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burned all the splendid missals and manuscripts, and smeared their shoes with the sacred oil, with which kings and prelates had been anointed. It seemed that each of these malicious creatures must have been endowed with the strength of a hundred giants. How else, in the few brief hours of a midsummer night, could such a monstrous desecration have been accomplished by a troop, which, according to all accounts, was not more than one hundred in number. There was a multitude of spectators, as upon all such occasions, but the actual spoilers were very few.
The noblest and richest temple of the Netherlands was a wreck, but the fury of the spoilers was excited, not appeased. Each seizing a burning torch, the whole "herd rushed from the cathedral, and swept howling through the streets. "Long live the beggars ! resounded through the sultry midnight air, as the ravenous pack flew to and fro, smiting every image of the Virgin, every crucifix, every sculptured saint, every Catholic symbol which they met with upon their path. All night long they roamed from one sacred edifice to another, thoroughly destroying as they went. Before morning they had sacked thirty churches within the city walls. They entered the monasteries, burned their invaluable libraries, destroyed their altars, statues, pictures, and, descending into the cellars, broached every cask which they found there, pouring out in one great flood all the ancient wine and ale with which those holy men had been wont to solace their retirement from generation to generation. They invaded the nunneries, whence the occupants, panic-stricken, fled for refuge to the houses of their friends and kindred. The streets were filled with monks and nuns, running this way and that, shrieking and fluttering, to escape the claws of these fiendish Calvinists. The terror was imaginary, for not the least remarkable feature in these transactions was, that neither insult nor injury was offered to man or woman, and that not a farthing's value of the immense amount of property destroyed was appropriated. It was a war, not against the living, but against graven images, nor was the sentiment which prompted the onslaught in the least commingled with a desire of plunder. The principal citizens of Antwerp, expecting every instant that the storm would be diverted from the ecclesiastical edifices to private dwellings, and that robbery, rape, and murder would follow sacrilege, remained all night expecting the attack, and prepared to defend their hearths, even if the altars were profaned. The precaution was needless. It was asserted by the Catholics that the confederates, and other opulent Protestants, had organized this company of profligates for the meagre pittance of ten stivers a day. On the other hand, it was believed by many that the Catholics had themselves plotted the whole outrage in order to bring odium upon the Reformers. Both statements were equally unfounded. The task was most thoroughly performed, but it was prompted by a furious fanaticism, not by baser motives.
Two days and nights longer the havoc raged unchecked through all the churches of Antwerp and the neighbouring villages. Hardly a statue or picture escaped destruction. Yet the rage was directed exclusively against stocks and stones. Not a man was wounded nor a woman outraged. Prisoners, indeed, who had been languishing hopelessly in dungeons were liberated. A monk, who had been in the prison of the Barefoot Monastery for twelve years, recovered his freedom. Art was trampled in the dust, but humanity deplored no victims.
[Mr. Maturin, celebrated alike as a preacher, novelist, and dramatist, was à clergyman of the Established Church, born in Dublin, and educated in Trinity College of that city. On entering into orders he obtained the curacy of St. Peter's. His first tragedy, " Bertram," is a wild, imaginative, but very powerful production. It was performed at Drury Lane, through the influence of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron, with doubtful success, but it established its author's literary reputation. Maturin, unfortuuately, lived beyond his means, and was never free from embarrassment; notwithstanding he pursued his literary career with avidity. His first most popular novels were “The Fatal Revenge," "The Wild Irish Boy," and " The Milesian Chief.” He was also the author of " Melmoth, the Wanderer,” and “Woman;" of "The Uni. verse, a poem; “Manuel
and "Fredolpho,” tragedies; and of six " Controversial Sermons,” published in 1824, which prove him to have been a well-read scholar, as he is said to have been an elegant and energetic preacher. He died in 1825.]
THE STRANGER. | THE Prior. | A Monk.
An Apartment in the Convent-a couch, R.C.
The STRANGER discovered sleeping on the couch, and the
Prior (L.) watching him. Prior. He sleeps—if it be sleep; this starting trance, Whose feverish tossings and deep-muttered groans, Do prove the soul shares not the body's rest.
(Hanging over him.) How the lip works ! how the bare teeth do grind, And beaded drops course down his writhen brow! I will awake him from this horrid trance; This is no natural sleep. Ho! wake thee, stranger ! Str. What wouldst thou have? my life is in thy
power. Prior. Most wretched man, whose fears alone betray
theeWhat art thou ?-speak!
Str. Thou sayest I am a wretch, And thou sayest true—these weeds do witness it These wave-worn weeds—these bare and bruised
limbsWhat wouldst thou more? I shrink not from the
I am a wretch, and proud of wretchedness,
Prior. Lightly I deem of outward wretchedness,
Str. Didst watch my sleep?
(The stranger suddenly starts from the couch, raises
his clasped hands, and comes forward, r.) Str. I would consort with mine eternal enemy, To be revenged on him!
Prior. Art thou a man, or fiend, who speakest thus ?
Str. I was a man; I know not what I amWhat others' crimes and injuries have made me Look on me! What am I? (Advances, c.)
Prior. (Retreating to L. corner.) I know not.
Str. I marvel that thou say'st it,
Prior. Mine eyes are dim with age—but many
thoughts Do stir within me at thy voice.
Str. List to me, monk; it is thy trade to talk,
Prior. Good Heaven and all its saints !
Ber. What sayest thou ?
them; Scanning with giddy eye the air-hung rock,