courage, the noble constancy, which have dictated this moving Address to the Emperor Alexander. Happy are the African Slaves to have found in England, friends alive to their sufferings, protectors no less powerful than generous. Let us hope that their desires will soon be completely granted, and that with the restoration of its liberty Africa will receive the benefit of European civilization, and of a legitimate commerce." Upon the "Address" they say, "Every part of this tract breathes the true spirit of piety, and of that moderation which is inseparable from it." In their notice of the Report they justly animadvert on the French Slave Trade.

In this connexion we cannot omit adverting to an article in vol. xv. p. 538, being a review of a small work entitled "Lettre addressée à un Philantrope Anglais par un Voyageur Africain, durant son séjour à Londres:"A Letter addressed to an English Philanthropist by an African Traveller, during his stay in London,' by M. Hassuna D'Ghies. This is an interesting document, as will appear from the following extract :-" The greatest misfortune which can befal a man is, without contradiction, the loss of the first gift of heaven, personal liberty; consequently nothing is more noble, nothing more generous, than to contribute all that we can towards the abolition of slavery wherever it exists." The object of M. Hassuna D'Ghies appears to be to draw the attention of the European nations towards the abolition of the Slave Trade in the northern parts of Africa, and in the states bordering on the Mediterranean, and also to the civilization of the inhabitants. The reviewer has given a long extract from this letter, so as to develop the views of the writer, and speaks in commendation of M. Hassuna D'Ghies wish that the Slave Trade be attacked in the North of Africa, but complains of the badness of the French, in which language this

letter is published; we should hope that in a future edition the language will be revised, that the liberality and expansive views of the noble African may appear in a dress to which they are entitled.

We were gratified to see, vol. xv. p. 325, a notice of " May-day with the Muses," by Robert Bloomfield -an unassuming poet, whose muse has been engaged in the cause of peace. The naïveté and, sensibility of his descriptive pieces, must endear him to every unsophisticated lover of rural scenery, and of rural simplicity of manners. The Reviewer has supposed that the success of his first poetical attempts induced Mr. Bloomfield to exchange a rural life for town; but this is not correct, for he commenced poet in a garret in London.

There is in p. 314 of the same volume, a review of an American work, entitled "A Discourse on the early History of Pennsylvania, delivered before the American Philosophical Society," by Peter S. du Ponceaux, which we cannot pass by without qucting the following passage in the speech of the author (a Frenchman), for which we are indebted to the reviewer. "Can you believe that the annals of Pennsylvania do not supply sufficient interest to stimulate the talents of an eloquent historian? It is true that she presents none of those striking events which the vulgar consider as only worthy to be transmitted to posterity; no military chiefs, no ambitious rivals, fill up the scene; no series of massacres, and of devastations, which excite strong emotions. But, notwithstanding, what country has ever presented such a sight as this happy republic did for nearly a century-a sight which presents to us all that fable has invented respecting the happiness of the golden age. Happy country! in which the gentleness of the inhabitants gives to its history the interest of romance." Behold

the practical effects of the principles of peace, as held by the London Peace Society,

We had marked other articles of a philanthropic nature for notice, but we have exceeded our proposed limits; and the merits of the "Revue Encyclopédique" have, we conceive, been sufficiently developed to show that it promises to realize the objects which the conductors have professed to have in view, namely, "to give a correct portraiture of the present state, and of the progress of civilization among mankind, to enable the different nations to take a comparative view of its course; to give publicity to the labours of societies which cultivate the various branches of human knowledge, or which endeavour to promote the public good; disquisitions upon the sciences, letters, arts," &c.

Such are the praiseworthy objects of the "Revue Encyclopédique;" the first periodical work in France, the literary character of which stands too high to need our commendation. We shall conclude by wishing that its influence and success may be commensurate with the benevolence of its design.

The Carnival of Death, a Poem, by Thomas Bailey. (Concluded from page 113.) In this Poem, to which we directed the attention of our readers in a former Number, the Author has introduced so much that is calculated to attract the attention and interest the feelings of the friend of Peace, that we were unable at that time to complete our sketch of its leading incidents. Referring to the account of the author's plan, and the extracts already given, which left the "king of terrors" contemplating the armies before the direful contest, we proceed to the battle itself.

So, on the field the Spectre stood,
And view'd the scene in mirthful mood,
Whilst Hell lay gaping near;

Whose sulph'rous volumes roll'd afar,
Flitting o'er all the field of War,

With deep, malignant glare.

