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 The religious souvenir, a 
 Christmas, New Year's and 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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 https://archive.org/details/religioussouveniOOunse 
 
THE 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR, 
 
 Cfirustmas, Weto dear’s anti 33trti) Ban present 
 
 FOR 
 
 MDCCCXXXIII. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 y 
 
 G. T. BEDELL, D.D. 
 
 RECTOR OF SAINT ANDREW’S CHURCH, PHILADELPHIA 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 KEY, MIELKE & BIDDLE, 
 
 181 MARKET STREET. 
 
Entered according to the act of congress, in the year 1832, by 
 Key, Mielke & Biddle, in the office of the clerk of the district 
 court of the eastern district of Pennsylvania. 
 
 Philadelphia: 
 
 James Kay, Jun. & Co., Printers, 
 4 Minor Street. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The Editor, to whom has been entrusted the adjust¬ 
 ment of the matter for the 1 Religious Souvenir,’ and 
 whose name the Publishers have requested might 
 stand upon its title page, feels very deeply the respon¬ 
 sibility attaching to the preparation of a work like 
 this. When the idea was first suggested to him by 
 the enterprising publishers, he felt disposed to decline 
 it, on the score of health hardly equal to the under¬ 
 taking, and the pressure of the duties appertaining to 
 the oversight of a large city congregation. But, on 
 mature reflection, and he hopes not without the 
 desire of Divine direction, he determined that it was 
 
4 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 his duty to undertake the work, as he thought he 
 perceived the immense advantage which might be 
 gained to the cause of religion , by his bringing it 
 before the minds of a large class of readers, in a form 
 at present so decidedly popular as that of an Annual. 
 In the prosecution of his design he immediately com¬ 
 menced a correspondence with some of our best 
 religious writers in every section of the union, solicit¬ 
 ing their contributions; and he is happy to say, that 
 all to whom he wrote acknowledged the utility of the 
 plan, and the greater part of them promised their 
 assistance. It has been the aim of the Editor to 
 accomplish two purposes; to make the work now pre¬ 
 sented to the public, first of decidedly religious utility, 
 and second, of literary interest. His mind does not 
 hesitate a moment in believing, that, by the blessing 
 of God, he has been enabled to accomplish the first , 
 and he hopes that, on a diligent perusal, his readers 
 will not be disappointed in the second. He is not un¬ 
 willing to hazard his reputation, as a Christian and a 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 5 
 
 minister of the Gospel, on the truth of the declaration, 
 that not one line or word will be found in the volume 
 which might cause a Christian to fear its being put 
 into the hands of any one to whom he might desire to 
 present it; and he also trusts, that, in the contributions 
 with which he has been favoured, there will be found 
 sufficient evidence of so high an order of talent, as to 
 secure the work the favour of an enlightened public. 
 All but one of the articles is original; and this 
 will easily be distinguished. As to the original arti¬ 
 cles, the initials of the writers are attached to their 
 several productions. The most of the names may be 
 judged of, by those who are conversant with our 
 American writers. Had the Editor been permitted to 
 give them in full, it would have added to the interest 
 of the work;—but this was beyond his control. The 
 Editor has furnished as little matter for the work him¬ 
 self, as the nature of the case would allow: those 
 articles for which he is responsible as author are 
 those to which no signature is attached. The design 
 
6 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 of the work, it is confidently believed, will by all be 
 approved: of its execution there will be difference of 
 sentiment. If it does good, the object of the Editor is 
 gained. Should the present volume meet the ap¬ 
 probation of the public, another will be commenced 
 for the succeeding year, the matter of which will be 
 of a still more elevated character than could be ven¬ 
 tured in the almost untried field which this volume 
 
 occupies. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Happy New Year. • 
 
 What is thy Hope ? 
 
 The Passing Bell. 
 
 Alpine Mastiffs, or the Dogs of Saint Bernard. 
 My Mother. • 
 
 Night. 
 
 Sabbath Evening in the Country. 
 
 The Blessings of Adversity. 
 
 Sacred Lyrics. 
 
 The Patriarch. 
 
 Tyre. 
 
8 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Dreams. .109 
 
 Midnight Hymn. .118 
 
 The Sunday Infant-School Boy..121 
 
 To the Evening Star. .131 
 
 The Empty Bier. .132 
 
 The Prophet Elijah.134 
 
 Christian Laconics.137 
 
 Saint John’s Vision.151 
 
 The Christian Soldier..155 
 
 The Angel Choir..163 
 
 Washington..167 
 
 The Flood. ... :.169 
 
 The Lady of Shunem..170 
 
 Passages.191 
 
 Counsels to the Young.196 
 
 Hymn of the Reapers..212 
 
 The Vision. .214 
 
 The Last Days of Autumn. .221 
 
 The Duellist. 
 
 223 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 9 
 
 Parental Regret. ........ 240 
 
 The Great Refiner.243 
 
 The Missionary. . . ..245 
 
 Samson. 262 
 
 Shall I consent to become his Wife? .... 266 
 
 Christmas Eve.270 
 
 The Inscription on the Cross.278 
 
 Closing Thoughts. 
 
 281 
 

EMBELLISHMENTS. 
 
 I. —Frontispiece. The Mother. Engraved by Ellis 
 
 from a Picture by Sir Thomas Lawrence. . . 1 
 
 II. —Alpine Mastiffs. Engraved by Tucker from a Pic¬ 
 
 ture by Edwin Landseer. .30 
 
 III. —Sunday Evening. Engraved by Steel from a Pic¬ 
 
 ture by R. Westall.62 
 
 IV. —The Patriarch. Engraved by Neagle from a Pic¬ 
 
 ture by Cook.100 
 
 V.—The Prophet Elijah. Engraved by Steel from a Pic¬ 
 ture by Martin.134 
 
 VI.—Elisha raising the Shunamite’s Son. Engraved by 
 Longacre from a Picture by West. 
 
 188 
 
12 
 
 EMBELLISHMENTS. 
 
 VII. —Parental Regret. Engraved by Wellmore from a 
 
 Picture by Scheffer.240 
 
 VIII. —Samson. Engraved by Smillie from a Picture by 
 
 Lucas..262 
 
 IX.—Crucifixion. Engraved by Keenan from a Pic¬ 
 ture by Martin..278 
 
HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 “Happy New Year, Happy New Year!” cried half 
 a dozen of ruby faced children, as they burst into the 
 parlour where their father and mother were sitting just 
 ready to take their places at the breakfast table;—and 
 they were soon made happy by receiving the fond 
 kiss customary on these occasions, and espying the 
 basket under the table, which they rightly judged 
 contained the presents of which they had all night 
 been dreaming. 
 
 I hardly dare to say when the circumstance above 
 related occurred, for it would give an air of too great 
 antiquity to my subject. With the improvement of 
 the age, and the march of intellect, there are some 
 old customs, which I am disposed to think unhap» 
 pily forgotten; and one of them is this very custom 
 of children and servants wishing a happy new year 
 
 B 
 
14 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 to the heads of the domestic circle, and receiving 
 in return, not only some kind expressions of good 
 will, but some more manifest tokens of regard in the 
 shape of presents. These are among the 1 small 
 things’ of life which ought not to be despised; for 
 however trifling they may appear, they most certainly 
 have a tendency to draw closer the cords of social 
 enjoyment. If the state of society some century and 
 a half ago, was rather too stiff and formal, it is now 
 too much relaxed and independent. I remember a 
 great uncle, who used to entertain me sometimes, 
 when I was too boisterous and free for his taste, 
 by telling me, that when he was a child, he always 
 was used to make a bow when he came into the room 
 where his parents were sitting, and he never pre¬ 
 sumed to take a seat till he was told, and that then he 
 sat perfectly still, and never spoke till he was spoken 
 to. This I think was all wrong, because, I apprehend, 
 the warmth of affection may be somewhat chilled; but, 
 at the same time, I am not without some misgivings 
 whether even this is not better than the rude and 
 unmannerly deportment of some children at the pre¬ 
 sent day. I have seen much of the world, being fond 
 of travel, and myself a member of what may be called 
 £ good society,’ so that my intercourse wherever I 
 am, is always among persons of the most respectable 
 
HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 15 
 
 standing; and I have remarked that the children of 
 the present day are very different from those I have 
 heard and read of, in the time of our forefathers. 
 I have seen many a family of children enter the 
 parlour in the morning, and never think of any respect¬ 
 ful address to their parents or elders, such as 1 good 
 morning,’ &c.; and I have seen them, when there was 
 company in the room, making themselves as noisy as 
 they listed; and I have seen them at table, helping 
 themselves to what they pleased, and expressing 
 their likes and dislikes, as if they were perfectly their 
 own masters. Now all this may be very fine, and 
 indicate a great improvement in society, but to 
 my old fashioned taste, I am not sure that the 1 old 
 ways’ were not on the whole better calculated not 
 only for domestic happiness, but for the ultimate 
 welfare of the children themselves. 
 
 But methinks my readers will begin to wonder 
 what all this has to do with 1 happy new year:’—well, 
 let it pass, and I will go back to my story. I 
 happened to be on a visit to a friend in the city of 
 -, and intended only to spend the Christmas holi¬ 
 days; but a storm of snow detained me till the third 
 of January; and as I am always an early riser, I was 
 in the parlour, when Mr and Mrs Smith (for so I shall 
 call them) came down. After such recognitions as 
 
16 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 were suitable to ourselves, we sat down to chat, and 
 in a few moments we were broken in upon, by the 
 exclamations with which I began my relation. As 
 soon as the breakfast was despatched, which was 
 hastily done (for I have never seen children who 
 had much appetite when their expectations of some 
 other gratification were high), the basket was placed 
 on the table, and Mrs Smith, who officiated on the 
 occasion, soon removed the mysterious cover, and 
 unveiled the contents. I do not stop to tell what 
 these were. There was a great variety, and all judi¬ 
 ciously selected. I saw no cakes or sweetmeats. 
 There were a few oranges and nuts and raisins, but 
 the mass was principally made up of work bags, &c. 
 for the girls, some appropriate articles of amusement 
 for the younger boys, and some articles of utility for 
 the servants; there was also a doll for the infant: 
 but the most I saw was in the form of books—really 
 good, substantially useful books, such as were cal¬ 
 culated to interest the attention, and inform the 
 understanding; and they all were selected with a 
 view to their religious bearing , for Mr and Mrs Smith 
 were fully persuaded that it is unlawful for Christians 
 to put any books in their children’s hands, but those 
 that at least shall have a religious aspect. I involun¬ 
 tarily put my hand into my pocket, to draw out some 
 
HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 17 
 
 half dozen little books with which I had provided 
 myself; and I recollected at once, that I had thought - 
 Zkssly bought one of the high priced English annuals, 
 more for its beauty than any thing else, and which 
 I had intended to present to Eliza Smith, the eldest 
 daughter^ This book was filled with most exquisitely 
 beautiful engravings and touching stories, but no 
 religion was there. I had read it, and admired much 
 that I had read; but my conscience misgave me soon 
 after I had bought it, for there were some pieces of 
 amatory poetry, and some stories calculated to foster 
 false taste and sentiment. When I saw how much 
 more judicious the parents had been, I thought at 
 once, Shall I put what may do harm amidst all this 
 good ? shall I play the part of a serpent in this para¬ 
 dise, and tempt to food which may be ‘pleasant to 
 the eye,’ but not calculated to 1 make men wise’ 
 or good. I withdrew my hand, determined rather 
 to be thought churlish, than, at the risk of harm, win 
 a childish affection. The thought passed my mind— 
 what a pity that there is not a Religious Annual, 
 which may be safely given as a new year’s present. 
 
 As soon as the presents were opened, and admira¬ 
 tion had exhausted its vocabulary of beautiful , elegant , 
 delightful , and some dozen or so of such expressions, 
 Mr Smith observed, “ I think your mother has for- 
 
18 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 gotten something.” Mrs Smith then drew from the 
 basket a small roll of paper, tied with a delicate blue 
 ribbon, and on it was written, ‘ For all the childrert.’ 
 Then was curiosity more intensely awakened; and I 
 must confess that I was not without some little share 
 of it myself. However, we were not kept long in 
 suspense: Mr Smith took the roll, and, carefully 
 untying it, read the following title, 4 The parents’ 
 new year’s present to their beloved children;’ and 
 then he read what I now give exactly as it was writ¬ 
 ten : 
 
 u Dear Children :—Some of you for a greater, and 
 some for a lesser number of years, have been in the 
 habit on the morning of the first day of the year, of 
 wishing your parents 1 a happy new year;’ and it has 
 not only been the sincere desire, but the most earnest 
 and heartfelt prayer of your dear mother and myself, 
 that you all may experience many, very many happy 
 returns of this same season of joy and congratulation. 
 But how much is implied in the wish of a happy new 
 year, how much more than any of you have ever yet 
 thought of. You have wished your parents a happy 
 year. What is it, my children, that will make the 
 year happy to them? They are already happy in the 
 love of your tender and affectionate hearts; and they 
 have reason to be thankful to God, that you are not 
 
HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 19 
 
 only affectionate, but that you have proved yourselves, 
 on the whole, obedient children; not that there has 
 never been any evidence of waywardness, or that 
 you have never given cause of uneasiness; but that 
 your parents have been enabled, by the blessing 
 of God, in some degree to counteract such evil ten¬ 
 dencies as they have perceived. But now we have 
 anxieties of a very different and peculiar character. 
 Some of you are so much grown, that you are more 
 or less removed beyond the continual superintendence 
 of our eyes. What then will make us happy for the 
 year to come ? It is that evemj one of you should 
 resolve this day to give your hearts to God, according 
 to this, His tender request—‘ Son, give unto me thy 
 heart.’ Your parents have often talked with you, from 
 you, Eliza, down to your little brother William, and 
 presented the claims of religion, with all earnestness 
 and affection, and they have never ceased to pray 
 with you, and for you, that you might 1 remember 
 your creator in the days of your youth.’ W 7 hat can 
 make them happy, if you should grow up careless of 
 your greatest and best of friends and benefactors, 
 even of him who died on the cross that you might be 
 be saved P Your father and mother do not wish to 
 pour the gloom of evil anticipations over the happy 
 character of the present day; but they wish it im- 
 
20 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 pressed upon your minds, that both they and you must 
 die; and that there can be no rational probability of 
 happiness, either here or hereafter, which is not 
 founded on religion, embraced with the heart, and 
 carried out into the life. 
 
 “Dear children, the only way that you yourselves 
 can expect a happy year , is to yield your hearts to 
 God; and then you will find his own words true, 
 that the ‘ ways’ of religion are ‘ ways of pleasant¬ 
 ness,’ and that ‘ all her paths are peace.’ The only 
 way in which your kind and affectionate wishes of a 
 happy new year to your parents can be realized, is, 
 that you seek to make them happy , by securing your 
 own best happiness. If you are happy in the love of 
 God, they must be happy, for they have no wish for 
 you, but that you may become the ‘children of the 
 Lord.’ And now, my dear children, let us sing our 
 new year’s hymn;—and then, when we have com¬ 
 mended ourselves to the Lord, let us begin to enjoy 
 rightly our happiest new year 
 
 I hope my readers will not accuse me of weakness, 
 if I say, that I wept outright, but they were tears of 
 delight. I saw the eyes of the lovely children bathed 
 in tears, but they were not such tears as are shed for 
 pain which may not be alleviated. Mr Smith read 
 an appropriate hymn, which was sung, if not with the 
 
HAPPY NEW YEAR. 
 
 21 
 
 skilful execution of the practised choir, at least with 
 the feelings of awakened religious sensibility. When 
 it was over, he asked me as a friend, to lead the devo¬ 
 tions of the domestic circle;—and I had reason to 
 thank God, for as happy a new year, as had ever 
 fallen to my lot to enjoy. 
 
22 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 WHAT IS THY HOPE ? 
 
 What is thy hope ? Oh! if to the earth, 
 
 Like the grovelling vine, it clings, 
 
 Nor shoots one aspiring tendril forth, 
 
 In search after higher things: 
 
 In vain is it nurtur’d with ceaseless toil, 
 
 Confined to the cold world’s ungenial soil; 
 
 Each prop that supports it must perish, and all 
 Its buds of fair promise unopen’d fall— 
 
 Alas! for the hopes that are nourish’d here, 
 
 ’Midst the storms of earth’s changeful atmosphere. 
 
 Then what is thy hope ? To what pitch of pride 
 Would thy restless ambition tower? 
 
 Wouldst thou over fallen empires stride, 
 
 To the summit of human power ? 
 
 Couldst thou conquer realms, make thy will their law , 
 And hold the subject world in awe; 
 
WHAT IS THY HOPE. 
 
 23 
 
 Should kings as vassals attend thy nod, 
 
 Thou must die, and thy spirit return to God; 
 
 And how worthless are sceptres and thrones of power 
 To a monarch’s soul in his dying hour. 
 
 Say, what is thy hope ? Dost thou pursue 
 Of pleasure the giddy round, 
 
 With the phantom of happiness ever in view, 
 W'here true happiness never was found ? 
 
 Oh ! plunge not, in search after bliss supreme, 
 
 ’Midst the whirlpools of pleasure’s polluted stream : 
 Amidst her mad orgies, thou never canst find 
 Joys worth the pursuit of a rational mind ; 
 
 Oh ! fly her seductions, resist her control, 
 
 She poisons, debases and ruins the soul. 
 
 But what is thy hope ? Dost thou pant to find 
 Of riches a treasure untold ? 
 
 Thou never canst purchase peace of mind, 
 
 Nor a length of days, with gold. 
 
 It procures no exemption from worldly woe, 
 
 Nor will death, for a bribe, his prey forego: 
 
 Though thou hoard up wealth, and ‘ add field to field,’ 
 No advantage in death will thy treasures yield, 
 
 Thou must leave thy possessions to other men— 
 
 And where will thy hope and thy soul be then ? 
 
24 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Yet what is thy hope ? Is it that which leads 
 The aspirants to glory forth, 
 
 To win for themselves by heroic deeds 
 The fleeting applause of earth? 
 
 Thou may’st couple thy name with high renown, 
 
 And send it to future ages down, 
 
 And men yet unborn may applaud the tale : 
 
 But what will their plaudits to thee avail, 
 
 When thy form shall be mould’ring amongst the dead, 
 And thy soul to the last great audit fled ? 
 
 Then what is thy hope ? Consider how high 
 Is thy destiny, think on the worth 
 
 Of a soul that is born for eternity, 
 
 Though it sojourn awhile upon earth. 
 
 Oh ! why are the views of immortals confin’d 
 To narrower limits than heaven assign’d ? 
 
 Why, when form’d to exist in a happier sphere, 
 Should we bury our expectations here , 
 
 And vainly seek for substantial good 
 In a world of unceasing vicissitude ? 
 
 What is thy hope? Will it stand the test 
 Of nature’s expiring hour? 
 
 Like armour of proof will it shield thy breast 
 Against the grim tyrant’s power ? 
 
WHAT IS THY HOPE. 
 
 25 
 
 Will it gladden thy soul and dispel the gloom, 
 
 The horror of darkness that veils the tomb, 
 
 When the damps of death to thy brows shall start, 
 And the life-blood ebbs from thy freezing heart?— 
 Away with it else !—it is worse than vain 
 To cherish a hope that shall fail thee then ! 
 
 But hope thou in God! To a dying hour 
 This hope sweet assurance brings, 
 
 When worldly preferments and wealth and power 
 Shall all be forgotten things. 
 
 Aye, hope thou in God, though a feeble worm: 
 
 And thy soul shall be safe, and thy confidence firm— 
 Thou shalt traverse in triumph the gloomy abyss 
 Which divides the eternal world from this— 
 
 And consigning in hope thy frail flesh to the sod, 
 
 Thy soul shall ascend to thy Saviour and God. 
 
 S. S. C. 
 
 Newport, R. I. 
 
26 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 THE PASSING BELL.* 
 
 There’s solemn warning in thy voice, 
 Thou deep-toned bell, 
 
 That on a thousand reckless ears 
 Pour’st thy sad knell. 
 
 Thou tell’st life’s pilgrimage is o’er 
 With some lov’d one, 
 
 Whose struggling soul hath pass’d away 
 With yonder sun. 
 
 There is a sound of woe and wail 
 In thy deep tone, 
 
 Proclaiming sweet affections crush’d, 
 Fond hopes o’erthrown. 
 
 * In many parts of our country, it is the practice to toll the bell 
 of the church, either on the death or at the funeral of those who 
 die. 
 
THE PASSING BELL. 
 
 27 
 
 Oh now how many tender ties, 
 
 That twin’d the heart 
 
 In sacred ligaments of love, 
 
 Are rent apart! 
 
 How many now in bitterness 
 Of anguish weep, 
 
 Echoing back thy notes with sobs 
 1 Not loud, but deep !’— 
 
 There is a warning in thy voice 
 Solemn indeed, 
 
 When for their souls with dying men 
 Thou seem’st to plead. 
 
 Awful, yet plaintively, to me 
 Comes thy deep toll, 
 
 As if the parted spirit’s voice 
 Spake to my soul. 
 
 “ Mortals !” it cries, “ life’s chequered scenes 
 My feet have trod, 
 
 I go to appear before the throne 
 And bar of God. 
 
28 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 “ My actions are seal’d up, my term 
 Of trial o’er, 
 
 No farther space for penitence 
 Is given me more. 
 
 “ Oh! that the knell which now proclaims 
 A brother dead, 
 
 Might rouse reflection, ere your days 
 Like mine are fled ! 
 
 “ Bethink ye of the mortal pangs 
 Of that dread hour, 
 
 When ye will shrink, yet cannot fly 
 From death’s fell power. 
 
 “Ye votaries of the world, who sport 
 On the grave’s brink, 
 
 From your besotted revelries 
 Awake ! and think! 
 
 u Time flies !—your measur’d moments all 
 Sweep swiftly by, 
 
 A dread eternity draws on, 
 
 And ye must die !” 
 
THE PASSING BELL. 
 
 29 
 
 Such are the solemn thoughts thou wak’st, 
 Mournful death-bell, 
 
 As sullenly on the still air 
 Floats thy sad knell. 
 
 S. S. C. 
 
 Newport, R. I. 
 
 c 
 
30 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 ALPINE MASTIFFS, OR THE DOGS 
 OF SAINT BERNARD. 
 
 Illustrative of the Providence of God. 
 
 Where shall we look, and not see the providence of 
 God displayed ? 
 
 Of the quadrupedal portion of creation, the dog is 
 pre-eminently the sympathising companion and at¬ 
 tached friend of man. The sincerity of his fidelity, 
 who has distrusted? His generous devotion to the 
 pleasures and wishes of his master, what ill-usage 
 can repress—what kind treatment overpay ? Or who 
 shall say that the arts which adorn social life are 
 unworthily or unwisely employed in asserting the 
 claims to human regard, and even to human grati¬ 
 tude, of a noble creature, to whom, if the faculty of 
 speech has been denied, other modes of acquiring 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 31 
 
 and exerting pleasurable impulse, benevolent motive, 
 efficient power, and sagacious conduct, have been 
 freely and abundantly imparted, so as to vindicate at 
 once the divine dispensations, and the various relations 
 of the comprehensive system of Providence. Doubt¬ 
 less the eminent services and the delight which we 
 derive from the canine race, are earthly blessings 
 from the bounty of the great Parent and Author of 
 .universal existence. 
 
 The superb Alpine mastiffs which we have essayed 
 to represent, and who reside in considerable numbers 
 with the hospitable monks of the Great Saint Bernard, 
 are not merely a credit to their kind, but not un¬ 
 worthy of being classed with the most interesting and 
 grand of Nature’s productions. Alas ! our philosophy 
 seldom rises above our egotism. If their moral and 
 social value may be estimated by the lively concern 
 which these animals evince, and the severe hardships 
 which they willingly or dutifully endure, for the sake 
 of suffering humanity, no created thing whatever 
 should rank higher in our esteem. Native, if not 
 aboriginal, inhabitants of the higher regions of the 
 Pennine Alps; inured to the rigours of eternal winter; 
 trained, taught and fed, by the benevolent monks of 
 the hospitium or monastery, which religion has 
 taught philanthropy to plant, about eight thousand 
 
32 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 two hundred English feet above the level of the sea, 
 and near the summit of that lofty ridge, the road 
 across which is now become the principal pass to the 
 plains of Italy from the valley of the Rhone—they 
 issue forth from the comforts of its ever-cheering fire 
 side, generally in couples, following the track of the 
 raging or drifting snow-storm, or the desolating 
 avalanche, as other dogs follow the scent of game, or 
 the exhilarating joys of the chase. They are the . 
 living life-boats of these dreadful, desolate and tem¬ 
 pestuous regions, the sole object of their constant 
 solicitude being to discover and rescue whatever 
 travellers may have been overtaken and overwhelmed 
 by these sweeping elements of destruction. 
 
 But this benevolent employment of these eminently 
 useful creatures, as I am informed by the senior Mr 
 Colnaghi, who has frequently passed the Alps, and 
 by various routes, is by no means locally restricted to 
 the pass of Saint Bernard. They are also cherished 
 and their services appreciated, at Mount Cenis, 
 the Simplon, Saint Gothard, and along the whole 
 Alpine range. We are therefore, probably, justified 
 in deeming them aborigines. Indeed, all the larger 
 and stronger races of dogs would appear to have origin¬ 
 ally proceeded from the colder regions of the earth. 
 
 Captain T. Brown, of Edinburgh, in his very in- 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 33 
 
 teresting £ Biographical Sketches and Anecdotes of 
 Dogs/ terms these animals 1 Alpine spaniels whether 
 with technic propriety, I am not able to decide. All 
 other writers call them mastiffs. He says, that‘ in point 
 of intelligence the Alpine spaniel may be reckoned 
 about equal to any of the species, and has the greatest 
 aptitude for learning any thing to which he may be 
 trained. He is peculiarly adapted to those stormy 
 regions, the Swiss Alps; and Providence, in the 
 wisdom of its arrangements, seems to have placed 
 him where he was to be the most serviceable to man¬ 
 kind. By marks in the snow, but principally by 
 the scent formed from the breath of the persons w 7 ho 
 may have fallen into pits or been overwhelmed, they 
 discover the buried traveller.’ As depicted in our 
 engraving, when the dogs are sent forth on their 
 humane mission, one of them has a flask or small keg 
 of brandy suspended from his collar; the other has 
 signal bells, by means of which the monks are con¬ 
 ducted to the particular spot where their services 
 may be needed, and is also provided with a sufficient 
 quantity of warm, woollen drapery, which is wrapped 
 and buckled round his body, and in which the shiver¬ 
 ing sufferer, if able, may enwrap himself. Less 
 influenced than man by apprehended dangers, and 
 better fitted by their gigantic strength and vigorous 
 
34 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 constitution to encounter the real hazards of these 
 elevated and inhospitable regions, the Alpine dogs 
 exert themselves with as undaunted resolution and 
 perseverance to save, as the wilder quadrupeds to 
 destroy. In truth, the courage that might be stigma¬ 
 tised as temerity, and the spirit of romantic daring 
 that in man, when intent on his more sublime 
 purposes, is reckless of peril, appears in these ma¬ 
 jestic mastiffs as if it were both urged and bridled 
 by a superior power—by a power which, while it 
 admits not the influence of that soul-felt virtuous 
 enthusiasm, which in a noble cause is careless or 
 disdainful of self-preservation, or that heroic love of 
 a glorious perpetuity which shall reach beyond the 
 grave, is yet bold, generous and exemplary in its 
 obedience to the calls of duty. 
 
 1 There is,’ says Mr Brockedon, ‘ no passage of 
 the Alps which affords to the traveller greater plea¬ 
 sure, either in the enjoyment or the recollection of 
 his journey to Italy, than that by the great Saint 
 Bernard; for, besides the wildness of this Alpine pass, 
 and the beauty of the valley of Aosta, through which 
 the road to Turin continues after it leaves the moun¬ 
 tains, the kind reception which he experiences from 
 the religious community at the hospice, on the 
 summit of Saint Bernard, is remembered as long as 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 35 
 
 he can be grateful for the devotion which induces 
 these excellent men to offer to the traveller their 
 welcome, and spread for him their hospitality in the 
 wilderness. 
 
 1 Beyond the village or bourg of Saint Pierre, 
 the scenery assumes a character of savage grandeur; 
 and through the forest, named after this saint, the 
 path winds among old pines and larches, and over 
 and between rocks which prohibit all means of passing, 
 except to the foot of the traveller or his mule; and 
 beyond the forest the plain of Prou is seen bounded 
 by lofty mountains, glaciers, and that highest peak of 
 the Saint Bernard, the Mount Velan; the river passes 
 at too great a depth beneath the level of the traveller’s 
 feet to be heard, and the whole scene is silent and 
 desolate. 
 
 { Beyond the plain of Prou the acclivity is ascended 
 by a steep and dangerous path, where the traveller is 
 exposed to avalanches during the winter and spring. 
 It is here that many of the victims to the storms of 
 these regions are found, and two chalets have been 
 built; the one to shelter the living, the other as a 
 receptacle for the dead. These chalets are called 
 Vhopital. This spot is regularly visited in the dange¬ 
 rous season by the brethren of the convent, their 
 servants, or their dogs, to search for and assist un- 
 
36 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 fortunate travellers, and to leave some refreshment at 
 one of the chalets. 
 
 ‘ Before arriving at the convent, the traveller 
 recrosses the river (or rather mountain stream) on 
 the Pont de Nudri, and then, ascending by an abrupt 
 path, traverses a bed of snow which few summer 
 seasons are favourable enough to melt. Here the roof 
 of the convent is visible, and in ten minutes he re¬ 
 ceives the cheerful and welcome reception of the 
 monks of Saint Bernard at their dwelling in the 
 clouds, where they exercise a general hospitality , 
 without regard to the religion or country of those 
 whom they assist, and voluntarily engage themselves, 
 by vow, to devote their lives to the succour of those 
 who traverse the desert which they inhabit. The 
 convent is massive, strong, and adapted to its perilous 
 situation, on the very crest of the passage, where it is 
 exposed to tremendous storms from the north-east and 
 south-west; in other directions it is sheltered by the 
 mountains Chenellitaz and Mont-mort—for the name 
 of Saint Bernard, like that of the Saint Gothard, is 
 given to the passage, and not to any particular 
 mountain. 
 
 ‘ Visitors universally acknowledge the kind and 
 courteous attention which they receive from these 
 excellent men, particularly at table; they are freely 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 37 
 
 communicative respecting their establishment, and 
 conversation has no restraint but in the respect 
 which their characters demand. The language used 
 by them is French, though there are Italians and 
 Germans among them. They are well informed upon 
 most subjects, and intelligent upon those in which 
 their situation has been favourable to their acquiring- 
 information. The periodical works of some academic 
 bodies and institutions are sent to them, and the} r 
 have a small library, which is chiefly theological. 
 During their short summer, their intercourse with 
 well-informed travellers is extensive: this gives to 
 their inquiries a propriety, and an apparent interest 
 in the affairs of the world. 
 
 1 Under every circumstance in which it is possible 
 to render assistance, the worthy religieux of Saint 
 Bernard set out upon their fearful duty, unawed by 
 the storm, and obeying a higher power; they seek the 
 exhausted or overwhelmed traveller, generally ac¬ 
 companied by their dogs, whose sagacity will often 
 detect the victim though buried in the snow. The 
 dogs, also, as if conscious of a high duty, will roam 
 alone through the day and night in these desolate 
 regions, and if they discover an exhausted traveller, 
 will lie on him to impart warmth, and bark and howl 
 for assistance.’ 
 
38 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 The philosophical writers of the 1 Library of Enter¬ 
 taining Knowledge’ go farther on this part of the 
 subject than our author. They tell at what depth the 
 dogs are enabled to discover the snow buried sufferer. 
 They do not name their authority, and the fact which 
 they have recorded is scarcely credible; but their 
 language is impressive, and we cite the passage; for 
 though themselves are, as we presume to think they 
 ought not to be, anonymous, the auspices which 
 usher their writings to public notice are of the first 
 respectability. 
 
 ‘ Most remarkably are the monks assisted in their 
 truly Christian offices. They have a breed of noble 
 dogs in their establishment, whose extraordinary 
 sagacity often enables them to rescue the traveller 
 from destruction. Benumbed with cold, weary in the 
 search for a lost track, his senses yielding to the 
 stupifying influence of frost, which betrays the ex¬ 
 hausted sufferer into a deep sleep, the unhappy man 
 sinks upon the ground, and the snow-drift covers him 
 from human sight. It is then that the keen scent and 
 the exquisite docility of these admirable dogs are 
 called into action. Though the perishing man lie ten, 
 or even twenty feet beneath the snow, the delicacy of 
 smell with which they can trace him, offers a chance 
 of resuscitation. They scratch away the snow with 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 39 
 
 their feet; they set up a continued hoarse and solemn 
 bark, which brings the monks and labourers of the 
 convent to their assistance.’ 
 
 As far as respects the dogs, the reader will readily 
 trace enough of resemblance between these written 
 descriptions proceeding from different pens, of a 
 frequent natural occurrence, and our engraved repre¬ 
 sentation of a similar incident, but the addition of a 
 word or two concerning our overwhelmed traveller 
 may probably not be thought irrelevant. It is intended 
 that a student in science should be recognised, since 
 human suffering becomes more pathetic and affecting 
 when combined with merit. He is, therefore, a 
 naturalist. As no vegetable production, save the 
 rhododendron, finds rootage and sustenance in these 
 rocky and frozen regions, the reflecting reader is 
 more likely to construe him to be a mineralogist than 
 a botanist, who, protected by gloves and a vest of fur, 
 and a cap of velvet, has been roaming alone among 
 the Appennines, and whose pursuits and contemplations 
 have been arrested by an avalanche , or a tourmente. 
 He has been beaten down or has fallen; the chill 
 death sleep, or lethargic stupor has seized him: and 
 the faithful dogs have found him. They have evi¬ 
 dently been for some short period of time at their 
 work of disinterment and resuscitation: one of them 
 
40 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 is sounding forth his hoarse and solemn bark, to 
 inform their masters that they have met with an 
 adventure, while the other licks the hand, and stead¬ 
 fastly regards the eye of his patient, as the index of 
 returning animation. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott, who, whenever a dog comes in 
 his way, always treats it with the regardful feeling of 
 a friend and the skilful tact of a connoisseur, writes 
 of that which belongs to the Lady of Avenel, that, 
 
 1 looking in her eyes, he seemed to ask her what she 
 wanted,—or what he could do to show his attachment?’ 
 Our brindled and nearer mastiff has, or is intended to 
 have, a certain modification of this expression. Or 
 perhaps I should say, he looks as would a benevolent 
 physician, who wishes to ascertain and longs to wit¬ 
 ness, the good effects of his medicaments. Can this 
 dog feel anxious hope ? The accomplished naturalist 
 will not quarrel with us, if, assuming the affirmative, 
 we should add our own hopes that the spectator will 
 think he can, and does; and that the stark and 
 extended student will revive and proceed on his way 
 rejoicing. But more than hope is not meant to be 
 indicated ; and the eyes of this Alpine race of dogs 
 being small in proportion to their gigantic bulk, of 
 course do not admit of so much optical expression 
 as if they had been larger; though, on this very 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 41 
 
 account, they are better suited to endure the arrowy 
 sleet of the mountain storms, and the white glare of 
 the snow. In the back ground, at different distances, 
 some of the monks and their domestics are seen 
 hurrying with becoming solicitude toward their task 
 of charity. To proceed with our citation— 
 
 1 These wonderful exertions are often successful, 
 and even where they fail of restoring him who has 
 perished, the dogs discover the body, so that it may 
 be secured for the recognition of friends; and such is 
 the effect of the temperature, that the dead features 
 generally preserve their firmness for the space of two 
 years.’ The Morgue of Saint Bernard, or receptacle 
 for the dead, is a scene of melancholy interest. We 
 again have recourse to Mr Brockedon, who says, 
 1 it is a low building, a few yards from the eastern 
 extremity of the convent, where the bodies of the 
 unfortunate victims to storms and avalanches in these 
 mountains, have been placed. They have generally 
 been found frozen and put into this horrid receptacle 
 in the attitude in which they perished. Here many 
 have dried up and withered, and on some even the 
 clothes have remained after eighteen years. Among 
 the latest victims were a mother and child. 
 
