Admet. The dead at least shall ne'er dishonoured be. Her. Not doing this, believe me, thou wilt err- Her. Knowing what thou canst know not,-still I plead. Her. Hast thou thy charge? Admet. Her. I have. Preserve her then. And deem no worthless guest the son of Jove; Look on this face (unveiling Alcestis,) and see if to thy wife Admet. Ye Gods, what shall I say, wonder unhoped! Or does some cruel vision mock my gaze? Her. Thou mayest, for all thine heart could wish is thine. Called from despair, do I possess thee still? Till ceremonies due all claims reverse, Of earth's dread gods, and the third morn arise; Tis time that hence departing I perform. Alces. Remain with us, and share once more our hearth. And now throughout our kingdom we command For since, with more than former blessings crowned, Thus ends this truly graceful and interesting drama. The passages we have hastily translated will enable the reader, in some measure, to judge of its character, but we must, at the same time, warn him against forming a general opinion of its merits from the parts thus laid before him. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that they fall very far below the original in merit; a circumstance, owing as well to the inability of the translator to do justice to his subject, as to that difficulty of preserving minor beauties of expression and sentiment, which is always felt in transferring the language of genius into a different tongue. The reader of Shakspeare will, no doubt, be struck with the similarity between the close of the Alcestis and that of the Winter's Tale; and, indeed, if a comparison between the latter scenes of both dramas were instituted, there would appear, we apprehend, but very little difference between the power of the Greek and English tragedian. Here, however, the parallel must cease: and to extend it to their collective writings would be the part only of a blind prejudice in favour of every thing ancient, or of a total want of the perception necessary to determine in what the true merits of a dramatic author consists,-for with all our admiration of the melody and pathos of Euripides, or the fiery energy and wonderful imagination of the great father of tragic literature, we must at once concede, (and at the present day it is rather a trite concession,) that the names of Shakspeare, and those of his great compeers forming the galaxy of talent, which distinguishes the Elizabethan era, rank as far above those of the ornaments of the Attic stage, as the more quiet and regulated, but often affecting works of the latter, are entitled, in their turn, to claim precedence over the coldly glittering diction, and stately formality of Racine and Corneille. It is not, however, our intention at present to enter into a comparative estimate of the merits of the dramatists of ancient and modern times. This has already been done on many previous occasions, and by far abler judges than we can pretend to be. We have simply wished to direct a more general attention to a production of older days, at present much less known, and less highly estimated than it deserves to be. The English reader may not be displeased at obtaining an insight, however slight, into one of those productions, which once raised the literary reputation of Greec to an eminence, from whence, through a long succession of ages it looked down in unrivalled supremacy upon the efforts of the rest of the world, while the classical scholar, who has has formerly, in the course of his reading encountered this witness to the refined taste of antiquity, on which time, as if in respect to the excellences which pervade it, has laid so gentle a hand, will, perhaps, feel some degree of pleasure, while the reminiscences of his youthful days are awakened afresh by the subject we have been considering. In this, indeed, classical literature has an advantage which no other studies possess. It is closely linked with all the associations of our boyhood, with those joys which, though long past, continue through the medium of memory to exercise a scarcely diminished influence upon the heart, and those sorrows which time has since softened down to sources of pleasure, in the same manner as distance deprives of their ruggedness, and reduces to grace and uniformity, paths, which, when we were compelled to traverse them, we found difficult and tedious. We cannot open a volume, or hear a favourite passage recited, without the recollection of some friend, whom the tide of years and circumstances has since swept from our side, of some event which, however unimportant we may deem it now, was then capable of exciting our deepest interest, or of some one of the many visions of hope, which as they "come like shadows" in the days of yonth, so depart at a sub. sequent period, before the wand of that stern and inexorable exorcist, -- Experience. Under such circumstances, it is not to be wondered at, if we sometimes invest the works of the ancients with a degree of adventitious merit, and regard them with a reverence which they may not fully deserve, and in this case, as in many others, if we prove wrong in our judgments, we may safely urge the ancient plea, "Si fuit errandum causas habet error honestas.” The error is easily excusable when viewed in connexion with its cause. 2D. SERIES, NO. 34.-VOL. III. 3 M 178.-VOL. XV. AN hour ago I was sitting in my garden, with Plutarch before me; but I was too much delighted with the interesting scene around me, to make much use of my book. However, I opened it at that part of the life of Marcus Brutus, where the author describes the strange appearance which presented itself to the illustrious Roman, on the frontiers of Asia. One night, says Plutarch, after he had passed out of Asia, he was very late, alone, in his tent, with a dim light burning beside him, the army being silent and asleep; and musing with himself, and very thoughtful, he saw a terrible and strange apparition of a prodigious body, advancing towards him, without speaking. Brutus boldly asked it, "What art thou? Man, or God! And upon what business dost thou come?' 