And many a mother's blooming son
Fell, ere the fight had well begun,-
And many a father's pride:
Their auburn locks were steep'd in gore,
Their youthful breasts were mangled o'er,
With deep wounds, gaping wide.
When arms 'gainst arms tremendous clash'd,
And fierce the uprais'd falchion flash'd;
When fast the broken bands
Fell, slaughtered on the thirsty plain,—
He shook his sides, and laugh'd amain,

And clapp'd his grisly hands.
And when the thund'ring cannon's roar
Rent the arch'd skies, and shore to shore
Echo'd the loud rebound;
And thick as hail the missives fell,

Grape, musket, cannon-shot, and shell,—

Hissing upon the ground:
Whose wasted fuse, then, nearly spent,
But one fleet, passing moment lent,

In which some wretch could take

Thought of eternity, or cast

A frantic glance back on the past,

Or preparation make;
Or think of home, wife, children dear,
Or offer up to Heav'n a pray'r,

Or bid to earth adieu;

Ere struck by the exploding ball,
His corse should blacken'd, shattered fall,
His limbs the ground bestrew;
Or, he beheld the rocket fly,
With transient flash, across the sky,—
Or view'd some one expire,
Welt'ring in hideous agony,
Disfigur'd, scorching, cursing, lie

Beneath its vengeful fire :-
He hail'd the pyrotechnic art,
That could such royal sport impart,

So well could torture man.

The keen satirical lines which complete the twenty-seventh stanza and compose the twenty-eighth, we wish had been confined to the fiery and destructive missiles themselves, instead of being extended to the inventor. Though we would not for ten thousand worlds have the poignant and distressing reflections attach to us, which the discovery and promulgation of so detructive and cruel an invention must occasion to an enlightened Christian; yet we ought to remember that military and naval men are from their childhood taught to believe that the greater devastation which they can effect against an enemy, the higher

is the measure of excellence and merit to which they have attained. It is the Christian's duty to overcome with good, and not to suffer the enormity of an action to carry us to an inordinate degree of indignation, "Be ye angry and sin not.” To the delight of the grisly monarch, the contest proceeds till it arrives at its acme of horror..

And when the combat fiercest rag'd,
The battle strife was deadliest wag'd,

When thousands hourly sank
To rise no more: corps, squadrons, fell;
Till earth gave back the dismal yell,

Reeling with blood she'd drank;

surge,

When the red tide of War roll'd deepest round, And with its bloodiest, most destructive Beat fierce and long against the warrior's breast, Till Valour's self could scarcely stem its rage, Or keep his crimson'd sword, or eagle crest, Above the raging flood, which roll'd around ;He danc'd with glee:-and when keen suff'ring Wrung involuntary shrieks from heros' breasts, When the deep moan responded to the stroke Of the fierce falchion, as it pierc'd the heart, Or, swift descending, clove some hapless head; And wide the murd'rous carnage swell'd its bounds, [loaded wings Till ev'ry breeze which pass'd, bore on its A cry of woe, and agony intense, That made e'en veteran warriors weep to hear, As whole battalions, like autumnal leaves, Fell, when the demon of the tempest drives His whirlwind car amid the groaning trees, And ev'ry cloud which rose from the dread field, Bore on its lurid wings a host of souls, Sent on Ambition's errand to the bar of GOD, Mutt'ring deep curses through the troubled air; How did his cruel heart rejoice! He lifted high th' inspiring voice, And shouted loud huzzas: Then seizing on a lighted brand Some fury bore,-he rais'd his hand,

And kindled Glory's rays.

The crested Chieftains hail'd the sight,
And press'd to share the meteor's light;
Its dazzling beams to greet :-
And bade the hosts, deep-stain'd with blood,
Pour faster still the purple flood,

Which reek'd beneath their feet.
Straight, on destruction fiercer bent,
On deep revenge more full intent,

They seek the madden'd fray :
And shouting "Victory or Death,”
Infuriate resign their breath ;-

Cast life and heav'n away.

A dignified victim, "Gustavus," in his bloody career for fame and

Glory, is now singled out by Death, who

-" from the crowd directs the spear Which bows his haughty crest." In consequence of the death of the Hero, the presiding genius of desolation indulges in a soliloquy, the purport of which is, that if the horrors of War and the emptiness of military renown were exposed in faithful colours,

-Wars to disrepute would fall,

And Death would lose his carnival. To avert a consequence so disastrous, he arrives at the following conclusion

"Delusion shall the tale indite,
Whilst I the proud gazette will write;
And Glory, on a burnish'd cloud,
Flying, proclaim their deeds aloud.
So, husbands shall forsake their wives
And children, heedless of their lives,
To swell, some future day, my ranks,
And dying, gain the senate's, thanks.'
Fathers shall bring their stripling heirs,
For whom they wearied Heav'n with pray'rs;
And mothers urge their sons along,
To join the daring, restless throng,
Whom, with warm hearts and ardent eyes,
I lead in quest of Glory's prize.
Tho' where there's ONE, Time's record shews
Who wins the honours War bestows,
Ten thousand rot without a stone

To make their name or nation known.
But, if mankind will estimate
Their lives, their souls, at such low rate,
And millions die, to raise the name
Of some ambitious Knave to Fame;
They have themselves alone to blame :
And, whilst they thus will madly fall,
I still will keep high Carnival!