 ‘ The air passed freely through the grated windows 
 without bearing to the nostrils of the observer the 
 
42 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 foul evidence of its transition through this dreadful 
 place. From the rapid evaporation at this height, the 
 bodies had dried without the usual decay. In a 
 walled enclosure on one side of the Morgue , was a 
 great accumulation of bones, white, broken, and 
 apparently the gathering of centuries. Upon this 
 rocky and frozen soil, they could not bury the dead, 
 and, probably, as they dry up without offence, they 
 are placed here for the chance of recognition. Some 
 additions to this sepulchre are annually made, for the 
 perilous passage by this route during the winter is 
 more frequently undertaken than is generally ima¬ 
 gined. Many are prompted by the necessity or 
 urgency of their affairs at this season, to traverse the 
 mountain: they are generally pedlars and smugglers, 
 who travel in defiance of storms and avalanches. In 
 these high regions the snow forms and falls in small 
 particles, which congeal so soon and so hard, that 
 they do not attach and form flakes in descending, and 
 instead of consolidating beneath the pressure of the 
 feet of the traveller, the snow rises around him like 
 powder, and he sinks to his middle: whirlwinds, 
 called tourvientes, raise the snow in dust; unable then 
 to discover his path, he falls over some precipice, 
 or, not less frequently, into some obscure and un¬ 
 suspected pit. The avalanches too have numerous 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 43 
 
 victims. Those of spring are occasioned by the 
 submeltinff of the snow, which undermines their 
 support; the winter avalanches are produced by the 
 accumulations of snow on the steep sides of the moun¬ 
 tains, which, having little cohesion, at length become 
 heavy enough to exceed the supporting power, when 
 enormous masses slide off into the valleys beneath 
 with a suddenness and violence which the prior at 
 the convent compared to the discharge of a cannon¬ 
 ball; these render the approach to the hospice, particu¬ 
 larly on the side of the Valais, very dangerous.’ 
 
 4 Of the vertebrated animals, those which most 
 easily acquire habits from man, are quadrupeds; and 
 of quadrupeds, those which are most easily modified 
 are the species which belong to those united in groups, 
 naturally, by the social affection. 
 
 4 The senses of the higher quadrupeds, such as the 
 dog and the horse, are the instruments by which man 
 employs them for his use; and he renders those senses 
 more powerful in proportion as he cultivates the 
 faculties by which the senses are disciplined. The 
 dog, certainly, has the greatest sympathies with man 
 of all the race of quadrupeds; and the nearer an 
 animal approaches us, and the more easily he com¬ 
 prehends us, the more we are enabled to modify his 
 nature and form his character. 
 
44 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 * Almost every country in the world possesses its 
 different kind of dog, and in each of these kinds there 
 are essential differences of character, produced by 
 education. The Esquimaux dog draws a sledge ; the 
 shepherd’s dog guards a flock; the mastiff protects a 
 a house ; a dog very similar in nature worries a bull; 
 the Spanish blood-hound hunts the naked Indian to 
 the death, while the dog of Saint Bernard rescues 
 the perishing man at the risk of his own life. 
 
 4 Why is this ? These dogs have been accustomed, 
 partly by nature and partly by education, to regulate 
 their senses by the exercise of attention ; to condense 
 their faculties for the service in which they are 
 engaged ; to direct their capabilities to the one object 
 which is necessary to be attained. They are generally 
 successful; and their success offers a valuable exam¬ 
 ple to our higher faculties.’ 
 
 If, then, the dogs of the Saint Bernard are capable of 
 sharing with its hospitable monks, and with the philan- 
 thropical portion of mankind, in this disinterested 
 devotedness to duty; in their submissiveness to denial 
 and restraint;—surely they are honestly entitled to, 
 at least, their earthly meed of human approbation, 
 and to their unsolicited niche in the graphic temple 
 of fame: surely they will not be deemed unworthy 
 subjects of such commemorative and exemplary 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 45 
 
 display as the arts of poetry and painting can confer: 
 surely the brilliant imagination and the pen of Rogers, 
 and the pictorial talents of Turner, and of Ed win Land¬ 
 seer, need not blush, but may rather glory in having 
 indulged or expanded themselves in diffusing the 
 knowledge, and recording the virtues of the hospitable 
 fraternity of Saint Bernard, and the bold obedience 
 and fearless bearing of their well-trained and dutiful 
 dogs. 
 
 Neither religion nor ethics denies that active 
 benevolence is the acme of moral conduct and merit. 
 If there be any thoroughly established maxim of con¬ 
 duct, it is the favourite aphorism of the Abbe Raynal, 
 that { no life can be pleasing to God, but that which 
 is useful to man.’ 
 
 Having treated, to the extent of our information 
 and of our present occasion, of the dogs of Saint Ber¬ 
 nard, a few anecdotes we have been able to collect, 
 will not be unacceptable to the reader. 
 
 One of these noble creatures was decorated with a 
 medal, in commemoration of his having saved the 
 lives of twenty-two persons, who, but for his strength 
 and sagacity, must have perished. Many travellers 
 who have crossed the passage of Saint Bernard since 
 the peace, have seen this dog, and have heard, around 
 the blazing fire of the monks, the stories of his extra- 
 D 
 
46 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 ordinary adventures. He himself perished about the 
 year 1816 , in an attempt to convey a poor traveller to 
 his anxious family. The Piedmontese courier arrived 
 at Saint Bernard in a very stormy season, labouring 
 to make his way to the little village of Saint Pierre, 
 in the valley, where his wife and children dwelt. 
 It was in vain that the monks endeavoured to 
 check his resolution to reach his family. They 
 at last gave him two guides, each of whom was 
 accompanied by a dog, of which one was the remark¬ 
 able animal whose services had been so valuable to 
 mankind. Descending from the convent, they were 
 in an instant overwhelmed by two avalanches, which 
 came thundering down. We scarcely know whether 
 to regard it as deepening the melancholy catastrophe 
 of this domestic tragedy, that the very same fatal 
 calamity overtook the family of the poor courier, who 
 were toiling up the mountain in the hope of obtaining 
 news of their expected parent. They all perished. 
 
 Captain T. Brown, of Edinburgh, in his very 
 interesting 1 Biographical Sketches and Authentic 
 Anecdotes of Dogs,’ has related an affecting story, 
 which the reader will probably be best pleased to see 
 in his own words. 1 A German almanack,’ he says, 
 * contains some details concerning a dog, named Barry, 
 one of the predecessors of those which lately perished 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 47 
 
 amid the snow of the Great Saint Bernard. This 
 intelligent animal served the hospital of that mountain 
 for the space of twelve years, during which time he 
 saved the lives of forty individuals. His zeal was 
 indefatigable. Whenever the mountain was envel¬ 
 oped in fogs and snow, he set out in search of lost 
 travellers. He was accustomed to run barking until 
 he lost his breath, and would frequently venture on 
 the most perilous places. When he found his strength 
 was insufficient to draw from the snow a traveller 
 benumbed with cold, he would run back to the hospi¬ 
 tal in search of the monks. One day, this interesting 
 animal found a child in a frozen state, between the 
 bridge of Dronaz and the ice-house of Balsora; he 
 immediately began to lick him, and having succeeded 
 in restoring animation, induced the child to tie himself 
 round his body and in this way he carried the poor 
 little creature as if in triumph to the hospital.’ There 
 is a French engraving of this incident, the inscription 
 beneath which adds the distressing information, that 
 the boy’s mother had been destroyed by an avalanche 
 which spared her son. 1 When old age deprived 
 Barry of strength, the prior of the convent pensioned 
 him at Berne. He is now dead, and his skin stuffed, 
 and deposited in the museum of that town, with the 
 little flask or vial in which he carried a reviving 
 
48 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 cordial for the distressed travellers, suspended from 
 his neck.’ 
 
 The captain records another anecdote, which I 
 shall somewhat compress, of one of these heroic and 
 discerning quadrupeds, who appears to have literally 
 understood his master’s words, and even zealously to 
 have adopted his resentful feelings. This dog was in 
 the service of the Count de Monte Veccios, a veteran 
 officer whom the republic of Venice had neglected, 
 and who, having to request a favour of his superior in 
 command, general Morosini, waited upon him on 
 the morning when, by appointment, he expected the 
 doge to partake of an elegant and expensive collation, 
 the preparations for which were then on the table. 
 The favour was ungraciously refused : and as the 
 count retired from his audience in dudgeon, he patted 
 his dog and said, in the Italian language, 11 You see, 
 my friend, how I am treated.” As soon afterwards 
 as the dog observed his master to be thoroughly en¬ 
 gaged in conversation, he took the opportunity of 
 stealing back to the saloon of the haughty general, 
 and, eluding observation, seized hold of a golden 
 tassel at one of the corners of a superb table-cloth; 
 ran forcibly backward, and drew it after him, till the 
 ground was bestrewed with battered plate, and broken 
 porcelain, glasses and confections. 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 49 
 
 Sometimes the members or domestics of the con¬ 
 vent of Saint Bernard have fatally suffered in their 
 efforts to save others. On the 17th of December 
 1825, three of these domestics with two dogs descended 
 to the vacherie on the Piedmontese side of the moun¬ 
 tain, and were returning with a traveller, when an 
 avalanche overwhelmed them. All perished except 
 one of the dogs, which escaped by its prodigious 
 strength, after having been thrown over and over. 
 Of those who fatally suffered, none were found until 
 the snow of the avalanche had melted in the ensuing 
 summer, when the first was discovered on the 4th of 
 June, and the last on the 7th of July. One of these 
 unfortunates was Victor, a fine old domestic, whom 
 Mr Brockedon, from whom we quote this anecdote, 
 well remembers in his first visit to the convent in 
 1824. 
 
 The avalanche, which overwhelmed poor Victor 
 and his unfortunate companions, descended from Mont 
 Mort. It was down those very beds of snow—much 
 more extensive in May (the season of his passage) 
 than at other times of the year—that Napoleon slid 
 with his soldiers; boldly following the example of 
 some of his troops, and encouraging the army which 
 had encountered so much difficulty and danger in its 
 march across these Alps, from the 13th to the 20th of 
 
50 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 May 1800, when such an attempt was fraught with 
 peculiar danger, from the exposure of the army to the 
 frequent avalanches of the spring season. The pass¬ 
 age of his army, under such circumstances, with its 
 artillery and materiel, is one of the most stupendous 
 military events on record. Under the direction of 
 general Marmont, who commanded the artillery, and 
 Gassendi, the inspector of the ordnance, the cannon 
 were dismounted and placed in hollow trunks of trees, 
 and thus dragged up the steep and dangerous ascents 
 by one half of a battalion, while the other half carried 
 their own and their comrades’ arms and accoutrements, 
 with provisions for five days. The gun carriages and 
 ammunition wagons were taken to pieces, placed on 
 mules, and thus conveyed across the mountain. The 
 soldiers were obliged to walk in single file, and when 
 the head of a column rested, it checked those behind; 
 availing themselves of the halt, the soldiers refreshed 
 themselves with biscuits steeped in melted snow; then 
 again advancing, they beguiled their labour and re¬ 
 newed their energies under the inspiration of national 
 songs; combining hilarity with patient endurance. 
 
 The following anecdote is from Latrobe. 1 The 
 largest of their dogs, Jupiter, was the general favourite, 
 at the time of my visit, as the most sagacious and use¬ 
 ful of the race. He had saved the lives of a woman 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 51 
 
 and child a short time before. It appears, that he 
 knew some one had passed the hospital, and set off 
 habitually, or stimulated by his lofty and exemplary 
 sense of duty, to see who it was. His absence was 
 observed by one of the servants, who followed his 
 trail, and found him posted over the drift where the 
 poor woman and child were about to perish.’ 
 
 The various species of dogs, say the naturalists, 
 although so numerous, 1 are but varieties of the same 
 animal; their generic characteristics being in all cases 
 the same.’ Their differences, however, of dimension 
 and form (putting colour out of the question) are so 
 great, as to warrant our belief in their different races. 
 
 All the larger and stronger species of dogs would 
 appear to have proceeded from the colder regions of 
 the earth. 
 
 The Alpine mastiffs resemble the dogs of New¬ 
 foundland, but are somewhat more bluff-headed. 
 Like these, a considerable quantity of long hair or 
 mane keeps their neck and shoulders warm; and 
 nature has supplied them with semi-web feet, by 
 means of which they readily row themselves along, 
 when in the water. 
 
 The first and the second of the dogs of the Saint Ber- 
 nard breed, which arrived in England, were variegated 
 with fawn or cinnamon colour, and white. The former 
 
52 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 had already distinguished himself by rescuing a lady 
 from drowning, after his arrival in England, when he 
 was somewhat less than a year old. His length at 
 the time, including his tail, was six feet four inches, 
 and his height measured to the middle of his back two 
 feet seven : but he afterwards became the property of 
 a lady at Leasowe Castle, near Liverpool, where he 
 grew considerably larger. I never heard of his death; 
 but, as it is fifteen years since he quitted London, he 
 probably exists no longer. 
 
 The second which arrived, and which appears in 
 our present graphic exhibition standing and barking, 
 while his feet are actively employed in clearing away 
 the snow, wore his proper costume of a collar lined 
 with black fur, embossed by some Swiss artist with 
 lions and sphinxes, and furnished with bells. The 
 nearer and sitting dog, who is so intently busied on 
 her work of humanity, was a female, was richly 
 brindled, in patches, partially white, and was some¬ 
 what older and larger than her companion. She 
 became the property of Thomas Christmas, Esq., but 
 the change from her early habits, and from the ice 
 and snow of her Alpine birth place to the genial 
 warmth of a London summer, she was but ill able to 
 endure, and she proved but short-lived. 
 
 She was exceedingly docile, good tempered, and 
 
ALPINE MASTIFFS. 
 
 53 
 
 fond of children, though somewhat clumsy in her 
 caresses and hilarious gambols; and, while meaning 
 to bear herself with the blandishment and gentle 
 breeding of a lap-dog, would knock down your little 
 daughter with licking her face and neck. 
 
 In eliciting canine attention, and inculcating the 
 performance of those habitual and humane duties of 
 which we have been discoursing, it appears not im¬ 
 probable, that the example of the elder dogs may have 
 considerable influence on the motions and actions of 
 the younger. Mingling itself with the encouraging 
 smiles and kind expressions of their benevolent masters, 
 there can be no doubt that this would effect much: 
 and whatever may be the other arts of training and 
 discipline resorted to, the instinctive vigilance which 
 is characteristic of the mastiff is not subdued, nor per¬ 
 haps impaired by it, though the temper and manners 
 are softened and civilised. When Mr Rogers, on his 
 way to exchange honours with the classic poets and 
 artists, and to luxuriate amid the romantic and inspir¬ 
 ing scenery of Italy, crossed the Pennine Alps, he 
 stopped, like ordinary travellers, to refresh himself at 
 the monastery of Saint Bernard; and, with his accus¬ 
 tomed habit of attention to passing phenomena, he 
 approached one of the great dogs, which was, or 
 appeared to be asleep. It is more than possible that 
 
54 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 the dog was not asleep, and mistook the caution 
 which was dictated by the poet’s desire not to disturb 
 him, for the stealthy approach of some inferior and less 
 friendly mortal. If asleep, some slight accident sud¬ 
 denly awakened him, and he leaped up to the surprise 
 of the musing traveller, and seized him by the coat, 
 little dreaming that the rapt pilgrim of nature was 
 before him, who was destined to spread through both 
 hemispheres, and transmit to posterity, the knowledge 
 of the philanthropy of his patrons, and the fame of 
 his own eminently useful services.* 
 
 * This article, written by J. Landseer, F. S. A., accompanied 
 the original picture from which our engraving was taken. 
 
55 
 
 MY MOTHER/ 
 
 Oh ! is it mine, no more thy care to prove, 
 
 No more to meet those looks of quenchless love ? 
 
 Of late I met thee with a fond embrace, 
 
 While tears coursed down the smiles upon thy face, 
 Thou wast so full of tenderness and joy, 
 
 To greet again thy well-loved wandering boy: 
 
 My mother, oh ! my mother, art thou gone ? 
 
 A pang like this, my heart hath never known. 
 
 How little thought I of an hour like this, 
 
 When on my lips was pressed thy parting kiss!— 
 Thy many kindnesses and gentle words 
 Thrill in my heart among its deepest chords, 
 
 And move the fountains of my inmost soul— 
 
 I seem to hear thy mournful death-peal toll; 
 
 My mother, oh! my mother ! What on earth 
 Can fill the place of her who gave me birth ? 
 
56 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Methinks I see thee in yon fields of light, 
 
 With harp of gold, in robes of purest white, 
 
 Attuning praise. Hark!—It was but the moan 
 Of autumn winds. I feel myself alone— 
 
 Alone on earth, with none to love like thee; 
 
 A love so pure, so deathless and so free. 
 
 My mother, oh my mother : from thy rest, 
 
 Dost thou look down upon thy son distressed^ 
 
 Can I forget, my little hand in thine, 
 
 How oft we walked to hear the truths divine ? 
 
 Or how my lisping tongue was taught to pray 
 With every rising sun and closing day ? 
 
 When ’neath thy roof it was my lot to dwell, 
 
 Too oft I pained thee, I remember well: 
 
 My mother, oh ! my mother : as a dart, 
 
 Strikes every pain I gave thee, to my heart. 
 
 Can I forget that, folded to thy breast, 
 
 My tiny form oft sunk to rosy rest, 
 
 Heeding the brook which murmured by the door, 
 
 Or trees that waved their shadows on the floor ? 
 
 On thy dear bosom laid each childish grief, 
 
 And even pain and sickness felt relief. 
 
 My mother, oh ! my mother, lifeless, cold, 
 
 They say thou sleepest beneath the church yard mould. 
 
MY MOTHER. 
 
 When round the fireside thy lone band shall meet, 
 Or at the table—ah that vacant seat! 
 
 The village altar, when, with solemn air, 
 
 The pastor feeds his flock low kneeling there, 
 Shall mourn thy absence — 1 All her sins forgiven, 
 Our sister,’ shall he say, ‘ has fled to heaven.’ 
 
 My mother, oh! my mother, o’er thy bier, 
 
 There’s none who knew thee, but will drop a tear. 
 
 Say, when disease had fastened on thy frame, 
 
 Was I remembered—didst thou call the name 
 Of him who then was from thee far away ? 
 
 They tell me thou wast often heard to pray, 
 
 In tones most fervent, 1 Oh ! my absent child, 
 Guide him, dear Saviour, through this desert wild. 
 My mother, oh ! my mother, it was kind, 
 
 In death’s dark vale, to call me thus to mind. 
 
 Back to that rural spot where all things mourn, 
 Perchance, some time my wandering feet will turn 
 Stand by thy grave and weep, and mingle tears 
 With his, who chose thee in his bloom of years, 
 The loved—the honoured, bowing now with age, 
 And walking tremblingly o’er life’s last stage. 
 
 My mother, oh! my mother, sad and lone 
 His weary days will be, now thou art gone. 
 
58 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Farewell!—My spirit faints, my lyre unstrung, 
 Scarce breathes the note its mournful chords among. 
 Still, though I see thy bark moored on that shore 
 Where rude winds sweep and tempests rage no more— 
 From life’s hard warfare though thou hast release, 
 And heaven has sealed thy everlasting peace : 
 
 Still must I weep; and more than tongue can tell 
 Do feel, to bid thee, sainted one, farewell. 
 
 E. B. 
 
 Stanton, Va. 
 
59 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 The glittering stars, 
 
 By the deep ear of meditation heard, 
 
 Still in their midnight watches sing of Him. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 I love thy reign, majestic night! 
 
 Thy sweetly solemn hours, 
 
 When stars pour down their holy light 
 On this dark world of ours; 
 
 • 
 
 As if, like beacon-lights, their ray 
 To us were kindly given, 
 
 To guide our thoughts from earth away, 
 
 And point our hopes to heaven. 
 
 Are they the dwelling place of those 
 Who here on earth have trod, 
 
 The path which, through contempt and woes, 
 Conducts the saints to God?— 
 
60 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 And look ye from those radiant spheres, 
 Those golden realms of rest, 
 
 Back on this world of guilt and tears, 
 
 Ye spirits of the bless’d?— 
 
 The day is joyous with its songs, 
 
 Its sunbeams and its flowers, 
 
 But mild magnificence belongs 
 To night’s serener hours. 
 
 Upon her glittering diadem, 
 
 Blazoned in every star, 
 
 Shines forth the glorious name of Him 
 Whose handy-work they are. 
 
 I love to watch their radiant course 
 Across the deep blue sky, 
 
 While sullen surges murmur hoarse, 
 
 And whispering winds reply— 
 
 Winds, that like spirit-voices sound 
 Amongst the swaying woods, 
 
 And wake a thousand echoes round 
 Our mountain solitudes. 
 
NIGHT. 
 
 61 
 
 Thee, Lord, they praise! each wind that sweeps 
 The dark woods, and the sea, 
 
 And floods from their unfathom’d deeps 
 Lift up their voice to Thee. 
 
 Monarch of majesty and might! 
 
 How was thy power displayed, 
 
 When yonder firmament of light 
 And all the world were made ! 
 
 How grand!—how beautiful the arch 
 Of night’s unclouded sky, 
 
 When countless planets hold their march, 
 
 And praise Thee silently! 
 
 The day is joyous with its songs, 
 
 Its sunbeams and its flowers; 
 
 But high and holy thought belongs 
 To night’s serener hours. 
 
 S. S. C. , 
 
 Newport, R. I. 
 
 E * 
 
62 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 SABBATH EVENING IN THE COUN¬ 
 TRY. 
 
 I’ve seen upon the city’s bound 
 The sabbath evening close; 
 
 But thoughtless throngs with varied sound 
 Disturb’d its blest repose :— 
 
 I’ve mark’d it o’er the rural scene 
 Unfold its sheltering wing serene, 
 
 While, hush’d to concord sweet, 
 
 Breeze, grove and dell, and stream combin'd 
 To soothe that silence of the mind 
 Which woos the Paraclete. 
 
 I stood beside a lowly dome, 
 
 Where peac« and love abode, 
 
 And fragrant through that cottage home 
 The breath of summer flow’d,— 
 
T)r,nm 7n- R.WafuV . EyUfrtnrZtv J.WSirJ■ 
 
SABBATH EVENING IN THE COUNTRY. 63 
 
 Fresh flowerets through the casement peer’d, 
 
 The sleeping dog no harshness fear’d 
 His master’s feet beside, 
 
 While he, in true contentment blest, 
 
 With every anxious thought at rest, 
 
 The gathering twilight eyed. 
 
 She too, his friend from youth to age, 
 
 The dearest and the best, 
 
 Gave to his ear that sacred page 
 On which their hope did rest;— 
 
 The aiding glass was o’er her eye, 
 
 And from her cheek the roseate die 
 With gayer years did part, 
 
 But her calm brow that beauty spake 
 Which time more exquisite doth make, 
 
 The beauty of the heart. 
 
 Fast by her side, with blooming face, 
 
 Her gentle daughter rose, 
 
 Nurtur’d in all the simple grace 
 Which pious care bestows. 
 
 Maiden !—thou hear’st that word whose power 
 Can give thee, for thy trial hour, 
 
 Strength when the heart doth bow, 
 
 Peace though the stricken bosom bleeds, 
 
64 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Eternal life when earth recedes,— 
 Oh! learn its spirit now. 
 
 As a fond mother’s evening kiss 
 Doth lull her weary child,— 
 Kind nature pour’d a smile of bliss 
 Around the landscape mild; 
 
 But though in love to all she spoke, 
 Though her soft tones in music broke, 
 Like balm her breezes stole,— 
 Yet nothing seemed of joy to tell 
 So pure,—as in that hallow’d cell, 
 
 The Sabbath of the soul. 
 
 Hartford, Ct. 
 
 L. H. S. 
 
 
65 
 
 THE BLESSINGS OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 Illustrated by the History of Mr IV. 
 
 t 
 
 Prosperity is that condition of human existence, 
 which most covet; but uniform experience attests, 
 that it more frequently injures the character of a 
 Christian than improves it. It creates so many 
 sources of enjoyment, that he is in danger of with¬ 
 drawing his affections from things unseen and eternal, 
 to those which are visible and temporal: for ‘who 
 are so likely to mind earthly things, as those who 
 abound with them ? Who has so many ties to life ? 
 No condition, indeed, here will bear any comparison 
 with the future state of the blessed; yet, according to 
 our present views and feelings, the mansion, and the 
 pleasant scenery around, have more power to attract 
 and retain, than the desolateness of the poor house. 
 How little have some to resign ? How often does the 
 
 o 
 
 heart’s bitterness lead them to sigh, ‘ I loathe it, I 
 
66 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 would not live always ’— 1 Oh that I had wings like a 
 dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest, I 
 would haste me from the stormy wind and tempest.’ 
 What uneasiness have others to excite them ! How 
 much have they to give up ! How deep rooted are 
 they; and what force is necessary to loosen them 
 from their position!’ 
 
 And though prosperity increases their obligations 
 to love and honour God, yet, in general, by making 
 them more independent, it makes them more un¬ 
 grateful. It induces a conformity to the habits and 
 customs of the men of the world; promotes self- 
 indulgence ; engenders pride; damps the ardour of 
 zeal for the universal establishment of the kingdom of 
 Christ; and by the extravagance of its expenditure in 
 dress, furniture, recreations and the various depart¬ 
 ments of domestic economy, it leaves but a very 
 scanty proportion of its abundance for the claims of 
 charity and religion. Indeed, we rarely see a pros¬ 
 perous Christian, a consistent Christian; and though 
 I would not place every one under the ban of the 
 divine displeasure who has on earth a goodly heritage, 
 yet, I often deplore the unhallowed influence which a 
 state of prosperity has over the heir of immortality. 
 If it does not always corrupt his principles, it generally 
 weakens them; if it does not always destroy his taste 
 
BLESSINGS OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 67 
 
 for the things of the spirit, it usually vitiates it; and 
 if it does not invariably break up the habits of private, 
 and social, and public devotion, it generally disturbs 
 them ; and hence we may seldom find a spiritually 
 minded Christian, one who is alive to the powers of 
 the world to come—intense in his hungering and 
 thirsting after righteousness, on whom prosperity 
 smiles from the beginning to the ending of the year. 
 
 I had often passed a neat little cottage in the 
 suburbs of the town, but was not conscious that I had 
 any knowledge of its inmates, till I was compelled 
 one evening to take shelter in it, from the fury of a 
 tremendous hail storm. When talking with the good 
 woman, whose manners and style of conversation 
 bespoke a high degree of mental cultivation, I seemed 
 to have an indistinct recollection of her form and 
 features; but it was not till her husband entered the 
 room, that I actually recognised her. I was now no 
 less astonished than gratified, by finding myself under 
 the roof of an old and intimate friend, whom I had not 
 seen for many years. The following is a sketch of 
 his history. 
 
 Mr W., when our intimacy commenced, was just 
 rising into notice, as a young man of superior intel¬ 
 ligence and piety; equally distinguished by the 
 suavity of his manners, and the amiability of his dis- 
 
68 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 position. He held an important station of trust in a 
 large wholesale establishment; and stood so high in 
 the estimation of the firm, that when he went into 
 business on his own account, they very generously 
 assisted him by a loan of money ; allowing him also 
 an extension of credit on the goods which he pur¬ 
 chased of them. His store was in a first rate situation, 
 and as he was very generally respected, his business 
 increased with a rapidity that exceeded his most 
 sanguine expectations. Having now occasion for a 
 wife to manage his household department, and the 
 means of supporting one, he made an offer to a young 
 lady who was a member of the same Christian church 
 with himself, and whose father, on the day of their 
 marriage, presented him with ten thousand dollars. 
 This union, which was founded on the basis of 
 reciprocal attachment, contributed not only to the 
 increase of his domestic happiness, but his relative 
 respectability, by bringing him into alliance with 
 families which stood high in public esteem and confi¬ 
 dence. But alas ! the fatal influence of prosperity on 
 his spirit, and on his habits of devotion, was too soon 
 apparent; and in process of time, he became more 
 eager after the riches of earth, than the glory of 
 immortality. He had many afflicting visitations of 
 Providence in the death of his children, and in his 
 
BLESSINGS OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 69 
 
 own personal indisposition; but they did not yield the 
 peaceable fruits of righteousness, because he was too 
 deeply absorbed in his secular pursuits. At length, 
 the scene was suddenly changed: the sun of his 
 prosperity went down while it was yet day; the 
 night of adversity came on; and he became involved 
 in difficulties from which he was unable to recover 
 himself. Like many other aspiring persons, he was 
 not contented with the regular profits of his retail 
 business; and, therefore, to accumulate a fortune with 
 dispatch, he sallied forth into the wide field of specu¬ 
 lation. The success which attended his first efforts in 
 this hazardous enterprize encouraged him to proceed; 
 but, instead of realizing the gains he anticipated, one 
 tremendous loss succeeded another, till he was reduced 
 to a state of absolute and irretrievable ruin. He was 
 now compelled to fall back into more private life; and 
 took the situation of collecting clerk to the firm which 
 he served before he entered into business for himself. 
 
 “ I am not surprised, sir,” he said to me, “at the 
 reverse which has taken place, because in my pros¬ 
 perity I provoked the Lord to jealousy. He gave me 
 wealth, and though I did not bow down and worship 
 it, yet it became the idol of my attachment—alienating 
 my thoughts and affections from the living and true 
 God.” 
 
70 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 “ I long anticipated,” added Mrs W., “ some 
 severe dispensation of providence, because the trials 
 with which we were exercised in the loss of our 
 children produced no permanent effect on our minds. 
 We wept, it is true, when they left us and were 
 carried to the grave; but, instead of inquiring into 
 the reason why our living comforts were smitten by 
 the stroke of death, we were as eager after the riches 
 of the earth, as the most devoted men of the world.” 
 
 “Yes,” replied Mr W., “and the increase of 
 wealth, instead of yielding satisfaction, merely served 
 to inflame the passion of desire after more.” 
 
 “ Then I presume, while you were under the en¬ 
 snaring influence of the love of accumulation, you 
 neglected to cultivate intimate communion with 
 God.” 
 
 “ We never, sir, entirely abandoned the habits of 
 devotion, but its pure and heavenly feelings had 
 long, very long, been annihilated in my heart.” 
 
 “ Then I presume the Sabbath afforded you no 
 enjoyment ?” 
 
 “ The Sabbath, sir, was to me in general, not only 
 a dull, but very painful day. I could not abstain 
 altogether from public worship, but often felt inclined 
 to do so, because the faithful ministry of our pastor at 
 times almost drove me to despair.” 
 
BLESSINGS OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 71 
 
 11 The Sabbath is now,” added Mrs W., “ our best 
 day—it is both a day of rest, and a day of devotion.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Mr W., “ the scene is indeed changed, 
 and though the change has been attended by some 
 distressing circumstances, yet I bless God that he has 
 brought it about.” 
 
 u Then, sir, you feel no disposition to murmur ?” 
 
 “Murmur! no, sir. If I had retained my fidelity 
 to God in the days of my prosperity; if while he was 
 enriching me with the wealth of earth, I had still 
 had my conversation in heaven, I might have been 
 permitted to have held on my way without meeting 
 the evils which have befallen us; but I proved 
 unfaithful to him, became vain in my imagination, 
 and my deceitful heart led me astray. He has, by 
 the reverse which he has brought to pass, shown me 
 my folly, my guilt and danger; and once more 
 brought me into fellowship with himself. We have 
 been forced, it is true, out of our rank in society, we 
 have lost a large fortune, and have been abased 
 before others : but we have gained by our losses, 
 sweeter, purer and more durable felicity, than the 
 accumulation of wealth ever afforded; and are once 
 more permitted to take our station amonst the sons of 
 God, to whom he gives manifestations of his favour 
 which are withheld from those who mind earthly 
 
72 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 things. I can now say, 1 1 know, O Lord, that thy 
 judgments are right, and that thou in faithfulness 
 hast afflicted me.’ ” 
 
 “ I often murmured in my heart against him,” said 
 Mrs W., u for removing our children from us ; but 
 now I see the kindness which dictated those painful 
 visitations of his providence. They were taken from 
 the evil to come; and we are undeservedly relieved 
 from that load of anxiety, which we should necessarity 
 feel if we had a large family to support with our com¬ 
 paratively scanty means.” 
 
 “ But I hope your means are sufficiently ample to 
 enable you to enjoy the comforts of life.” 
 
 She paused, looked steadfastly on her husband for 
 a few seconds, and then replied, 11 Our means, sir, 
 are more than sufficient to supply our actual wants; 
 but Mr W. thinks it his duty to appropriate a portion 
 of his income, to discharge some debts which he feels 
 bound in honour to pay.” 
 
 “ Your afflictions, my friends, have been severe; 
 but I perceive, from the tenor of your remarks, that 
 they have increased rather than destroyed your 
 mutual happiness.” 
 
 “ Yes, sir, they have been severe. When I first 
 heard of my husband’s insolvency, I was overwhelmed 
 in distress; and no tongue can describe the agony I 
 
BLESSINGS OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 73 
 
 felt, when obliged to exchange our splendid mansion 
 for this humble roof. But, sir, now I see the end 
 of the Lord in all these afflicting dispensations; I can 
 say, that comparative poverty with his blessing, is 
 preferable to boundless wealth without it. 
 
 ‘ Good when he gives, supremely good, 
 
 Nor less when he denies, 
 
 E’en crosses from his sovereign hand 
 Are blessings in disguise.’ ” 
 
 “ Then I presume you do not, like Lot’s wife, look 
 back with regret on the possessions which you have 
 been obliged to resign, coveting their repossession?” 
 
 11 1 believe, sir, that we both make the prayer of 
 Agur our own; and beyond this our desires are not 
 extended. ‘ Remove far from me vanity and lies; 
 give me neither poverty nor riches ; feed me with food 
 convenient for me; lest I be full and deny thee, and 
 say, Who is the Lord ; or,,lest I be poor and steal, and 
 take the name of my God in vain.’ ” 
 
 After taking tea with them, and promising to repeat 
 my visit, the storm being over, I retired, meditating 
 on the advantages which a Christian often derives 
 from adversity. ‘ In the review of my own varied 
 intercourse with society,’ says an intelligent au¬ 
 thor, ‘ I confess nothing so vividly and powerfully 
 affects me, as what I recollect to have met with 
 
74 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 from pious individuals, exemplifying the spirit 
 and resources of Christianity under bodily disease, 
 and the losses and bereavements and disappoint¬ 
 ments of life. Oh, when I have visited such a 
 martyr—such a witness for God; when I have found 
 him standing in the evil day like a rock in a raging 
 current with sunshine on its brow; when I have 
 observed him full of tribulation in the world, and of 
 peace in Christ; mourning more for his sins than his 
 sorrows; afraid of dishonouring his profession by 
 impatience and unbelief; more concerned to have 
 his crosses sanctified, than to have them removed : 
 turning a tranquil eye towards the infliction, and 
 saying, 1 I know, O Lord, that thy judgments are 
 right, and that thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me’ 
 
 —‘ Just and true are all thy ways, O thou King of 
 
 * 
 
 saints ’— 1 He hath done all things well:’ when I have 
 witnessed religion—and I have witnessed it—accom¬ 
 plishing achievements like these, I have said of it, 1 1 
 have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear; but now 
 mine eye seeth thee.’ ’ 
 
 As this relation may fall into the hands of some, 
 whose pleasant things have been laid waste by the 
 desolations of Providence, I would urge upon them 
 the importance of ascertaining, if possible, the reason 
 why the Lord has thus afflicted them. Sometimes 
 
BLESSINGS OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 75 
 
 this is so obvious that it immediately strikes the eye 
 of the inquirer. He has sinned, and his own wicked¬ 
 ness is employed to correct him. The objects of your 
 lawful affection may have been the objects of your 
 idolatrous attachment; and therefore they are removed 
 that you may love God supremely. You may have 
 carried your diligence in business to such an extent, 
 as to have the whole of your time so absorbed in 
 attending to its various claims, that you have had 
 none left for meditation, for prayer, for the house of 
 God ; and therefore you have been permitted to form 
 connections with parties that have defrauded you. 
 You have possibly calculated with two much confi¬ 
 dence on the attainment of a high degree of felicity, 
 when a favourite scheme of speculation has been 
 accomplished ; but, alas, its very accomplishment has 
 entailed misery upon you, because neither in its 
 arrangement nor in its execution, did you take counsel 
 from above. You now see your error, while suffering 
 under the inflictions which it has brought upon you; 
 4 return unto the Lord thy God, for thou hast fallen 
 by thine iniquity.’ 
 
 But afflictions are not always to be viewed as 
 punishments for actual sin; as they are frequently 
 employed to prevent its commission. The great 
 apostle of the Gentiles was in danger of becoming 
 
76 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 high-minded; but the Lord was pleased to guard him 
 against it. And how did he secure him ? { And lest 
 
 I should be exalted above measure, through the abun¬ 
 dance of the revelations, there was given to me a 
 thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan, to buffet 
 me, lest I should be exalted above measure.’ This 
 affliction was so severe, that ‘ he besought the Lord 
 thrice, that it might depart from him but no; the 
 answer was, 1 my grace is sufficient for thee, for my 
 strength is made perfect in weakness.’ { Ah, Chris¬ 
 tian, if you could see things as they really are in 
 their moral relations, how many of your sufferings 
 might be explained upon this principle. You have 
 perhaps examined yourself: and though you have 
 always enough in your general unworthiness and 
 imperfections, to render you vulnerable to trouble, yet 
 you have been able to discover no one duty that 
 you have knowingly omitted ; no one idol that you 
 have knowingly adored. But the case was this,— 
 you were not vain, but you were becoming so; and it 
 was needful to withdraw the adulation and the incense 
 in time. You were not avaricious, but you were 
 becoming so; and it was necessary to lay waste the 
 gain which made you think of accumulation. You 
 had not worshipped the creature ;—but the growing 
 fondness would soon have made you kneel, had not 
 
BLESSINGS OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 77 
 
 the desire of your eyes been taken away with a 
 stroke. 
 
