lebrated city of
Carthage. She had settled and occupied two hundred cities in the
territory of Spain, and for centuries occupied the whole of that country
up to the Ebro. The Jewish historians speak of Spain as Tharshish. Greek
writers speak of Spain as Tartesus. Jewish historians and prophets
speak of the ships of Tharshish as the most magnificent sea-going crafts
known to the world, as we for half of a century boasted of our Baltimore
Clipper. Her sailors passed beyond the Pillars of Hercules and passed up
the northwest coast of France and established their religion, the
worship of Baal, or the sun, among the simple people of Bretagne so
firmly and universally that at this day at Carnac, in the Morbihan,
there stand more Phoenician funereal monuments of unknown antiquity
than can be found together in any form of religion in any other portion
of the world's surface. They discovered tin in the Scilly Islands, off
the coast of Cornwall, and wrought those mines for centuries. Those
Islands were known to the ancient Greeks and Romans as the
Cassiterrides, or Tin Islands. They worked both tin and copper mines in
Cornwall, and made profits on the sale of the products throughout the
known world. They passed up the British channel and through the German
Ocean, and in the immense sand dunes at the mouth of the Baltic
discovered and utilized that beautiful product of the primeval forests
called amber, which they dug from the sand hills. They took with them
their priests (the priests of Baal) and introduced the worship of the
sun, and made that worship paramount and universal in England, Ireland
and Scotland, as well as in Bretagne and the northwest of France. So
thoroughly has the religion of Baal been fastened upon the peoples of
these regions that portions of them at this day salute the arrival of
the Summer Solstice, June twenty-fourth, with burning fires, the precise
meaning of which is forgotten, but through those fires in all the early
portions of the present century the inhabitants have jumped with their
little ones in their arms, as the phrase goes, on Saint John's eve,
"for luck." The wizard of the north, Sir Walter Scott, in his song
entitled "Hail to the Chief," in the Lady of the Lake, has the following
when speaking of "Clan Alpines Pine":

"Ours is no saplin,
Chance sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane," (Baaltime)
"In winter to fade."

Indeed the literary men of Scotland very generally call