From the Sailor's Magazine. THE REFUGEE FROM THE MASSACRE IN SCIO, 1823. Emerson's Tour.—H. B. M. Frigate the THE following day a strong head-wind detained us till evening, beating through the Straits of Scio, and alternately tacking from the wooded shore to the opposite coast of Chesmé and Asia Minor. The view on either shore is splendidly beautiful, but on both the association of memory cast a feeling of disgust over every object: we could not look on the verdant hills of Scio without a shuddering recollection of the slaughter which had so lately stained them, whilst the opposite and equally beautiful coast was alike detestable as the home of its perpetrators. But whilst to us the scene was any thing but a pleasing one, there was one individual on board our vessel to whom the signs of this devoted island seemed to summon up the most heart-rending reflections. This was a young Greek lady, of twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, a native of Scio, a witness to its massacre, and a destitute exile, in consequence of the murder of her family. She was now on her way with us to Smyrna, in order to place herself under the protection of a distant relative, whom she hoped, though faintly, to find still surviving. She sat all day upon the deck, watching with wistful eyes the shores of her native island. At every approach which our vessel made towards it, she seemed straining to recognise some scene that had once been familiar, or perhaps some now deserted house that had once been the shelter of her friends. And when on the opposite tack, we again neared the Turkish coast, she turned her back on its hated hills to watch the retreat I had not been aware of her being on board, as her national retiring habits had prevented her approaching upon deck during the early part of the voyage; but as she drew near Scio, feelings seemed to overcome education and prejudice, and she sat all day beneath the awning, to satiate herself with gazing and with recollection. Towards evening we drew near the ruined town, built on the sea shore, at the foot of a wooded hill, which had been the site of the ancient city of Scio. Its houses Rel. Mag.—Vol. IV. seemed all roofless and deserted, while the numerous groups of tall and graceful cypresses which rose amidst them, contrasted sadly with the surrounding desolation. All was solitude and silence-we could not discern a single living creature on the beach, whilst from the shattered fortress on the shore, the blood-red flag of Mahomet waved in crimson pride over the scene of its late barbarous triumph. At sunset the wind changed. We passed the Spalmadores and Ipsara, and, rounding the promontory of Erytheca, entered the bay of Smyrna. As we caught the last glimpse of Scio, the unfortunate lady pointed out the remains of a house towards the north of the town, which had been her father's. It was now in ruins, and, as clearly as we could discern, appeared to be of large dimensions, and situated on one of the most picturesque points of the island. Her name, she said, was Kalerdji, and her father had been one of the commissioners for collecting the revenue of the Sultan, from the gummastics of the island. On the breaking out of the revolution in the Morea, strong apprehensions of a similar revolt in Scio were entertained in the Divan, and a number of the most distinguished Greeks of the island were selected to be sent to Constantinople as hostages for the loyalty of the remainder. Amongst these were her father and her only brother; herself, her mother, and two elder sisters being left alone in Scio. Tranquillity continued undisturbed in the island for more than a year, though the accounts of the reiterated successes of the Moreots were daily stirring up the energies of the inhabitants, whose turbulence was suppressed only by the immediate dread of the Turkish garrison, in the Genoese fortress on the beach, the only strong hold in Scio. One evening, however, a squadron of three vessels, manned with Samians, entered the harbour, attacked the unsuspecting garrison, and aided by the lowest rabble of the town, succeeded in despatching the guard, and taking possession of the fortress. But the deed was done without calculation, and could be productive of no beneficial result: the fort was untenable, and on the almost immediate arrival of the Ottoman fleet, a capitulation without a blow, ensued. The news brought by the hostile armament, was the instant execution of the ill-fated hosNo. 30.-3 A 1 tages, the moment the accounts of the revolt had reached the Porte. Overwhelmed with grief for the loss of their only and dearly-loved protectors, the family of the Kalerdji spent the few intervening days in poignant but vain regret, and in the seclusion of their bereft mansion, knew nothing of what was passing in the town; where, whilst the Greeks were occupied in supplications and submission to the Capitan Pacha and the Turks, in false protestations of forgiveness and amity, the troops of the Sultan disembarked at the fortress. At length the preparations for slaughter were completed, and the work of death commenced. It was on the evening of the third day from the arrival of the Turkish admiral, that the family of the wretched being who lives to tell the tale, descried the flames that rose from the burning mansions of their friends; and heard, in the calm silence of twilight, the distant death scream of their wretched townsmen, while a few flying wretches, closely pursued by their infuriate murderers, told them, but too truly, of their impending fate. As one of the inost important in the valley, their family was among the first marked out for murder, and ere they had a moment to think of precaution, a party of Turkish soldiers beset the house, which afforded but few resources for refuge or concealment. From a place of imperfect security the distracted Phrosine was an involuntary witness to the death of her