 1 We are little aware now of the obligations we are 
 under for our preservation to the goodness of God ; 
 and the reason is, because the preservation which 
 hinders the injury, hinders the discovery. But there 
 are no blessings for which we shall be more thankful 
 in the world of light, than preserving mercies; and we 
 shall then perceive that the greater part of these were 
 administered by afflictions. These often answered the 
 prayer, ‘ and lead us not into temptation, but deliver 
 us from evil.’ These checked us ; but it was when 
 going astray.’ 
 
 Afflictions are sometimes sent to call into exercise 
 the varied principles of the Christian character; and 
 thus to strengthen them. Hence they are found to 
 promote humility. There is a native independence 
 in some minds, which in relation to man is a high and 
 noble virtue; but in relation to God, is a daring and 
 presumptuous sin. When one is made rich, and the 
 glory of his house is increased, he is apt to assume 
 this language : 1 who is the Lord that I should obey 
 him ?’ and if this language be not always uttered by 
 the lips, the principle of its dictation may be found 
 lurking in the heart. It must be removed, and the 
 hand of adversity is employed to do it. Death enters 
 F 
 
78 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 the dwelling place of domestic bliss, and turns it unto 
 the house of mourning: the imaginary connection 
 between a judicious speculation and success is broken 
 asunder : losses and disappointments follow each other 
 in rapid succession, and the wreck only is above the 
 waters, and that is in danger of sinking. The 
 sufferer is roused and alarmed : he begins to mistrust 
 his own wisdom, to reproach himself for confiding in 
 his own arm of strength; falls down humbled and 
 self abased, and prays, 1 Lord, save, or I perish.’ 
 
 They call faith into more direct and vigorous 
 exercise. The Christian professes to believe, that if 
 he acknowledge the Lord in all his ways, he will 
 direct his paths ; but when all things move on in 
 perfect harmony with his wishes and feelings, his faith 
 remains in a quiescent state. A change takes place : 
 tribulation and anguish are come upon him, and he 
 sees no way of escape. Friends are either powerless 
 or unfaithful: it is with him the hour and power of 
 darkness. But why ? That faith may, in this darkened 
 hour, perform her perfect work, by trusting, for sup¬ 
 port, for deliverance, or for the harmonious adjustment 
 of these discordant affairs, in God alone, who ‘is able 
 to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or 
 think.’ 
 
 And can the Christian ever exercise the grace of 
 
BLESSINGS OF ADVERSITY. 
 
 79 
 
 submission unless he is called to endure the chastening 
 of the Lord? or the grace of resignation, unless he is 
 required to surrender some of the objects of his affec¬ 
 tion and endearment? He often prays, ‘ thy will be 
 done on earth as in heaven,’ and his prayers are 
 answered by these dispensations of Providence, which 
 give him an opportunity to do it, or endure it. 
 
 Afflictions are often employed to moderate our 
 attachment to earth; and towards the period of our 
 departure, they sometimes set in with greater violence 
 to wean our affections entirely from it. There are 
 some who may repeat with great propriety the follow¬ 
 ing verse— 
 
 ‘ Lord, wliat a wretched land is this, 
 
 That yields us no supply; 
 
 No cheering fruit, no wholesome trees, 
 
 No streams of living joy 
 
 and we can easily believe, that if they are anticipating 
 the bliss of immortality they require no extra dispen¬ 
 sation to induce them to long for its possession. But 
 there are others who may with equal propriety quote 
 the language of the Psalmist , 1 the lines are fallen unto 
 me in pleasant places; yea, I have a goodly heritage.’ 
 They abound in wealth; occupy the high places of 
 distinction ; and have all things richly to enjoy ; and 
 though they look forward to a superior state of honour 
 
80 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 and felicity in the heavenly world, yet it often re¬ 
 quires the agency of affliction to loosen and untie 
 the cords that bind them to earth. Hence there is a 
 necessity that they should be in heaviness through 
 manifold tribulations at sundry times, that they may 
 listen with more devout attention to the voice of the 
 Lord, speaking to them from the cloud, ‘arise ye, 
 and depart; for this is not your rest, because it is 
 polluted.’ And when the hour of release comes, and 
 they are just entering into rest, if permitted to record 
 their testimony to the divine dispensation towards 
 them, they will say, Not one trial too many, not one 
 too severe. ‘ For I reckon that the sufferings of this 
 present time are not worthy to be compared with the 
 glory which shall be revealed in us.’ ‘ For our light 
 affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us 
 a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory ; 
 while we look not at the things which are seen, but 
 at the things which are not seen ; for the things 
 which are seen are temporal, but the things which are 
 not seen are eternal.’ 
 
 M 
 
 N. 
 
SACRED LYRICS. 
 
 * 
 
 I. 
 
 -S 
 
 I GIVE THEE ALL. 
 
 I give thee all, I can no more, 
 Though poor the offering be ; 
 
 A broken spirit’s all the store 
 That sin has left to me. 
 
 My trembling lip but half reveals 
 The prayer my heart would tell: 
 But throes my panting bosom feels 
 Thy spirit sees full well. 
 
 Deep in despair my spirit lies, 
 
 And sinking clings to thee : 
 
x religious souvenir. 
 
 a contrite heart wilt thou despise, 
 Nor stretch one hand to me? 
 
 Then take my heart, I can no more 
 Though poor the offering be; 
 
 At thy command, my only store, 
 
 Q Lord ! I give to thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE HARP OF JUDAH. 
 Air.~ Gramachree. 
 
 O harp ! that once in Judah’s hall, 
 In sweet inspiring strain, 
 Entranced the fiery soul of Saul, 
 And soothed a monarch’s pain ; 
 
 How oft, when o’er my earthly joys 
 Runs ruin s ruthless stream, 
 
 I welcome thy consoling voice, 
 
 Thy heaven-directing theme. 
 
SACRED LYRICS. 
 
 83 
 
 Though gone the hand that waked thee first, 
 Though closed thy minstrel’s eye ; 
 
 And those who caught thy early burst 
 Of glory are not nigh : 
 
 i 
 
 Of thee no string is broken yet; 
 
 Thy deep and holy tone 
 
 Can make me every care forget, 
 
 And dream of heaven alone. 
 
 O harp! if Judah’s shepherd flung 
 Such charms around his theme, 
 
 When o’er time’s distant scenes he hung 
 In dim prophetic dream ; 
 
 What now thy spell if David’s hand 
 Once more could wake thy strains, 
 
 And tell to every listening land, 
 
 ‘ The Lord Immanuel reigns?’ 
 
 M- 
 
 Philadelphia. 
 
84 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 
 THE PATRIARCH.* 
 
 Soon after my entrance upon clerical duties in the 
 state of North Carolina, I was informed of an isolated 
 settlement, at a considerable distance from the place 
 of my residence. Its original elements were emi¬ 
 grants from New England,—a father and his five sons, 
 who, with their wives and little children, had, about 
 thirty years before, become sojourners in the heart of 
 
 * This very interesting article is, in every particular, true. 
 The incidents occurred in North Carolina, hut a few years ago. 
 The relation illustrates what may be accomplished, by the bless¬ 
 ing of God, on the efforts of a pious head of a family to keep 
 alive a deep sense of religion, where in the ways of Providence 
 the ministry of the gospel cannot be enjoyed. The story will be 
 particularly interesting to such of our readers, as may belong to 
 the Episcopal church; while it is related with such a spirit of 
 genuine Christian love, as will give it favour in the eyes of all 
 who love the Lord.—E d. 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 85 
 
 one of the deepest Carolinian solitudes. They pur¬ 
 chased a tract of wild land, encircled by a swamp. 
 This they subjected to cultivation, and by unremitting 
 industry, rendered adequate to their subsistence and 
 comfort. The sons, and the sons’ sons, had in their 
 turn become the fathers of families; so that the 
 population of this singular spot comprised five gene¬ 
 rations. They were said to constitute a peaceful and 
 virtuous community, with a government purely 
 patriarchal. Secluded from the privileges of public 
 worship, a sense of religion, influencing the heart 
 and conduct, had been preserved by statedly assem¬ 
 bling on the Sabbath, and reading the Scriptures with 
 the liturgy of the church of England. The pious 
 ancestor of the colony, whose years now surpassed 
 fourscore, had, at their removal to this hermitage, 
 established his eldest son in the office of lay-reader. 
 This simple ministration, aided by holy example, had 
 so shared the blessing of heaven, that all the members 
 of this miniature commonwealth held fast the faith 
 and hope of the gospel. 
 
 I was desirous of visiting this peculiar people, and 
 a journey into that section of the state furnished an 
 opportunity. I resolved to be a witness of their 
 Sunday devotions; and, with the dawn of that 
 consecrated day, left the house of a friend where I 
 
86 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 had lodged, and who furnished the requisite direc¬ 
 tions for my solitary and circuitous route. The 
 brightness and heat of summer began to glow 
 oppressively, ere I turned from the haunts of men, 
 and plunged into the forest. Towering amid shades 
 which almost excluded the light of heaven, rose the 
 majestic pines, the glory and the wealth of North 
 Carolina. Some, like the palms, those princes of the 
 east, reared a proud column of fifty feet, ere the 
 branches shot forth their bold, heavenward cone. 
 With their dark verdure mingled the pale and beau¬ 
 tiful efflorescence of the wild poplar, like the inter¬ 
 lacing of sculpture in some ancient awe-inspiring 
 temple, while thousands of birds, from those dark, cool 
 arches, poured their anthem of praise to the Divine 
 Architect. 
 
 The sun was high in the heavens when I arrived 
 at the morass,—the bulwark which nature had thrown 
 around this little city of the desert. Alighting, I led 
 my horse over the rude bridges of logs, which sur¬ 
 mounted the pools and ravines, until we found our 
 footing rest upon firm earth. Soon, a large expanse 
 of arable land became visible, and wreaths of smoke 
 came lightly curling among the trees, as if to welcome 
 the stranger. Then, a cluster of cottan-es cheered the 
 eye. They were so contiguous, that the blast of a horn, 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 87 
 
 or even the call of a shrill voice, might convene all their 
 inhabitants. To the central and the largest building, 
 I directed my steps. Approaching the open window, 
 I heard a distinct manly voice,, pronouncing the 
 solemn invocation, 1 by thine agony and bloody 
 sweat, by thy cross and passion, by thy precious death 
 and burial, by thy glorious resurrection and ascension, 
 and by the coming of the Holy Ghost.’ The response 
 arose fully and devoutly in the deep accents of man¬ 
 hood, blent with the softer tones of the mother and 
 her children. Standing motionless, that I might not 
 disturb the worshippers, I had a fair view of the 
 lay-reader. He was a man of six feet in height, 
 muscular and well-proportioned, with a head beauti¬ 
 fully symmetrical, from whose crown time had 
 begun to shred the luxuriance of its raven locks. 
 Unconscious of the presence of a stranger, he sup¬ 
 posed that no eye regarded him, save that of God. 
 Kneeling around him, were his 1 brethren according 
 to the flesh,’ a numerous and attentive congregation. 
 At his right hand was the Patriach; tall, somewhat 
 emaciated, yet not bowed with years; his white hair 
 combed smoothly over his temples and slightly curling 
 on his neck. Gathered near him were his children 
 and his children’s children. His blood was in the 
 
88 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 veins of almost every worshipper. Mingling with 
 forms that evinced the ravages of time and toil, were 
 the bright locks of youth, and the rosy brow of 
 childhood bowed low in supplication. Even the 
 infant with hushed lip regarded a scene where was no 
 wandering glance. Involuntarily my heart said, 
 1 shall not this be a family in heaven ?' In the closing 
 aspirations, 1 O Lamb of God ! that takest away the 
 sins of the world, have mercy upon us,’ the voice 
 of the patriarch was heard with strong and affecting 
 emphasis. After a pause of silent devotion, all arose 
 from their knees, and I entered the circle. 
 
 “ I am a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I 
 come to bless you in the name of the Lord.” 
 
 The ancient patriarch, grasping my hand, gazed 
 on me with intense earnestness. A welcome, such 
 as words have never uttered, was written on his 
 brow. 
 
 “ Thirty and two years has my dwelling been in 
 this forest; yet, until now, no man of God hath 
 visited us. Praised be his name, who hath put it into 
 thy heart to seek out these few sheep in the wilder¬ 
 ness. Secluded as we are from the privilege of 
 worshipping God in his temple, we thus assemble 
 every Sabbath, to read his book, and to pray unto him 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 89 
 
 in the words of our liturgy. So, have we been pre¬ 
 served from forgetting the Lord who bought us, and 
 lightly esteeming the rock of our salvation.” 
 
 The exercises of that day are indelibly engraven 
 upon my memory. Are they not written in the record 
 of Heaven? Surely a blessing entered into my own 
 soul, as I beheld the faith, and strengthened the hope 
 of these true-hearted and devout disciples. Like him, 
 whose slumbers at Bethel were visited by the white¬ 
 winged company of Heaven, I was constrained to 
 say, ‘ surely, God is in this place, and I knew it not.’ 
 At the request of the patriarch, I administered the 
 ordinance of baptism. It was received with unusual 
 demonstrations of solemnity and gratitude. The 
 sacred services were protracted until the setting of 
 the sun; yet still they seemed reluctant to depart. It 
 was to them a high and rare festival. When about to 
 separate, the patriarch introduced me to all his 
 posterity. Each seemed anxious to press my hand; 
 and even the children expressed, by affectionate 
 glances, their reverence and love for him who minis¬ 
 tered at the altar of God. 
 
 “ The Almighty hath smiled upon these babes, born 
 in the desert,” said the ancient man. “ I came 
 hither with my sons and their companions, and my 
 
90 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 blessed wife, who hath gone to her rest. God hath 
 given us families, as a flock. We earn our bread with 
 toil and in patience. For the intervals of labour 
 there is a school where our little ones gather the 
 rudiments of knowledge. Our only books of instruc¬ 
 tion are the bible and prayer-book.” 
 
 At a signal they rose and sang, ere they departed 
 to their respective abodes ,— 4 glory be to God on high, 
 and on earth peace, good-will towards men.’ Never, 
 by all the pomp of measured melody, has my spirit 
 been so stirred within me, as when that rustic, yet 
 tuneful choir, surrounding the hoary father of them 
 all, breathed out in their forest sanctuary ,— 4 thou 
 that takest away the sins of the world , have mercy 
 upon us .’ 
 
 On the following morning, I called on each family, 
 and was delighted with the domestic order, economy 
 and concord that prevailed. Careful improvement of 
 time, and moderate desires, seemed uniformly to pro¬ 
 duce among them the fruits of a blameless life and 
 conversation. They conducted me to their school. 
 Its teacher was a grand-daughter of the reader. She 
 possessed a sweet countenance, and gentle manners ; 
 and, with characteristic simplicity, employed herself 
 at the spinning-wheel, when not immediately occupied 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 91 
 
 in the duty of an instructress. Most of her pupils 
 read with distinctness, and replied pertinently to 
 questions from Scripture history. Writing and arith¬ 
 metic were well understood by the elder ones; but 
 those works of science with which our libraries are 
 so profusely supplied, had not yet found their way to 
 this retreat. But among the learners was visible, 
 what does not always distinguish better endowed 
 seminaries: docility, subordination and profound 
 attention to every precept or illustration. Habits 
 of application and desire for knowledge were infused 
 into all. So trained up were they in industry, that 
 even the boys, in the intervals of their lessons, 
 were engaged in the knitting of stockings for winter. 
 To the simple monitions which I addressed to them, 
 they reverently listened; and ere they received the 
 parting blessing, rose and repeated in unison a 
 few passages of Scripture, and lifted up their sweet 
 voices, chanting, ‘ blessed be the Lord God of Israel, 
 for he hath visited and redeemed his people.’ 
 
 Whatever I beheld in this singular spot, served to 
 awaken curiosity or to interest feeling. All my in¬ 
 quiries were satisfied with the utmost frankness. 
 Evidently, there was nothing which needed conceal¬ 
 ment. The heartless intercourse of fashion, with its 
 
 v 
 
92 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 subterfuges and its vices, had not penetrated to this 
 hermetically sealed abode. The patriarch, at his 
 entrance upon his territory, had divided it into six 
 equal portions, reserving one for himself, and bestow¬ 
 ing another on each of his five sons. As the children 
 of the colony advanced to maturity, they, with scarcely 
 an exception, contracted marriages among each other, 
 striking root like the branches of the banyan around 
 the parent tree. The domicile of every family was 
 originally a rude cabin of logs, serving simply the 
 purpose of shelter. But in front of this, a house of 
 
 larger dimensions was commenced; and so con¬ 
 
 structed, that the ancient abode might become its 
 kitchen, when the whole was completed. To the 
 labour of building they attended, as they were able to 
 command time and materials. This they kept, in the 
 language of one of the colonists , c for their handy-work, 
 when there was no farming, or turpentine-gathering, 
 or tar-making.’ Several were, at that time, in 
 different stages of progress; marking the links of 
 
 gradation between the rude cottage, and what is 
 
 termed the ‘ framed house.’ When finished, though 
 devoid of architectural elegance, they exhibited 
 capabilities of comfort, equal to the chastened ex¬ 
 pectations of a primitive people. A field for corn, and 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 93 
 
 a garden abounding with vegetables, were appendages 
 to each habitation. Cows grazed quietly around, 
 and sheep dotted like snow-flakes the distant green 
 pastures. Each family produced within its own 
 domain, the articles of food necessary for its own 
 consumption; and the wheel, the loom and the needle 
 were the resources for their wardrobe. When neces¬ 
 sary, the softer sex participated in the labours of 
 harvest, or the business of horticulture; thus cher¬ 
 ishing that vigour and muscular energy which 
 distinguish the peasantry of Europe, from their 
 effeminate sisters of the nobility and gentry. For 
 such articles as their plantations did not supply, the 
 pitch-pine was their medium of purchase. When the 
 season arrived for collecting its hidden treasures, an 
 aperture was made in its bark, and a box inserted, 
 into which the turpentine continually oozed. Care 
 was required to preserve this orifice free from the 
 induration of glutinous matter. Thus it must be 
 frequently re-opened, or carried gradually upward on 
 the trunk of the tree; sometimes to such a height, that 
 a small knife affixed to the extremity of a long pole is 
 used for that purpose. Large trunks sustain several 
 boxes at the same time, though it is required that the 
 continuity of bark be preserved, or the tree, thus 
 
 G 
 
94 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 shedding its life-blood for the good of man, must 
 perish. Though the labourers in this department are 
 exceedingly industrious and vigilant; there will 
 usually be a considerable deposit adhering to the 
 body of the tree. These portions, called 1 turpentine- 
 facings,’ are carefully separated, and laid in a cone¬ 
 like form, until they attain the size of a formidable 
 mound. This is covered with earth, and when the 
 cool season commences, is ignited; and the liquid tar, 
 flowing into a reservoir prepared for it, readily obtains 
 a market among dealers in naval stores. 
 
 Shall I be forgiven for such minuteness in describing 
 the humble occupations of this isolated people? So 
 strongly did they excite my affectionate solicitude, 
 that not even their slightest concerns seemed un¬ 
 worthy of attention. By merchants of the distant 
 town, who were in the habit of purchasing their 
 manufactures, I was afterwards informed, that these 
 men were distinguished for integrity and upright¬ 
 ness ; and, that their simple affirmation possessed the 
 sacredness of an oath. The eldest son remarked to 
 me, that he had never known among the people a 
 single instance of either intemperance or profanity. 
 
 u Our young men have no temptations, and the old 
 set a uniformly sober example. Still, I cannot but 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 95 
 
 think our freedom from vice is chiefly owing to a 
 sense of religious obligation, cherished by God’s 
 blessing upon the use of the Scriptures and the 
 liturgy.” 
 
 “ Are there no quarrels or strifes among you?” 
 
 “For what should we contend? We have here no 
 prospect of wealth, no motive of ambition, and we are 
 too busy to dispute about words. Are not these the 
 sources of many of the 1 wars and fightings’ among 
 mankind? Beside, we are all of one blood. Seldom 
 is there any variance between us, which the force of 
 brotherhood will not quell. Strict obedience is early 
 taught in our families. Children who learn thoroughly 
 the Bible lesson, to obey and honour their parents, are 
 not apt to be contentious in society, or irreverent to 
 their father in heaven. Laws so simple would doubt¬ 
 less prove inefficient in a large and mixed community. 
 Neither would they be effectual here, without the aid 
 of that gospel which speaketh peace, and prayer for 
 His assistance who ‘ turneth the hearts of the disobe¬ 
 dient to the wisdom of the just.’ ” 
 
 Is it surprising that I should take my leave with an 
 overflowing heart of the pious patriarch and his 
 posterity; or, that I should earnestly desire another 
 opportunity of visiting their secluded domain ? Soon 
 
96 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 after this period, a circumstance took place, which 
 they numbered among the most interesting eras of 
 their history. A small chapel was erected in the 
 village nearest to their settlement. Though at the dis¬ 
 tance of many miles, they anticipated its completion 
 with delight. At its consecration by the late bishop 
 Ravenscroft, as many of the colonists as found it 
 possible to leave home, determined to be present. 
 Few of the younger ones had ever entered a building 
 set apart solely for the worship of God; and the days 
 were counted until they should receive permission to 
 tread his courts. The appointed time arrived: and 
 just before the commencement of the sacred services, 
 a procession of a singular aspect was seen wind¬ 
 ing along amid interposing shades. It consisted of 
 persons of both sexes and of every age, clad in a 
 primitive style, and moving onward with solemn 
 order. I recognized my hermit friends, and hastened 
 forth to meet them. Scarcely could the ancient Jews, 
 when from distant regions they made their pilgrimage 
 to the glorious hill of Zion, have testified more touch¬ 
 ing emotion, than these guileless worshippers, at 
 passing the threshold of this humble temple to 
 Jehovah. When the sweet tones of a small organ, 
 mingling with the melody of a select choir, gave 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 97 
 
 { glory to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy 
 Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever 
 shall be, world without end,’—the young children 
 from the forest started from their seats, in wondering 
 joy, while the changing colour and quivering lip of 
 the elders evinced that the hallowed music woke 
 deep echo in their bosoms. But with what breathless 
 attention did they hang upon every word of bishop 
 Ravenscrofb; as with his own peculiar combination of 
 zeal and tenderness, he illustrated the inspired passage 
 which he had chosen, or, with a sudden rush of strong 
 and stormy eloquence, broke up the fountains of the 
 soul. Listening and weeping, they gathered up the 
 manna, which an audience satiated with the bread of 
 heaven, and prodigal of angel’s food, might have suf¬ 
 fered to perish. With the hoary patriarch, a throng 
 of his descendants, who had been duly prepared for 
 this holy vow and profession, knelt around the altar, 
 in commemoration of their crucified Redeemer. At 
 the close of the communion service, when about to 
 depart to his home, the white-haired man drew near 
 to the bishop. Gratitude for the high privileges in 
 which he had participated; reverence for the father in 
 God whom he had that day for the first time beheld; 
 consciousness that his aged eyes could but a little 
 
98 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 longer look upon the things of time, and that he could 
 scarcely expect again to stand amid these his chil¬ 
 dren, to ‘ behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to 
 inquire in his temple,’ overwhelmed his spirit. Press¬ 
 ing the hand of the bishop, and raising his eyes 
 heavenward , he said, with the earnestness of humble 
 devotion, ‘Lord! now lettest thou thy servant de¬ 
 part in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation.’ 
 
 Bishop Ravenscroft fixed on him one of those 
 piercing glances which seemed to read the soul;— 
 and then tears, like the large rain-drops, rushed down 
 his cheeks. Recovering from his emotion, he pro¬ 
 nounced, with affectionate dignity, the benediction, 
 ‘ the Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord 
 make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto 
 thee ; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, 
 and give thee peace.’ 
 
 The patriarch, bowing down a head heavy with the 
 snows of more than fourscore winters, breathed a 
 thanksgiving to God, and turned homeward followed 
 by all his kindred. Summer had glided away, ere 
 it was in my power again to visit the ‘ lodge in the 
 wilderness.’ As I was taking, in the autumn twilight, 
 my lonely walk for meditation, a boy of rustic ap¬ 
 pearance approaching with hasty steps accosted me. 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 99 
 
 u Our white-haired father, the father of us all, lies 
 stretched upon his bed. He takes no bread or water, 
 and he asks for you. Man of God, will you come to 
 him?” 
 
 Scarcely had I signified assent, ere he vanished. 
 With the light of the early morning, I commenced 
 my journey. Autumn had infused chillness into the 
 atmosphere, and somewhat of tender melancholy into 
 the heart. Nature seems to regard with sadness the 
 passing away of the glories of summer, and to robe 
 herself for humiliation. 
 
 As the sun increased in power, more of cheerfulness 
 overspread the landscape. The pines were busily 
 disseminating their winged seeds. Like insects, with 
 a floating motion, they spread around for miles. 
 Large droves of swine made their repast upon this 
 half ethereal food. How mindful is nature of her 
 humblest pensioners! 
 
 As I approached the cluster of cottages, which now 
 assumed the appearance of a village, the eldest son 
 advanced to meet me. His head declined like one 
 struggling with a grief which he would fain subdue. 
 Taking my hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips. 
 Neither of us spoke a word: yet it was written 
 clearly on his countenance, 1 come quickly ere he 
 
100 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 die.’ We entered together the dwelling of the good 
 patriarch. One glance convinced me that he was not 
 long to be of our company. His posterity were 
 gathered in sorrow around him:— 
 
 1 For drooping, sickening, dying, they began 
 
 Whom they revered as God, to mourn as man.’ 
 
 He was fearfully emaciated, but as I spake of that 
 Saviour who ‘ went not up to joy until he first suf¬ 
 fered pain,’ his brow again lighted with the calmness 
 of one whose 1 way to eternal joy was to suffer with 
 Christ, whose door to eternal life gladly to die with 
 him.’ Greatly comforted by prayer, he desired that 
 the holy communion might be once more administered 
 to him and his children. There was a separation 
 around his bed. Those who had been accustomed to 
 partake with him, drew near and knelt around the 
 dying. Fixing his eye on the others, he said with 
 an energy of tone which we thought had forsaken 
 him: u Will ye thus be divided at the last day?" A 
 burst of wailing grief was the reply. 
 
 Never will that scene be effaced from my remem¬ 
 brance : the expressive features and thrilling responses 
 of the patriarch, into whose expiring body the soul 
 returned with power, that it might leave this last 
 
'ic’Loi imTc’mn^iRcDiE£ 
 

 + 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 101 
 
 testimony of faith and hope to those whom it loved. 
 Rekindling still more and more, as it lingered upon 
 the threshold of time, we were surprised to hear in an 
 emphatic voice, his blessing upon those who sur¬ 
 rounded him, in the name of that God 1 whose peace 
 passeth all understanding.’ 
 
 There was an interval, during which, he seemed to 
 slumber. Whispers of hope were heard around his 
 couch, that he might awake and be refreshed. At 
 length, his eyes slowly unclosed. They were glazed, 
 and deeply sunken in their sockets. Their glance was 
 long and kind upon those who hung over his pillow. 
 His lips moved, but not audibly. Bending my ear 
 more closely, I found that he spoke of him who is 
 the ‘ resurrection and the life.’ A slight shuddering 
 passed over his frame, and he sank to rest. 
 
 A voice of loud weeping rose from among the 
 children, who had been summoned to the bed of death. 
 Ere I had attempted to administer consolation, the son 
 with a calm voice pronounced, *the Lord gave, and 
 the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of 
 the Lord.’ 
 
 Deep silence ensued. It seemed as if every heart 
 was installing him who spake, in the place of the 
 father and the governor who had departed. He stood 
 
102 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 among them in the simple majesty of his birth-right, 
 as a ruler and priest, to guide his people in the way 
 everlasting. It was as if the mantle of the sainted one 
 had descended upon him, as if those ashen lips had 
 broken the seal of death to utter, 1 behold my servant 
 whom I have chosen.’ Every eye fixed upon him 
 its expression of fealty and love. Gradually the fami¬ 
 lies retired to their respective habitations. Each 
 individual paused at the pillow of the patriarch, to 
 take the silent farewell; and some of the little ones 
 climbed up to kiss the marble face. 
 
 I was left alone with him whom I had first known 
 as the lay-reader, and with the dead. The enthusiasm 
 of the moment fled, and the feelings of a son tri¬ 
 umphed. Past years rushed like a tide over his 
 memory. The distant scenes of infancy and childhood, 
 the toils of maturity, the planting of that wild waste, 
 the changes of those years which had sprinkled his 
 temples with grey hairs : all, with their sorrows and 
 their joys, came associated with the lifeless image of 
 his beloved sire. In the bitterness of bereavement, 
 he covered his face and wept. That iron frame, which 
 had borne the hardening of more than half a century, 
 shook like the breast of an infant, when it sobs out its 
 sorrows. I waited until the first shock had subsided, 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 103 
 
 and then repeated, passing my arm gently within his, 
 1 1 heard a voice from heaven, saying, Write, from 
 henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.’ 
 Instantly raising himself, he replied, in a voice whose 
 deep inflections sank into my soul, 1 even so saith 
 the spirit, for they rest from their labours, and their 
 works do follow them.’ 
 
 I remained to attend the funeral obsequies of the 
 patriarch. In the heart of their territory, was a shady 
 dell, sacred to the dead. It was surrounded by a neat 
 enclosure, and planted with trees. The drooping 
 branches of a willow swept the grave of the mother 
 of the colony. Near her slumbered her youngest son. 
 Several other mounds rose around them, most of 
 which, by their small size, spoke of the smitten flowers 
 of infancy. To this goodly company, we bore him 
 who had been revered as the father and exemplar of 
 all. With solemn steps, his descendants, two and two, 
 followed the corpse. I heard a convulsive and sup¬ 
 pressed breathing among the more tender of the train; 
 but when the burial service commenced, all was 
 hushed. And never have I more fully realized its 
 surpassing beauty and power, than when from the 
 centre of that deep solitude, on the brink of that wait¬ 
 ing grave, it poured forth its pathos, its sublimity, its 
 consolation. 
 
104 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 1 Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short 
 time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up 
 and is cut down like a flower, he fleeth as it were a 
 shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the 
 midst of life, we are in death. Of whom may we seek 
 succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art 
 justly displeased ? Yet, O Lord God most holy, O 
 God most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, 
 deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death. 
 Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut 
 not thy most merciful ears to our prayers, but spare 
 us, O Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy 
 and merciful Saviour, suffer us not, at our last hour, 
 for any pains of death, to fall from thee.’ 
 
 Circumstances compelled me to leave this mourning 
 community, immediately after committing the dust 
 of their pious ancestor to the earth. They accom¬ 
 panied me to some distance on my journey, and our 
 parting was with mutual tears. Turning to view them 
 as their forms mingled with the dark green of the 
 forest, I heard the faint echo of a clear voice. It was 
 the reader, speaking of the hope of the resurrection: 
 ‘ if we believe that Christ died and rose again, even 
 so them also that sleep in Jesus will God bring with 
 him.’ 
 
 Full of thought, I pursued my homeward way. 
 
THE PATRIARCH. 
 
 105 
 
 Musing, I inquired, is devotion never incumbered 
 by the splendour that surrounds her ? Amid the lofty 
 cathedral, the throng of rich-stoled worshippers, the 
 melody of the solemn organ, does that incense never 
 waste itself upon the earth, which should ascend 
 to heaven? On the very beauty and glory of its 
 ordinances, may not the spirit proudly rest, and seal 
 itself up, and go no more forth to the work of benevo¬ 
 lence, nor spread its wing at the call of faith? 
 
 Yet surely there is a reality in religion , though man 
 may cheat himself with its shadow. Here I have 
 beheld it in simplicity, disrobed of { all pomp and cir¬ 
 cumstance,’ yet with power to soothe the passions into 
 harmony, to maintain the virtues in daily and vigorous 
 exercise, and to give victory to the soul when death 
 vanquishes the body. So, I took the lesson to my 
 heart, and when it has languished and grown cold, I 
 have warmed it by the remembrance of the ever- 
 living faith of those { few sheep in the wilderness.’ 
 
 S-. 
 
106 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR* 
 
 TYRE. 
 
 Ages have died since the seers of old, 
 
 Oh Tyrus, the fall of thy pride foretold ; 
 
 Ages have passed, and we muse on thee 
 As a broken waste ’neath the desert sea; 
 
 Thy temples have sunk in the waters down, 
 
 Oblivion rests on thine old renown: 
 
 Thou art crushed—thou art faded—thy strength is o’er, 
 Thy glory and beauty will gleam no more. 
 
 Where are the piles which, in days gone by, 
 
 From thy streets aspir’d in the lofty sky ? 
 
 Where is thy broidered Egyptian sail, 
 
 Which shone of yore in the summer gale ? 
 
 Where are the spices, the pearl, the gold, 
 
 Which once in thy marts did their wealth unfold ? 
 
TYRE. 
 
 107 
 
 There diamonds flashed to the gazer’s eye, 
 
 And the air was sweet as it wandered by; 
 
 There, coral and agate in masses lay, 
 
 And were bathed in the sun’s unclouded ray ; 
 
 The merchants of Sheba were gathered there— 
 Where are their treasures, Oh Tyrus, where ? 
 
 Thou answerest not—for the solemn wave 
 A requiem pours o’er thy hidden grave ; 
 
 Over prostrate pillar and crumbling dome 
 The stormy billows arise and foam ; 
 
 Where thy swelling temples were wont to stand, 
 The sea-bird screams by the lonely strand; 
 
 No sound of joy is upon the air— 
 
 Where are thy revels, Oh Tyrus, where ? 
 
 The time hath been, when a mighty throng 
 Of people fill’d thee ;—when dance and song, 
 
 And harpers, with rapture the time beguiled, 
 
 And the sun of joy on thy splendours smil’d. 
 
 Then in robes of beauty thy daughters dressed, 
 
 And pride was high in each sinful breast; 
 
 Then glittering shields ’gainst thy walls were hung, 
 While palace and garden with music rung; 
 
 The dance voluptuous at eve went round, 
 
 And hearts beat lightly at pleasure’s sound. 
 
108 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Now thou art laid in the solemn tomb 
 Of ages vanished ’mid storm and gloom ; 
 
 Thy warriors, thy princes, thy flashing gems, 
 Thy kings with the wealth of their diadems, 
 
 Are gone like the light on an April stream, 
 
 As a voice which speaks in an evening dream, 
 As a cloud which fades in the summer air— 
 Where are thy glories, Oh Tyrus, where? 
 
 W. G. C. 
 
 Philadelphia. 
 
109 
 
 i DREAMS. i 
 
 Dreams are topics of universal interest. They are 
 subjects of investigation to the philosopher, and not 
 unfrequently furnish an inspiring theme for the poet. 
 Under their influence, sanguine minds have been led 
 to embark in utopian schemes: the enthusiast has 
 sought in them the secret indications of the divine 
 will: the votary of fame has kindled into rapture at 
 the deeds of glory which they placed before his ex¬ 
 cited fancy: the miser has been a thousand times 
 richer than his sordid soul had dared anticipate: love 
 has built in dreams her most beautiful elysium, and 
 ravished her victim with delight, or wrung him with 
 despair. They are as effectual to console, as they are 
 powerful to terrify and to enrage the soul. The dis¬ 
 consolate have found in them a momentary balm for a 
 wounded spirit. The waves of trouble have sunk to 
 
 H 
 
110 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 rest: scenes of hope and tranquillity have stolen upon 
 the view, as if to point the wretched to a land where 
 sorrow is unknown. The guilty have dreaded them. 
 With no outward circumstances to divert the atten¬ 
 tion, conscience has compelled the terrified culprit to 
 take a direct look at his crimes. She has gathered 
 around him the images of his ultimate destiny, and 
 given him, in anticipation, a momentary experience of 
 horrors which, in his case, and when dreams give 
 place to realities, may prove to be unending. 
 
 On the other hand, the believer has often, in night- 
 vision, vividly anticipated his approaching triumph. 
 The shadows which overhung his path have disap¬ 
 peared. He has passed exulting the dark portals, 
 crossed the swelling waters of Jordan, and felt his 
 emancipated spirit enlarging and rejoicing amid all 
 that is pure and blissful and glorious. Yes, heaven 
 has burst on his enraptured view. But alas, upon 
 wakino-, he has found himself still on the field of con- 
 flict, fettered by the flesh and far from his final 
 home. 
 
 Thus the ordinary season of repose for the body, 
 is by no means the period of the soul’s inactivity. 
 Not unfrequently is it the signal for its loftiest 
 excursions. 
 
