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my journal, and which excited in our minds the most painful feelings. If, in these solitary scenes, man scarcely leaves behind him any trace of his existence, it is doubly humiliating for a European to see perpetuated by the name of a rock, by one of those imperishable monuments of nature, the remembrance of the moral degradation of our species, and the contrast between the virtue of a savage, and the barbarism of civilized man!

*In 1797, the missionary of San Fer nando had led his Indians to the banks of the Rio Guaviare, on one of those hostile incursions, which are prohibited alike by religion and the Spanish laws. They found in an Indian hut a Guahiba mother with three children, two of whom were still infants. They were occupied in preparing the flour of cassava. Resistance was im possible; the father was gone to fish, and the mother tried in vain to flee with her children: Scarcely had she reached the Savannah, when she was seized by the Indians of the mission, who go to hunt men, like the Whites and the Negroes in Africa. The mother and her children were bound, and dragged to the bank of the river. The monk, seated in his boat, waited the issue of an expedition, of which he partook not the danger. Had the mother made too violent a resistance, the Indians would have killed her, for every thing is permitted when they go to the conquest of souls, (à ta conquista espiritual,) and it is children in particular they seek to capture, in order to treat them in the mission as poitos, or slaves of the Christians. The prisoners were carried to San Fernando, in the hope that the mother would be unable to find her way back to her home by land. Far from those children who had accompanied their father on the day in which she had been carried off, this unhappy woman showed signs of the deepest despair. She attempted to take back to her family the children, who had been snatched away by the missionary; and fled with them repeatedly from the village of San Fernando, but the Indians never failed to seize her anew; and the missionary, after having caused her to be mercilessly beaten, took the cruel resolution of separating the mother from the two children, who had been carried off with her. She was conveyed alone toward the missions of the Río Negro, going up the Atabapo. Slightly bound, she was seated at the bow of the boat, ignorant of the fate that awaited her; but she judged by the direction of the sun, that she was removing farther and farther from her hut and her native country. She succeeded in breaking her bonds, threw herself into the water, and swam to the left bank of the Atabapo. The current carried her to a shelf of rock, which bears her name to this day. She landed, and took shelter in the woods, but the president of

the missions ordered the Indians to row to the shore, and follow the traces of the Guahiba. In the evening she was brought back. Stretched upon the rock, (la Piedra de la Madre,) a cruel punishment was inflicted on her with those straps of manatee leather, which serve for whips in that coun→ try, and with which the alcades are always furnished. This unhappy woman, her hands tied behind her back with strong stalks of mavacure, was then dragged to the mission of Javita.

"She was there thrown into one of the caravanseras that are called Casa del Rey. It was the rainy season, and the night was profoundly dark. Forests till then believed to be impenetrable, separated the mission of Javita from that of San Fernando, which was twenty-five leagues distant in a straight line. No other path is known than that of the rivers: no man ever attempted to go by land from one village to another, were they only a few leagues apart.

But such difficulties do not stop a mother, who is separated from her children. Her children are at San Fernando de Atabapo; she must find them again, she must execute her project of delivering them from the hands of Christians, of bringing them back to their father on the banks of the Guaviare. The Guahiba was carelessly guarded in the caravansera. Her arms being wounded, the Indians of Javita had loosened her bonds, unknown to the missionary and the alcades. She succeeded by the help of her teeth in breaking them entirely; disappeared during the night; and at the fourth rising sun was scen at the mission of San Fernando, hovering around the hut where her children were confined.

