, Novitio, you must not, from what you
have seen, infer, that the ways of the Lord are un¬
equal, and that he disposeth of his creatures unjustly.
For all the good works of which Axaro boasted so
much and depended upon for his acceptance with God
were good only in shew ; they proceeded not from a
principle of living faith; and you are informed by the '
word of divine truth, that whatever is not of faith is
sin. Nor had the blind Avaro the least regard to the
glory of God in all or any of them, but they were per¬
formed with a view to answer selfish ends; therefore,
when they come to be examined by the eye of impar¬
tial jastics, they were all accounted as abominable
deeds : for no act is acceptable to God, unless it
springs from a living faith in Christ, and a principle
of love to God. He hud intended some slight ac-
qqaintance with the external forms of religion, but
2 was
62
DEATH : A VISION.
Character of Avaro.
was wholly a stranger to its heart-cleansing, and
world-overcoming power ; but however clean he had
made the out-side of the cup and platter, being in¬
wardly full of ungodliness and error, he was unmeet
for, and consequently could not possess a dwelling in
the holy of holies. Avaro, whilst alive, was one of
those deceived people who esteem gain to be godliness;
his whole life was spent to the end of getting; and,
being successful therein, he valued himself far above
others, fondly alledging that all his increase was owing
to his own industry ; and if at any time he thought
of divine Providence, he imagined that his worldly
prosperity was an evidence of his enjoying the favour
of the Almighty. As to his religion, he seldom omitted
going to church twice on the Lords-day, and, since
he was old and unfit for business, once almost every
day, by which he thought he merited greatly at the
hand of God ; and was the more confirmed in his opi¬
nion, inasmuch as some of his neighbours did not
attend oh public worship once in a month.
When at any time he gave a small part of his sub¬
stance to feed the hungry or clothe the naked, it was
generally to wipe away the score of sin from his con¬
science ; or to prevent his being thought a covetous
person ; for this was a scandal which* he could
not endure, but looked on his carefulness as xm ex¬
cellent virtue. Yea, so ignorant was he of the pure
and spiritual law of God, that he expected to be re.,
warded for gathering together fortunes for his children.
Some
DEATH: A VISION.
63
Hie love of money is always attended with a forgetfulnt-ss of the Almighty.
Some legacies he hath indeed left in his w ill for chari¬
table uses ; for he was one of those griping misers
who have no heart to do a generous action, whilst
their substance may be called their own, and who to.
make an atonement for their having withheld more
than is meet, bequeath sums of money for the use of
public edifices at their death. Strange infatuation, to
think that defrauding of the legal heir, can be accept¬
able to the infinitely holy God ; or in any wise stamp
a reputation upon the character of man. Whilst Avaro
lived, there was none in the neighbourhood more
successful than him, but however he succeeded in his
former enterprizes, he is woefully disappointed in
death ; for now the dye is cast, his loss is irrecovera¬
ble ; and his afflictions are beyond a remedy. Believe
me, young man, continued Veratio, all disappoint¬
ments, losses, and crosses, which can possibly happen
in life, are infinitely rather to be chosen, than that
disappointment which the successful pharisce meets
with at death.
I was exceedingly shocked at the fearful deception
of this worldling, rich in life, but poor in death; and
in my confusion of mind I breathed forth some such
.desire as this, " Lord deliver me from the subtle, in-
" sinuating love of the world, and stupid ignorance
■' of thy holy way's !'' My guide interrupting, said a
suitable prayer ; for the love of money is the root of
all evil, springing from and ever attended with igno¬
rance of the holy God; ingenious and wise was that
heart
C+
DEATH : A VISION.
The Sin and folly of sliding the fear of Dentil. \
heart that could suggest such a prayer, as Lord give
me neither poverty nor riches, &c. Which of your
acquaintance, Novitio, think you, can heartily express
such a prayer.
, /
Avaro being stretched out a lifeless clayey corpse,
Veratio led me away to a third mansion in this stately
fabric, where another distressing scene was unfolded.
—The unhappy Seeurus, .a young man of about
twenty-one years of age, was the possessor here ; but
his term, alas ! appeared to be near at an end, being
almost spent in a consumption; yet unhappy youth,
he could not bear to be told that he was a dying man.
His relations and friends did what they could to pre¬
vent him having any thoughts of Death and a future
state, by basely and sinfully flattering him with hopes
of recovery,, notwithstanding they evidently saw, that,
without a miracle being wrought, his death was in¬
evitable.
One told him, that she knew a certain person who
had been as bad, if not worse than Seeurus was then,
but was now happily recovered, and was as well as
ever. Another advised to send to Mr. J\ledieus, a
distant physician, who she said had performed won¬
ders in curing consumptions. A third persuaded him
that he looked better than formerly, and was likely to
recover; but not one of them was faithful enough
to put him in mind of approaching Death, and a
tievcr-ending eternity, which he was just ready to
launch
DEATH: A VISION.
€5
•Baneful infinenae of flattery.
launch into., lest they should disturb the tranquillity of
his mind.
■Grteved in soul to hear them (latter the blinded
wretch with hopes of life, even when they saw that
his death was to be expected every moment; I was
about to have spoken, but my guide prevented, by
Celling me that his friends would look on me as bad as
a murderer if I should disturb his conscience, by
asking him any pertinent questions relating to a future
•state. Is this a display of parental affection and
brotherly friendship? said I. Miserable relation'!
Unprofitable and pernicious friends, whose vefy friend¬
ship .is the most barbarous cruelty ! It is not enough
(that be hath lived a life of unintermitted rebellion
against God, but you must study to get him out of the
world insensible of it? Wretched, ministers of false
comfort are you all ! O my God, let me ever be pre¬
served from the fatal influence of soothing flattery !
This said, my guide addressed me in the following
manner ; This is young Securus, a thoughtless youth,
accustomed to put the evil day afar from him, mind¬
ing only the present time; for it happened, as Some¬
times it did, that the thoughts of Death encroached
on his mind, he lulled his conscience to quietness., by
promising to repent of his sins, and amend his ways
hereafter, when he was old, and had enjoyed the
pleasures of life; little thinking that fie was to be cut
off in the very bloom of youth. Seeurus was one of
ibuse who pretended to be zealously affected for the
i • church,
66
DJTATH: A VISION.
Alarming proof of degeneracy in-the life of Seeurus.
church, hut never come near its assemblies ; and even
now, in his latest hours, he has not the least thought
of Death and eternity ; but is angry with his physi¬
cian because he will prescribe no more medicines
for him. Still he hopes to prolong his life, notwith¬
standing his lungs are so far spent that he can hardly
utter one half of a contracted sentence. In all appear¬
ance he will never think of Death and judgment,
heaven and hell, joy and pain, till the flaming tor¬
ments playing around him rouse his sleeping soul.
•Then, if notr before, he will begin to think of eternity.
At last he will be convinced, that the torments of hell
are insupportable, and of never-ending duration,
though he disregarded every threatning thereof de¬
nounced in the sacred oracles.
Vain Sccurus, whilst in health and prosperity,
laughed at the timidity of those who had any dread of
offending a holy and terrible God ; and accounted
religion to be nothing else but whining hypocrisy ; but
ere long he will feel to his sorrow that the wrath of a
sin-avenging God is indeed something to be afraid of,
and that religion is real and not chimerical.
In health he aceounttd the lives of the religious to
be madness, and their latter end withour honour. So
he lived, and now his insolence is basely contemning
the ways and people of the Lord, hath issued in that
stupefaction of mind, which ere long will terminate
„ in intolerable anguish; then he will be fully convinced
that
DEATH : A VISION.
f»7
'11m destructive and overwhelming power of sin.
- ^
that his supposed fools are the only wise Ones on the
face of the earth, and that their latter end is more
honourable than that of all men besides.
This awful proof of degeneracy touched me so
sensibly, that, as I thought, I uttered some such a
lamentation as this:
O Sin ! monstrous beyond all productions ! Thou
most abominable of every evil ! Thou hast bereaved
us of our native knowledge possessed in our creation
state, and diffused darkness thro' the whole under¬
standing. Thou hast chdnged our ancient love into
present hatred, and all our former holiness gives place
to sinful insensibility. Can a man stand at th'j en¬
trance of the grave, and there concert the schemes of
earthly pleasure ? Having his feet on the threshold in
the gates of perdition, can he yet believe himself in
a land of security and rest? M ho could ever con-'
ceive, without occular demonstration, that such blind¬
ness over-spreads the mind of a rational being, as shall
cause him to look on bis body as tenable, even when
in the chilling embraces of desolating Death ? But v
so it is, through thy prevalency, thou most loathsome
of every nature ! By thee destruction overwhelms the
human race, thou fertile source of innumerable evils !
O let me fur ever admire the discriminating grace of
the great Three in One,, who by the special influences
of the divine spirit hath realized sin to me in all its
hateful deformities and dreadful consequences; hath
i 2 made
63
death: a vision".
Alarming pictnrc of everlasting torment.
made my once stupified and benumbed conscience feel
a gentle touch of bis fatherly anger on its account;
hath given to me a detestation of sin ; and hath, ac¬
cording to bis own purpose and grace, been pleased
to lead me for pardon and acceptance unto that pre¬
cious blood, enriched with all the fulness of indwelling
God-head !' O my soul, bless tbou the Lord for a sense
of sin > for though it is painful, it is also salutary. Let
them not be accounted for thy companions, who deem
a sense of sin to be superfluous hi religion.
It was now that I thought my guide Veratw inter¬
rupted trie, just as the sin-hardened Sccui*us departed
this life ; and said, thoughtless he lived, and thought¬
less he died ; but now be is thoughtful enough. Believe
me, Koxitio, he hath already thought more of hell,
sin and rebellion, than ever he did in all his life. Look
you, Novitio, to yonder lake of lire and brimstoue,
where he is already plunged, undergoing the unknown
tortures of the second death. And now he hath a
never-ending eternity before him, to think of what is
past, and what is future. Unhappy is he who is
thoughtless in life, and unprovided for in death, like
the w retched Securus ! A pompous funeral is indeed
designed him ; but, alas ! what pleasure can lifeless
clay, or a tormented ghost, take in funeral pomp, or
the ciocodiline tears of the mercenary mourner ? But
let us leave his relics to endure that honour designed
C*
to be imposed upon them, and let you and I see what
farther discoveries we can make.
O, Sib,
DEATH ; A VISION.
The cup of Mturi.c!* preparato^ to ll:e cnp of aHlvatlon,
O, Sik, said I, what dreadful scenes you unfold !
Is this Veraito, the portraiture of unmasked death?
Do all my fellow creatures die thus miserable? And
is there'no such thing as a comfortable Death to be
seen ? O, sir, my very flesh shudders at these awful dis¬
coveries,
' My guide replied, know, young man, that sorrow
is antecedent to joy, grief before consolation, dark.,
ness before light, 3nd humility before honour. Shrink
not back when the cup of bitterness kisseth your lips,
seeing it is preparative to the cup of salvation. lint if
Novitio trembles to'see such horrible appearances of
Death, only think what they must feel wfiO| endure*
them? However* compassionating your timorous dis~
position, I shall shew you but one instance more of the
death of the ungodly ; after which I shall endeavour
to recompense your pain by more pleasant discoveries.
I mean, I shall discover unto you some of the godly,
with their latter end. In the mean while, let us
attend the disconsolate Letitici in' her departing
agonies.
This said, he led me away to a magnificent apart¬
ment, decorated with all the productions of art. In
this apartment, brilliant as it was, we saw a lady,
whom all the riches of the east could not make happy :
she lay on a bed of down, surrounded with hangings
of damask, it is true, but found no more rest than if
she had lain on a flinty rock; she was under the
power
70
DEATH : A VISION.
'i he hopelvM* Mate of LttHia.
power of an inveterate malady, and had been so for
several years ; but greatly added thereunto by mur¬
muring at, and repining under the afflictive dispensa¬
tion. She seemed to me to be about thirty-five years
of age, and had been possessed of a goodly measure
of external beauty, before it was blasted by this
inveterate evil; so that, whilst a maiden, she was what
we commonly call a genteel lady ; and whatever qua¬
lifications Teresa could boast of, were all to be found
in the youthful Letitia. In her affliction, which was
indeed grievous, being a cancer in her breast, she
greatly envied the happiness of her visitors, purely
because they enjoyed health, the loss of which she
inconsolably lamented ; and instead of receiving the
visits of her friends with that grateful civility, which
might have been expected from a person of her rank
and education, reduced to such distressing circum¬
stances, she was used to give it them in some such
terms as these :
" It is well for you ; you can go abroad at ydur
-pleasure, and visit your friends, and with them par¬
take of the sweetness of life. You may make much
of it now, for you have all the genteel amusements
to yourselves ; as for me, I know not what evil I have
committed more than others, that I should he im¬
prisoned in this solitary place, to endure such rack¬
ing pains as 1 do. I hear of many who have lived far
more liberal than ever I did, who still continue" to
enjoy all the pleasures which either town or country
can
DEATH: A VISION.
71
The regowjrative spirit of God necessary to a comfortable death.
can afford ; but I must lie here on this irksome bed,
and nobody knows w hen I shall be able to go abroad,
so much as to take an airing, or to see one friend or
another. I employ the best physician in the county;
but how it is, I know not, he can cure others, but ail
his prescriptions seem to be lost upon me." It was
thus she entertained her friends, and thus she ren¬
dered herself disagreeable to all that came near
her.
A godly minister in the neighbourhood was used
occasionally to visit her, though his company wag'
■never very desirable, his conversation being by far
too serious for a lady of her disposition of mind.
Her elevated station, and the known precariousness
of her temper, long deterred him from dealing so
faithfully with her as be desired ; but at last he greatly
offended by telling her, that she ought to consider
herself as a dying woman, who must soon give an
account of all her actions to a just and impartial
God, whose sentence cannot possibly be evaded. He
faithfully told her, that she must be regenerated by
the spirit of God, and sprinkled with the blood of
Christ, before she had any reason to expect that her
death would be comfortable. He told her, that unless
she was renewed by the Holy Ghost, no regard would
be paid at the great tribunal to her elevated station in
life; for only those in every nation who fear God and
work righteousness shall be saved ; for the Lord God,
said he, is no respecter of persons.
2 By
72
DEATH i A VISION-
Character o£ Lefrtia.
By this seasonable advice, and salutary instruction,
the good Philanthropes incurred her ladyship's dis¬
pleasure so far, that she could never after gratefully
receive a visit from him, but was always sullen and
out of temper in his company.