 When the body, exhausted by fatigue, loses in 
 
DREAMS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 sleep its power of locomotion; when its portals are 
 closed, and its sensibilities are in a measure blunted, 
 how will the soul rejoice in its liberty, and commence 
 its untiring career. It will visit, with the rapidity of 
 thought, regions the most remote. It will create new 
 worlds, and people them at pleasure with angels or 
 with men. It will condense the events of ages into 
 an hour. It will live over the past, or leap forward to 
 the future. A thousand fairy creations will rise at its 
 bidding. Heterogeneous combinations of men and 
 circumstances will swim before the excited vision, 
 and elicit as many corresponding images of dread and 
 desire, of love and hate, of joy and sorrow. How 
 wonderful, how incomprehensible its powers ! Who 
 who can say, that a spirit so ethereal, so discursive, 
 of such lofty flight, of such untiring career, is des¬ 
 tined by its creator for a region less comprehensive 
 than that of immortality ? 
 
 Some philosophers have maintained that the soul 
 does not always think; that often in profound slum¬ 
 bers there is a torpidity or inaction of the mental 
 powers analogous to the inactivity of the body. 
 
 It is true, we are not always conscious, at the very 
 moment of waking, that the soul has been employed 
 on objects either of speculation or desire. Memory 
 does not furnish us with the images which may have 
 
112 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 passed before us. But is it not possible that the soul 
 may have been employed, even though we are unable 
 to retain a recollection of it ? How treacherous 
 is memory, in relation to the passing events of a single 
 day! A word, suddenly addressed to us, will some¬ 
 times erase in an instant, from the recollection, a train 
 of reasoning, or a course of interesting remark. Our 
 utmost efforts will not enable us to recall it. In like 
 manner, so many scenes and images may in sleep 
 succeed each other, and in such quick succession, as 
 to render it impossible for the memory to catch and 
 retain a single distinct view. Thoughts are coursing 
 through the mind with great rapidity. A sudden 
 waking may arrest and divert the attention, from sub¬ 
 jects which, but a moment before, engrossed the 
 reflections or the passions of the soul. It by no 
 means follows, because we cannot remember a dream, 
 that therefore none has occurred. 
 
 We experience also, at times, dim and shadowy 
 recollections, which cannot well be explained but on 
 the principle that the mind is ever active. Who has 
 not, for example, come suddenly upon a scene, or 
 mingled in a company, where something has suggested 
 the idea that this scene, or this company, is but 
 the repetition of what had been before witnessed? 
 The countenances, the conversation, the whole group 
 
DREAMS. 
 
 113 
 
 appear familiar. Memory is tasked in vain to inform 
 us when and where the like scenes have occurred. 
 As an apology for a more satisfactory conclusion, it is 
 generally inferred that we must have dreamed of 
 them. What is thus lightly affirmed may be true in 
 fact, and admit of a rational explanation. Many 
 things which pass before the mind in sleep are no 
 doubt forgotten. We retain no image of them at the 
 very moment of waking. By the power of mental 
 association, they may however be subsequently re¬ 
 called. That faculty by which suggestions are given, 
 and analogies are traced, may operate to restore 
 them. We are startled by the thought, that although 
 the scene is known to be new, it is nevertheless 
 familiar. But may not a similar view have occupied 
 the imagination during the hours of sleep ? May not 
 some features in the fancied and the real scene be so 
 identical or so analogous, as to excite in the memory 
 the faded images of some night vision ? 
 
 If the reader will pardon a personal allusion, I will 
 mention a circumstance bearing on this point, of a 
 somewhat unusual character. 
 
 Several years since, the writer of this essay found 
 himself, at the moment of waking, exhausted and 
 depressed in consequence of something which had 
 taken place during the night. Sleep had not as usual 
 
114 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 refreshed him. He had no recollection of having 
 experienced what is commonly called the night-mare. 
 He was not conscious of having; dreamed at all. Still 
 there was, in the occurrences of the night, something 
 which had left a heavy pressure on the spirits. 
 
 After the lapse of several days, and when the im¬ 
 pression was worn off, a slight circumstance brought 
 at once to his mind the fact, that his late impressions 
 were the result of a dream; and which arrayed also 
 before him the strong features of the vision. The 
 circumstance alluded to was a sudden noise produced 
 by the settling of the beams in a garret adjacent to 
 the room in which he was sitting. The noise sug¬ 
 gested the crash of falling houses. This was instantly 
 associated with the subject of the dream, which was 
 the final judgment. The whole vision rose again 
 before the imagination. It was renewed with all the 
 vividness of a real scene. The son of man was seen 
 coming in the clouds of heaven. Around his descend¬ 
 ing path-way, was a retinue of angels which no man 
 could number. The trump of the archangel was 
 pealing the knell of the universe. Its reverberations 
 reached the cemeteries of the earth and the caverns of 
 the sea. The dead started from their long deep 
 slumbers. The living turned pale, and raised a cry 
 for mercy. The earth was cleaving in a thousand 
 
DREAMS. 
 
 115 
 
 places, and the last fires were bursting forth to en¬ 
 velope it. Above the awful scene and far beyond it, 
 was heard the sweet song of redemption. Robed in 
 white, the saints had gone to meet their Lord. They 
 were gazing on his glories, and swelling his final 
 triumph. Strange as it may appear, this picture rose 
 on the mind, and was recognised as a transcript of a 
 forgotten dream. The more minute features of the 
 vision it is impossible to describe. It is equally im¬ 
 possible to give the reader a conception of images and 
 impressions which came in startling succession on the 
 soul; for not only the scene, but the accompanying 
 feeling was recollected. 
 
 During our waking hours, unbelief throws a sort of 
 illusion over the most graphic scenes of the judgment. 
 We are prone to regard them not only as distant, but 
 as in some degree imaginary. Hence they fail to fix 
 in the mind a deep and practical feeling. But dreams 
 are for the time as realities; and he who has once 
 beheld, in night vision, the group of terrific imagery 
 associated with the judgment, will neither make light 
 of the event, nor easily rid himself of the impression. 
 
 The fact just related favours the notion that the 
 soul is always active. The dream was one of a pecu¬ 
 liar and impressive character; yet at the very moment 
 of waking it was lost. Its recurrence depended on a 
 
116 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 slight circumstance. But for that circumstance, it 
 might never have revisited the mind. 
 
 How many thoughts and impressions may, in like 
 manner, be experienced in sleep, which memory never 
 can renew! It appears probable, therefore, that the 
 soul of man is always exercising more or less vigor¬ 
 ously its powers. Its lofty flights and wild excursions 
 during sleep are the mysterious intimations of its 
 immortality. 
 
 To relate a dream of so serious a character, may, to 
 some, seem inappropriate to the design of even a 
 religious annual. But the philosopher may read it as 
 a mere fact, and make what use he pleases of it in his 
 analysis of the mind. The gay and thoughtless will 
 of course just glance at it. There may, however, be 
 some, who will seek in it a subject of grave reflection, 
 and compel it to contribute to their moral improve¬ 
 ment. They may not be willing to allow a mawkish 
 sensibility to veil from their sight scenes of thrilling 
 interest, in which they are to be both spectators and 
 actors. Having an eye fixed on the cross, that sure 
 defence against death’s terrors; and having a hope 
 anchored in promises which respect not only bright 
 visions after, but a blessed composure amid the judg¬ 
 ment scenes; they can calmly anticipate the coming of 
 the son of man. It is good to neutralize the glare of 
 
DREAMS. 
 
 117 
 
 this world, by the glad or fearful prospects of another. 
 The aid which such contemplations afford in our 
 warfare is not to be despised. The fact too that these 
 scenes, however terrific, are less dreaded when habitu¬ 
 ally anticipated, than when carelessly forgotten, 
 should recall our vagrant thoughts from a thousand 
 vanities, and send them forward in contemplation on 
 our ultimate destiny. The believer has nothing to 
 dread. Though the way to his rest lies through a 
 dark and lonely valley, faith is his unerring guide. 
 She carries in her hand the torch of salvation. He 
 may fearlessly follow her footsteps. She will give 
 him that which will disrobe the judgment of its terrors, 
 and make even the archangel’s trump sweet melody 
 to his ear. Scenes that will startle and overwhelm 
 the guilty will be to him the end of his sorrows, and 
 the signal of his eternal triumph. 
 
 W. 
 
118 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 MIDNIGHT HYMN. 
 
 Heaven 
 
 Is as the book of God before thee set, 
 
 Wherein to read his wondrous works. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 How vast thy power, thou only wise, 
 
 Thou high and holy One! 
 
 Who like a tent spread’st out the skies, 
 
 And lightest every sun, 
 
 Round which revolving systems roll 
 Millions of worlds at thy control! 
 
 Thy works how manifold they are, 
 
 Thy glory goeth forth 
 Along the heavens from star to star, 
 
 Thy praise through all the earth! 
 
 How great art thou, oh God most high! 
 
 How absolute thy sovereignty ! 
 
MIDNIGHT HYMN. 
 
 119 
 
 Thy hand earth’s deep foundations laid, 
 Thou pouredst out the sea— 
 
 Glory from all things thou hast made, 
 
 Glory be unto thee, 
 
 Creator, God ! who giv’st the seas 
 Their boundaries by thy firm decrees. 
 
 Lord! what is man, that thou from heaven 
 Shouldst deign to visit him? 
 
 Ordaining him to life, when even 
 The sun and stars wax dim ! 
 
 Hosannahs in the highest be, 
 
 Christ, our salvation, rendered thee. 
 
 Beautiful planets ! as ye march 
 On your appointed way, 
 
 Upward through heaven’s resplendent arch, 
 In glorious array, 
 
 Praise ye his power, who marshalled high 
 Your glittering armies in the sky. 
 
 Praise him, thou sun, great fount of light, 
 His word created thee : 
 
 Shine on, rejoicing in the might 
 Of him who bade thee be,— 
 
120 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 While darker orbs thy beams shall bless, 
 
 Type of the 4 Lord our righteousness !’ 
 
 t 
 
 i Day unto day doth utter speech,’ 
 
 The heavens his power proclaim, 
 
 4 Night unto night doth wisdom teach!’ 
 
 4 Who would not fear thy name, 
 
 Oh thou most highest!’ Every knee 
 Shall bow, all flesh shall worship thee. 
 
 S. S. C. 
 
 Newport, R. I. 
 
121 
 
 THE SUNDAY INFANT-SCHOOL BOY. 
 
 £ A hero truly.’ 
 
 There are certain developments which we are accus¬ 
 tomed to look for in children, and their appearance does 
 not surprise us. That tenderness of affection which is 
 always loading the maternal cheek with kisses—that 
 instinctive impression of dependence which chains 
 to the mother’s side—that lovely smile which greets 
 the father as he comes in from the toils and vexations 
 of the day, and feels repaid for troubles by the little 
 arms that are entwined round his neck: all these, 
 and a thousand other nameless things are expected 
 from children—and what would the life of a parent 
 be without them ? But beyond these endearments of 
 instinctive affection, we seldom look; they form the 
 beautiful of domestic life, and we are content. It 
 sometimes happens, however, that there are passages 
 in the lives of children, which challenge the character 
 
122 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 of the grand and sublime; there have been among 
 them specimens of the patient endurance of pain, 
 and heroic superiority to suffering, which may scarcely 
 find a parallel in all the history of men or women 
 grown. We have read, with an interest which cannot 
 well be described, the graphic descriptions given in 
 the Diary of a London Physician. These seem like 
 romance, and, if true, are worked up w T ith a skill to 
 which few of the writers of romance are equal. 
 There is a painful interest about them, which makes 
 a most desperate inroad upon the comfort of a 
 reader whose nervous sensibilities are at all 
 excitable; there is an anatomical perfection of 
 description, which is just as if the surgeon’s most 
 exquisitely sharpened instrument were dissecting 
 through all the fibres of the heart. It is as impossible 
 to read them without pain, as it is without pleasure. 
 
 But we must get at our own subject. We have 
 no such exquisitely wrought-up theme, to present to 
 our readers, but one which at the same time is most 
 powerfully calculated to impress itself, with painful 
 yet rich interest, upon the tender sensibilities of the 
 heart. And the reader may rest assured, that the 
 relation which we give is strictly true. There is not 
 a particle of romance or exaggeration about it. Every 
 item of the story is vouched for as matter of religious 
 
SUNDAY INFANT-SCHOOL BOY. 123 
 
 verity. And the story is told, simply to bring into 
 notice that patient endurance which a deep feeling of 
 religion can produce, even in the character of chil¬ 
 dren; and which can lead them to bear the most 
 excruciating pain, with something far beyond the 
 fortitude to which unassisted human nature may be 
 screwed up. The narrative, as to its main facts, we 
 had from a Sunday school teacher, of rare endow¬ 
 ments for this work of love, and of piety unquestioned. 
 
 The subject of this brief relation was, at the time of 
 the occurrence, about nine years of age, and remarka¬ 
 bly small for his years; his sufferings had most probably 
 retarded his growth. For two Sundays he was 
 missed from the school: and though his general 
 attendance had been particularly regular, the cir¬ 
 cumstance did not excite much of the teacher’s 
 attention; because the autumn and winter of 1831 
 had been unusually inclement and severe ; and, with 
 the distress necessarily occasioned among the more 
 destitute classes of society, together with the preva¬ 
 lent influenza, had very materially diminished the 
 attendance at the school. It was naturally supposed, 
 that some of these causes, connected with the distance 
 of his residence, had operated to prevent his accus¬ 
 tomed regularity, and the matter passed without 
 investigation. 
 
124 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 On Sunday -, a little girl came into the 
 
 school room, and addressing herself to the teacher, 
 told him, that ‘her brother was very ill; that the 
 doctors had cut a large swelling from his neck—that 
 he would like to see his teacher, and often wept when 
 he spoke about it.’ The little girl added, in a very 
 interesting and artless manner, ‘ he says too, that he 
 thinks he has got religion.’ This was his own ex¬ 
 pression, and we have not ventured to alter it. 
 
 Thus called upon, and discovering that the cause 
 of the absence of this child from school was so 
 different from what had been anticipated, the teacher 
 went, immediately upon the dismission of the scholars, 
 to the residence of this suffering child. There had 
 always been something very peculiarly interesting 
 in the case of this young pupil. His quiet and orderly 
 behaviour, so different from that of many others of 
 his playful years, and his habitually good conduct, 
 had endeared him to all. Indeed his course had been 
 so uniform, that he is not remembered ever to have 
 been rebuked. 
 
 On entering the room, the teacher found this suf¬ 
 fering boy extended on his little bed; his face was 
 very much bound up, but all that appeared wore a 
 pallid and deathlike aspect. A momentary flush 
 rushed to the cheek, and an evident brightness 
 
SUNDAY INFANT-SCHOOL BOY. 125 
 
 lighted up the eye of the little sufferer, as he caught 
 the hand of his teacher. He had always been taci¬ 
 turn, and on the present occasion said but little, for 
 it was painful to him to speak ; but what he did say, 
 was exceedingly satisfactory as to the real impression 
 which religion had made upon his heart. There are 
 modes by which one who is accustomed to converse 
 with children, can readily ascertain what weight is to 
 be given to the simple expression of their feelings. 
 
 The story of the calamity which had led the way to 
 the present suffering condition of the little boy, was 
 as follows. Several years ago, as he was near the 
 fire, his clothes accidentally caught, and though soon 
 extinguished, yet, in consequence of his having on at 
 the time an apron tied close about the neck, the 
 flames burned his throat in a most awful and distress¬ 
 ing manner. In process of time the wound was 
 healed; but, either from the remarkable destruction 
 of the parts or from unskilful management, it left 
 him most dreadfully disfigured. The mouth and 
 lower jaw were drawn sideways, and quite down 
 towards his neck, so that it was with much effort 
 that he could close his mouth, and to raise his head 
 in an erect posture was an utter impossibility. When 
 he began to grow, this position of the head became 
 not only inconvenient, but painful. Indeed, it was 
 
 i 
 
126 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 truly distressing to behold him; for, apart from the 
 sympathy which his suffering condition was natu¬ 
 rally calculated to excite, there was something 
 unpleasant to the eye in the great distortion which 
 was given to the countenance, and by careless and 
 thoughtless children in the streets his condition was 
 very often made the subject of sport and laughter. 
 This, however, he bore without complaining; and, 
 notwithstanding his appearance, he was always anx¬ 
 ious to attend the school; and none was more atten¬ 
 tive to the exercises, though it cost him a painful 
 effort to elevate his eyes sufficiently to see the pic¬ 
 tures and diagrams by which the course of instruction 
 was carried on. 
 
 Under these circumstances, and aware that with 
 his growth the pain and danger to himself, as well as 
 the disadvantages of his condition, would be con¬ 
 tinually increasing, his parents, acting under the 
 advice of the most skilful surgeons who were called 
 to examine the case, consented that an operation 
 should be attempted, by which a portion of the flesh 
 was to be removed, as the only possible means of 
 affording him relief, if not of protracting his life. 
 There was a fearful responsibility attached to this 
 decision, and nothing but the most certain persuasion 
 of its necessity for the future comfort and even life of 
 
SUNDAY INFANT-SCHOOL BOY. 127 
 
 the little boy, could have wrung from the hearts of his 
 parents a reluctant consent. It would have been an 
 unjustifiable exhibition of parental fondness, to have 
 shrunk from this responsibility. His life, it was 
 believed, hung on the result of this fearful operation; 
 an operation, if not the most dangerous in surgery, at 
 least one attended with an unusual degree of pain. Yet 
 when the necessity was stated to him, he made but 
 very feeble objections, and without much difficulty 
 consented; and, as the time drew on, he never mani¬ 
 fested any degree of fear, but was invariably calm 
 and unruffled. It may be said, that all this is to be 
 ascribed to the necessary ignorance of the severity of 
 surgical operations, and that very few children would 
 have made any hesitation in pursuing the same course 
 Was there nothing beyond our ordinary experience 
 to destroy the validity of this suspicion, it would be 
 sufficient; but we have evidences that this feeling 
 of resignation, this calm serenity in the knowledge 
 of anticipated sufferings, was the result of principle. 
 The language which he invariably used, was always 
 indicative of a clear and decided religious influence. 
 He told his mother, that he 1 thought he had given his 
 heart to God, and now he did not much wish to live. 
 He said, and the writer of this wishes it to be dis¬ 
 tinctly understood that his own words are faithfully 
 
128 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 put down—‘he thought it would be better if he 
 should die young, and go and be with his Saviour.’ 
 
 The writer of this has no knowledge of the science 
 of surgery; he believes it among the rich blessings 
 which a God of benevolence has given to alleviate the 
 distresses that sin has occasioned in the world; and 
 though relief in all such cases must be through the 
 medium of suffering, he conceives that the relief itself 
 is intended to teach the lesson of the evil of sin, which 
 first ‘ brought death into the world, and all our woes.’ 
 The operation must have been one of delicacy and 
 interest, and somewhat out of the ordinary course; 
 for when the surgeon came, he was attended by 
 seven other gentlemen of the profession who were 
 desirous of being witnesses. Without being able 
 technically to describe the process, it will suffice to 
 observe, that the flesh was separated from the lower 
 jaw, from ear to ear ; and the jaw, thus released from 
 the contraction, was restored to its place. It is not, 
 however, in the skill and success of a difficult and 
 dangerous operation, that in this case the lively in¬ 
 terest exists. It is in the moral up-bearing of the 
 infant sufferer; he did not require to be tied, and 
 would not take an opiate to stupify him or to lull 
 the pain. There was an inward principle superior to 
 fear and to pain; the principle of an assured hope of 
 
SUNDAY INFANT-SCHOOL BOY. 129 
 
 blessedness beyond the grave, should the operation 
 be fatal. 
 
 As soon after the operation as he was at all per¬ 
 mitted to use his mouth for speaking, he told his 
 mother, that 1 when the doctor first began to cut 
 him, he thought he could not bear it and live, but 
 that he prayed to God, that he would be pleased to 
 help him to bear it, and after that he did not feel near 
 so much pain.’ 
 
 One of the medical gentlemen who was present, 
 and who had witnessed many awful cases from the 
 field of battle as an army surgeon, said he had never 
 seen one which had excited in his mind such an 
 intense degree of interest, as was awakened by the 
 patient suffering of this delicate and feeble little boy. 
 
 By the mercy of God’s providence, the operation 
 was not only successfully performed, but it accom¬ 
 plished the purpose for which it was designed; and 
 although it has left the scar of the surgeon’s knife 
 over the whole surface of the lower jaw, it has re¬ 
 stored the little sufferer to the comfortable enjoyment 
 of his life. He now lives, and may be seen earliest 
 among his fellows at the Sunday school, with a happy 
 countenance, and an eye radiant with the gratitude 
 which to this day dwells in his heart. He is not in 
 that rank of life, in which there will be any proba- 
 
130 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 bility that he will ever read this little narrative ; but, 
 even should he do it in after life, he will have 
 additional cause of thankfulness, if he finds that in 
 the heart of any reader, one single sentiment has 
 been awakened, calculated to impress more durably 
 on the mind, the value of religion in an hour of trial— 
 religion, which can uphold the spirit of the man, and 
 give to a feeble child an energy which falls little 
 short of supernatural. 
 
131 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Queen of the twilight hour, 
 
 I hail thy soothing reign ; 
 
 How still beneath thy power 
 Are valley, hill and plain. 
 
 How fair thy beauty glows, 
 Sparkling in yonder west, 
 
 As if a snow white rose, 
 
 Dew-bright on evening’s breast. 
 
 Thou seemest a vesper light, 
 
 Lit at this hour of praise, 
 
 On heaven’s high altar bright, 
 
 While earth her incense pays. 
 Then, by thy hallowed beams, 
 
 From nature’s book I'll pray, 
 And catch the bliss that seems 
 Luxuriant in thy ray. 
 
 X. X. X. 
 
132 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 THE EMPTY BIER. 
 
 “ Thou empty bier, that standest here 
 Alone by the church-yard gate ; 
 
 Say, whose the door thou’lt pause before, 
 Thy burden next to wait?” 
 
 The bier replied — 11 My range is wide, 
 
 And my hours of rest but few ; 
 
 But the ways are known to one alone, 
 Which I must hence pursue. 
 
 “ I first may seek her form, whose cheek 
 Is fresh in its maiden bloom ; 
 
 On me to lie with a rayless eye, 
 
 At the threshold of the tomb. 
 
 11 The youth who last sped by so fast 
 
 With the nerve and the glow of health, 
 
THE EMPTY BIER. 
 
 133 
 
 He next may find, that close behind 
 Death followed him by stealth. 
 
 u Or she, Avho smiled when the lovely child, 
 She was lately leading near, 
 
 With wonder stopped, and his lilies dropped, 
 To gaze at the sable bier— 
 
 11 That mother, may be called to lay 
 Her beauteous boy on me ; 
 
 In his morning hour, like the dewy flower 
 Pie lost, and as suddenly. 
 
 “ Her own pale clay to bear away, 
 
 It next may be my lot; 
 
 She may close her eyes on her infant ties 
 And her prattler be forgot. 
 
 “ As I must call in time for all, 
 
 From the babe to the silvery-haired, 
 
 A glimpse of me to each should be 
 A hint to be prepared.” 
 
 Newburyport. 
 
 H. F. G. 
 
134 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 THE PROPHET ELIJAH. 
 
 Amidst the wilderness, alone, 
 
 The sad foe-hunted prophet lay, 
 
 And darkening shadows, round him thrown, 
 Shut out the cheerful smile of day; 
 
 The winds were laden with his sighs, 
 
 As, resting ’neath a lonely tree, 
 
 His spirit, torn with agonies, 
 
 In prayer was struggling to be free. 
 
 For on its prison’d essence, hung 
 
 The cumbrous bonds of earth and care; 
 And, while the branches o’er him flung 
 Their murmurs to the desert air, 
 Unbidden longings to depart 
 
 Swelled in his pained and wearied breast, 
 Till, with a supplicating heart, 
 
 He prayed to die and be at rest. 
 
Dr'tam Try Marten- 
 
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THE PROPHET ELIJAH. 
 
 135 
 
 He long’d in heaven’s unclouded light 
 To wave his spirit’s ransomed wings, 
 
 To bathe them in the effulgence bright 
 Which from the fount of glory springs; 
 There were no ties to bind him then, 
 
 Beneath the mysteries of the sky, 
 
 An outcast from the haunts of men, 
 
 Hid, save from God’s unslumbering eye. 
 
 He turned from shadows, and the cloud 
 
 Which earthly hate had round him spread, 
 And to a faithful friend he bowed 
 
 In humble hope and solemn dread. 
 
 He paused—and o’er his senses worn 
 Sleep’s dewy cloud in silence stole, 
 
 And radiance, like the gush of morn, 
 
 Was poured upon his dreaming soul. 
 
 And lo! the wide untrodden waste 
 
 Around in beauteous splendour glowed; 
 And, with transcendent beauty graced, 
 
 An angel form before him stood; 
 
 His voice, like music, charmed the air; 
 
 His eyes were kind with light benign; 
 
 And in transcendent beauty there 
 He stood—a messenger divine ! 
 
136 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 He spoke of blessings,—and his word, 
 
 Which fell upon the dreamer’s ear, 
 Aroused each fainting hope deferred, 
 
 While fragrance filled the atmosphere . 
 Then, like some gorgeous cloud of light, 
 
 Dipt in the sunset’s golden ray, 
 
 The angel took his upward flight, 
 
 And melted in the skies away. 
 
 Then, with sweet sleep refreshed and food, 
 
 Through many a long, long night and day, 
 Till Horeb’s mount before him stood, 
 
 The unwavering prophet went his way; 
 Then climb’d its summits wild and high, 
 
 And linger’d in his lonely cave, 
 
 Till, like rich music floating by, 
 
 The voice of God its question gave. 
 
 Then, as he trod the mountain height, 
 
 The winds their solemn anthems played, 
 The earthquake thundered in its might, 
 
 And clouds tumultuous o’er him strayed. 
 What then befel?—a flush of fire— 
 
 And then, that father’s soothing voice, 
 Which bids each faithful hope aspire, 
 
 And makes the ransomed soul rejoice. 
 
 Philadelphia. W. G. C. 
 
L 37 
 
 CHRISTIAN LACONICS. 
 
 I. 
 
 A characteristic of true piety is reverence, holy 
 awe, in view of the purity of God. This is the mean¬ 
 ing of the Scripture phrase, so often repeated, the 
 fear of the Lord. The angels in heaven, where there 
 is not the least spot of impurity, veil their faces: 
 with what reverence, then, should sinners approach 
 the throne! That piety is suspicious which betrays 
 irreverence for God. We may cover ourselves with 
 zeal as with a cloak; yet, if we have not this fear of 
 the Lord, we possess not genuine piety. 
 
 II. 
 
 Many conquerors have been ruined by their careless¬ 
 ness after a victory; and many, like David, have 
 fallen into great sins, after special manifestations of 
 God’s favour. Spiritual pride is then apt to arise, 
 
13S 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 when decline immediately commences. Instead of 
 remitting our exertions, when we have enjoyed 
 peculiar nearness to God, we should be more watch¬ 
 ful and instant in prayer, as in seasons of the greatest 
 danger. 
 
 III. 
 
 Our Lord who well knew the sorrows that were to 
 come upon him, chose to be found by his enemies in 
 the posture of prayer. Hence we should learn to 
 receive the troubles to which we are subject in the 
 same manner. When angry clouds skirt the horizon, 
 and vivid lightnings and rolling thunders betoken 
 danger, let us take the only position in which we can 
 
 bear the smiting of the storm. 
 
 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 From our Saviour’s history, we may learn that those 
 in whom Satan has no interest, may be subject to 
 strong temptations. Let no sincere trembling believer 
 despair because sorely tempted. What temptation 
 canbe worse than that which our Saviour experienced; 
 1 to fall down and worship’ Satan. 
 
 V. 
 
 There must be a harmony in our duties. We cannot 
 
CHRISTIAN LACONICS. 
 
 139 
 
 perform some aright, while we wilfully neglect 
 others. The soul must at all times be kept in a holy 
 frame of obedience; we must have respect unto all 
 the commandments of God, if we would be his chil¬ 
 dren. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There may be idolatry in our attachment to our 
 friends. Whenever we delight in any thing more 
 than in God, we are idolaters. We must love Him 
 supremely, with all our heart, soul and mind, that is, 
 with the utmost intensity: which is no hard requisi¬ 
 tion, for it only requires us to be as happy as our 
 nature will allow. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There are many things mysterious in the providence 
 of God, but this should not occasion scepticism 
 or distrust. There are also many mysteries in 
 nature; indeed incomprehensible wisdom will per¬ 
 form some, to us, incomprehensible things, in 
 whatever it is employed. As we know we are in the 
 hands of wisdom and benevolence, let us rest content 
 though some things be dark. Eternity, that eternity 
 to which we are hastening, will shed a clearer light 
 on all subjects. 
 
140 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It is a solemn thought, that impenitent sinners are 
 continually filling the cup of their iniquities, in what¬ 
 ever they are employed; whether in the performance 
 of the ordinary offices of life, or the interchange of 
 social or domestic affection, always treasuring up 
 wrath. Until they fully resolve on immediate repen¬ 
 tance and godliness, all their efforts are in vain; their 
 cup will soon be full, and then the glittering sword of 
 God’s vengeance will descend, and they will perish 
 for ever. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The policy of one statesman may be opposed by his 
 successor, and the mark he has made on the world 
 obliterated; the name and works of the proudest 
 philosopher may sink into oblivion ; but the Christian 
 who has been instrumental in the conversion of one 
 soul, has not only caused a thrill of joy among the 
 angels of God, but has added a new note to the eternal 
 melody of heaven, a new voice to the undying 
 chorus 1 worthy the Lamb.’ 
 
 X. 
 
 Sinners deceive themselves when they suppose they 
 
CHRISTIAN LACONICS. 
 
 141 
 
 have a respect and veneration for the Saviour. He 
 stands for years knocking at the door of their hearts, 
 but is refused admittance. Would one respected, 
 be thus treated ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 We are constantly to be on our guard against the 
 influence of prejudices. They are the most fruitful 
 sources of error. Some adopt opinions because they 
 are old; some, because they are new; some, because 
 they are plain and simple; and others, because they 
 are sublime and mysterious ; some, because they are 
 received by many; and others, because received by 
 few. From whatever quarter prejudice may derive it, 
 it will be sure to make shipwreck of our understanding. 
 It is false to suppose that we are not accountable for 
 our opinions, and that our practice may be right, while 
 our principles are wrong. The truth is, every error in 
 theory has its correspondent moral obliquity in practice. 
 The exercise of conscience is influenced by the opinions 
 we have adopted, and its dictate it is certainly our 
 duty to follow. If, then, conscience be perverted by 
 error, we are obliged to do wrong: for if we obey it, 
 we do wrong; and if we refuse to obey it, we do 
 wrong. Hence we see the importance of a know¬ 
 ledge of the truth. 
 
 K 
 
142 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Men admit the truth of a general Providence which 
 directs the revolutions of worlds, and preserves the 
 order of systems: but they dislike the idea of having 
 God interested in human affairs; it has a very un¬ 
 favourable and threatening aspect. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Grieve not the Holy Spirit. When in the presence 
 of a dear friend, we avoid every expression and act 
 that may possibly offend : why should we not act thus 
 toward our heavenly friend? He is offended by the 
 slightest impurity, and will withdraw and leave us to 
 coldness and wandering. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It has been objected, that the body of Christian evi¬ 
 dence is so large and complicated, that few have time 
 and capacity to master it. But it should be remem¬ 
 bered, that the part adapted to the apprehension of 
 common minds, is sufficient to produce conviction. 
 But suppose this were not the case ; men act on many 
 principles of science, the demonstration of which they 
 do not understand. True, it will be said, experience 
 
CHRISTIAN LACONICS. 
 
 143 
 
 has taught the good effects. So, also, have you seen 
 the good effects of repentance and faith. 
 
 XV. 
 
 We must resist the first beginnings of temptation and 
 sin. Favour shown to the least sin is like the letting 
 out of waters. No sin, however small, should be 
 suffered to remain in the heart; it will excite the 
 wickedness of nature to greater ones. No wise man, 
 one has remarked, will neglect the smallest spark of 
 fire, if it be among barrels of gunpowder. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 A fear of punishment, and a vague desire of heaven 
 and happiness may exist, when there is no true feeling 
 of repentance. That always includes a sorrow for, 
 and loathing of sin, on account of its intrinsic enor¬ 
 mity and offensiveness to a pure and holy God. When 
 these are wanting, however great may be the distress, 
 there is no repentance unto life. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The parable of the ten virgins, though not intended 
 to teach definitely the amount of self deception, shows 
 us that many who have witnessed a fair profession 
 will not enter the kingdom of heaven. Self-examina- 
 
144 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 tion will profit us little, unless we are willing to be 
 undeceived. Many a professing Christian clings 
 to his hope, when he can give no good reason for so 
 doing. Oh how unwise thus to follow the light of a 
 false hope, which shall be extinguished when the 
 shadows of the grave shall thicken around, and leave 
 the soul to wander amid the blackness of darkness 
 for ever. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 ( Prayer for deliverance from sin must always be 
 accompanied with action. To pray for deliverance 
 from envy, while no effort is made to subdue it, is 
 but mockery of God. Follow prayer with effort, and 
 effort with prayer, and you will be enabled to over¬ 
 come. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Men would be glad to separate holiness from heaven, 
 and wickedness from hell ; but God will make no such 
 separation. 
 
 XX. 
 
 As soon as we awake in the morning, we should look 
 to God, for then we begin to act, and consequently to 
 need his assistance. To begin the day otherwise, is 
 
CHRISTIAN LACONICS. 
 
 145 
 
 to say we are not dependent on Him. Unless we set 
 out aright in the morning, we go wrong during the 
 whole day. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 We should never rush without preparation into the 
 presence of God. We should contemplate his holiness 
 and majesty; see that our hearts are affected by his good¬ 
 ness, and our own ingratitude; consider our wants, that 
 we may order our speech aright: then we can draw 
 near with reverence and godly fear, and worship in 
 an acceptable manner. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Love one another, is the oft repeated command of 
 
 the Saviour, yet how little is it regarded. We seem 
 
 to make interest, rank, wealth, beauty, similarity of 
 
 pursuit, taste or disposition, any thing in short but 
 
 love to Christ, the foundation of our attachments. 
 
 / 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 We should read the Scriptures daily with fear and 
 trembling, lest we should not sanctify the name of 
 the Lord, and thus be guilty of taking it in vain; 
 with prayer for the illumination of the spirit, and the 
 applying of the truths to our sanctification,—noting 
 
146 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 the duties commanded, the sins forbidden, the rewards 
 promised, and the punishments threatened. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 God is under no obligation to show mercy to man. 
 He was not obliged to prepare the remedial plan of the 
 gospel, a dispensation of grace. This truth is included 
 in the very idea of grace, which signifies favour 
 freely bestowed. That which is obligatory cannot 
 properly be said to be free. The notion of the neces¬ 
 sary exercise of mercy is founded on the principle that 
 all the attributes of God must of necessity be exercised 
 when there are objects. This is false; for the objects 
 of mercy and justice are the same, viz. sinners: if both 
 attributes must be exercised, they will interfere, the 
 harmony will be destroyed—which can never be. 
 Again, there is always room for the exercise of om¬ 
 nipotence in the creation of intelligences; but it is not 
 always thus exercised. 
 
 Men suffer misery justly, or they do not. If the 
 former, then God is not obliged to show grace, any 
 more than a creditor is obliged to forgive a debt that 
 is justly due him. If the latter, we must deny the 
 existence of misery, or infringe on the perfections of 
 God. 
 
 The exercise of justice is necessary: the perfection 
 
CHRISTIAN LACONICS. 
 
 147 
 
 of God’s nature, and the support of his government 
 require it. This principle is recognised by the 
 universal opinions of men; they believe that a ruler is 
 obliged to be just, but at liberty to be merciful in 
 consistence with justice. Let our souls then magnify 
 the freeness of the gospel. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 How much do Christians come short in thankfulness! 
 When we receive a favour from a friend, we forget 
 not to express our gratitude; but how many do we 
 receive from God, without thinking of the bestower! 
 Are these things so ? and are we indeed Christians ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Do we really desire and purpose to be as holy as 
 Martyn and Brainerd, and the saints of old ? In 
 addition to all the advantages they enjoyed, we have 
 the light of their example. Hence greater talents 
 are bestowed, and more will be required. Who does 
 not shrink from a comparison with Martyn and 
 Edwards, and Paul and Elijah? And yet we are to 
 be judged by a stricter standard, the law of God. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 There is a great deal of partial atheism among pro- 
 
148 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 fessing Christians. They are accustomed to refer 
 events which God designed for their instruction or 
 reproof, to second causes, as though these were not 
 subject to his order and disposal. They should re¬ 
 cognise the hand of a present Deity in every event, 
 though it be apparently less important than the falling 
 of a sparrow. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The children of Israel could not possess the land of 
 Canaan until the cup of the Amorites’ iniquity was 
 full ; then were they given up to destruction. How 
 long before the cup of this nation may be filled P It 
 is a subject calling for earnest thought. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The law of God requires perfect obedience. The 
 idea that a law can require imperfect obedience, is 
 absurd. What is required is obedience, and when 
 that which is required is given, the obedience is per¬ 
 fect. The law of God is immutable, and every want 
 of conformity must be visited with punishment, 
 either on the offender or his substitute. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The cause of truth has been greatly injured by some 
 
CHRISTIAN LACONICS. 
 