'I am thy evil genius, Brutus! said the spirit, and thou shalt see me again at Philippi!' How strangely are our feelings affected by trivial circumstances! When I read this passage, the sun was gilding the western horizon with its parting beams, the birds of the evening were chanting their vespers, the fields were gay with the bustle of the reapers, and a vessel was beating into yon broad estuary, with her white sails filled with the evening's breeze. I read it with a smile of mingled amusement and pity, and wondered how so masculine an understanding as distinguished the last of the Romans should have been thus given up to the influence of a diseased imagination. But now, by the side of my study-fire, alone, and with the faint tremulous light which it throws around the room, I feel less confidently sceptical. A lurking belief creeps into the mind,—I recall the tales of all ages and nations, the consent of the ignorant and enlightened, the wicked and the good, and I cannot now smile with such confidence at this singular story. Surely it is not the mere absence of light that has made this alteration in my feelings. May I not rather consider it as the effect of a feeling implanted in us by nature, which we stifle and overcome in the bustle and business of the day, but which reasserts its empire in the solitude of night, like the stars, which are hidden by light, and discovered by darkness. If we examine the records of the past, and select the accounts which have been left us of the appearance of spiritual beings, we shall certainly reject a large number as incredible, and others will be received with suspicion: some may be referred to the influence of physical causes; and others to the imaginations or falsehood of the parties who record them. Still there will remain a large class which are liable to neither of these objections. What objection can we frame to the testimony of the firm and philosophic Brutus? What shall we say to the evidence of Ammianus Marcellinus, or how impugn his account of the figure which attended the Emperor Julian, which quitted him before the death of Constantine, and again appeared to him, crossing his tent, with a sad countenance and a melancholy gesture, the night before his fatal battle with the Persians? What shall we say to the strange story told by Pliny, in a letter to Suza, which, from the tone of the letter, he evidently believed? A large house, he relates, in Athens was deserted by its inhabitant, on account of frightful noises which were heard in it; and of the spectre of an old man, bound with chains, which made its nightly appearance to them. The house being abandoned, was advertised at a low price. Athenodorus, the philosopher, came to Athens,-read the inscription by chance-was informed of the circumstances that had lowered the value of the house, and immediately took it for his residence. At night he removed his family to some inner rooms, ordered his writing materials and a light to be placed in the front apartments, and applied himself closely to writing, that he might prevent the intrusion of those imaginary fears and appearances which the mind is apt to raise when unoccupied. At first there was a profound silence, but the distant clanking of chains was soon heard, -the sound approached, and was at last heard in the philosopher's apartment-when, looking up, he beheld the spectre beckoning with its finger. After some delay, Athenodorus obeyed the signal and followed the figure, which stalked slowly away, as though overloaded with its chains, and having reached the court belonging to the house, vanished. On the following day, the philosopher obtained an order from a magistrate to search the spot; and, upon digging in the place where the spectre had vanished, several bones were found entangled with chains, which were taken up, and publicly buried. But whether this tale be true or false, it would be as improvident as it is unnecessary to found our belief or disbelief of the appearance of spirits upon its evidence. Men of all ages and all nations have professed their belief in similar facts; and, from the testimony of inspired writers, we may assure ourselves of the possibility of such occurrences. The ancients believed that a genius attended every man from the hour of his birth, as his immediate guide and protector, but was only visible to those who were illustrious for their virtue. And a higher authority, speaking of invisible beings, says, "Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation." We are then surrounded by beings, whose very business is to administer to our advantage, and many a distant errand they often perform for us. What folly would it be to contract the universe of God to the limits of our senses! There are worlds which are too remote for their examination, as well as too large for their grasp. The idea of largeness or smallness is only a comparative idea in our own minds, and the atom which is floated by in the passing breeze may be as really the habitation of spiritual existence, as the worlds which are revolving in space. But if we are so incapable of observing the infinite diversity of modes in which intelligent and active beings may exist, and the endless possibilities of relation between the component parts of their nature, it is surely by no means singular that we should be unable to determine how a spiritual being can be made apparent to the human senses. Nor does the difficulty we may feel in accounting for such a phenomenon in the slightest degree invalidate the probability of its occurrence. And, after all, what is there inconsistent or pernicious in the belief of spiritual appearances, that religion or philosophy should set itself against the opinion? Does it weaken the evidences of religion? Does it trench upon any of the attributes of Deity? Is there any thing in such a belief that can weaken the hopes, or excite the fears, of the good and virtuous? The spiritual world hath no terrors but to the guilty. The form which shook the mind of Dion was regarded with firm tranquillity by the virtuous Brutus, and the mild philosophic Julian. To the good, there is something in this intercourse which is elevating and ennobling; and there is something exquisitely touching in the thought, that the ties of earthly communion and fellowship, which death dissolved, are