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MOUNT TABOR
The Plain of Esdraelon, in Palestine, is often mentioned in sacred history, as the great battle-field of the Jewish and other nations, under the names of the Valley of Mejiddo and the Valley of Jizreel, and by Josephus as the Great Plain. The convenience of its extent and situation for military action and display has, from the earliest periods of history down to our own day, caused its surface at certain intervals to be moistened with the blood, and covered with the bodies of conflicting warriors of almost every nation under heaven. This extensive plain, exclusive of three great arms which stretch eastward towards the Valley of the Jordan, may be said to be in the form of an acute triangle, having the measure of 13 or 14 miles on the north, about 18 on the east, and above 20 on the south-west. Before the verdure of spring and early summer has been parched up by the heat and drought of the late summer and autumn, the view of the Great Plain is, from its fertility and beauty, very delightful. In June, yellow fields of grain, with green patches of millet and cotton, chequer the landscape like a carpet. The plain itself is almost without villages, but there are several on the slopes of the inclosing hills, especially on the side of Mount Carmel. On the borders of this plain Mount Tabor stands out alone in magnificent grandeur. Seen from the south-west its fine proportions present a semi-globular appearance; but from the north-west it more resembles a truncated cone. By an ancient path, which winds considerably, one may ride to the summit, where is a small oblong plain with the foundations of ancient buildings. The view from the summit is declared by Lord Nugent to be the most splendid he could recollect having ever seen from any natural height. The sides of the mountain are mostly covered with bushes and woods of oak trees, with occasionally pistachio trees, presenting a beautiful appearance, and affording a welcome and agreeable shade. There are various tracks up its sides, often crossing each other, and the ascent generally occupies about an hour. The crest of the mountain is table-land, 600 or 700 yards in height from north to south, and about half as much across, and a flat field of about an acre occurs at a level of some 20 or 25 feet lower than the eastern brow. There are remains of several small ruined tanks on the crest, which still catch the rain water dripping through the crevices of the rock, and preserve it cool and clear, it is said, throughout the year.
The tops of this range of mountains are barren, but the slopes and valleys afford pasturage, and are capable of cultivation, from the numerous springs which are met with in all directions. Cultivation is, however, chiefly found on the seaward slopes; there many flourishing villages exist, and every inch of ground is turned to account by the industrious natives.
Here, amidst the crags of the rocks, are to be seen the remains of the renowned cedars with which Lebanon once abounded; but a much larger proportion of firs, sycamores, mulberry trees, fig trees, and vines now exist.
UNA AND THE LION
She, that most faithful lady, all this while,
Forsaken, woful, solitary maid,
Far from the people's throng, as in exile,
In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray'd
To seek her knight; who, subtlely betray'd
By that false vision which th' enchanter wrought,
Had her abandon'd. She, of nought afraid,
Him through the woods and wide wastes daily sought,
Yet wish'd for tidings of him—none unto her brought.
One day, nigh weary of the irksome way,
From her unhasty beast she did alight;
And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay
In secret shadow, far from all men's sight:
From her fair head her fillet she undight,
And laid her stole aside; her angel face,
As the great eye that lights the earth, shone bright,
And made a sunshine in that shady place,
That never mortal eye beheld such heavenly grace.
It fortun'd that, from out the thicket wood
A ramping lion rushed suddenly,
And hunting greedy after savage blood,
The royal virgin helpless did espy;
At whom, with gaping mouth full greedily
To seize and to devour her tender corse,
When he did run, he stopp'd ere he drew nigh,
And loosing all his rage in quick remorse,
As with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force.
Then coming near, he kiss'd her weary feet,
And lick'd her lily hand with fawning tongue,
As he her wronged innocence did meet:
Oh! how can beauty master the most strong,
And simple truth subdue intent of wrong!
His proud submission, and his yielded pride,
Though dreading death, when she had marked long,
She felt compassion in her heart to slide,
And drizzling tears to gush that might not be denied.
