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FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
 DWak« "SOB 
 j^ction / H%2 
 
/ 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 OF THE 
 
 REV. HENRY MOWES, 
 
 LATE PASTOR OF 
 
 ALTENHAUSEN AND IVENRODE, PRUSSIA. 
 
 PRINCIPALLY TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN'. 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION, 
 
 BY THE REV. JOHN DAVIE3, B.D, 
 
 RECTOR OF GATESHEAD, DURHAM J 
 AVTHOR OF "AX ESTIMATE OF THE HUMAN MIND," ETC. 
 
 " They also serve, who only stand and wait." — MlLTON. 
 
 LONDON: 
 THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY; 
 
 Instituted 1799. 
 
 dfpository, 56, paternoster row, and 65, st, 
 Paul's churchyard. 
 
TO 
 
 MY BELOVED PARENTS, 
 
 UNDER WHOSE APPROBATION AND ENCOURAGEMENT 
 
 THIS LITTLE WORK 
 
 HAS BEEN COMPILED. 
 
 IT IS 
 
 MOST AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Introduction, by the Rev. J. Davies, b.d v 
 
 Preface xi 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Mowes' early life, to his taking orders in 1818 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 His character — Removal to Altenhausen in 1822 — Oc- 
 cupation in that parish 17 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Death of his friend in 1828 — The failure of his health 
 — Removal from Altenhausen, 1830 — Death of his 
 eldest daughter 36 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Fluctuating state of his health to December, 1832 65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Prospect of recovery — Change — His death in 1834 — 
 His literary character — Conclusion 104 
 
 Addenda 147 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE REV. J. DA VIES, B. D. 
 
 The subject of the following brief memoir became 
 first known to the author of these remarks through 
 the medium of a series of papers, which appeared a 
 short time since in the " Archives du Christianisme, ,, 
 a French periodical, which, for many years, has advo- 
 cated the cause of true religion on the continent, 
 with great ability and success. The character of 
 Mowes appeared to him interesting, not only as pre- 
 senting a specimen of a man of high and noble en- 
 dowments, passing through a variety of difficult and 
 perilous enterprises, devoting himself with unusual 
 energy to a work which he justly regarded as of still 
 higher moment, and triumphantly closing his career, 
 after a conflict, the severity of which was exceeded 
 only by the consolations vouchsafed to him, but also 
 
 A 2 
 
VI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 as he might be regarded as one of the morning stars 
 of that second reformation which has dawned on the 
 European continent. 
 
 For a long series of years, the light of scriptural 
 Christianity, which burst forth among the forests of 
 Germany during the earlier period of the sixteenth 
 century, had become almost utterly extinct. But a 
 faint gleam, at distant intervals, was just perceptible, 
 amidst the prevailing darkness of ignorance and indif- 
 ference ; and, of late years, of a pseudo-scientific ra- 
 tionalism, which is but another and somewhat refined 
 form of infidelity. It was after a long night of this 
 slumber of the spiritual faculties, when the close of the 
 revolutionary wars had afforded an opportunity for 
 the dissemination of the Holy Scriptures over the 
 various countries of Europe, that Mowes, who had 
 gallantly borne his part for the vindication of the li- 
 berties of his country in those wars, arose in a remote 
 part of the northern hemisphere, and, by means of his 
 personal ministrations, and through, perhaps, the still 
 more effective instrumentality of his devotional poetic 
 effusions, contributed much to the diffusion of the 
 light of pure and unsophisticated Christianity through- 
 out the nation. 
 
 Such were the circumstances under which Mowes 
 appeared, and such were the services which, as an 
 instrument in the hand of God, he was destined to 
 perform. The more peculiar features of his character, 
 the clearness and distinctness of his views on the great 
 fundamental principles of the Christian system, the 
 energy of his faith, the ardour of his love, the de- 
 votedness of his life, the warmth of his social affec- 
 
INTRODUCTION. Vll 
 
 tions, and the intensity of the sufferings which he was, 
 doubtless for wise and needful purposes, doomed to 
 undergo, will be more distinctly displayed in the 
 following pages. 
 
 The writer had himself prepared a memoir of 
 Mowes, drawn principally from the same sources, the 
 original German biography prefixed to his poems, 
 accompanied with a translation of two or three of the 
 smaller poems, intended as specimens of the poetry. 
 When, however, it was on the point of publication, 
 he learnt that a similar task had been undertaken by 
 another hand, and that the work was nearly out of the 
 press. He was, therefore, happy to relinquish his own 
 undertaking, and feels great pleasure in recommend- 
 ing the following narrative, as affording a most inter- 
 esting and instructive view of the character of a man, 
 the brightness of whose genius was only surpassed by 
 the superior lustre of his piety. In the ardour of his 
 devotion, as well as in other points of his character, 
 he will remind the reader of Martyn, and Brainerd, 
 and Felix Neff ; but in exquisite tenderness of feel- 
 ing, and in vividness of imagination, he was equalled 
 by few, if any, among his cotemporaries or prede- 
 cessors. 
 
 Since the death of Mowes, it is gratifying to know 
 that true religion, on the continent of Europe, has 
 made great and most encouraging progress. The 
 semi-infidel rationalism, which had been in full posses- 
 sion of nearly all the high places of academical in- 
 struction, had intruded into almost every corner of the 
 sanctuary of the church, and had diffused its lethargic 
 poison over the mass of the population, has now been 
 
VUl INTRODUCTION. 
 
 forced to retire into comparative obscurity ; and the 
 great doctrines of the gospel, which called forth the 
 resistless energies of the early champions of the Pro- 
 testant reformation, begin to recover the ground 
 which they had lost. They are, in a great variety of 
 instances, distinctly recognized and illustrated from 
 the professor's chair, and enforced, with simplicity and 
 zeal, from a vast multitude of the pulpits of the na- 
 tional churches. This salutary movement among the 
 stagnant waters of continental Protestantism, seems 
 to be almost simultaneous throughout all the countries 
 in which the profession had been publicly recognized 
 by the state. At Berlin, the metropolis of Prussia, 
 and at Halle, Tholuck and others are devoting the re- 
 sources of the most profound and extensive erudition 
 to the maintenance and diffusion of the vital and dis- 
 tinguishing truths of Christianity. At Paris, Grand- 
 pierre, Juillerat, Chasseur, and F. Monod, are labour- 
 ing with unremitting energy and zeal for the advance- 
 ment of the Redeemer's kingdom. At Montauban, 
 the ancient Protestant seminary of France, Adolphe 
 Monod and De Felice, both men of commanding 
 power and eloquence, are illustrating the same great 
 principles from the chairs of Ecclesiastical History and 
 Hebrew Literature ; and, under the auspices of these 
 and others associated with them, a new confession 
 of faith, embodying and more distinctly re-asserting 
 the fundamental articles of the ancient Protestant 
 church of France, has recently been proposed and 
 adopted by a very large proportion of the ministers of 
 that part of the country. At Geneva, where true re- 
 ligion had sunk into the very lowest grade of cold and 
 
INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 heartless neology, a theological school has sprung up, 
 and is vigorously and successfully conducted, in 
 which the recovered doctrines of the gospel are 
 taught to a number of youths training up for the mi- 
 nistry, by Merle d'Aubigne, the well-known author 
 of the " History of the Protestant Reformation," by 
 Ganssen, and others of the same spirit. At Lausanne, 
 Vinet, a man of profound philosophical views, as well 
 as of sound orthodoxy of principle, occupies one of 
 the professor's chairs, and, both by his writings and 
 personal exertions, gives a powerful impulse to the 
 cause of religion, in a canton which is now distinguish- 
 ed above any other of the Swiss confederacy for the 
 predominant influence of the original principles of the 
 Reformation. Throughout the whole continent, in 
 fact — from the rocks of Norway — the busy marts of 
 Germany — the marshes of Holland — the plains of 
 Belgium — the mountains of Switzerland — to the sunny 
 vales of the south of France, there is a general move- 
 ment towards that high standard of vital and practical 
 religion, which can alone, under the Divine blessing, 
 afford an efficient barrier against the insidious en- 
 croachments of Popery on the one hand, and its in- 
 variable attendant — frequently its treacherous ally — a 
 heartless and semi-social infidelity on the other. 
 
 The subject of the following memoir was one of the 
 forerunners in this noble cause, one of the heralds of 
 this bright dayspring from on high ; and the writer 
 trusts that, with God's blessing, this brief record of 
 one who was so eminently a man of God, and who 
 came forth from the furnace in a state of purity, which 
 reflected, with more than ordinary brightness, the 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 glory of his Redeemer, will tend in some measure to 
 add to this cheering confluence of light. 
 
 In these memoirs, as well as in his own published 
 works, he being dead yet speaketh. To the ministers 
 of religion, a most bright and instructive example of 
 devotedness and fidelity, of patience and resignation, 
 is here set forth ; and it is scarcely possible to contem- 
 plate such a picture without deep humiliation, and 
 warm encouragement. Of Mowes, it may be truly 
 said, that by his example he has not only taught us 
 how, as Christians, and especially as Christian minis- 
 ters, we ought to live ; but, what is not less necessary 
 for our comfort in the prospect, he has also taught us 
 how to die. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 An interesting sketch of the life of the Rev. Henry 
 Mowes appeared in some early numbers of the " Ar- 
 chives du Christianisme," for the year 1838, from the 
 pen of the Rev. L. Bonnet, whose " Famille de Be- 
 thanie," and other works, are well known in this coun- 
 try. A fuller memoir was written by the Rev. A. W. 
 Appuhn, the present pastor of Altenhausen and Iven- 
 rode, which was published at Berlin. This volume 
 contains, besides the life, a considerable number of 
 poems, and a few extracts from an unpublished prose 
 work. It was dedicated to the Princess Royal of 
 Prussia, and appears, from the preface to the third 
 edition, to have met with very general approbation in 
 that and the neighbouring states. The first edition 
 was intended for the use of the poet's friends exclu- 
 sively ; it was sold off in the course of a few weeks, 
 when a second w r as issued. The interest excited by 
 it increased, and in less than a year a third edition 
 was demanded. " Thousands," remarks M. Appuhn, 
 " have been awakened, strengthened, and set right, by 
 the account of his life, and by his poems ; and in the 
 palace, and in many a cottage, through all lands in 
 which the German language is spoken, he has, by the 
 witness of his faith, drawn the hearts of his fellow 
 men to his Saviour and theirs." 
 
 It is from these two sources that the present work 
 has been compiled, constant reference being made to 
 the German memoir as the authority. Wherever it 
 was thought necessary, the narrative at that time used 
 
Xll PREFACE. 
 
 has been indicated, but this has not in other cases 
 been done. 
 
 After the Memoir had passed through the press, I 
 was favoured by the Rev. Mr. Davies with the Intro- 
 duction he had prepared for his own work ; and I am 
 most happy in thus publicly acknowledging the obli- 
 gation, and presenting my grateful thanks to him for 
 his generous courtesy. 
 
 Apology may, perhaps, be necessary for the occa- 
 sional introduction of words or phrases which may be 
 termed Germanisms. With deep veneration for the 
 nationality of our language, I have yet considered 
 some license allowable, where the precise equivalent 
 was not among our customary forms of speech, and 
 the current one had been, by exclusive use, deprived 
 of its more extended import. 
 
 One peculiarity of the German language, is the 
 abundance of its side-thoughts, the variety of ideas 
 tributary to the main one, which the mere phrase- 
 ology frequently suggests. In endeavouring to pre- 
 serve this fulness of thought without circumlocution, 
 I have, perhaps, sacrificed regularity. In the letters 
 of Mowes, particularly, my main endeavour has been 
 to give as perfect a transcript of his mind as possible. 
 I have considered his sentiments as a sacred trust, 
 and my one concern has been to prevent them from 
 taking any tinge from the medium through which they 
 pass to the eye of the reader. 
 
 This little work is presented to the public with a 
 full sense of its imperfections, yet with the hope that 
 the pleasure the reader may derive from it, will 
 compensate him for the indulgence he must extend. 
 And may He, in whose favour we and our under- 
 takings alone live, grant that, in going through these 
 pages, the children of sorrow may be consoled and 
 raised, and, if it be His will, the wandering spirit led 
 homeward. 
 
 E. R. D. 
 
 February 1, 1840. 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 REV. HENRY MOWES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
 Their only point of rest, Eternal Word ! 
 
 « * * * 
 
 From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, 
 His high endeavour, and his glad success, 
 His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 If it be true, as a distinguished writer has said, 
 " that in feeling distress we strike chords in 
 unison with the whole universe," the biography 
 of one whose sufferings were unusually prolonged 
 and severe, cannot fail to awaken sympathy — 
 sympathy the more intense, because that sorrow 
 fell on a highly refined and susceptible spirit. 
 To us, who know that, sooner or later, the same 
 dark path must be ours, it is matter of touching 
 
 B 
 
2 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 interest to watch a fellow mortal in his progress 
 through it. Our spirits grow stronger, while we 
 see the clouds that hang over the vale of life 
 made beautiful by the bow of promise, and the 
 narrow dark valley of the shadow of death 
 become bright with the fore- coming glory of the 
 land that lies beyond it. To the man of simply 
 cultivated intellect, it is matter of triumph to 
 see the spirit, which he recognises as a brother's, 
 thus assert its mastery over the accidents of 
 time and earth ; faith and love struggling with 
 doubt and woe, till the earth-born yields to the 
 heaven -born. To the Christian, another feel- 
 ing is added, and his exultation is mingled with 
 sadness ; for he remembers it is through the 
 might of the Suffering One that his servant 
 has triumphed. 
 
