and yet Voltaire, for all that, was not gay,—at least, in the French sense of the word. The open, boisterous, good-natured laugh sometimes visited Béranger; but his mirth is almost always full of bitterness; it is a sting, a keen, double-edged sword. The infection of such hilarity is easily caught, we confess; and when the poet bursts out, you soon hear the echo answer in every direction; but the secret impression which the reader feels is not an agreeable one; as the countenance lightens up, the heart bleeds; it seems as if the lash of an avenging whip was sounding above our heads. One short specimen will give an idea of Béranger's raillery,-sarcasm, we should say : L'intolérance, front levé, Les Protestantes n'ont point trouvé Les philosophes aussi Déja sentent le roussi...... The French popular chansonnier reminds us of Montaigne: it is the same spirit, the same strange combination of looseness and heroism, enthusiasm and irony, scepticism and conviction. But Béranger and Montaigne have both alike inherited this tendency from the ancients. We compare them to those beautiful relics which have survived the destruction of the Parthenon, and which recall to our memory Grecian mythology in the midst of Christian civilization. THE SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS OF FALSE RELIGIONS, POPERY is not the contrivance of any man, or set of men. It is the native religion of the corrupt human heart. It is what men naturally run into, and to which Satan urges them; so that, if there be any contriver, it is he; and it has been well termed his master-piece. In order to produce Popery, he had not to withstand the propensities of the human heart, but to fall in with them, and to give them a direction, modified according to times, and places, and circumstances. And this is evident from the striking resemblance which all false religions bear to each other in essential points. They may differ in name. One may be called Christian, another Mahommedan, another Hindoo; but look at them attentively, and you discover the same features. They are all self-righteous. They all make salvation ultimately depend on the merit of man. They all place religion in external things, and suppose the benefit to flow from the outward observance. They all affect mystery. They all exalt the priesthood. They all exhibit a strange mixture of severity and licentiousness. And almost all make use of images. I may add, they are all persecuting. The errors of Popery do not spring from it, as a system; but the system itself sprang from the evil bias of the human heart, and is only one of the forms in which that evil bias manifests itself. What is in your own breasts, if not watched and guarded against, may make you Popish in spirit, while you inveigh against Popery. For under the name of Protestant or Church-of-England man, or orthodox or evangelical Churchman, or evangelical Dissenter, the same principles may be at work, and, not being suspected, may all the more securely form the same character.-Rev. John Fawcett. REMINISCENCES OF A MISSION TO THE MYSORE. BY THE REV. WILLIAM ARTHUR. CHAPTER VII.-THE RETURN. (Continued from Vol. II., page 1201.) THE work of our Mission was proceeding peacefully, when one Saturday night, the eldest child of my excellent colleague, Mr. Male, was seized with croup. Medical aid there was none within two days' journey. During the Sabbath night, the child died, and we buried him the day following. On the next morning my eyes were slightly inflamed, and incapable of reading. In a few days the inflammation disappeared; but the weakness continued. After a month had passed, hoping for advantage from a change, I joined Mr. Squarebridge at Coonghul. We spent a happy week in brotherly intercourse, in preaching to the Heathen, and in praying for their conversion. On the day fixed for my return, we came to Heboor, a large town lying between Goobbee and Coonghul, where we spent the morning in preaching, and intended that in the evening each should return to his station. In the afternoon a messenger brought the painful news that Mr. Male's only remaining child, a little girl a few months old, was alarmingly ill with the same disease that had carried off her brother. We started instantly, and rode fast, praying that the Lord would spare this second blow to hearts already wounded. On nearing the Mission-house, we passed the grave of the little boy: beside it two men were digging another. A few months afterwards, a breathless messenger presented a note from Coonghul. It informed us that the cholera, then raging in the place, had seized Mr. Squarebridge. Mr. Male instantly hastened to join him. The next morning we learned that a brother most dearly beloved had passed from the fellowship of our toils to that of the Redeemer's glory. The affection of my eyes continued to resist all efforts for its removal. Perfect rest from study, the best advice in Bangalore and Madras,* and the salubrious air of the Neilgherrie-Hills, all failed to make the least impression. The medical men unanimously declared that I must leave the country, predicting a certain recovery in England; but also insisting that a return to the tropics would be followed by a relapse. On April 20th, 1841, I embarked at Madras, bidding farewell to the land where I had hoped " to spend and be spent" preaching Christ. My feelings at the time I find thus expressed in a letter to a relative, written on board:-"“You may think that it savours little of affection to say, that I left the shores of India, and turned my face toward home, with the deepest regret. This, however, did not arise from any want of attachment to home or friends; but the people of my Mission had become inexpressibly dear to me: I saw their woful need of the Gospel, and longed to spend my