wretched sisters, aggravated by every insult and indignity suggested by brutality and crime, whilst her frantic mother was stabbed upon the lifeless corpses of her violated offspring. Satiated with plunder, the inonsters left the house in search of farther victims, whilst she crept from her hiding-place to take a last farewell of her butchered parent, and fly for refuge to the mountains. She had scarcely dropped a tear over the immolated remains of all that was dear to her, and made a step towards the door, when she perceived a fresh party of demons already at the threshhold. Too late to regain her place of refuge, death, with all its aggravated horrors, seemed now inevitable, till, on the moment, she adopted a plan. She flew towards the heap of slaughter, smeared herself with the still oozing blood of her mother, and falling on her face beside her, she lay motionless as death. The Turks entered the apartment, but finding their errand anticipated, were again departing, when one of them perceiving a brilliant sparkling ring on the finger of Phrosine, returned to secure it. He lifted the apparently lifeless hand, and attempted to draw it off; it had, however, been too dearly worn, it was the gift of her affianced hushand, and had tarried till it was now only to be withdrawn from the finger by an effort. The Turk, however, made but quick work. After in vain twisting her delicate hand in every direction to accomplish his purpose, he drew a knife from his girdle, and commenced slicing off the flesh from the finger. This was the last scene she could remember. It was midnight when she awoke from the swoon into which her agony and her effort to conceal it had thrown her; when she lay cold and be numbed, surrounded by the clotted streams of her last loved friends. Necessity now armed her with energy; no time was left for consideration, and day would scon be breaking. She rose, and, still faint with terror and the loss of blood, flew to a spot where the valuables of the house had been secured; disposing of the most portable about her person, she took her way to the mountains. She pointed out to us the cliff where she had long lain concealed, and the distant track, by which she had gained it, through a path, at every step impeded by the dead or dying remains of her fellow-countrymen. By the time she imagined the tide of terror had flowed past, when she no longer observed from her lofty refuge the daily pursuits and murder of the immolated Sciots, and when she saw the Ottoman fleet sail from the harbour beneath its crimson pennon, now doubly tinged with blood, she descended with her fugitive companions, to the opposite shore of the island. Here, after waiting many a tedious day, she succeeded in getting on board an Austrian vessel, the master of which engaged to land her at Hydra, in return for the quantity of jewels and gold which she had been able to reserve. She reached the island in safety, where she had now remained for nearly two years; but finding, or fancying, her various benefactors to be weary of their charge, she was now going to seek, even in the land of her enemies, a relation who had been living at Smyrna, but whom she knew not if she should still find surviving or fallen by the sabre of the common enemy. Her tale was told with the calm composure of oft-repeated and long-contemplated grief; she shed no tear in its relation; she scarcely heaved a sigh over her sorrows; she seemed, young as she was, to have already made her alliance with misery. She had now, she said, but one hope left, and if that should fail, she had only death to look to. It is a melancholy reflection, that this is but one instance from thousands of woes, perhaps doubly aggravated, arising from the fate of Scio. The inhabitants were the most delicate, refined, and luxurious of the East; and it is calculated that from thirty to fifty thousand fell during the three days' massacre. From the Spirit and Manners of the Age. THE HOPE OF IMMORTALITY; a Poem, in four Parts. Blackwood, Edinburgh: Cadell, London. RELIGION, in all the beauty of its holiness, presents a vast and boundless theme to the imagination of the poet:-it touches every chord of feeling in the human heart, and vibrates with every hope and fear in the human breast. We find, in early times, that thanksgivings to God were poured out in song, that the voice of inspired prophecy was delivered in the language of poetry. The whole Bible is written in the most sublime and beautiful language of poetry that can be well imagined. And poetry gathers much of its harmony and beauty from Along the glass-save where the sea-mews' Break into moving parts, the picture sweet The oars of sturdy rowers, as they ply religion. These remarks have been occasion- | In hoary line-as if a snake had wound, "The sun is sleeping on a couch of gold, Far in the west, with green and crimson And canopied with azure; round him fold On yon magnificent pillow, meets the view, And yonder is the ocean, robed in mist, A mighty blank, from which the gazer's eye Striveth, as if with power of exorcist, To call forth phantoms;-Lo! it meets the sky, We know not where-dim like futurity! And yonder smoke, which steameth from its bank, Shows where a city doth its labour ply; There goodly vessels float in many a rank, Evening! how fair art thou! but doubly fair vast, To watch thy furnace-fires in ocean sink at last! Even now the scene in light doth rise before me, Even now I feel again the youthful joy, That, like the air of heaven, hover'd o'er me, Which childish grief might dim, but not destroy; For soon, soon pass'd away that slight annoy! Thrice holy hour! when forth I wandered wide, A musing, lonely, and delighted boy. Oh! gladly would I give all manhood's pride, For yon calm nook again by glowing ocean's side! No stir is on the waters, and no sound, Save where the working tides together meet, Softly upon the face the sleeping air Comes stealing