And with her tears she pour'd a sad complaint,
That softly echoed from the neighbouring wood;
While sad to see her sorrowful constraint,
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood:
With pity calm'd he lost all angry mood.
At length, in close breast shutting up her pain,
Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood,
And on her snowy palfrey rode again
To seek and find her knight, if him she might attain.
The lion would not leave her desolate,
But with her went along, as a strong guard
Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:
Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward,
And when she waked, he waited diligent
With humble service to her will prepared.
From her fair eyes he took commandment,
And ever by her looks conceived her intent.
Spenser.
DANISH ENCAMPMENT
Seven miles from the sea-port of Boston, in Lincolnshire, lies the rural town of Swineshead, once itself a port, the sea having flowed up to the market-place, where there was a harbour. The name of Swineshead is familiar to every reader of English history, from its having been the resting-place of King John, after he lost the whole of his baggage, and narrowly escaped with his life, when crossing the marshes from Lynn to Sleaford, the castle of which latter place was then in his possession. The King halted at the Abbey, close to the town of Swineshead, which place he left on horseback; but being taken ill, was moved in a litter to Sleaford, and thence to his castle at Newark, where he died on the following day, in the year 1216.
Apart from this traditional interest, Swineshead has other antiquarian and historical associations. The circular Danish encampment, sixty yards in diameter, surrounded by a double fosse, was, doubtless, a post of importance, when the Danes, or Northmen, carried their ravages through England in the time of Ethelred I., and the whole country passed permanently into the Danish hands about A.D. 877. The incessant inroads of the Danes, who made constant descents on various parts of the coast, burning the towns and villages, and laying waste the country in all directions, led to that stain upon the English character, the Danish massacre. The troops collected to oppose these marauders always lost courage and fled, and their leaders, not seldom, set them the example. In 1002, peace was purchased for a sum of £24,000 and a large supply of provisions. Meantime, the King and his councillors resolved to have recourse to a most atrocious expedient for their future security. It had been the practice of the English Kings, from the time of Athelstane, to have great numbers of Danes in their pay, as guards, or household troops; and these, it is said, they quartered on their subjects, one on each house. The household troops, like soldiers in general, paid great attention to their dress and appearance, and thus became very popular with the generality of people; but they also occasionally behaved with great insolence, and were also strongly suspected of holding secret intelligence with their piratical countrymen. It was therefore resolved to massacre the Hus-carles, as they were called, and their families, throughout England. Secret orders to this effect were sent to all parts, and on St. Brice's day, November 13th, 1002, the Danes were everywhere fallen on and slain. The ties of affinity (for many of them had married and settled in the country) were disregarded; even Gunhilda, sister to Sweyn, King of Denmark, though a Christian, was not spared, and with her last breath she declared that her death would bring the greatest evils upon England. The words of Gunhilda proved prophetic. Sweyn, burning for revenge and glad of a pretext for war, soon made his appearance on the south coast, and during four years he spread devastation through all parts of the country, until the King Ethelred agreed to give him £30,000 and provisions as before for peace, and the realm thus had rest for two years. But this short peace was but a prelude to further disturbances; and indeed for two centuries, dating from the reign of Egbert, England was destined to become a prey to these fierce and fearless invaders.
The old Abbey of Swineshead was demolished in 1610, and the present structure, known as Swineshead Abbey, was built from the materials.
THE NAMELESS STREAM
Beautiful stream! By rock and dell
There's not an inch in all thy course
I have not track'd. I know thee well:
I know where blossoms the yellow gorse;
I know where waves the pale bluebell,
And where the orchis and violets dwell.
I know where the foxglove rears its head,
And where the heather tufts are spread;
I know where the meadow-sweets exhale,
And the white valerians load the gale.
I know the spot the bees love best,
And where the linnet has built her nest.
I know the bushes the grouse frequent,
And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent.
I know each tree to thy fountain head—
The lady birches, slim and fair;
The feathery larch, the rowans red,
The brambles trailing their tangled hair;
And each is link'd to my waking thought
By some remembrance fancy-fraught.
Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame,
Thou hast oozed, and flow'd, and leap'd, and run,
Ever since Time its course begun,
Without a record, without a name.
I ask'd the shepherd on the hill—
He knew thee but as a common rill;
I ask'd the farmer's blue-eyed daughter—
She knew thee but as a running water;
I ask'd the boatman on the shore
(He was never ask'd to tell before)—
Thou wert a brook, and nothing more.
Yet, stream, so dear to me alone,
I prize and cherish thee none the less
That thou flowest unseen, unpraised, unknown,
In the unfrequented wilderness.
Though none admire and lay to heart
How good and beautiful thou art,
Thy flow'rets bloom, thy waters run,
And the free birds chaunt thy benison.
Beauty is beauty, though unseen;
And those who love it all their days,
Find meet reward in their soul serene,
And the inner voice of prayer and praise.
Mackay
STAFFA
Having surveyed the various objects in Iona, we sailed for a spot no less interesting. Thousands have described it. Few, however, have seen it by torch or candle light, and in this respect we differ from most tourists. All description, however, of this far-famed wonder must be vain and fruitless. The shades of night were fast descending, and had settled on the still waves and the little group of islets, called the Treshnish Isles, when our vessel approached the celebrated Temple of the Sea. We had light enough to discern its symmetry and proportions; but the colour of the rock—a dark grey—and the minuter graces of the columns, were undistinguishable in the evening gloom. The great face of the rock is the most wonderful production of nature we ever beheld. It reminded us of the west front of York or Lincoln cathedral—a resemblance, perhaps, fanciful in all but the feelings they both excite—especially when the English minster is seen by moonlight. The highest point of Staffa at this view is about one hundred feet; in its centre is the great cave, called Fingal's Cave, stretching up into the interior of the rock a distance of more than 200 feet. After admiring in mute astonishment the columnar proportions of the rock, regular as if chiselled by the hand of art, the passengers entered a small boat, and sailed under the arch. The boatmen had been brought from Iona, and they instantly set themselves to light some lanterns, and form torches of old ropes and tar, with which they completely illuminated the ocean hall, into which we were ushered.
The complete stillness of the scene, except the low plashing of the waves; the fitful gleams of light thrown first on the walls and ceiling, as the men moved to and fro along the side of the stupendous cave; the appearance of the varied roof, where different stalactites or petrifactions are visible; the vastness and perfect art or semblance of art of the whole, altogether formed a scene the most sublime, grand, and impressive ever witnessed.
The Cathedral of Iona sank into insignificance before this great temple of nature, reared, as if in mockery of the temples of man, by the Almighty Power who laid the beams of his chambers on the waters, and who walketh upon the wings of the wind. Macculloch says that it is with the morning sun only that the great face of Staffa can be seen in perfection; as the general surface is undulating and uneven, large masses of light or shadow are thus produced. We can believe, also, that the interior of the cave, with its broken pillars and variety of tints, and with the green sea rolling over a dark red or violet-coloured rock, must be seen to more advantage in the full light of day. Yet we question whether we could have been more deeply sensible of the beauty and grandeur of the scene than we were under the unusual circumstances we have described. The boatmen sang a Gaelic joram or boat-song in the cave, striking their oars very violently in time with the music, which resounded finely through the vault, and was echoed back by roof and pillar. One of them, also, fired a gun, with the view of producing a still stronger effect of the same kind. When we had fairly satisfied ourselves with contemplating the cave, we all entered the boat and sailed round by the Clamshell Cave (where the basaltic columns are bent like the ribs of a ship), and the Rock of the Bouchaille, or the herdsman, formed of small columns, as regular and as interesting as the larger productions. We all clambered to the top of the rock, which affords grazing for sheep and cattle, and is said to yield a rent of £20 per annum to the proprietor. Nothing but the wide surface of the ocean was visible from our mountain eminence, and after a few minutes' survey we descended, returned to the boat, and after regaining the steam-vessel, took our farewell look of Staffa, and steered on for Tobermory.
Highland Note-Book.
ON CHEERFULNESS
I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth, who are subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy: on the contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.
Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, and as filled with a certain triumph and insolence of heart that is inconsistent with a life which is every moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this complexion have observed, that the sacred Person who was the great pattern of perfection, was never seen to laugh.
Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these exceptions; it is of a serious and composed nature; it does not throw the mind into a condition improper for the present state of humanity, and is very conspicuous in the characters of those who are looked upon as the greatest philosophers among the heathen, as well as among those who have been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among Christians.
If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and the great Author of our being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of these accounts. The man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind, is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and faculties of the soul; his imagination is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed; his temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or solitude. He comes with a relish to all those goods which nature has provided for him, tastes all the pleasures of the creation which are poured about him, and does not feel the full weight of those accidental evils which may befall him.
If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he converses with, it naturally produces love and good-will towards him. A cheerful mind is not only disposed to be affable and obliging, but raises the same good-humour in those who come within its influence. A man finds himself pleased, he does not know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion: it is like a sudden sunshine, that awakens a secret delight in the mind, without her attending to it. The heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship and benevolence towards the person who has so kindly an effect upon it.
When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant, habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature.
There are but two things which, in my opinion, can reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of these is the sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence, can have no title to that evenness and tranquillity of mind which is the health of the soul, and the natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness in an ill man deserves a harder name than language can furnish us with, and is many degrees beyond what we commonly call folly or madness.
Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Being, and consequently of a future state, under whatsoever title it shelters itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of this cheerfulness of temper. There is something so particularly gloomy and offensive to human nature in the prospect of non-existence, that I cannot but wonder, with many excellent writers, how it is possible for a man to outlive the expectation of it. For my own part, I think the being of a God is so little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth we are sure of, and such a truth as we meet with in every object, in every occurrence, and in every thought. If we look into the characters of this tribe of infidels, we generally find they are made up of pride, spleen, and cavil: it is indeed no wonder that men who are uneasy to themselves, should be so to the rest of the world; and how is it possible for a man to be otherwise than uneasy in himself, who is in danger every moment of losing his entire existence and dropping into nothing?
The vicious man and Atheist have therefore no pretence to cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably should they endeavour after it. It is impossible for any one to live in good-humour and enjoy his present existence, who is apprehensive either of torment or of annihilation—of being miserable or of not being at all.
After having mentioned these two great principles, which are destructive of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well as in right reason, I cannot think of any other that ought to banish this happy temper from a virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and old age; nay, death itself, considering the shortness of their duration and the advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve the name of evils. A good mind may bear up under them with fortitude, with indolence, and with cheerfulness of heart. The tossing of a tempest does not discompose him, which he is sure will bring him to a joyful harbour.
A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in the consideration of his own nature and of that Being on whom he has a dependence. If he looks into himself, he cannot but rejoice in that existence which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which, after millions of ages, will be still new and still in its beginning. How many self-congratulations naturally arise in the mind when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a view of those improvable faculties which in a few years, and even at its first setting out, have made so considerable a progress, and which will be still receiving an increase of perfection, and consequently an increase of happiness! The consciousness of such a being spreads a perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of a virtuous man, and makes him look upon himself every moment as more happy than he knows how to conceive.
The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind is its consideration of that Being on whom we have our dependence, and in whom, though we behold Him as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his perfections, we see every thing that we can imagine as great, glorious, and amiable. We find ourselves every where upheld by his goodness and surrounded with an immensity of love and mercy. In short, we depend upon a Being whose power qualifies Him to make us happy by an infinity of means, whose goodness and truth engage Him to make those happy who desire it of Him, and whose unchangeableness will secure us in this happiness to all eternity.
Such considerations, which every one should perpetually cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us all that secret heaviness of heart which unthinking men are subject to when they lie under no real affliction, all that anguish which we may feel from any evil that actually oppresses us, to which I may likewise add those little cracklings of mirth and folly, that are apter to betray virtue than support it; and establish in us such an even and cheerful temper, as makes us pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we converse, and to Him whom we are made to please.
Addison.
