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channel, would become less deep, and more extended, till all would be surmounted by its ascendant billows. To counteract this destruction there must be a compensating reproduction; and the reproducing agent is Fire. To a certain extent, the sea itself compensates for its destructiveness, by covering its bed with new strata, which may afterwards be elevated. But although this agency would diminish the depth of the ocean, it would never cause "the waters under the heaven to be gathered together into one place, and let the dry land appear." The power of upheaval lies in heat. The bulk of substances is greatly affected by their temperature. In general they expand when they are warmed, and contract when they are cooled. Clay is an exception to the general rule. Owing to the expulsion of humidity, it contracts when it is heated. In this way the elevation and subsidence of land may be accounted for by the increase or reduction of igneous agency. Subterranean heat coming into contact with solid rocks, may not only enlarge their volume, but may turn them into a liquid or gaseous state. The liquids or gases thus formed have prodigious elastic energy, and may lift up strata of whatever strength and thickness. The upward pressure may be of wide extent; and throughout that range of action the conditions may be so nearly equal, that large tracts of land may be simultaneously and almost uniformly elevated. It has been abundantly proved that parts of Sweden and other countries are exemplifying such elevation at the present time. Or the pressure from beneath may act on a limited portion of the overlying strata, as in the case of the mountain Jorullo, near to the city of Mexico. Mr Scrope, indeed, has suggested that this mountain may be an example of ejection rather than elevation, and may consist of an accumulation of lava and ashes: and Sir Charles Lyell speaks in favourable terms of this suggestion. But Humboldt, who visited the scene, was fully of the belief that the land had been uplifted. Mr Miller, in his admirable treatise on the "Old Red Sandstone," adopts this explanation. "It is rarely," he says, "that the geologist catches a hill in the act of forming, and hence the interest of this well-attested instance. From the period of the discovery of America to the middle of the last century, the plains of Jorullo had undergone no change of surface, and the seat of the present hill was covered by plantations of indigo and sugar cane, when, in June 1759, hollow sounds

were heard, and a succession of earthquakes continued for Sixty days, to the great consternation of the inhabitants. After the cessation of these, and in a period of tranquillity, on the 28th and 29th September, a horrible subterranean noise was again heard, and a tract four square miles in extent rose up, in the shape of a dome or bladder, to the height of sixteen hundred and seventy feet above the original level of the plain. The affrighted Indians fled to the mountains; and from thence looking down on the phenomenon, saw flames issuing from the earth for miles around the newly-elevated hill, and the softened surface rising and falling like that of an agitated sea, and opening into numerous rents and fissures. Two brooks which had watered the plantations precipitated themselves into the burning chasms. The scene of this singular event was visited by Humboldt about the beginning of the present century. At that period the volcanic agencies had become comparatively quiescent; the hill, however, retained its original altitude; a number of smaller hills had sprung up around it; and the traveller found the waters of the engulphed rivulets escaping at a high temperature from caverns charged with sulphureous vapours and carbonic acid gas. There were inhabitants of the country living at the time who were more than twenty years older than the hill of Jorullo, and who had witnessed its rise." But even where the elevating power has a point or centre, the sides of the mountain rise with its uplifted summit, and the whole of a country may be only the lower and gentler declivity of the mountain ridge. Thus the internal heat of the globe, though residing in profound and inscrutable mansions, is palpable in its effects. When straitened for space, it forces the crust of the earth to yield to its expansiveness, and the result is seen in all that rises above the level of the sea. Nor is this all. The equipoise established at first is constantly preserved, so far at least as is conducive to benevolent designs. The sea is ever demolishing what it assails, and mass after mass yields to its denudations. This constant waste a volcanic agency as constantly repairs—ever deepening the channel of the ocean, and thus restricting its prevalence, or elevating the ocean's bed, and thus raising up what it strives to wash down. In either of which ways a divine Governor still breaks up for the deep his decreed place, and sets bars and doors, and says, "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed."


What a magnificent equilibrium is presented in these conceptions! The tide of the ocean is uncontrollable by us; nor is the insignificance of man ever more apparent than when he loses sight of land for weeks and months together, in crossing the aqueous expanse, especially when a tempest overtakes him, and his frail bark drifts and leaks, and seems to be perishing in its diminutiveness and helplessness.

The agitation of the sea is equalled in its majesty and terrors only by the rockings of the earth, when hidden fires dissolve restraining barriers, and burst from their imprisonment. Who can be composed when the earth is moved, and its foundations are out of course? Who may stand by the crater, or think to close its lips, when it vents its fury, when it breathes flame and mutters thunder? Each of these awful powers, the aqueous and the igneous, seems to be in itself illimitable. But there is a God who can make even such agencies become bounds to one another; who can poise them in salutary proportion and counteraction, and reduce all their frightful mastery to a mutual helpfulness, by that power "which weighs the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance; which stretches out the north over the empty place, and hangeth the earth upon nothing." -DR KING.


The warrior bowed his crested head,
And tamed his heart of fire;
And sued the haughty king to free
His long imprison'd sire.

"I bring thee here my fortress' keys,
I bring my captive train ;

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord,
O break my father's chain !

"Rise! rise! even now thy father comes

A ransom'd man this day;

Mount thy good horse, and thou and I
Will meet him on his way."

Then lightly rose that loyal son,

And bounded on his steed;

And urged, as if with lance in rest,
The charger's foaming speed.

When, lo! from far, as on they press'd,
There came a glittering band,

And one that 'midst them stately rode,
As a leader of the land.
"Now haste, Bernardo! haste,
For there in very truth is he;
The father whom thy faithful heart
Hath yearn'd so long to see."

His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved,
His cheek's hue came and went;
He reach'd that grey-hair'd chieftain's side,
And there dismounting bent.

A lowly knee to earth he bent,

His father's hand he took—

What was there in its touch that all
His fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold, a frozen thing,
It dropt from his, like lead:
He look'd up to the face above-
The face was of the dead.

A plume waved o'er that noble brow-
That brow was fix'd and white;

He met at last his father's eyes,
But in them was no sight.

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed,
But who could paint that gaze!

It hush'd their very hearts that saw
Its horror and amaze.

They might have chain'd him, as before
That stony form he stood;

For the power was stricken from his arm,
And from his lips the blood.

"Father," at length he murmur'd low,
And wept, like childhood, then;
Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen
The tears of warlike men.
He thought on all his glorious hopes,
On all his young renown;

He flung the falchion from his side,
And in the dust sat down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hand
His darkly mournful brow:
"No more, there is no more," he said,
"To lift the sword for now.
My king is false, my hope betray'd,
My father, O! the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness,
Are pass'd away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, My sire, beside thee yet;

I would that there our kindred blood
On Spain's free soil had met.

Thou would'st have known my spirit then,
For thee my fields were won;

But thou hast perish'd in thy chains,

As if thou had'st no son.'

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Then starting from the ground once more, He seized the monarch's rein,

Amid the pale bewilder'd looks

Of all the courtier train;

And with a fierce o'er-mastering grasp

The rearing war-horse led,

And sternly set them face to face-
The king before the dead.

"Came I not forth upon thy pledge,

My father's hand to kiss?

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king,
And tell me, what is this?

The voice, the heart, the glance I sought-
Give answer, where are they?
If thou would'st clear thy perjured soul,
Send life thro' this cold clay.

"Into these glassy eyes put light

Be still-keep down thine ire;—
Bid these white lips a blessing speak,
This earth is not my sire.

Give me back him for whom I strove,
For whom my blood was shed;
Thou canst not? and a king!—

His dust be mountains on thy head."

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