The venerable Ve ratio turned himself to me, and
thus he said : Letitia was a line gentlewoman, a de¬
scendant of a right honourable and illustrious family,
genteel and handsome in the graces of her person,
and by birth intitled to an ample fortune. Her noble
parents, with all imaginable tenderness, from her
earliest days, indulged her to the last degree ; they
never cared to cross her inclinations, or restrain her
humour, however extravagant; by which means she
became imperious and haughty, a perfect humourist
in her temper. From her youth upward she was inured
to all the vanities of the town ; the park, the play-
bouse, and the opera, were as familiar to her as her
bed-chamber, and well she knew how to act her part
in every polite entertainment. Her beauty, rank, and
fortune, brought a noble carl lawfully to her bed,
about the age of twenty-one. Being coannenced
wife, she abated nothing of the pleasures to which
she had devoted herself, but added very considerably
thereunto, by receiving and returning many useless
and unprofitable visits, until the fatal time on which
she was seized by this malignant evil, which is indeed
the forerunner of her death; and then she was out
©f temper with every body who came near her. Hus¬
band,
DEATH : A VISION.
73
Beauty is not respected by the worms.
/
band, children, and servants, all shared in her anger.
Le tit ids beauty was esteemed more than eastern
pearls ; she -vainly imagined that the diamond lost
its brilliance when her eye deigned to glance upon it;
the danmsk rose its liveliness, when compared to her
more lively cheek ; and the coral she supposed to
yield all its perfection and own itself undone when
her mellifluous and pleasant lips were unmasked; but
poignant pain, and frequent sickness, greatly impair¬
ing her adored beauty, surprisingly added to her
affliction. So long as her strength would admit, she
was wont to try her features in the looking-glass
oftener than once a day ; but how the faithful mirror
was charged with falsehood, and bore the weight of
her indignation, is not worth your while to hear, or
mine to relate.
O! Sir, said I, methinks that on all our looking-
glasses, this motto, memento mori ought to be
written, and a Death's head fixed on the top of
every frame; for even beauties, who delight to gaze
upon looking-glasses, meet with no reprieve from
Death.
That son of Melpomene, who so judiciously hath
drawn the portraiture of the grave, represents beauty
as not one whit more grateful to the worms than de¬
formity, and as certainly their feast. If you please,
sir, I shall recite the passage to you as it is not very
long;
* " Baauty!
74
[DEA TH: A VISION.
* xtrac^ fifora Dr. Blair's Grave.
" Beauty ! thou pretty play-thing ! dear deceit!
" That steals so softly, o'er the stripling's heart,
" And gives it a new pulse unknown before !
" The grave discredits thee: thy charms expung'd,*
" Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soiled ;
" What hast thou more to boast of ? will thy lovers
" Flock round thee now to gaze and do thee homage ?
, " Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid,
" Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek,
" The high-fed worm in lazy volumes roll'd,
" Riots unscar'd. For this was all thy caution ?
" For this thy painful labours at the glass f
" T'improve these charms, and keep them in repair
" For which the spoiler thanks thee not. Foul feeder !
" Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well,
<( And leave as keen a relish 011 the sense."
Blair.
Accokding to the doctrine of this solemn bard,
sir, every time that the beautiful lady tries her graces
in the ghiss, she should reflect how the worms will
one day burrow in her cheeks ; and her eyes become
the nauseous habitation of loathsome insects; that
she shall then be on a level with the meanest beggar
who ranges the streets of the metropolis, and yield
no higher relish, though fed with turtle, to the worms,
than the miscreant who keeps life in his body by
mouldy bread, and the garbage of the kitchen,
scarcely procured by lowly cringes, and the most fer¬
vent intreaties.
Ave, said, Vcratio, Mr. Blair may sing in that
solemn strain, till, he break the strings of his lyre,
before
DEATH: A VISION.
75
The dying moments of Letitia described.
before the beaux and belles of our -day are likely to
mind what be says, for to this day, it bath been at
the peril of any servant or attendant whatsoever, to
tell Letitia that her looks are altered ; nor hath her
physician and surgeon ever dared to tell her that her
disease is incurable. Full of pain indeed is the un¬
happy lady; but she languisheth out her time in
murmuring and repining at the sad dispensation," and
envying the happiness of others.
My guide finishing here, I thought in my dream
that her physician entered the chamber, and feeling
the lady's pulse, she asked him, if he thought there
were any hopes of her recovery ? The doctor replied,
" I am afraid, madam, there is not." Then she fell
into a fit of visible discontent, and sinfully uttered
many things against the ways of the Almighty; and
continued to her last, charging him with inequality.
The time of her departure being come, I saw ter¬
rible sights; her life having been spent in gaiety and
madness,-her latter end was without honour ; for no
sooner was the unhappy soul drove forth from the
once delicate body, now the vanquished prey of re¬
lentless Death, than she was seized by the cruel
messengers of destruction, and forcibly dragged to
appear at the equitable bar of a pride-resisting God;
from whence, as a just reward of her unholy life,
she was sent bound hand and foot to be cast into
Utter darkness, where the worm dieth not and -where
k 2 the
76
DEATH: A VISION.
Address to the Mmighty. '
the fire is not quenched : there she wept, she Mailed,
and gnashed her teeth. There she found many of her
former companions ; but alas ! their wonted mirth
was departed, and horrid despair sat louring on every
countenance ; whilst the convulsive bowels of ever-
dismal hell rolled her impetuous billows upon them,
and every single sense drank in the unutterable
torment.
The miserable end of Lctilia thus surveyed, I
cried out, O God ! who hath hardened himself a-
gainst thee, and hath prospered ? If a self-adoring
Pharaoh says, " Who is the Lord, that I should obey
" him ?" Thou hast a Red sea in which he and his
host shall be drowned. If an haughty Nebuchad¬
nezzar say in his heart, " This is great Babylon which
" I have built for the house of my kingdom, and for
" the glory of my majesty;" the heart of a beast
shall be given to him, and he shall eat grass like the
oxen in the field ; and if a God-forgetting lady shall
spend her life in the pursuit of transitory pleasures,
the sequel shall prove, that she has been dead to God
whilst she lived to herself.
Then turning to my guide, I said, I perceive, sir,
that Death is no respecter of persons, knoweth no
distinctions, can neither be bribed nor moved by in-
treaty, much less can be resisted by power. No,
no, replied, Veratio, Death cannot be intreated, is
an utter stranger to distinctions j the majestic prince,
and
DEATH : A VISION.
77
The equalizing power of Death.
and the rustic peasant; the noble earl, and his servile
groom; the amiable lady, and the scorched cook-
maid are equally the same to his indiscriminating
shaft; all distinctions vanish in the grave, that comr
mon receptacle of rich and poor, noble and ignoble,
beauteous and unseemly, old and young, the lordly
prelate and famished curate, all ranks and degrees of
men meet here on a common level; in this respect,
one end happeneth unto all men. People of distinc¬
tion too often desire no other heaven besides the vain
and fantastic pleasures of life, little considering that
ere long they must bid adieu to sublunary enjoy¬
ments : and the most high God hath fixed it as an in¬
variable maxim, that the desire after, must precede the
enjoyment of Heaven. Hence, no desires after the
future enjoyment of God being possessed in this life,
it is not rationally to be expected, that they can enter
into the celestial felicity at their death.
These earthly gods, continued Veratio, are much
dissatisfied if they receive not a great degree of homage
from their inferiors in life ; but, believe me, nothing
is more common than for them at death to stand
trembling under the force of self-conviction, before
the judgment-seat of the King of Kings, who hath de¬
clared himself to be no respecter of persons.
Then, said I, woe is me for my fcllow-creatures !
into what destruction has sin involved them ! How
few, alas ! are they who know the things which make
for
78
DEATH : A VISION.
Serious reflections on Death.
for their eternal peace, before they be for ever hid
from their eyes ? Unhappy, most emphatically unhappy
indeed are they, whose only heaven consists of glit¬
tering dust, and whose bliss is composed of the empty
honours and wretched pleasures of this seducing and
beivitching world. Let honours in the highest degree
be imposed upon me, and let me enjoy all that men
call happiness; what will it profit if my soul must be
banished, for r ever banished, from the amiable pre¬
sence of my God ? Can these, Veratio, ever be deemed
an ample compensation for the loss of God, in his di¬
vine excellencies and glorious subsistences ? A lean,
an empty heaven indeed it must be, where this is
wanting. O, my soul, let thy delights for ever be
attracted by the refined, the sublime pleasures of our
holy religion ! and thou, my heart, look down with
indifference upon all those fineries which worldlings so
much admire !
PART
79
PART IV.
Having thus spoken, I thought my guide, the good
Veratio, led me from this to another apartment in the
opposite side of this stately building; and, as we en.
tered the apartment, I heard a person with a mourn¬
ful tone of voice, thus express himself; Few and evil
have been the days of the years of my pilgrimage, a
few days and full of sorrozv. What is the meaning
of this ? said I, this is a strange kind of saying. To
which he replied, " you will understand this better
hereafter." When we entered the chamber, I saw a
grave man of advanced years, who seemed to be in
great distress both of body and mind; and thus he
addressed some of his friends, who it seems had been
endeavouring to comfort and strengthen him on the
prospect of dissolution.
V
O my friends, you little know what a sinner I have
been ! let sinners of highest rank be thought of, and
I assure you I am worse than all; yea, I am the very
chief of sinners ; the vilest and most unworthy crea¬
ture in the world. O ! how justly doth the Lord
7 afflict
80
DEATH : A VISION.
Approaching death of the repentant sinner.
afflict me now ! he leaves me not comfortless in my
last trials without dreadful provocations : such provo¬
cations as make my very heart bleed to think of them :
justly, alas! am I left to the scourge, of an evil con¬
science, and made an instance of the terrible dis¬
pleasure of an offended God. O what innumerable
mercies have I enjoyed at his hand ! but such have
been the depravity of my nature, the sinfulness and
rebellion of my life; that I have grossly abused and
trampled them all under my feet; and what can I now
expect but to be for ever banished from the presence
of him whose goodness I have so grossly abused, and
against whom I have most ungratefully sinned. I
tremble to think of enduring his displeasure; but, if
I must endure it, I know it is my desert, and in my
condemnation I will confess him righteous, for I,
only I, have destroyed myself.
Here he was stopped by excess of grief, which
vented itself in a flood of tears, and one of his friends
who sat by him thus replied, My dear friend, I am
exceedingly surprised to hear you lay such heavy ac¬
cusations against yourself. You charge yourself with
the worst and basest of crimes; whereas all we, your
friends and acquaintances, who have" been the wit¬
nesses of your conduct, are fully convinced that ever
since you made a profession of religion, your whole
conversation hath been unblameable, and becoming
true godliness.
To
DEATH ! A VISION.
81
The self-abasement of the good Christian.
To which the sick man replied : O my friend ! it
is that, it is that which grieves me now ! O how it
pains me to think, that people who could only see
my outside appearance, took me to be somewhat,
when, alas ! my own heart all along told me that I
was nothing. Even, now, the discovery of the pride
and hypocrisy of my heart is a burden intolerable.
I would fain have been sincere, it is true, and I often
thought that I strove for it: but, O wretched and
miserable creature that I am ! I never could attain it.
Sometimes, formerly, I flattered myself that I was one
of the Lord's people; but now the disguise is taken
oft, and I am convinced that I have been, and still
am, an enemy to all real righteousness, an utter stran¬
ger to the heart-purifying religion of the holy Jesus.
1
O ! it-grieves me, to think how I have imposed
upon the church of Christ, where I have only been
an intruder, a vile tare growing up among the Lords
wheat, a filthy goat amongst the innocent sheep of
the Redeemer ! but now it is my greatest fear, that
I shall be for ever separated from both him and
them.
Here he was again stopped' by the anguish of his
spirit, and after a few minutes, another friend of his,
in a spirited manner, replied : my dear brother, this
is only a temptation of the enemy ; and such,I trust
ere long you will find it to be. It hath pleased the
Lord to withdraw from you for a moment, and for
l holy
82
DEATH : A VISION.
Comfortable proof of Uiritffs love
holy ends, to leave you to the bufferings of Satan :
but, believe me, believe God himself, he will reiu-m
with mercy and salvation, and with everlasting loving-
kindness he will gather you. What though your sins
are great, the merit of the Redeemer's sacriiice is in¬
finitely greater; what though the cry of them reach
even to the heavens, his precious atonement surmounts
them all ; yea, although they are of a scarlet or crim¬
son stain, the blood of Jesus the Son of God, shall
wad) you and make you white as wool, or the whiter
snow. Satan is indeed permitted, as the accuser of
the brethren, to load your conscience with heavy ac.
cusations; but yet a very little while, and the base
accuser shall be cast down ; Satan shall be trampled
for ever under your victorious feet.
Let my friend consider the many great and precious
promises which are made to the poor in .spirit, the
weary and heavy laden, the captive, the brokcn~
hearted sinner, the hungering and thirsting soul, the
mourner for sin, &c these are the names and charac¬
ters of ihe Redeemer's people, and all these meet
together in my brother; which is to us, though not
to yourself, an evident token of your adoption by
grace into the elect family. Had he not loved vou?
be would never have put his own seal upon you ; had
he not chosen you to salvation, through sanctihcation
of the spirit, you could never thus have groaned
under the depravity of your nature ; and having loved
you, it is with an everlasting love, a love which never
can
DEATH : A VISION.
83
To the poor in spirit. f
' - 1 ■ 1 - f
can alter, but is sure to endure to the end. How
can my brother sink whilst the arm of everlasting
love is underneath him ? Or perish whilst the eternal
God is his refuge? O my friend! think of the above
characters of the redeemed, and try if you find not
some of them belonging to yourself.
He ceased here, and the sick man with a trembling
Voice, replied : I thank you, my dear sir, in the most
grateful manner, for your tender care for my welfare ;
but alas ! I can see nothing in me that looks in the
least like to the character of the Redeemer's people.
I see no promise in the bible that belongs to me; for
a word of promise would be a comforting stay to my
sinful soul, now in my last distress. It is true, that
many times in my life, the trouble of my mind hath
been alleviated by such considerations as you pro¬
pose ; but now I am a dying man, ready to land upon
a dark eternity, and cannot draw rational conclusions
from such considerations. O eternity ! eternity!
nothing can make me look into eternity vvith pleasure,
or render Death in any wise comfortable, but a
sensible manifestation of my interest in the death and
resurrection of Christ, the spirit himself bearing wit¬
ness with my ow n spirit that I belong to, and am born
of God. The pain of dying is nothing when com¬
pared with the pangs of soul that I feel in looking
forward to a dreadful futurity : I may now say in the
language of the Psalmist, Deep calleth unto deep, at
the noise of his water spouts^ all his waves and billows
i 2 are
84
DEATH: A VISION.
Iluinilius comforted with the certainty of the promises of the covenant.
are gone over me. I sink in deep waters, wherein
there is no standing. I know, my friends, you would
have me trust in God and apply the promises to
myself; and gladly I would, but I find that I can as
soon remove mountains, and cast them into the sea,
as trust and believe in God with a faith of appropria¬
tion. He hideth himself from me, and how shall I
discern him 1 O that I knew where I might find him !