 Henry Mowes was familiar with suffering 
 from his infancy. He was born at Magdeburg, 
 in Prussia, February 25th, 1793. He passed 
 his early childhood in the midst of privations 
 and trials of various kinds. Often did he lament 
 that he had never enjoyed a parent's love, that 
 as a child he had not known the charm of home. 
 His father died very early, and his mother 
 almost immediately re-married. The forsaken 
 boy was adopted by an uncle, who was a pastor 
 in the neighbourhood, and educated in the 
 cathedral school. It was, perhaps, the circum- 
 
REV. H. MOWES. O 
 
 stance of his being so early thrown on his own 
 resources, that gave to his character that deci- 
 sion, that certainty of aim, and firmness, which 
 he afterwards so finely exhibited. 
 
 The support his relative afforded him was 
 scanty. He frequently feared he should, on that 
 account, be compelled to relinquish his plan of 
 studying theology. He, at one time, had resolved 
 to enter the army ; and was only prevented by 
 the sudden removal of an officer to whom he 
 was much attached, and who had promised to 
 obtain his speedy promotion. How entirely 
 different might the whole course of his life have 
 been, had this determination been carried into 
 effect! But it was itself characteristic of him. 
 There was something heroic in the constitution 
 of his mind 5 an almost invincible valour was 
 conspicuous in many events of his life. Had he 
 not been a pastor, there was no character he 
 could so well have sustained as that of the Chris- 
 tian warrior. He gave proof of this during the 
 short time he was a volunteer in his country's 
 service. He frequently spoke of himself as 
 being, during his youth, and still later, till his 
 spirit was changed, daring, wild, and easily 
 roused to anger. His friends of this date bear 
 testimony to his noble, open disposition; 
 
 The direction which his life took, was in a 
 great measure decided by an intimate friendship 
 
4 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 he formed with a young man of the name of 
 Charles Blume, at the period of his departure 
 for the university. Gifted with elevated sus- 
 ceptibilities, and with a quenchless yearning for 
 affection which had never yet been satisfied, he 
 threw himself, with all the ardour of his fine 
 nature, into this friendship. In after-life he 
 looked back on it, as being, during the impas- 
 sioned years of youth, a substitute for religion, 
 if such an expression be allowed, by softening 
 his heart, and turning him, at that age when the 
 passions will find their way as the waters an 
 outlet, from all that was unworthy and low. 
 His friend was the whole world to him : his 
 attachment and devotedness knew no bounds : 
 to have laid down his life for him would have 
 been an easy thing. After Blume's death, he 
 could not speak of him without tears. The 
 anniversaries of his birth and death were sacred 
 days. He still held intimate and confiding com- 
 munion with the departed \ and looked for his 
 spirit, as he tells us in a song entitled " Memory 
 and Hope," to be his conductor on the other 
 side of the " narrow sea," when he should have 
 left its mortal shore. 
 
 With this friend he entered the university of 
 Gottingen. He there prosecuted the study of 
 theology merely as a science; he could not re- 
 collect receiving one Christian impression, so 
 
REV. H. MOWES. b 
 
 entirely had rationalism dried up the sources of 
 life. Christianity remained something wholly 
 foreign to him — a beautiful exhibition, having 
 no connexion with himself. A weary task must 
 it have been, to study theology as a surgeon dis- 
 sects a corpse, when all ought to have breathed 
 of life and light. 
 
 It was during his residence at the university, 
 that the intelligence of Napoleon's escape from 
 Elba reached Gottingen. Mowes shared in the 
 universal sensation : like the celebrated Korner, 
 he grasped at the same time the lyre and sword, 
 animating the enthusiasm of the Prussian youth 
 with his spirit-stirring songs, and sharing in 
 person the conflicts of the field. The excitement 
 was everywhere felt ; the people rose as one 
 man, the universities were depopulated, the 
 students pressing forward as volunteers to swell 
 the ranks of the army. Mowes and his friend 
 fought in the foremost ranks of a Westphalian 
 jager corps. Six weeks after they had left Got- 
 tingen, they met the enemy on the plains of 
 Ligny. He afterwards, in speaking of the dis- 
 tance his spirit then habitually was from God, 
 said, " The solemnity of the battle did not drive 
 me to Him. I do not recollect even offering 
 up one prayer. We were called up before the 
 engagement to receive the sacrament. I let 
 my friend, whose side I had never before left, 
 
 b2 
 
6 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 go up without me; I could not then com- 
 prehend of what service it could be to» me." He 
 felt not the slightest fear; and often remarked, 
 that he trembled more in delivering his first 
 sermon, than at the thunder of his first battle. 
 
 The two friends continued inseparably side by 
 side through that fearful day. Each was alike 
 anxious to vanquish the enemy, and to guard his 
 friend. Standing behind a hedge, and firing from 
 thence on the foe, they did not perceive that the 
 order for retreat had been given, when Blume 
 suddenly sank down, exclaiming, " Help me, I 
 am wounded : leave me not, Mowes." In his 
 surprise and grief, he forgot the battle raging 
 around ; death was the least thing he feared ; he 
 had but one thought — how he might save his 
 friend. Three of his fellow soldiers, who were 
 flying from the field, offered their help, regardless 
 of the danger : they laid the wounded man across 
 their guns, to carry him to a place of safety. 
 The enemy gained on them ; they bore their 
 charge on, under a shower of bullets. Two of 
 them began at last to think of their own safety, 
 and left him. He continued his labour with the 
 one who remained firm. One more step, and a 
 bullet from the approaching enemy struck the 
 helmet from his head. Now the last fled. Mowes 
 had eye and heart for his friend alone : he begged 
 him to hold fast by his arm, while he dragged 
 
REV. H. MO WES. 7 
 
 him along by his clothes. Shortly after he felt a 
 concussion in his arm ; the hand of his friend 
 fell from it — a second ball had struck him. 
 " Mowes," said he, " save thyself, for thy king 
 and thy country ; I am lost." One parting 
 glance, and the friends separated, as they thought, 
 for ever. Mowes went on mechanically, with an 
 aching heart, not perceiving that he was exposed 
 to the full charge of the enemy; but a bullet 
 striking the sole of his boot brought him to him- 
 self : he felt he ought not uselessly to expose his 
 life, and hastened after his flying comrades. 
 
 The history of Mowes' campaign is rich in 
 instances of his courage and self-sacrifice, of 
 the tenderness of his heart under the most fearful 
 difficulties. It bears the stamp of an extra- 
 ordinarily distinguished and noble character. 
 He fought at Belle Alliance, and exhibited 
 admirable energy, both in the privations he 
 endured, and in his active service : he was 
 almost daily engaged in skirmishes before Paris. 
 For nearly three days he had nothing to eat but 
 a dried plum, which a fellow soldier, who had 
 found two in a peasant's hut, gave him. He had 
 often no other lodging than the bare ground, wet 
 with the rain of heaven ; not once did a cloak 
 cover his weary limbs. He would willingly re- 
 count the events of the great struggle : the man- 
 ner in which he threw himself into his subject ; 
 
8 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 the interest, the actual share, he seemed to have 
 in every occurrence; the richness of his own 
 personal tale in stirring incident, riveted atten- 
 tion. We cannot refrain from giving one event 
 of this period, though feeling the wide difference 
 between a cold written tale, and the glowing 
 narration of one who had been actor in the 
 scenes he described. 
 
 The division of the jager corps to which 
 Mowes belonged, was commanded to take a 
 battery in a village near Paris. The battery 
 stood on the other side of the village, and the 
 only street through which it could be approached 
 lay entirely exposed to it. One division, almost 
 shot to pieces/ had given up the attempt, when 
 his was ordered to it. They marched up a 
 street, crossing at right angles the one guarded 
 by the battery. Scarcely had the enemy per- 
 ceived them, when they received a charge of 
 grape shot : they consulted what was to be done ; 
 it was resolved to storm the street, whatever it 
 might cost. Mowes was one of the first to enter 
 on the dangerous way. To their surprise, the 
 enemy's battery was silent : the village lay 
 behind them ; for a moment they stood still to 
 assemble. Only one officer and six men had 
 ventured; the imminent danger had deterred 
 the rest from advancing. This little corps now 
 looked round on their situation : before them 
 
REV. H. MO WES. 9 
 
 was the battery ; on one side, two regiments of 
 French infantry; behind, a large house filled 
 with the enemy, who fired incessantly. They 
 must yield as prisoners, or die ; they chose the 
 latter, and resolved to sell their lives as dearly as 
 possible. For greater security they placed them- 
 selves singly, at some distance from each other, 
 and prepared for the death-struggle. But, re- 
 markably enough, they were not attacked ; only 
 a single ball from the house w r as levelled at them. 
 They saw an officer of rank, escorted by a trum- 
 peter, coming from the enemy's infantry towards 
 them. The officer waved his handkerchief, and 
 the trumpeter sounded. Inexperienced in mili- 
 tary affairs, they did not comprehend this move- 
 ment, nor could they in their situation guess the 
 intention of it. They only saw an attempt to 
 take them prisoners, and chose the best marks- 
 man among them to take aim at the officer : 
 their companion did as he was commanded ; 
 happily he missed his man, who immediately 
 turned his horse. At a little distance he stood 
 still again, and once more bent his way towards 
 Mowes and his brave companions. They again 
 shot at him, and the same manoeuvre was 
 repeated, till one of them shouted, " He is a 
 truce-bearer;" the officer replied, in French, 
 Ml am a truce-bearer." They then laid their 
 arms aside, and awaited his arrival. He made 
 
10 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 himself known to them as General Guilleminot, 
 who had been sent from the enemy's head- 
 quarters to negotiate with Prince Blucher. 
 They followed him to the field- marshal, and the 
 war was ended. The consequence of the nego- 
 tiation was the entrance of the allied powers into 
 Paris. These brave men owed their lives to the 
 circumstance, that, exactly at the moment when 
 they stormed the street, the command was given 
 on the French side to leave off firing. Their 
 own commanding officer had, from a hill on the 
 same side of the village, remarked their gallant 
 conduct, and awarded to them the iron cross. 
 Mowes had, on a former occasion, been distin- 
 guished by the Russian order of St. George. 
 
 He was a fortnight, under the most favourable 
 circumstances, in Paris, before he recovered from 
 the extraordinary efforts he had made in that 
 campaign. His detachment was then ordered 
 to other fortresses, and had yet to see some hard 
 service. 
 
 After the peace was concluded, he rested, on 
 his homeward march, at the town of Charleroi. 
 Here a great and unexpected pleasure awaited 
 him. He found his lost friend again, whom he 
 had left, as he thought, to die on the field of 
 Ligny. Brought into this town with the rest of 
 the wounded, he, through the generosity of the 
 enemy, was placed in a private house, instead of 
 
REV. H. MO WES. 11 
 
 being cast into the crowded rooms of an hospital. 
 The mistress of the house, seeing the dying 
 soldier brought in, in the evening, resolved to try 
 to rid herself of such a guest on the morrow : 
 accordingly, in the morning, she went to the 
 sufferer, but his God touched and turned her 
 heart; the beautiful countenance of the young 
 warrior, its patient and sweet expression, as he 
 lay suffering before her, went to her heart. It 
 was as though her own son lay there ; and she 
 resolved to show him all possible kindness, and 
 to nurse him as a mother. And she did so. 
 Mowes ever spoke with deep feeling of her love 
 and compassionate care. Long afterwards did 
 she correspond with both friends, always address- 
 ing them as her children. They remained to- 
 gether under her hospitable roof for three months, 
 at the end of which Charles Blume was suffi- 
 ciently recovered to return to his anxious family. 
 On his return to Prussia, Mowes remained for 
 some time at the university of Halle. His 
 poetical talents brought him into acquaintance 
 with La Fontaine, whom, in many points of his 
 energetic character, the young man closely re- 
 sembled : but his soul sought something deeper 
 than the poet of romance could discover to him, 
 and he had still to seek for that hidden stream. 
 The cold and merely intellectual theology which 
 then prevailed at Halle, could not satisfy his 
 
12 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 ardent soul. Christianity had been, and still 
 remained, something external and foreign to 
 him ; but the deep workings of a spirit naturally 
 thoughtful, already pointed him to some unde- 
 fined relation with God, as that which would 
 meet the intense cravings of his nature ; and he 
 was beginning to inquire what might be this 
 object, whose coming shadow seemed to promise 
 satisfaction and peace. He left the university, 
 rich indeed in the first literary acquirements, 
 but, as he often confessed, quite incapable of 
 working for God in the world, because as yet he 
 knew Him not. 
 
 On his return to Magdeburg, he immediately 
 obtained a situation in the school in which he 
 had been educated. Charles Blume was still at 
 Gottingen, but his paternal home was open to 
 his friend; their mutual attachment had already 
 made him one of the family. But he was to be 
 yet more closely united to this house; his friend's 
 sister won the first, deep, and ever-increasing 
 love of his heart, so rich in the loftiest affections. 
 When he took orders, she became his wife. She 
 understood him ; and their lives flowed on to- 
 gether, under all their sufferings and sorrow, 
 with a deepening knowledge of their God. He led 
 her to Him ; and she, when his physical strength 
 w T as shattered and gone, supported and tended 
 him, and sweetened every affliction of his life. 
 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 13 
 
 In one of his songs he thus beautifully alludes to 
 leaning on her strength : — 
 
 " The ivy stays the sinking elm, 
 Where it clung in former days : 
 The weight of love the feebler proves, 
 As the strong one's strength decays." 
 
