Not very long I deemed I should endure
These bitter sorrows; madness soon would cure
The waking agony of thought, and shed
Its moody vision o'er my soul instead.

And then my tortured spirit shrank from this,
As the worst form of helpless wretchedness.
To be that abject outcast, fearful thing,
Foaming in fury, sunk in drivelling;

It were too dreadful-worse than death would seem
The idiot's laughter, or the maniac's scream.
Another day I deemed I could not bear;

Days, weeks, and months passed on and I was there.
My restless thoughts still ran their aching round,
My eye still dead to sight, my ear to sound.
My spirit struggled on; they deemed me grown
Senseless and dull, life's mounting spirit flown.
And so it was: for when my torturers came
At last to take me thence, no sudden flame
Of joy lit up, or wonder; but I went
Stupidly forth. Along low aisles was bent
In gloomy twilight our long winding way.
Once, far before, I thought I saw the day,
Too bright to look upon. No word they spoke,
No muttered sound of life the silence broke;
Only our muffled feet, just whispered low,
Like to a light bird's tread on yielding snow.
A still door opened on a lofty hall,
My long-imprisoned eye scarce saw it all,
So large it was-or else it seemed to be-
As things look large in childhood's memory.
Within it sat grave forms of reverend men,

And groups were standing round. Some held the pen,
As to note down what passed; the table bore
Strange shapes of cunning artifice; and more
Lay here and there about. My glancing eye
Shrunk sickened from the sight-1 scarce knew why-
Through all my limbs a chilling shudder went,
As my heart whispered-" Torture's Instrument."
Another moment, and I stood before

The steady gaze of the Inquisitor.

My giddy senses reeled; the room swam round;
On
my full ears then woke a dull sweet sound,
Of many water's falling; then it seems
Like angel's voices I had heard in dreams;
Through every nerve the sense of pleasure ran,
I heard soft music-'t was the voice of man.

Few were his words, suppressed his tone,
And to unpractised eyes it seemed

That very human kindness shone

In that smooth face, and that there gleamed

A mild and softened radiance in his eye,
The painted veil aye worn by demon cruelty.

He spoke so soft a voice, it scarcely stirred
The floating air, or woke its pulses fine;
Felt by a natural instinct, and not heard,

It stole upon the sense, as liquids join
And intertwine their several substances,
That the eye cannot trace the very change it sees.

And many a one, in fear or danger's hour
Would turn to such a man, of pity sure,
As children fly to trees, when dark clouds lour-
T'were safer far their perils to endure-
Yet something in that placid look there burned,
From which an innocent child with natural loathing turned.

What is that deep philosophy which glows

In the young heart,-o'er which have never breathed The gales of earthly care? which nothing knows

Of soul-abasing shame, for whom the hours are wreathed.

With roses ever sweet, that from the brink

Of such a cold abyss with shuddering cry they shrink.

"Brother, it has been," said he,
"By many whispered, that there be
In thy glowing bosom hid,

Secrets by the church forbid;
That by thee oft practised are,

Underneath a lurid star,

Magic rites which have the power
In that dark unholy hour,

With sinful men in league to bind

The enemy of human kind."

He ceased. Yet when he ceased I scarce could know,
So soft his voice, so passionless and low.

As one who strives from restless sleep to wake,
And yet is held in his uneasy trance
By viewless bonds-I vainly strove to make
Some answer to that waiting countenance,
Whose still eye froze my spirit, as the snake
Benumbs the fluttering bird within the tangled brake.

I spoke at last. I know not what I said,

The stifling stillness weighed upon my brain, My struggling breath was choked, and through my head Rolled the dull throbbings of deep-seated pain.

A misty veil before my eyes was spread,

Until that silvery voice awoke me, and it fled.

"Sinful brother! we have heard
In every hesitating word

Which that ready tongue hath spoke,
Seen, in every glance which broke
From thy timid restless eye,

Proofs of deep iniquity.

Sinful brother, speak, confess
All thy hidden wickedness."

Again the weight of that dead silence lay
Upon my heart like lead, and nothing could I say.

Of its dark burden let his soul be eased."
'Twas all he said. The speechless figures seized
Upon my yielding limbs; a giddy trance

Stole o'er my fainting senses, and I knew Nought of what followed, till I saw the glance Of that calm eye fixed on me; heavy dew As that of death burst forth upon my brow; With sudden start I strove to move; but now The deadly work of torture was begun. In every vein keen thrills of anguish run, Strains each racked muscle. Vain were it to try To paint that dream of hellish agony.