I would come with Job, even to his seat, and spread
my complaint before him ; but alas! he covereth
himself with darkness, and will not admit of my ap¬
proaches ; I press forward, but cannot find him ; f
look, back to past experience, but can see no track of
his Spirit's work ; I turn me to the right hand and left,
but can perceive nothing at all of him. On the con¬
trary, I am environed with devils, and my own sins,
which are more dreadful to me than all the infernal
tribes: these only do separate betwixt me and the
God of Salvation.
I thought that here the poor man's words were
a third time interrupted with the agitation of his
grief, and he shed abundance of tears: his friends
prayed with and for him, fervent and much distressed
they seemed to be in prayer; every one imitating the
conduct of the wrestling patriarch, when at Peniel.
They likewise reasoned with him concerning the im¬
mutability of divine love, the infinite value of the
blood of Christ, the certainty of the promises of the
covenant, the wise ends which God might have in
1 withdrawing
□
PEATH: A VISION.
85
A man's estate not always to be judged by his outward appearance.
withdrawing from him in his calamity, the assurance
which the scripture gives us of the Holy Spirit finish¬
ing his wor,k in the souls of his people, and the con¬
firmed malice of the implacable tempter. They like¬
wise expressed their hope that the Lord would yet
appear for him in a way of consolation, before he
would take him down into the dark valley of the
shadow of death ; but, if it should be otherwise, they
were assured of his landing safe on the shore of feli¬
city ; but all their endeavours seemed to be fruitless,
• * . - •
for he still persisted in his belief that the righteous
God had, in strict justice, cast him off, as unworthy
of a place among his chosen ones.
r *
I now turned to my guide with disdain on my
countenance, and thus addressed him: Ah, Sir, what
a wretched deceiver this man must have been, in his
life-time, that he is thus given up to the scourge of
an evil conscience at his death ! O! it is a fearful
thing thus to play the hypocrite with God.
♦ To which my guide, with some warmth replied;
I told you before, Novitio, that you must not always
judge of a man's estate according to his outward
appearance. This man, whom you so rashly censure
as a deceitful hypocrite is the good Humilius: so far
from being what you apprehend, that he is one of the
precious sons of Zion, a faithful disciple of the Re¬
deemer, and special favourite of Jehovah, whose
ways are in the deep waters, and whose judgments
are
86
DEAJII: A VISION.
Character of HimtiHa*.
are unsearchable. Few have equalled this venerable
saint for fervour of spirit and sanctity of life, and
few have drank so deep of the heavenly Spirit of the
immaculate Jesus, notwithstanding he is thus tried
like silver in the furnace. Whilst health and vigour
attended Ihmilius, he was blessed with a greater
than ordinary discovery of his own sinfulness, both
in the root and in the fruit; and he was one of the
very few who daily grieve under a sense of the pollu¬
tions of their depraved hearts, and consequently
under a sense of the defilement and imperfections
of their best services. This discovery greatly tended
to lessen his comfort and joy, so that he seldom had
those elevations of spirit with which some are favour¬
ed, but at the same time it had an happy tendency
to make him extremely careful of all his proceedings.
His conscience was affected with the slightest touch of
gin, and smote him even for an unsanctified thought.
He retained such a sense of sin, that he was always
low and mean in his own esteem. Saying with some
antient worthies, " so foolish was I and ignorant, I
" was as a beast before thee ; I am a worm and no
" man, a reproach of men, and have not the under-
" standing of a man." Contrary to the practice of
many professors, he accounted himself the un-
worthiest of all, utterly unworthy of a place in the.
church of Jesus. On the other hand, his feliovv
Christians looked on him as a man of exemplary
piety, holy and unrebukeable in his conversaticn in
the church, and in the world : patient in tribulation,
fervent
DEATH: A VISION.
87
Cod's everlasting love rannifeflteil V war us Humilins.
fervent and constant in prayer, desiring not his own,
but the glory of God ; nor his own, so much as the
good of the Redeemer's people.
This unexpected account of Humilius greatly
amazed me, and made me more solicitous to know
what might be the event.
Therefore I addressed my guide in the following
manner: Venerable Sir, I readily acknowledge^ my
error, and humbly beg your pardon for my foolish
censure ; and I pray you would signify your forgive¬
ness by informing me, whether it is possible for such,
as you have described Humilius, to be cast off by the
Almighty, and at last to perish. To which I thought
Veralio replied ; No, Aovitio, it cannot possibly be
that such a one can perish, for there are none but the
regenerated, who can answer the description which
I have given of the good Humilius; and any one
may know, that none are regenerated but those who
are the objects of God's special love ; that all those
he loves with an everlasting love, he loves to the
O ' .
end ; therefore, however dark he may he in regard
to union with, and interest in the Lord Jesus Christ,
and through him in the love of God, it is not possible
that he can perish. These are dark paths, Novitio,
through which Humilius is led; nevertheless they
are sure paths, and lead directly to the kingdom of
light; and let me tell you, he is led even now by the
fountain of light himself, notwithstanding he seems
to
88
DEATH : A VISION.
* The ways of God justified to his people.
to be blind to any sense of his leader's presence.
Ilis patience under his affliction, his resignation to
the divine will, with respect to bodily pain, his ab¬
horrence of himself on account of sin, and his justi¬
fying the ways of God, together with his earnest de¬
sire after forgiveness and acceptance, are so many
evidences of his interest in the love of God, though
at present he can see none of them.
Sir, said I, permit me to ask you another question,
for I am born to be troublesome. Can there be any
reason assigned why the Lord should suffer some of
his dearest saints, to fall into such desertion and dis¬
tress in their latest hours ?
A es, Noritio, said he, some reasons may be
assigned why it should sometimes be so; but want
of love in God to their persons, want of tenderness
in the Redeemer, can never be justly thought to be
the reasons for it ; but God hath holy ends to answer
by every part of his procedure, and no doubt by this
dispensation also. I suppose that one end, which he
may propose by the troubles of good Ihmilius, may
be, to stir up his professing people to double their
diligence in the use of all appointed means, thereby
to make their calling and election sure to themselves •
that when they arrive at their latest hours, they may
be exempted from those spiritual conflicts with which
they see others exercised.
An.'
DEATH ;v A VISION.
An enquiry into the proceedings of the Almighty.
Ah ! but sir, said I, how is it that the Lord maketh
choice of those, who are most eminent in holiness,
to endure those afflictions, which are designed for
the edification and improvement of their surviving
brethren ?
Veratio replied, there is no necessity that I know
of, Novitio, for you to ask a reason for the proceed¬
ings of the Almighty; nevertheless the difficulty here
vanisheth, when it is considered, that for the Most
High to choose, for such purposes, persons whose
conduct hath been less guarded, would not* answer
the end designed. We naturally expect that pro¬
fessors who are unguarded in their conduct, and re¬
miss in the known duties of religion, will find hard
work of it on a death bed, which will be no less
troublesome to them than if they lay upon pointed
flints ; so that, although the party himself may at last
be saved, it is through fiery temptations and grievous
afflictions, but when Christian people behold a person
of the most circumspect and conscientious conver¬
sation springing from principles of the most eminent
piety, mourning after an absent God, and lamenting
his sins, which all the world besides himself are
strangers to, it naturally tends to stir up each to self-
examination, and to consider his own ways. The
learned Fleming relates a story of a northern worthy,
who had been in divers cases, favoured with an ex¬
traordinary discovery of the mind and will of God,
who, when he came to a death-bed, called his friends
51 to
90
DEATH: A VISION.
The address of a dying Christian.
to him, a id thus addressed them : O my friends ! I
find it a great matter to be a real Christian, and nn-
rebuheable before Cod : I declare to you, that such
hath been my support for the space of ten years past,
that God hath not been out of my thoughts as long
at once, as one might go to the Cross and come again
(which might be done in ten minutes) unless 1 have
been asleep or about business, and after all, I
assure you, that I am even now at the very brink of
despair.
Another end which God may have in view, per¬
haps, may he, to remove the carnal confidence which
his own people are too prone to have, in the grace
wliich they have already received. In some frames
instead of studying to be strong in the grace that is
in Christ, they are strong in that which is implanted
in themselves. Vainly imagining that they can over¬
come the severest trial in the strength thereof. With
an ancient professor, when he stood on a place slip¬
pery enough, they say, JSIy mountain stands strong,
I shall never be moved: not considering that the
Christian's conquest depends not on the grace which
he hath already received, but on freth supplies com¬
municated in the time of need, from him in whom
it hath pleased the Father that all fulness should dwell.
All fulness dwelling in Jesus naturally supposes that
there is nothing but emptiness in the creature, and
that therefore the sublime exercise of Christian faith
consists in a constant reliance upon God in Christ
for
DEATH: A VISION.
Si
The cause of the sorrow of Humilius explained.
for mercy to pardon every sin, and for grace to help
in every time ol necessity.
Now when Christian people behold the greatest of
saints labouring in the dark, under the severest buf-
fetings and sharpest conflicts of soul, it naturally tends
to make them suspect their supposed strength, and
to exercise themselves in an habitual reliance upon
God. And, seeing their need of fresh supplies of .
grace, how naturally are they led by such dispensa¬
tions to the inexhaustible fountain of all fulness, for
strength proportioned to their day of difficulty and
trial; and especially for large supplies in their death¬
bed trials, because very often they are found to be the
greatest ; and well it is that the Lord is pleased by
any means to teach his people to live upon himself.
But come, Novitio, and I will discover to you
the immediate cause of the sorrow of good Humilius.
This said, the venerable Veratio anointing my eyes
with his precious eye salve, and in an instant I dis¬
cerned a deformed fiend couching close by the side of
Humilius, and whispering him in the ear ; and, at >
every sigh which the good man made through the
pressure of his grief, the malicious fury smifed a
most ghastly grin. But giving a close attention to
this erideuce-darkner,. I perceived a chain harder than
adamant around his middle, the end of which was
secure in the hand of a majestic person, who shone
m 2 brighter
92
»
DEATH: A VISION.
Christians should ever be thaokfnl for
brighter by far than the sun.in his strength; by which
I saw, that although it may please the Almighty some¬
times to permit Satan to disturb the minds of his
chosen ones, he never suffers him to destroy them ; and
that he can go no further than permitted by the divine
Redeemer.
Learn from hence, Novitio, said Veratio to me,
that the same enemy who allures to sin, whilst in
health and prosperity, will, if permitted, tempt to
despair in a state of sickness and adversity. And be
you, yea let every Christian be thankful that Satan is
ever kept under a suitable restraint by the power of
Almighty God, otherwise feeble mortals must of
necessity sink under his great superiority.
Here my guide ceased, and, as I thought, the
good Humilius for the last time opened his mouth
and said ; ever since I knew any thing of religion,
flying to Christ has been my last resource. I am
now dreadfully oppressed with the weight of my sins,
but whither shall I fly for help, but to the mercy of
that God against whom I have sinned ? He only hath
the words of eternal life. There is none in the
heavens above, none upon the earth below, that can
help me but Him, as it has been in my life-time, so
it is now, this is my last resource; I die if I trust
him not, I can but die if I trust in him; therefore I
will prostrate my soul at the foot of bis throne, and
there will I sue for mercy, if I perish, I perish ! and
n
DEATH : A VISION.
93
Tfcic power ©f the Almighty over Satan.
if I should, as I deserve, be spurned from his pre¬
sence, it shall be relying on his own blood and righte¬
ousness, for there is salvation in none other.
Having uttered these words, with the dying
rattle in his throat, his speech failed to 'the great
grief of his godly acquaintance, some of whom said,
Alas ! lest this should be a mean of turning the lame
out of the" way. One thing I beheld pleased me
mightily, which was this, the moment that good
fJumilius ceased to speak, the majestic person of
whom I spoke, who shone so gloriously, gave the
chain, wherewithal the fury was bound, a severe
twitch, and obliged him to leave the good man to his
re?t; which so enraged the squalid infernal, that he
growled most horribly, and in auguish gnawed the
adamantine chain ; then disappeared, and I saw him
no more.
In the mean while my benevolent guide by some
supernatural means, opened my ears that I could
hear, and in some measure understand the language
of spirits; which I no sooner perceived than with all
diligence I attended to what now passed with the
good Humilius; in whose concerns I found myself
" by this time deeply interested. As I listened, I heard
the Almighty, who but a little before seemed to stand
upon mount Sinai, surrounded with clouds of dark¬
ness, and horrible tempest, now speak from mount
Sjpn in a still small voice, and said to the speechless
5 m#n.
54
DEATH : A VISION.
The entrance of Humilins into the habitation of the righteous. * i
man, I have loved thee with an everlasting and imL
* O
mutable love, therefore I have draxvn thee by dark
paths to myself; yea I have caused thee to pass
under the rod, and have brought thee into the bond
of the covenant. The way which I led thee thou
knowest not, but I have made crooked places straight
before thee, and rough places smooth : thy tear fare
is now accomplished, and I have bruised Satan for
ever under my feet.
t
The dying man no sooner felt the blessed effects
of the well known voice of God, than in an extasy
of joy he mentally replied, JSly Lord, and my God I
Now Death do thy worst, come as soon as thou
wilt, thou awful skeleton, for now thou art welcome.
Now my Lord is returned with loving kindness, I
can with pleasure enter thy cold embrace, and repose
my flesh in thy gloomy mansions. Hasten thy pace,
thou tardy executioner ; cut short thy work, thou
friendly enemy, I long to enjoy the beatific vision
of him who loved me to the death, and washed me
in his blood, enriched with all the fulness of indwel¬
ling divinity.
i saw in my dream, that guardian angels descended
from heaven in blazing squadrons, to attend the dis¬
mission of this sanctified soul, and' to guard her pas¬
sage to the celestial world. As the good Humilius
ceased to breathe, the attending angels clapped their
wings fofcjoy, that one more of the chosen race had
passed
DEATH: A VISION.
95
Celestial concert.
passed through the glory-birth, that one more of the
elect charge was safely gathered home: with holy
fervour they saluted the glorious spirit, and bid her
welcome into, the undisturbed rest of their splendid
society. She thankfully received their pure caresses,
and struck with wonder and astonishment at unspeak¬
able grace, she instantly mixed her melodious voice
with those warbling choristers, her companions, who
sung; the most delightful song to which ever ear at-
& DO
tended. I thought I could discern the glorious notes
of sweet deliverance from the lips of the newly de¬
parted, soul, in a key more exalted than the rest. O
with what pleasure did I listen to the solemn song
of one who so very lately was languishing in deep
distress!
O Veratio, cried I, what blinded creatures are
we mortals ? The glories of heaven blaze all around
us, and yet we perceive not in the least their illus¬
trious splendour.
