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and those of the sea to crush the shellfish on which they exist with much facility.
Turtles are, like the crocodile, oviparous; and it is the parental instinct of the female, inducing her to deposit her eggs in the sand of the sea-coast, that exposes her to be captured by man. She does not manifest any care of her ova after they are laid, but abandons them on the loose sand to chance and the tropical sun, which, however, soon hatches them with his kindly rays. She scoops two or three hollows with her flippers, about a foot wide and two feet deep, making the sand fly in all directions, and in this open depression she will lay perhaps a hundred eggs, which are two or three inches each in diameter, and covered by a soft, thick, membraneous substance like wet parchment. The shores on which the turtles deposit their eggs are of an open, loose, sandy character, and hundreds of miles distant from their feeding places; they go on shore during the night, and the female generally lays three times a-year, at intervals of about a fortnight between each period. The period of solar incubation is about a month, and eight or ten days after they are hatched the young ones begin to crawl towards the sea. Comparatively few of them ever reach the watery element, in consequence of the sea fowls and various quadrupeds that prey upon them; and the fecundity of the female is therefore a wise provision of nature, in order to compensate for the destruction of the young. The tiger is one of the most active and rapacious enemies to the tortoise, and seems to delight in its flesh as much as does an alderman. Man, however, is the great arch foe of this as well as every other animal, and is more actively engaged in its destruction than is any other creature. The collection of its shells, flesh, and eggs furnish the material of constant employment to the Indians of the Orinoco, and constitute the staple of a constant commerce from South America. Turtles are caught abundantly in Cuba, on several parts of the South American continent, and in the Gallapagos Islands, where they grow to an enormous size. They are esteemed not only as a luxury by those epicures who delight in 'green fat,' but are caught as a necessary adjunct in the victualling of ships when they are on a return voyage from South America, and consequently far more of them are consumed by the seamen on the tropical seas than by the people of luxurious appetite in England. The darkness, which is chosen by the females as the season for laying their eggs, is no protection from man. The fishers watch for thein by the shore, especially on the moonlight nights, and either dispatch them with clubs as they come from or return to the sea, or they turn them quickly on their backs, in which position they are as helpless as a living creature can be. Although slow in their motions, they must be very quickly dealt with in either way, or they are apt to blind their pursuers and assailants by the manner in which they cast the sand behind them with their fins. The operation of turning over, when the creature is very large, requires the united efforts of several men with handspikes and levers, and then the huge creatures lie on their flat backs in a posture from which it is impossible for them to recover. In this way a comparatively small number of fishers may secure forty or fifty turtles in a night, and during the day they employ themselves in cutting up, salting, and otherwise disposing of their flesh and eggs. In addition to the edible portions of them, perhaps thirty pints of a green or yellowish oil will be extracted from each turtle, and this is used for burning, or as a condiment to other sorts of food. Turtles reserved for exportation are not killed, but are dragged to an enclosure, where they are kept alive, and in this state sent to England, whither they often arrive in a very healthy condition.
The turtle is chiefly in request in the southern states of America, as a salted article of food, and is much esteemed by both whites and negroes. The Caymans and fishers from the Bahama Isles proceed to Cuba with small vessels, and in six weeks they generally complete their cargoes, which they carry to the colonies on the South American shores, and dispose of to the settlers. The
green turtle is the largest of all the species, and several have been caught of a most prodigious size. Captain Dampier, the celebrated navigator, mentions one that he saw taken in the Bay of Campeachy, four feet deep from the back to the belly, and six feet broad across. Its shield was converted into a little shallop, in which a boy of about nine years of age pulled a quarter of a mile out to sea, in order to board a ship. These great green turtles are sometimes taken at sea as well as on land, in calm weather and on moonlight nights. In order to capture them, two men generally proceed from the land in a boat-one acting as a rower, the other as a harpooner. The spot where the turtle rises is indicated by a froth which appears on the surface of the water, and towards this spot the fishers hasten as rapidly as possible, in order to prevent the escape of their prey. The harpoon, which is of the same form as that used in the killing of whales, and which is very strong and heavy, is thrown with sufficient force to penetrate the shield and enter the flesh of the victim. As soon as the turtle feels the barb it dives, and the fisher, paying out line, allows it to expend its strength with its blood, and it is drawn on shore by a cable. These creatures are brought across the Atlantic in vessels fitted up for the purpose of preserving all their gustative excellencies, and are landed, at London chiefly, in anything but an inviting aspect. They are then taken to turtle-ponds, where they are kept alive, in order to supply the demands of the west-enders and civic rulers.
