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doubt on the subject. It is scarcely possible for the most ingenious artist to have conceived a statue better adapted to the intended purpose; and the united talents and imagination of Brughel and Fuseli would in vain have attempted to improve it. This colossal and horrible monster is hewn out of one solid block of basalt, nine feet high; its outlines giving an idea of a deformed human figure, uniting all that is horrible in the tiger and the rattle-snake: instead of arms, it is supplied with two large serpents, and its drapery is composed of wreathed snakes, interwoven in the most disgusting manner, and the sides terminating in the wings of a vulture. Its feet are those of the tiger, with claws extended in the act of seizing its prey, and between them lies the head of another rattlesnake, which seems descending from the body of the idol. Its decorations accord with its horrid form, having a large necklace composed of human hearts, hands and skulls, and fastened together by the entrails. It has evidently been painted in natural colours, which must have added greatly to the terrible effect it was intended to inspire in its votaries. During the time it was exposed, the court of the University was crowded with people, most of whom expressed the most decided anger and contempt. Not so, however, all the Indians attentively marked their countenances; not a smile escaped them, or even a word-all was silence and attention. In reply to a joke of one of the students, an old Indian remarked: It is true, we have three very good Spanish gods, but we might still have been allowed to keep a few of those of our ancestors! And I was informed that chaplets of flowers had been placed on the figure by natives who had stolen thither unseen, in the evening, for that purpose; a proof that, notwithstanding the extreme diligence of the Spanish clergy for three hundred years, there still remains some taint of heathen superstition among the descendants of the original inhabitants. In a week the cast was finished, and the goddess again committed to her place of interment, hid from the profane gaze of the vulgar.-Bullock's Six Months in Mexico.

6

Original Poetry.

"When [Pilate] was set down on the judgment seat, his wife sent unto him, saying, Have thou nothing to do with that just man; for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him.'

'Tis night;-and silence reigns o'er Pilate's halls,
Where echoed late the ceaseless din and shout
Of revelry, at evening's pompous feast.

Immersed in sleep and wine, the mingling sounds
Of boisterous mirth and soft-toned love, have ceased.
The music and the dance are heard no more.
All now is hushed, that to the ear of day
Told the proud tale of Rome and Pilate's grandeur.
The palace, slumbering in the moonlight, seems
But a vast tomb of outstretched voiceless dead.
Save where the tread of pacing sentinel
Echoes at intervals amid the gloom

And stillness of the night, or where the voice
Of sleeping soldier mutters in his dreams
Of the fierce onset, of the midnight camp,
Or of the glories of imperial Rome.

Hark! from the inner palace comes a sound
As that of feet approaching rapidly.
See where the hazy moonbeam dimly shows,
Under the lofty colonnade, a form

Too slight for man's, and in disorder'd robes,
Whose richness speaks the wearer's noble rank.
This way she moves in haste: anon she stops,
And seems to gaze on vacancy. Once more
She hastens onward, and, with piteous look,
And with imploring hands, seems still intent
To save some hapless being, that has moved
Her soul to pity. Sure 'tis in her sleep
That thus she walks abroad in the cold night,
Regardless of its damp and piercing breath.
Who is this troubled dreamer, to whose sense
The outward world is veil'd, but that within
Is fearfully distinct in sights of pain?

But hark! she speaks:- Away! talk not of justice.
'Tis brutal thirsting for the blood of him
Whose only crime is, to have lived a life,

The godlike splendour of whose virtues, casts
A shadow o'er your vaunted sanctity.

But wherefore should he die? Say, is it thus

Ye would requite his services of love,

When he hath bent him o'er the loathsome bed
Of foul disease, and his own holy touch
Hath purified the stream of life, and sent

Its tide fresh-gushing from the throbbing heart?
Are there not those among you who have wept
In gratitude and gladness at his feet,

When his own hand hath rais'd you from the couch
Of death, again to mingle with the living?

Vengeance divine, where art thou slumbering?

His sinking frame, 'which midnight prayer hath wasted, Is crush'd beneath the cross. The very lips

His mercy hath unseal'd in miracle,

Are opened now, to scoff at him, and spit,
(Ye gods behold it!) on his sacred head.