Having sung the noble anthem, to distinguishing
love and unfrustrable grace, they stretched their
brilliant pinions, and swift as thought shot through
tile* vault of heaven towards the regions of eternal
felicity. As soon as they arrived in the empyrean
plain, I beheld innumerable companies of the celes¬
tial hosts in their long, their glorious and refulgent
garments, with crow is of gold upon their heads,
aud triumphant palms in their hands, come in bright
processioh
V6
DEATH t A VISION.
llunnlius presented at tlie throne of {he eternal.
procession to the golden gates of the New Jerusalem,
to congratulate the soul on her safe arrival in the
glory-xcorld, and in triumph to conduct her up to
the throne of God. As they passed along through
the streets of paradise, which were all paved with
diamonds and topazes, the departed Ilumilius was
often saluted, by his former companions in warfare,
who greatly rejoiced that his course of pilgrimage was
finished, and the time of his coronation arrived. In
their bright procession from the golden gates of the
holy city up to the jasper throne, shouts of loud
joy and peals of rapturous triumph burst from each
tongue, and made all the celestial arches ring in con¬
cert with their elevated voices.
I thought I saw the blessed, the ever-adorable
Jesus descend from the midst of the throne, and meet¬
ing Ilumilius, embraced him with tender affection ;
he also called upon the excellent T/ieophilus, under
whose ministry Ilumilius, it seems, had been savingly
converted, and let him know that now another
diamond must be added to his crown, as another of
the children whom God hath given to his faithful
ministry was happily arrived. Then he took Ilumilius
by the hand, led him up to the all-glorious throne,
and to Him who sat in the most majestic state thereon,
he said, Most holy Father, behold this darling object
of thy love and choice, this subject of redemption is
safely arrived in thy more immediate and most joyous
presence; being fully prepared for it by the divine
influence
DEATH : A VISION. 97
!- - ■ .. .. .■ " , - l<"' 1-■« *-1 'Via
The rejoicings of the soul io presence of tire Almighty,
■ 1 " -:.l 1 ■■ — . L 1
influence of the Holy Ghost. Let him now possess
the mansion which hath so long been prepared for
him and ,enjoy the rest unto which he mas pre-
dest mated.
Then He who sat 011 the throne, thus bespoke the
•soul, Come, my beloved one, receive the joys which
I have prepared for thee, and the glory unto which
I appointed thee ; for I have loved thee xrith an ever¬
lasting love, and by my special care of thee I have
drawn thee to my glory.
Then the records of eternity were all laid open
before him, and now being blest with the beatific
vision, he could read every liue therein which re¬
lated to his own state either in time or in eternity.
And oh, how great was the wonder of the soul 1 how
inflamed was her gratitude, when she found every cir¬
cumstance attending her pilgrimage, was unalterably
fixed in the decrees of God, which are so dark and
difficult unto us in the church below ! With holy
amazement she beheld, that the whole chain of pro¬
vidential events flowed from and centered in the love
of God to her in the person of Christ. Silent no
longer could she sit, but her wonder broke forth in
rapturous,songs of ceaseless praises, in concert with
all the redeemed hosts, who now, in the fervour of
unutterable love, struck the golden harp and sung re¬
sponsive to the trembling wires.
n
Ha Vino
98
DEATH : A VISION-.
'Ihe $tate of the dying siuner and that of the righteouu contrasted.
Hav xno followed Humilius thus far, Veratio spoke
to me, and lo ! the vision was withdrawn : but left
.'
some impressions on my mind which I trust will
never be erased. Being at last capable of a little
reflection, after my astonishment was abated, I could
not help thinking of the infinite difference betwixt
ihese who die in the Lord, and those who die in their
>sins ; the latter being precipitately plunged into the
fearful abyss of dark and ever-burning hell, where
the worm dieth not; whereas the former are imme¬
diately transported on angelic wings, from a land of
sin and many sorrows, into the more immediate pre¬
sence and ineffable light of the ever-blcsscd Three,
to partake of all the joys of the undivided One. Then
I said, Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for
they rest from their labours, and their works Jollo-Ui
them.
PART
<J9
1
I
i
PART V.
As I was ruminating on these things, I thought
that my guide called me away, saying, we may yet
see Death attended with very different circum¬
stances : and although I thought myself by the last
scene fully repaid for all the terror I had undergone
at the beginning of my acquaintance with Veratio,
I was inspired with the most eager desire to have
farther discoveries of sanctified Death. I followed
him with the greatest eagerness out of this chamber,
wherein I had viewed such an agreeable scene, into
another apartment adjacent to it, and there he shewed
me an happy disciple, who with great composure of'
mind was laid on a sick bed, under the pressure of
heavy affliction. Calm and serene in the midst of
tempestuous trouble ; in the midst of trying sorrow
his patience stood unmoved, even as the stately oak
lifts up its lofty head, despising the western tempest;
or as the stable rock, amidst the furious surges,
endures their wrathful discharge without the least ■
emotion. Rent with racking pain, and opprest with
n 2 deathly
100
DEATH: A VISION.
Hie mercies of the Lord rendered eminent.
deathly sickness, he patiently, though with a trembling
voice, said, Good is the Lord's will concerning me !
the cup that my heavenly father hath mingled for me,
shall I not patiently drink it ? I thought in my dream
that he was thus addressed by one of his friends ; Sir,
I would have you repose yourself a little, for your
afflictions are very heavy; and notwithstanding your
spirit is submissive, your flesh must needs be weak.
To which he replied, My afflictions are all known
to the Lord, yea it is my God who hath fixed the
degree of them ; and seeing the Almighty is pleased
to do if, I dare not, I Cannot complain, for I am
well assured that he can do nothing wrong. Were
D O
\t not right, he could not do it, omnipotent as he is.
My afflictions indeed make this clay-tabernacle to
totter, but are lighter than nothing when put in the
balance with my sins. I well know they might be
infinitely greater, and yet my God be a just God.
But mercy and tender compassion guides his hand
even when he smites, and his bowels yearn when he
mingles a bitter cup for any of his people. I am
fully persuaded that he will lay no more upon me
himself, nor suffer others to fay any more upon me,
than he will support me under, for the Lord is very
pitiful and full of mercy even to ine, though I deserve
nothing at his hand but to be left to lie down in sorrow;
I am therefore altogether easy about the measure of
my afflictions.
It
death : A vision.
101
* The triumph of Faith.
,L ' "7 1 ' "
It was here he stopped, and one of his friends
rejoined; My dear sir, how great is the blessing to
be thus filled with comfort in the time of your sick¬
ness ? To which the sick man replied : indeed my
friend, my comforts are far from being so high as you
imagine, on the contrary, I assure you that sensible
enjoyments run very low with me at present. But
this is the ground of all my confidence, Jesus Christ
is the same yesterday, to-day, and f or ever; he is
the rock of my soul, and however my comforts flow',
I account them not my Christ. Since it pleased the
Lord to visit me with this affliction, which I think is
drawing near to a period, I have had many struggles
with my own unbelieving heart, and many conflicts
with Satan, in regard to mv interest in the love of
' O «
Jesus. But, glory to the Almighty name, the enemy
seems to be withdrawn, my anchor is within the vail,
and my hope is fixed in Immanuel. I myself am a
a poor helpless worm, and my faith is very tottering,
but the rock of my salvation, the object of my faith,
can never be shaken. With him there is no variable¬
ness, nor so much as the least shadow of a change,
I may therefore boldly trust in him, and calmly wait
the issue of his providence.
A ftftr all, continued he, I must confess that I have
often been indulged w ith sensible manifestations of di¬
vine love, when to my own apprehensions I stood less
in need of them than at present. But O, let me not
attempt to correct the proceedings of unerring wis¬
dom 1
J 02
DEATH : A VISION.
I he declaration of a Christian
dom ! rIh<? Lord's ways are the best, and 1 desire to
submit to them ; he hath graciously promised that he
will never leave nor forsake me, and I account hirn
faithful who hath - promised. I bless him for his
word.—This is the hold into which I flee for shelter
in the dark and stormy dav. I would not for all the
world be without an interest in the above precious
promise, for I live not now by sense, but by faith,
and this affliction hath found a good deal of work
for the little faith I possess. Believe me, my friends,
1 have often been obliged, in times of darkness and
difficulty, to live upon the word of grace, and it
has upon the whole been spirit and life to my soul.
I never knew the promise to fail, but the word on
which he hath caused me to hope, hath always been
confirmed. I have ever found the Almighty to
be as good as his word, ever better than my fears
suggested, and infinitely more gracious than my
deserts.
The sick man being spent with so much speaking,
I thought that he was obliged to be silent for a small
space to recover himself. But such was his zeal for
the welfare of his friends, that as soon as possible he
spake to them as follows :
Mr dear brethren, in all appearance I am now
near, very near my last hour, and I tell you, and
beg that you will regard it as the words of a dying
man, that the cross of Christ is of excellent use in
y mortifying
DEATH: A VISION.
103
On his death-bed.
mortifying us to creature-objects. Cross dispensa¬
tions of Providence, bodily afflictions, and tbe tempta¬
tions of Satan are such excellent corrosives, that by
the direction and influence of God the Spirit, they
prove the destruction of sin in- our members. For
my oivn part I declare to you all, that I have learned
more of God by afflictions, than by all the sermons
1 that I have ever heard preached.
, i
It was now that Veratio whispered thus to me;
I well believe,. Novitio, what this good man says of
his afflictions,- for as the fervent fire is to the golden
ore, and water to the sullied linen, so are afflictions
in the hand of the Spirit of God, to those who are
exercised with them. Parricide is lawful in no case
else but this : here it is a righteous thing, that afflic¬
tions, which are the,legitimate offspring of sin, should
first curb the power, and at last destroy the being of
their accursed parent. And for our comfort, let us
know that afflictions themselves, cannot survive the
sin which they instrumentally destroy.
In the mean while the dying man continued and
said, My dear friends, despise not the chastening of
the Lord ; resist not affliction with a foolish Pagan
bravery j neither murmur, repine, nor faint when
you are rebuked by him; for he chastiseth not in
anger, neither does he rebuke in hot displeasure*.
If you are the objects of divine love, you must ex¬
pect the application of the rod ; for whom the Lord
loveth
104
DEATH: A VISION.
The disciples of Christ must expect to bear part of his afflictions.
loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom
he receiveth. If you are the disciples of the meek
and lowly Jesus,, you must expect in this life to bear
the cross for it is always antecedent to the crown.
Without afflictions you do not, yon cannot bear the
image of the heavenly Jesus, for he was afflicted; ,
a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. They
greatly mistake who hope for Christ here, without
afflictions along with him. Our passover is never to
he eaten in this world without bitter herb3 ; therefore
that religion which is unconnected with the cross is
not the religion of Christ, but of the world. Be you
assured, my friends, that the way in which no cross is
found, must needs be the broad and downward way;
for the cross Of Christ is the right, the only path-way.
to the kingdom ; and those who despise and reject
the cross will find themselves at death deprived of
the crown. Here he stopped again, his strength
being exhausted and his silent friends stood with a
mournful pleasure around his bed.
After some time, one of them made so free as
to ask him, whether he would choose to live or die,
on supposition that the Almighty would grant his
desire ? To which, being a little refreshed he replied :
Indeed, my friend, I cannot tell you ; for so far as I
know my own heart, which hath all along been a
mystery to me, I neither desire life nor death ; for
me to live is Christ, and for me to die is eternal gain.
I know that the Almighty hath numbered my days,
and
DEATH : A VISION.
105
The decrees of the Almighty are irrevocable*
and my months are with him; he hath fixed the
limits both of my time and of my habitation, so that I
cannot pass over them ; yea, he hath by an immuta¬
ble decree appointed the very moment and means
of my dissolution. Why then should I anxiously
think, or care any thing at all about the matter ?
His purposes are for ever the same, and the thoughts
of his heart unto all generations. His council shall
stand, and he will do all his pleasure. If I am ap¬
pointed to death, as I think I am, I trust he will
glorify himself in my death ; and if it should be that
I am appointed to life, he hath wisdom and power
sufficient to glorify himself even by my living. I
yield myself wholly to his disposal, for the judge
of all the earth can never do wrong; living and
dying may God be glorified in me.
Here he ceased, and his friend with visible
sympathy rejoined : Happy, my dear brother, it is
for you to be thus indulged with strength from on
high, in the time of your great distress. But tell
me, my friend, if your strength will permit, do tell
me, if you have no desire to live and see your wife
and children comfortably provided for ? Methinks
it is a desirable thing to see our children educated
in a religious manner, and settled agreeably in the
world. These things often lie with a distressing
weight upon my mind, and are ties which strongly
bind me down to earth, and from which I sincerely
desire to be delivered,
© The
106
DEATH : A VISION.
'I lie welfare of the Redeemer's church
I he sick man replied; My dear friend, I must
confess to you, that, next to the welfare of the Re¬
deemer's church, my wife and children are dear to
me*, and if any thing could now prevail with me to
desire a longer sojournment in this valley of sorrows,
it would be the welfare of my dear children, and
dearer wife, for they have always been dear to me
ever since I enjoyed them. Consulting their welfare,
hath formerly been attended with great anxiety ; but
now I see, that in my over-carefulness I was far from
being submissive to the sovereign pleasure of an all-
disposing God ; and as far as lay within my power
was for wresting the dispensations of providence out
of his unerring; hand. Had I done what I could to
promote their welfare, and left the issue to the AU
* These words of Stabilius, " Next to the welfare of the Re-
" deemer's church, my wife and children are dear to me," are very
remarkable, and ought to be regarded. Thai he loved his wife and
children is evident from what he says both in this place and else¬
where : but however fervent his affection for them might be, it gave
place to the love he bore to the Redeemer's church. This evi¬
dences the true spirit of Christianity in him, and serves as much
to fix his character, as the exalted exercise of his faith ; being ex¬
pressive of the very spirit of that text, Mat. x. 37- He that lovcth
father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and he that loreth
son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. If this is to be
regarded as a rule, it will fix a lasting stigma upon those professors
who are so full of care for themselves and families, that they have
ueilln r leisure nor inclination to care for the church of God. These
are like withered limbs in the common body ; they neither impart,
nor receive nourishment; neither are their death-beds likely to be
honoured, as that of the good Stabilius.
7 mighty,
DEATH: A VISION.
107
To be piefcrrreU to that of <>nr families.
mighty, I had done well ; but alas! I could not be
easy, unless I evidently saw theyissue answer my
desire. But blessed forever be that God who turneth
our hearts as he does the rivers of water ; at present
all anxiety appears to be gone, and my wife and
children are no burden at all to my mind ; for I know
that the God whom I serve will convert the stones
of the wall into bread, before he will suffer the seed
of tile righteous to famish *.