We all know what it is to the learner to be dragged on day by day through the dull routine cf exercises, in which a school-girl feels no particular interest, except what arises from getting in advance of her fellows, obtaining a prize, or suffering a punishment. We can all remember the atmosphere of the school-room, so ungenial to the fresh and buoyant spirits of youth. The clatter of slates, the dull point of the pencil, and the white cloud, where the wrong figure the figure that would prove the incorrectness of the whole-had so often been rubbed out. To say nothing of the morning's lessons before the dust from the desks and floor had been put in motion, we can all remember the afternoon sensations with which we took our places, perhaps between companions the most unloved by us of any in the school; and how, while the summer's sun was shining in through the high windows, we pored with aching head over some dull, dry words, that would not transmit themselves to the tablet of our memories, though repeated with indefatigable industry-repeated until they seemed to have no identity, no distinctness, but were iningled with the universal hum and buzz of the close, heated room, where the heart, if it did not forget itself to stone, at least forgot itself to sleep, and lost all power of feeling anything but weariness, and occasional pining for relief. Class after class was then called up from this hot-bed of intellect. The tones of the teacher's voice, though not always the most musical, might easily have been pricked down in notes, they were so uniform in their cadences, of interrogation, rejection, and reproof. These, blending with the slow dull answers of the scholars, and occasionally the quick guess of one ambitious to attain the highest place, all mingled with the general monotony, and increased the stupor that weighed down every eye and deadened every pulse. I know not how it may affect others, but the Lumber of languid, listless, inert young ladies, who now recline upon our sofas, murmuring and repining at every claim made upon their personal exertions, is to me a truly melancholy spectacle, and one which demands the attention of a benevolent and enlightened public, even more perhaps than some of those great national schemes in which the people and the government are alike interested. It is but rarely now that we meet with a really healthy woman; and, highly as intellectual attainment may be prized, I think all will allow, that no qualification can be of much value, without the power of bringing it into use.-Mrs Elis.
REV. JABEZ BUNTING, D.D.
FEW sentiments are so extensively diffused over the universal human mind as the love of fame. It is as general as the appetite for food, and it is as various in its tastes. In some it is a morbid, high-seasoned love of glory; in others it is the simple healthy desire of what they feel they deserve. In some spheres of life the rays of fame inhalo the brows of men with the sudden, arbitrary effusion of accident; in others the crown of its simple glory has been fashioned by an honourable and patient labour, and attained to by a slow and toilsome ascension. In our estimation of fame, then, which is nothing more than homage paid to an aggregation of general character, we ought to be careful in our examination of the basis upon which it rests; we ought to know how and from what it has been obtained or acquired, and to value it accordingly.
The warrior, by some act of ferocious courage, or by a rapid succession of startling victories, suddenly springs from the obscurity of the ranks to a high and isolated position. His fame and glory burst in acclamations from the trembling lips and palpitating hearts of awestruck admiring onlookers, who, surprised by the promptitude of his deeds, and charmed by the influences of his aggrandising successes, add to the general shout their frantic All hail.' The politician, by the revolution of an hour, strides from the seclusion and unnoted retirement of his closet to the head and front of magisterial honour. He that was but the atomical unit of an immense system of social organisation and was lost in it, stands up before his fellows on a pinnacle of renown as suddenly as is eclipsed the dynasty which he succeeds. To the soldier success is the grand element of fame. If he fails to place his heel upon the neck of his foe and to claim the deep-mouthed homage of the trump of victory, he is nothing. His career is one of chances, and ten thousand are against him winning even the fœtid, fleeting, unhealthy applause of a bloodyminded generation, whose feeble cheers must yet give place to the groans and expressive silence of posterity. Success is also the criterion of the politician's glory-success in bending to his will and in satisfying a host of partisans, who, raising him on their shoulders to the head and front of power, bend to himn in life, and after death build the monumental marble over his body.