 149 
 
 who have regarded the Bible as a text book in science 
 as well as religion, forgetting that it was given to 
 make us wise , not in the learning that perisheth, but 
 unto salvation. It should be remarked, that it contains 
 nothing that is inconsistent with the established prin¬ 
 ciples of any science. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 A love of truth is laudable, but we must be careful 
 not to mistake, for it, the love of our own opinions. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Hypocrisy often appears in an affected fervour in 
 public prayer, and the introduction of religious con¬ 
 versation. It is our duty to be fervent in our prayers, 
 public and private, and to converse much on the 
 subject of religion; but let us see to our motives, that 
 no desire of acquiring a reputation for piety mingles. 
 The expressions of a truly humble and sincere Chris¬ 
 tian will always be below rather than above his 
 feelings. He will tremble when he perceives the 
 estimation in which he is held, lest, inadvertently, he 
 has made professions that have transcended the reality. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Men perish not alone in their iniquity. Every man 
 
150 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 is continually exerting and receiving an influence, 
 more or less powerful, according to the circumstances 
 in which he is placed. The man that continues in 
 sin, not only destroys himself, but many others who 
 are under his influence. Parents have thus often 
 destroyed their children, and friend has dragged friend 
 to perdition. Many a parent, who would shudder at 
 the thought of plunging a dagger into the body of his 
 child, can deliberately murder its immortal soul. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 V 
 
 If , at every night, we were obliged to give an account 
 of the day to God, would not our manner of spending 
 it be different? The time of reckoning is only de¬ 
 ferred. We may forget, but God will not forget the 
 slightest action. 
 
 Princeton, N. J. 
 
 J. A. 
 
151 
 
 SAINT JOHN’S VISION. 
 
 By Patmos shore the exile stood, 
 
 And on the dark iEgean flood 
 
 o 
 
 Looked calmly. O’er the mountains wild 
 The Sabbath evening sweetly smiled; 
 
 The leaf was resting in the grove; 
 
 The clouds hung motionless above ; 
 
 And on the land and on the sea, 
 
 Each echo slept most quietly. 
 
 It was an hour the prophet sought, 
 
 For holy meditative thought. 
 
 With folded arms he stood, and eye 
 Fixed on the bright reflected sky, 
 
 Like one who saw, beneath that sea, 
 
 The secrets of eternity. 
 
 To him it seemed, as if the time 
 
 Had come, when nature’s glorious chime 
 
152 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Would cease, and from their silent graves 
 Beneath the ground or in the waves, 
 
 The sleeping prisoners would rise, 
 
 To bliss or wo unending in the skies. 
 
 But hark ! his ear what sound then smote 
 Was it the trumpet’s thrilling note? 
 
 Or distant thunder’s angry roar, 
 
 Or rush of ocean on the shore ? 
 
 Sudden he turned and upward gazed,— 
 All heaven above with glory blazed. 
 
 A moment’s breathless pause—when lo, 
 Ascending silent—solemn—slow, 
 
 The deep blue curtain rolled on high; 
 What scenes then burst upon his eye ! 
 
 The everlasting city bright 
 Beamed like a sun with living light. 
 
 Upon a sea of glass there shone, 
 
 In mid heaven set, a glorious throne, 
 That, like a pyramid of gold 
 And precious stones and gems untold 
 Heaped on a level mirror, seemed 
 A double pile. Above it gleamed 
 A bow of pure celestial ray, 
 
 That poured through heaven eternal day. 
 As the clear orb that seems to rest 
 Upon some icy mountain’s breast, 
 
saint John’s vision. 
 
 153 
 
 So on his high and dazzling throne 
 Appeared the everlasting Son. 
 
 Far whiter was his hair than snow, 
 
 His face more bright than noonday glow, 
 His eye outvied the lightning’s glance, 
 His tongue the warrior’s glittering lance. 
 Within his hand, like beacon light 
 Upon some far off shore at night, 
 
 A constellation glimmered. Down, 
 
 E’en to his brazen feet, a gown 
 Of priestly fashion swept its fold. 
 
 As some vast tower, by bolt of heaven 
 Or sudden shock of earthquake riven, 
 Backward the prophet reeling fell. 
 
 But soon he rose, by secret spell 
 Or hand upheld of Israel’s Lord. 
 
 1 Fear not,’ exclaimed the Eternal Word, 
 i I am the First, and I the Last, 
 
 The sum of present, future, past, 
 
 Maker of all created things, 
 
 The Lord of lords, the King of kings. 
 
 On truth’s eternal pages bright 
 Record, in lines of burning light, 
 
 The scenes which are or soon shall be 
 On earth and in eternity.’ 
 
154 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Thus spake the ever glorious Word, 
 Whose voice shall ne’er again be heard, 
 Until it shake this mortal shore, 
 
 And swear that time shall be no more. 
 Down the celestial curtain rolled, 
 
 ’Mid hymns of praise on harps of gold. 
 Still by the dark iEgean flood, 
 
 The pensive exile gazing stood, 
 
 And balanced in his reason seemed, 
 Whether he saw or only dreamed. 
 
155 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER. 
 
 The venerable man to whom the above title may in a 
 two-fold sense be applied, resides in a town of Massa¬ 
 chusetts, about thirty miles from its metropolis. He 
 was a revolutionary officer, and having been through 
 nearly all the interesting scenes in our struggle for 
 independence, can relate many anecdotes concerning 
 that memorable era, which have no record, but in the 
 mind of one, who this day, May 26, 1832, enters on 
 his eighty-second year. 
 
 His veteran form is now before me; and while his 
 snowy locks lie loose and still upon the silver bars of 
 his spectacles, through which he is looking on the 
 paper that he reads, to learn how it goes with the 
 country he has loved and served so much, he little 
 dreams that he is sitting for his picture, or what may 
 be the subject of the pen that is moving near him. 
 
156 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 As a soldier, he has gone through much suffering, 
 from hunger, fatigue and exposure ; and many perils 
 by the cannon and the sword. But as, in the former, 
 his love of country bore him out, and was more than 
 equal to them all; so, in the latter, he may truly be 
 said to have evinced no other fear, than that which, 
 through the mouth of his servant Job, the Lord has 
 declared to be wisdom. His blood sprinkled the turf 
 in the battle of Lexington; and his feet had none 
 behind them in the retreat after that of Bunker Hill. 
 He was at White Plains, and at Still Water, and will 
 tell you how the first field-piece that was there taken 
 from Burgoyne fell to his own right hand, for his was 
 the first hand laid upon it.* He commanded the 
 guards at West Point, at the time of Arnold’s deser¬ 
 tion, and can recount many schemes laid by that 
 traitor to bring confusion into the camp, some of 
 which were by himself discovered and baffled; while 
 Arnold, perceiving it, endeavoured to dazzle his eyes 
 by flattery and attention. 
 
 He can describe the person and deportment of the 
 gallant Andre, at the time of his capture ; for it fell 
 
 * This piece was, a few years ago, and perhaps is still, sta¬ 
 tioned in the city of New York, and accompanied by an account 
 of when and where it was taken ; but the name of the officer 
 who took it was not mentioned,—probably not known. 
 
CHRISTIAN SOLDIER. 
 
 157 
 
 to his lot to pass the evening and night after he was 
 taken, with him as his guard watch. 
 
 In short, his memory is a well-regulated store-house 
 of all that happened from the time when, having just 
 returned with wet feet from crossing his father’s 
 meadows, he heard the first alarm, that the British 
 had landed, and were on the way to Concord, and, he 
 shouldered his musket and went forth; to that, when, 
 the victory won and the country free, he saw the 
 sword given into the hand of Gates, and, the army 
 disbanded, he returned home on foot, performing the 
 distance of one hundred and sixty miles in three suc¬ 
 cessive days, and ascribing all the glory of the conquest 
 to the God of armies. 
 
 The private life of our venerable friend was, in its 
 early part, a season of success and sunshine. His 
 sails were swift upon the ocean, and his cattle fat 
 upon the hills. He was blest i in his basket and in 
 his store.’ But, as in prosperity he was not puffed 
 up, so in adversity he was not broken down. And 
 when it afterwards pleased the Lord to try him, as he 
 did his servant of old, by a sudden turn in his fortune, 
 which brought on losses and afflictions in a burden 
 that would have crushed a spirit which was not, like 
 his, accustomed to throw all temporal things, whether 
 in loss or gain, into the scale against ‘ that far more 
 L 
 
158 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 exceeding and eternal weight of glory’ to which he 
 is now looking with the feeling of a near approach, 
 he was never heard to murmur, ‘ nor charged God 
 foolishly.’ In one instance, there literally 1 came a 
 great wind from the wilderness, and smote the four 
 corners of his house, and it fell.’ Yet, in all his trou¬ 
 bles, he seemed soothed and supported by a conscience 
 whispering within, ‘but he knoweth the way that I 
 have taken : when he hath tried me, I shall come forth 
 as gold. My foot hath held his steps; his way I have 
 kept and not declined.’ 
 
 His misfortunes and the vicissitudes of his life, if 
 they were ‘ written and printed in a book,’ would form 
 a series of truths, far more interesting than many of 
 the glowing and pathetic fictions that are sung about 
 heroes from the regions of romance. But, after having 
 buffeted the tempest for many years, in which he was 
 ever more ready to convince the world that the staff’ 
 he walked by was not rested on an earthly founda¬ 
 tion than to boast of that which supported him; he 
 at length saw the clouds melted and scattered away, 
 thin and pale upon the face of the azure heavens. He 
 is now sound in health, serene and happy; and a 
 mild sunset of glory hangs around the evening of his 
 day. 
 
 It may not be improper here to add, of him who has 
 
CHRISTIAN SOLDIER. 
 
 159 
 
 fought so manfully for his country and so faithfully 
 for the captain of his salvation, that his belief has ever 
 been set forth, less by his words, than by his walk, in 
 which he has always been found a follower of hint 
 who was meek and lowly. 
 
 His Christian profession, which he has never been 
 seen to disgrace, was made very early in life; but on 
 the subject of religion he is modest, reverential and 
 a man of few words. No sectarian or bigot, he judges 
 none, interferes with none; but while one is contend¬ 
 ing that he is of Paul, and another that he is of 
 Cephas, he is satisfied to be found of Christ; and to 
 cherish that charity which 1 suffereth long and is kind. ’ 
 The gospel, in the simple form in which it was handed 
 down by the inspired writers, he took for the first 
 pattern, by which to shape his religious views and 
 character, and he has never wished to alter them to 
 any new mode, or to conform to rules of belief and 
 practice. 
 
 He reads no work of doctrine or controversy; but, 
 regarding the book of books as the light for his mind 
 and the fountain for his thirst, he prefers it, in the one 
 sense, to any of the lesser luminaries that may be 
 kindled by or lighted at it; and in the other, to the 
 streams that may have been drawn from it, and poured 
 
160 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 into vessels of divers colours, to be tinged with the 
 hue of each. 
 
 You may, therefore, see him at this well-spring of 
 life ; and as he sits with a large folio Bible open across 
 his lap, with both hands fastened upon it, as though it 
 were the only thing to hold on by in this world, his 
 eye is fixed on its pages, as if he looked through them 
 into heaven. 
 
 His early religious experience has ahvays been less 
 known to the world, than to himself and the being 
 with whom the business of the soul is transacted. 
 Indeed, I never knew of his speaking on the subject 
 till a friend a few months ago, wishing to know some¬ 
 thing of it, questioned him in so close a manner, as to 
 draw from him nearly the following simple statement. 
 
 ‘ My first impressions were from pious parents, 
 whose moral and religious instructions were always 
 illustrated to my young mind, by the example of their 
 upright and holy walk before me. As I grew older, 
 and began to read and to reflect for myself, I used to 
 take the Bible into retirement, and, meditating alone 
 over its contents, I felt that I could not make a wiser 
 choice than its author for my friend through life, nor 
 seek a better portion than the inheritance of a child 
 of God. I was now but a boy, but I believed he 
 spoke the truth who said, 1 those who seek me early 
 
CHRISTIAN SOLDIER. 
 
 161 
 
 shall find me,’ and I gladly gave up my heart and all 
 its concerns into his keeping, feeling that they could 
 be no where else so safe. I remember that one of my 
 favourite haunts for reading and meditation, in good 
 weather, was a beautiful walnut grove in my father’s 
 grounds not far from our dwelling. Here I used to 
 go out alone, to admire the beauties of the natural 
 wojld, and commune with him who had caused them. 
 As I looked from my grassy seat up, through the tall 
 trees, whose boughs on every side were studded with 
 young nuts; and considered that the hand which was 
 forming the kernel in the shell, and bringing it to 
 perfection, had also spread out, and upheld the heavens 
 above; I was filled with wonder and admiration at the 
 thought of the wisdom, power and goodness of Him, 
 who was the author of all that I beheld without, and 
 all that I felt within me. 
 
 £ It was at this age, and in an hour and a scene like 
 this, that, with my heart melted by unmingled love, I 
 came to the early, but deliberate decision, that I would 
 be Christ’s for time, and trust to him for eternity ; 
 and thus I bound myself to him by a covenant, which 
 has since held me up through all the deep and troubled 
 water, and remained unbroken by any of the tempests 
 of this world. 
 
 £ When I went into the army, I took my Bible in 
 
162 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 my knapsack, determined to square my actions by its 
 rules, come what might; and never have I regretted 
 going forth to the field clothed in the armour it pre¬ 
 scribed.’ 
 
 It is hoped that they who may run over this hasty 
 outline, will not accuse the writer of having perverted 
 the name of the Christian soldier. 
 
 H. 
 
THE ANGEL CHOIR. 
 
 re is joy in the presence of the angels of God, over one 
 that repenteth. 
 
 Luke, XV. 10. 
 
 The day was o’er, its toils and cares, 
 
 And at their festivals the stars 
 Looked on my pillow, pure and bright, 
 
 As wakeful guardians of the night. 
 Mysterious orbs—nay, who can tell, 
 Perchance the homes where angels dwell. 
 Long, long I mused : till, high in air, 
 Methought I rose and travelled far, 
 
 O’er mountains lofty, valleys green, 
 
 And rural dwellings dimly seen 
 Amid the fragrant moon-lit bowers ; 
 
 Here blazed a grove of burnished towers, 
 And there a still lake’s silver beams 
 Glanced from afar ; and shining streams 
 
164 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Threaded the darksome earth below. 
 
 Then came a change : a sudden glow 
 Flushed from a broad and waveless sea, 
 
 O’er which I wandered silently. 
 
 Anon, far in the clear expanse, 
 
 An object rose, and, as a glance 
 Of quickest thought, I found me near 
 A small green isle, unearthly fair. 
 
 A spot it seemed ’twixt earth and heaven, 
 
 A dwelling not for mortals given. 
 
 The waves, all pure as crystal round, 
 
 The bright sands laved with gentle sound; 
 The ground was strewn with fruits unknown, 
 The flowers on earth had never blown. 
 
 A central fount, embowered in trees, 
 
 With murmurs filled the scented breeze. 
 
 Then came a silvery mist, and spread 
 A crown of glory over head; 
 
 While, here and there, a wreath was seen 
 To float along the velvet green. 
 
 When lo, the whole in parcels broke, 
 
 And each a glorious image took, 
 
 And myriad winged forms appear 
 Suspended in the balmy air, 
 
 Or lighted on the fairy isle, 
 
 And harping golden harps the while. 
 
ANGEL CHOIR. 
 
 165 
 
 Nor tongue can tell, nor heart conceive, 
 What sounds their harps and voices give ; 
 
 As thunder harsh Eolia’s lyre, 
 
 Compared with this celestial choir. 
 
 I saw one coming from afar, 
 
 That seemed at first the evening star: 
 
 More bright than these: their harpings cease, 
 And all the stranger greet with peace. 
 
 1 From earth I come, another there 
 Hath bowed in penitential prayer; 
 
 Now strike a chorus on your lyres, 
 
 And spread it through the heavenly choirs.’ 
 At once they snatched their harps and sung, 
 And sea and air melodious rung. 
 
 I heard the echoes all around 
 Of unseen ones who caught the sound, 
 
 ‘ The dead’s alive, the lost is found 
 They send it back,—it came again, 
 
 A louder and a sweeter strain. 
 
 Up rose the choir from that green shore, 
 
 The skies grow brighter than before, 
 
 The moon and stars sunk from the sight, 
 Extinguished in a blaze of light, 
 
 As one, to whom their songs were given, 
 Received them at the gates of heaven. 
 
166 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 J woke—to hear the matin song 
 Of birds, the dewy leaves among : 
 The sun upon my pillow shone, 
 And every airy form was flown. 
 
 Stanton, Va. 
 
167 
 
 WASHINGTON. 
 
 The following short and simple anecdote may have 
 some interest, coming, as it does, from the lips of one 
 who was personally acquainted with the father of our 
 country; and who, fifty-seven years ago, stood with 
 him on the border of the Hudson, receiving his orders. 
 I will, therefore, give it in the old officer’s own words, 
 as I had it from him a few days since. 
 
 1 We were standing near Fort Washington—I 
 thought I had never seen the countenance of Wash¬ 
 ington evince so much anxiety as at this moment; 
 and I soon learnt the cause. He had laid a plan to 
 prevent the enemy’s shipping from passing up the 
 river, by sinking a chevaux-de-frise; and now, he had 
 just discovered that his plan had been detected, and its 
 object frustrated. The enemy were coming up 
 rapidly, without any obstacle; while the relative 
 
168 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 positions of their ships and our fort were such as to 
 render it a vain attempt to fire, while they were so 
 much below us that our pieces could not be depressed 
 to strike them. Washington feeling that we were in 
 great peril, and that something must be done, had 
 just uttered, ‘ if we cannot strike the hull, we must 
 try to cut the rigging,’ when, in the same moment, 
 they sent two cannon balls, which, passing between 
 us, entered into the battery a little beyond where we 
 stood conversing together. 
 
 ‘At this trying crisis, General Washington probably 
 felt that the day was lost to us; yet, he made no ex¬ 
 pression of discouragement, but, soon as the balls had 
 passed, he averted his face, and lifting his hands, 
 ejaculated in a low voice, ‘ thy will be done!’ 
 
 Here the good old man’s voice was choked, and his 
 eye suffused with tears, at the recollection of this sud¬ 
 den and affecting proof of the readiness of his beloved 
 commander-in-chief to do all that human means could 
 effect for the safety of his country, and yet to bow so 
 submissively to the Divine will. 
 
 H. 
 
169 
 
 THE FLOOD. 
 
 And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all 
 the high hills that were under the whole heaven were covered. 
 
 Gen. VII. 19. 
 
 Earth’s groans are heard afar—the air’s deep sleep 
 Is broken. Springs gush out and sparkle high ; 
 
 The silver streamlets swell and brawling leap ; 
 
 While swift the ocean foam invades the sky. 
 
 Dark seas in fury lash the sounding shore, 
 
 And howl defiance to the world of men; 
 
 The rains descend and swell the deafening roar 
 That raves o’er field and forest, hill and glen; 
 
 The seething waters storm in surges wide 
 And whelm the living in their whirling tide; 
 
 A shoreless ocean now enwraps the globe, 
 
 The roaring waves in solemn might prevail, 
 
 Wild clouds are spread for nature’s funeral robe, 
 
 And loud winds o’er the lost creation wail. 
 
 J. N. M. 
 
170 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 THE LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 2 Kings, IV. 
 
 Where can we find relations of such deep and thrill¬ 
 ing interest, as are to be discovered in the pages of 
 the sacred history ? Where are we to look for so 
 much simplicity of narration, such heart-rending 
 pathos ? 
 
 At the time when Jehoram, the son of Ahab, reigned 
 over the kingdom of Israel, there dwelt in the city of 
 Shunem a small, though rich and prosperous family. 
 The city itself was of no great name or distinction in 
 Israel. It was situated on the northern border of the 
 portion assigned to the tribe of Issachar, and was 
 estimated at five miles distance south of mount Tabor, 
 so celebrated in sacred story. But what the little 
 city of Shunem wants in historic recollection is more 
 than made up by the scene of genuine hospitality 
 which is incidentally recorded, and the display of those 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 171 
 
 miraculous powers by which the God of Israel was 
 wont in those days to make known the rich benevo¬ 
 lence of his character, amidst circumstances where 
 those displays might least have been expected. 
 
 The interesting narrative which we are about to 
 place before our readers, and the materiel of which 
 we gather entirely out of the sacred history, carries 
 us back very far into an age, of which there is little 
 less than romance to be found, except in the volume 
 of inspiration. The events of which we shall speak, 
 took place at least two thousand six hundred and sixty 
 years ago, or about eight hundred and thirty years 
 before the Christian era; and we may have just rea¬ 
 son to anticipate a simplicity of manners, which is as 
 unknown as it would be unwelcome in the present too 
 artificial condition of society. 
 
 The sacred writer seems studiously to avoid the 
 mention of the name of the individual who figures so 
 conspicuously, and yet so unobtrusively in his story. 
 She is simply designated the Shunamite, and it was no 
 doubt thought a sufficient distinction that she should 
 be known by the excellence of her character. 
 
 The first trait in the character of this excellent 
 female is her warm and permanent hospitality. As, 
 in the discharge of the duties of his office as him on 
 whom had fallen the mantle of the prophet Elijah, 
 
V 
 
 172 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Elisha passed through the city of Shunem, the 
 bottle of water which he carried under his arm was 
 not exhausted, neither had the bread failed from his 
 scrip; but, in the spirit of genuine primitive hospi¬ 
 tality, she would not permit him to take his solitary 
 meal in the caravanserai. In the beautiful brevity of 
 the narration we are told that 1 she constrained him 
 to eat bread.’ The first generous invitation, which was 
 promptly acceded to, ripened into mutual esteem, 
 and, as often as duty called him to pass that way as 
 he went to the schools of the prophets, he failed not 
 to call at her house to inquire of her welfare, and to 
 leave as well as to take a blessing. We are told, that 
 ‘ among the ancients , and in a simple state of society, 
 where the accommodations of modern travelling were 
 unknown, the entertainment of strangers was con¬ 
 sidered as among the most sacred of duties.’ The 
 reader will not fail to recollect the many very beau¬ 
 tiful illustrations of this, which are to be found in the 
 histories of the ancient patriarchs, and which gave 
 rise to the remark of the apostle, when, urging the 
 necessity and duty of a generous hospitality, he says, 
 
 ‘ be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby 
 some have entertained angels unawares.’ 
 
 Had the remark of St Paul been written for the 
 occasion of which we are speaking, it could not have 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 173 
 
 received a more apt illustration; for as an angel 
 did Elisha prove himself to the Shunamite, on more 
 than one occasion, as the subsequent history will 
 show. 
 
 From the conduct and conversation of her guest, 
 this excellent woman soon discovered that she en¬ 
 tertained not only a stranger, but a prophet. He had 
 strangely repaid her hospitality, had he not sought in 
 the social intercourse even of a brief and passing meal 
 to have directed her thoughts to that God, from whom 
 all her blessings flowed, and in whose immediate ser¬ 
 vice he was himself engaged. It were much to the 
 advantage of his own character, as well as to the 
 spiritual welfare of those by whom he is surrounded, 
 did every minister of the living God bear the testi¬ 
 mony of his master, as the animating theme of his 
 converse with those who give him the generous 
 welcome of their hospitable homes. How else can he 
 suitably repay them; silver and gold he has none, 
 and very seldom can he have the opportunity of 
 reciprocating favours. But surely such as he has he 
 is bound to give them; and a word in season, called 
 by the wise king of Israel 1 an apple of gold in a net¬ 
 work of silver,’ may be worth more than all the wealth 
 and honour of the world. 
 
 The history tells us, that she soon discovered Elisha 
 
 M 
 
174 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 to be a prophet of the Lord, and this conviction she 
 communicated to her husband in one of the intervals 
 between his visits. 1 And she said unto her husband, 
 Behold, now, I perceive that this is an holy man of 
 God, which passeth by us continually.’ There can be 
 no doubt, that his holy converse had been the theme 
 of much pious meditation between this hospitable 
 pair. And in testimony of a grateful recollection, 
 and with a well wrought desire to gain a deeper in¬ 
 sight into the knowledge he was capable of imparting, 
 she made to her husband the following proposal of a 
 more extended hospitality. ‘ Let us make a little 
 chamber on the wall, and let us set for him there a 
 bed and a table and a stool and a candlestick, and it 
 shall be when he cometh to us, that he shall turn in 
 thither.’ This proposal seemed to meet the approba¬ 
 tion of the husband, as there is not only no objection 
 recorded, but the fact that the prophet, in a subsequent 
 visit, occupied his little apartment, thus kindly pro¬ 
 vided, proves that it was agreeable to the wishes of 
 the master of the family. 
 
 It would be contrary to our notions of genuine 
 hospitality, to place a distinguished guest in an apart¬ 
 ment thus built, and apparently so slightly furnished. 
 But we should judge erroneously did we endeavour 
 to graduate ancient customs by our present opinions. 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 175 
 
 The truth is, that the prophet received the highest 
 honour which ancient hospitality afforded. Separate 
 buildings, resembling what we suppose to have been 
 the chamber of the prophet, are attached to almost 
 all the houses of distinction in the east; sometimes 
 they rise a story higher than the house, sometimes 
 they consist of one or two rooms and a terrace on 
 the same level, sometimes they are built over the 
 porch or gateway, and have as many comforts and 
 conveniences as the house itself. They generally 
 communicate with the gallery of the house by a door, 
 which the master of the family opens or closes at his 
 pleasure ; and besides this, they usually have another 
 door which, connected with a private staircase, opens 
 into the court below, so that the guest may go out and 
 come in, without the least disturbance to the family 
 or notice from the household. And even to this day, 
 it is in apartments of this kind that the most dis¬ 
 tinguished strangers are entertained. This secured to 
 the guest a great many advantages; he could be 
 private when he pleased, he could easily be with the 
 family when he desired, and could go in and out at 
 pleasure. The peculiar simplicity of the furniture 
 in the prophet’s chamber, cannot fail of arresting the 
 attention : it consisted of a bed , a table , a stool and a 
 candlestick. This apparent scanty fitting-up of his room 
 
176 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 is by no means to be attributed to disrespect or negli¬ 
 gence : it is rather to be considered as characteristic 
 of the simplicity of the times. The intention was, 
 most certainly, to accommodate Elisha in a manner 
 expressive of reverence and esteem. The original 
 term, unhappily rendered stool in our English ver¬ 
 sion, signifies one of the most honourable kinds of 
 seats usually placed in an apartment, and is sometimes 
 translated throne. In ancient times, the nations of 
 the east were not so universally addicted to sitting 
 cross-legged on the ground, on mats or carpets, as 
 they are at present, but accustomed themselves to 
 raised seats or chairs, which were sometimes suffi¬ 
 ciently elevated to require a footstool. The candle¬ 
 stick is also to be considered as a mark of respect, if 
 not of magnificence ; and its use was to keep a light 
 burning all the night. 
 
 But even had the furniture been of the very plainest 
 kind, it would have been appropriate to the condition 
 of the prophet, and a mark of genuine hospitality. 
 That Elisha took it so is evident from the fact, that 
 he frequently made it his delightful residence; that 
 he there reposed his weary limbs, and there, in that 
 charming solitude, poured out his soul in prayer and 
 supplication. 
 
 No one of a generous mind ever receives a favour, 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 177 
 
 without an earnest desire to render some kind service 
 in return. The prophet of the Lord was not unmind¬ 
 ful of the obligation of gratitude, and though he 
 amply, and more than amply repaid his hospitable 
 entertainers, by his godly and instructive conversa¬ 
 tion, he was disposed to do much more. On one 
 occasion when, from excessive fatigue, he felt more 
 particularly the blessing of so happy a home, he 
 reposed on his couch, and revolved in his mind how 
 he could most likely repay the kindness of his bene¬ 
 factors. Unable to come to a decision, he sent his 
 servant, and requested from his hostess the honour of 
 an interview in his own apartment. To his request 
 she immediately acceded, and with the frank and 
 manly simplicity of the times, he asked her, if there 
 was any thing in which he could possibly render her 
 a service. His address is dignified and affectionate, 
 and marked by a lively sense of gratitude. ‘Behold,’ 
 says he, ‘ thou hast been careful for us with all this 
 care, what is to be done for thee? Wouldst thou be 
 spoken of to the king, or to the captain of the host?’ 
 As if he had said, ‘ shall I exert my influence at court 
 to serve you—are there any privileges which you 
 would desire extended to your family—are there any 
 services I can possibly render you?’ This clearly in¬ 
 dicated the gratitude which dwelt in the bosom of the 
 
178 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 prophet; but the answer of the Shunamite exhibited 
 a spirit of the most noble disinterestedness, and of that 
 contentment of mind which cannot be otherwise than 
 a continued feast. The sacred history gives us her 
 brief, but most comprehensive answer: 1 1 dwell 
 among mine own people,’— 1 1 have no wish remaining 
 to be gratified; God, in his providence, has made my 
 cup run over with blessings. I have a kind and 
 affectionate husband, attentive to my every want. I 
 have abundance of the goods of this world. I have 
 the respect and love of the friends among whom I 
 dwell, and I have peace with God,—wdiat need I 
 more?’ She then retired from the presence of the 
 prophet; and admiration of her character was added 
 to the gratitude for her attentions which he had 
 already felt. 
 
 A writer,* who has seen fit to furnish to the public 
 a lengthened biography of this nameless Lady of Shu- 
 nem, thus alludes to this interesting and uncommon 
 incident. 1 The answer of the Shunamite to Elisha 
 furnishes us with one of the finest specimens of con¬ 
 tentment in the records of history; and it may be 
 affirmed without hesitation, that nothing can secure 
 the exercise of this temper, in the present constitution 
 
 * F. A. Cox, A.M. 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 179 
 
 of the human mind, but genuine religion. In cases 
 where no such principle exists, dissatisfaction embitters 
 the cup of our earthly portion, and all those ambitious 
 feelings which agitate and distress the life of man 
 acquire an uncontrolled ascendency.’ But to return 
 to our history. 
 
 True gratitude is a restless principle. Elisha was 
 by no means willing to be thus baffled by a disinterest¬ 
 edness as uncommon as it was noble, and he turned 
 his mind to the invention of some means by which he 
 might still render her a service; and he finds those 
 means as connected with her domestic relations. 
 
 The holy prophet could not but have noticed, that, like 
 Zacharias and Elizabeth in the new testament history, 
 this hospitable pair were childless; but the circum¬ 
 stance had n’ot rested on his mind with any intensity. 
 At the hint of his servant Gehazi, he seizes the idea 
 that the blessing of an infant’s smiles and playfulness 
 might give additional happiness to the already calm 
 contentment of his hostess, and as the impulse came 
 upon his mind from the inspiration of his God, he 
 ventures to predict to herself that this blessing should 
 be added to her already full cup of enjoyment. 
 
 We are told, that 1 children are an heritage and 
 gift that cometh of the Lord.’ The prediction of 
 the prophet was fulfilled—a lovely infant smiled on 
 
180 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 this joyful mother of Shunem. Its tender years she 
 watched with the most anxious solicitude; and as it 
 lay sleeping on her lap, or playing at her side, her 
 heart sent up to the Father of her mercies, the warm 
 returns of an abounding gratitude. How many years 
 she was permitted to enjoy the delights of a mother’s 
 love, the history does not tell us. Perhaps the very 
 blessing she had suffered in some respect to win from 
 God too much of her soul’s best affections. Be it as 
 it may, she was too soon doomed to experience a re¬ 
 verse as painful, as the joys of years had already been 
 ecstatic. 
 
 It was the season of harvest, and the father with his 
 reapers was engaged in binding the sheaves in the 
 fields contiguous to the city, but somewhat remote 
 from his dwelling. If this child was the mother’s joy, 
 he was the father’s pride, and perhaps it was impru¬ 
 dent, but no doubt well meant, that he took him to 
 the harvest field, to breathe the fresh air, and smell 
 the fragrance of the new mown meadows. The his¬ 
 tory gives us to understand, that while this only son, 
 of this hospitable pair, was thus in the field with the 
 reapers, he was attacked by a disease not uncommon 
 in the climate of Judea, and known to us by the em¬ 
 phatic designation of a ‘ coup de soleil.’ ‘And when 
 the child was grown,’ says the inspired relator, 1 it 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 1S1 
 
 fell on a day that he went out to his father, and the 
 reapers. And he said unto his father, My head, my 
 head.’ Instantly the father sent him to his mother; 
 but, unaware of the extent of the disease which had 
 thus suddenly attacked his darling child, he himself 
 remained in the superintendence of his reapers. What 
 a brevity, yet tender simplicity do we find to charac¬ 
 terize this history. 1 And when the lad had taken 
 him and brought him to his mother, he sat on her 
 knees till noon, and then died.’ No mention is made 
 of the agony of her feelings, as she held his burning 
 hand in hers, and pressed to her lips his burning 
 forehead; perhaps he was unconscious of all her 
 tender cares, and breathed his spirit up to God, 
 without the consciousness and the pain of separation 
 from his fond and heart-broken mother. 
 
 But as she gazed on the breathless corpse which lay 
 in her lap, and as she looked on that lovely face cold 
 in death, there was one thought which seemed to take 
 possession of her heart and to light on her counte¬ 
 nance, the heaven born beam of hope. 1 This is the 
 child of prophecy:’ God gave him, 1 God will yet 
 restore him.’ She waited not for the sympathy of 
 friends; the energy of her character displayed itself 
 in promptness of action. 1 She went up and laid 
 him on the bed of the man of God, and shut the 
 
182 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 door upon him, and went out.’ With a decision 
 which is unusual, she had formed her plans, and she 
 sent a message to her husband, ‘ Send me, I pray 
 thee, one of the young men and one of the asses, 
 that I may run to the man of God, and come again.’ 
 Surprised, as well he might be, by so singular a 
 message, the husband returned for answer, 1 Where¬ 
 fore wilt thou go to him to-day ? It is neither new 
 moon, nor Sabbath.’ But there was no time for ex¬ 
 planation, and the brief reply was this, ‘ It shall be 
 well.’ Confident in the judgment and discretion of 
 his wife, the husband made no objection : her wishes 
 were gratified, and as soon as the preparations could 
 be made, she was on her way to the residence of the 
 prophet, on the mount of Carmel. Now mark the 
 energy and the self sacrificing spirit of maternal affec¬ 
 tion — i Drive on, slack not for me thy riding, except I 
 bid thee.’ Twenty miles at least had this agonized 
 mother to travel ere she could impart to the prophet of 
 the Lord the anguish of her bosom, and seek from 
 him either the assurance of her child’s restoration, or 
 those sacred consolations which religion alone can 
 offer. Let us leave her awhile, to pursue her dreary 
 and desolate journey over the burning plains of the 
 lot of Issachar, and take advantage of the interval for 
 a tender, yet profitable remark. 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 183 
 
 ‘ Those who have never felt a similar deprivation 
 are necessarily disqualified from forming any ade¬ 
 quate idea of the bitterness of parental grief, when 
 the objects of their fondest solicitude are suddenly 
 snatched from the grasp of their affections. It is 
 difficult to say in what period of youthful history 
 this stroke is severest, or when it is most tolerable; 
 because every point of age has its peculiar attrac¬ 
 tions, and parental love will always imagine that to 
 be the most afflicting in which the event occurs. 
 Happy those who can adopt the language of one 
 of the sweetest epitaphs that ever adorned a monu¬ 
 ment. 
 
 ‘ Lived—to wake each tender passion, 
 And delightful hopes inspire; 
 
 Died—to try our resignation, 
 
 And direct our wishes higher:— 
 
 ‘Rest, sweet babe, in gentle slumbers, 
 Till the resurrection morn; 
 
 Then arise to join the numbers 
 That its triumphs shall adorn. 
 
 ‘Though, thy presence so endearing, 
 We thy absence now deplore ; 
 
 At the Saviour’s bright appearing 
 We shall meet to part no more. 
 
184 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 ‘Thus to thee, O Lord, submitting, 
 
 We the tender pledge resign; 
 
 And, thy mercies ne’er forgetting, 
 
 Own that all we have is thine. 
 