Settling my children in the world appeared a
very desirable thing before I came to a death-bed,
but now I am taught that their settling in the world
does not in the least depend on my being present
with them; for the determination of Jehovah hath
long since divinely gone forth by a firm and unalter¬
able decree, in which ali their circumstances, great
and minute, are infallibly settled, by the unerring
wisdom of him who worketh all things after no other
council but that of his own zvill. The life of the
sparrow and the dinner of the raven are provided for
in his grand decree ; yea, the yery hairs on our bodies
are numbered, coloured, and disposed by unerring
wisdom ; much more are the bounds of our habita¬
tion, and the extent of our possessions, the result of
divine appointment. If the Lord is pleased to make
* An illustrious instance of divine regard to the seed of the
righteous, and care for the widow and fatherless, we have in the
provision made for the numerous family of a worthy minister, the
Heverend Mr. Burford, lately deceased.
O 2 my
108
DEATH: A VISION.
Reliance on the providence and
children poor (as it is his prerogative to make poor)
how shall my presence with them be able to make
them rich ? or if he in his sovereign bounty shall
he pleased to exalt and make them rich, what circum¬
stances so pernicious as to prevent the execution of1
his design ? Holy and reverend is his name, he dis-
poseth of all creatures and things as his wisdom doth
direct. By his determination kings reign, and princes
decree justice. Races and battles are under his di¬
rection ; yea, the very turning up of the lot is deter¬
mined by Jehovah ; much more the station and cir¬
cumstances of his people, and their children. Why
then should I desire to interfere in the matter of settling
them, to the disquieting of my own mind ; for God both
can and will bring his purposes to pass without my
instrumentality, if he is pleased to take me to himself?
Their education in religious principles hath been
by far the most tender point with me, well knowing
the influence which a godly education often has upon
the conduct of youtli : but this also I am enabled to
leave with the Lord. Not from any indifterency to¬
wards them, so as to be careless about their welfare in
time or eternity; but I have ever been so'sensible of
my deficiency, in regard to paternal duty, that I often
fear my children have been more injured by my im¬
perfections, than profited by my precepts and instruc¬
tions. Besides, I am fully persuaded that God will be
at no loss for an instrument, when he is about to
teach them the knowledge of himself.
Be
BEATII : A VISION.
Protection of the Alntighty inferred.
Be assured, my friends, that children are not brought
one hour sooner to the knowledge of God, on account
of their parents lives being preserved ; but many
have, by their parents death, been brought into cir¬
cumstances by which the Lord has been pleased to
lead them into the knowledge of themselves, and the
secret of his own immutable love to their passions.
Therefore I commit my tender offspring to the pro¬
tection and grace of him, who has deigned to become
O ' o
the,father of the fatherless, and "who hath said to men
in my condition, Leave your fatherless children and
o urxvidoxes to me; I trust his word, and bplieve tha"
of all guardians he is the most disinterested. My
dear Honora, my beloved spouse, always hath been
dear to me, ever since it pleased the Lord, by his
holy ordinance to make us one; but although she is
so dear to me, as that we seemed to possess but one
soul, I can with pleasure leave her a few days behind
me in this world, notwithstanding it is, and she finds
it to be, a world of sin and sorrow. I know that she
is an eiect vessel, a daughter of faithful Abraham, and
an heiress according to the promise ; and as such, she
is under divine protection and cannot miscarry. Fear
not, my dear Honora, fear not the safety of your pas¬
sage through life. I know that this world is a land of
.snares, and a hell of pain and sorrow, when com¬
pared with tne haven of pure felicity, to which we are
bound. It is, and. my dear, you know it to be a
land inhabited with implacable enemies to the heaven-
born pilgrims, who are passing through it, but let not
thi
110
DEATH': A VISION.
I
Christ the protector of the fatherless and widow.
this discourage my Honor a, for he who saved your soul
from DEATH, will also preserve your feet from
falling. He who hath loved you with an everlasting
love, will bear you through all difficulties and dan¬
gers, and make you more than conqueror. It is your
God, my love—your husband and friend, who reigns
supreme over all creation, who holds the reigns of
government in his own Almighty hand, and thereby
curbeth the enemies of his people at pleasure ; so that
the most potent of them all cannot lift up his heel
against a child of God without his divine permission*
He never grants a permission to any of them without
a proper limitation ; Hitherto thou mayst come, is the
permission, but thou shalt go no farther, is the re¬
straint ; even as Satan obtained leave to destroy every
thing which belonged to pious Job, but was prohibited
touching his life. Thus it is, that the feeblest of the
Redeemer's flock, dwell secure from real danger be¬
neath the covert of divine protection.
My dear Honora, our great Lord is a husband to
the w idow ; he is a wise director, a rich provider, a
powerful protector, and as such he is yours; yours in
the strongest obligations; yours in time, and to alt
eternity. The confidence I have in these things makes
me willingly resign the wife of my bosom, and my
tender offspring, to the will of that beneficent being,
who hath a sovereign right to dispose of me and mine>
as he shall see most for his own glory.
My
DEATH : A .VISION.
Ill
We should place a sincere and firm reliance in God.
My dear friends and fellow travellers, beware of
immoderate care ; for you may greatly injure, but
never can you thereby profit your children at all.
Think not that their settlement in the world depends
either less or more upon you; for when you have
cared your last for them, the sovereign ruler will
dispose just as he'sees meet, without so much as once
consulting you in the matter. Ah, my brethen, when
you lie, as I do now, on a death-bed, you will see,
that all immoderate carefulness springeth imtnediately
from igtiorauce of, and enmity against the ways of
an holy God, Alas ! how many Christian people are
woefully perplexed with fruitless care all the days of
their lives, and are thereby prevented of that useful¬
ness, which they might otherwise be of to the church
of Christ? Believe me, the best thing you can do for
your children, is solemnly and seriously to dedicate
them unto Gcd, leaving them and all their concerns
at his disposal. If you do this in good earnest, by an
habitual act, both you and they will reap the advan¬
tage of it; yours will be the peace, and theirs will
be the profit. Remember what young Samuel got by
his early dedication.
He ceased here, bis strength being exhausted, and
after some time one of his friends thus addressed
him: Dear Sir, I cannot persuade myself but a mind
thus stayed on the Lord must be filled with the most
joyous transport.
To
112
Matii ! a Vision.
The effects of a ri'l! nice on the divine will.
To which the good man replied, My mind is com¬
posed, and calmly fixed on the unalterable word of
an ever faithful Cod. My peace is settled, though
my joys are far from being elevated. It is not on
inward frames and feeling that my hope is stayed,
but on the promises of the everlasting covenant,
which are in Christ, yea and amen to every believer.
Inward feelings are indeed extremely pleasant, but I
have not dared for many years to trust them, for at
best I have found them fleeting and transitory; now
enjoyed ; dead anon ! now like the full-blown rose
my comforts have flourished ; immediately stripped
of all their beauty like the winter vine. Whilst I
lived upon my frames, I was all upon extremes,
either ravished on the mount of enjoyment or gone
down to do business in the deep waters. One hour
I said, My mountain stands sure, I shall never he
moved : perhaps in less than another, I supposed
myself, like Peter, sinking into the bosom of a fatal
billow. No solidity could I ever find in the frames
and dispositions of my own heart; but I never found
the promise to fleet, nor tiie Lord to depart from the
word he hath spoken. In all my trials his immutable
word hath been my stay, and on it alone will 1 lean,
when I wtflk through the valley of the shadow of
death. And thus, in quietly resting on his word, he
will finish the salvation of my soul.
Indeed, if the Lord should be pleased to indulge
me now with the sensible comforts of his felt love,
shed
DEATH : A VISION.
113
Exhortation of the dying Stability continued.
ghed abroad in my heart by his holy Spirit, it would
make this lonesome valley, into which I am entering,
by far more delightful, and my passage through it
abundantly less thorny. Rut if, in his wisdom, he
should see meet to with-hold from me such a desira¬
ble measure of sensible manifestation, I bless him for
his unalterable word, and I bless him for strength to
rely upon it.
My dear brethren, beware of making to yourself
a Christ, of the dying comforts, with which your holy
.Redeemer is pleased occasionally to indulge you.
Remember that if his tender concern for your peace
and pleasure, induce him to privilege you with the
sheddings abroad of his love in your heart, the same
tenderness of you will induce him to withdraw his
comforts, when he sees himself supplanted and you
live upon those comforts rather than upon his person,
grace, and righteousness. Remember always that
salvation, and the comforts thereof, are two very dif¬
ferent things; the fulness of the former being often
possessed, where there is but a very small degree
of the latter. In my early days of grace I was gene¬
rally wont to frame to myself notions of the love of
God, according to the glimmering twilight of my own
mind, and the good or evil frame I found myself to
be in: but through rich grace, and amazing mercy,.
I have been taugbt rather to judge thereof by the
written word of God, by which I have been piloted
through seas of difficulty, when darker sensations
p have
I 14
DEATH: A VISION.
The piuciple and conduct of Stabjlius explained.
have lost sight of shore. And I trust the Holy Ghost
will guide me by the said written word, till in his good
time he is pleased to land me on the glory-shore, and
bring me into the more immediate presence of the
great Three-in-one^
This said, he remained silent for a considerable
time, and the venerable Veralio turned himself to
me, and thus accosted me. Now, Novitio, you be¬
hold an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile.
This is the good Stabilius, a Christian of the right
hind ; one who may be called a father in Israel ; he
can well distinguish between husk and kernel, shadow
and substance, truth and error, a faithful one in the
houshold of God? His holy soul can feed upon
nothing but what is spiritual and divine ; such bread,
and such only, as descended from God out of heaven
is pleasant to his taste. In his life-time, which hath
been an uninterrupted succession of corroding sor¬
rows, the good Stabilius could live as well and as
satisfactorily upon a word of promise, as some others
could do upon five hundreds a year. Thus in his life¬
time he was so happy as to live by faith in the pro¬
mises, and now he is dying he is still the same. The
■word of the Lord is his comfort and stay. But al¬
though his unbelief appears now to be banished from
him, I can tell you it was not always so; for the time
was, when under dark dispensations of Providence,
he complained with Jacob that all those things were
making against him, though now he is better informed.
Yea,
DEATH : A VISION.
115
Stabilius defended by die angel Abdiel.
Yea, whatever infidelity we can rind in Job, David,
Asaph, one part or other of the life of good Slabilius
hath furnished him with a sad remembrance of theirs;
though upon the whole his faith hath prevailed glo¬
riously; and I imagine he will never more feel an im¬
pulse from unbelief.
Now, Novitio, I have a mind to unfold an amazing
scene to you; such a scene as you have never before
surveyed. Then he touched my eyes with an eye-
salve of divine preparation, and instantly I saw what
was extremely amazing, I saw a numerous troop of
restless infernals beleaguering the bed of the sick man,
which was well defended by a brilliant minister of
heaven, divinely superb in his immaterial array.
Cloathed with impenetrable armour, the martial guar¬
dian waved a flaming sword, with which he kept all
the furies of the pit at a proper distance ; so that al¬
though' the most implacable hatred and rage glowed in
every breast, they were not able to come near to dis¬
turb the mind of Slabilius. Sometimes they tripped
their tongues with falshood, and accused him of the
most abominable crimes to the guardian, who with
holy contempt disregarded all their clamours. Re¬
pulsed in this, they turn their accusings into the most
fervent intreaties to the angel, that he would scabbard
his sword for a season, and allow them the pleasure
of distracting the dying man. But the benevolent pro¬
tector, firm as a rock, remained inflexible to their en¬
treaties, and deaf to their accusations, resolving, in
p 2 obedi-
116
DEATH : A VISION.
Abdiel'g conduct with the internals.
obedience to the will of his God, to defend his charg
to the last extremity. Being thus repulsed, even bell
itself became hotter within them, and irritated with
fierce revenge, they rushed in fearful numbers against
the heavenly centinel. Thick as atoms in the sun¬
beams, their hissing arrows were shot against him and
his beloved charge ; but skilled in martial encounters,
he received their charge, and quenched their fiery
darts with his shield, w ith which he also covered Sta-
liliiis. With his brandished falchion, which emitted
streams of fire as he waved it, he made the infernal
tribe to give back ; but filled with indignation, and
fired with revenge, they instantly rallied their broken
force, and returned resolvedly to their charge ; and I
had the pleasure of observing, that as often as they
rallied, the heavenly Chieftian put them to the flight.
Being indulged with a view of this angelic war, I
thought of an ancient saying, The angel of the Lord
encamps round about those that fear him *; and turn¬
ing .
* The an?el of the Lord encamps round about those that fear him.
There is a surprising beauty in these words of the Psalmist; as ex.
pressive of the highest safety which the most timorous heart can
wish for. lie encamps, with a view to continue in this situation—
It is around them, rather than beside them. Beside them would
have argued great safety, but encamping around implies infinitely
more, because every passage is guarded, and no way left for the
enemy to give the attack with advantag . Encamps around them,
when dangers are most ripe, and humanity is most inactive and off
its guard — Around those that fcur him; rather thus e.xprest in con¬
descension
DEATH: A VISION.
1!7
The character of the angel Abdi 1 deliueated by Milton.
ng to my guide, I said, O Sir, it was well said of that
Hebrew prince, who spent his youth in rural employ¬
ments, Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord,
and the people whom he hath chosen for his own inhe¬
ritance. Ah Sir, they are well kept whom the Lord
doth keep, and the man is blessed whom he thus pre-
serveth. To which Veratio replied, Now, Novitio, you
have had a sight of faithful Abdiel, so justly cele¬
brated by the famous Milton, for his constant and
firm adherence to Immanuei, even when left alone in
the camp of rebellious seraphim. There it was,
" That among the faithless, faithful only he;
" Among innumerable false, unmov'd,
" Unshaken, unseduc'd, unterrify'd
" His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal;
" Nor number nor example with him wrought
"To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind
" Though single. From amidst them forth he pass'd
" Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustaiu'd
" Superior nor of violence fear'd ought
" And with retorted scorn his back lie turned
" On those proud tow'rs to swift destruction doom'd."
Thus Novitio, this faithful guardian nobly retreated
from the tents of rebellion, and ere long returned
commissioned with the rest of the celestial hosts, to
descension to our unbelieving weakness ; the believer being some-
limes conscious that lie fears God when he darts not conclude that
he loves him.—That no room may be left for unbelief to found its
arguments upon, the potency of the illustrious protector is pointed
out in his character as the angel of the Loud.
fight
DEATH: A VISION.
Abdiel's fidelity.
fight with the perfidious miscreants, in the quarrel
of the Most High ; and there he dicovered at once
his zeal for his God, and the prowess of his own
martial arm : for when,
" Before the cloudy van,
" On the rough edge of battle ere it join'd,
" Satan with vast and haughty strides advanc'd,
" Came tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold ;
" Abdiel that sight endur'd not, where he stood
" Amongst the mightiest, bent on highest deeds.
" But from his armed peers
" Forth stepping opposite, half-way he met
" His daring foe, at this prevention more
" incens'd, and thus securely him defy'd.
