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thorn, but that has. It could not, however, be expected, that those servants of Satan, who had once so far succeeded in decoying him, would relinquish their prey. Another opportunity soon occurred, and Zabad was again drawn in to be a partaker in the impious festivities; then, night, after night was spent in the horrid debauchery; the man was debased to the brute, and he seemed another than himself. Rebekah, alone in her home, was informed of the wicked delusion of her husband, and she sat in silent grief, her whole thoughts divided between him and the little creature who she feared might be seduced to follow an example so terrible. A week passed away, and the Sabbath came-the first Sabbath she had ever spent without her husband, and prayers and weeping filled its melancholy hours; her child unhappy to see his mother so, although his little mind could understand no reason, continually climbed her knee, and hid her streaming eyes in his little bosom.

Riot, intoxication, and delirium were the degrees of their impious orgies, and Zabad had entered them to the full; he was determined not to be surpassed by any of the infatuated companions who had tempted him there, and in the height of his madness he danced before the grim image of the horrid idol, and he exclaimed"I've one for Moloch." The priests gashed and smeared with their blood, ran at the word to the cottage of Zabad; there sat Rebekah, lost in thought and in grief-her child shrieked, and she lift up her eyes at the moment to see him borne from the door by figures resembling demons rather than men; a dreadful imagination came over her-she sprang after him, but he was

borne away by the monsters as fast as they could carry him; she flew to the plain-she saw his little arms stretched out towards her in vain -he was lost in the infuriated crowd, and she heard, but scarcely, the shriek of agony as he was thrown into the cave of fire, a sacrifice to the infernal god. She heard no more, and she saw no more-not the writhing of his body nor the bursting of the arteries-but she had seen enough; her reason tottered, and she returned to her cottage a maniac.

Zabad scarcely knew what had occurred; he sank to sleep in the midst of his intemperance, and when he awoke, a strange recollection and trembling came over him; he flew to his cottage, he saw his wife, and the whole dreadful history burst at once upon him. He flew to the plainthere was the dreadful furnace in which the child he loved had been consumed; in madness and despair, and in remorse which he could not bear, he plunged into its deepest and hottest re

cess.

The scoffing infidel upbraids the providence of God with cruelty in the extermination of nations who practised rites so dreadful; in this we see but a part of their barbarity; but who would not praise the merciful hand which would root out from the earth such atrocities. We know at this day but very little of that depth of cruelty and wickedness which drew down upon the nations of Canaan, and upon others after them, the just, and with respect to the world in general, the most merciful judgments of Jehovah.

Note.-Do not all parents who fail to bring up children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, sacrifice them to Moloch'

ON THE LOVE OF SINGULARITY.

SUCH is the value and importance of moral principle, that the man is to be commended who resolutely refuses to sacrifice it to any custom, however prevalent, or any consideration of expediency, however plausible. The Christian, too, who yields a full and unreserved submission to the authority of his Lord and Master, ought to be honoured for his firmness and magnanimity in refusing to follow a multitude to do evil. But every virtue has its counterfeit, and every excellency is imitated by some hollow, worthless, painted semblance. Though most men glide down the stream of custom, there are certainly some who absurdly love singularity for its own sake. This passion, when subjected to a nice and exact analysis, will usually appear to be compounded of pride, conceit, and ill-nature. It must indeed be granted, that a native littleness and obliquity of mind, has, in some instances, considerable influence. He, who in matters purely indifferent, deviates from the course of conduct pursued by those among whom his lot is cast, may be only a weak or wrong-headed man. "The

love of singularity," says Cogan, "proceeds from a restless mind, possessing some portion of genius, and tinctured with a large portion of vanity. It prefers novelties to truths, and aims at being distinguished for its talents rather than its deserts. It is a copious source of error, as it despises nothing so much as obvious facts, and as the sophisms and paradoxes in which it most delights, may, in a few sentences, occasion more perplexities and embarrassments of the

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nind, than it is in the power of volumes to remove.' Genius is doubtless sometimes found allied with this peculiarity of character; and the author, whose words are above given, might have pointed to Rousseau in proof of the justice of his remark.

In most cases, where conscience is not concerned, we shall find pride to be at the root of singularity." Eagles," said Sir Philip Sydney, "always fly alone." The proud man adopts this maxim, and conceives, that by separating himself from others he shall rise above them. "The vulgar herd," says he, "tread in beaten tracks; genius loves to find or make a new route. Some are born to be imitators, but it is my destiny to be an original." We need not be surprised that self-importance should sometimes take this direction. He that mixes in a crowd is unmarked, but he that mounts a pedestal with a coat of motley colours on, is sure of attracting a thousand eyes; and when once he perceives that he is distinguished, it is a short and easy step in the process of his logic, to infer that it must be for some superiority. But with conceit, and all the flatulencies and illdigested humours which it breeds, there is often blended no small portion of moroseness and malignity. The proud and peevish man exacts a deference from others, which they feel themselves neither fairly bound nor disposed to pay; he stings them, and gets stung to the quick in return; till filled with disgust, he retires, and outrages the rules and proprieties of decorum, as an expression of his contempt for society. Eccentric characters, as we have before intimated, often attract great attention; they are,

in the moral scenery which the living world exhibits, what insulated rocks or mutilated towers are in the landscape; they are admired, not for their beauty or use, but for the sake of contrast. When singularity has selfishness or misanthropy for its basis, as in Diogenes and Timon of Athens, or Dancer and Elwes, of our own country, though men talk of it as they do of vile and savage monsters, no possible combination can render it the object either of respect or attachment. When it has more connexion with the head than the heart, we often see a fantastic strangeness of conduct which approximates the borders of insanity. It is true, a starched old bachelor or spinster may be full of whims to a proverb; and yet after all be a very harmless sort of creature. If a man chooses to have his house built in the shape of a Chinese temple, and furnished like a hermit's cell, or to have his garden-hedge and his clothes cut after an antiquated fashion, let him use his privilege of British freedom in any form, dress, or disguise he likes best: but if his hours and his humours, when business is to be transacted, or social intercourse maintained, must thwart the times and tempers of other people, he has no right to expect the same indulgence. He claims accommodations without making any adequate returns. The wheels of his mind, to borrow a figure from Lord Bacon, are not concentric with the wheels of ordinary usage, and the consequence is, harsh, irregular, clashing motions.

But it may be said, singularity is sometimes associated with pre-eminent talent and distinguished benevolence. In such examples, we admit, great and good qualities are to be taken

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