in the acknowledged veneration of the world, and yet this venerable man has spent his long life in the cause of God and humanity. Dr Bunting is one of the venerable patriarchs of the connection of the Wesleyan Methodists, and perhaps the most indefatigable and earnest promoter of missions within the pale of that large and influential body of Christians. He began his life, and the grand purpose of that valuable life, in Manchester, where he seems to have imbibed the energy and acuteness of the man of business, as well as the devotion and courage of the minister. Zeal and ability, when allowed full and free exercise, inevitably win their way to consideration and influence among men; and those marked and invaluable qualities were soon appreciated in Jabez Bunting-they indicated a master mind capable of sustaining the highest duties of a high and holy calling, and of occupying the widest sphere of a wide field of action. From Manchester Dr Bunting removed to London, where, for the last quarter of a century, he has fulfilled a noble ministry, and given a lifelong impulse to the cause of missions.
The Wesleyan Methodists owe their origin to John Wesley, son of the Rev. Samuel Wesley, of Epworth, in the isle of Axholme, Lincolnshire. John Wesley was born in Epworth in 1703; in 1713 he was entered a scholar at the Charter House, London, where he remained seven years under the tuition of Dr Walker and of the Rev. Andrew Tooke, author of the Pantheon.' Being elected to Lincoln College, Oxford, he became a fellow in 1725, and took his degree of master of arts in 1726. The writings of the celebrated Mr W. Law, author of Christian Perfection,' led John Wesley and several of his fellow-students into the strict observance of a religious life. They partook of the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper weekly, observed all the fasts of the Episcopal Church, visited the prisons, rose at four o'clock in the morning, and refrained from all amusements. From the strictness and uniformity of their habits, the young men received, in derision, the name of 'Methodists,' which has now become the denomination of one of the most active and numerous bodies of Christian dissenters in England. In 1735 Mr Wesley made a visit to Georgia, United States, whence, after a sojourn of two years, he returned to his native country. The contumely and scorn of the high and worldly-minded, and the closing of the chapel-doors upon this remarkable man, instead of destroying his energy and influence, strengthened and extended them. In 1738 he took to the byways and the fields-went down into the dark and lowly places of life-cried to the hitherto neglected, unnoticed outcasts from the Word of God, Come all ye that are heavy laden, for His yoke is light!' and by the example of his life, and the persuasiveness of his words, he soon gathered around him a numerous and devout flock. The establishment of Methodism in England might be viewed as a revival of religion; for, amongst the poor and neglected colliers of Kingswood and the tinners of Cornwall, light and grace, hitherto unknown and unfelt, sprung up with vigour and shone with fervour.
There is a fame, however, which is neither so suddenly won nor so brilliant as either of these, but which grows like the immortelle in the green, leafy shade of obscure life, and which is as fadeless as that bright and lovely flower. There is a fame which is begotten of a life of good deeds-which the Christian wins from watching angels, who, bending down their glistening eyes from heaven upon bim, follow his footsteps of peace and love with smiles and whispered blessings through the dark labyrinthian mazes of a sinful, suffering world. They write down in the eternal book the ineradicable records of his fame; they weave for him from the glories of heaven an unfading gar-lowers of the Rev. George Whitfield, who are believers in land, and when his pilgrimage is near a close they let it fall gently on his hoary head, before they translate him to his throne in the better land.' Such fame belongs to the devoted servant of Christ, whose glory is not of himself, but of Him for whose sake he worketh and fainteth
The world's better aspirations have often muttered the deeply felt hope, would that the ideas of mankind were revolutionised,' and in none, assuredly, do they need so thorough a reform as in regard to the kind and quality of fame. The heroism that has hitherto monopolised the applause of mankind is no heroism, while the unseen deeds and almost unrecorded acts performed by the soldiers of the Cross, when looked upon with the eye of reason, rise up in gigantic glory before the homage-giving souls of the good and true, because of the humility, devotion, and selfsacrifice of which they are so full.