life in making it known to them. Gladly would I have resigned every hope of seeing in this life a single relation, had the Lord only counted me worthy to preach among the Gentiles the unsearchable riches of Christ. But his will was otherwise." Our ship formed a strong contrast with the one in which I had gone out. * Missionaries owe a deep debt to the medical officers of the Indian army; who, in the most generous way, give them their best attentions without fee. I shall ever remember the kindness of Mr. Smith, Mr. Hay, and the late lamented Dr. Lane. Small, old, and of unpromising appearance, she obtained passengers only because it happened that there was no other vessel for England at the time. My cabin measured five feet eleven by four feet six, with an aperture of about six inches in diameter for light and air. Here were accommodated bed, toilet, and clothes for a voyage of (it was expected) four months. The straitness of the dimensions ensured this advantage, that you always put a thing in its own place, because there was no other. In temperate weather one was very comfortable; but in the tropics it was otherwise, and to remain long with a closed door was impossible, especially at first when the place was scented by a rich coat of fresh white paint. Our party consisted of Mr. Beauchamp, a civilian proceeding to the Cape for his health; Mr. M'Dowall, a fine young officer of cavalry, suffering from diseased liver; Dr. Boeke, of the Danish garrison at Tranquebar, returning to Europe with a constitution shattered by cholera; and two orphan children of an officer lately deceased. A young man of highly respectable connexions was a steerage passenger. The Captain also had on board his wife and a little daughter; the former of whom was suffering from dysentery, which had attacked her at Madras. For the first week the air was almost still, with a cloudless sky, and vertical sun; the heat was extreme; but the sea appeared to revive us all, while the Captain's wife and Mr. M'Dowall observably improved. At length a good breeze relieved us from the intense heat, and the discomfort of inaction; but, at the same time, made the disclosure, that our ship was a most wretched sailer, and, moreover, leaky. With regard to the former, the Captain assured us that, "though she was slow, she was sure ;" and, with regard to the latter, that we need apprehend no danger, for the leak was "all in the upper seams." We were very soon led to suspect that we should have no more reason to congratulate ourselves on the commissariat of our good ship than on her speed and tightness. One day, while seated at dinner, we heard "Ned" repeatedly called with such emphasis, that it seemed impossible that any one on board should fail to hear, whether asleep or awake. “Ned" did not answer. During the morning the Second Mate and several of the men had been in the after-hold stowing the ship's stores. The Chief Mate, apparently suspecting that "Ned" was among the stores, suddenly started from the table, and dashing down a hatch, soon emerged, dragging with him a tall, lumbering young sailor, who was evidently intoxicated, and whom he was greeting in terms of the least imaginable suavity. "Ned" had scarcely gained the deck before we heard a violent struggle. To exonerate himself, he declared that the Second Mate had given him the spirits, whereupon that officer struck him, and, in return, received a very unhandsome black eye. It proved that he had intoxicated himself and every man on board but two or three. He was degraded on the spot, and ordered to go before the mast,* which order he peremptorily refused to obey. In the evening we had a second disturbance, between the Captain and a quiet, inoffensive sailor, who had fallen into the same snare as the others. The Captain upbraided "Jim" for being drunk ; "Jim" retorted by a remark not complimentary to the Captain's abstinence; and immediately ensued a hand-to-hand contest. "Jim" tore the Captain's shirt off his back; but the Captain hurled him bodily down the after-hatch. A man was sent down after him to put him in irons, who, during the operation, moralized for our comfort, by saying, *To take the place of a common sailor. "A pretty mess we shall be in if a squall takes us, and not a hand to furl a sail." Mercifully, we had no squall. In the morning the men were "called aft :" in the presence of Mr. Beauchamp and myself, the Captain explained the aggravated character of their offence; at his request, Mr. Beauchamp read the ship's articles, in which they had promised good conduct. We then said a word or two, urging them to observe the articles in future; after which "Jim" was removed from irons, and they were all pardoned but the Mate, against whom the sentence of degradation was confirmed. He persisted in refusing to go before the mast, and consequently remained idle. The ship's articles apprized us that her registered tonnage, instead of four hundred, as had been advertised, was two hundred and sixty; that the crew shipped in London, Mates, men, and all except an apprentice, had deserted at Van Diemen's Land; and that of our present hands only three were able seamen. The others were various one was a joiner, another a barber, another a butcher. The whole voyage had been disastrous. Sailing from London for Launceston, (V. D.,) with a full complement of passengers, the passage had been spent in wretched disputes, and terminated by being driven ashore near their port. The vessel was saved, but none of the crew waited to take their homeward passage in her. She was ordered to the Burmese coast for a cargo of timber; but after several adventures among the Nicobar Islands, found herself on the west side of the Bay of Bengal instead of the east, at Madras instead of Moulmein, two ports as far