After a vigorous renewal of the contest, which is continued even till the rising of the moon, and towards the conclusion of which Death calls in the aid of Confusion, Panic, Terror, and Distrust, the exhausted frames of the contending forces are compelled to suspend their dreadful havoc; yet night, that season of repose, comes not unattended with horrors

The gale of strife thus sank to rest,
Like tempest upon ocean's breast.
And it was such a billowy calm,
Yet heaving with the recent storm:
For, scatter'd wrecks of War, around,
In frightful vestiges were found.
And oft a sudden gust would wake,-
Which made the warrior's bosom quake,

As stretch'd the watchfire round he lay;
And from his eyes chas'd sleep away.
Laden with heavy sobs and sighs,-
Loud, bitter wails, and groans, it flies;
The mastiff's howl, the wolf's shrill cry,
(Which wait not till the wounded die,
To seize their prey;-but banquet on
The quiv'ring limbs ere life is gone,)
Add to the breeze a fearful sound;
And aid the horrors reigning round.
And then, at intervals, would rise
From the dread field,-deep, piteous cries,
Asking for help: by suff'ring wrung
From some poor wretch,-who, left among
The dead,-expos'd upon the plain,
Welt'ring in gore, and rack'd with pain;
Or parch'd by fierce-consuming thirst,
(Of all his suff'rings still the worst,)
Striving, with shatter'd limbs, to creep
O'er ranks of foes,-or mounded heap
Of slaughter'd comrades in his way;
To where the gurgling waters stray
Across the field: but, ah, in vain,
His ebbing life runs out amain!
The margin of the brook is near,
Its murm'ring cadence meets his ear;
But thicker round the corses spread,
The way is chok'd with dying,-dead:
His tearful eyes beheld the stream,
As dimpling to the moon's soft beam,
It danc'd along with playful wave,-
Nor stopp'd, his burning lips to lave:
And, in the pangs of thirst, he tries
To reach its bank, but, falls and dies!
And then, a long and piercing cry,

[word

From lonely cot or shed was heard; A shriek, like woman's agony,“Oh! spare;”—but the hard-struggling

Escap'd not out: she cried no more;
Her voice was stifled in her gore!
The startled Sentry stood aghast
And listen'd to each breeze which pass'd;
But all was still: (night cower'd low,
As if to hide the tale of woe

With her dark wings:) the deed was done;
Her soul to Heaven's dread bar was gone,
All in its blood; to testify

Against War's crimes and cruelty.
So pass'd along the dismal night,

"Midst horrors, crimes, and woe,
Whilst many an eye long'd for the light,
And thought the moments slow:
And oftentimes look'd towards the east,
To catch the sun's first rays;
Or, from the shatter'd casement, ceas'd
Not on the sky to gaze.

The description of the War Fiend and his arms, shield, &c. pages 81 to 87, is finely though horridly descriptive. The anecdotes of individuals who are supposed to have been victims on that fatal day are affecting, as portraying too truly what must constitute the usual consequences of a battle.

Happy thrice happy will be the day, when representations such as these shall cease to have any facts on which they can be founded, in the modern histories of nations professing Christianity.

Slave Trade.

"On the 13th of May, at day-light, a sail appeared bearing for us; we hoisted

our

colours, hauled up, and sent a boat. She proved to be the Portuguese ship Europa, Capt. Manoel Jose Gomes, from Mozambique to Rio Janeiro, with slaves; had lost her rudder, was very sickly, in want of provisions, and generally in a bad state, having been out 68 days for what 14 might have accomplished. We sent on board provisions, wine, tea, lime-juice, &c. and offered to take her in tow to the Isle of France. The Captain refused to go there, but at length acceded, upon the interference of his officers. A 15-inch cable was affixed to our main-mast, and we made sail. At eight in the evening, the breeze increasing, parted cable: we immediately shortened sail, and not seeing the ship, burnt a light and hove to. At day-light, as she was not seen, we made easy sail, keeping a man at the head-mast

looking out. At first we thought the Captain had cut from us, but he had not. The Europa had a regular licence from the Portuguese Government for this Smithfield traffic (as it may be termed indeed, much worse) to carry one thousand and thirteen slaves. She embarked five hundred and fifty-eight at Mozambique; 203 had died-most likely from cold and starvation. The healthy were alone permitted to come on deck; those who were sick, 50 with bad scurvy, small-pox, and dysentery, were in a heap, as they appeared to be, in a hole aft. Another party, not so ill, in another heap, and some to work the ship. Their food, only rice, was black and of the worst quality, and soaked in a large filthy cauldron, the water therein their drink-nothing but a piece of dirty cloth for clothing-no hammocks nor bedding. There were a number of children of both sexes, from five to twelve years old, and about thirty women huddled with the men; some with the sick. The ship