It lasted until ebbing life

Feebly prolonged the doubtful strife.

It was not pity's voice which stole
Upon that seeming gentle soul.

But, lest the languid pulse quite cease,
And death their tortured prey release,

With eyes which drunk my agonies, the band
Withdrew reluctantly their demon hand.
I woke again within my narrow cell,
Borne thither senseless by those fiends of hell,
And left alone. I stirred my throbbing limbs
As I first woke. But oh my head still swims
To think of that first waking; how there shot
Anguish through every vein, so fiercely hot,
Pulses of living fire they seemed to be,
Waking each stiffened joint to agony.
And so I moved no more, but, save a groan,
Lay mute and motionless as things of stone.
But it was constant torture thus to keep
A forced and aching stillness, balmy sleep
Ne'er visited my eyelids; if, perchance,
Through utter weariness I slept, a trance
Of hideous, hateful visions, haunted me,
And then I moved and woke fresh misery.
There never fell upon my fevered brow
The blessed dews of rest; I know not how

Life lingered on within this wasted frame,
And I had welcomed death, as one who came
Bearing most friendly greeting; I had wooed
Unrighteously his presence, if I could.
They forced upon me, after bitter strife,
The loathed food which kept up loathed life.
How long this lasted, sooth, I cannot say,
"Twas long enough to turn to thin and grey
Hair bright and full as thine; 't was long enough
(Short seas are long when winds are foul and rough)
Deep wrinkles on my wasted brow to write,—
It seems an endless, weary, sleepless night.

Then rang despair his sullen chime,

Then was no calendar of time;

There were no days or nights to me,
It is a blank to memory:

Dim twilight of the soul it seems,
It passed as passes time in dreams,
From prayer, from joy, from changes free,
Unmarked, unknown, uneasily.

There came a change at last, my gaolers knew
How stupidly I lay; in time they grew
To deem my spirit broken, and my mind
So worn and shaken that they ne'er should find
Or fear or danger from me; and just then
There were so many miserable men
Doomed at that feast to face the fiery strife,
In very truth they wanted not my life.

273

THE DEAD SEA AND THE BIBLE LANDS.

If we lay open the map of the ancient world, with a view to study those districts which abound the most in interest and instruction, we shall fix our eyes first on Syria and Palestine, the land of promise and the adjacent countries. Comparatively small in extent, and of little political importance as the nations are now divided, they are pre-eminently celebrated in the remote antiquity of their historical associations, and in the sacred annals by which they are commemorated, as in the miraculous events of which from the earliest ages they have been the selected theatre. Whilst we anxiously desire to penetrate the shroud of mystery, to realize or dissipate the endless surmises with which tradition, invention, or actual examination has invested the subject, we reflect also with some surprise, that very few travellers have been attracted to these regions, and that the accounts they have given us are in various instances meagre and discordant. The Dead Sea, and its valley in particular, was always considered as under an enduring malediction, still desolate and pestilential, uninhabited and unproductive, bearing neither life in its waters, nor cultivation on its lands, so that no European could traverse those gloomy shores, and return to tell of the wonders he might have discovered. The recent fate of Costigan and Molyneux appeared to establish the fact, and was well calculated to deter emulation. Jerusalem, it is true, has been frequently visited, and is now become as easy of access as Paris, Vienna, or Naples. But many of the most venerable monuments in the Holy city have been incorrectly described, erroneously appropriated, confounded as to their chronology, or passed over altogether. One authority appears good until superseded by another, who claims to have investigated the matter with superior accuracy, and sets forth a process of inferential reasoning founded on fresh data, in opposition to all pre-established theories. In some instances, however, the researches of subsequent travellers have verified the labours of earlier pioneers, who were mistrusted because they were first in the field, and startled sober readers by a few marvellous details. This has been remarkably illustrated in the case the much injured Bruce, who was long classed as a fabulist in the style of Marco Polo or Sir John Mandeville, but is now found to have borne true and authentic record of what he actually saw and encountered. Like honest Tom Coryate of earlier date, he travelled alone, and had no qualified companions to corroborate or gainsay his statements. Critics indulging in the repose of an arm-chair, and whose travels

*Coryate's Travels were published in 1611. He was a great pedestrian, and walked nine hundred miles with one pair of shoes, which he hung up on his return home, as a votive offering, in the parish church of his native place, Odcombe, in Somersetshire.