 In 1818, he took orders, and was appointed 
 by the Count von Schulenburg-Angern, minister 
 of Angern and Wenddorf. For the account of 
 his entrance on his new office we refer to his 
 French biographer, principally for the value of 
 some superadded remarks of his own. If he 
 were at this time touched by the spirit of Chris- 
 tianity, he had by no means clearly apprehended 
 it. Yet he began his labours with extraordinary 
 energy. Not yet knowing, experimentally, 
 that from the heart proceed the issues of life, he 
 believed that by beginning with external things 
 he should succeed in reforming his parish. He 
 improved the schools, bestowing his time and 
 attention on them in various ways : he instructed 
 the teachers, established meetings among them 
 for instructive intercourse. Among the Germans, 
 music is ever a part of popular instruction ; he 
 composed a few happily simple and beautiful 
 songs to favourite national melodies, for the 
 use of his teachers and children. He employed 
 his influence to suppress all disorders in his 
 
 c 
 
14 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 parish, and successfully combated all the oppo- 
 sition that stood in his way. In a word, he 
 performed the part of a conscientious moralist. 
 How worthy to excite our sympathy is the sin- 
 cere character, who, having entered the vine- 
 yard of the Lord, knows not yet that, notwith- 
 standing all his labours, the soil will produce 
 nothing — nothing but thorns and thistles, with- 
 out a new creation ! He cultivates, he manures, 
 he pulls up with great labour and in the sweat 
 of his brow a few weeds, but they grow up 
 again continually, they overrun the ground. 
 The season of vintage is come ; he had expected 
 grapes, but he gathers only wild grapes. His 
 heart is wounded, for he can no longer content 
 himself with false virtues; he has a different 
 ideal of perfection ; he has had a glimpse of the 
 true dignity of man, to become one with God, 
 and how is he to attain it? O Jesus, source of 
 life, merciful Saviour, without thy love, without 
 the new creation which thou hast accomplished 
 in the bosom of fallen humanity, we should be 
 reduced eternally to this sigh of despair, wrung 
 from the sages of the world, by the overwhelming 
 feeling of their weakness — " impossible !"* 
 
 * " What then? is it possible for man not to sin? Im- 
 possible, (a^^avflv.) All he can do is to strive not 
 to sin." Epict. iv. 12, 19. The heathen authors are full 
 of these sorrowful confessions. 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 15 
 
 Mowes soon felt how unsatisfactory were the 
 result of his labours. The deep experience of 
 his life; the occupation of his sacred calling; 
 the need which he deeply and sorrowfully felt 
 of knowing clearly the way of salvation, that he 
 might point others to it ; the peculiarity of his 
 mind, which could do nothing by halves, but 
 must comprehend thoroughly whatever it once 
 seized ; the death-like coldness of all that sur- 
 rounded him in the church and the universities ; 
 the uneasiness of a thoughtful mind, feeling 
 that nothing could satisfy it — all drove him to a 
 new source, which as yet he had only perceived 
 — to the Scriptures. He cast his line in this 
 ocean : at the break of day, and late at night, 
 he read with deep thought and anxious prayer 
 the word of God. Rejecting all systems, all 
 previously-formed opinions, he would know, by 
 personal examination, what were the contents of 
 the Bible. He there found truths which solved 
 the whole enigma of his past life. He found it 
 affirmed, and his experience bore witness to it 
 as a fact, that man's nature, not some disposi- 
 tions merely, is sinful. Here was the true ex- 
 planation of all the struggles of his own spirit, 
 of the unconquerable evil around him. Then 
 was he humbled to receive life, not barely help, 
 from the crucified One. Then was unveiled be- 
 fore him the mystery, how through his death 
 
16 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 we live ; then, too, he comprehended the truth 
 sung by our own poet, 
 
 " The cross once seen is death to every vice." 
 
 His spirit had awakened to anew life; all things 
 took a different aspect: feeling himself power- 
 less and weak, he looked to the Strong for 
 strength, and appropriated, through faith in his 
 Son, the might of Jehovah. All things be- 
 came possible to him. The mist was rolled 
 away from the scenes of time, and he walked 
 onwards towards eternity through a world made 
 radiant by its light. 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Sweet in his undissembling mien 
 Were genius, meekness, candour seen; 
 
 The lips that loved the truth ; 
 The single eye, whose glance sublime 
 Looked to eternity through time. 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 14 1 lately noticed, w T ith some surprise, an ivy, which, 
 being prevented from attaching itself to the rock beyond a 
 certain point, had shot off into a bold elastic stem, with an 
 air of as much independence as any branch of oak in the 
 vicinity. So a human being, throwm, whether by cruelty, 
 justice, or accident, from all social support and kindness, 
 if he has any vigour of spirit, and is not in the bodily de- 
 bility of either childhood or age, will instantly begin to 
 act for himself with a resolution which will appear like a 
 new faculty. And this resolution being sustained entirely 
 from his own resources, being compelled to deliberate 
 without consultation, and execute without assistance, will 
 have a solitary union and concentration, which will make 
 it totally decisive." — Foster. 
 
 One peculiarity in Mowes' mental history was, 
 that he stood alone throughout, and, almost 
 
 c2 
 
18 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 without help from others, arrived at the know- 
 ledge and belief of Christianity. He once said, 
 " I know I have many persons to thank for dif- 
 ferent things, but it was God who led me to 
 himself; my thanks for spiritual good are due 
 to Him alone." 
 
 At a later period, the writings of Draseke con- 
 tributed to the further development of his 
 Christian principles. He valued them highly, 
 particularly the later ones : to his devotional spi- 
 rit, and the peculiar depth of his views, his own 
 soul perfectly responded. He speaks of this 
 author in a letter, bearing the date of March 
 7th, 1831, addressed to a lady to whom he had 
 lent a work, entitled "The Way through the 
 Wilderness," by Draseke : — 
 
 " How attractive i The Way through the Wil- 
 derness ' must be to you, I can imagine. There 
 one speaks who has himself found the right 
 way, and who knows what truth is : who is not 
 bewildered by the learning of the schools ; but 
 who, with an honest and simple heart, has given 
 himself to Him who is the light of the world, 
 extinguishing as meteors the other luminaries of 
 the earth, and keeping the true light in his hand 
 and heart. He is full of faith and spirituality ; 
 hence he seems to impart them to others. It 
 must be a joy to hear him; it is a joy to read 
 his witness for Christ. He and I can only be 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 19 
 
 compared in this particular, that we both know 
 in whom the salvation of man and his true eter- 
 nal life lie, and that we have both gone to him 
 as to the centre of all things, as to the sun for 
 all higher life. If they call me a follower of 
 Draseke, they do me great honour : I myself 
 well know that in no point do I reach him. To 
 a man such as he is, it is little ; to a man such 
 as I am, it is enough. Another might be silent 
 without great loss ; but were his mouth closed, 
 the church and the Lord would have one dis- 
 tinguished herald the fewer." 
 
 The manner in which Mowes had been 
 brought to the knowledge and love of the Sa- 
 viour, invested his Christianity with a character 
 of independence of human opinion. Never was 
 he heard to adduce any authority but that of 
 the Scriptures. He was enrolled under no hu- 
 man standard; he wore the colours of no party; 
 he belonged to no sect. There was nothing in 
 him assumed, nothing professional ; he had, as 
 it were, lived through the whole of Christianity : 
 he appeared to advance no doctrine before he 
 had tested it by practice, and rendered it part of 
 his inner life. Thence no wavering found place 
 in his mind; whatever opinion he adopted was 
 securely his own. He could not be set wrong 
 by the most acute counter observations ; no 
 doubt could again shake his convictions. He 
 
20 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 did not hold a truth because he had learned it 
 here or there, but because he had experienced 
 it. None of his convictions were traditional, or 
 simply admitted. Knowledge with regard to 
 religion had no value in his eyes, except as it 
 was vivified by faith. 
 
 His intellectual sight was remarkably clear. 
 He surveyed a doctrine or fact of Christianity 
 on all sides, and saw far into the reason of it. 
 Thence arose certainty and tranquillity in its de- 
 fence. It gave him a kind of vantage ground 
 in controversy. He had then the appearance of 
 the truth itself; his eye sparkled with light, his 
 figure heightened, the most suitable word never 
 failed him ; and, as the occasion required, his 
 logical acuteness, his glowing enthusiasm, his 
 severe wit, his remarkable depth of mind, each 
 in its turn was called forth. But, through all 
 this, his affectionate desire of bringing the soul 
 to God ever shone ; and almost every discussion 
 ended with his bearing witness to the happiness 
 of the man who has found life and peace in be- 
 lieving. 
 
 Faith and courage were the strongly engraven 
 characteristics of his mind. He had naturally, 
 and to a higher degree through the influence of 
 God's Spirit, a fearlessness, boldness, and free- 
 dom, that bowed before no power in the uni- 
 verse. His was a true heroic nature, inspirited 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 21 
 
 rather than depressed by opposition. He never 
 trembled and shrank back from contact and 
 conflict with the world ; but spiritedly and joy- 
 fully he wrestled with it, in the blessed feeling 
 of infinite power, which through faith in Christ 
 was his; vanquished it in all its forms, and 
 bound it to the triumphal chariot of his Lord. 
 Faithfully as he served his king, and ready as 
 he was to yield due honour to rank, he cringed 
 to no power ; he would have defended religion 
 and justice, before an assembly of kings, against 
 all attacks, open or concealed, direct or indirect, 
 with as much energy and sacred zeal, as in his 
 own country parish. 
 
 Yet, with all this power and manliness, all 
 these contests with the world, all this activity 
 in outward things, Mowes was by no means 
 wanting in the more delicate qualities of heart 
 and mind. Characteristics apparently opposite 
 were blended in him. He could not only bear 
 contradiction, but would frequently yield the 
 precedence in controversy to an opponent far 
 beneath him in intellectual power. In argu- 
 ment he was pointed, deep, and clear. His 
 power he had won from hours of deep thought. 
 He would frequently occupy himself with ex- 
 amining the most secret recesses of the soul, 
 and investigating the deeper mysteries of reve- 
 lation. He might often be seen perfectly still, 
 
22 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 absorbed in thought, with a smile on his lips, yet 
 his eyes full of tears. " I have been taking a 
 mental excursion/' he would say, with a coun- 
 tenance glowing with light. His disposition 
 was remarkably tender to the wants of his fellow 
 creatures : the simple act of invoking a blessing 
 on his own table would sometimes awake emo- 
 tion, even to tears. 
 
 During the first year of the development of 
 his Christian character, he was almost entirely 
 destitute of Christian intercourse ; he was cast 
 back on himself ; he nowhere found a mind that 
 understood him. He had often much to suffer 
 from the misconceptions and bitter judgments of 
 the world. Yet he did not shun the world ; we 
 might say he sought it: he delighted in con- 
 versation. He would differ in no external re- 
 spect from others, while his high sensibility and 
 quick imagination enabled him to enter, by a 
 kind of intuitive sympathy, into their thoughts 
 and prejudices. Wherever he appeared, he 
 brought with him a heart full of good will; it is 
 not surprising, that when once known, he was 
 eagerly sought. 
 
 This want of Christian intercourse, however, 
 contributed to give a certain solemnity and reserve 
 to his character, which did not entirely forsake 
 him in his sportive moods. To it might also be 
 attributed something peculiar, almost one-sided, 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 23 
 
 in his views ; this, however, he entirely lost at a 
 later period, as he associated with Christian 
 friends and families. 
 
 How the development of his interior cha- 
 racter told on his public life, on his views of his 
 office, and his consequent performance of its 
 duties, may be easily conceived. It is scarcely 
 possible for a pastor to identify himself more 
 fully with his people than he did. He lived 
 entirely for them. Nothing that occurred in his 
 parish left him unmoved : what happened to any 
 member of it, happened to him ; every sin of 
 which he heard drove him to repentance ; he felt 
 as though a share of the guilt was his. He fos- 
 tered and cherished every germ of spiritual life, 
 glorifying Him who had implanted it. He never 
 met the members of his parish without speaking 
 to them in the name of the Holiest. Slight 
 as their connexion with such subjects might be, 
 he knew how to make use of the commonest in- 
 cidents, in pointing his associates heavenward, 
 and how to find, in affairs of daily occurrence, 
 illustrations of something better. 
 
 He had, to a high degree, the power of making 
 the sinner tremble, and of skilfully and kindly 
 raising the depressed and penitent heart. He 
 stood before the sinner as an accusing conscience, 
 and often with a word, a look, produced the 
 greatest effect on his spirit. The characteristic 
 
24 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 noticed by one of his dearest friends is strikingly 
 true. " A glance of his friendly earnest eye, 
 which always seemed as though looking into 
 that higher world, was enough to awaken repent- 
 ance and shame in the minds of those to whose 
 inner condition his conversation was directed: 
 they felt themselves condemned by his glance ; 
 a glance, marked perhaps only by those whose 
 consciousness interpreted it : and again, they 
 felt half consoled, when, with so strong a dis- 
 approbation of guilt, they saw so cordial a desire 
 to help the guilty. " 
 
 Seldom do we meet with a pastor whose con- 
 versation is so valuable as his was. His whole 
 life was a continued sermon ; every one who 
 came within his sphere must have proved this. 
 His individuality was so powerful, the strength 
 of his faith so triumphant, so evidently directed 
 to its object, that those who entered his circle 
 were soon won over to the truth, or speedily 
 compelled to fly his society, in order to save 
 their earthly inclinations and worldly character- 
 istics from the holy energy of that spirit which 
 M6wes so powerfully brought to bear on them. 
 " I always feel when with him as though I heard 
 myself reproved," said a worldly-minded man. 
 Another, who was seeking the truth, remarked 
 how in his society he felt the riches of God's 
 goodness. " A visit to the parsonage," says 
 
REV. II. MOWES. 25 
 
 one who understood him, " was like a visit to 
 the temple of God. I unbosomed myself to him 
 most unreservedly, when I most needed to be 
 invigorated and refreshed ; and never did I leave 
 him disappointed. He threw a charm round 
 the most indifferent objects of daily existence by 
 the brilliancy of his intellect ; but his conversa- 
 tion, when our spirit's life became its object, was 
 beyond description. It seemed while we listened 
 to him, as if he had taken a glance into that 
 world which is afar off; and as he, with holy 
 joyfulness and almost inspiration, extolled the 
 love of God in the incarnation of our Redeemer, 
 we proved the truth of his word, ' Where two 
 or three are gathered together in my name, there 
 am I in the midst ;' we felt it, we grew holier in 
 such society." 
 