" Proud, art thou met ? thy hope was to have reach'd
" The height of thine aspiring unoppos'd,
" The throne of God unguarded, and his side
" Abandon'd at the terror of thy power
" Or potent tongue :
" But thou seest
" All are not of thy train ; there be who faith
" Prefer, and piety to God, though then
"To thee not visible, when I alone
" Seem'd in thy world erroneous to dissent
" From all my sect, thou seest; now learn too late
" How few sometimes may know, when thousands err."
It was thus fervent Abditl accosted the prince of
rebels, when they met between the opposing fronts of
the angelic armies, on that awful day on which all the
hosts of heaven and hell, were drawn forth to battle
on the till then, unstained field of ./Ether. And,
DEATH : A VISION.
119
His reply to the apostate chief.
" The grand foe, with scornful eye askance,
u Thus answered the faithful Abdiel:
" 111 for thee, but in wish'd hour
" Of my revenge, first sought, for thou return'st
" From flight, seditious angel, to receive
" Thy merited reward, the first essay
" Of this right hand provok'd, since first that tongue
" Inspir'd with contradiction durst oppose
" A third part of the Gods, in synod met,
" Their deities to assert.
" But well thou com'st
" Before thy fellows, ambitious to win
" From me some plume, that thy success may show
" Destruction to the rest.
" At first I thought that liberty and heav'n
" To heav'nly souls had been all one ; but now
" I see that most through sloth had rather serve
'' Ministering spirits, train'd up in feast and song;
'' Such hast thou arm'd the minstrelsy of heav'n,
" Servility with freedom to contend.
" As both their deeds contpar'd this day shall projfc^
" To whom in brief thus Abdiel stern reply'd. *
" Apostate, still thou err'st, nor end wilt find
" Of erring, from the path of truth remote*
" Unjustly thou deprav'st it with the name
" Of servitude, to serve whom God ordains,
" Or nature ; God and nature bid the same,
" When he who rules is worthiest, and excels
" Them whom he governs.
" Reign thou in hell, thy kingdom ; let ine serve
" In heaven God ever blest, and his divine
" Behests obey, worthiest to be obey'd ;
" Yet chains in hell, nor realms expect; mean-while
" From me return'd, as erst thou said'st, from flight
<! This greeting on thy impious crest receive.
" So
120
DEATH : A VISION.
• Satan repulsed by Abrliel.
" So saying, a noble stroke he lilted high,
" Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell
" On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight,
" Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield
" Such ruin intercept : ten pares huge
" He back vecoil'd ; the tenth on bended knee
" His massy spear upstay'd."
According to the matchless Milton, the faithful
Abdid iirst asserted the sovereign right of his God,
CO
both by word and deed ; and thus he hath continued
an invincible hero in the cause of his master, a wil¬
ling and faithful guardian of his militant children, as
you have just now seen in the conflict betwixt him
and the infernal brotherhood.
I thought in my dream that I thus replied ; I thank
you most heartily, my dear, my venerable Veratio, for
this discovery, so strange and surprising in itself; and I
thank you most gratefully, dear sir, for this opportiu
riity of seeing the value of this celebrated angel.
But worthy Veratio, whose delight appears to be
to instruct the ignorant, I pray you deign to inform
me, if it is possible that such a war may be main¬
tained around a Christian, and the party himself,
for whom the strife is, remain unacquainted with it ?
To which I thought he replied ; You may be at no
loss, Novitio, to know that the best of Christians,
even fathers in the Redeemer's family, see and know
only in part, therefore there may be many things of
this kind transacted among the immaterial inhabitants
9 of
DEATH : A VISION.
The ways of the Almighty impenetrable to earth y objects
of the spiritual world, without their knowledge.
Every Christian may certainly be informed by the
volume of revelation in general, that all the angels
of God are ministring spirits, sent forth to minister
unto them who are appointed heirs of salvation ;
nevertheless there are many offices of kindness per¬
formed by those benevolent spirits in behalf of the
saints, which the most intelligent Christians remain
utterly ignorant of, whilst they sojourn in this land of
separation and sorrow. .As we may see in the case of
good Stabilius, he perfectly knows that God is the
prime efficient of all his peace and composure of
mind; but he doth not know that there is a martial
seraph appointed by the sovereign of heaven as the
guardian of his bed, and protector of his dying mo¬
ments ; nor is he in the least apprehensive that there
is such a swartn of reprobate spirits so near, and so
earnestly seeking the distraction of his mind.
If the militant members of the chosen church
could really s£e their shining attendants, and under¬
stand all the ways of the Lord perfectly, they would
enjoy the heavenly glories before the appointed time :
but the fulness of joy, and the manifest glories of
the redeemed are reserved for eternity, therefore not
to be expected in time. On this account many of
the Lord's works are done in the dark, and his ways
are involved in thick clouds; so that poor purblind
mortals cannot discern them before they enjoy the
light of eternity. And you yourself, Novitio, may
ft know
122
DEATH: A VISION.
ihe bed of Stability effectually protected by Atyiiel.
know that the conflicts betwixt our benevolent pro¬
tectors the guardian angels, and our enemies of the
reprobate race, are not to be seen with bodily eyes,
but with the more refined rays of the mind. Bodily
eyes discern corporeal objects, but spiritual sight
alone can discern spirit.
I thought in my dream, that towards the disso¬
lution of Stabilius, I beheld a squadron of armed
seraphs, who were dispatched from the armies in the
skies to assist Abdiel in the protection of this chosen
disciple ; who as soon as arrived, and fraternal salu¬
tation passed after the angelic manner, they told him
that Jehovah having from the throne of his holiness
seen, that great numbers of the enemies had assaulted
him and his charge, had sent them to his assistance.
Abdiel thus replied : Welcome, my spotless brethren ;
welcome are ye now to me, for I have been vigo¬
rously attacked, and still the daring infernals are re¬
solute ; but through the strength of my God I have
preserved my charge inviolate. Come, my brethren,
let us prepare for immediate action, for the enemies,
though frequently repulsed, being now afresh recruited
from hell, are rallying their utmost force, and soon
will return intrepidly to the charge. This said, I per¬
ceived that those ever-armed seraphs each of them
drew his flaming sword, fixed his shield, and planted
themselves around the bed of the good Stabilius,
every hero putting himself in a posture of defence,
saying with united voice, It is the good mil of our
Lord
DEATH: A VISION.
123
The de ith of Stabilius. »
Lord that his chosen ones should be preserved.—
Happy man, said I, who art thus defended ! I thought
in my dream, that after all this was done, the good
Stabilius, as if he had received fresh vigour at the
arrival of his celestial visitants, opened his mouth,
and most fervently expressed himself in the following
manner: I know that he is G od, and that he is my
God. He hath guided me from my conception to
this my dying day ; all his judgments towards me have
been mingled with mercy, and holy and reverend is
his name; all his mercies have been mixed less or
more with judgment. I will therefore, with the royal
Hebrew, sing of mercy and of judgment; unto thee,
0 Lord, will I sing. A chain of well-concerted, and
blessed providences laid hold of me at my conception,
and till now hath led me in such a manner, that all
hath led me in such a manner, that all hath been for
good, and now, my friends, it is with amazement
1 see both the ends of the chain unalterably fixed
in the eternal throne. It cometh from and cen-
tereth in the: Father's everlasting love to me, in
the person of Jesus, unworthy as I atn ; and O !
let God, even God in the person of the
Redeemer, be praised, be owned a'nd glorified
with my last, my departing breath. Hear me, my
fellow Christians, for I speak now within the imme¬
diate views of eternity, and Death even now op-
presseth my weary lungs. Behold, 1 go the zray of
all mankind: but I knozo that my Redeemer liveth,
and that he shall stand at the latter day upon tlie
earth; and although after my shin worms destroy,
q. 2 as
124
DEATH: A VISION.
Christi in fortitude contrasted with that ol the Romans.
as they certainly will, this body of mine, yet in the
Jlesh, even in this flesh, now almost consumed, I shall
see God; yea I shall see him for myself, and not for
another; not at a distance, but near, though my
reins be consumed within me. I shall see him on that
momentous and much desired day on which I shall, in
my whole person, be made like unto himself. These
•words were expressed even in the arms of Death,
so that tie was quite spent with speaking, and lay in
a profound silence for a minute or two ; then in holy
triumph, with a countenance that displayed a sense
of conquest, he said, Lord Jesus, come quickly ; into
thy hand I commend my spirit. These were his last
words, and a few minutes after he quietly yielded up
the ghost, and slept in Jesus.
In the mean while Veratio addressed himself to me
as follows ; This, Novitio, is Christian fortitude,
distinct from the antient pagan bravery of the Romans.
If you see a Brutus or Cassius, or even a Cato him¬
self, out-brave the fears of Death, it is from igno¬
rance of the real nature and state of an hereafter ;
but it is clear knowledge of eternity, and of the per¬
fections of God, which fortifies the mind of Stabilius
against every painful apprehension, now he is making
his exit from the stage of time, and struggling hand
to hand with the quencher of the animal llarne.
Mind the tender Honor a ; mark how she stands
with a mournful pleasure by the bed of her dying
partner, hers but a very few moments longer. Two
things
DEATH:
A VISION.
125
Hetk'ctions on the death of Stability.
things oppress her with sensible concern, and two
things inspire her labouring bosom with holy joy.
She is most sensible of the awful dispensation which
lays her under a multiplicity of cares; and 01 her
dear, her much esteemed Stabilius, the pain which
he endures in his departing moments becomes hers
by sympathy. As she supports his head, and tenderly
wipes the cold sweat from his brow, every sigh of
his, every symptom of pain, cuts its way directly
through her sympathetip heart; she dreads the part¬
ing with him, yet longs for the dissolving moment.
Souls thus knit by holy matrimony, and thus made
one by sympathy, feel in parting such rending and
tearing of the sensitive faculties, as neither tongue
nor pen can describe. But in the midst of her sorrow
two things support the amiable Honora, namely, the
consideration that these departing agonies put a pe¬
riod to every grief, a final period to every sorrow of
her dear her much valued husband. And she hopes
upon solid and scriptural grounds she hopes that in
a little time she herself will be in mercy taken to the
celestial world, w here she shall again receive with un¬
speakable joy the pure and spiritual caresses of her
glorified husband, where they shall spend a vast and
endless eternity together, in the transporting pleasures
of paradise, and mutually joiu in celebrating the
praises of their common God and Saviour. Thus
she mourns, and reason says she should ; but religion
teaches her to mourn as one that is not without hope.
Tiie
126
DEATH : A VISION.
'I he <Ic»pJiture of the soul of S't.tbiliufl.
The dissolving moment come, the w atchful infernals
took wing and fled, leaving the soul for ever to the
blessed possession of uninterrupted peace: she as¬
cended triumphant, and wrapt in extatic wonder sat
for a season on the clayey lips of her beloved mate,
gazing on the splendor of the messengers of heaven,
notwithstanding she herself shone more gloriously
than all her attendants; who, free from envy, joyfully
saluted her with Peace be unto thee, and fondly con¬
gratulated her ,on her safe arrival oq the confines of
eternity.
\
By this time I thought I saw an innumerable com¬
pany of seraphic flames, all of them shining in the
perfection of glory, who, as the former came at the
will of Immanirel to congratulate the soul on her
passage through the wilderness of tears, and the
gloomy valley of the shadow of Death, and her
safe arrival in Iminanuers country: then gave her
their united welcome into their resplendent society.
I cannot now, all ! I cannot describe the joys of the
glory-born soul, when she first perceived herself in¬
vested with the radiance of heaven, and sensibly
pre&t to the fervent bosom of everlasting love, for
her admiration was inexpressible. But my benevo¬
lent guide, the good Veratio, now becoming an inter¬
preter, with no small difficulty I gathered ~up some
few of her rapturous- expressions, which hut for his
assistance I could not have done ; for she spoke in
t.he celestial tongue, which is a language that I never
had
DEATH: A VISION.
127
The joy of the aoul on its entrance into eternity.
had learned : and so imperfect is the fragment which
I collected, when compared with the original, that I
redden with shame, and my heart flutters with fear to
expose it to view lest I should thereby injure the sub¬
ject, and eclipse the glory which I would gladly (the
Lord knows) recommend to human esteem. But en¬
couraged by the confession of an incomparable Paul,
here we see darkly and hut in part, I will venture
to write it, though it is, as it were, with fear and
trembling:
No sooner was the happy soul disentangled from
mortality, but she was filled with the fulness of the
glory of God, and in the highest elevations of trans¬
port, cried out with a voice of the most perfect
melody: «
" Js this the resting-place, to which we'weary pil¬
grims are brought after a moment's trouble below ?
Glorious rest! I have often heard, I have often
longed for the possession of thee when tossed with the
tempest of life : Happy I! Blessed peace ! Uninter¬
rupted joy and permanent rest! Hallelujah! Let all
the empyrean hosts, let all the militant church in¬
cessantly praise in the highest strain, the eternal and
bounteous Provider of this glorious rest, in which
all our labour and sorrow shall eternally cease ! Is
this the heaven I have so often heard preached?
This glorious place ! O heaven ! How often have I
heard of thy divine excellencies when sojourning in
£> the
128
DEATH : A VISION'.
1 he joy of the soul in the presence of the Almighty.
the world below ? But now I behold thy refulgent
glories without an interposing cloud, and lo! the
thousandth part of thy beauties was never disclosed.
Happy are thine inhabitants, thou imperial city, for
the great King is in the midst of thee ; his uncreated
glories irradiate every corner of thy blissful streets.
Blest and unsullied mansions of the disembodied
spirits of the just! Happy I, who was predestinated
to the possession of this divine inheritance ! is this
the Saviour whom 1 formerly denied? Ever, till the
day of unfrustrable grace, did 1 say unto thee thou
adorable Lord, I will not have thee to reign over me.
And, O my Lord, am I now at last blest with the im¬
mediate vision of thee ? Thou Sharon rose divine!
Thy beauties, Lord, how amiable ! O how transcen-
dently great are thine excellent glories! Eternal and
all-conquering Saviour, I am now at last ravished
with thy super-abundant goodness, which on earth I
could scarcely with coolness admire, but now I be¬
hold thee to be all excellent and divine. Is this the
crown ? The end of all my former crosses ? Massy
treasure! Glorious lustre! How striking is the stu-
pendous blaze ! In the world below my eyes were
dreadfully obscure, but now I behold all the excel¬
lencies of Godhead. All the radiant beams of un¬
clouded divinity in their fullest resplendency shining
forth in thine immaculate person thou adorable Jesus,
Blessed thou! happy I! Blessed afflictions, which in
thy all-powerful hand thou eternal Spirit, have fitted
me for those unsulliable mansions of uninterrupted
felicity !
" Sin
DEATH: A VISION.
12 9
'1 he joy of the soul in presence of the Almighty.