What that woman performed,' added the missionary, who gave us this sad narrative, the most robust Indian would not have ventured to undertake. She traversed the woods at a season, when the sky is con. stantly covered with clouds, and the sun during whole days appears but for a few minutes. Did the course of the waters direct her way? The inundations of the rivers forced her to go far from the banks of the main stream, through the midst of woods where the movement of the waters is almost imperceptible. How often must she have been stopped by the thorny lianas, that form a network around the trunks they entwine! How often must she have swam across the rivulets, that run into the Atabapo! This unfortunate woman was asked how she had sustained herself during four days? She said, that exhausted with fatigue, she could find no other nourishment than those great black ants called vachacos, which climb the trees in long bands, to suspend on them their resinous nests. We pressed the missionary to tell us, whether the Guahiba had peacefully enjoyed the happiness of remaining with her children; and if any repentance had

followed this excess of cruelty. He would not satisfy our curiosity; but at our return from the Rio Negro we learnt, that the Indian mother was not allowed time to

cure her wounds, but was again separated

from her children, and sent to one of the
missions of the Upper Oroonoko. There
she died, refusing all kind of nourishment,
as the savages do in great calamities."
pp. 233 238.

The remainder of this volume is occupied chiefly with remarks on the cannibal propensities of some of the tribes which inhabit this continent, with an account of the author's progress up the rivers, whose banks now became clothed with such luxuriant vegetation, that the travellers were forced to row many a league along the shore before they could find space enough for a few persons to raise their tent; and lastly, with some curious observations on what has been called the bifurcation of the Oroonoko. The author's observations on all these subjects are characterised by his usual ingenuity and extensive research. But the great fault of the work is, that it has too much of all this, and that, instead of perusing an account merely of what the author saw and examined, the reader is obliged to go over with him all he has ever read that has any relation to the subject; so that he knows not frequently whether it is the wonderful country he is called to admire, or the wonderful variety of that information which is possessed by him who has undertaken to describe it.

In a future number we shall give some remarks on the remaining volume.

THE FATAL ERROR, A TALE.

It is in vain that we view the concerns and pursuits of mankind in the aggregate, and pronounce them the feeling of a moment, the pageant of an hour, the fading and fruitless occupation of a day.

There are times when we must enter into the detail, when we must trace the numberless windings and ramifications of individual interest, with a warmth which belies such contemptuous expressions; when the emotions of common humanity exert an engroseing power over our sympathies; and we must have lived long in the feeling and the practice of a frigid philoso

phy, ere we can look, for a week to-
gether, on the affections and interests
of men, with a heartless and unmoved
tions some days ago, when, in one of
superiority. Such were my reflec-
the public walks, I looked upon the
city at my feet, teeming with its busy
thousands. I thought of the diversi-
ty of feeling which, within that space,
the necessities, or the amusements, or
the misfortunes of our lot, called in-
to action.

number and the extent of those mu-
I began to imagine the
tual dependencies, which bind toge
ther such a large portion of society,
it was overwhelming.
but, like the contemplation of eternity,

His

It was about noon, and the walks glers, who seemed, like myself, altoge were deserted except by a few strag ther isolated from the active world. modest but confident air; there was One of these approached me with a something of sympathy in our solitude, and apparent state of mind, which gave us a sort of right to the conversation of each other, and I experienced little of that surprise I should have felt, at any other time, on being accosted by a perfect stranger. Besides, there was something highly interesting in his appearance. age, and the expression of his countenance, told that he had seen and felt much time had passed over him with under a load of years which many have no light step, for he seemed crushed borne with comparative ease. The minds of such persons generally pos firmness in acting, unknown to those sess a strength of determination and a who have always been fortunate. Their thoughts, like an army which has disputed every inch in its retreat before an almost overpowering enemy, gather themselves up at last into their own fortress, and act with the persevering courage of deliberate despair. This observation received an additional proof in the present instance. After a little preliminary conversation, he gave me an outline of his history. He had been brought up to the management of a small farm, which his father rented a few miles east from Edinburgh. There he remained after his father's death, and by hard labour had maintained in a decent way 'his mother, a wife, and two children. The elder of these, a son, he determined to educate for the church, with an ambition honourable to the feelings, but