through the deep unmoving screen Of the rich jewelled furze, that every where A noiseless spectre in the air between Upon the bank, doth seem like giant votary A holy joy is floating all abroad, Bending the soul to its delicious sway, And charming, with one spell of bliss, the sod, The heavens, and yon pure waters of the bay. In the dim eastern region far away, Night, even now, puts forth her dusky wing; But still the gentle spirit of the day, Unto the Earth's fair bosom strives to cling, And, dying, doth around his sweetest influence fling." How beautiful are the three following stan We will close our extracts from this poem by the following: "All comes from God-alone, alone from God And shall it still be so? Is love bestowed, leaving a record of his worth and goodness behind. His life is a fine example of simple and genuine Christianity, and his journal affords a gratifying proof what effect religion may have upon the dealings of man with man, so as to produce the most beneficial results. From one of the letters we extract the following passage: spi-a God's precious gift, upon the soul in vain? And shall we never find a blest abode, Where all that love requireth she will gain? Still are we doomed to toil in wo and pain, That craving vast desire to satisfy? Still, still the things we love must we disdain, Or find them for our love, alas! too high? And seeking vainly still-still vainly must we sigh? No! ever blest in grief, we feel that earth Is but our dwelling for a little while; And that the poor and miserable death, That ever wraps this habitation vile, Will pass away before the fruitful smile Of a rich land that we are yet to see,Thrice happy land, where sin will not defile, Where all our vast desires fulfilled will be, And mighty love will hold eternal jubilee." We now rise from the perusal of this volume, and we do so with feelings of gratitude to the author, for having afforded us so beautiful a specimen of sacred poetry. We surely need not add any thing further in commendation of the work before us-our extracts will sufficiently show that its beauties are of no ordinary nature; did our space permit us we could multiply them--but in taking leave of the author, we hope soon to meet him again in poetry, and we can assure him that his work has raised him to a station among writers of sacred poetry, which many have toiled for long and in vain. From the Spirit and Manners of the Age. A BRIEF MEMOIR OF THE LIFE OF JAMES WILSON, (late of Edinburgh,) with Extracts from his Journal and Correspondence, written, chiefly, during a residence in Guatemala, the Capital of Central America. London. A. Panton, Oxford street. THIS little volume, unpretending as it is, will be found to contain more to interest and instruct than many a weighty tome. It is, for the most part, the plain unvarnished journal of a young man, who, amid the cares of business, and the turmoil of a merchant's life, forgot not the one thing needful. Of him, as of many another, it may be truly said "The world o'erlooked him in her busy search Of objects more illustrious in her view." Yet, with respect to him, it may be also added, that he has not passed from earth without "A young gentleman, who lives close by, was present to-day while we were at dinner; I observed something tied round his neck, a cocoa-nut tree. I asked him in English if which appeared to be a stripe of the branch of he had got a tailor's measure round his neck; upon the question being repeated in Spanish, the countenances of those present assumed, all at once, an uncommon air of gravity, and the lady of the house informed us, with much apparent seriousness, that it was a blessed branch. It is humbling to see how easily mankind is imposed upon in the matter of religion; it would appear as if nothing were too absurd to be believed, if so be it only be dignified with the name of religion. Here was a number of individuals, some of them remarkable for shrewdness and good sense in other things, who seemed firmly persuaded that a bit of withered twig, over which a sinful creature like themselves had muttered his benediction, and fixed upon it a piece of consecrated wax, would preserve them from injury from lightning. Almost every house has branches of this stuff fastened on the outside of the windows, besides having the interior decorated with a particular sort of ornament constructed of the same material." From the Evangelical Magazine. THE EVENING HOUR. The sun is slumbering on the lea, Beam o'er the sea-foam's crest. Save when in whispers soft and clear Remember they, like midnight dew, When beams the noon-day sun! That while I breathe this nether air Presume not on thy grace, To reach thy children's place Character, Strength of, 233. Cape Town, For a Slave Chapel at, 295. Christian Retirement, 312. Chalmers, On hearing him Preach, 312. Ceylon, Missions in, 361. Christian Church, Biographical History of the, Christ Expounding the Law, 376. Ceylonese, Idolatrous Dresses of the, 406. Cranmer, Last Moments of, 409. Christianity, Sheppard's Divine Reign of, 505. Carmel, Mount, 530. Dean, The Forest of, 83. Dead, The Resurrection of the, 94. Durham, Character and Last Years of the Bi- David and Absalom, 152. Dry Bones, the Valley of, 178. Domestic Life, Duties and Delights of, 211. Dead, The City of the, 407. Deliverance, Praise for, 408. Dwight's Sermons, 416. David, "A Man after God's own Heart," 439. Devil, Luther's alleged Conference with the, 462. E Enthusiasme, A Treatise concerning, 159. Ellis's Polynesian Researches, 410. Eden, Garden of, Recent Ideas on the Present Evidence, Essay on the Nature and Force of, 527. Exaggeration, On, 552. F France, Four Years in, 1. Faith, What is the one True, 12. Friend, Letters to a, 215. Francke, Biographical Notice of, 389. Fading Scene, a, 454. G God's Forgiveness, 26. Gospel, Erskine's Freeness of, 133. 1 Great Objects necessary for Great Minds, 198 券 |