 1 It is not unusual for the providence of God to 
 deprive us of those objects we had too exclusively and 
 too fondly called our own, and the long enjoyment of 
 which we had confidently anticipated. This is no 
 capricious proceeding: it is marked by wisdom and 
 goodness; since our real happiness depends on the 
 regulation of those passions which, but for such dis¬ 
 pensations, would rove with unhallowed eccentricity 
 from the chief good. It is necessary that we should 
 be trained in the school of adversity; and that, by a 
 course of corrective discipline, nicely adapted to each 
 particular case, our characters should be gradually 
 matured for a nobler existence.’* 
 
 1 So she went,’ thus reads the history, 1 and came 
 unto the man of God to mount Carmel. And it came 
 to pass, when the man of God saw her afar off*, that 
 he said to Gehazi his servant, Behold yonder is that 
 Shunamite; run now, I pray thee, to meet her, and 
 say unto her, Is it well with thee ? is it well with thy 
 husband ? is it well with the child ?—and she answered, 
 
 * Cox. 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 185 
 
 It is well.’ 1 Some have considered this merely as an 
 evasive answer, made for the purpose of avoiding con¬ 
 versation with Gehazi, with whom she did not wish 
 to enter into the particulars of her present situation. 
 This, however, is an improbable interpretation, be¬ 
 cause it would by no means comport with the general 
 integrity of her character, nor with the respect which 
 was due, and which we know she cherished, for the 
 prophet. This was doubtless the message with which 
 Gehazi returned to his master, who, from his ignorance 
 of her precise circumstances, could not, till her own 
 subsequent explanation, comprehend the elevated 
 sentiments implied in such a general reply. A pious 
 mind, in similar circumstances, would not hesitate to 
 affirm, £ it is well,’—well with the living —well with 
 the dead —well with those who, notwithstanding all 
 their bereavements, are under the care of heaven and 
 enjoy the smiles of God —icell with those whose dis¬ 
 embodied spirits, escaped from the imprisonment of 
 time, have ascended to the unfettered freedom, the 
 unbounded felicity of eternity. 
 
 { In this view the Shunamite recognized the sover¬ 
 eignty of God; his indisputable right to dispose of 
 her and her affairs as he pleased. 1 Shall the clay say 
 to him that formed it, What doest thou?’ The un¬ 
 bending temper of infidelity will, perhaps, receive this 
 
186 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 as ‘a hard saying;’ but it is affirmed in the inspired 
 page, and must ever be admitted by him who is in his 
 1 right mind.’ Uncontrollable power, acting irrespec¬ 
 tively of wisdom or goodness, would be indeed a 
 terrific idea, and must issue in a state of universal 
 anarchy; but the 'perfection of that Infinite Being, 
 who 1 sitteth upon the circle of the earth,’ secures the 
 righteous exercise of the most irresistible authority ; 
 and of this we may ever be assured, that although his 
 arm is omnipotent, it is never unmerciful. 
 
 1 The Shunamite intended also to express her con¬ 
 fidence in the goodness of God, however disguised by 
 the afflictive nature of his dispensations. In a proper 
 state of mind it will not be requisite, in order to pro¬ 
 duce resignation, that we should comprehend the 
 whole design of every sorrow. We should bow to the 
 mysteriousness of the event; and the patience of en¬ 
 durance will not depend on the full development 
 and explanation of the mystery. Whether events 
 accord with our wishes or oppose them, 1 it is the 
 Lord' will bring us to silence and submission.’* 
 
 1 And when she came to the man of God to the hill, 
 she caught him by the feet, but Gehazi came near to 
 thrust her away,’ perhaps accounting that she was 
 
 * Cox. 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 187 
 
 deranged. ‘ And the man of God said, Let her alone, 
 her soul is vexed within her, and the Lord hath hid it 
 from me, and hath not told me.’ 1 Then she said, Did 
 I desire a son of my lord ? did I not say, Do not 
 deceive me ?’ At these words uttered in the tone of 
 deep maternal anguish, the prophet, though untold, 
 caught the idea, and without waiting for further in¬ 
 quiry, but anxious to render the service which she 
 seemed to require — 1 then said he to Gehazi his servant, 
 gird thy loins, and take my staff in thine hand, and 
 go thy way; if thou meet any man, salute him not, 
 and if any salute thee, answer him not again; and 
 lay my staff upon the face of the child.’ The afflicted 
 and heart-stricken mother, however, could not be 
 satisfied with this result of her cheerless and weari¬ 
 some journey; there was something in her heart 
 which told her that this commission of the servant of 
 the prophet would be unavailing; and, with the 
 perseverance which nothing but the agony of a 
 mother’s love could have excused, she importunes 
 the prophet, ‘ as the Lord liveth, and as thy soul 
 liveth, I will not leave thee.’ Overcome by an appeal 
 like this, from one who had rendered him so many 
 kindnesses, Elisha made no resistance to her impor¬ 
 tunities : he arose and accompanied her to Shunem. 
 
 Meanwhile, Gehazi, zealous to do the will of his 
 
188 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 master, and doubtless himself animated by a gratitude 
 somewhat similar, hastened on his errand ; 1 he passed 
 on before them, and laid the staff upon the face of the 
 child.’ The errand was without success; no signs of 
 returning animation could be discovered, ‘ there was 
 neither voice nor hearing.’ Disappointed in his com¬ 
 mission, the faithful Gehazi returned to carry the 
 unwelcome tidings to his master; but he had not gone 
 far beyond the gate of Shunem, when he met with 
 the afflicted mother. There needed no language to 
 speak to her heart that his errand had been unsuccess¬ 
 ful ; she saw it with the instinctive quickness of the 
 mother, in the sad countenance and tearful eye; but, 
 to his master, Gehazi said, ‘ the child is not waked.’ 
 
 Did it hasten the riding of Elisha ? he needed no fresh 
 stimulus. As soon as he reached the house, he went 
 into his accustomed chamber, and there, on his own 
 bed, did he behold the pale and lovely corpse of the 
 child of his benefactress. But one resort had the 
 prophet. He knew, that in the hands of the Lord 
 are the issues of life ; if it is the Lord who gives, it 
 is the Lord who takes away, and it is the Lord who 
 can return the gift he has withdrawn. By the bed, on 
 which lay the cold and lifeless body of this child of 
 promise, did he kneel and pour out his soul before his 
 God. He prayed that he, in whom is life, would 
 
ime SHIR €bJSIB¥I<!M5®ffraE 
 
LADY OF SHUNEM. 
 
 189 
 
 enable him to bring the soul of the child back to 
 its deserted body. Directed by the Lord, to whom 
 he had looked for counsel, he laid his own warm 
 bosom on the cold body of the child, kissed his cold 
 lips, and sought by every means to impart to the 
 body the animal warmth of his own body, and it was 
 with inexpressible delight that he found the body of 
 the child grow warm. But still there was no life. In 
 the spirit of prayer, he walked to and fro for a time, 
 and then tried the process again, and then was he 
 cheered with signs of returning life ; and soon did he 
 see those eyes on which the death-seal had been set 
 open once more to the light of life. God had heard 
 his prayers : 1 Gehazi, call this Shunamite.’ On the 
 instant she rushed into the room, and the prophet 
 gave to her arms her living son, restored by the 
 power of his God, in answer to the fervency and 
 faithfulness of his prayers. 
 
 With a gratitude too full for utterance she fell at 
 the prophet’s feet, and then 1 she took her son and 
 went o\it’ to indulge, in the privacy of her own apart¬ 
 ments, those hallowed and indescribable feelings which 
 none but a mother knows. We presume not to in¬ 
 trude on that privacy. 
 
 Is there a mother who has deigned to read this 
 narrative, and has that mother wept on the bosom of 
 N 
 
190 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 some darling child, whom God hath taken to himself? 
 These are no days of miracle, but dost thou not know 
 that thy child shall rise again from the dead ? Let 
 thine own heart be given to God, and then thou shalt 
 meet thy darling one, never to be separated. 
 
191 
 
 PASSAGES. 
 
 I have seen all the works that are clone under the sun; and 
 behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit. 
 
 Eccl. I. 17. 
 
 Ask of the dreams which come to bless 
 Life’s early and unsullied hours; 
 
 Which scatter o’er its wilderness 
 Their golden sunshine and their flowers :— 
 Ask why their magic whispering 
 Of hope and promise to the heart, 
 
 Breathing in balm, like winds of spring— 
 
 Why do they all so soon depart ? 
 
 Earth has no light which lingers on, 
 
 When time’s triumphant surge goes by; 
 
 How soon the magic hues are gone 
 That flush in childhood’s cloudless sky. 
 
 The hues of joy ! their spring-like glow 
 Is like a sunbeam on the wave : 
 
192 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Ere grief comes forth her pall to throw 
 On pleasure’s chill and lonely grave. 
 
 Fame, youth, and hope of earthly bliss, 
 How quickly are their visions fled ! 
 
 And the heart broods in loneliness, 
 Above the slumbers of the dead : 
 Friends, kindred sink in that lone sleep 
 Which must to all in darkness come, 
 When death’s cold pinions oversweep 
 The voiceless chambers of the tomb. 
 
 Ask, of that blest and blessing king 
 Who reigned in proud Jerusalem, 
 
 Why o’er the joys that earth could bring 
 He poured the mournful requiem? 
 
 All hopes were his ;—all that the earth 
 Could bring to bless his longing soul: 
 The hours of love—the songs of mirth— 
 The race that led to honour’s goal. 
 
 He basked in the luxuriant light 
 Which beams from woman’s kindly eye, 
 And health and peace and visions bright 
 Came to his spirit, wild and high; 
 
PASSAGES. 
 
 There was no blessing not his own, 
 
 No pleasure which he left untried; 
 
 Justice and wisdom marked his throne, 
 And each decision sanctified. 
 
 The voice of fame was in his ear, 
 
 His name to distant lands was borne ; 
 
 How are its clarion-breathings dear 
 In being’s bland and early morn! 
 
 And queenly heads low at his feet, 
 
 In orient beauty came and bowed, 
 
 His honour and his reign to greet, 
 
 His temple, swelling high and proud ! 
 
 Gold, pearls and treasure were his dower, 
 Gardens of beauty and perfume; 
 
 He worshipped love in summer bower, 
 Informs of loveliness and bloom; 
 
 Around him lay one joyous scene 
 Of unalloyed and calm delight; 
 
 The earth laughed out in robes of green, 
 And heaven’s blue arch was bathed in light 
 
 And on the rich and silver air, 
 
 Voluptuous music poured its strain, 
 
194 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 And in his path the young and fair 
 Scattered their roses in his train ; 
 
 All that could bless the ardent soul 
 From earth was in his chalice blent,— 
 
 His pleasures were without control 
 And boundless as the firmament. 
 
 Yet it was vain ! upon his eye 
 The bowers of earthly joy grew dim; 
 
 The fountain lost its melody, 
 
 It had no gladsome voice for him ; 
 
 Woman with smiles—the teeming earth, 
 The winds with fragrance on their wings, 
 Burdened with sweet and blended mirth, 
 And dallying with iEolian strings : 
 
 These had no charm; the song, the glee, 
 The praises of the multitude ; 
 
 The wild bird’s warbled melody, 
 
 Stealing o’er flowers with gems bedewed : 
 All, all were vanity : the glow, 
 
 The sunlight of the wide world’s smile, 
 With all the phantoms they bestow, 
 
 Had naught which could the heart beguile. 
 
PASSAGES. 
 
 195 
 
 And shall man worship with the crowd 
 At the cold earth’s illusive shrine, 
 
 When monarchs, born to pleasure, bowed 
 And turned in sadness to repine ? 
 
 Oh, let us seek the better part, 
 
 The fields and crystal waters given; 
 
 And bind that promise to the heart, 
 
 Which breathes the enduring joys of heaven. 
 
 W. G. C. 
 
 Philadelphia. 
 
196 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 COUNSELS OF THE AGED TO THE 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 A JVeio Year's Present. 
 
 It is a matter of serious regret, that young persons 
 are commonly so little disposed to listen to the advice 
 of the aged. This prejudice seems to have its origin 
 in an apprehension, that austerity and rigour naturally 
 belong to advanced years; and that the loss of all 
 susceptibility of pleasure from those scenes and objects 
 which afford delight to the young produces some¬ 
 thing of an ill-natured or envious feeling towards 
 them. Now, it cannot be denied, that some of the 
 aged are chargeable with the fault of being too rigid 
 in exacting from youth the same steady gravity, 
 which is becoming in those who have lived long, and 
 have had much experience in the world: not remem- 
 
COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 197 
 
 bering, that the constitutional temperament of these 
 two periods of human life is very different. In 
 youth, the spirits are buoyant, the susceptibilities 
 lively, the affections ardent, and the hopes sanguine. 
 To the young, every thing in the world wears the 
 garb of freshness; and the novelty and variety of 
 the scenes presented keep up a constant excitement. 
 These traits of youthful character, as long as irregu¬ 
 larity and excess are avoided, are not only allowable, 
 but amiable; and would in that age be badly ex¬ 
 changed for the more sedate and grave emotions which 
 are the natural effects of increasing years and of long 
 and painful experience. But it is greatly to be desired, 
 that the lessons of wisdom taught by the experience 
 of one set of men, should be made available to the in¬ 
 struction of those who come after them. We have, 
 therefore, determined to address a few short hints of 
 advice to the rising generation, on subjects of deep 
 and acknowledged importance to all; but previously 
 to commencing, we would assure them, that it is no 
 part of our object to interfere with their innocent 
 enjoyments, or to deprive them of one pleasure which 
 cannot be shown to be injurious to their best interests. 
 We wish to approach you, dear youth, in the character 
 of affectionate friends, rather than in that of dogmati¬ 
 cal teachers or stern reprovers. We would, there- 
 
198 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 fore, solicit your patient, candid and impartial atten¬ 
 tion to the following counsels. 
 
 I. 
 
 Resolve to form your lives upon some certain 
 principles, and to regulate your actions by fixed rules ? 
 Man was made to be governed by reason, and not by 
 mere accident or caprice. It is important, therefore, 
 that you begin early to consider and inquire, what is 
 the proper course of human conduct, and to form 
 some plan for your future lives. The want of such 
 consideration is manifest in the conduct of multitudes. 
 They are governed by the impulse of the moment,, 
 reckless of consequences. They have fixed no steady 
 aim, and have adopted no certain principles of action. 
 Living thus at random, it would be a miracle if they 
 went uniformly right. In order to your pursuing a 
 right path, you must know what it is, and to acquire 
 this knowledge, you must divest yourselves of 
 thoughtless giddiness, you must take time for serious 
 reflection. It will not answer, to adopt without con¬ 
 sideration the opinions of those who may be about 
 you; for they may have some sinister design in regard 
 to you; or they may themselves be misled by error 
 or prejudice. Persons already involved in dissipa¬ 
 tion, or entangled in error, naturally desire to keep 
 
COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 199 
 
 themselves in countenance, by the number of followers 
 whom they can seduce into the paths of vice. As 
 reasonable creatures, therefore, judge for yourselves 
 what course it is right and fitting that you should 
 pursue. Exercise your own reason independently and 
 impartially, and give not yourselves up to be governed 
 by mere caprice and fashion, or by the opinions of 
 others. 
 
 II. 
 
 While you are young, avail yourselves of every 
 opportunity of acquiring useful knowledge. Reason 
 should guide us: but without correct knowledge 
 reason is useless; just as the -most perfectly formed 
 eye would be useless, without light. There is in 
 every man a natural thirst for knowledge, which 
 needs only to be cultivated and rightly directed. 
 All have not equal opportunities of obtaining impor¬ 
 tant knowledge: but all have more advantages for 
 this object than they improve. The sources of in¬ 
 formation are innumerable: the principal, however, 
 are books and living men. In regard to the former, 
 no age of the world which has passed, was so favoured 
 with a multiplicity of books as our own. Indeed, the 
 very number, and diversity of character and tendency 
 of authors now creates one of the most obvious 
 
200 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 difficulties to those who are destitute of wise advisers. 
 It would be an unwise counsel, to tell you to read 
 indiscriminately whatever comes to hand. The press 
 gives circulation not only to useful knowledge, but 
 to error dressed up plausibly in the garb of truth. 
 Many books are useless, others are on the whole 
 injurious, and some are impregnated with a deadly 
 poison. Waste not your time in works of idle fiction. 
 Touch not the book which tends to present vice in an 
 alluring form. Seek the advice of judicious friends 
 in the choice of books. 
 
 But you may also learn much from listening to the 
 conversation of the wise and good. There is scarcely a 
 person so ignorant, who has lived any time in the 
 world, that cannot communicate some profitable hint 
 to the young. Avail yourselves, then, of every oppor¬ 
 tunity of learning what you do not know; and let not 
 pride prevent you from seeking instruction, lest by 
 this means you should betray your ignorance. Cher¬ 
 ish the desire of knowledge, and keep your mind con¬ 
 stantly awake, and open to instruction, from every 
 quarter. 
 
 III. 
 
 Be careful to form good habits. Almost all per¬ 
 manent habits are contracted in youth; and these do 
 
COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 201 
 
 in fact form the character of the man through life. It is 
 Paley, I believe, who remarks, that we act from habit 
 nine times, where we do once from deliberation. Little 
 do young persons apprehend the momentous conse¬ 
 quences of many of their most frequently repeated ac¬ 
 tions. Some habits are merely inconvenient, but have 
 no moral quality: others affect the principles of our 
 conduct; and become sources of good or evil, to an 
 incalculable degree. As to the former, they should be 
 avoided, as detracting from our comfort, and as 
 ultimately interfering with our usefulness; but the 
 latter should be deprecated, as laying the foundation 
 of a wicked character, and as standing in the way of 
 all mental and moral improvement. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Be particular and select in the company which 
 you keep, and the friendships which you form. 1 Tell 
 me,’ says the proverb, { what company you keep, and 
 I will tell you what you are.’ 1 Evil communications 
 corrupt good manners.’ Vice is more easily and ex¬ 
 tensively diffused by improper companions, than by 
 all other means. As one infected sheep communicates 
 disease to a whole flock; so one sinner often destroys 
 much good, by corrupting all the youth who fall under 
 his influence. When vicious men are possessed of 
 
202 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 wit and fascinating manners, their conversation is 
 most dangerous to the young. We would entreat 
 you, dear young friends, to form an intimacy with no 
 one whose principles are suspicious. The friendship of 
 profligate men is exceedingly dangerous. Listen not 
 to their fair speeches, and warm professions of attach¬ 
 ment. Fly from contact with them, as from one in¬ 
 fected with the plague. Form no close alliance with 
 such. No more think of taking them to your bosom, 
 than you would a viper. Gaze not on their beauty, 
 nor suffer yourselves to be charmed with the fascina¬ 
 tion of their manners. Under these specious appear¬ 
 ances, a deleterious poison lurks. 
 
 ‘ Be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers/ 
 is the exhortation of scripture. And what can be 
 more unseemly and incongruous, than for an amiable 
 and virtuous woman to be indissolubly united to an 
 unprincipled debauchee? Or, for a good man to be 
 connected with a woman destitute of piety and virtue ? 
 Be especially careful, therefore, in forming alliances 
 for life. Seek a connection with the wise and good, 
 and you will become wiser and better by converse 
 with such. 
 
 V. 
 
 Exercise incessant vigilance against the dangers 
 
COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 203 
 
 and temptations by which you are surrounded, and 
 by which you will certainly be assailed. These 
 dangers are too numerous to be specified in detail: 
 but I will mention a few. Guard solicitously against 
 all approaches towards infidelity. Reject unbelieving 
 thoughts and sceptical doubts from the beginning. 
 Even if the system of infidelity were true, it promises 
 no comfort, and cannot possibly be serviceable to you. 
 But the best security will be to study diligently the 
 evidences of religion, and be ready to meet the cavils 
 of infidelity at all points. Make yourselves well ac¬ 
 quainted with the best authors on this subject, and let 
 your faith rest on the firm ground of evidence. 
 
 Another danger against which you must be watch¬ 
 ful, is pleasure—sensual pleasure. Worldly amuse¬ 
 ments, however innocent they may appear, are replete 
 with hidden dangers. These scenes exhilarate the 
 spirits, and excite the imagination, until reason and 
 conscience are hushed, and the real end of living is 
 forgotten. For the sake of pleasure, every thing im¬ 
 portant and sacred is neglected, and the most 
 valuable part of human life wasted in unprofitable 
 engagements. Beware then of the vortex of dissipa¬ 
 tion, and especially of the least approach towards the 
 gulf of intemperance. On that slippery ground, many 
 strong men have fallen, never to rise. The trophies of 
 this insidious and destructive vice are widely spread 
 
204 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 on every side, and the wise and good have come to the 
 conclusion, that there is no effectual security against 
 this enemy, but in a resolute and persevering absti¬ 
 nence from inebriating drink. Seek your happiness, 
 dear youth, in the pursuit of useful objects, and in the 
 performance of duty, and then you will be safe, and 
 will have no reason to envy the votaries of sensual 
 pleasure. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Live not merely for yourselves, but also for the 
 good of others. Selfishness contracts the soul, and 
 hardens the heart. The man absorbed in selfish pur¬ 
 suits is incapable of the sweetest, noblest joys, of which 
 our nature is susceptible. The author of our being 
 has ordained laws, according to which the most exqui¬ 
 site pleasure is connected, not with the direct pursuit 
 of our own happiness, but with the exercise of 
 benevolence. On this principle it is, that he who 
 labours wholly for the benefit of others, and as it were 
 forgets himself, is far happier than the man who makes 
 himself the centre of all his affections, the sole object 
 of all his exertions. On this principle it was, that our 
 Saviour said, 1 it is more blessed to give, than to re¬ 
 ceive.’ Resolve, therefore, to lead lives of usefulness. 
 Be indifferent to nothing which has any relation to 
 
COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 205 
 
 the welfare of men. Be not afraid of diminishing 
 
 □ 
 
 your own happiness, by seeking that of others. De¬ 
 vise liberal things, and let not avarice shut up your 
 hand from giving to him that needeth, and to promote 
 the cause of piety and humanity. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Endeavour to acquire and maintain a good repu¬ 
 tation. 1 A good name is rather to be chosen than 
 great riches.’ A ruined fortune may be recovered, a 
 lost reputation never. Young men are often laying 
 the foundation of an unenviable reputation, while they 
 are thinking of no such thing. They never dream 
 that the character which they attain at school or col¬ 
 lege will probably be as lasting as life. The youth 
 who is known to be addicted to falsehood, knavery, 
 treachery, &c., when arrived at the age of man, will 
 be viewed by those who know him with distrust. A 
 stain on the character is not easily washed out; at a 
 distant period, the faults and follies of youth may be 
 revived to a man’s confusion and injury. But, es¬ 
 pecially, is the female character exquisitely delicate. 
 A small degree of imprudence will often fix a stigma 
 on the gay young lady, which no subsequent sobriety 
 can completely erase. 
 
 We do not mean, that the young should cherish a 
 
 o 
 
206 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 false sense of honour, which would lead them to fight 
 and contend for reputation. No man ever secured or 
 increased a good name, by shedding the vital blood of 
 a human being. The reputation which we recom¬ 
 mend must arise from a life of consistent and uniform 
 well-doing. Prize such a character, as of inestimable 
 value to your own peace, and as a most powerful 
 means of usefulness. The most potent human engine 
 of utility is influence; and this depends entirely on 
 reputation. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Let your intercourse with men be marked by 
 a strict and conscientious regard to truth, honour, 
 justice, kindness and courtesy. We should certainly 
 have recommended politeness, as a happy means of 
 polishing social intercourse, and affording pleasure to 
 those with whom you are conversant: but many are 
 accustomed to connect an unpleasant idea with this 
 word. But, surely, genuine politeness, if not itself a 
 virtue, spreads a charm and a beauty over that which 
 is virtuous. And, certainly, there is no merit in 
 awkwardness and clownishness. But our chief object 
 under this particular is to urge upon you a constant 
 and punctilious regard to the social virtues. Be 
 honest, be upright, sincere, men of your word, faith- 
 
COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 207 
 
 ful to every trust, kind to every body, respectful where 
 respect is due, generous according to your ability, 
 grateful for benefits received, and delicate in the 
 mode of conferring favours. Let your integrity be 
 unsuspected. Never resort to any mean or underhand 
 measures: but let your conduct and conversation be 
 characterised by frankness and candour, by forbear¬ 
 ance, and a spirit of indulgence and forgiveness. In 
 short, ‘ do unto others as you would have them do 
 unto you.’ 
 
 IX. 
 
 Be faithful and conscientious in the discharge 
 of all duties which arise out of the relations which 
 you sustain to others. Relative duties are far more 
 numerous than all others} because the occasions re¬ 
 quiring their performance are constantly occurring. 
 The duties of parents, of children, of brothers and 
 sisters, of neighbours, of masters and servants, of 
 teachers and pupils, of magistrates and citizens, of the 
 learned professions, of trade, of the rich and the poor, 
 occupy a very large portion of the time and attention 
 of every man. And these furnish the proper test of 
 character. 1 He who is faithful in little, is faithful also 
 in much.’ And he who is not attentive to the daily 
 recurring duties of his station, in vain claims the 
 
208 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 reputation of virtue or piety, by splendid acts of pub¬ 
 lic beneficence. 1 Though I give all my goods to feed 
 the poor and have not charity, it profitethme nothing.’ 
 
 X. 
 
 Be contented with the station and circumstances 
 in which Providence has placed you. Never repine 
 at God’s dealings towards you, nor envy those who 
 are above you in worldly advantages. Consider not 
 so much what you want, as what you have ; and look 
 less at those above you, than at those in inferior cir¬ 
 cumstances. Accustom yourselves to look on the 
 bright, rather than the dark side of the picture. 
 Indulge not in unreasonable fears, nor give way to 
 feelings of despondency. Exercise fortitude, and 
 maintain tranquillity of mind. Be not ruffled and dis¬ 
 concerted by every little cross event which may occur. 
 Place not your happiness at the disposal of every one 
 who may be disposed to speak an unkind word, or do 
 an unhandsome thing. Learn to possess your souls 
 in patience, believing that when appearances are 
 darkest, the dawn of a more comfortable day is near. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Cherish and diligently cultivate genuine piety. 
 1 The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.’ 
 
COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 209 
 
 Early piety is the most beautiful spectacle in the 
 world. Without piety all your morality, however 
 useful to men, is but a shadow. It is a branch 
 without a root. Religion, above every other acquisi¬ 
 tion, enriches and adorns the mind of man; and it is 
 especially congenial with the natural susceptibilities 
 of the youthful mind. The vivacity and versatility of 
 youth, the tenderness and ardour of the affections in 
 this age, exhibit piety to the best advantage. How 
 delightful is it, to see the bosoms of the young swell¬ 
 ing with the lively emotions of pure devotion. How 
 beautiful is the tear of penitence or of holy joy 
 which glistens in the eye of tender youth. Think not, 
 dear young people, that true religion will detract from 
 your happiness. It is a reproach cast upon your 
 Maker, to indulge such a thought. It cannot be. A 
 God of goodness never required any thing of his 
 creatures, which did not tend to their true felicity. 
 Piety may indeed lead you to exchange the pleasures 
 of the theatre and ball-room, for the purer joys of the 
 church and oratory. It may turn your attention from 
 books of mere idle fancy and fiction, to the word of 
 God, which, to a regenerated soul, is found to be 
 sweeter than honey, and more excellent than the 
 choicest gold; but this will add to your happiness, 
 rather than diminish it. We would then affectionately 
 
210 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 and earnestly exhort and entreat you, to 1 remember 
 now your Creator in the days of your youth.’ This 
 will be your best security against all the dangers and 
 temptations to which you are exposed ; this will secure 
 to you ‘ the favour of God which is life, and his loving 
 kindness which is better than life.’ Delay not your 
 conversion; every day is lost time, which is not 
 spent in the service of God. Besides, procrastination 
 has proved ruinous to many. Eternity is at hand ; 
 the judgment day must be met, and how can we 
 appear there, without piety? This is our only pre¬ 
 paration and passport for heaven. Dear youth, be 
 wise, and secure an inheritance among the saints in 
 light. God invites you to be reconciled. Christ ex¬ 
 tends his arms of mercy to secure you. Angels are 
 waiting to rejoice at your conversion, and to become 
 your daily and nightly guardians. The doors of the 
 church will be open to receive you. The ministers of 
 the gospel, and all the company of believers will hail 
 your entrance, and will welcome you to the precious 
 ordinances of God’s house. And, finally, remember 
 that, 1 now is the accepted time and the day of salva¬ 
 tion.’ 
 
 XII. 
 
 Our last counsel is, that you seek divine direc- 
 
COUNSELS TO THE YOUNG. 211 
 
 tion and aid, by incessant, fervent prayer. You need 
 grace to help you every day. Your own wisdom is 
 folly, your own strength weakness, and your own 
 righteousness altogether insufficient. ‘ It is not in 
 man that walketh to direct his steps.’ But if you lack 
 wisdom, you are permitted to ask; and you have a 
 gracious promise, that you shall receive. Whatever 
 we need will be granted, if we humbly and believingly 
 ask for it. * Ask and ye shall receive, seek and ye 
 shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you.’ 1 Be 
 careful for nothing, but in every thing with prayer 
 and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests 
 be made known unto God.’ 
 
 In all your troubles, make God your refuge. Flee 
 to him by humble trust and prayer, and he will hide 
 you under the shadow of his wings, and in his secret 
 pavilion, and even in death you shall fear no evil, for 
 Jehovah,your shepherd, will be present to comfort you. 
 And when you shall have finished your earthly pil¬ 
 grimage, a mansion in the heavens will await you; 
 Christ, your Saviour, will receive your departing 
 spirit, and you shall go, to be present with the Lord. 
 
 A. A. 
 
 Princeton. 
 
212 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 HYMN OF THE REAPERS. 
 
 Our Father,—to fields that are white 
 For harvest, the sickle we bear, 
 
 And praise shall our voices unite 
 
 To Thee, who hast made them thy care 
 
 The seed that was dropped in the soil, 
 
 We left with a holy belief 
 In one who was blessing the toil, 
 
 To crown it at length with the sheaf. 
 
 And ever our faith shall be firm 
 
 In him who was life to the root— 
 Whose finger has led up the germ, 
 
 And finished the blade and thje fruit. 
 
 The heads that are heavy with grain 
 Are bowing and asking to fall; 
 
 o o / 
 
HYMN OF THE REAPERS. 
 
 Thy hand is on mountain and plain, 
 
 Thou Maker and Giver of all! 
 
 Thy favours are heaped on the hills, 
 
 The valleys thy goodness repeat, 
 
 And, Lord, ’tis thy bounty that fills 
 
 The arms of the reaper with wheat. 
 
 O, when, with his sickle in hand, 
 
 Thine angel the mandate receives, 
 
 To come to thy field with the band, 
 
 To bind up, and bear off the sheaves— 
 
 May we be as free from the blight, 
 
 As ripe to be taken away, 
 
 And fit for the store, in thy sight, 
 
 As that we shall gather to-day. 
 
 Our Father, the heart and the voice 
 
 Flow out our fresh offering to yield! 
 
 The reapers! the reapers rejoice, 
 
 And send up their song from the field 
 
 H. F. G. 
 
 Newburyport. 
 
214 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 A Fragment. 
 
 From the top of the Aventine hill, I had gazed on 
 the fading glories of an Italian sun, and, absorbed in 
 my own meditations, twilight had shed its last rays 
 upon the dome of St Peter’s, when I entered that 
 magnificent monument of papal pomp and power. 
 It was a season of solemn observance, and the eve 
 of that day on which the church of Rome is accus¬ 
 tomed to commemorate the crucifixion of the Redeemer. 
 I was the only occupant of a scene, so soon to be 
 filled by curiosity, idleness or devotion. A universal 
 stillness reigned throughout the lofty pile. The few 
 lights which burned upon the high altar shed but a 
 feeble radiance over the aisles, and added to the reli¬ 
 gious gloom of approaching night. It was natural 
 that my mind should become solemnized, and my 
 feelings elevated, by the hour and the scene. In 
 
THE VISION. 
 
 215 
 
 thought, I wandered from the gorgeous ceremonies of 
 the Romish ritual, which I had often beheld and was 
 now again to witness, to those temples formed by 
 nature, in which I had seen ‘the inhabitants of the 
 valley’ offer up their devotions where the arch of 
 heaven was their only canopy, and the rude rocks on 
 which they knelt their only altar. The modest stee¬ 
 ple of my native village rose to my imagination as 
 when I left it, in the prime of youth, with the tear and 
 blessings of a mother’s love, to gain that knowledge 
 of others which her fears foreboded might only be 
 acquired by the sacrifice of myself, and that experience 
 of the world which might only be obtained by the 
 loss of the pious lessons she had so well taught. In 
 the midst of this train of reflection, I had uncon¬ 
 sciously seated myself before that splendid production 
 of the genius of Angelo, in which, at the awful catas¬ 
 trophe of all sublunary things, the Redeemer is pre¬ 
 paring to announce the eternal doom of the human 
 race. It was now, in contemplation of the general 
 judgment thus vividly figured to my senses by human 
 art, that my early religious impressions, which had 
 nearly been obliterated by too frequent contact with 
 the world, were again powerfully awakened. My 
 feelings became agitated, and the solemn interrogatory 
 seemed forced upon my heart, by a power which I felt 
 
216 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 to be divine, whether, at such an hour and in such a 
 scene, it would be mine to receive the sentence of 
 eternal life or eternal death. I trembled beneath the 
 agitation of my thoughts; reason for a moment seemed 
 to totter on her throne ; the faculties of nature ceased 
 to perform their office ; the impressions of sense be¬ 
 came indistinct; and when my consciousness returned, 
 I knew myself to be in the immediate presence of a 
 more than mortal being, and that the voice of an an¬ 
 gel was permitted to impart the lesson of instruction. 
 “ Child of frailty,” he said, u I am Asraphel, the spirit 
 appointed to guard thee in thy state of probation; to 
 counsel, but not compel; to guide, but not control; 
 to warn, but not deliver thee from the snare of temp¬ 
 tation. Thou art concerned for thy destiny as an 
 immortal being, and I am therefore commissioned to 
 show thee the path of salvation. Turn thine eyes 
 upon the plain which is extended before thee, and 
 meditate on what thou seest.” I looked, and saw in 
 the distance a lofty and extensive range of mountains, 
 whose shadows seemed to cover the wide champaign. 
 The vapours of the morning surrounded their base, 
 and their summits were buried in clouds. The still¬ 
 ness was broken only by the murmurs of a brook, 
 struggling for passage at the foot of the hill which 
 projected farthest into the plain, and there was 
 
THE VISION. 
 
 217 
 
 naught, for a time, to interrupt the universal solitude. 
 But presently I beheld, and there appeared, advancing 
 from the western side of the mountains, two forms 
 which arrested and fastened my attention. An old 
 man of majestic mien was conducting by the hand 
 a youth, who alternately looked with inquiry into 
 the face of the elder, and over the prospect which 
 lay before him. The countenance of the sire was 
 serious but mild, melancholy but not sad; w T hile the 
 look of the boy was evidently animated beyond its 
 usual expression, and his step was elastic with the 
 impulse of expectation. 
 
 On approaching the spot where the stream broke 
 on the plain, I observed that there was wood upon the 
 shoulder of the younger, and that the knife in the 
 hand of the elder was drawn. A question was put by 
 the boy, of which I heard not the words, but a smile 
 played upon his features, and his tone of conscious¬ 
 ness evinced that he sought no reply. A movement 
 took place between them, which told me, that a son 
 was preparing to obey the will of a father. An altar 
 was constructed of the materials which lay around 
 them; the wood was placed in order upon it, and the 
 youth laid himself down, and suffered the cords in 
 his father’s hand to pass around his body and the pile. 
 There was the pause of a moment. The right arm of 
 
218 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 the old man was bared, the naked weapon was in his 
 grasp, his left hand was laid upon the head of the boy, 
 his countenance was raised to heaven, his features 
 were lighted with an expression of the deepest devo¬ 
 tion ; and I saw that the father was about to sacrifice 
 the son. At that moment, a noise, like the fall of 
 many waters, broke the silence of the scene; a light 
 above that of the sun, which had just arisen on the 
 horizon and agitated the mist of the mountains, 
 irradiated the place around the altar, and shed its glory 
 upon the victim and the priest. The clouds, which 
 encompassed the tops of the hills, concentrated their 
 volume; and from the midst there came a voice, 
 which bade the father suspend his arm, and arrested 
 the stroke of death. Suddenly the scene became 
 altered in its character, but not changed. The sire 
 and the son had ascended above the eminence on 
 which the altar had originally been built; the beams 
 of the morning sun were brightening the whole extent 
 of the plain; and the clouds had rolled away from the 
 sides of the hills. The east alone appeared to be in 
 a supernatural darkness, over which the sun could 
 exert no influence, and which my eye in vain endea¬ 
 voured to pierce. I turned and looked upon the 
 countenance of him, who had so lately heard and 
 obeyed the command to spare his child. The express- 
 
THE VISION. 
 