 A fulness of spiritual life was his : an over- 
 flowing spring was opened in the depth of his 
 soul, which gushed forth as if eager to impart 
 itself to the thirsty wanderers of the wilderness. 
 Hence into many minds, hitherto strangers to 
 Christ, he without wearisome effort cast, as it 
 were, the seeds of a new life, which soon sprang 
 up into perceptible existence. He was remark- 
 ably quick in discovering the hidden good of 
 a character. His eye recognised the Christ- 
 like while it yet lay concealed, where, as yet 
 
 D 
 
26 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 unperceived, perhaps, by the soul itself, a new 
 creation was about to be unfolded. 
 
 The same character, deep, earnest, energetic, 
 and affectionate, was to be traced throughout his 
 pulpit labours. A sermon was not to him the 
 work of a day. It was not a mere outward act'; 
 it was an expression of himself. It occupied the 
 whole week ; he had it almost daily in his mind. 
 Often might he be found with his first sketch 
 before him, his eyes filled with tears. What he 
 announced on the Sunday was always the fruit of 
 the most earnest prayer, of the most careful 
 industry, and often of deep sorrow of spirit. 
 He considered nothing more arduous but, at the 
 same time, nothing more noble, than the office of 
 a preacher. " You sometimes fondly accuse me 
 of not taking interest enough in your concerns," 
 wrote he to his absent wife, €t of being silent and 
 serious when I ought to be more anxious about 
 you, more occupied with the claims of affection ; 
 but can you not place yourself in my situation — 
 in the situation of a man who feels the weight of 
 his calling, and who delights to fulfil it, who 
 sees increasingly how much is involved in it — 
 how much is involved in being a preacher in the 
 name of God's word and Spirit, and who would, 
 too, be ever up to his mark ? Can you wonder, 
 if, occupied in such thoughts, I have little sus- 
 ceptibility to other matters — if, fast held by things 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 27 
 
 unseen, I cannot escape from their circle ? It is 
 one thing to think on the objects of common life, 
 another to think on those on the invisible world : 
 in the one case the thread is almost as easily 
 taken up as broken ; but not so in the other : to 
 the one the soul is naturally drawn, but to reach 
 the other we must overcome ourselves. In 
 short, should I sometimes pass by you as you 
 would not wish, then recollect and say to your- 
 self, that still you are my own dear wife." 
 
 He thus speaks of the importance of the pas- 
 toral office, in a letter to a friend who had entered 
 on it a short time after he had himself laid it 
 down. "Your letter, my dear brother- friend, 
 was a pleasure to me in more than one respect. 
 It came from a place to which my thoughts so 
 often turn, where my character so earnestly and 
 energetically developed itself, where I received 
 so many blessings, and passed through so many 
 trials. It came, too, from you, who were long so 
 near me, and the course of whose life was so 
 closely interwoven with my own. My thoughts 
 are often with you. I know the anxiety and 
 care which must lie on you, sustaining the office 
 you do. Great things are required in it, and by 
 no one more than by him w r ho fills it : no one 
 knows better than he what those hours are, on 
 which the eternal life of his hearers may hang. 
 When he measures his power with his will — his 
 
28 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 performance with the wants of his parish — his 
 ever-accumulating work with the fleeting hours, 
 his heart will indeed sink. It seems to me, that 
 this serves, among other things, to lessen man's 
 presumption ; to make him feel deeply how far 
 from a trifle it is, to fill an office demanding 
 increasing diligence, and high endeavour ; and 
 so that, in the end, he accomplishes more. The 
 way is indeed toilsome and full of labour ; but 
 the beautiful and great will be won, and won by 
 energy and strong effort. I read with the same 
 pleasure with which you wrote it, that lately 
 the accumulated work has been happily gone 
 through. It is as if a man had climbed up 
 good part of a steep mountain, and can now for 
 a moment stand still, and take breath : but the 
 mountain is still higher ; indeed, we cannot see 
 its summit. 
 
 " Christmas is before you. True, no season in 
 the whole church-year is more delightful than the 
 festivals, but they cost labour and considerable 
 effort. What we can do, we do with joy ; but it 
 will seem sometimes as though we were tasked 
 beyond our ability. Only see to it, that you 
 are ready with Sunday's work on the first days 
 of the week, thereby you will husband your 
 strength, and be at liberty to give thought to 
 your other clerical duties/' 
 
 In a letter to another friend who had lately 
 
 
REV. II. MOWES. 29 
 
 undertaken the clerical office, he characteristically 
 writes : — " My last letter to you was, if I am not 
 mistaken, addressed to a friend who was taking 
 the pastoral staff; that of to-day will be ad- 
 dressed to one who has now for some little time 
 borne it. Your new office has become a familiar 
 one ; an old one I cannot say, that it never will 
 be to you. You now understand your problem : 
 your eye is fixed on your aim, and you strive to at- 
 tain it; not beguiled, on the one hand, by too bold 
 hopes, nor retarded, on the other, by unfavour- 
 able experience. You have now certainly tasted 
 the sorrows and joys of a man who would take 
 away their heaven from men, and point out and 
 secure for them that heaven of which God alone 
 has the key. You have sown in his field ; and 
 your heart, which full gladly would have rejoiced 
 at the abundant fruits and flowers, is now silently 
 content, when it meets with less than it had 
 hoped, in quiet fidelity seeking still to serve Him, 
 content with a glance at Him who trusts you to 
 scatter his seed, and to whom alone the harvest 
 belongs. We have often talked of visiting you 
 in your home. I confess, were I there, I should 
 with much pleasure remain many weeks, and, as 
 it were, live through your duties with you ; and 
 share the zeal, solicitude and pleasure, with 
 which you respond to the call of the great 
 Shepherd, ' Feed my sheep,' and endeavour to 
 
 13 2 
 
30 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 fulfil a vocation, than which I can conceive none 
 
 greater. Yes, a pastor, who merits the name, 
 
 in whom another life than this earthly one has, 
 
 through the mercy of Christ, begun ; who, with 
 
 the apostle, can say, ' I live ; yet not I, but 
 
 Christ liveth in me;' who seeks how he may 
 
 make others happy through Him in whom he 
 
 has found happiness ; is, I confess, in my sight, 
 
 an interesting, highly to be venerated character. 
 
 His is a life whose fresh sap ever puts forth 
 
 fresh flowers and fruit ; a life that, like the ark 
 
 of Noah upheld by the hand of God, is borne 
 
 over the mountains and valleys of earth ; a life 
 
 in which a man sees, as in a mine, treasures of 
 
 gold ; a life from which his eternity is filled." 
 
 In these words Mowes unconsciously gave 
 his own portrait. His preaching may be briefly 
 characterised. Christ was the centre round 
 which all revolved, the source whence all flowed, 
 the object to which all tended. Never was self 
 less prominent in pulpit services than in his. 
 High as his own standard was, he judged most 
 kindly of the preaching of others. We cannot 
 better describe his style than by referring to a 
 letter in which he speaks of a distinguished 
 preacher among his contemporaries. " I see no 
 reason to join in the judgment passed on him, 
 that he is severe ; if by that is understood any- 
 thing that goes bevond his Master's will. He 
 
RfcV. H. MOWES. 31 
 
 raises up no new sin : he calls nothing sin that 
 God calis otherwise : what he says is truth ; he 
 calls nothing good and praiseworthy that is 
 impure in God's sight. He is no preacher of 
 mere morality, who burdens yet more heavily 
 those who are bowed down, and tortures the 
 conscience with a hundred precepts, and in the 
 end makes of man a self-sufficient hero of virtue, 
 with whom it is worse than with the publicans or 
 tax-gatherers of old. He is not such a character, 
 any more than was John or the other apostles. 
 But he leads the worn spirit to Christ, and 
 knows no other morality than love to him — no 
 other moral principle than a heart which, for the 
 Saviour's never-ending love, loves in return ; 
 even as St. John says, ' We love him, because 
 he first loved us.' 
 
 " This man is made to gather a flock to God : 
 he may know much ; but it is not learning that 
 qualifies him for it. He may understand much ; 
 but it is not his wisdom that prepares this success 
 for him. He has something that learning and 
 study never won — he has found the truth, 
 and rejoiced in it. The word he announces is 
 nothing he has discovered by deep thought, com- 
 posed and arranged with art; but it is something 
 drawn from within, from the experience of his 
 own life : i it is in him a well of water, springing 
 up into everlasting life.' This power lies in his 
 
32 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 words; men feel them. It is the truth from on 
 high he delivers, and as such he has learned it. 
 Hence we find in his discourses that charm, 
 which results from the presence of that truth 
 which can make man, miserable and fettered a 
 thousand-fold as he is, free." 
 
 We will add to this description the testimony 
 of one of his most constant hearers. 
 
 " There was something peculiar in his preach- 
 ing. He could say what others long before had 
 said, and what many will say in time to come ; 
 but his manner of saying it was quite different 
 from that of all others, because it arose from his 
 inmost soul : his own peculiar fervour spoke 
 irresistibly. He had also the power of awaken- 
 ing feeling in his hearers by a word, a look, 
 which they could carry with them into their 
 ordinary life, and which would so act on the 
 spirit, that one sermon became, as it were, the 
 parent of many." 
 
 From his distinguished gifts, his richly spi- 
 ritual and powerful eloquence, and the adaptation 
 of his preaching and conversation to the culti- 
 vated and distinguished, as well as to the humble 
 and illiterate, Mowes appeared peculiarly fitted 
 to take the charge of a large and mixed parish 
 in a populous town. Probably he would have 
 entered on such a sphere, had more established 
 health and longer life been his. But he never 
 
HEV. H. HOWES. 33 
 
 sought such a prominent situation ; he had a far 
 different estimation of himself: with unreserved 
 obedience and the greatest delight, he bestowed 
 his whole love and entire zeal on the compara- 
 tively narrow circle in which he was placed. 
 
 His sphere of action was considerably en- 
 larged by his removal to another cure, after a 
 residence of four years at Angern. In 1822, he 
 was called to serve the parishes of Altenhausen 
 and Ivenrode. This benefice was presented to 
 him by the Count von Schulenburg-Altenhausen, 
 who, as lord of the soil, had the nomination of 
 the pastor. 
 
 Mowes entered on his new duties in com- 
 paratively good health. His sphere of action, 
 though laborious, was exactly to his wish; his 
 duty was his delight. He found in the noble 
 house of his patron that appreciating considera- 
 tion and cordial regard of which he was so 
 worthy ; he soon won the confidence and love of 
 his parishioners; his church filled; many came 
 to him to inquire the w r ay of life. The blessing 
 of his God was upon him. This fair commence- 
 ment of his labours foretold a yet fairer progress : 
 much was sown, and well might he hope for a joy- 
 ful harvest. In his private life, too, all was bright. 
 He was the husband of a woman worthy of his 
 love ; one son had at that time already added to 
 his happiness ; three lovely girls were afterwards 
 
34 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 born to him in Altenhausen. Never was there a 
 happier home than his ; and never had man 
 greater satisfaction in his wife, children, abode, 
 and office. In speaking of his marriage, we 
 adverted to the happiness he derived from it : his 
 German biographer, who well knew it, has thus 
 described it : — 
 
 " On entering their house, you felt it was con- 
 secrated by the peace of God. The charm which 
 pervaded it, showed itself less in outward bearing, 
 refined as that was, than in kindness of heart 
 shining through courteousness of manner. The 
 love that delighted in hospitality, and that sought 
 and prized Christian society ; the highly intel- 
 lectual conversation; a lovely circle of sweet 
 children ; the readiness with which the joys and 
 sorrows of the stranger were shared ; the refined 
 and delicate wit that seasoned the conversation ; 
 the fine tact which excluded everything that was 
 low, and smoothed down all asperities ; the joy- 
 fulness with which suffering was borne ; the 
 glimpses of the heavenly kingdom which were 
 here opened to every soul : in short, that faith in 
 the Lord Jesus Christ which here marked the 
 w T hole life, and which, in an uncommon degree, 
 fixed the attention and penetrated the heart, 
 could never be forgotten by any who entered the 
 house ; nor did any one ever leave it without 
 feeling his spirit satisfied and richly blessed." 
 
REV. H. M0WE9. 35 
 
 In such tranquillity Mowes passed seven years ; 
 his happiness was untouched ; he scarcely knew 
 what sorrow was, and it almost seemed, by the 
 deeply Christian tone of his mind, that he needed 
 not to know it. Yet, at the sight of such un- 
 troubled peace, a feeling as of foreboding comes 
 over us ; for is not the tranquil here, ever the 
 treacherous ? 
 
MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The dead! 
 The only beautiful, who change no more : 
 The only blest, the dwellers on the shore 
 Of spring fulfilled. The dead ! — whom call we so ? 
 They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
 Things wrapt from us. 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 Perhaps, that indefinite feeling of insecurity 
 with which the sight of untroubled joy impresses 
 us, may arise from a vague and scarcely per- 
 ceptible recognition of the truth, that, deeply 
 interwoven with our nature as guilt is, suffering 
 is the appointed means of our purification. We 
 look at one on whose path no shadow has yet 
 been cast, with the same feeling as we regard a 
 child at play, to whom we say in our heart, 
 " Poor little one, he does not know what life is." 
 We look on before him with apprehension, and 
 see in the coming distance trials of which he per- 
 haps little dreams. The highly spiritual cha- 
 racter of Mowes seemed to divest his friends of 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 37 
 
 all apprehension as to his future. They thought 
 that surely gold so pure could scarcely need 
 the refining fire ; but it was not so pure as 
 perfectly to reflect the image of the Refiner. 
 
 His sorrows began with the death of his early 
 friend Charles Blume, in the spring of 1828. 
 We may judge how deeply his loss was felt, 
 from what w r e have already seen. How precious 
 his memory w T as to the faithful-hearted one, now 
 indeed left behind, we have before intimated : 
 various poems, scattered through his works, in- 
 spired by this affection, have, to a very high 
 degree, that touching simplicity and depth of 
 feeling, by which so much of the domestic poetry 
 of the Germans is characterised. 
 