not forgotten by the friends who have been removed. They may still be the companions of our joys, and sympathize with our sorrows, while they wonder at the debased condition of that mind to which such a consideration would be painful. But if the virtuous heathen could look without fear on the visitors from another world, what has the Christian man to fear, and why should he deny the truth of an opinion to which both the idolater and the Christian give testimony? In no question could, the argumentum ad verecundiam, from the authority of great names, be employed with more effect. Should I be ashamed to entertain an opinion which Bacon considered true, which Johnson openly stated, which Addison modestly but distinctly avows? Shall I be ashamed of that which many of our most eminent divines witnessed, and the probability of which all will admit? When I find myself fortified by such authorities, when I meet with narratives proved, as far as we can see, by competent and unexceptionable witnesses, it appears far more philosophical to believe the statement, and admit the influence, than to retain any incredulity.. RECOLLECTIONS OF A MISSIONARY. NO. VIII. STRONG FAITH NECESSARY ΤΟ THOSE WHO EMBARK IN MISSIONARY UNDERTAKINGS.READING THE LIVES OF EMINENT MISSIONARIES CALCULATED TO PRODUCE THIS. ALL that Jehovah hath purposed or promised in his covenants, shall in due time be accomplished; "not one jot or tittle shall fail." The present appearance of the world may present strong obstacles to our belief in the near fulfilment of the Divine predictions; but the sun is not more certain in his diurnal and annual career, than the faithful testimony of the eternal Spirit. Jewish blindness, Moslem delusion, Popish superstition, and Pagan idolatry, the politics of kings, and the schemes of ambition, shall in due time give way and fall. And although these, for a time, may discourage faith and hope, and stagger the expectant of Christ's kingdom," the counsel of the Lord shall stand." The past events of the world and the church, in coincidence with prophecy, furnish sufficient pledge that his kingdom shall come :-he must reign! Faith, in relation to Missionaries, is an implicit belief of the promises, with a firm reliance upon the faithfulness and power of God to accomplish them. What a stable ground is this, whereon to rest that engine which is to operate the renovation of the world. The whole field of revelation is verdant with these promises. The restoration of the Jews, the fulness of the Gentiles, the downfall of popery, idolatry, and superstition, the spread of truth, the diffusion of light, the reign of love, the universality of knowledge, the amplitude of the church, the more copious effusion of the Spirit, the dominion of Christ, and the latter-day glory, are all promised, and are in train of fulfil ment. The prophets, the psalmist, the apostles, all saw this light from afar, it shot athwart the darkness of intervening ages, like a newly-risen star, the full beams of which have not yet travelled down to our world. Faith, however, stands upon its "watch-tower," ever and anon crying, "Watchmen! what of the night?" Like the Greenlanders, it ascends the highest mountains, to catch the first curve of the uprolling sun, that, like Moses, it may come down into the valley with its face all lustre, and its heart all flame; that, like the Russians at the festival of Easter, it may cry to all around, "He is risen! he is risen! the Lord is risen indeed." In the long, long night that has enveloped the church, faith in the kingdom and coming of Christ has only shone like a glow-worm, or twinkled like a fire-fly in the darkness of an American forest; but, now, like the halcyon, it spreads its wings of gold, and compasses the "length and breadth of Immanuel's land." It directs its eager course to the east; and there it beholds the mouldering fane, and the ruined idol temple. It sees the written word translated into an infinity of languages and dialects, and read by inquiring thousands. It hears the sound of salvation in the Sanscrit and the Chinese, and beholds the worship of Jesus rising upon the ruins of Juggernaut, and the light of truth flaming from Siberia to the Tartar wall, and from Greenland to Cape Horn. It steers to the west, and hears the pine-forests of the new world vocal with the Redeemer's praise; it steers to the south, and sees the lovely islands of the Pacific blossoming as the rose; it braves the barriers of polar ice, and see sthe Cross planted on fields of eternal snow; it meets all objections and all objectors with "Thus saith the Lord; hath he spoken, and will he not do it?" Still, in order to strengthen this heavenborn grace, and excite our souls to holy daring in the Redeemer's cause, we should call to recollection the lives of those faithful servants of God, "who through faith and patience are now inheriting the promises;" how they believed, how they loved, how they suffered, and how they served, "not counting their lives dear, that they might finish their course with joy." This will furnish a powerful stimulus to urge us forward in the same honourable and benevolent career. Every battle of the warrior is with garments rolled in blood ;" and how many of these holy men have laid their bones beneath the arch of every foreign sky? Zavier, in China; Coke, in the waves of the ocean, beneath the Line; Eliot and Brainerd, in the forests of the New World; Ward, at Serampore; Swartz and Heber, in the East Indies; and Martyn, in Turkey. What a "cloud of witnesses !" Some bleaching beneath the pole, some burning under a vertical sun, some in the islands of the ocean, and others on the deserts or forests of mighty continents; these slain by savages, those swallowed up by the sea; worn down by fatigue, or wasted by want, but all dying in faith; "and being dead, they yet speak" to us. "They cry aloud from the palm-trees' shade," where their mouldering dust waits the "last trumpet;" their tombs are eloquent, their ashes have a voice; they were brought home on their shields; theirs was a baptism of blood," they turned the battle to the gate of glory." From negro-land, from Indian isles, from Hindostan, and from Greenland's icy re |