rtyn the stranger who, Sunday after Sunday,
listened to his preaching, and no doubt would have as thankfully profited
by his individual teaching as he would have joyfully given it.

Sabat was at this time a great trial to Mr. Martyn, who in the flush of
enthusiasm had let him be put too forward at first, and found the wild
man of the desert far too strong for him. Sometimes, when they differed
about a word in the translation, Sabat would contend so violently for a
whole morning that poor Mr. Martyn, when unable to bear it any longer,
would order his palanquin and be carried over to the Sherwoods to escape
from the intolerable brawling shout. What Sabat could be was plain from
the story of his wife Amina; his seventh, as he told his friends. When
he was trying to convert her, she asked his views upon the future lot of
those who remained Mahometans, and, when he consigned them to the state
of condemnation, she quietly replied that she greatly preferred hell
without Sabat's company to heaven with him. The poor man was no doubt in
great measure sincere, but his probation had been insufficient, and his
wild Ishmaelitish nature, so far from being overcome, gained in pride and
violence through the enthusiasm that was felt for him as a convert. Once,
in a fit of indignation, he wrote a Persian letter, full of abuse of Mr.
Martyn, to a friend in the service of the English resident at Lucknow. By
him it was carried to his master, who, wishing to show Mr. Martyn the
real character of his favourite convert, sent him the letter. Instead of
looking into it, Mr. Martyn summoned Sabat, and bade him read it aloud to
him. For once the Arab was overpowered; he cowered before his calm
master and entreated his pardon, and when Mr. Martyn put the letter into
his hands, assuring him that he had not read it, he was really touched,
and showed sorrow for his violence.

On the last Sunday of September 1810, Mr. Martyn took leave of Cawnpore.
It was also the Sunday of the installation as chaplain of his dearest
friend, the Reverend Daniel Corrie, and of the opening of a church which
his exertions had prevailed to raise, whereas all former services had
been in his own long verandah. The first sound of the bell most deeply
affected those who had scarcely heard one since they had left their
native country. That church has given place to the beautiful building
which commemorates the horrors of 1857; but the name of Henry Martyn
ought never t