apart as Plymouth and Lisbon. A carpenter had been shipped at Launceston, who was accompanied by his wife while they lay at Madras intrigues and disputes arose, during which she leaped overboard at midnight, and was seen no more. Her husband left the ship, which, leaky as she was, thus remained without a carpenter. From the first, we had two services every Sabbath. The state of my eyes disabled me from reading; but my excellent fellow-passenger, Mr. Beauchamp, admirably performed that part of the service. The men usually heard with attention; but their ignorance and thoughtlessness were lamentable. The first Monday evening of the voyage, seeing them at tea, I went and entered into conversation. "Ned," who has already been introduced, said, "We was just a talkin' about your sermon, Sir; and Tom P." (for we had three Toms)" says as how you said it was never too late to repent; and so he says we need'nt trouble our heads about it; it'ill be time enough any day. Now I says, that what you meant was, that the sooner we do it the better for us." "Yes," replied Tom, smiling incredulously, "Ned says he does it every day." Turning to Ned for his explanation, he said, with unusual gravity, "Well, Sir, the last time I was at home, my mother took me to the Methodist chapel, and ever since then, every night when I turns in, I says a prayer; and so, you see, Sir, I clears off as I goes on." Poor Ned evidently thought that he thus obeyed the call received at the Methodist chapel, and took all needful steps for his salvation. They paid much attention to my remarks, and at all times were willing to be instructed. The convalescence of the Captain's wife soon proved to be deceptive: her disease made rapid progress; and Dr. Boeke, who paid all possible attention, found such deficiency in both the medicine-chest and the Steward's pantry, that he had neither the remedies nor the cordials necessary. She died; *Summoned to the quarter-deck. and a melancholy death-bed it was: by it I watched, and prayed, and mourned. We committed her to the deep with heavy hearts, fearing that we should soon have other burials. Shortly before her death, the Captain had fallen alarmingly ill; and about the same time Mr. M'Dowall had a frightful relapse. The illness of the latter gradually assumed a fatal aspect; that of the former exhibited unaccountable fluctuations. Mr. M'Dowall was "the only son of his mother, and she a widow." Almost to the very last, he anticipated recovery: only a few days before his end, he said to me, "I do not feel like a dying man." This very expectation of life made more striking the evidences which he gave of sincere repentance. From the first he showed tenderness of heart, and readily heard of the things of God. Mr. Beauchamp was unremitting in his attentions, and most happy in his influence. He lent him Legh Richmond's "Annals of the Poor,” which he eagerly read, and said, with much simplicity, “I feel just as that young cottager felt." I can see him now, as he lay on his couch pale and feeble, turning on me a look of timid anxiety, and asking, "Do you think there is any hope for me?" Gradually his conviction of sin, his sorrow for the past, his thirst for mercy became stronger; and at length gave place to a sober, but most cheerful, reliance on the Saviour's blood. Still anticipating life, he spoke with dread of its temptations; and, with a pleasing distrust of his own strength, expressed his earnest hope that God would give him grace to resist the world, and follow only Christ. When convinced that all prospect of recovery was passed, he peacefully accepted the alternative, and continued to rest upon Christ, cherishing sweet hopes of heaven. I watched by him the last night: he lay still as death, and from moment to moment I waited to see the end. There was no sound but the ripple of the waters as the ship glided through: the lamp, agitated by the motion of the vessel, cast a wavy light on his wan features, which, in every interval of consciousness, quietly beamed with hope, and even in those slumbers, so like death, and so near it, were sweetly peaceful. Separated only by a thin partition, and watched over by a sailor, lay the Captain at the point of death. I occasionally went in during the night: there lay he who had so lately been strong, incapable of life's least action, utterly insensible, and occasionally emitting a childish whine. In the one cabin and in the other the sufferers were at the very brink, and none could tell which would first be launched upon the viewless ocean. Just as I was alternately watching the dying looks of the young soldier, and the morning light coming in at the cabin window, my fellow-watcher came to say, that the Captain was no more. About noon we committed him to the wide grave, in which a fortnight before we had laid his wife: his little girl was with us to see her father disappear in the same waters where her mother had so lately gone. We had but just returned from this mournful scene, when poor M'Dowall passed away, to use the words of his final message to his mother," in hope of everlasting life." “In sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection," we watched him into the peaceful wave; and felt that the joy of that sure hope gratefully lightened a dark and cloudy day. Such a state of feeling had unhappily existed between the Captain and his officers, that when he became ill, he would not permit the Mate to use his chronometers, which he kept in his own cabin. We soon discovered that they had run down. All who know anything of navigation are well aware that, without a chronometer, it is impossible to ascertain your longitude at sea. However certain of your latitude, the chronometer alone can enable you to determine whether you are nearer the Cape of Good Hope |