figure. Mrs.
Sherwood paints him much less pleasantly, and says he was exactly like
the sign of the Saracen's head, with intensely flashing eyes, high nose,
white teeth, and jet black eyebrows, moustache, and beard. His voice was
like rolling thunder, his dress of gorgeous material and thoroughly
Oriental, silk skull-cap, jacket, jewelled girdle, loose trousers, and
embroidered shoes, and he had a free and haughty manner, according with
his signature, when writing to a gentleman who had offended
him--"Nathanael Sabat, an Arab, who never was in bondage."

In April 1809, Mr. Martyn was removed to the station at Cawnpore, where
the Sherwoods were then residing. The time was one of the worst in the
whole year for travelling across the sandy plains, with a wind blowing
that made the air like "the mouth of an oven." For two days and two
nights, between Allahabad and Cawnpore, Mr. Martyn travelled in his
palanquin without intermission, and, having expected to arrive sooner, he
had brought no provision for the last day. "I lay in my palanquin,
faint, with a headache, neither awake nor asleep, between dead and alive,
the wind blowing flames." When he arrived, Mr. Sherwood had only just
time to lead him into the bungalow before he fainted away, and the hall
being the least heated place, a couch was made ready for him there, where
for some days he lay very ill; and the thermometer was never below 96
degrees, though the punkah never ceased.

As soon as he mended a little, he enjoyed talking over his Hebrew and
Greek studies and his ethnological researches with his clever and eager
hostess, who must have greatly refreshed his spirit. He delighted in
music: his voice and ear were both excellent, and he taught her many
hymns and their tunes. He also took much pleasure in a little orphan
girl whom she was bringing up. At this time she herself was almost a
childless mother, all her Indian-born infants having been victims to the
climate; but a few months later Mr. Martyn christened her little daughter
Lucy, a child of such gentle, gracious temper that he was wont to call
her Serena. Mrs. Sherwood gives a pretty picture of this little
creature, when about eighteen months old, creeping up to Mr. Martyn as he
lay on a sofa with all his books about him, and perching herself on his
Hebrew Lexicon, which he needed every moment, but would not touch so as
to disturb her. The pale, white-clad pastor, and the child with silky
hair, ba