ould either wish for or hope a mitigation of their sufferings on earth,
because the happiness of the few and the wretchedness of nearly all
mankind is Thine almighty will. Blasphemies! is it not the contrary of
these homicidal words that is more worthy of the name of Divine will?
Hear, me, O Lord! for mercy's sake. Snatch from their enemies the
descendants of my sister, from the artisan up to the king's son. Do not
permit them to crush the germ of a mighty and fruitful association,
which, perhaps, under Thy protection, may take its place among the
records of the happiness of mankind. Suffer me, O Lord! to unite those
whom they are endeavoring to divide--to defend those whom they are
attacking. Suffer me to bring hope to those from whom hope has fled, to
give courage to those who are weak, to uphold those whom evil threatens,
and to sustain those who would persevere in well-doing. And then,
perhaps, their struggles, their devotedness, their virtues, this miseries
might expiate my sin. Yes, mine--misfortune, misfortune alone, made me
unjust and wicked. O Lord! since Thine almighty hand hath brought me
hither, for some end unknown to me, disarm Thyself, I implore Thee, of
Thine anger, and let not me be the instrument of Thy vengeance! There is
enough of mourning in the earth these two years past--Thy creatures have
fallen by millions in my footsteps. The world is decimated. A veil of
mourning extends from one end of the globe to the other. I have traveled
from Asia even to the Frozen Pole, and death has followed in my wake.
Dost Thou not hear, O Lord! the universal wailings that mount up to Thee?
Have mercy upon all, and upon me. One day, grant me but a single day,
that I may collect the descendants of my sister together, and save them!"
And uttering these words, the wanderer fell upon his knees, and raised
his hands to heaven in a suppliant attitude.

Suddenly, the wind howled with redoubled violence; its sharp whistlings
changed to a tempest. The Wanderer trembled, and exclaimed in a voice of
terror, "O Lord! the blast of death is howling in its rage. It appears as
though a whirlwind were lifting me up. Lord, wilt Thou not, then, hear my
prayer? The spectre! O! do I behold the spectre? Yes, there it is; its
cadaverous countenance is agitated by convulsive throes, its red eyes are
rolling in their orbits. Begone! begone! Oh! its hand--its icy hand has
seized on mine! Mercy, Lord, have mercy! 'Onward!' Oh, Lord! this
scourg