 219 
 
 ion of his face was no longer such as when he stood 
 by the altar, with the instrument of death in his hand. 
 The same appearance of devotion was there, but his 
 looks seemed to be agitated with feelings more in¬ 
 tense. The smile of joy was on his lip, a more 
 than mortal brightness irradiated his features, and his 
 eye was fixed in a rapture of devotion upon an object 
 which lay in the darkness before him. Again I looked, 
 and the obscurity appeared to break from before my 
 vision. In the distance I beheld a cross. Around it 
 were an innumerable host of beings, whose faces 
 shone with heavenly benignity; upon it hung a form 
 whose lineaments it was not given me to discern; and 
 on its top was inscribed SALVATION in letters of 
 blood. My soul was overwhelmed with a tumult of 
 awe; again my senses forsook their office; again were 
 the faculties of nature suspended, and again were the 
 powers of thought oppressed with their own weight. 
 But gradually the veil of insensibility was removed, 
 and returning consciousness informed me that an 
 angel was still beside me; and the voice of Asraphel 
 again addressed me. “ I have showed thee,” he said, 
 “ the path of eternal life. My power extends only 
 to give thee an explanation of what thou hast seen; 
 and already, while I am speaking, it is impressed upon 
 thy mind. Beware, that thou ever suffer it to be 
 
220 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 obliterated. Thou hast looked upon Abraham, the 
 father of the faithful, hast seen what he was permitted 
 to see, and felt what he was enabled to feel. Thou 
 hast beheld the subject of faith and the mode of its 
 exercise.” “ And where,” I exclaimed, “ shall I find 
 it in its greatest vigour ? I have wandered over the 
 countries of the earth, and beheld Christianity in its 
 different forms. To which of the various bodies who 
 own the name of the Redeemer, and claim salvation 
 through the cross, shall I unite myself on earth, in 
 the hope of being united for ever in heaven?” “ The 
 church of Christ,” said the angel, “is but one.” 
 “ And is there,” I exclaimed, “ but one term of salva¬ 
 tion?” “ Believe,” said the angel, “ in the Lord Jesus 
 Christ, and thou shalt be saved. Thou hast received 
 thy first lesson of wisdom, awake and be wise.” 
 
 Origejv. 
 
221 
 
 THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. 
 
 -The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
 
 Of wailing winds and naked woods, and meadows brown and 
 sere. 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 Days of the yellow leaf! 
 
 Again your shadows gather round, 
 
 Where stood so late the golden sheaf 
 With hopes and blessings of the reaper crowned, 
 Your sere and withered trophies now usurp the ground. 
 
 Days of the wailing blast! 
 
 Ye breathe sad music in your sigh; 
 
 Hoarsely the waters murmur past, 
 
 The pensive robin twitters plaintively, 
 
 And screaming sea-birds plume them for a kindlier sky. 
 
 Days of the brooding storm ! 
 Cloud-borne, above the leaf-clad hills, 
 
 p 
 
222 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Ye show the tempest-spirit’s form; 
 
 His angry voice the mountain echo fills : 
 
 The wood-bird cowers, the joyous lark his carol stills. 
 
 Days of the rayless sun ! 
 
 Deep thoughts ye wake within the breast; 
 
 Ye tell how near life’s course is run; 
 
 Your counsel bids the spirit know not rest, 
 
 Till it has won a clime, with sunbeams ever blessed. 
 
 P. M. W. 
 
223 
 
 THE DUELLIST. 
 
 Here read of Cain the curse and crime, 
 
 In characters unworn by time. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 About ten years since, I passed a few days in the 
 family of a country friend; some recent events have 
 revived my recollections of this visit, and impressed 
 them with peculiar interest. 
 
 My friend is a noble relic of the old-fashioned 
 southern gentry; there is a free-hearted generosity in 
 all his sentiments, an almost romantic delicacy in all 
 points of honourable feeling. In his youth he was a 
 gallant soldier and distinguished officer; and through 
 the rustic stains which have gradually obscured the 
 original elegance of his manners, occasional gleams 
 of high polish bespeak the man who ‘camps and 
 courts had seen.’ 
 
224 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Thirty years of peaceful retirement on his own 
 estate, and in the bosom of a beloved family, have 
 imperceptibly transformed the high-spirited enthusi¬ 
 astic warrior into the amiable, pacific country gentle¬ 
 man. But a strong leven of military views and 
 feelings still pervades the character of my old friend; 
 and notwithstanding the natural sweetness of his 
 temper, and the usual urbanity of his manners, the 
 slightest failure in customary punctilio, makes ‘the 
 angry spot’ glow on his dark, wrinkled brow, and 
 more than once he has converted a trifling offence 
 into the subject of a deadly feud. God in mercy has 
 spared him the accomplishment of murder; how far he 
 has incurred its guilt , His righteous records alone can 
 determine. 
 
 Yet he is not without religious notions and feelings, 
 after his own confused fashion. A country life 
 cherishes that sentiment of natural religion, which 
 more or less exists in every human bosom: accord- 
 ingly, my friend has assured me that often, when 
 walking forth in the spring of the year, the country 
 all brightening around him, the vernal hum of insects, 
 and gay songs of birds, have created such a solemn 
 gladness within him, that before he was aware, he 
 had reverently lifted his hat from his head, and blessed 
 
THE DUELLIST. 
 
 225 
 
 God. Or, listening to the blustering autumn gale, 
 over a dying evening fire, such a sad seriousness has 
 stolen upon him, that he grew weary of the world, 
 with all its day-light vanities, and esteemed them 
 transient and unprofitable as the fading embers before 
 him. But this sentimental devotion is the natural 
 homage of a feeling heart; my friend goes a step fur¬ 
 ther; he is the stout opposer of infidelity, and has 
 often told me, with the overflowing complacency of an 
 applauding conscience, that he “ thanked God he was 
 no philosopher, he could heartily believe the Christian 
 system, with all its difficulties.” Accordingly, we find 
 the ‘big lia'-Bible 1 holding its decent state upon his 
 parlour table ; and hither, when visited with any un¬ 
 common affliction, he is seen duly repairing for con¬ 
 solation ; this perhaps being the only occasion on 
 which its gilded pages are unfolded to the light. 
 
 Such was my friend as I remember him some ten 
 years since : amiable, dignified and graceful in all 
 the relations of life, and possessing just so much 
 religion as passes current with the world, without 
 casting a solitary influence upon his own heart and 
 practice. The same lax principles concerning religion 
 pervade his parental character; an amiable propriety 
 is visible in all the arrangements of his family, an 
 
226 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 anxious solicitude in relation to their moral and intel¬ 
 lectual improvement; religion alone is forgotten—not 
 despised, but neglected. 
 
 His son, a bold and beautiful boy, soon caught the 
 reflection of the leading traits of his character. Gaz¬ 
 ing on his father’s sword, and listening to the history 
 of all its victories, his little bosom early swelled with 
 that incipient passion which was to rule his future 
 destiny; and if sometimes a secret shudder passed 
 over his childish frame, as he marked the dark blue 
 stain of blood upon its glittering blade, it was soon 
 succeeded by a thrill of boyish rapture at the recollec¬ 
 tion of his father’s glory. But it was not only the 
 story of his honest fame, won in his country’s battles, 
 that was poured like burning lava upon young Ed¬ 
 win’s ardent, susceptible mind; the eager child re¬ 
 ceived with avidity the obscurely hinted relation of 
 honourable murder , kindling into a kind of fierce but 
 troubled joy, as all its inflammatory principles were 
 developed before him. 
 
 It was a scene that might have drawn tears of 
 mournful anticipation from every benevolent and con¬ 
 siderate observer: the rosy innocence of the happy, 
 careless child, the father’s pride and joy, at the very 
 moment that his unconscious lips distilled the fatal 
 
THE DUELLIST. 
 
 227 
 
 poison—and a little further on, in melancholy pros¬ 
 pect, the bloody grave of youth, and quickly descend¬ 
 ing to it, the gray hairs of broken-hearted age. 
 
 This sketch of my friend was a necessary prelude to 
 the little history which follows. 
 
 Shady Grove was the name which his ancestors 
 gave to the leafy forest beneath whose shelter they 
 reared the roof-tree of their family: but the woodman’s 
 axe has gradually encroached upon its ancient shadows, 
 and a narrow strip of woodlands, pervious on every 
 side to the sunbeams, is its only remaining relic. Still 
 the name is jealously preserved by the present pos¬ 
 sessor, who delights in pointing out the mouldering 
 stumps, whose shaggy circumference bespeaks the 
 noble majesty of the vanished forest: and as he views 
 these blackened remains, contrasting verdant meadows 
 of rustling rice, or gaudy fields of blooming cotton, he 
 not unfrequently indulges a strain of pensive moral¬ 
 izing upon decayed greatness, and upstart wealth and 
 honour. 
 
 Shady Grove, like most of the country establish¬ 
 ments of the south, presents a strange combination of 
 elegance and meanness, wealth and poverty; remind¬ 
 ing us of those descriptions which travellers have 
 given us of Eastern cities, where the lordly shadow of 
 
228 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 the palace falls upon the uncouth hovel of the peasant. 
 So it is here; the lofty dwelling, with its beautiful 
 verandahs, painted palisades, and universal elegance 
 of arrangement, contrasts strangely with the negro 
 village, which, close at hand, presents its ragged street 
 of ill-constructed cabins. 
 
 I arrived at my friend’s house late in the fall of 
 18—. A rich October sunset shed over the scene that 
 pensive, but most exquisite charm which belongs alone 
 to that season of tender luxurious melancholy, when 
 dying nature wraps around her, her loveliest but most 
 evanescent drapery. The sight of my friend in florid 
 old age excited a thousand accordant emotions, and 
 though we had both passed that season of life which 
 is marked by very lively exhibitions of feeling, yet 
 the cordial grasp and glistening eye, witnessed to 
 each other the recollected joys and sorrows of other 
 years. 
 
 I arrived in a time of holyday sport and relaxation: 
 the only son, a youth of fourteen, was enjoying his 
 first vacation at home: and hence it was every body’s 
 business to be happy, from my friend himself, seated 
 in his old arm-chair, contriving pleasures, to the noisy 
 negro rabble without, whose merry shouts incessantly 
 proclaimed Master Edwin’s return. There is some- 
 
THE DUELLIST. 
 
 229 
 
 thing irresistibly infectious in that happiness which 
 springs from the affections. I soon felt its delightful 
 exhilaration; indeed my friend in the simplicity of his 
 heart declared, that the very cricket in the hearth 
 chirped his shrill vesper in a merrier note than usual. 
 
 A tall, dark-eyed youth was young Edwin’s com¬ 
 panion; his father, in sketching to me the strength 
 and tenderness of their mutual affection, strongly 
 reminded me of the beautiful scriptural description 
 of youthful friendship, as ‘passing the love of 
 woman.’ 
 
 “ Herbert Owens has been Edwin’s play-fellow 
 since he broke away from his nurse; they have but 
 one heart and one portion, no 1 mine and thine’ comes 
 between them. Herbert is a few years the oldest, and 
 when they go away from me into the world, I shall 
 confidently commit Edwin to his keeping.” 
 
 Such were the happy anticipations of my sanguine 
 friend, as we watched the two youths sauntering arm 
 in arm along the river, or heard their mingled voices 
 in many shouts from the echoing woods. Still I have 
 them in my mind’s eye as they looked returning from 
 their forenoon’s sport, their arms fondly linked to¬ 
 gether, their sun-burnt faces glowing with heat and 
 exercise, and each animated countenance reflecting 
 
230 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 the most cordial affection upon the other: alas! that I 
 should ever have beheld so melancholy a reverse of 
 the picture. 
 
 My visit was short, but so full of affectionate happi¬ 
 ness, that it casts a cheerful ray over all my recollec¬ 
 tions of that period. Even now I feel a tender soft¬ 
 ness at my heart as I recall each gentle trait of lovely, 
 youthful friendship. Surely, I thought, those hands 
 are clasped for the long journey of life; no unkindness 
 shall sever, no solitary struggle befall them; kindly 
 they will sustain each other in life, and sweetly soothe 
 in death. I looked upon the grave sweetness of Her¬ 
 bert’s countenance, and then upon the radiant happi¬ 
 ness of Edwin’s, and thought,—Herbert shall guide 
 and restrain Edwin, and Edwin shall cheer and sus¬ 
 tain Herbert. 
 
 Several years passed before I renewed my acquaint¬ 
 ance with these interesting young men: it was at the 
 close of their collegiate course that they established 
 themselves in-, for the more convenient pur¬ 
 
 suit of their professional studies. They called upon 
 me immediately, and Edwin presented a short letter 
 from his father, affectionately commending his son to 
 my attention, “though,” added my amiable friend, 
 “dear Herbert is almost as good a guardian as he can 
 have.” 
 
THE DUELLIST. 
 
 231 
 
 I was astonished to find how completely a few years 
 had transformed their slight, stripling figures into the 
 dignified proportions of manhood: their boyish softness 
 and arch vivacity, too, were gone, but I traced with 
 pleasure the same cordial kindness between the two 
 friends. 
 
 Time went on, and every day seemed ripening the 
 promise of their youth; Herbert was steadily ascend¬ 
 ing that steep 
 
 ‘ Where fame’s proud temple shines afar,’ 
 
 and Edwin, the frank, light-hearted youth, had drawn 
 around him a large circle of affectionate friends. 
 Both promised to add largely to the usefulness and 
 happiness of their generation. And often, as I con¬ 
 templated their rising virtues, I would say to myself, 
 and sometimes solemnly admonish each of them, u one, 
 thing thou lackest.” They were too amiable to resent, 
 but they were far too proud to listen to me. Ah, had 
 they inclined their minds to my words, what deep 
 immedicable wounds had many hearts been spared ! 
 
 My retired, sober habits, led me into very different 
 scenes and pursuits from those frequented by young 
 men of such high fashion; yet occasionally they did 
 cross my path, and gradually I traced a painful altera- 
 
232 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 tion in them. They were no longer inseparable com¬ 
 panions; in my evening walks I often met Herbert 
 alone, with downcast eyes and a moody abstraction of 
 countenance; and when I inquired for Edwin, his 
 heightened colour and embarrassed manner betrayed 
 some lurking evil. Edwin, too, sometimes passed me, 
 begirt with strange friends, with a flushed counte¬ 
 nance, and an eye sparkling with other feelings than 
 those which once lighted its mild, affectionate beam. 
 
 At last the painful mystery was solved. A political 
 difference had estranged the two friends. A political 
 quarrel had burst the golden links of affection, and a 
 friendship which had 1 grown with their growth, and 
 strengthened with their strength,’ was rashly sacri¬ 
 ficed in a moment of thoughtless heat. 
 
 I was deeply grieved; I had loved the two lads 
 when first I saw them under their father’s roof; I 
 loved them for their generous attachment; further 
 acquaintance had increased this sentiment, and now 
 I grieved to see them rashly casting from them a trea¬ 
 sure 1 dearer than Plutus’s mine, richer than gold.’ 
 
 I resolved to visit them, to appeal to their reason, to 
 their affections,—and I doubted not that their own 
 hearts would second my exertions. I think I have 
 something of ‘ the milk of human kindness’ in my 
 
THE DUELLIST. 
 
 233 
 
 composition—at least, I had kindled into a perfect 
 glow of benevolent feeling in contemplating this an¬ 
 ticipated work of charity, when the following commu¬ 
 nication was suddenly laid before me. 
 
 Sir, —Understanding that you feel a particular in¬ 
 terest in Mr Edwin R-, I feel it my duty to ap¬ 
 
 prise you that Mr Owens and himself, a few minutes 
 since, left town, with an intention of settling their 
 difference in mortal combat. They have chosen the 
 usual ground near the city. A Friend. 
 
 I was inexpressibly shocked : for a moment emotion 
 paralyzed exertion; but mustering all my fortitude, I 
 hastened, as fast as my trembling limbs could bear me, 
 to the place indicated by my informant. It was a 
 little cluster of pines, whose melancholy shadows had 
 often been bedewed with tears and blood. I had 
 scarcely gained sight of the group now stationed be¬ 
 neath them, when the report of pistols pealed like 
 thunder over me: I staggered blindly forward, for my 
 aged eyes were dazzled by that deathful flash. I re¬ 
 member nothing distinctly until I found the mangled 
 body of Edwin encircled in my arms, his fair, lifeless 
 face drooping to the earth like a broken lily. The 
 shock was so sudden, so stupifying, that I neither 
 moved nor spoke, until the calm, though concerned 
 
234 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 manner of the assistants in the dreadful tragedy, 
 roused my slumbering indignation. “ Ye men of 
 blood,” I cried, “ye deliberate butchers of rash, 
 thoughtless youth, surely the voice of this blood 
 which ye have shed, will pierce the heavens with its 
 cry.” 
 
 At that moment I looked up and saw the wretched 
 murderer. Instantly my feelings were diverted into 
 a new channel; pity mingled with horror as I contem¬ 
 plated his matchless crime and wo. I resigned the 
 lifeless corpse and approached him. He stood in the 
 very attitude in which he had done the deed of death, 
 his arm still extended, his hand firmly grasping the 
 empty pistol. But his face—oh ! its horrid glare of 
 supreme misery ! each rigid muscle stretched to an 
 agony of tension—his colourless lips, and livid coun¬ 
 tenance, all wore that nameless horror of expression 
 which belongs to the murderer alone. He looked 
 like Cain when Abel’s innocent blood smoked at his 
 feet. Miserable sinner! when I saw his punishment 
 thus, 1 greater than he could bear,’ I forgot his crime 
 in its consequences; and laying my hand on his arm, 
 I pulled him gently away. He was perfectly passive ; 
 I accompanied him to his lodging, and remained with 
 him all that night, for I dreaded some new horror. 
 
THE DUELLIST. 
 
 235 
 
 I will not describe his feelings; it is a subject too 
 awful for the indulgence of scene-painting. There are 
 sins which for a time we may ‘ roll, as a sweet morsel, 
 under our tongues but it is not so with murder. He 
 that violates the sacred sanctuary of human life, feels 
 the instant curse descend upon him; the deadly canker 
 has fallen upon his heart which shall surely consume 
 it away. Often as I watched his fearful agitation, I 
 murmured to myself, behold 
 
 ‘ What lesson may be read, 
 
 Beside the sinner’s restless bed.’ 
 
 I went the next morning to take a last look of Ed¬ 
 win,—I wished to save for his father a lock of his hair, 
 that only relic of mortality that affection may snatch 
 from the grave. As I cut tenderly away the rich 
 locks which shaded the marble brow of death, what 
 a deep, what an awful comprehension I obtained of 
 the desert of sin. I gazed upon that face so lately 
 painted with a thousand varying emotions—how 
 fixed! how solemn! he that had never been solemn 
 before. O, it is ‘a fearful thing to fall into the hands 
 of the living God,’ ’tis still more fearful to burst the 
 gates of eternity by crime. ' 
 
236 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 The following unfinished letter lay on Edwin’s 
 desk. 
 
 “ A most unmanly softness subdues me in writing 
 what I feel must be my last letter to my father. When 
 I was a little child, scarce higher than your knee, you 
 loved to call me your ‘brave boy;’ and through all 
 the dangers and trials of life to which I have been 
 exposed, I have never reproached myself with weak¬ 
 ness of nerve; but now I am oppressed by sensations 
 which I feel amount to fear. Yes, my soul quakes 
 within me as I contemplate the resistless flight of my 
 numbered minutes ; and how happy should I be to es¬ 
 cape this dreaded catastrophe. 
 
 11 My last letter apprised you of the unhappy state of 
 things between Mr Owens and myself; every suc¬ 
 ceeding meeting has aggravated our differences, until 
 I ‘ felt myself constrained to demand honourable 
 satisfaction’ of him. I know that you will not blame 
 me; I have acted exactly as you would have done in 
 the same circumstances; yet I am miserable. We 
 only wait until to-morrow that some necessary business 
 may be settled by Herbert—Herbert! oh, why did I 
 write that once dear, familiar word—oh still dear. 
 Must I lift my hand with hostile purpose against 
 that bosom upon which my head has so often re- 
 
THE DUELLIST. 
 
 237 
 
 posed in happy slumbers. Oh that it were possible to 
 retract. 
 
 “ My second has just visited me, and I have laughed 
 and trifled, and braved death, as carelessly as if I felt 
 nothing; but it is all an affected indifference. Just 
 now I watched a group of happy children playing in 
 the sunshine near my window; and I wept and wished 
 myself a child again, with no ruthless customs to urge 
 me to death and crime. O my father, I have a dread¬ 
 ful horror of that unknown world into which I am 
 rushing. I have thought little about it, but feel that 
 I am doing a deed of dreadful sin—that no hand just 
 raised with murderous intent, may lay its unhallowed 
 touch upon the key that opens paradise—O, it is yet 
 possible-” 
 
 Such were the dreadful vacillations of feeling in 
 this poor victim of error—such are the honest emo¬ 
 tions of every feeling heart in the same circum¬ 
 stances. I will not dwell upon the hopeless anguish 
 of my wretched friend under this most righteous 
 retribution. His grey hairs are borne down to the 
 grave by a most intolerable burden of guilt and an¬ 
 guish; he justly accuses himself as the murderer of 
 his son, and the sins of his youth press heavily upon 
 him. 
 
238 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 He has abandoned the halls of his fathers, and 
 now the whole establishment wears the melancholy 
 air of desertion. Its painted wall has contracted the 
 dingy hue of neglect, its windows are closed, and 
 even the transient passenger may discern that the do¬ 
 mestic hearth has been darkened there. Such are the 
 desolations of sin! 
 
 Poor Herbert! how is he changed—the graceful 
 sweetness of his manners are gone, and in its place is 
 seen the cold severity of gloomy abstraction. He 
 continues numbered among men in the social com¬ 
 pact, but no social virtues emanate from his blighted 
 affections: he holds his place in the world, as a blasted 
 trunk is seen rooted for years among the living, ver¬ 
 dant ranks of the forest; no wholesome fruit is gath¬ 
 ered from its boughs, no pleasant shadow revolves 
 beneath it. As often as I see him, and mark his 
 sunken cheek tinged with the sallow hue of melan¬ 
 choly, his raven locks whitening with premature old 
 age, and above all, his drooping, lustreless eye, I say 
 to myself, 
 
 ‘ Here read of Cain the curse and crime, 
 
 In characters unworn by time.’ 
 
 Oh thou gloomy phantom, before whose shadowy 
 
THE DUELLIST. 
 
 239 
 
 shrine such costly libations of human blood have been 
 offered, when will the daylight of truth dispel thy 
 fatal illusions! 
 
 H. S. P. 
 
240 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 PARENTAL REGRET. 
 
 Lament not thus—’tis selfish to repine 
 
 That God recalls the treasure he hath given, 
 
 Rather rejoice that one sweet babe of thine 
 
 Now triumphs with the glorious hosts of heaven. 
 
 Gently, most gently, the afflictive rod 
 
 Is laid upon thee—thou wilt shortly see, 
 
 And humbly own, He is a gracious God 
 
 Who hath in loving kindness chastened thee. 
 
 For Gvhat He doth, although thou knowest not now, 
 Yet thou shalt know hereafter’—deep in dust. 
 
 With holy resignation learn to bow, 
 
 And own his dealings merciful as just. 
 
 He hath but called thy happy infant’s soul 
 
 From a bleak world, where sin and sorrow reign. 
 

PARENTAL REGRET. 
 
 241 
 
 Where strong temptation’s stormy billows roll, 
 Seldom, alas! assailing us in vain. 
 
 Beyond the trials of this wintry clime, 
 
 Ere yet life’s thorny paths his feet had trod, 
 
 His joyous spirit, yet unstained by crime, 
 
 Is borne in triumph to the throne of God. 
 
 And wouldst thou the sweet seraph’s flight restrain, 
 From those pure realms of never failing bliss, 
 
 Where God the Father—God the Saviour reign, 
 
 To bind him down to such a world as this? 
 
 Of such Christ forms his kingdom—oh believe 
 The blessed truth his hallowed lips declared, 
 
 1 Ear hath not heard, nor hath the heart conceived 
 What God for those he loveth hath prepared.’ 
 
 Then yield submissive to the sovereign will 
 Of Him who cannot err, and kiss the rod— 
 
 ‘ Commune with thine own spirit and be still,’ 
 
 And know that he is God—a faithful God. 
 
 Aye—bend in gratitude to heaven’s behest, 
 
 For not e’en in the joyful hour when thou 
 
242 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Didst clasp him first to thy maternal breast, 
 
 Hadst thou such cause for thankfulness as now. 
 
 Then with unwavering faith to earth entrust 
 The faded relics of this lovely flower, 
 
 Assured that e’en this perishable dust, 
 
 ‘ Now sown in weakness, shall be raised in power.’ 
 
 In this, the ‘Christian’s’ blessed hope, resign 
 To God the treasure by his mercy given, 
 
 And bless his name that one sweet babe of thine 
 Is now a glorious habitant of heaven. 
 
 Newport, R. I. 
 
 S. S. C. 
 
243 
 
 THE GREAT REFINER. 
 
 ‘ He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver.’ 
 
 ’Tis sweet to know that he who tries 
 The silver, takes his seat 
 Beside the fire that purifies, 
 
 Lest too intense a heat, 
 
 Raised to consume the base alloy, 
 
 The precious metal, too, destroy. 
 
 ’Tis good to think that well he knows 
 The silver’s power to bear 
 The ordeal to which it goes; 
 
 And, that, with skill and care, 
 
 He’ll take it from the fire, when fit 
 For his own hand to polish it. 
 
 ’Tis blessedness to feel that he, 
 
 The piece he has begun, 
 
244 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Will not forsake till he can see, 
 
 To prove the work is done, 
 
 An image, by its brightness shown, 
 
 The perfect likeness of his own. 
 
 But ah! how much of earthly mould, 
 Dark relics of the mine, 
 
 Purged from the ore, must he behold— 
 How long must he refine, 
 
 Ere in the silver he can trace 
 The first faint semblance to his face ! 
 
 Thou Great Refiner, sit thou by, 
 
 Thy promise to fulfil! 
 
 Moved by thy hand, beneath thine eye, 
 And melted at thy will, 
 
 Oh may thy work for ever shine, 
 Reflecting beauty pure as thine ! 
 
 Newburyport. 
 
 H. F. 
 
245 
 
 THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 Weep not for him!—there is no cause for woe; 
 
 But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk 
 Unshrinking o’er the thorny path below, 
 
 And from earth’s low defilements keep thee back : 
 
 So when a few fleet swerving years are flown, 
 
 He’ll meet thee at heaven’s gate, and lead thee on ! 
 
 Weep not for him I 
 
 Mrs Hemans. 
 
 Every thing on earth bears the indelible impress of 
 change, decay and death. Nothing is durable in 
 time. Nothing so brilliant as to be spotless,—nothing 
 so pure as to be stainless. Objects the fairest and 
 loveliest are mutable, and soon become disagreeable; 
 the most beautiful and costly works of art are scarcely 
 completed, ere the work of destruction is commenced; 
 and man, proud man, follows unwillingly, but rapid- 
 
246 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 ly, in the same road to dissolution and death. We 
 admire the rich colours and sweet fragrance of the 
 flowers of spring, yet scarcely are their beautiful 
 tints unveiled, than we are called upon to regret 
 their scattered, faded and scentless leaves, driven by 
 the winds, or crushed beneath our feet. We delight 
 in roving in the greenwood, when the bright sun of 
 May calls forth the waving foliage, and on every branch 
 the gay and happy tenants of the grove are building 
 their nests of down, or listening to the sweet and vary¬ 
 ing notes of ecstasy and love;—yet how few are the 
 days of summer, and how quickly past!—The chill 
 autumn wind is breathed over the vale, and the foliage 
 is faded, is withered, is dead; and the wild birds, which 
 but yesterday were so blest, seek, in other and fairer 
 climes and skies, that rest which here they cannot 
 possess. And are the boasted enjoyments of man 
 more permanent? We come upon the stage full of 
 bright hopes and brilliant anticipations. Pleasure in¬ 
 vites, wealth allures, honour and ambition charm; 
 every path to happiness, that unknown boundary of 
 man’s desires, is laid open to us, and the glittering 
 prize seems almost within our reach, when the airy 
 phantoms vanish, the rainbow-coloured bubbles burst, 
 and we find ourselves poor mortals still, weighed down 
 
THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 247 
 
 with cares and toils, with afflictions of body and mind, 
 and trembling on the verge of that grave, which is 
 soon to overwhelm us, and all that on earth we can 
 hope or fear. The flowers of spring, it is true, will 
 smile again as sweet and beautiful as ever—the forest 
 will again resume its verdant covering—the song of 
 the wild bird will again awaken its slumbering echoes; 
 —yet, when man dies, when will he return ?—when 
 those we love are torn from us by a power that none 
 can resist, may we hope again to meet them here ? 
 will they ever awake to the scenes of earth—its life, its 
 hope, its love ? Ah! never, never!—when their spring 
 shall arrive, and they burst the cerements of their 
 prison house; when they throw aside the green turf 
 which perhaps for centuries has freshened over the 
 slumbering tenant beneath, the angel of God will 
 have sworn that time shall be no longer. 
 
 If there is one thing more than another calculated 
 to disgust us with the things of earth, and the evan¬ 
 escent nature of its enjoyments; to throw a chill over 
 our hopes, and sickly paleness over life; nay, I might 
 almost say—and what will not ignorant, short-sighted, 
 presumptuous man dare ?—to impeach the goodness of 
 that being who governs all things; it is to see a young 
 person cut down in the morning of life when every 
 
248 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 prospect was bright, to see the cold and relentless 
 grave close on a form upon which fond expectations 
 had been built, and witness youth and beauty weep¬ 
 ing over the devastations of the insatiate destroyer. 
 
 Such a scene I have witnessed, and it will not soon 
 be forgotten by me. It was when the young, the 
 amiable, and the endeared Milman Somers was de¬ 
 posited in the house appointed for all the living. Al¬ 
 though he died far from the home of his childhood, yet 
 I have seen weeping friends, won by his virtues, take 
 their last, silent, sad farewell, and have witnessed the 
 involuntary shudder, as the clods fell hollowly upon 
 the coffin of this young standard bearer of the cross, 
 so soon removed from the conflicts of earth to the 
 hallelujahs of heaven. Somers I knew when a child, 
 and esteemed him; and when, after twenty years had 
 elapsed, and a thousand miles had long separated us, 
 I again met him in one of those deep, beautiful and 
 secluded valleys of East Tennessee, through which 
 flows a head water of the Holstein, and found him the 
 ardent, persevering missionary of the cross, and the 
 humble, sincere Christian, I loved him; who is there 
 that knew him and will not say the same ? 
 
 Born in one of the eastern states, of pious and re¬ 
 spectable parents, whose earliest efforts were directed 
 
THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 249 
 
 to teach him the way to heaven, Somers was remark¬ 
 able for the sweetness and mildness of his disposi¬ 
 tion—his anxious desire to please and conciliate—his 
 dread of any thing which could interrupt that harmony 
 and peace which constitute the great charm of social 
 and domestic life ; and if to these natural dispositions 
 I may add his unaffected piety—his unobtrusive but 
 ardent zeal for the happiness of his fellow creatures— 
 his humility, his gratitude, his willingness to submit 
 to any thing by which he could be made useful to reli¬ 
 gion and the world;—and we shall have a character 
 which, however imperfectly sketched, will long be re¬ 
 membered with pleasure. Perfection for my friend I 
 do not claim; he himself would have been the first to 
 have rejected such a pretension. He was a man: Ho 
 err is human.’ 
 
 That a mind, constituted and endowed by hea¬ 
 ven as was that of Milman Somers, should feel, and 
 deeply feel, for a ‘ world lying in wickedness,’ cannot 
 be cause of wonder. He heard the Macedonian cry, 
 ‘ come over and help us,’ resounding at once from the 
 coral isles of the deep blue Pacific, the spicy groves 
 and golden sands of Ceylon and Coromandel, the 
 palm-leaf huts and dark sons of darker and degraded 
 Africa, and from the red man of our own forests, driven 
 
250 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 to his last barrier and conscious that nothing but 
 Christianity and civilization could save his race from 
 speedy and utter extermination. He heard, and the 
 response of his warm and benevolent heart was , 1 Lord, 
 here am I, send me !’ 
 
 From the moment that young Somers commenced 
 his studies preparatory to the great work of a Chris¬ 
 tian minister and missionary, his whole soul seemed 
 devoted to the cause in which he had engaged. In his 
 collegiate course he was laborious and indefatigable. 
 His talents were far above mediocrity, and they were 
 successfully exerted. His leisure hours and his weeks 
 of vacation were not spent idly, or unprofitably; he 
 visited from house to house, he encouraged the feeble 
 and destitute churches, and he urged in that mild and 
 persuasive manner for which he was so distinguished, 
 and which, while it convinced, rarely, if ever, offended, 
 all men to repent and believe. It was in the midst of 
 these endeavours to do good, that the seeds of that 
 disorder were sown, which to the eye of mortals pre¬ 
 maturely prostrated him in death. The hectic flush, 
 the sleepless night, the wasted form, showed too 
 plainly, that of all the arrows in his full quiver, the 
 fell destroyer had selected the one most securely and 
 inevitably fatal. Death, in whatever shape he ap- 
 
THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 251 
 
 proaches, may with propriety be termed the ‘king of 
 terrors;’ come as he will, we may well say to him, in 
 the words of our gifted countryman, Halleck,— 
 
 - 1 Thou art terrible ; the tear, 
 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
 
 And all we know or dream or fear 
 Of agony, are thine.’ 
 
 There is something inconceivably awful in standing 
 on the shore of time, and endeavouring in vain to 
 penetrate the veiled certainties, the mysterious re¬ 
 cesses, the unfathomable abysses of the ocean of eter¬ 
 nity. We cast our eyes backward on time, it is a passing 
 shadow, a dream, a vapour; yet it has been the source of 
 numberless joys, of ten thousand delightful recollec¬ 
 tions ; and we are now to leave them all—and for what? 
 —ah, who can tell what scenes await the disembodied 
 spirit, in that land of silence and gloom, from within 
 whose leaden portals no traveller has ever returned. 
 Is it strange then that faith, eagle-eyed as it is, should 
 sometimes be unable to penetrate the thick darkness 
 that broods over the grave ; that man, shuddering on 
 the confines of eternity, should cast * a longing, linger¬ 
 ing look behind;’ and that, in that hour, he should 
 remember, with a feeling of regret, dear friends, sweet 
 
252 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 society, and those charms of nature, to which he is 
 now to bid a final adieu. In that hour nothing but 
 the light of that glorious gospel, which has brought to 
 us life and immortality, can irradiate the gloom, and, 
 dear as many of the joys and friendships of earth may 
 be, show us still brighter and holier scenes beyond. 
 
 For myself, I have long thought that the greatest 
 boon I could ask with reference to that great event, 
 unconnected with a future state, would be, not to die 
 a living death. I would not stand and see the monarch 
 of the shades advancing with noiseless, but ceaseless 
 steps, for months before he strikes the fatal blow, flat¬ 
 tering myself to the last with the hope of escape, but 
 finding to my surprise, that death 1 never misses once 
 the track.’ I would not see the deepening anxiety of 
 my dearest friends, the extinction of hope after hope, 
 the despondency of physicians, the dimmed eye and 
 pallid cheek, nor by wasting disease defraud the ringed 
 earth-worm of the grave. Yet Somers saw, and suf¬ 
 fered, and triumphed and more than triumphed over, 
 all this. 
 
 His studies were closed; he had passed the neces¬ 
 sary examinations before the ecclesiastical body to 
 which he was attached, and as at times hope still flat¬ 
 tered him with the prospect of returning health, he 
 
THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 253 
 
 received an appointment as a missionary to the south¬ 
 western states, and immediately made his arrange¬ 
 ments to try the effect of a southern clime in reno¬ 
 vating his health and spirits. The result of the jour¬ 
 ney appeared decidedly favourable; his strength 
 rapidly increased : and when, to my no less pleasure 
 than surprise, I met him, after so long a separation, I 
 could not but hope that he was destined to a long 
 career of usefulness below. Yielding to our urgent 
 solicitations he consented to remain a while in our 
 vicinity ; we little imagining that he was never again 
 to pass the blue mountains that mark the outlines of 
 our beautiful valley, and render it one of the most 
 healthy and delightful spots on the wide earth. In 
 his style of preaching, Somers chose the simple and 
 affectionate. His object was not to astonish by his 
 brilliancy or his paradoxes; but to convince, enlighten 
 and reform. His hearers were oftener led to Calvary 
 than to Sinai; the motto of his preaching was , 1 nothing 
 but Christ!’ and on this glorious theme his lips seemed 
 moistened with dew gathered from the leaves of those 
 trees in paradise which are given for the healing of 
 the nations. To one, who hinted to him that he rather 
 avoided than encouraged the introduction of the mys¬ 
 terious and disputed doctrines of Christianity in his 
 R 
 
254 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 sermons, he replied with a smile, “ Do, my dear sir, let 
 my hearers first become Christians; it will then be 
 time enough for them to become disputants and theolo¬ 
 gians.” 
 