" Sin and Death, where are ye now? trampled
for ever beneath my victorious feet. Adorable Savi¬
our, the conquest is thine. Ye tempting fiends, the
promised time is now come that I scorn for ever your
envious rage. No more, ye malignant infernals, shall
your cruel buffetings be able to shake the tranquillity
of this ever-peaceful and glorified mind. Nor shall
your spear-like tongues, ye sons of violence and
deceit, ever more be able to tarnish my conduct with
blame. Ye children of perfidy, ye treacherous per¬
secutors of the gracious church, the gulph is fixed^
and here you can never come a second time to per¬
plex me with sorrow; nor shall the tumultuous rage
of fiery lusts, and impetuous passions ever more
be able to separate betwixt my best beloved and
me.
" I am now secure within thine insurmountable
walls, O thou blessed Jerusalem ! Overwhelmed with
the" insupportable blaze of delighted divinity : here
let me bask for ever, though the bliss is insufferable.
Already filled with the fulness of manifested and im*
parted love, let me drink for ever at the fountain of
life. Ever, for ever, may God, will I praise thee;
incessantly praise thee whilst eternity endures. Grace
and providence, providence and grace, shall fill up
the measure of mine eternally delightful song. This
is my employment; this is the task prescribed by the
-sweet obligations of gratitude."
R.
Having
150
DEATH : A VISION.
Reflections.
Having gathered up this most imperfect frag¬
ment of what I heard, I thought that the scene was
drawn, and the vision departed from me ; and I, asto¬
nished at Avhat I had heard and seen, turned to my
guide, and in transport said : no wonder, sir, if Ba¬
laam, who saw the visions of the Almighty, desired
to die the death of the righteous, and enjoy such a
latter end as theirs. No wonder if Judas, the traitor,
despaired and hanged himself, after having betrayed
such a glorious Saviour vas this. Ah! Veratio, my
good Veratio, may I enjoy the divine favour what¬
ever else I may lack ! May I endure all sorrow which
both earth and hell can inflict, rather than miss of
the glory which shall be revealed ! Fall short of
heaven ! O ! I tremble at the thought! Fall short of
heaven ! if I should, I should be of all creatures the
most emphatically wretched and miserable. To love,
to see, and not enjoy, ah, what intolerable anguish
would it give ! If it depended less or more on works
of my performing, I could not avoid falling short.
But it is of grace, all of grace, of nothing but grace,
and so let grace have the glory for ever secure. Yet
O let me not deceive myself in a matter of such grand
importance ! but, raw and unexperienced as I am, I
think I have something of the same hope which the
good Stabilius expressed ; and O, Veratio, may my
latter end be like his !
PART
131
■PART VI.
Here my guide addressed me, and said, Now, Novitio,
you have seen something of Death transformed into
life, and it is glorious in youy esteem; but if you
will follow me, we may yet make farther discoveries
relating to the departure of the sanctified. By this
time my curiosity was stretched to the utmost pitch,
therefore I needed but little persuasion to attend to
farther discoveries, seeing the departure of Humilius
and Stabilius was so very agreeable at least to myself ;
therefore I said to my guide, lead, Veratio, lead
wherever you will, and I will follow you.
Are you sure of that? replied Veratio; perhaps
you may be mistaken ; a much stronger person than
Novitio appears to be hath deserted me before now,
and the strongest have found it difficult enought to
adhere to meat certain times : Pardon me, Sir, replied
I, I mean whilst you unfold such agreeable scenes ;
for I perceive, Sir, their influence is attractive. Well
Novitio, replied he, I agree with you in that, for when
r 2 you
132
DEATH : A VISION.
Novitio introduced into the presence of the dying Fidelia.
you are strongly drawn, I do not doubt but you will
run apace. However, at present let us attend to the
matter in hand.
Accordingly he led me away from this to ano¬
ther, but mean apartment, and as we entered, he
said, Now, Novitio, prepare yourself for seeing the
wondrous works of the Almighty. I admired what
miracle I was now to behold, but ere long I beheld a
miracle of grace; a poor woman and three small
children were the humble inhabitants of this despi¬
cable hut; as I learned from my guide, the poor but
tender, mother, whose name was Fidelia, had been
confined to her9bed by a deathly disorder for the space
of six weeks or upwards, and by this time she seemed
almost conquered by the fatal enemy to nature,
though she still retained the perfect use of her reason,
and still was capable of speaking to her visitants.
At the time of our going into her mean apartment,
some few 6f her friendly acquaintance, some of them
meanly, others of them better attired, were come to
visit her, desirous to perform the best offices of
Christian friendship, expecting that her departure
from earth was at hand. One of them who stood by
her bed side spoke to her thus ; " my dear friend
Fidelia, I see your body is very low, and in all ap¬
pearance the hour of your departure is approaching
near; but if strength will permit I should be glad to
know how it is with you in your soul; for I have some¬
times known the soul to be most healthful and vigor¬
ous
DEATH : A VISION.
133
Her inward feelings described.
ous when the outward man has been in the very arms
of Death." To whom I thought Yidelia replied;
O my friend ! we have a kind and compassionate
Lord; his comforts to me, a poor unworthy creature,
are neither few nor small. I may well say he feedeth
me with his grace, and all his paths drop fatness to
me. O my friends ! my root is in the best soil, and
the dew lies all night upon my branches. O let me
ever be thankful for that sweet and transporting day
on which I found freedom of soul to rely upon Christ
alone for salvation, as he is held forth in the gospel !
Blessed be God for freedom to call the Redeemer
my own, and to look up to him in an appropriating
way! O the sweetness of the remembrance of it!
It bears me down with the delightful weight of hum¬
bling love ; electing, redeeming, and regenerated love
commended itself by the sweetest and most persuasive
eloquence unto my heart, and still it is the more en¬
dearing, because of its discriminating nature. O it
is unspeakable! O the heights and depths ! O divine
love ! Why is it that I, a poor unworthy hell-deserving
sinner, should be found thy favourite object ? Amazing
and miraculous grace! that ever the great salvation
of the adorable Jesus hath laid hold on me, and
preached itself into my very heart, notwithstanding I
am the basest of all the human creation, Behold I
see the wise, the moral, the rich, and the noble,
standing at a distance from the great salvation, and
strangers to the pardoning mercy of God, whilst I,
the most unworthy of all, am fed with the comforts
of
DEATH: A VISION.
Il^r nvignutioii to dispNviti <ntt of T ^Merccc.
of bis love. It is thy doing, () thou omnipotent Sa¬
viour, and it is marvellous in my eyes! Thou lovtst
merely because thou wilt love, and pardonest only
because such is thy good pleasure.
After some time her friend addressed himself to
her as follows; I perceive, Fidelia, and I am glad to
see it, that you do not quarrel with the providence of
God, because he hath given you but a scanty measure
of wordly substance; you do not seem offended be¬
cause you are poor, and have not fortunes to leave
your children.
i
No, my friend, replied she, I am not angry, for
the Lord doth all things well, and my lot bath been
rightly and wisely determined ; 1 would not on any
account that it had l>een otherwise than it has been.
Whatever beauty others may think there is in growing
riches, I must tell you for my own part, that I would
not for the world I had been born to be rich, for
wherever they come, riches are sure to be a burden to
the professor : therefore he who well understood the
nature of things,' says, he that increaseth in them,
doth also increase in sorrow. I have always found my
own corruptions, to he burden enough for me, to bear
up the hill towards mount Zion, without a weight
of thick clay, however brilliant, on my shoulders.
Here my guide gently jogged me, and said, This
is most excellently judged of Fidelia, for as weights
of
6
DEATH: A VISION.
'153
Woiklly poises-ions the rcot of all evil.
of lead are to the courser, when he runs for the plate,
so is gold to the followers of Christ. It is very dif¬
ficult to possess gold without loving of it, and you may
know that the love of money is the root of all evil:
insomuch that it is next to impossible for a rich man to
be a true and humble Christian *.
In the mean while, Fidelia continued, and said
. '
Ilad I been full, I might with many others have for¬
gotten my God ; but my narrow circumstances have
furnished me with many precious opportunities, of
beholding the goodness of his providence and faith¬
fulness to his promise; which opportunities I had cer¬
tainly lost had I been rich. I think I see such beauty
in the unerring dispensations of providence towards
me, that no way so suitable could have been chosen
as the nery way which my gracious God hath taken to
bYing me to himself and his glory. Well may I cry
* Within the few, years that I have been a professor, I have
known many useful members of gospel churches utterly spoiled by
getting rich. From spiritual, savoury, and sociable brethren, they
have dwindled into mere formalists and muck-worms, barren fig-
trees in the gardeu of God, and such they are likely to continue
till it is the pleasure of God to revive' them again. Many you will
find convinced of this doctrine in their judgment whose affections
are,altogether unmoved: therefore they compass sea and land to
get money, notwithstanding they have the greatest reason to believe,
that it wilt add to their trouble. Yea although they have many
Jtings of conscience 011 this account, still they will do what they can
to increase it. How absurd is man ?
cut
DEATH : A VISIOU".
True religion only to be found in humble life.
out with the apostle, 0 the depth and riches both of
his wisdom and knowledge.
Filled with admiration at the goodness of God,
Fidelia stopped here, and Vcratio said to me, It has
beep, Novitio, the error of many writers, and still
more of readers to suppose, that small entertainment,
and but few profitable hints, are to be drawn from a
state of low life ; but if we will make true religion
our theme, where must we go to find it ? If we en¬
quire at the palace of his grace Flatus, there we see
all the pomp of magnificent pride driving on in its lofty
career; or if we call at the seat of my Lord Ganeq,
we are immediately confronted by drunkenness and
revelling, and the delicate board, though covered with
the most tasteful viands, is altogether destitute of
that religion which would prevent it becoming a snare
to the owner. It is much more likely, that if in quest
of real religion you will find her with wretched Lazarus
at the gate, rather than within the hotel of Dives;
for not many wise men after the flesh, not many noble,
are called to the possession of true religion, but the
poor have the gospel preached to them ; and amongst
the lower class of the people religion dwells in its
greatest power, as you may see in the case of Fidelia,
whose mind is overwhelmed with holy joy, even in the
midst of her extreme sufferings.
It was now, I thought, that one of her friends
asked her how it was with her, as to the comforts of
life?'
DEATH : A VISION.
137
The promises of the Almighty punctually fulfilled.
life ? To which she replied, O my friends, I have all
things and abound : our gracious God hath promised,
that our bread shall be given and our water shall be
sure, and to the praise of his providence I can say,
that I have always found the promise verified, for he
is a God keeping covenant, and full of faithfulness.
This I have always had reason to note, but more es¬
pecially been sensible of it since the death of my
dear Fidelio; since then I have been, necessitated to
live by faith on the promises of a provident God.
1 have be'en enabled to trust, and never knew the pro¬
mises to fail, nor the Lord to fall short of any word
he hath spoken. How shall 1 praise thee, thou God
of infinite fulness, who from thine own inexhaustible
stores hath richly supplied all my wants! I long to
appear before thee, O thou immaculate Redeemer
that I may see thee in the effulgence of thy glory,
for here I see darkly as jn a glass. Many are the re¬
freshing gales of sweet consolation which I have had
in the ordinances of thy grace: but now, when I
compare them with that unfathomable dearh of un-
decaying comfort, which I see immediately before me,
they are like the small dust of the balance, when com¬
pared to the world ; or like to the drop of water
which hangs at the bucket, when compared to the
vast ocean. () ! the divine blaze gf heavenly glory,
which already begins to beam upon my soul, even on
this wilderness side of Jordan 1 O thou new and hea¬
venly Jerusalem, I am already overcome with thine
excellent beauties ! O what must it be w.hen put into
s full
13$ DEATH : A VISION.
The felicity of beholding lb" face of the Almighty anticipated.
full possession ! And, even now, nothing hinders me
from feeding on the fattest of thy comforts, but this
thin and almost rent vail of mortality. Let it once
be rent, as soon as it will, and I shall with unspeak¬
able joy sustain all the stupendous blaze of thy un¬
sullied glories.
I long, O ! I long to join yonder glorious throng,
yonder radiant church in the realms above. I long
to press into yonder bright assembly which, by faith
I see surrounding the eternal throne, that I might
mingle my humble notes with their harmonious voices,
and tf'ith them sing the praise of God and of the
Lamb. Hasten thy pace, O ever tardy time ! Ye
moments swiftly end your destined flight. Lord,
shake my glass, that the sands may speedily pass
through. But I see, holy and reverend is his name,
that there remains but a few particles more in the life
end of my glass, and they will speedily be down, then,
face to face *1 shall see the glorious object of my su¬
preme delight, and for ever offer up perfect adoration
to him that loved me, and washed me in his blood,
With unspeakable delight I shall behold that glorious
face which one was marred with shame and spitting.
I shall behold him for myself, and not for another.
These eyes; which have so often turned aside aftec
vanity, these very eyes, shall in transport gaze on the
King in his beauty; this tongue shall delight to praise
him eternity along ; and these hands, which once were
the instruments of unrighteousness, shall cast at his
majestic
DEATH: A VISION".
139
Death rendered pleasant by the presence of the Redeemer.
majestic feet the glorious crown wherewith this worth¬
less head shall soon be adorned. O happy, happy
day, that brings home the longing exile, and lands
the weary pilgrim upon the shore of rest, to be ever,
ever with the Lord !
Fidelia finishing here, her friend again said to
her : My dear sister, I rejoice with you that the Lord
is pleased to indulge you with such a measure of his
sensible presence, on this, which otherwise would he
a day of severe trial to you ; but the Redeemer's
presence makes even Death itself not only tolera¬
ble, but desirable and easy. But in the midst of your
sensible enjoyments you seem as if you had forgotten
your three little children ; tell me, Fidelia have you
-no uneasiness at the thoughts of leaving them behind
you in a land of sin and sorror ? Would it not, with
submission to the divine will, be desirable "to you to
be spared to see them brought up to a capacity of
doing for themselves?
To whom, Fidelia replied : The Lord hath been a
husband to the widow, and I air. persuaded he will be
a father to the fatherless, and an all-sufficient stay to
the helpless orphan. My children are dear, but my
Saviour is infinitely dearer to me, and I have got such
a taste of the grapes of the heavenly Canaan, that I
cannot think of abiding on this wilderness-side of
Death. My heart is already gone over, O why do
1 tarry any longer behind ! but the Lord's time is the
s 2 best.
140
DEATH : A VISION.,
Exhortation of the dying Fidelia
best. Pray for me, my friends, that I may not offend
the best of beings by my .impatience to begone, but
submissively wait for the dissolving moment. Then
her friend tenderly rejoined, But have your compa¬
nions in warfare no weight at all upon your mind ?
Can you with pleasure leave them in this inhospitable
world? She replied; Alas! my friend, of what ser¬
vice can my presence be to a warfaring church? I can
be of no use at all. But I know that he who hath
chosen, purchased, and sanctified it, will safely keep
it, and every individual member of it, to the perfect
day : for of all whom the Father hath given to the
Mediator, he hath not lost, he will not lose any thing;
no, not the weakest, or the most contemptible ; for
all shall be gathered safe to his heavenly kingdom.