Her

frequently hurtful to the fortunes, of our peasantry. In the course of providence, he had successively followed his mother and his wife to the grave, but the last stroke was the heaviest, when the hope of his declining years fell a victim to disease, when he was destined to watch the lingering decay of him whose opening genius had promised to be an honour to his old agethe gradual melting away of his fondest expectations. His son died; and the prospect was closed for ever. A daughter alone remained to cheer his solitude. Her amiable temper frequently alleviated his distress, and sometimes for a moment he would sink the remembrance of the past in the enjoyment of the present. When we consider the jealousy with which a person watches over his last, his only possession, the one object of joy that can interrupt the dreary unity of grief, we cannot wonder that he admitted, with reluctance, the addresses of a professed lover to his child. presence and voice were the talisman by which he could call up the shades of other and happier days-the melancholy pleasure of remembrance; and he could not bear to think that she should be borne from his embraces by one who was not a resident near his own home. A further intimacy with Jeanie's lover did not tend to lessen this reluctance. With a penetration which experience in the ways of the world alone can give, he saw through the veil of hypocrisy he assumed, and found at bottom a total want of sound principle. The fair exterior, how ever, of Jeanie's admirer easily gained upon her simplicity, and she was captivated with the air of romantic vir tue, which he took care to throw around all his actions. Some expressions of equivocal tendency which he employed on one occasion, though their meaning was easily explained away to the credulous girl, produced in the old man a rooted aversion to his company and proposals; he was accordingly forbidden the house. From this moment a change was evident in Jeanie's conduct, and though she still looked upon the attending her father as a pleasure, yet she had tasted enjoyments more congenial to the gaiety of youth; the whispers of love and sentiment were to her more agree able than the querulous tones of age even in a father; besides, she considered

the last act of parental authority as a piece of decided tyranny. While she was secretly and almost unconsciously entertaining indignation, at what she conceived to be an unwarrantable restraint, letters from her lover, who had gone to Edinburgh, came to inflame her mind. These represented her father as an unreasonable old man, whose relish for the enjoyments of this world was gone, and who, on that account, could not bear to see others innocently happy. When young Johnstone supposed her sufficiently prepared by a series of letters in this strain, he proposed that, on pretence of visiting a relation, she should come to Edinburgh, where they would be privately married, and whence they would immediately return to the house of her father, who, after feeling for a time the want of her company, and finding that his opposition was fruitless, would doubtless be too happy at her going back, to remember the supposed impropriety of their marriage. In a moment of excitement, she took theill advised step. Under the pretence already mentioned, and with only enough of money to bear her expences to Edinburgh, she set out, filled with hopes of every thing being well at last. She had been about five weeks from home when Johnstone's letters fell by accident into her father's hands. The languor he had experienced since her departure was quickly changed into feelings of the most acute description; and he had arrived in town the night before we met, full of anxiety for his daughter's safety. In the morning he had inquired after Johnstone, and discovered him to be a person of very doubtful character, and that he had suddenly set off for London under circumstances of great suspicion. Of his daughter he could obtain no intelligence, and he had wandered forth without having formed any resolution, when we had the fortune to meet. The description which he gave me of his Jeanie, as he called her, struck me forcibly. Since the date which he assigned as that of Johnstone's departure, I had seen such a one stealing every evening in the twilight into an obscure court opposite my window. There was altogether a delicacy in her appearance which ill suited the meanness of her habitation, while the faded colour of her cheek reminded me of her who "pined

in thought." Ever passing my window at the same hour and in the same dress, she had become to me a subject of periodical interest, and I felt strangely disappointed when for some nights past she had ceased to make her appearance at the usual time. Impressed with the idea that Jeanie and the object of my frequent conjecture were one and the same, I mentioned the circunstance to the old man, and we proceeded together to the house I had so often marked. The moment I crossed the threshold, my heart sunk within me; there was all around that oppressive stillness which accompanies death, and an awful presentiment took possession of my soul. We were admitted by a decent looking woman, who, on being asked whether Jeanie Eastdale was there, replied, "Aye, she's here, and yet she's no here; I trust her better pairt is in a better place." On this the unhappy man rushed past us into the middle of the apartment, and cast his eyes wildly around till they rested on the lifeless remains of his daughter. She, I was informed, had taken lodgings there, on her discovering the character of Johnstone and the nature of his regards for her; and here she had been obliged to stop in hopes that her needle would procure for her the means of returning home, but before that could be done, she had incurred a debt of about two pounds. In order to pay this she suffered privations, which, together with her disappoint

