They catch sometimes feebly at a _hope_ of Salvation, then fall again into a dreadful despair. At last the feeble mind gives way. They feel themselves already lost; they fancy they have committed the Sin which Jah himself will never pardon--(to use the words of the _Sacred Writings_)--the _sin against the Holy Ghost_, for ever unpardonable--they writhe, they cry, they beat their breasts, they fall down in unspeakable agony--"the pains of Hell have got hold of them!" This is again from the _Sacred books_. The scene closes in death, or worse, in a _mad-house_; where in chains or under vigilant keepers (to prevent self-destruction or the destruction of others), these wretches vanish from human hope and sympathy! The frightful Superstition in these victims has been a _reality_! And no human mind can bear that and live! I will close these remarks upon the _Literature_ of the English Barbarians, by giving some examples of the different poetic compositions. From an Amatory poet, who refers to the conjugal endearments of the Roman Jupiter and his goddess--Queen Juno, on Mount Ida, where, according to the old traditions of the Greeks, these gods often resorted:-- "When Juno makes the bed for Jove, And waits the god with blushing grace-- Soft music charms the air above, And breathing fragrance fills the place. Mortals expect the deep repose; Ocean is calm, the Winds are still, The heavenly rapture overflows, And Nature feels th' ecstatic thrill." I think our poorest poets could have improved upon "makes the bed." In cold England, however, bed-making is important. And for a wife of the Upper Castes to make the bed for her Lord, with her own hands, is to show a great love and devotion. It is laughable to think of the goddess so domestically employed, though the top of Mount Ida must be cold enough! The poetry of the Idolatry has much of an amatory sort, very curiously mixed with its terrors. I give a rather refined specimen, quite free of the diabolic:-- "What grief, what darkness fills my breast, That coldly I have strayed from thee! Thou art my Love, my Life, my Rest; All other love doth fade and die. Oh, never may the joys of sense, Entice my ardent soul again! Thou art my only sweet Defence-- To love thee not is endless pain!" From an unknown writer I extract the following, who refers to a great Sailor of the Western Barbarians. This man, repressing the revolts of his crew, with undaunted mind, day after day, and night after night, for weeks and weeks, still kept on, steering _westerly_ across the infinite, big seas. Possessed with one great and fixed idea--that _Land lie beyond_. At length, when all hope had nearly died, far away like a cloud, the great _New World_ was discovered! We know of this in our Annals, in the dynasty _Ming_.