Give the immortal love of a dying woman to our
fellow-church members, and tell them from me, that
it is the last request of their dying friend, that they
live at a greater distance from the world. There is,
alas ! too much, by far too much likeness betwixt the
precious children of God and the children of the
world. Some of them, in a manner very unbecom¬
ing, court the fantastical honours, and others, seem
too eagerly to thirst after the perishing, unsatisfactory
riches, of this transitory and delusive world, which,
if they could obtain ; would all lose their beauty on a
dying day. O ! a dying day'gives us clear views of
things, and exceedingly diminishes the value of gold
and silver. Bid them therefore, behold the profits
and honours of this world, with death-bed eyes, then
5 they
DEATH: A VISION. ' 141
To her companion in the Church of Christ.
" ■ ' ■ ' ' ' ' » ■
they will readily declare that all is vanity. And
others of our friends there are,, who but two much
delight in the vain and empty pleasures of the flesh,
which at best are no more than an aerial dream. lfut
0 ! tell them from me, that the honours of life, are
lighter than chaff, and will all be driven away when
Chfist comes with his fan in his hand, thoroughly to
purge his floor; then, my friends, they will appear-
lighter than nothing, and altogether vanity. O that
they could be persuaded that gold and silver is one
of the most dangerous burdens that a Christian pos¬
sibly can carry; the love of money is the root of all
evil. They will never repent when they come to a
death-bed, that they are not rich, and cannot leave,
fortunes for their children. Tell them, that if the Al-
\
mighty, ip his wisdom, sees that riches are for their
good, he will, in his benevolence, bestow them with¬
out their immoderate care, or without injuring their
minds in the least. O let Christians beware of account¬
ing gain to be- godliness. Tel them from me, that
the pursuit of worldly pleasure is the certain way to
dishonour their God, and destroy the peace of their
own souls. O persuade them, as Christians, to seek
the things which come from above, where the blessed
Jesus sitteth at the right hand of God. Let them
know, that conformity to the vain customs of the
world is highly injurious to the cause and interest of
Christ, and has ta natural tendency to harden poor
sinnets ii their rebellion against God. "When they
come to. a death-beds as I am now, all those names
ef honour, the applause of mankind, and all the com¬
fort
142
DEATH: A VISION.
Character of Fidelia,
fort which springs from the possession of riches, will
vanish away as empty vapours and smoke. Verily,
all ihings here below are vanity. The divine religion
of the ever-loving and ever-lovely Jesus, is the one
thing needful; the only thing that will yield satisfac¬
tion on a dying day.
Fidelia having exhausted her strength, remained
a considerable time silent, and Veratio turned himself
toward me and said ;
Now Novitio, this is divine religion with a witness !
Here are riches in the midst of poverty; health in
the midst of sickness; joy in the midst of pain ; and
glory rising out of misery. What an exalted soul is
this ? IIow much of heaven is now let down into this
blessed cottage ? How glorious ! How excellent is
thy religion, O thou amiable Saviour of mankind !
Blessed is he, the life of whose soul is the only be¬
gotten of the father !
Know, my friend, that Fidelia was daughter to a
worthy tradesman named Philaleihes, one who was a
constant lover and a punctual observer of truth, as
all that dealt with him would readily testify. P/iila-
lethes was parent to a numerous offspring, whom he
carefully instructed in the principles of religion. As
soon as his tender infants began to lisp forth their inno-'
cent and child-like prattlings, he used to deal with
them as rational creatures, and studied to impress
their minds with a sense of the greatness and omni¬
presence
- DEATH : A VISION.
143
And that of her family.
presence of God ; particularly of the purity of his
nature, and his utter aversion to sin. It was his con¬
stant custom to maintain regularly, at a certain hour
twice a day the worship of God in his family, at
which he took care that no business, however urgent,
should hinder the attendance of either children or
servants, accounting it his honour, as he found it his
pleasure, to go before his family in the worship of
their Maker. And well knowing, that the Almighty
delighteth more in the gates of Zion than in all the
dwellings of Jacob, he carefully led his whole family
duly to attend the public worship of God, during
which he accustomed his children from their youngest
years, to a descent and becoming gravity in the house
of prayer. He suffered no part of the holy sabbath
to be devoted to vain amusement or worldly business,
the morning thereof was chiefly employed in divine
worship, and in putting his family in mind of the
solemnity of the sanctuary service which they „ were
to enter upon; and in the evening his care was to
improve the sermons which they had heard, and ad¬
minister suitable instructions to the various branches
of his family, according to their several capacities.
He greatly confided in that word of promise, Train
up a child in the way he should go, and xvhen he is old
he will not depart from it. Proverbs xxii. 6. And
although he perfectly knew that he could not gi\e
them grace, he believed it bis duty to inure them to
the form of religion. Encouraged by the promise and
well knowing that human endeavours avail but little
without
M4 DEATH : A VISION. '
■ i ■ . , „ . I , . ■ ■ " - —■»
Tin* funily of lidelia characterized.
without divine influence, he was a fervant wrertler*
with God for the blessing, and had the pleasure of
seeing that his endeavours and prayers were not in
vain ; us his family, even from their younger years,
were properly restrained from the fashionable vices
which corrupt our youth, and wete perfect strangers
to the brilliance of a ball, and the irreligious enter¬
tainment of a theatre. In the disposal of his children
in niarriage, he was not so careful about worldly ad¬
vantages. as he was strictly nice in his enquiries, whe¬
ther there was a likeness in their natural disposition,
the visible appearance of real grace in the soul, and a
harmony in their religious sentiments; for he well
knew that unless husband and wife are of the same
opinion, both with regard to doctrine and manner of
worship, there is but little prospect of that union
which is so essential to mutual happiness. Fidelia he
^married to a worthy young man of but a small for¬
tune, whose name was Fide/io, a mechanical trades¬
man, who in their younger years sustained such losses
«/ O •/
in trade, as reduced him to the necessity of support¬
ing his family by the labour of his hands ; and no
labour he thought too hard to support his wife and
children, whom he so tenderly loved. But as one
siys in a certain place, it sometimes happens to a
righteous person, according to the desert of the wicked.
so it happened to Fidelia, for it pleased the Lord a
few years since to take her husband away from her
at a very short notice, to possess the heavenly diadem
to which he was appointed. Iler fervent and faithful
friend, her diligent provider being gone, she found
herself
* Gen, xxxii, 24.
DEATH: A VISION.
145
Character of Fidelia.
herself in a melancholy situation, left in an inhospi¬
table world, with three tender and beloved infants,
one of whom was but just weaned from the breast.
But her God, her faithful God, was the object of her
trust. She sensibly felt the stroke, and was humbled
under tire afflicting dispensations ; but never, never
was the grieved Fidelia heard to alledge, that the Al¬
mighty Disposer dealt hardly with her. Never was
she known in a way of murmuring and impatience to
say unto God, JFhat dost thou ?
On the other hand, she was careful to know,
whether she had not purchased the affliction to herself,
by an over-esteem for and too much dependence on
her husband ; thereby with-holding a part of her
heart from, and infringing her duty of full depend¬
ence on God. In the times of her deepest distress
she was wont thus to reason; I know, yea I am fully
persuaded, that the Lord afflicteth not willingly;
there must be necessity for it, ere he is pleased to
apply the rod. Instead of mourning as one without
hope, her principal care was, that the dispensation
might be sanctified to her advantage and growth in
grace, that she might live more upon, and rest more
fully in the Saviour who died for her. Fidelia was a
woman who knew well, how to plead a promise in
the time of need? she was always but weak in body,
but a powerful wrestler at the throne of grace; she
was shy in courting and modest in receiving favours
from man, but at the throne of God she was impor-
t tunate
DEATH : A VISION.
Jehovah a shield of protection from all enemies.
tuuate and would not take a denial. Her circum¬
stances being very low after the death of her husband,
she was brought to the necessity of living by faith in
a promising God, even for hers and her children's
daily sustenance, which I assure you is far from being
the easiest part of the exercise of faith.
Distrest Fidelia used to comfort herself, in re¬
flecting upon the regard which Jehovah has expressed
towards the poor and needy, and especially his de¬
claring, himself " to be a husband to the widow, a
father to the fatherless, and a stay to the helpless or¬
phan and thus she was wont to reflect within her¬
self, " The glorious God, who hath seen it meet to
take away my husband, hath graciously promised to
be a husband to me himself: and if he will be my
husband, as he hath said, lie will surely act the part
of the best of husbands. ' The husband's part is to
direct, defend, and provide for his spouse; and all
this the Lord hath promised he will do for the widow
who trusts in him. This is agreeable-to the tenor of
the promises in general, and in particular to that salu-
"tary word on which he has caused me to hope, where
he hath declared himself a sun and a shield to his peo.
pie. Here is light to lead and direct, here is heat
to influence and quicken me in all my languor, and
here is a shield for-safct}7, a shield of protection from
all enemies, outward and inward ; he addeth, I will
give grace to support under, and to sanctify afflic¬
tions 3 and when the work is finished, he says, I will
give
DEATH : A VISION.
147
Arguments fo. a complete reliance < n the supp rt of the Almighty.
giwe glory. This life is indeed a life of infinite wants,
but here is provision made for them all ; for it is
added, I ivill xcith-holcl no good thing. This is an
ample provision made for all my necessities. Great,
as they are, the grace of the promise is infinitely
greater. Here is consolatory supply for the most de-
sdlate widow. I will therefore trust in the Lord,
and not be afraid ; and, so trusting, I shall never be
confounded, nor shall my hope be put to shame. This
is the ground of all my confidence: he encourages
the boldness of the weak, the poor and needy, but
abhors the timidity of the unbelieving. None are
ever condemned for trusting in the Lord with a holy
boldness, in proportion to their necessities ; my neces¬
sities are great, therefore, O Lord, may my trust in
Thee be strong."—It was thus she communed with
her own heart in profitable reflections upon the pro¬
mises of God. She was likewise accustomed early
to tell her children, that now they had no natural
father, to provide for and dispose of them ■ but that
God had declared himself the Father of the fatherless,
and she hoped that He would be a father to them.
Earnestly did she recommend them to the grace and
protection of the divine Shepherd, who bears the
jambs on his arm, and nourisheth them in his bosom.
She prayed, and she hoped that God would be the
guardian of their infant years, train them up in his
own fear,, nurture, and admonition, provide for them
tbino-s necessary, and dispose of them to the glory
both of his providence and grace. Thus her daily
t 2 prayej*
148
DEATH : A VISION.
We arc never disappointed in our reliance on the providence of God.
prayers were unto the Lord, and to him were all her
cares committed ; nothing doubting, hut in the un¬
bounded beneficence of his nature he would take
special care both of her and her's.
She lived in a constant reliance on the providence
and promises of God, and was never disappointed,
notwithstanding her faith was frequently tried as with
fire ; and now she is dying, could I paint to you
the holy joys of her eievated soul, if you were possest
of all the wealth of the Indies, Novitio, you would
willingly part with it, if it were possible that you
could exchange your condition for such as her's. Art
explicit narration of Fidelias experience would be
of more use to the church of Christ, than the volumi¬
nous, elaborate works of many learned doctors, who
have not had t}ie same experience ; for there hath
been more religion in one week of her life, than in
thirty years preaching of some who are called masters
in Israel. And now, Novitio, that you may know that
God is not ashamed of the meanest of his saints, I
have a mind once more to give you a 'view of the
immaterial world; thereby you will see that the
angels of God do not despise her because of her po¬
verty.
This said, he again in his usual manner so strength¬
ened my visual ray, that instantly I saw the place
was filled with the heavenly hosts, who unwearily
ministered to the dying woman; and she, notwith¬
standing
DEATH : A VISION.
149
Triumphant Death of Fidelia.
standing in the embraces of Death, was so trans¬
ported with holy joy, that she forgot the' pains of
dying. So fervently glowed the seraphic flame in
her heart, and in such profusion the joys of ap¬
proaching eternity were poured into her soul, that
all sensation of pain seemed to be gone.'—By this
time the lamp of nature only glimmered in the socket •
she lay supinely stretched on her bed, longing and
waiting for the dissolving moment: and so long as
her voice continued articulate, she dispensed instruc¬
tions to her friends, adoring the riches of electing,
redeeming, and regenerating lovel At last, perceiving
that nature's sparks were almost extinguished, with
eyes sublimely elevated, and holy triumph smiling on
her countenance, with a voice which could scarcely
be heard, she said, " Come, Father, come ; Thou
knowest I am waiting thy command."—These were
her last words, and in a few moments after she quietly
departed, and her glorified soul joined in fellowship
with the ministers of heaven, formerly her invisible at¬
tendants. Now, swift as thought they carried her to
the blissful regions of eternal day : where she was re¬
ceived with joyful acclamations by all the hosts of the
heaven of heavens; and the ever-adorable Redeemer
pronounced her blessed, saying, " Well done, thou
good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of
thy Lord ; thou hast been faithful over a few things,
therefore thou shalt be ruler over many," On
which I thought a crown of righteousness was put
upon her head by the pierced hand of the Redeemer;
a palm
150
DEA1II A VISION.
Emulation displayed by the inhabitants of realms of light.
a palm of triumph given to her, and orders issued to
put her in possession of one of the mansions near
the jasper throne ; where she strove to out-do Mag¬
dalene in praise, and to exalt her voice even above
that of Mary the mother of our Lord. Herq was
emulation without anger, the most earnest conten¬
tion without any tincture of pride. Who should be
least in their own esteem ; who should most glorify
and exalt sovereignly free and distinguishing grace,
were the springs of all their heavenly debates-
Here Manassah vied with the sweet singer of Israel,
the man after God's own heart; the crucified Thief
with Enoch and Abraham; Ruth the Moabitess with
Deborah, a mother of Israel ; Jairus, the jailor,
contended with Paul the Apostle; and babes from
the womb claimed right to sing louder than Solomon,
the wisest of men. Here, parents strove to surpass
their children, and children to exceed the praises of
their parents ; masters their former servants, and
servants their masters : ministers their people, and
people their ministers ; and- every one urged his
claim by rational and consistent arguments. As I
was listening to the sweet contention, and gazing
on the unutterable glories of the heavenly world,
my beloved sleep departed, the unwelcome morn¬
ing rushed in upon me, and bereaved me of the
precious delights I had enjoyed in the night. So I
awoke to disappointment and sorrow, finding myself
still in the tents of Kedar, possessed as heretofors
of that unclean nature whence every evil to me pro¬
ceeds,
DEATH: A VISION.
151
Conclusion.
ceeds, and still to go burdened and groaning because,
of a body of Death whilst in this tabernacle. Yea,
after all, perhaps to be tired of this world, and yet
afraid to venture into another.
/
\
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