 In the autumn of the same year, his health, 
 hitherto so firm, began to give way. He suffered 
 from a violent cough, accompanied by continual 
 hoarseness. Unaccustomed to pay particular 
 attention to his health, he considered it a slight 
 passing indisposition, and continued the laborious 
 duties of his office with his usual energy ; but 
 the suffering at his chest rapidly increased. Of 
 this period, his successor says : — 
 
 " Christmas, that festival which the church 
 celebrates with such solemnity in Germany, 
 approached ; he was not willing to omit preach- 
 ing ; he thought the pain of being silent on such 
 a dav would be more hurtful to him than the 
 
38 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 exertion. He had, as usual, prepared with his 
 own hand gifts for his dear children ; forgetting 
 his weakness, he rejoiced as a child among 
 them : the spirit supported the body. Until 
 new year's day he mastered his suffering ; but 
 a terrible reaction followed. Hemorrhage on 
 the lungs, returning for some time, after very 
 short intervals, reduced his strength so much, 
 that the life of this invaluable man seemed pass- 
 ing away. He himself thought by the" spring 
 he should have reached his home ; and awaited 
 his departure with perfect tranquillity, I might 
 even say with joy. He prepared himself and us 
 for it daily. His song entitled " Parting Words," 
 was composed February 26th of this year.* 
 
 * This little poem consists of eight stanzas ; from the sixth 
 his epitaph was subsequently taken. There is a character- 
 istic beauty and joyfulness about the three opening ones ; 
 they are in sentiment, and in some cases in expression, faith- 
 fully translated thus : — 
 
 " Have ye seen, O friends, that my eye is dim ? 
 
 Have ye marked my failing breath V 
 Hark ! to the strain of my farewell hymn, 
 
 Ere my voice is hushed in death. 
 
 11 When my soul departs to her Father's house, 
 
 And the faint voice no more ye hear ; 
 Come ! come ! to the shadowy bed of death, 
 
 With the song I love to hear. 
 
 " Sing to me of Him who has conquered death, 
 
 Who our life on the cross has won ; 
 Sing forth with joy, that I sink to sleep 
 
 In song when life is done." 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 39 
 
 Alas ! he had years of suffering yet to pass 
 through, much to learn in sorrow ; he had to be 
 familiar with anguish, as with the companion of 
 his lying down and rising up. Never to be for- 
 gotten by those who were then near him, is the 
 testimony he bore in the midst of such sufferings 
 to the supporting love of the Saviour. His phy- 
 sical strength was broken, he lay helpless on his 
 couch, human skill attempted in vain to relieve 
 him ; but his spirit rejoiced in God. Whoever 
 saw his eye beaming with hope, listened to the 
 words of joy and gratitude that fell from his 
 lips, and witnessed the calm joy with which he 
 spoke of his death, might have esteemed him- 
 self happy, could he have exchanged his health 
 for the blessedness of suffering and dying wit! . 
 him. 
 
 The more his affliction was prolonged and 
 aggravated, the more clearly it was seen, that in 
 everything which came from God, he made no 
 distinction ; he could praise and thank him for 
 all. Seldom has any one borne suffering with 
 such willingness — I might even say, with such 
 rejoicing of spirit, as he. It was not an over- 
 strained enthusiasm nor stoicism ; it arose from 
 no deficiency of feeling ; he was keenly alive to 
 the least sorrow, and often felt a thousand things 
 which others scarcely perceived. The riper a 
 heart becomes for heaven, the more easily it is 
 
40 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 pierced by the thorns of earth. Mowes rejoiced 
 in suffering, because it was a cross sent from 
 God ; because he knew, and never for a moment 
 lost the full confidence, that it was appointed for 
 his eternal good, and for nought beside ; and 
 because he became, through it, better enabled to 
 be a witness to others of the Divine goodness to 
 the sufferer. Never did we see his spirit sink, or 
 his eye lose sight of God, in the hour of bitterest 
 agony. Even when his body was shaken by the 
 most fearful conflicts, his spirit was calm, indeed 
 joyful. We could never comfort him, because 
 he was always richer, stronger, calmer, more 
 mental iv healthv, than the friends who stood 
 beside 3iis couch. 
 
 His illness rendered it impossible for him to 
 enter the pulpit. As he could not point his dear 
 parishioners to Christ, he offered earnest and 
 unceasing petitions for them to Him who is the 
 Giver of all good things. How the thought 
 of them occupied him, may be seen from a 
 paper he caused to be read to them, March 
 29th, 1829. 
 
 ." He, whom God has placed as the servant of 
 his word among you, greets you all, dear bre- 
 thren. Peace be with you ! Amen. I would 
 rather speak to you face to face, but that God 
 does not now permit; so receive this written 
 word as though you heard it from my lips. 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 41 
 
 You know how, in the days of health, I have 
 borne witness to Christ, that he is the Way, the 
 Truth, and the Life. In the hour of sickness, I 
 could bear no such public testimony ; but, had 
 you been by my side, you would have seen how 
 the power of Jesus our Lord supported me in 
 my weakness ; how all that I needed — patience, 
 a joyful heart, gratitude even for seeming evil, 
 confidence in his care of mine, a happy spirit, 
 for life or death — he gave me, and still daily 
 gives. Of this I offer you a short testimony, in 
 a hymn which suggested itself to my mind when 
 my health was at the worst. My physical 
 strength was broken, but my soul was vigorous 
 in God's strength ; before me was death, but in 
 me was life, even Christ ; my body languished, 
 but my spirit rejoiced in my Saviour. " He then 
 introduces a short poem, full of beautiful imagery 
 and sentiment, on the faithfulness of the Chris- 
 tian's God; and continues his letter : — " So far 
 the poem : receive it as a sermon on Christ, 
 from my couch of sickness ; as a testimony to 
 the honour of his name ; then, living and dying, 
 at first and at last, my word to you will have 
 been, ' Blessed is he who believes in Jesus.' 
 Forget me not in your prayers. I commend 
 you all to the love of God the Father, and his 
 Son. Amen." 
 
 He hoped by Easter, or before the close of 
 e2 
 
42 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 spring, he should be restored to active life here, 
 or raised to a nobler scene of existence. He was 
 content with either. Few have so vivid a long- 
 ing after the heavenly country, with so strong 
 a love of earthly life, as he had. Even under 
 his greatest suffering, he rejoiced in existence; 
 and although his spirit had, we might almost 
 say, already taken its abode in one of the man- 
 sions of its Father's house, and earthly life was 
 ever becoming poorer and poorer to him, yet 
 had he still, for each lovely page of existence, 
 a susceptible heart, and could rejoice even as a 
 child rejoices. 
 
 His health improved with the opening spring. 
 He exulted in the prospect of soon being able to 
 resume his pulpit duties, and thanked God for 
 the trials he had passed through, as enabling 
 him the better to bear witness to his mercy and 
 tenderness. On Ascension Day, he went into 
 the pulpit again for the first time : though he 
 was yet weak, strength, and joy, and life per 
 vaded his discourse. His address made a deep 
 impression, and one never to be forgotten, on his 
 hearers. When he came out of the church, he 
 lay for a long time on the bosom of his beloved 
 wife, and wept tears of joy. The service had so 
 exhausted him, that he dared not attempt an- 
 other. His recovery made no perceptible ad- 
 vances. His chest remained in a distressing 
 
REV. H. MOW I 43 
 
 state, and from time to time the hemorrhage 
 returned ; his whole frame was brought very 
 low, and the energy of his spirit alone seemed 
 to sustain him. 
 
 To his physical sufferings a new distress was 
 added in the course of the summer of 1829. 
 His beloved mother-in-law, in whom he had 
 found an affectionate parent, died. Her memory 
 is preserved in a touching little memorial of her 
 loss, which he composed under the title of 
 " Complaint and Consolation on a Mother's 
 going Home/' (Bei Mutters heimgang.) 
 
 The summer passed away, with its sunshine 
 and balm, without bringing health to the suf- 
 ferer ; on the approach of winter his strength 
 visibly failed. On the usually joyful occasion of 
 Christmas, he was unable to serve the pulpit or 
 altar, and was obliged to give up the service to 
 a clerical brother. 
 
 It became increasingly clear to him that he 
 was called to a greater sacrifice than any he had 
 yet made, the relinquishment of his office. The 
 worldly privations which would be consequent on 
 such a step had scarcely a place in his mind ; his 
 soul was bound to his office ; preaching was to 
 him a sacred need; the earnest strivings of his 
 heart, the whole direction of his life, his richest 
 joys, were all bound up with the sacred duties of 
 his calling : were they to cease, the better part of 
 
44 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 
 his life would cease. In these things he had his 
 being. He found himself in the situation of a 
 man about to be robbed of his most valued trea- 
 sures. The pastoral office had become to him 
 almost synonymous with life ; it had, if we may 
 naturalize the expression of his biographer, grown 
 to his spirit, and could not be torn thence with- 
 out leaving deep and lasting wounds : yet he 
 always held himself ready for surrender, should 
 it prove to be his Master's will. But the struggle 
 was great ; it left him almost broken-hearted. 
 What tears had he not shed, what prayers had 
 he not offered up, before it was over ! Of this 
 severing of life from life we will let him speak, 
 in a letter which he wrote to a friend, April 3rd, 
 1830. 
 
 " A year ago, you came to us, and found me 
 ill ; were you to come now, you would not find 
 me in health. I told you some time since, and 
 then I could say so, that I was in a fair way of 
 recovery ; but now the case is far different. If 
 to-day I look back on the commencement of my 
 illness, I can still cheerfully maintain my alle- 
 giance to my God, and I shall, I hope, do so, 
 however long he may continue to deprive me of 
 what I submissively, though yet painfully, need. 
 It is not to be overlooked that the trial has 
 lasted for no inconsiderable time ; so long, in- 
 deed, that I think, thank God, a little longer 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 45 
 
 will prove whether my surrender is pleasing to 
 Him, and whether it will stand or not. One in- 
 ward gain, as a costly jewel, has he given me 
 through this outward loss ; one comfort in the 
 midst of the sadness of having been so short 
 a time with my people ; it is, that, during 
 these months of silence, I have shown them that 
 he who announced to them Christ as the Life of 
 the world, has been made strong, through Him, 
 to overcome the sufferings of this mortal life ; 
 and it will be, perhaps, my best, and last but 
 one, if not last, sermon among them. To return 
 to my situation. After I had for some little time 
 felt myself stronger, I began again partially to 
 perform the duties of my office. This lasted for 
 a few weeks ; my strength then sank ; I could 
 no longer conceal my inability from myself; I 
 felt I must give up all — yes, all; even the plea- 
 sure I had hitherto held so fast, and in which I 
 had so heartily exulted, that of conducting our 
 Christmas service, of publicly rejoicing in the 
 advent of that glorious One, who came down 
 to us, and lived and suffered on earth as our 
 Saviour. Now other events, one after another, 
 were developed. I had then to meet those, 
 whose inexpressibly affecting love would have 
 bound me even with chains to Altenhausen 
 and the parsonage. I had to meet them, and to 
 say, ' I can no longer serve you ; painful as it is 
 
46 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 to us both, my service in the office of preacher 
 is at an end.' I next gave formal notice to 
 government of my resignation ; and now all is 
 so far over, that I have retired from my much- 
 loved, noble calling, to the place which God 
 pointed out, and my office is filled by another. 
 A — , soon after Easter, entered on it as my 
 substitute, and eventually as my successor. 
 Here stand all these events described in still, 
 cold, mute letters ! Oh ! the marble that re- 
 presents a man is cold also, it tells not of that 
 which has made the heart bleed : but even 
 though this heart has bled, I cannot otherwise 
 feel, and say, and pray, than, ' Even so, Father, 
 for so it seems good in thy sight.' Now the 
 pastor Mowes is in a sense dead. Dead ! he 
 shall speak yet once more, if God will ; but it 
 will only be a dying word from the lips of the 
 departing. As a private man, Mowes yet lives, 
 but not as his friends would see him ; he moves 
 as a shadow, he eats and drinks as a sick man. 
 There he stands as a reed ; but he endures all, 
 and blesses his God, even as if he knew nothing 
 of all this suffer in g." 
 
 We again refer to the narrative of his per- 
 sonal friend. Mowes delayed the necessary 
 change until June, when he resigned his office. 
 Yet once again previous to this he preached. 
 The delivery of the sermon was attended with 
 
REV. H. MOWKS. 47 
 
 frequent expectoration of blood, yet he looked 
 back on it with much satisfaction. The day on 
 which he was to withdraw from his office 
 arrived ; he was strong enough to give up his 
 charge to the friend who succeeded him at the 
 altar. " Feed thy flock and mine" said he ; 
 and all hearts melted with his. Throughout 
 this day, he was the strongest and firmest of us ; 
 but sometimes a tear would start into his large 
 blue eye. He obeyed the precept, " And thou, 
 when thou fastest, anoint thy head." His motto 
 was, " Bear the bitterness of renunciation 
 alone, and let it appear neither in the eye nor on 
 the lip." 
 
 Before him now lay a future totally unknown. 
 Though the mere necessaries of life would have 
 contented him, yet his retiring salary could not 
 be made sufficient to bring up his four children. 
 This must have added to his other sufferings 
 many privations ; but he had long lost all 
 sense of care, and was accustomed to say, 
 " God takes care for me ; he understands it 
 far better than I : why should I not leave it to 
 him?" 
 