The Rev. Jabez Bunting does not occupy a high place
The Methodists are divided into two sections-the fol
particular redemption, or Calvinists in doctrine; and the Wesleyan Methodists, who profess the doctrine of universal redemption, or Arminianism. To the latter of these sections of this great body of English dissenters belongs the venerable and indefatigable Jabez Bunting. If the Wesleyan Methodists have been active in evangelising the poor of our own country, they have also been an example of energy and devotion in the propagation of the Gospel abroad; and Jabez Bunting has been the life and spirit, for the last twenty years, of those heroic enterprises that have gone forth again and again to the dark places of the earth with the light of Christ's glorious Gospel, and the banner of the Cross unfolded.
Twenty years ago missionary adventure was a work of Christian forlorn hope. The Moravians and Wesleyans threw themselves in the van of that work, however. From
Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand' the voice of supplication came, with all the force and earnest
ness of the Hindoo widow's wail and the poor immolated negro's cry of pain, to deliver the lands afar of from error's chain; and the devoted Moravian and the Wesleyan sped forth at the Master's call, to do his work.
When Jabez Bunting became secretary to the missions, their sphere was necessarily limited, and strong efforts were necessary to arouse attention to the calls of the heathen; but as the aspect of the darkened pagan world was again and again presented to the gaze of Christians, their hearts and hands expanded to the work. On the continent of Europe and Ireland, at this time, upwards of 12,000 people are under the cognisance of the Wesleyan Mission Board; in Asia, upwards of 8000; in the South Seas, about 30,000; in Africa, upwards of 20,000; in the We-t Indies, nearly 80,000; and in America about 30,000. Of these, upwards of 105.000 are full and accredited church members; nearly 5000 are upon trial; while 80.000 are children being taught in the mission's schools. Amongst the untrodden wilds of the north, and in the almost unexplored regions of Africa, their missionaries and catechists have set up their little tabernacles for the preaching and teaching of the word. For the furtherance of the great and noble objects comprehended under the appellation of missionary enterprise, the Wesleyan Methodist communion contribute more than any other body of voluntary contributors. The Church of England Missionary Society supports a staff of missionaries at an annual cost of about £105.000; the Wesleyan Methodists devote to the same purpose nearly £100,000, the children in the communion contributing no less than £4000 annually. The missions of this great section of the Christian church occupy a large part of the visible, and what may be almost termed the invisible, places of the earth's surface. In those stations into which civilisation has neglected to penetrate, as unprofitable and pestiferous wastes and wilds-on those shores which the ship of the merchant and the bark of the politician, the vessel of the philosopher and canoe of exploration, have not dared to touch, the missionary, armed with faith and the consciousness of his heavenly purpose, has fearlessly trod.
On the western coast of Africa, amongst the Mandingoes of the river Gambia, the Wesleyans have established four stations, with three missionaries and their assistants, who have upwards of 400 members in society, and about 400 children at the schools. South-east from this, at Sierra Leone, three principal stations, with three missionaries and thirty-five salaried teachers, speed the gospel-message, while upwards of 3000 adults, and nearly the same number of children, receive spiritual and intellectual instruction. On the Gold Coast, at Cape Coast Castle, and Ashantee, six stations have been fixed by the auxiliaries of this enterprising body of Christians; and to their progress and welfare Jabez Bunting has ever had a watchful and anxious eye. No one who has not made himself cognisant of the spirit and nature of missions can estimate the importance of Dr Bunting's connection with them. Their vitality depends upon home sympathy, home energy, and home zeal, as much as upon the more apparent efforts of the active missionary. By the ability, perseverance, and energy of Dr Bunting, the Wesleyan missions have grown from a minute and almost unseen nucleus into a great and efficient system of evangelisation.