 Religion does not destroy any of those original 
 principles which were implanted in man by his crea¬ 
 tor ; but it enables him to govern and control them : 
 grace does not eradicate any of those social affections 
 which are the offspring of the heart; but it purifies 
 and elevates them, and renders them subservient to 
 the cause of happiness and virtue. Within a few 
 months after his arrival in the valley, Milman Somers 
 became acquainted with the young and beautiful Mary 
 Wildman. That he should become a willing captive 
 to so much loveliness could excite no surprise. To 
 superior power of intellect, she added the graces of an 
 excellent education, and over her whole deportment 
 was thrown that veil of modesty, mildness and charity 
 which can only spring from a mind thoroughly im¬ 
 bued with the belief and practice of the great truths of 
 the Christian religion. Somers loved, and his love 
 was returned with sincerity and affection; but it was 
 viewed by him as a secondary object,—it produced no 
 change in his zeal for the important work to which his 
 life was devoted,—he remembered his vows to the 
 
THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 255 
 
 Lord, and willingly hastened to redeem them; and, in 
 his loved and chosen one, he found a person who, to 
 the extent of her power, would cheerfully aid in the 
 object he had so much at heart. Thus happily situated 
 in the midst of the affectionate people by whom he 
 was surrounded, and by whom his worth was fully 
 appreciated, more than a year passed away. His 
 health had gradually improved; his preaching and his 
 exertions had been signally owned of heaven; a flour¬ 
 ishing church had been gathered; and many, very 
 many there were who considered him their spiritual 
 father, and daily invoked heaven’s choicest blessings 
 upon his head. 
 
 But the fairest prospects of human life are a dream, 
 from which we are suddenly and painfully awakened ; 
 our dearest hopes are illusory; and too often it is found, 
 that early usefulness and promising endowments are 
 but a prelude to a premature and untimely grave. Too 
 often the light which glimmers in the chamber of death 
 is but the meteor train, brilliant and fleeting, left by 
 some youthful mind ardent in the pursuit of useful 
 and honourable distinction, but whose rising orb has 
 been quenched in the chilling damps of death. The 
 death of Somers furnishes another to the already nu¬ 
 merous proofs which attest these melancholy facts. A 
 
256 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 sudden and violent cold, which caused a recurrence 
 of all the dangerous symptoms in his case, greatly 
 alarmed his friends, and not without cause. They saw 
 him again sinking: but he could not listen to their 
 warnings; he could not now hear their entreaties to be 
 more cautious in pursuing his labours, or cease his 
 exertions for the welfare of souls. He was unwilling 
 to forbear working while it was day; and while we have 
 no doubt many will rise up at the last day and call him 
 blessed, it was evident his life and strength were 
 rapidly wasting. When told by the physician that 
 the exertion of preaching would hasten his death, he 
 answered in the words of Whitfield, 1 better wear out 
 than rust out.’ When mostly confined to his room, 
 his cheerfulness did not forsake him ; a complaining, 
 murmuring spirit never was his. The struggle of his 
 soul was severe before he could calmly listen to the 
 voice which from heaven seemed to say unto him, 1 1 
 have no more work for thee to do on the earth, thy race 
 is finished; henceforth there is laid up for thee a crown 
 of glory.’ His loved Mary, who had left the place, a 
 few weeks before, for the purpose of making some 
 arrangements previous to their union, was sent for; 
 but they met not, as they had often done before, with 
 hearts buoyant with pleasing anticipations, and hopes 
 
THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 257 
 
 bright with the prospect of years of usefulness and 
 happiness to come. The hollow and sunken eye, the 
 tottering step and emaciated form, too plainly revealed 
 to the heart of the affectionate girl, the rapid strides 
 that disease had made. Still hope did not entirely 
 desert them. Somers’s physician, arguing from the 
 beneficial effects of his former journey, recommend¬ 
 ed its continuance by easy stages to Nashville, and 
 from thence by a steamboat to New Orleans, where 
 the winter was to be spent; in his solicitude offering 
 to defray all the expenses himself, and be the miss¬ 
 ionary’s companion during the journey and voyage. 
 Mary, too, was to accompany them; but the peculiar 
 delicacy of her relation to Somers, being yet un¬ 
 married, rendered more poignant by her sensibility and 
 fine feeling, can only be appreciated by those who 
 have been similarly situated. Her betrothed was to 
 be torn from her arms, yet she might not mourn 
 with those that would be called to mourn; she 
 might exchange her bridal dress for the dark habili¬ 
 ments of woe, yet the heartless and formal regula¬ 
 tions of society would hardly permit their use; day 
 and night she would willingly be near his couch to 
 anticipate his slightest wishes, smooth the uneasy 
 pillow of sickness, and if possible alleviate his distress, 
 
258 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 yet maiden delicacy forbade. One alternative remain¬ 
 ed: their vows of affection had been heard and regis¬ 
 tered in heaven, and they were now witnessed and 
 recorded on earth ; they were married. But the usual 
 demonstrations of joy which accompany the bridal 
 were wanting: hearts which bled to think of the 
 separation which was probably so soon to follow, eyes 
 from which tear-drops were falling, and deep solem¬ 
 nity and silence, were there. 
 
 Somers sunk daily, and so rapidly, that the journey 
 was abandoned, and all thought of leaving the valley 
 relinquished. The sands of his life had escaped one 
 by one, and it was evident that but few remained. 
 His voice grew fainter, his distress became greater, 
 until at last wearied nature bowed under accumulated 
 suffering; yet his patience failed not, nor was he for¬ 
 saken by his God. His language to those dear friends 
 of his who were weeping around his bed of death was, 
 u Weep not for me; I am happy in suffering here what 
 my God sees best for me to suffer, and I shall be 
 eternally happy with him, and with you hereafter.” 
 When some one ventured to speak of the success 
 which had attended the short period of his ministry, 
 he quickly replied in accents of the deepest humility, 
 “ O, mention it not to me : give Jesus the praise; his 
 
THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 259 
 
 blood has wrought it all; were I to preach a thousand 
 years, Christ, and him crucified, should be all my 
 theme.” For several hours previous to his death, he 
 had lain speechless and apparently insensible. Anx¬ 
 ious to know whether his faith was still unvarying, his 
 faithful Mary, who was bending over him with all the 
 anguish of a bleeding heart, lowered her head, and, in 
 a gentle whisper, inquired if he knew who was speak¬ 
 ing to him? “Oh yes!” was his reply, in a voice 
 almost suffocated with the gathering damps of death; 
 while at the same time, with an effort of which he 
 could not have been supposed capable, he threw his 
 arms around her, and clasped her to his bosom; u oh 
 yes ! you are my dear Mary, and in heaven I shall not 
 forget you.” Then, with the last effort and accents 
 of ebbing existence, he poured out a prayer to his 
 heavenly father, pressed the lips of his beautiful Mary 
 to his own, and on them, with his last kiss, breathed 
 out his soul, and fell asleep in Jesus. 
 
 { He faded, not as the sun, which sets in clouds 
 And gloom; but as the morning star, which melts 
 And mingles in the glorious light of day.’ 
 
 Near the head of the valley, on the bank of a clear 
 stream that there descends from the mountain, is a 
 
260 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 burial ground, over which a few large graceful elms 
 spread their branches, and wave their light feathery 
 tassels; and here, in this secluded retreat, far away from 
 the busy and bustling world, repose the remains of the 
 youthful, the prayerful, the successful, and the lamented 
 Milman Somers. I saw the multitude which, with 
 mournful step and slow, followed him to his last resting- 
 place, and many a hat was there lifted to conceal that 
 softening of the heart and hide those tears which all 
 rugged bosoms are ashamed to exhibit. I have heard 
 the muffled drum, and the low death dirge; I have 
 seen the glitter and pageantry of wealth and pride: but 
 they could never make such deep and lasting impress¬ 
 ions, as the spontaneous and affecting respect paid to 
 this humble missionary of Christ, It was the tribute 
 paid to departed excellence, by the best and holiest 
 feelings of the heart. I saw the widowed bride as, 
 with grief too profound for tears, she pressed her 
 white hand on his marble forehead; and, as his comely 
 head was lowered into the grave, I reflected on the 
 mysterious providence which cuts off in the morning 
 of life, from the sweets of domestic bliss, and in the 
 full promise of extensive usefulness, such an individual; 
 while the wretch who lives only to spread the con¬ 
 taminations of vice, who is a curse to his family and 
 
THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 261 
 
 neighbourhood, lives to old age, despising every thing 
 sacred, and, to the last, trifling with his God. The 
 satisfactory and consoling result of all was, ‘ even so, 
 Father, for so it seemeth good in thy sight!’ 
 
 W. G. 
 
 / 
 
262 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 SAMSON. 
 
 There stands a pile in Gaza. Crowd on crowd 
 Have gathered ’neath its arches; and the hum 
 Of voiceful merriment re-echoes round. 
 
 With gorgeous pomp, lit by the golden sun, 
 
 In state luxurious and imposing, rest 
 The lords of the Philistines. Dagon’s form 
 Swells, like some vast-proportioned statue, near, 
 And, blending earth’s with ocean’s wonders, ends 
 In folds voluminous along the ground. 
 
 O’er fretted shaft and architrave, are seen 
 Groups above groups, down-gazing, far beneath, 
 Where, like the surges of a stormy sea, 
 
 Gay multitudes are moving. Music sounds; 
 
 And laugh, and jeer, and shout, alternate rise. 
 
 Who stands before the assemblage, still and sad, 
 
- 
 
 >'■ 
 
 
 
 ft 
 
 
 0 
 
 y 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
SAMSON. 
 
 263 
 
 With wrists all scarred, and arms in solemn guise 
 Folded, in listless sorrow, on his breast, 
 
 While sinks his head, as if awearied, there? 
 
 It is the Hebrew, Samson; girt by foes, 
 
 Worn with the fever of a prisoner’s heart, 
 
 And by his griefs enfeebled. Late he stood, 
 
 Unshorn and full of strength, on Hebron’s hill, 
 
 While bars and ponderous gates his shoulders bore, 
 Wrenched from proud Gaza’s wall, when midnight 
 clouds 
 
 Toiled with the moon for mastery in the sky. 
 
 Now, robbed of sight, he groped his way, and stood 
 Between the pillars of that mighty pile, 
 
 And heard, with troubled ear, the murmuring tones 
 That swelled, tumultuous, round him. Then, per¬ 
 chance, 
 
 His wandering thoughts the mazy days recalled, 
 When, through voluptuous hours, his eyes, ensnared, 
 Were bent upon the syren, by whose arts 
 He late had mourned in prison. Now, no more, 
 
 Her witching dalliance charmed: her form, no more, 
 Moved like a spell before him. He had woke, 
 
 From a poor vision of ephemeral joy, 
 
 To brazen fetters and a dungeon’s gloom. 
 
 A pause amidst the mirth—as comes a calm 
 
264 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Before some sweeping storm—hath touched the crowd. 
 The sightless prisoner’s lips in prayer are moved, 
 
 As ’midst the pillars of the pile he stands. 
 
 A pause,—and then a murmur, like the stir 
 Of subterranean winds and gathering weaves 
 Which bodes the coming earthquake! Now hath 
 dawned 
 
 The shorn one’s hour of triumph!—for, above, 
 
 Around and underneath, like meeting seas, 
 
 A sound, which checks th’ assembly’s indrawn breath, 
 Peals on each listener’s bent and earnest ear! 
 
 Mark, where the pillars tremble, as the man, 
 
 Whose arms embrace them, clothed in godlike 
 strength, 
 
 Bends, in his ponderous effort, to and fro! 
 
 Now, look above:—and ’gainst 1 the wounded air,’ 
 Transpierced with many a shriek and bitter groan, 
 See countless hands, in frenzied gesture raised 
 And supplication vain;—and mark, below, 
 
 The multitudes down-crouching, pale with dread 
 And shuddering, in the ague-chill of fear! 
 
 Now, yawn the yielding arches; and wild throngs 
 Spring from the breaking roof, delirious, down. 
 
 One stern, unbroken and resistless cry— 
 
 One crash of living thunder,—all is still. 
 
SAMSON. 
 
 265 
 
 The sun hath set on Gaza: yet the west 
 Burns, with a vivid crimson, where the clouds, 
 
 In gold and purple, stretch their winglike folds 
 Up toward the sapphire ether. Night is near: 
 
 And from the ruins of the broken pile, 
 
 Where late the captive Hebrew strove and prayed, 
 There rise the echoes of some sufferer’s groan 
 Yet numbered ’midst the living: faint and low, 
 They melt, at last, to silence. 
 
 Death is there ! 
 
 And, as a shadow, broods above the scene, 
 
 While winds, like funeral anthems, wail around. 
 Look, once again! the clouds,but late so bright, 
 
 To shadowy forms have turned, and pall the sky; 
 O’er joy’s sad wreck a saddening spell is shed, 
 
 And darkness shrouds old Gaza’s lordly dead. 
 
 W. G. C. 
 
 Philadelphia. 
 
266 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 SHALL I CONSENT TO BECOME HIS 
 
 WIFE P 
 
 My dear and valued friend, that portion of your 
 letter which contains the question , 1 Shall I consent 
 to become his wife ?’ is one which has awakened in 
 my bosom sensations of the most painful description ; 
 because I am fully aware how thankless, and how 
 generally useless the advice, which, on a question of 
 the kind you propose me, runs counter to the wishes 
 of the heart of the one who asks it. You tell me that 
 
 Mr H-is an excellent man ; that in many of the 
 
 relations of life he has proved himself all that could be 
 desired, and that your own heart leans to the accept¬ 
 ance of his offer, and only hesitates because he is not 
 decidedly a religious character. You say that he re¬ 
 spects religion, and that he will not interfere with 
 any of your religious advantages. Permit me here to 
 observe that you entirely miscalculate the enmity of 
 
SHALL I BECOME HIS WIFE ? 
 
 267 
 
 the unrenewed heart to religion; and that you lay 
 more weight on the negative principle of respect for 
 piety, than it will ever be found able to bear. How 
 can a man truly respect religion and yet never em¬ 
 brace it? You would certainly hold it quite prepos¬ 
 terous for me to recommend to you a man of decidedly 
 vicious habits, and tell you that though this was his 
 character, he unquestionably was a respecter of virtue. 
 No man truly respects virtue who lives in vice; and no 
 man truly respects religion who is in the daily habit 
 of refusing the adoption of its obligations. You tell 
 me that Mr H-would not interfere with your re¬ 
 
 ligious advantages; and I can tell you, from very long 
 and painful observation among cases precisely similar, 
 how much this non-interference would amount to. 
 He would not certainly interfere with your religious 
 privileges while those privileges, in their enjoyment, 
 did not interfere with his personal gratification; but 
 the moment your religion required self-denial on his 
 part, or ran counter to views or plans which he wished 
 to indulge, that moment the principle of non-inter¬ 
 ference would be abandoned. I write this because I 
 have seen it in case after case, and have marked the 
 total destruction which it made, either of religion on 
 the one hand, or of domestic enjoyment on the other. 
 1 grant that I have seen exceptions : but they are rare 
 
268 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 —very, very rare; in Scripture phrase, ‘like the 
 gleaning of the olive, one or two upon the topmost 
 boughs.’ 
 
 Now, need I answer your question ? ‘ The perfec¬ 
 
 tion of conjugal felicity,’ says one, ‘depends upon 
 the existence of similar religious feelings in the par¬ 
 ties. No language can paint the bitterness of that 
 pang which rends the heart when a dissimilarity of 
 taste prevails in so important an affair. Let those 
 who are forming connections in this life, and who 
 love Christ in sincerity , reflect on the fatal consequen¬ 
 ces of devoting their affections to such as can never 
 accompany them to the house of God but with reluc¬ 
 tance, or to the throne of grace but with weariness and 
 aversion. If the object of your fondest regard be an 
 unbeliever, your pleasures and your pains of a religious 
 kind, which are the most intense, will be unpartici¬ 
 pated. You must walk alone in those paths of plea¬ 
 santness, which would be still more endeared by such 
 sweet society, and you must suffer the keenest sor¬ 
 rows of the heart, perhaps without daring to name 
 them, and certainly without one tear, one word, one 
 look of soothing sympathy.’ 
 
 How far these remarks may influence your determi¬ 
 nation, I am not able to conjecture. In the business 
 of the heart, there is so much of mere feeling, that cold 
 
SHALL I BECOME HIS WIFE ? 269 
 
 reasoning is apt to be much disregarded; and then, 
 very much like Esau, who sold his birth-right for the 
 short-lived gratification of an hour, many 1 find no 
 place or opportunity of repentance,’ though they feel 
 its dread necessity, even unto ‘ tears.’ 
 
 Your affectionate friend. 
 
 s 
 
270 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 And there were, in the same country, shepherds abiding in 
 the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo! 
 the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the 
 Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And 
 the angel said unto them, Fear not, for I bring you good tidings 
 of great joy, which shall be to all people, for unto you is born 
 this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, who is Christ the 
 Lord. 
 
 Luke, II. 8— 11. 
 
 ‘ How beautiful that night! 
 
 A dewy freshness filled the silent air, 
 No mist obscured, no little cloud 
 Broke the whole serene of Heaven. 
 
 In full orbed glory, the majestic moon 
 Rolled through the dark blue depths. 
 Beneath her steady ray, 
 
 The silvered landscape spread, 
 
 And slept in loveliness ! 
 
 How beautiful that night.’ 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 271 
 
 Lured by the beauty of the night, which, in the 
 climate of Judea, is almost atall seasons unclouded, it is 
 more than probable that the shepherds had gathered 
 themselves into small companies, to enjoy the delights 
 of social intercourse. In the day time they would of 
 necessity be separated as they followed their flocks, 
 feeding on the hills or valleys, or drinking at the crys¬ 
 tal fountains. But at night , after they had brought 
 their flocks in safety to the fold, they could draw near 
 each other, and realize the pleasures which the occu¬ 
 pations of the day forbade. In the day time, the sun 
 poured down his beams in heat the most excessive; but 
 at night , there was a sweet refreshing coolness super- 
 added to a cloudless sky, and still more, worlds of 
 moving light above them, calculated to raise their 
 thoughts up to the Maker of them all. 
 
 If these shepherds were pious (and we have no reason 
 to doubt it, for we learn that there were those who look¬ 
 ed for redemption in Jerusalem), we may reasonably 
 conjecture the subjects of their nightly conversations. 
 Sometimes they dwelt upon the expectation and the 
 consolation of Israel, sometimes they mourned over 
 the ruin and desolation of their country under the 
 Roman domination, and anxiously dwelt upon the 
 period when, according to the promise, the ruin was 
 to be repaired, and the land restored to its primitive 
 
272 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 possessors. At times they talked over the prophecies 
 which were calculated to excite their hopes, and ever 
 and anon they bowed in humble supplication, and 
 prayed that Zion’s God would arise and have mercy 
 upon her. 
 
 These are speculations; be they as they may, it w r as 
 while these shepherds were keeping watch over their 
 flocks by night, that ‘ an angel came down among them 
 and the glory of the Lord shone round about them.’ 
 It is not surprising that they were 1 sore afraid;’ super¬ 
 natural appearances are calculated to produce sudden 
 and strong emotions. In the by-gone days of the 
 patriarchs, when God, by some visible manifestations 
 of his presence, visited and conversed with his ser¬ 
 vants, less surprise was excited, because he vouchsafed 
 in some measure to many, what has since been almost 
 totally denied to all. The Jews, for forty years, saw, 
 without emotion, that supernatural cloud in which 
 God dwelt among them as his peculiar people. By 
 day, they walked by its guidance and were sheltered 
 beneath its shadow; and by night, it was their light, 
 more than sun or moon or stars. As the glory gra¬ 
 dually departed from Israel, supernatural messengers 
 were less frequently vouchsafed, and, at the time in 
 which the event took place which is the subject of 
 this brief meditation, it seemed as if God had almost 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 273 
 
 forsaken totally his once so highly favoured people. 
 The vision was over, and the prophecy had been sealed 
 four hundred years. During this long and gloomy night 
 of their desolations, no messenger from heaven had 
 cheered the fainting spirits of this singular people. 
 But at the period of which we write, a kind of breath¬ 
 less anxiety seemed to characterize the whole nation 
 of the Jews; there was something disturbed in their 
 whole spiritual atmosphere. A few beams of light, 
 just like the fitful gleaming of some solitary star as it 
 breaks through the clouds of a tempestuous night, 
 seemed to keep alive hope; but that was all. But as 
 the ‘ fulness of time’ came on, there were some brighter 
 indications. There was an angel messenger to Zach- 
 arias and to Mary, who told of wondrous things soon 
 to be developed; but it was reserved to these humble 
 shepherds, successors to the early occupation of Israel’s 
 first distinguished king, to have so glorious an annun¬ 
 ciation as that of the long looked for Messiah, successor 
 to David’s long lost dignity. It is no wonder, then, that 
 they were { sore afraid.’ They knew not the purport 
 of the supernatural visit. It might have portended 
 some tremendous evil; it might have brought them 
 some intimation of their nation’s deeper degradation, 
 and more signal ruin; perhaps their fears were merely 
 personal, and their souls may have sunk within them 
 
274 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 at the apprehension of danger or of death to themselves. 
 But no! a message of mercy was upon the angel’s lip, 
 and he did not leave them to indulge their apprehen¬ 
 sions; “Fear not, I bring you Good Tidings of 
 Great Joy, which shall be to All People.” 
 
 <&ooti of ©imt $o». 
 
 This is the designation—the glorious, the heart-con¬ 
 soling designation of the gospel of the Son of God. In 
 these good tidings, were the purposes of God in the 
 redemption of mankind most fully developed. 
 
 mm sijali he to mi people. 
 
 This must have struck their minds with a deeper 
 amazement. It was counter to all their habits of 
 thought, and to all the pride of their national feeling. 
 The Jews had all along been the peculiarly favoured 
 people of God, to them appertained the 1 adoption and 
 the glory,’ and the covenants, and the giving of the 
 law, and the service, and the promises— { whose were 
 the fathers, and of whom, as concerning the flesh. 
 Christ came, who is over all God blessed for ever.’ 
 These had been the glories and the peculiar privileges 
 of the Jews. For reasons, the full knowledge of which 
 is hidden from us, God saw fit to pass over the other 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 275 
 
 nations of the earth, and to confine to them the mighty 
 advantages of a direct revelation. Redemption by the 
 blood of a Saviour was taught in the sacrifices of their 
 law, for they knew that ‘ without the shedding of blood 
 there is no remission.’ Types and figures of the 
 most varied and interesting character were spread out 
 before them, and 1 redemption’ was the theme of many 
 a prophet’s inspired song. If they understood not the 
 spiritual import of all these, it was owing to the blind¬ 
 ness, not of their understandings, but their hearts. But 
 now , no more confined to the Jews, the knowledge of 
 salvation is to become co-extensive with the limits of 
 the world. No obscurity of type or figure, no sacri¬ 
 fice of beast, no prophet’s song, bids us look through 
 the long vista of many years. Since the eventful 
 period when the angels told the shepherds the glad 
 tidings of salvation for all people , its knowledge has 
 been rapidly increasing, and within the last half cen¬ 
 tury its stride has been gigantic. That land can now 
 scarcely be pointed out which knows no visitation of 
 the beams of the sun of righteousness. The Bible—the 
 Bible has shed its glories amidst the darkest recesses 
 of heathen ignorance, and wherever the missionary 
 of the cross hath told his message of love and mercy, 
 there have the triumphs of the cross been exhibited. 
 It is true 1 there remaineth much land yet to be pos- 
 
276 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 sessed,’ but there are elements at work which must 
 change the moral condition of the world. God, with¬ 
 out whose aid the mightiest efforts would be unavail¬ 
 ing, has condescended to stretch forth his arm, and 
 1 not by might nor power, but by the spirit of the 
 Lord of hosts,’ shall nation after nation be converted 
 to the faith of Christianity, till the 1 knowledge of the 
 Lord shall cover the earth.’ It should be the prayer of 
 Christians, unceasing, and their endeavours zealously 
 bestowed, that the kingdom of God be speedily estab¬ 
 lished in truth and righteousness through every land 
 which sees the rising glories of the sun, or is visited 
 by the splendours of his setting rays. 
 
 <Sabfour. 
 
 Salvation implies release from the penalty of sin, and 
 release from its power, and glory in the world to come. 
 As a sacrifice for sin, the Saviour takes away its penalty 
 and has destroyed its dominion. By the purchased 
 influences of the holy spirit, he prepares for heaven. 
 An act of pardon to a criminal does not entitle him to 
 the favour and approbation of him against whom he 
 had offended. God requires a change in the heart , and 
 a Saviour is one who saves from the power as well as 
 the penalty of sin. 1 Marvel not that ye must be born 
 again.’ A Saviour for sinners would by no means 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 277 
 
 accomplish the object of his mission, unless by the 
 operation of an agency which is supernatural he should 
 qualify them for a state of glory. 
 
 m \)o is €l)Vtst 
 
 This means the anointed one—the Messiah. But 
 there is a climax of extraordinary fitness in the message 
 of the angel—a Saviour, who is Christ 
 
 £lje 3Lovtr, 
 
 Jehovah. This is a testimony to the divinity of Christ. 
 He is a Saviour of no human contrivance. The Lord 
 of angels and of men, 1 Emanuel, God with us.’ 
 
 Well then, at the annunciation of a truth so impor¬ 
 tant, might the angelic host break forth into singing, 
 and the burden of their song be the raptured strain, 
 
 £ Glory to God ! salvation’s born to-day.’ 
 
 If we receive this message with our hearts , and ac¬ 
 cept of this free and full salvation, then shall the glad 
 tidings of great joy, announced by the angel, be for 
 us consummated in a happiness and glory, the full 
 character of which even Gabriel’s tongue were in¬ 
 competent to tell. 
 
278 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 THE INSCRIPTION ON THE CROSS. 
 
 From the French of Bossuet. 
 
 Let me direct your attention to the cross, on which 
 was displayed this inscription, in three languages: 
 ‘ Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.’ It is true 
 that Pilate wrote these words in opposition to the Jews. 
 This complacent judge, who sacrificed the innocent 
 Jesus lest he should offend the synagogue, becomes, 
 of a sudden, obstinately determined to preserve three 
 or four words which he wrote without any design, 
 and which appeared of so little importance. I here 
 behold the secret interposition of God! It was his 
 will that the royalty of Jesus should be proclaimed 
 from the ignominious cross on which he expired. The 
 inscription is written in Hebrew, which is the lan¬ 
 guage of the people of God! It is written in Greek, 
 which is the language of the learned! And it is 
 

INSCRIPTION ON THE CROSS. 279 
 
 written in Latin, which is the language of the empire 
 of the world. Inventors of the arts, oh Grecians! 
 inheritors of the promise of God, oh Jews! lords of 
 the world, oh Romans! draw near, read this pregnant 
 inscription, and bend before your king! The time 
 advances, when this unpitied, deserted sufferer will 
 call to his standard all the inhabitants of the earth. 
 Let me yield to the exultation that now warms my 
 bosom, while Tertullian informs me, that in his days, 
 in the infancy of the church, the name of Jesus was 
 universally adored :— 1 We form,’ says that illustrious 
 personage, 1 almost the greatest number in every 
 town. Pars pene major civitatis cujusque.' The 
 invincible Parthians, the antinome Thracians, so called 
 by the ancients in consequence of their refractory 
 nature, which disdained the restraint of law: these 
 ardent, undisciplined minds submitted to the yoke of 
 Jesus. The Medes, the Armenians, the Persians, the 
 remote Indians, the Moors, the Arabs, the extensive 
 provinces of the East, Egypt, Ethiopia, Africa, the 
 wandering Scythian, the savage inhabitant of Barbary, 
 embrace the humanizing doctrine of Christ. England, 
 inaccessible from its immortal bulwark—the ocean, 
 ‘ even on the shore of this isle,’ says Tertullian, 
 ‘ the faith of Christ has landed.’ The British coast, 
 which the stately ships of the warlike Romans ap- 
 
280 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 proached with caution, with peril, and with labour, 
 the boat of the holy fisherman found of easy access. 
 Shall I not mention the inhabitants of Spain, the 
 warring nation of the Gauls, and the ferocious Ger¬ 
 mans, who were accustomed to boast, that they never 
 would consent to fear, unless the canopy of the 
 heavens should fall upon their heads : even these 
 tigers crouch submissive to the Lamb ? Rome, impe¬ 
 rial Rome, that proud city, drunk with the blood of 
 the martyrs of Jesus; even she lays her sceptre at 
 the foot of the cross! Oh, sacred instrument of our 
 salvation! thy form shall be erected over every temple, 
 thy form shall be the ornament affixed to every diadem. 
 And, oh royal master! to whom we so justly and so 
 exclusively belong, who hast redeemed us with the 
 price of unutterable love and unbounded charity, we 
 acknowledge thee to be our sovereign: we offer thee 
 this day a solemn dedication of ourselves; thy law 
 shall be the law of our hearts. I will sing thy praises, 
 I will never cease proclaiming thy mercies; I vow to 
 thee eternal fidelity; and in this entire consecration 
 of myself to thy service, may I live and may I die! 
 
281 
 
 CLOSING THOUGHTS. 
 
 ‘Who knows if Heaven, with ever bounteous power, 
 
 Shall add to-morrow to the present hour ?’ 
 
 We have now reached the closing article of our 
 volume, and by a very natural association we are led 
 to meditation on the close of the year and the close 
 of our lives. And although the Almighty Creatorof the 
 universe has of his infinite goodness permitted us to 
 arrive at the commencement of another year, it be¬ 
 hoves us, amidst the festivities which characterise 
 this joyful season, to cast a retrospective glance over 
 the year which has ended, and drop a tear of recollection 
 over the time which we have mispent, which has 
 now passed away never to return; and from the expe¬ 
 rience of the past learn wisdom for the conduct of the 
 future. It is true there are moments when the weighty 
 consideration that we have not diligently employed 
 
282 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 the time and talents committed to our care comes 
 home to every bosom; but it is no less true that the 
 pleasures and vanities of the world soon check the 
 emotion raised by such consideration, and stifle the 
 glow of feeling ere it penetrates to the heart, or influ¬ 
 ences the conduct of men. It is true, that resolutions 
 of amendment are formed to ‘redeem the time,’ but 
 again the melancholy truth presents itself, that pro¬ 
 crastination, with insidious wiles, lures the mind from 
 the performance, till resolution itself is lost in the 
 languor of indifference or the gloom of forgetfulness. 
 Let us seriously reflect before we suffer procrastination 
 to steal away those precious moments which a God of 
 infinite mercy has given us to enjoy that we might 
 improve, and which, when passed, can never be re¬ 
 called. 
 
 There appears no position established with greater 
 truth, than that the time allotted to every man in this 
 life is short. The most natural conclusion, then, which 
 we can derive from this is, that each should spend 
 that portion of it which he can call his own, in a man¬ 
 ner which will conduce most to his happiness and 
 enjoyment here, and which will afford a reasonable 
 hope of enjoying happiness hereafter. Though it be 
 allowed on all hands that time is precious, and that 
 there will be exacted, at the day of judgment, a 
 
CLOSING THOUGHTS. 
 
 283 
 
 rigorous account of the manner in which it has been 
 employed; though we hear men continually expatia¬ 
 ting on the uncertainty of life : yet, strange inconsis¬ 
 tency! how few do we behold who are influenced by 
 these considerations ! We know that life is a shadow, 
 a vapour, and that the tenure upon which it is held 
 is not in our own power; yet we are continually 
 extending our thoughts towards the future, and the 
 task, which should have been performed to-day, is 
 trusted to the hoped-for event of times over which we 
 are conscious we may have no control. This vice of 
 procrastination, though particularly incident to youth, 
 is observed to extend its influence even to those whose 
 hoary locks of lengthened years proclaim them stand¬ 
 ing on the brink of the grave; and though in both it 
 is a crime which cannot be palliated, yet while in the 
 former it appears unpardonable folly, in the latter it 
 wears the disgusting form of extremity of madness. 
 In youth we are accustomed to delay, and flatter our¬ 
 selves that the time will come when leisure or 
 convenience will better enable us to perform a duty 
 than the present, and think that our age entitles us to 
 defer whatever we wish to be deferred. The folly of 
 this is apparent. Time rolls on, and the mind becomes 
 distracted and overwhelmed by the accumulated 
 weight of plans unfinished and duties unperformed. 
 
284 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 Let it also be suggested that the bloom and fire of youth 
 form no barrier against the chilling blasts of death, 
 and even the vigour of manhood cannot shield the 
 bosom from his dart. Procrastination is the leprosy of 
 the soul, and it becomes the province of every one 
 who desires the eternal welfare of his fellows, by every 
 means in his power to endeavour to counteract the 
 progress of this mental malady, the contagion of whose 
 influence spreads disease through every degree of 
 society, and which, in proportion to its continuance, 
 is enabled more successfully to resist the operations 
 of skill. To check the disease in its first approaches 
 is the conduct of wisdom; therefore, to the young, to 
 be watchful against the encroachment of procrastina¬ 
 tion, is advice of extensive moment and worthy to be 
 followed. If, then, there is any design or duty which 
 will tend to promote our prosperity or happiness, we 
 should seize the present moment before time shall have 
 deadened the vigour of effort. Each in the pursuit of 
 pleasure is indefatigable. There is no sensual gratifi¬ 
 cation which any consideration will induce us to delay; 
 but it is only in affairs which require vigorous exertion 
 and industrious application that we are liable to 
 procrastinate. But if, in the pursuit of gratifications 
 which are generally vicious and always transitory, we 
 are ever active, how much more so should we be in 
 
CLOSING THOUGHTS. 
 
 285 
 
 the provision of pleasures which no incident can 
 destroy; and which will be a source of continual 
 enjoyment when age shall have relaxed the springs of 
 passion, and entirely precluded the power of active 
 and vigorous exertion. These are the pleasures of a 
 mind resting its hopes on the prospects of a future and 
 endless state of happiness; the gratifications of a con¬ 
 science not harrowed by the remorse of time mispent. 
 ‘As he who lives longest,’ says the Rambler, ‘lives 
 but a little while, every man may be certain that he 
 has no time to lose. The duties of life are commen¬ 
 surate to its duration; and every day brings its task, 
 which, if neglected, is doubled on the morrow. But 
 he that has already trifled away those months and 
 years in which he should have laboured, must remem¬ 
 ber that he now has only a part of that of which the 
 whole is little, and that as the few moments remaining 
 are to be considered as the last trust of Heaven, not 
 one is to be lost.’ 
 
 Opportunities of acting also, it is important to be 
 remarked, do not always occur; and we may lose, by 
 not improving a favourable opportunity, advantages 
 which years of future endeavour may not, perhaps, be 
 able to encompass. The great folly of those deluded 
 victims of procrastination is ably displayed by the 
 Latin satirist, and the advice with which he com- 
 
 T 
 
286 
 
 RELIGIOUS SOUVENIR. 
 
 mences is worthy to be imprinted on the recollection 
 of every individual. 
 
 Sapere, aude, 
 
 Incipe. Vivendi recte qui prorogat horam, 
 
 Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis j at ille 
 Labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis aevum. 
 
 II or. 
 
 Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise, 
 
 He who defers his work from day to day, 
 
 Does on a river’s bank expecting stay, 
 
 Till the whole stream that stopped him should be gone, 
 Which runs, and, as it runs, for ever will run on. 
 
 Cowley. 
 
 Let us then resolve, and firmly adhere to every 
 resolution, and never defer to the future what it is 
 incumbent on us now to perform. Let us recollect 
 that every moment of life has its appropriate duties. 
 If those duties are well performed, if those moments 
 are well employed, they will produce the most conso¬ 
 ling effects. They will give to man the greatest of all 
 blessings, an approving conscience. They will con¬ 
 duce to the happiness of the present life, and be 
 intimately connected with the happiness of a life 
 hereafter. 
 
 To repent of sin—to turn to God in newness of 
 life—to dedicate the whole being to him who redeemed 
 
CLOSING THOUGHTS. 
 
 287 
 
 us by his blood, are dictates of the only true wisdom , 
 and this we recommend and seek to enforce by the 
 following declarations of Holy Writ: thus closing our 
 labours by words of divine inspiration. ‘ Whatsoever 
 thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, for there 
 is no counsel or device or knowledge in the grave, 
 whither thou goest.’ 1 Go to now, ye that say, To-day 
 or to-morrow we will go into such a city, and continue 
 there a year, and buy and sell and get gain. Whereas 
 ye know not what shall be on the morrow, for what is 
 your life ? It is a vapour which appeareth for a little 
 while, and then vanisheth away.’ ‘ The night cometh 
 in which no man can work.’ 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Philadelphia: 
 
 Printed by James Kay, Jun. & Co. 
 4 Minor Street. 
 
I&otal anti 3&cltjjfous 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 KEY, MIELKE & BIDDLE, BOOKSELLERS, No. 181 MARKET 
 STREET, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
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