 Though unable to continue his pastoral duties, 
 Mowes was yet strong enough to be active in 
 another direction ; the recollection of his family 
 determined him to look round for some occupa- 
 tion. " I look," said he, " on the development 
 
48 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 of my future life with the unconcernedness and 
 tranquillity of that man who has more than once 
 before waited his appointment from our common 
 Father, and who still can wait, because he 
 knows that He is Lord of all the earth, and 
 overlooks none of his children. I have resigned 
 the office that filled my soul; the choice of 
 another gives me no anxiety. One has my 
 heart; every other will be to me neither more 
 nor less than a situation, the avocations of 
 which I will perform as well as I am able, from 
 a sense of duty to God ; what those avocations 
 may be, gives me no concern. They will all be 
 right, if I shall be able to supply the wants of 
 my much-loved ones/' He would have rejoiced 
 if the office he obtained had any connexion with 
 the church. " It is possible," said he, " that 
 by the* re-organization of the church, which the 
 king appears to have in view, and which indeed 
 he has-, by the revival of the order of bishops, 
 commenced, a place may be found for me, and 
 such an one truly would I rejoice to take." 
 
 His God had otherwise appointed for him; 
 and with his determination he was content. To 
 a high officer of state, who had intimated his 
 fear that it would be difficult to find a situation 
 that would meet his taste, he replied, that he 
 could honestly assure him that in any office to 
 which he should be equal, he would find him a 
 
RKV. H. MOWES. 49 
 
 persevering, true workman ; and that if he were 
 reduced to be a hewer of wood, he w r ould en- 
 gage, with God's help, to be an able hewer of 
 wood. 
 
 " I know not," said he in a letter, " where 
 such a man as I am can be placed. I have been 
 accustomed to clerical and spiritual affairs ex- 
 clusively. I have not troubled myself with the 
 barren fields of the busy world. Man, the spi- 
 rit of man, has engaged me, not his name or 
 rank ; and I would fain hold some office con- 
 nected with the former, and thus the prevailing 
 desires of my mind find vent in action. In this 
 case, others, who are more familiar with these 
 things, will be best able to tell what will come 
 the nearest to my wish. 
 
 " Labour, of whatever kind it may be that 
 my situation will demand, is not formidable to 
 me ; many, in w 7 hose word I dare to confide, 
 have given me to understand that I handled the 
 opened gospel not wholly unworthily, but that, 
 attempting high things, I so far succeeded, as 
 that minds were strengthened and aw r akened, 
 hearts raised and influenced ; this (now I may 
 indeed say so) is a task in the discharge of 
 which more is required than is necessary to fill 
 with respectability other departments." 
 
 In order to prosecute his plans more effec- 
 tually, he resolved on leaving Altenhausen, and 
 
 F 
 
50 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 residing at Magdeburg. The day of departure 
 was fixed. Yet once again the weight of the 
 surrender and suffering which were laid upon 
 him, fell heavily on his heart. Many came to 
 him the day before he was to leave, in order yet 
 once more to hear a word from his own lips, 
 once more to press his hand, and to thank him 
 for his love and fidelity. He must leave those 
 who were so dear to him ; he must no more an- 
 nounce to them the word of life, no more offer 
 with them the sacrifice of praise on the altar of 
 the sanctuary. 
 
 In the evening, he sank exhausted. His 
 enfeebled body gave way under excessive agi- 
 tation, and the struggle to master it. " So then 
 all forsake me," he cried, and then wept bit- 
 terly. At midnight we were called around his 
 bed; we thought him dying. Violent spasms 
 at the chest threatened every moment to suffo- 
 cate him. He lay in agony before us. " Oh, 
 He has voluntarily suffered much more on ac- 
 count of our sins ! " he exclaimed. While the 
 deepest sighs escaped his tortured bosom, and 
 his whole frame shook with convulsions, he 
 said to us, " Be not anxious for my spirit; all 
 is well, God is with me." After this fearful 
 struggle had lasted for five hours, his chest be- 
 came less painful ; and towards morning the 
 danger was over. He was, however, obliged to 
 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 51 
 
 rest for a week, before he could undertake the 
 journey to Magdeburg ; and it was not till the 
 last day of August, 1830, that he left Alten- 
 hausen. 
 
 It will be seen that the narrative of Mowes' 
 friend has been verbally adhered to in the de- 
 tail of these events. He himself thus alludes to 
 them, in a letter to his valued patron, the Count 
 von Schulenburg Altenhausen. " You came 
 to the vicarage on the eve of my departure 
 from my dear, dear Altenhausen, as if by 
 chance. I well understood your kindness : you 
 felt, as I did, that it would have been unnatural 
 for me to have gone without seeing vou ; but 
 you would spare me the bitterness of giving you 
 my hand in a last adieu, there, where eight 
 years before, you gave me yours in token of 
 welcome. You remember, my dear count, 
 where that intimacy which now unites us was 
 first formed ; it was beside a grave, and I trust 
 that at the grave alone will it be broken off. 
 We both live, through God's mercy ; yet we shall 
 meet no more ; no more on the sabbath, in that 
 place where the glory of our God dwells, where 
 I was so sure to meet you. No ! no ! this shall 
 be no letter of complaint. There can be no com- 
 plaint before Him who does all things well, and 
 whom I can only praise : but if with this word 
 a sigh of sorrow escapes, God forgive me that I 
 
52 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 feel as a man. I cannot, nor would I, harden 
 myself to that insensibility which, in the 
 thought, ' It must be,' closes the eye to what the 
 supreme hand dispenses, and seeks to make a 
 palladium for itself where painful events cannot 
 reach it. What God does is worthy of man's 
 regard and contemplation ; when he allows days 
 of happiness to come, he certainly intends us to 
 recognise them as such, and to rejoice in them ; 
 and when he changes them for days of sorrow, 
 they also are the gift of a Father, who would 
 not wound, but bless. And if, on such a day, 
 the morning or evening dew of still tears should 
 fall, that also is well, if those tears become not 
 a cloud to hide our beloved Father and God ; if 
 on them the eternal sun shines, painting the 
 rainbow of peace, as the token of his unchang- 
 ing mercy. And I see it, and therefore it is 
 well ; though my heart is often depressed, and 
 often when I sit silent, and without soul for the 
 external world, I am lost in thought. I sit, in- 
 deed, thirsty and weary by a spring ; but by a 
 spring which cools the burning air, and at 
 whose waters I quench my thirst and am 
 strengthened. For the rest, my long valued 
 friend, it is well with me ; such news is just 
 what you want to hear, and such I think I shall 
 always be able to give you. To receive the 
 same intelligence of you and your dear house, is 
 
 en 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 53 
 
 indeed one of my liveliest wishes. The love 
 which from the beginning to the end — yet no, 
 not the end, that is not yet ; but the love you 
 have shown me from the first, has fallen on no 
 insensible heart. I pray no more in the church 
 for you, but God hears not there alone. His 
 blessing on you ! " 
 
 Mowes' health was not worse during the 
 first weeks of his residence in Magdeburg. 
 Writing of it, he says, " My health has not gone 
 back all this time, though it would not have 
 been surprising if it had. The waves have long 
 beaten my little bark ; and if at some moments 
 she is fearfully shaken, at others tranquil- 
 lity comes; the little bark still rides above the 
 waves, and if she spring not a leak afresh, is 
 now nearing the port. In fact, I find myself 
 much better than I was when I saw you last. 
 Those hours of suffering, when some irresistible 
 power seemed about to thrust me out of life, 
 have left no after effects but slight, insignificant 
 admonitions of distress which at times come 
 over my soul. My strength returned as sud- 
 denly, and almost as rapidly, as it was reduced : 
 it continues to increase, my step is firmer, and 
 my muscles are regaining their elasticity. I 
 have not lost my cough, but its symptoms have 
 changed, so that if nothing occurs to increase it, 
 it may be quite gone in a fortnight. You see, I 
 
 f2 
 
54 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 watch myself narrowly. If you ask what more 
 I do to gain strength, I answer, I allow myself 
 to do nothing, as far as I can judge, which 
 would impede nature's own process of restora- 
 tion. I make use of God's sun as often as it 
 shines, take fennel and Iceland moss, and — am 
 anxious about nothing. So I think I shall be 
 pretty well prepared for the winter, and after 
 winter always comes spring." 
 
 To the same effect he writes, September 16th. 
 " All goes well with me. I have carefully 
 made use of these summer hours. Yesterday I 
 walked yory slowly for nearly an hour and a 
 half, and sunned myself in the warm glow of 
 day's bright orb : to-day again he seems ready 
 to do me a kindness, for, early morning as it is, 
 he looks unveiled down from the blue sky. I 
 will not wait long, only to finish these lines, be- 
 fore I go out with my three girls, and walk be- 
 fore the door in the warm sunshine." And 
 lovely were those three girls, with their bright 
 blue eyes, and fair light hair, and their fresh, 
 blooming countenances, and their young affec- 
 tionate hearts ; most tenderly did they nurse their 
 father, and earnestly did they pray to God for 
 his recovery. Mowes was indescribably rich 
 and happy in his home. Here the heart of the 
 sufferer had not yet been tried. In about ten 
 days after the foregoing letter was written, one 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 55 
 
 of these three girls lay a corpse. In a letter 
 dated October 6th, he writes : — 
 
 " Your tears, my dear A — , have flowed with 
 those which love has here shed, and still 
 sheds; tears of separation. Separation ! this is 
 a thing which has so long, and under so many 
 forms, been presented to me — this is a word, 
 whose meaning God has given me so many op- 
 portunities of learning, I know it now tho- 
 roughly, and for this knowledge I thank Him 
 whose love and glory the darkness of earth can- 
 not conceal. You, who for many years have 
 been witness of my life and its varied experience, 
 know that more than once I have had the near 
 prospect of myself passing over that threshold 
 which our dear, sweet Eliza has crossed ; this 
 step has indeed made a bitter separation, but for 
 her who took it — who took it, God leading her 
 by the hand, it was no fearful step. The event 
 which I looked for, which I seemed appointed 
 to meet, did not happen — that which I did not 
 expect has occurred. She was full of life and 
 young strength, and the flower has fallen with 
 the first falling leaves of autumn. It is a thing I 
 cannot yet realize. It does not become familiar, 
 it is only not more new. This event has now 
 given me an opportunity of learning the full 
 value of that salvation, which we owe to the 
 Prince of life. Without him, I should be 
 
56 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 afraid for my beloved child; without him, I 
 should be afraid for my wrung heart ; but now 
 distress and death have little to do with me. 
 He revives the heavy-laden. You must not 
 think that eyes filled with tears, seeking and 
 not finding, testify against these words ; nor 
 yet the outbreakings of sadness which at times 
 overshadow the countenance. Though the sun 
 stands fast in the heavens, there are often sha- 
 dows on the earth ; and though the light shines, 
 drops of dew will hang on the leaves. Oh yes, it 
 is a distress, even for the heart of faith, to learn, 
 in a beloved child, that the life of man is like 
 grass, which in the morning groweth up, and 
 in the evening is cut down, and withereth. 
 When man looks only at that which is before 
 his eyes, what is it he sees ? A horrible specta- 
 cle, desolation, the power of the densest dark- 
 ness — of death. A stony heart might feel, and 
 a withered one begin to bleed. Oh ! mine 
 could not divest itself of these human feelings, 
 and it cannot yet. It beat with love for her 
 who is gone home, and still does it ; but this 
 feeling is not pain, it is no sentiment of sorrow, 
 that I would be free from. It is not grief about 
 what has happened, and my inability to prevent 
 it. No ! dear, dear as my Eliza is, I would 
 have nothing; otherwise. I am content with 
 what my God has done. There is only wanting 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 57 
 
 to me the sight of what I believe, and what I 
 know with perfect certainty, because he who is 
 the Truth has declared it to us. What, then, I 
 now feel is only an attractive power, which 
 comes to me from her, whom God has united 
 with me for an endless life ; an attraction from 
 her heart to mine, which must yet wait till it 
 shall have learned to give God the honour in 
 all things. I have done so with regard to the 
 death of my dear child : I have done so, weep- 
 ing and praying by her deathbed and her grave. 
 I am now reconciled to the thought that she is 
 gone away. I seem, when I think of her, to 
 have a new power of vision, by which I look 
 through all clouds, even to the circle where, 
 through the mercy of that God to whom I have 
 so often commended her, she has taken her 
 place. My dear wife has been true to her faith, 
 only her maternal heart feels yet more acutely 
 than mine ; but her love cannot err, for faith 
 is the light of it." 
 
 A day earlier he wrote to a friend : " My eye 
 has become so much clearer than it was wont, 
 through Him who gives sight to the blind, that I 
 can see the eyes that our Eliza closed have not 
 become darker, but brighter ; we have yet to feel 
 our way through the night, while she, taken from 
 the land of darkness, through the strong arm of 
 the gracious and merciful Saviour, walks in light. 
 
58 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 Yet I will not say that no feeling at the heart 
 causes me pain ; truly there is — but what pains 
 me? Not our Eliza, for I know what in the 
 kingdom of Christ, and through him, death is; 
 I know through him what life is ; how much on 
 the one hand it is worth, when he lengthens it 
 out to us — how little on the other hand is lost, 
 when, instead of the shadow of life, he gives us 
 the substance. Yet is my heart full of something, 
 for which I have no proper name. It is as a 
 glass filled to the brim, which, when we touch it 
 with the finger, or it suffers a slight shock, runs 
 over. So is it with me : many recollections of 
 the past, many thoughts which I seek to control, 
 seize my spirit, and all is tumult. It is then as 
 if the sea overflowed.* But none of these things 
 shake the hold that God has on me. In our 
 dear Eliza's going home I recognise his act. He 
 can show nothing but love and mercy; and I 
 gain, or rather he gives me, strength to ascribe, 
 even in this, honour to him, in full confidence 
 that that for which we can scarcely restrain tears 
 of sorrow, in reality demands tears of joy. In 
 this state I passed through the day which was 
 truly our heaviest. I had a cross of evergreens 
 laid on that form beneath which never more will 
 
 * It is difficult to render this passage by sober English 
 prose. It is in spirit an equivalent to the line of our poetess, 
 " The sea is in our souls." 
 