Dr Bunting is one of the oldest and most respected ministers in the Methodist connexion. He has been elected four times as the President of the Annual Conference of Ministers; and, if it were possible, the grateful hearts of his brethren would confer upon the venerable Christian even a more marked proof of their respect and love.
If the incidents in the life of this great and good man have not been striking and illustrious, that whole life itself has been useful and glorious. If his name and image shall not be carved upon the sculptured marble of a semi-pantheonic hall, they shall live in the grateful hearts of men, and may be cherished by the posterity of the pagan, when they have been awakened from the dark night of heathen bondage into the blessed light and glory of the Lord's Canaan.
THE SAXON LANGUAGE. IT is not our purpose to offer here to our readers a formal disquisition, or philological essay, on the origin and composition of the Saxon language. Such an attempt would occupy much space. It is but intended at present to call attention to some of the more prominent peculiarities of the tongue mentioned, and which, though they must be obvious enough when pointed out, may yet have escaped the notice of multitudes who use the said form of speech daily and hourly. The first great fact to which we would call the notice of our readers is, that the Saxon-or rather the Teutonic, of which the Saxon is a pure and close dialect-shows every mark of having been a primitive tongue, that is, one originally framed by a distinct section of the human race to express their thoughts, and not a secondary mode of speech, compounded from, or based on, one or more prev ously existing. An instance of such a secondary language might easily be given. The Latin itself was of this description; and the Greek also, though to a more limited extent. However, we can find our most striking examples of compound tongues in modern days. Spain, France, and Italy, all give us but dialects of the same fundamental languages, the Latin being the great | basis (and that being founded on the Greek), with a slight admixture of Teutonic, Celtic, and (in the case of Spain) Arabic. The basial tongue being so far compound, as has been said, it follows that the derivative languages just mentioned must be mixed and compounded to a great, to an enormous degree; and that we shall in vain look in them for traces of that simplicity and force which characterise all the modes of speech originally or primarily invented by sections of the human race.
Indubitably, the first words used by untutored man would be, as far as possible, descriptive or significative, in point of sound, of the purpose which the individual had in speaking. The word hiss, for instance, is perfectly expressive of the act which it represents, as regards at once the sound and sense. So is howl, and a thousand other words of the same sort. It is our purpose in the observations that follow, then, to show on the one band how largely our own national language is stocked with terms of this description, and to prove, also, that we owe such forcible vocables almost wholly to our Saxon or Teutonie progenitors. Well was it for Britain, indeed, that the Norsemen made their various descents on our coasts, intermixing their blood so largely with that of the aboriginal British Celts; for to that intermixture, so far as buman vision can penetrate, we owe not only the force and nobleness of our language, but likewise that solidity of national character in which the pure Celts of Ireland and France are so lamentably deficient, and for which all their l ingenuity of intellect cannot compensate.
We believe that we cannot give a better idea of our present purpose than by presenting an extract, in the first instance, from an old writer, who composed in the pure Anglo-Saxon of his day, comparing it at the same time with the style of diction of a later writer of the English tongue. Our specimen of the first kind shall be taken from the Complaint of Scotland,' a lamentation over the distracted state of that his native kingdom, by John Bellenden, better known as the translator of Boece's History of Scotland.' Bellenden lived in the time of James V., and was an ecclesiastic of note and learning. In the following passage, which we modernise as much as is consistent with the preservation of its force, he represents himself to have heard wild outcries among the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air, thereby shadowing forth the contentions raging at the time among men. * Their brutal sound,' he says, 'did redound to the high skies, while the deep hollow caverns of cleughs, and rough crags answered with ane high note of that same sound that the beasts had blawn. Now, to tell truth of the beasts that made such bearing, and of the din that the fowls did, their sundry sounds had neither temperance nor tune. For first, forth on the fresh fields, the nowt made noise with many a loud low. Both horses and