Wretches, what hath he done ?-He calls himself,
Ye say, the son of God;-and is he not?
The mighty demigods whom Jove sent down
To rid the world of monsters, and to quell
The proud oppressor, and avenge the wrong'd,
We worship, and with copious honours heap
Their altars. But the son of your own God,
Whom He hath sent to heal the sick, to cause
The dumb to speak, to raise the dead to life,
To heal the broken spirit, and to shed
The light of peace on the bewilder'd mind,
And point you to a brighter scene than all
The vaunted glories of our dim Elysium,-
Him ye deride, ye smite, ye crucify.

How often have I long'd to throw aside
My robes of state, and humbly follow him;
And vie with the poor female band that wait
In service at his feet; and, dying, reach

That distant world, of which he speaks in words
Glowing with heavenly fire; and there repose
Among the spirits of the just, who dwell
For ever in his presence!-Stay, oh! stay

Your murderous hands, ere ye bring down his blood
Upon your guilty heads.-Pilate, wilt thou
Suffer Rome's sacred justice thus to swerve?
Give him not up to them! Stain not thy hands
With their foul deeds of malice and of blood!'

W. R

HYMN, BY J BOWRING.

O let my trembling soul be still,
While darkness veils this mortal eye,
And wait Thy wise, Thy holy will:
Wrapt yet in fears and mystery,
I cannot, Lord! Thy purpose see;
Yet all is well-since ruled by Thee.

When mounted on thy clouded car,

Thou send'st thy darker spirits down,

I can discern Thy light afar,

Thy light sweet beaming through Thy frown;
And, should I faint a moment-then

I think of Thee,-and smile again.

So, trusting in Thy love, I tread

The narrow path of duty on:

What though some cherish'd joys are fled!

What though some flattering dreams are gone!

Yet purer, brighter joys remain :

Why should my spirit, then, complain?

Review.

ART. XVIII.—A Review of the Missionary Life and Labours of RICHARD WRIGHT; written by himself. Not I, but the grace of God which was with me.' PAUL. London. 1824. 12mo. pp. 486.

AFTER the labours of nearly thirty years, Mr Wright has been induced, by the approaching infirmities of age, to retire from his arduous work to the more quiet engagements of a parish minister. He has availed himself of his comparative leisure to prepare for the public a brief history of his life and labours, which must be highly interesting to his brethren in England, and is not without its interest here. Many of the details of such a work are of course unimportant, except to those immediately connected with the circumstances, events, and persons. But all can appreciate the sacrifices of ease,

the active exertions, the moral courage, the devout zeal, the sustaining piety, which are evident throughout the narrative, and sympathize with toils undergone in so disinterested a spirit.

Mr Wright is one of those who has felt the more zeal in favour of his present views of the gospel, from having once suffered the experience of the Calvinistic faith, to which, he says, he became a convert when about fifteen years of age.

'It was proper Calvinism, not what is now called moderate Calvinism. Believing it to be the truth of God, and fearlessly following it out, I felt its genuine impressions, its heart-withering influence. I was enveloped in its horrid gloom, and passed through its dismal shades. It marred the pleasures of my juvenile years and substituted sadness of soul in the place of youthful cheerfulness, which it in a great measure destroyed. I had indeed some bright days while a Calvinist; for the light of the gospel sometimes glimmered upon me; though eclipsed it was not totally extinguished; now and then its rays broke through the surrounding darkness. Still I thank God that I was once a Calvinist, that I have known by experience what Calvinism is. It was one important step in my progress. However erroneous, its peculiar doctrines are perverted truths, and some precious metal may be extracted from the baser materials. I received some impressions and ideas among Calvinists which I still deem valuable. Probably I should never have felt so deeply the value of Unitarianism, nor have been so zealous for its promotion, hal I not passed through the intricate and perplexing regions of reputed orthodoxy: certainly I should not have been so well qualified to feel for, and instruct those, who are still wandering in that frightful labyrinth.' pp. 21,

22.

Study and inquiry led him in a few years to abandon this system, and he became after a gradual progress a Unitarian. He was soon filled with an earnest desire to communicate his views of religion to others, and spread them as widely as possible. He states at length the thoughts which passed through his mind, relative to the labours he should undertake.

'I had learned,' he says, that Unitarians were found chiefly among the more opulent and well educated parts of society, and heard it asserted that Unitarianism neither was nor could be the religion of the common people, of the poor and unlearned. It struck me that if this assertion was well founded, Unitarianism must be something very different from genuine christianity, that,

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