ment and disgrace, had brought on a fever which cut her off in the very blossom of her days. She had written once to her father, and entrusted the letter to a carrier, but it had never reached the place of its destination, and the apparent neglect and unforgiveness of a parent had contributed in no small degree to the melancholy event.

In this narrative there is nothing new to excite a jaded appetite, nothing elegant to please a fastidious taste; but surely there is much that is interesting to touch a feeling heart. O! I shall never forget the look of that hapless father as he viewed his "all too luckless child." He has one only consolation-she died virtuous. But why have I entered on the greatness of his griefs, or the slenderness of his consolations? Will they be made to feel, who look with listlessness on the spectacle of misery imploring their pity in the speechless language of its own dejection? Will they open their bosoms, who have armed themselves against the impulses of nature by the expedients of heartless speculation? Will those orators confess their real sentiments, who, in the pomp of their haughty and uncandid declamations, have fixed the stamp of insignificancy on the pursuits of human life and the workings of human affection? No! but the benevolent man will give full scope to his feelings, and he will find himself the better for it. V. V. V.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

NAPOLEON. (From the French.)

THE following is a pretty correct version of one of the numerous poems on the Death of Napoleon, at present in circulation at Paris. It is a curious proof of the fond and devoted attachment with which the memory of that Mighty Murderer" is still cherished by his deluded followers.

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NOBLE spirit, hast thou fled,

Is thy glorious journey sped,
Thy days of brightness numbered,—
Soul of dread sublimity!

Hast thou burst thy prison bands,

Twin'd round thee by coward hands,

Hast thou fled to other lands,

Where thou must-thou wilt be free?

Tyrants! cowards! mark the day,

Even now 'tis on the way,

When your names, to scorn a prey,

Shall live with endless infamy!

Hark, 'tis victory's deathless knell!-
Lodi shall remember well!-
Austerlitz! Marengo! tell

Of his glorious chivalry!

Tell his deeds by field and flood!
Witness river, mountain, wood!
Show his path of fire and blood,

That burned behind him gloriously!

Alas that hero's life should close
In languid, fameless, dull repose,
Far from the contest that bestows
On mortals immortality.

Alas that he, the great, the brave,
Should fill a hermit's bloodless grave,
Where never rolled the hallowing wave
Of battle and of victory!

He should have died on bloody field,
Where column after column wheel'd,
Where cannon roar'd and charger reel'd,
Amid destruction's revelry.

He should have laid his glorious head
Amid the wreck himself had made,
Ten thousand corpses round him spread,
The flower of all his enemy,

Spirit of undying name,

Endless honour thou shalt claim,

Whilst thy foes unknown to fame,
Shall weep in cold obscurity !

Glory's hallow'd light divine

Ever on thy head shall shine,

And valour's heart will be thy shrine,
Thy portion vast futurity!

X. X. X.

THE PEDLAR BOY.

MR EDITOR,

The following ballad is founded on a late very affecting circumstance which took place in the county of Dumfries. If you think it worthy of a place in your Magazine, it is entirely at your service.

O'ER Eskdalemuir, by Eskdale's stream,

Who sauntered blythe along?

'Twas Elliot, the poor pedlar boy,
That hummed his cheerful song.

He was a cherish'd child of love,
And o'er his cradled head,

How many fervent prayers were pour'd,

And tears of fondness shed.

Health mantled on his blooming cheek,

Hope sparkled in his eye,

Till fever banished health and hope,
But Elliot did not die.

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