REV. H. MO WES. 59 
 
 a heart beat ; that cross signified to me, she 
 belongs to Jesus, and through him the heavenly 
 inheritance, with its rich gifts and treasures, has 
 been purchased for her, and is now securely hers. 
 I followed that form out to the place of peace ; 
 my Adalbert strewed flowers on the grave and 
 on the descending coffin ; and before the earth 
 covered the earthly, I was sufficiently composed 
 to fold my hands, and bend my knee, and open 
 my lips in prayer. Then I returned back ; at 
 home I have her no longer, but I have her in 
 heaven." 
 
 " Death itself/' wrote he, on the same occa- 
 sion, " the fading, and at last the disappearance, 
 of all life's traces, shakes not my stedfastness. 
 In our view, death is nothing to me ; for our 
 Lord Jesus Christ, who shows us in his own 
 person the image of his heavenly Father, has 
 brought life and imperishable existence to light. 
 He has in his hand all who come to him by faith 
 in his word, and no man can pluck them out of 
 his hand. And what is of no small importance, 
 it is he who calls them out of life, whatever cir- 
 cumstance may be the visible cause of their 
 departure : he calls a man, and nothing in the 
 universe can detain him ; nor can anything in 
 the universe drive him out of life, when he will 
 have him remain. Ah ! therefore in the midst 
 of my grief I am calm, and my wife is tranquil 
 

 60 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 too ; she is so, because, like me, she has faith in 
 One, excepting in whom no consolation or help 
 is found. In communion with Him, we seek our 
 tenderly beloved Eliza, not in the grave. For 
 we know where she is, and are assured we shall 
 find her again ; we know to whom she has gone 
 home, and how unfailing Love cares for her in 
 her new abode. If we are sorrowful, we yet 
 have peace, peace in our God and Saviour. " 
 
 Mowes was not of those who, from a weak 
 sparing of self, shun the remembrance of a 
 beloved departed one, because this remem- 
 brance disturbs their tranquillity. He spoke 
 willingly of his dear Eliza, and often as if she 
 were still one of the sister band. On Christmas 
 eve, her portrait was on the table, and before 
 it the usual gifts were placed.* As often as he 
 mentioned her, it was with pleasure, and smiles 
 shone through his tears. " Tears," said he, " for 
 a beloved one gone home, are a kind of holy, 
 mysterious communication from us to the world 
 of spirits, to which an answer comes from the 
 Saviour, * You shall see each other again, and 
 
 * Christmas eve is celebrated throughout Germany as a 
 family festival. The whole household assemble, make pre- 
 sents to each other, and pass the evening in cheerful and 
 affectionate festivity. There is not a family in the country, 
 where there are children, in which the time is not observed. 
 It is emphatically called u der Gluckliche Abend," (the 
 Happy Evening.) 
 
REV. H. MO WES. Gl 
 
 your hearts shall rejoice.' ' He would talk in 
 an indescribably touching way, with his other 
 children, about their sister who was with their 
 dear Saviour, and who vet loved them. He 
 celebrated her birthday as usual, as if she were 
 still with them. 
 
 A month after the death of his child, he thus 
 writes : — " The fruit of humble, strong, joyful 
 resignation to God, the renunciation of our will 
 and wish, and the acknowledgment of his will, 
 with the simple, entire faith of a child, grow only 
 in that field which we call misfortune, which has 
 been torn up by the ploughshare, and prepared 
 for the good seed. We learn this truth, too, 
 from the life of our Redeemer. He also was 
 made perfect through suffering ; he too must 
 pass through sorrow to his own glory. Oh ! was 
 there no other way for Him, and shall we refuse 
 to be conducted through it ? Shall we not rather, 
 when such a path is opening before us, raise our 
 head, and assure ourselves that our redemption 
 draweth nigh ? If our body be a close prison, the 
 prisoner therein is of noble origin, and the chains 
 which bind and wound him become a ladder 
 on which he mounts up to freedom, and which, 
 in the hand of his Saviour, shall be the means of 
 raising him to his holy home. Oh, blessed truth ! 
 Oh, refreshing draught from the spring of living 
 waters ! You know the trial that our house has 
 
62 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 experienced, the suffering that has overflowed 
 the mother's heart. I have talked over to-day 
 with her, for the first time, the late events. I 
 fear not to speak of them, I fear not to touch 
 the wound made by our Eliza's departure. Shall 
 I look at nothing but what I have lost ? No ! 
 He who has called her has done me no wrong. 
 He has enabled me to yield one so unspeakably 
 dear up to Him, promptly and without complaint. 
 He has so truly caused me to feel the happiness 
 of being a member of that body whose head is 
 the Prince of life, who keeps all his members 
 joined to himself. In his love for man, whose 
 life is as grass, and who, during his long wander- 
 ings on earth, must pass through the purifying 
 fires of manifold sufferings, both physical and 
 mental, that he may be raised to heaven — He, I 
 say, in his love, has spared the refining fire, and 
 from the flowery paths of childhood has opened 
 up a path to the land of eternal youth, to the 
 land of light and freedom. I cannot understand 
 those who turn away their thoughts from such 
 beloved ones as have departed. Oh ! how will- 
 ingly we talk of the brother, the friend, the 
 child, who tarries in a foreign land ! and how 
 can we otherwise than with pleasure speak of 
 her who has gone away to her home ? And even 
 if sorrow presses, and unbidden tears gush, joy 
 and sorrow ever walk hand in hand on this earth, 
 
REV. H. MO WES. G3 
 
 and the one cannot rob me of the other. Sorrow 
 is only like the shower in the time of winter 
 frost, which quickens our longing for the spring, 
 and shows us, across the cold plains of this 
 winterly existence, the green fields of an un- 
 changing life The remembrance 
 
 of a beloved one who is gone home, is to me one 
 of the most joyful of feelings ; and I cannot con- 
 ceive it possible for a man to have a dear friend 
 in another world, without, when circumstances 
 recall him, bringing him, as it were, into the 
 circle, and speaking of him, and tarrying, even 
 though it be with a swelling heart, long and 
 gladly with him in imagination. That shrink- 
 ing from the mention of the dead reminds me 
 of the sensitive flower, which draws up its 
 leaves together when any one approaches to 
 touch it ; it is so mean-spirited to withdraw into 
 one's self, and set up a childish defence against 
 any little touch that might hurt us. To be on 
 one's guard lest any thought of the departed 
 should come too near ; to avoid it when it does 
 come ; to break off the subject as soon as possible, 
 when a word must be heard or spoken on it ; and 
 to justify one's self on pretext of sensibility, sen- 
 sibility that the thought of our lost ones excites ; 
 how does it consist w r ith the love we have for 
 them, or rather with that we say we have ? how 
 does it in the least agree with even an ordinary 
 
64 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 Christian view of our departed ones ? What is 
 man's love, if it cannot bear to hear of his loved 
 ones that are gone? if, for fear of being agitated 
 by the thought, he would rather not think of 
 them at all ? if, to spare himself, he will act so 
 unnaturally? I can see nothing in it but the 
 miserable, weak self-love of an ill-regulated 
 heart ; provided he knows that there is another 
 life beyond this upon which they were entered. 
 But here there is seen the difference between 
 knowledge and belief. The informed man ac- 
 knowledges there is another world ; the Chris- 
 tian firmly believes therein : it lies in the un- 
 derstanding of the former, he has an idea of 
 it ; the latter has it living in his heart, he has 
 the thing itself. The one can speak of it as a 
 mathematician speaks of the properties of a 
 triangle on which he is thinking; the other lives 
 therein as his home, which he has certainly and 
 truly found : to one it is a set and ready phrase, 
 which, like dry abstract reasoning, leaves him 
 cold ; the other has experienced the loving 
 power of the word, it has indeed become part of 
 his own life : therefore the one remains weak 
 and disquieted, while the other lifts up himself 
 vigorous and full of peace. I must say with the 
 apostle, i Thanks be to God, who giveth us 
 the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ! ' 
 
REV. H. MOWES. (>3 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Bright out of present darkness light shall shine, 
 
 And out of present sorrow joy shall rise ; 
 Oh trust we then the guardian hand Divine, 
 
 Nor marvel if our God, supremely wise, 
 
 Choose a rough path to lead us to the skies ; 
 The path his Well-beloved hath trodden first. 
 
 Is it not bliss, when tears suffuse our eyes, 
 To know that He shall wipe them ? When we thirst, 
 To know the Lamb shall lead where living fountains burst? 
 
 c. 
 
 We have seen in the last chapter how suddenly 
 and totally the whole complexion of Mowes' life 
 was changed, and how submissively and cheer- 
 fully he bore that change. We shall now have 
 to trace his onward way ; and while we see 
 " sorrow still dodging him at every step," and 
 uncertainty hanging as a cloud over to-morrow's 
 path, we shall learn that even such things can 
 " work together for good to them that love God." 
 Mowes became poorer in his outward circum- 
 stances, but his inner life unfolded itself the more 
 
 g2 
 
66 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 richly ; he was more and more enfeebled by sick- 
 ness, but his soul enjoyed increasing health; his 
 physical frame became weaker, but so much the 
 more vigorous waxed the strength of his spirit ; 
 his life's way became more and more solitary, 
 but so much the closer grew his fellowship with 
 his Saviour : every loss was to him a real gain. 
 " Life is a school," he wrote to a friend ; " sa- 
 crifice and self-renunciation are the lessons the 
 Master appoints ; inward strength and tran- 
 quillity the rewards which we shall receive 
 when all is borne." Thence was it that his 
 friends could perceive in him no trace of life's 
 sorrows. Despondency, irritability, weariness, 
 melancholy, were unknown to him : triumphant 
 joyfulness was his predominant characteristic. 
 Hope, exulting courage, unwavering confidence 
 of his salvation by Christ, made his path bright 
 and his foot firm. Once only, in the latter part 
 of his life, through the excess of suffering, his 
 spirit fainted, but never did it despair. 
 
 On October 6th he wrote, " As to my health, 
 the last means used have had no remarkable 
 effect, yet it appears progressive." He remained 
 in the same state to the end of the year, not 
 materially worse, yet passing no day without 
 symptomatic suffering. The loss of blood from 
 the lungs was frequent, and the general tone of 
 his system was very low. Still it appeared 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 67 
 
 likely that he might pass the winter without 
 relapse, and his friends hoped that with the 
 return of spring his health would rapidly im- 
 prove. In a letter dated December 6th, he 
 gives the following account of himself: " I dare 
 not close without saying something of my health. 
 There was some foundation for the report you 
 mention ; I had not been heard to cough vio- 
 lently for some time, and my strength had 
 decidedly increased at that period ; but a change 
 has occurred since : late on Monday evening, 
 the suffering on my chest came on, and the old 
 wound was re-opened ; but after rather more 
 than an hour I obtained very good sleep. Now 
 all is again calm at my chest, and last night (I 
 only say this because I know it will give you 
 pleasure) I slept exceedingly well. As you may 
 suppose, the prospect of the return of my suffer- 
 ing did not disturb me — why not, you know 
 equally well. On Sunday, R — inquired after 
 my health ; I replied, * If not quite a giant, at 
 least half a one.' He remarked, c Mowes has, 
 indeed, always good spirits.' He is not quite in 
 the wrong, thought I, and replied, 6 Why should 
 I not ? I have eternal life.' " 
 
 Though Mowes was separated from his dear 
 Altenhausen, and from that sphere of action in 
 which he had so much exulted, yet his heart re- 
 mained there, and he took a lively interest in all 
 
68 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 that occurred in his old parish. One instance 
 of this we may give, in a short extract from a 
 letter, written by him for a young couple, who 
 had earnestly but vainly desired to receive from 
 him the nuptial benediction, and who were 
 leaving their early home for a distant land. 
 " They are going to dwell by the far sea coast. 
 It must be a pleasant abode. The sea, with its 
 immeasurable extent and depth, is an altar of 
 the Infinite. In the roaring of its waves, and in 
 the thunder of its breakers, a commentary on 
 the text, i I am the Lord/ is heard. It is the 
 source whence all rivers and streams are sup- 
 plied, and to it they all flow as to their bed of 
 repose. So is it a fit symbol of Him who is 
 the centre of all things, in whom we live, move, 
 and have our being; the eternal, rich, inex- 
 haustible Spring, whence, early and late, salva- 
 tion and blessing flow to us. May they who 
 are* about to depart for such a home refresh 
 themselves at that source, and be satisfied with 
 its abundance. Give them this wish from me, 
 as the true nuptial congratulation." 
 
