Herald of the times. [volume] (Newport, R.I.) 1830-1846, 1836-01-07


\ AT last, nor wearied nor satiated, we
left this solitary island, SOLITARY, | say,
for il not conpauioness among the other
islands, yet not n soul ventures to live
upon il, so terrific are the winters and
The storms, and embarked again on
board our I'll ghlander." Iona was the
next object Of cur,osi,y-Iona, or Icolm-
xiii, as it is often called-which DIR.
johnson visited j his famous highland
tour, and which he has described as "the
Illustrious island which was once the lu-
minary of tile Caedonian regions,
whence savage clans and rowing 6arba-
rians derived the benefits Of knowledge
and the blessings ofreligion." Oh, what
reverse of the picture now, and what
a contrast with what it was once! This
little island, that was indeed in its better
days a Iuminary, is now most deplora-
bic object to behold. do not know
whether even the moral training the
mind must have in visiting such a scene,
repays the traveller for the misery he
suffers. Think of this the chosen burial
place of no less than sixty kings,-the
place where Roman Pope thought Of
seeking the last decades Of Livy, now
inhabited by people in the most abject
condition, without the spirit or the pride
Of the savage, and yet with all his power
ty, whose palaces now would be but pig
sites in our happy Iand-and such peo-
pie living too where the asylum Of learn
ing was during the dark ages, where it
was glory too to live, and pride to
die; now trampling recklessly over the
broken collins OF Scottish, Irish and Nor
veg ian kings-with their miserable how
els wretckedly contrasting with the ruins
Of the proud Cathedral their fathers rear
cd! Think ofthe havoc Time works
Of the changes he effects! What Rome
was once to Italy, this little island was
to the people here-and what many
| proud city now is, Iona was.
i As we landed from our boat, focks Of
children who spoke not word Of Eng
lish, and who understood no other words
than penny.or the pence, met US on thn
quay, or wharf,with shells or pebbles, for
which they expected little reward, a.
a tribute, il may be, from the stranger
who should visit their renowned isle
i They followed US in masses every STEP
we took, from the moment we landed I"
the moment we left. The first object
that attracted our attention, after passing
the miserable huts of dust and stone thar
stood in range along the coast, was
| the ReHg Ourang, or the tombs Of thr
Kings. This is the holy ground alluded
to by Shakespeare in the tragedy Of Mac
beth, as assigned for The sepulture OF
Duncar's body. 1t was a chosen place
because a Gaelic prophecy had, foretcl4
the destruction of Hibernia ard Scotir,
and exempted Iona from the general
deluge. Thus Norwegian Kings, AMI
a King of France, sought this famous
cemetery as a last place of rest. The
Lords Of the Isles too are buried here
But the appearance of this once renowr-
ed graveyard is now enough -revoltins
The tomb stones, the dilapidated coffin,
the sculptured images upon them, a."
now thrown confusedly in the way o.
every passer-by. Mitred Bishop, AMI
crowned King, are huddled together
The earth has sunken down in some pln-
ces, and engul phed the memorials with
| it, All the tombstones are delaced.--
Hardly the letters of an inscription can
be deciphered. never saw a more
melancholy wreck Of proud mortality
If the flood Of the Gaelic prophet did not
come, other men another race has CONE,
who know not, and who care not for thu
dead, and who have wrought mischief
the flood could not have done more ruth
lessly. l left this desolaton. The crowd
Of children tumbled over the grave stones
after US. A garrulous guide who blub-
bered out brosen English, fourished his
cane and gabbled on after us. Ii could
have been alone, l would have been sad
ly happy-but TO have ones sacred
thoughts thus profaned, it is insuf1erable.
We entered amid the ruins Of the Cathe-
dral l,-once the Pantheon Of this region.
Its outstanding walls were crumbling
all about. The rubbish was thrown here
and there. On broken images the owl
might sit and brood undisturbed. The
rock never need fear. Here is the re-
cumbent figure of an abbot who died
three centuries ago. There, within the
choir, carved on the pillar is the Iudic-
rous figure of an angel with a pair Of
scales, weighing souls, and the devil
keeping down that in which the weight
lies, with his paw. Over our head 10 a
tower, whose arches are ornamented with
bas-ieliefs, s,-under our feet a broken
headed Abbot again, upon whose tomb
stone some part Of the ruins have fallen.
Thus in ludicrous confusion has limo
left this grave work, even as he has left
n thousand others, and rs he will leave