 We see how fondly his spirit lingered in his 
 beloved parish, in a letter he addressed to a lady 
 who had sent him two sketches, one of Alten- 
 hausen, and another of Ivenrode. " You have 
 placed before my eye the spot and country 
 which were the scene of my latest and dearest 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 69 
 
 labours ; where I moved the most freely and 
 joyfully ; where I won my fellow men to the 
 faith of the cross, and to eternal happiness ; 
 where each day was happy and blessed ; where 
 I passed through deep experience, and endured 
 my first trial ; where I sustained fearful conflicts, 
 and overcame a twofold death, which would at 
 the same time have severed me from life and 
 from my office. There is the parsonage where 
 my beloved wife placed round me four joyous 
 children, where serene and earnest hours of so- 
 cial intercourse were mine, where I passed hours 
 in thoughtful preparation for my public services, 
 and where I too conducted them with such 
 tranquil pleasure. Here is the footpath leading 
 by the pond to the church, which I so often 
 trod with an almost anxious heart, as if with 
 some presentiment of what was before me, yet 
 never without that joy which is natural to the 
 servant of such a Lord as mine. To the left is 
 the church itself, the field where I sowed, the 
 house of gladness in which I rejoiced, the 
 height whence we beheld the earth beneath us 
 and her clouds under our feet, and felt the light 
 from above shining brightly upon us ; the gate 
 of peace, from which the sabbath bell sounded 
 as the echo of triumphant alleluias. At the 
 side is the castle, worthy of the church, and of 
 which the church was worthy, and where I 
 
70 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 ever found gateway and door alike open, which 
 I rejoiced to enter, knowing they were not open 
 to me as a man, but as the messenger of Godc 
 It was not Avithout emotion that I cast a glance 
 on the second sketch. It seems as though it 
 were Sunday, and I had passed the tile-yard, 
 and the mill, and was approaching with eager 
 steps my dear, dear Ivenrode. There is nobody 
 in the field, and above appears the village, as if 
 waiting for the bell to proclaim the holy day, 
 which was there so gladly hailed. And, still 
 higher, the eye wanders away to the edge of the 
 forest, not far from which stands a house where 
 I was ever hospitably received, and whose in- 
 habitants had become so dear to me; there I 
 passed so many weeks last summer, in expecta- 
 tion of new life and strength, wandering through 
 the forest, or bathing myself in the light of 
 God's sun. The mill, again, points out to me 
 a place where one dwells who showed me such 
 true love, at the time when my strength was 
 low; who was, if possible, more ready to show 
 me kind service than I was to accept it/' 
 
 Mowes continued to make every possible ef- 
 fort at Magdeburg to find a sphere of activity, 
 which, while contributing to the support of his 
 family, would offer him means of working ac- 
 cording to his desire for the advancement of 
 that kingdom which is not of this world. From 
 
REV. H. MOWBS. 71 
 
 the many distinguished connexions he had 
 formed, or rather, we might say, which had 
 formed themselves round him, for he sought 
 them not ; from the great interest which his valu- 
 able character and fate had excited, and espe- 
 cially from his distinguished ability, he had 
 much to hope. But all his efforts were in vain ; 
 his pilgrimage on earth was yet to be prolonged, 
 while his painful inaction was at the same time 
 to be continued. His God still kept him in this 
 absolute and daily dependence on his sovereign 
 will. Each time that a brighter horizon seemed 
 about to open upon him, his hope was disap- 
 pointed, and he had to learn anew to say, " Thy 
 will be done." 
 
 On December 2nd, 1830, he writes, « No- 
 thing has been determined with regard to my 
 outward circumstances. The report of govern- 
 ment, and the minister's reply to my applica- 
 tion, are now lying at Berlin. If I could only 
 say, ' There is a place suited to me vacant/ I 
 should succeed ; but there I fail. When I was 
 with the minister, he inquired what situation I 
 had in view ; I could only reply that I should 
 be obliged to him if he would look out for a 
 suitable one for me. I have stated that I am 
 ready to go anywhere, but that an office that 
 would continue my connexion with the church 
 would be most acceptable." Preparatory to 
 
72 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 taking a situation, he obtained employment, 
 though without remuneration, in the office of 
 one of the government secretaries, for the sake 
 of familiarizing himself with such affairs. 
 
 Though Mowes was no longer a preacher, he 
 still actively employed himself in the one object 
 of his life ; in making visible, as it were, the 
 glory of his God, by efforts for the true happi- 
 ness of his fellow men . " My former and pe- 
 culiar sphere of action being completely gone," 
 wrote he, " I yet find some opportunities of 
 speaking a word in His name who has loved us 
 unto death ; and this happens, as formerly, 
 when on Sunday I am going into or out of 
 church. So you see I am not yet entirely cut 
 off from my beloved work. A word of Him 
 always comes right to you, so I shall send you 
 one. It is a sabbath song, though indeed it is 
 not unsuitable to any day." 
 
 He at that time contemplated publishing a 
 course of sermons on the Epistles, which he had 
 delivered in the year 1828 ; but difficulties lying 
 in the way of the undertaking, it was abandoned. 
 He entered a theological society, and was very 
 active in promoting the object of its formation ; 
 he was also an efficient member of the Magde- 
 burg Society in aid of Foreign Missions : he 
 drew up the reports for the years 1831 and 
 1832. He took the liveliest part in the interest 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 73 
 
 which the preaching of his friend A — excited 
 in Magdeburg, and warmly rejoiced in the im- 
 portant results which followed his labours. 
 
 Mowes understood and exulted in the true 
 freedom of Christianity ; hence there was no- 
 thing of the recluse in his character. Over- 
 coming evil less by fleeing from it and avoid- 
 ing it, than by looking it in the face, he used the 
 world as others, and made one in all pure hu- 
 man relations. During his residence in Magde- 
 burg, he entered into spirited social intercourse ; 
 the circle of friends which he there made will 
 retain his memory to the end of life. His re- 
 markable appearance ; his generous eloquence, 
 which displayed itself more richly, if possible, 
 in conversation than in the pulpit ; his graceful 
 wit; the peculiar charm which resulted from 
 the brilliancy of his imagination and the warmth 
 of his heart, in combination with the uncommon 
 clearness and depth of his understanding ; his 
 frank, independent character, which conceded to 
 others the unshackled freedom it demanded for 
 itself; his free spirit, ever ready to impart its 
 treasures to others ; his quick sympathy, which 
 enabled him to rejoice with the happy and to 
 weep with the sorrowful ; all this gave to his 
 conversation a magic peculiarly his own. He 
 could say gracefully what few others would dare 
 to say at all. He could give himself up to 
 
 11 
 
74 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 lively and unrestrained intercourse without los- 
 ing himself or his Lord in the world, making 
 all things subservient to his holy faith : it per- 
 vaded, and blessed, and ennobled everything ; 
 his whole existence bore the fine impression of 
 his Christianity. Indeed, his smile, his wit, 
 his most unrestrained sallies, seemed hallowed ; 
 the rich variety of his character, the seeming 
 contradictions of his nature, were by this one 
 principle blended together and invested with 
 a heavenly lustre. During the last years of his 
 life, no movement of his spirit, no thought, no 
 word, could be detected, which had not, however 
 far off superficial observation might deem it 
 removed, a most close, an organic, if we may 
 so say, connexion with Christian faith. 
 
 Mowes watched with attentive interest the 
 political movements of the times. Early in the 
 year 1831, he composed "The Songs of the 
 Prussian." They were two lyrics, which ex- 
 cited such general attention, that many thousand 
 copies were circulated through the country. On 
 the banks of the Rhine, the Elbe, and the Sprey, 
 they were sung with the greatest enthusiasm. 
 
 These songs, little as it, might be imagined, 
 were written in spite of much pain and weak- 
 ness ; his health had again sunk very low, and 
 his prospects were darker than ever. A lady, 
 who was one of his dearest friends, wished him 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 75 
 
 to try a new mode of medical treatment, which 
 was then, and indeed is now, very much in vogue 
 on some parts of the continent. She had already 
 entered into correspondence with a physician on 
 the subject. We give the reply he returned to 
 her kind offer. " For all, I must thank you ; I 
 have again shared your care and thought in 
 various ways. If God bless this new means, I 
 shall be indeed happy, and you, whose heart is 
 so large, w T ill have the pleasure you desire for 
 my sake. I have a larger or smaller circle of 
 weeks to pass through, during which I shall 
 have, as in the past, to solve the problem, how, 
 in the alternate rise and fall of my strength, and 
 in the ever-increasing brittleness of my invalid 
 frame, my soul can take hold of the strength of 
 Jehovah, and yet more fully win the eternal life 
 of faith. In the meantime, however difficult 
 this may be, I will not be discouraged ; I will 
 not fear, because there is nothing I so much de- 
 sire as that my God may be glorified in me on the 
 earth — yes, even as long as he sees it well. 
 What his determination as to my future life may 
 be I know not, and I abstain from all judgment 
 as to where these things may end. But shall I 
 honestly tell you how I feel ? and will my words 
 meet in vou a heart that can remain still, and 
 that can cast all care on my account on God ? 
 I must look for this from you. I would fain spare 
 
76 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 you all anxiety about me, I would wish to unveil 
 to you nothing but the joyful and untroubled life 
 of my spirit; but the steps you have taken for 
 me, the share you claim in all that is to be done 
 for my health, compel me to give you a faithful 
 statement. You hope something for me from 
 this new r discovery. lam willing to avail myself 
 of it ; it may be useful. You have already made 
 some arrangements with * * * *. Believe me, 
 if I had not for a long time well known your 
 kindness to me, I should now know r it ; but so 
 much the more do I regret that I must raise one 
 
 objection against the matter Here 
 
 I am at the point I was before. I would not 
 increase your care; but I must, if I tell you faith- 
 fully of my health. It has been sinking for the 
 last fortnight, and I have been compelled to keep 
 my room : you know a slight cause will not 
 induce me to take such care of myself. Shall I 
 yet further continue my detail ? My hand 
 resists, but you require it ; and I too owe it to 
 you, that you should not imagine worse than the 
 reality. Sufferings of more than one kind try 
 their power upon me in vain, as to my happi- 
 ness, but not in vain as to my strength, which 
 yields. There was a time at Altenhausen, when 
 walking was a painful fatigue ; that time has 
 returned : my knees tremble, and bear me slowly 
 along, the cough produces a pain at the chest, 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 77 
 
 and I often lay my hand there to give it ease. 
 Sleep is a friend who but rarely visits me, though 
 I slept last night for five hours, and that has 
 invigorated me much to-day. Many equally 
 evident signs of a weak and disorganized frame 
 I pass over; it is enough of this tale." He then 
 refers to some steps he had taken towards pro- 
 curing a situation, and, after pointing out the 
 uncertainty of success, he continues, " In this 
 state of things a thought has occurred to me, 
 which is too problematical, not to say chimerical, 
 for me to regard otherwise than as a consoling 
 idea ; namely, if God raises me up, and I become 
 strong again as the young eagle, and no other 
 path is opened to me, then I should perhaps 
 have courage to re-enter my forsaken career, and 
 to try, under less arduous circumstances, how 
 long my chest would hold out. But then I 
 should not spare myself at all ; I should not 
 treat my life so carefully as I have done for the 
 sake of my family ; I should then have tried 
 my utmost, and would exhibit the word of life 
 till my God close my earthly existence. I re- 
 joice that I am so completely ignorant as to my 
 future career, for thereby I have learned to feel 
 myself perfectly safe in the hand of the Lord." 
 
 On February 8th, 1831, he writes, " I strictly 
 conform to my new discipline. For some time 
 I have left off coffee, substituting milk, and 
 
 h 2 
 
78 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 occasionally cocoa; the soup and vegetables I 
 take are without the forbidden spice. My first 
 dish in the morning is goat's milk, thickened with 
 barley flour ; my regimen is simple and unvary- 
 ing to a degree. I have staid almost entirely 
 within doors for three weeks, so that neither the 
 north nor east winds can reach me : my cough 
 has left me, or is very nearly gone. It probably 
 originated in a cold taken by a predisposed sub- 
 ject : my chest is easier, and in other respects I 
 am freer from pain. I am already contented 
 with my sleep, only it is not till midnight that I 
 can obtain it. My strength certainly falls some- 
 what short of Samson's. I am waiting for the 
 spring : I know its power, which brings life to 
 the exhausted ; and I calmly look for it, and com- 
 plain not of the raw days which may precede it. 
 Yonder it stands, with its gifts, like a messenger 
 from above. I shall heartily welcome it; whether 
 it clothe itself for me in the glowing colours and 
 flowers of earth ; or whether, divested of the 
 earthly, I shall behold it as a form of light in 
 another world. Yes ! to such a life, a life not 
 hemmed in on every side, not held down, not 
 placed in so frail a vessel, would I joyfully pass 
 on. Such a wish certainly does not displease 
 our God, nor ought it to displease you. It does 
 not make me look anxiously away from life, nor 
 yet anxiously into the world. But truly my 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 70 
 
 heart beats joyfully at the prospect of spring 
 with its treasures of life ; we understand the 
 grand hieroglyphic which it calls up before us, 
 from the dead and frozen earth. He, whose 
 name is the Word, has pointed it out to us : on 
 the rocky grave, from which He ascended like 
 the young spring, did his sacred finger inscribe 
 the word life. Yes! yes! my heart rises up, it 
 goes forth to meet life. Paul Gerhard sings, in 
 his admirable hymn on the resurrection, l The 
 Hero stands on the grave, and looks triumphantly 
 round him.' In the Hero's strength, I may too, 
 perhaps, look round triumphantly on the grave, 
 or beyond the grave : that were a joyful celebra- 
 tion of spring. This is the third spring that has 
 found me waiting for new life and strength ; 
 should it be still in vain, yet will I patiently 
 wait till He speaks the word, ' Now is my hour 
 come.'" 
 
 A week later, he writes : — " I see, with a kind 
 of alarm, that we are already in the middle of 
 the month. The days pass away rapidly. Many 
 things which to my thought occurred yester- 
 day, I find, when I look back, took place a 
 week ago. I often lose the reckoning of time ; 
 I confuse early and late. This illusion, I know, 
 is not rare in a state of weakness ; I have always 
 heard it spoken of as an infirmity. I would 
 not call it so ; I would explain it otherwise. 
 
80 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 Such a man stands on or near that boundary, 
 to which time, as developed by months and 
 years, extends, and on the other side of which 
 is that which we call eternity, and with which 
 no human measure of time can correspond; 
 where no sun rises and sets, ruling the year, 
 and dividing the day from the night ; where 
 earlier and later, at least according to our pre- 
 sent use, will be words no longer. Therefore, 
 understanding what is indicated by it, I may 
 call this confusion of times not an infirmity, 
 but rather a preparation for, or a pre-develop- 
 ment of, that state which will arise on the 
 coming change, and where questions as to the 
 when will either have no signification or no im- 
 portance ) an approach or assimilation to that 
 state which will have left the things of time 
 behind. Still, I do not like to keep no better 
 reckoning of time and its arrangements ; your 
 letter, so rich in goodness and love, ought to 
 have had an answer before this. I am of your 
 opinion — the earlier the journey to B — is un- 
 dertaken the better." 
 
 It was thought advisable to try the effect of 
 the journey referred to, in connexion with his 
 new course of regimen ; partly for the sake of 
 the change of scene and air, and partly that he 
 might be near the physician under whose ad- 
 vice he was acting. He accordingly set out, 
 
REV. II. MO WES. 81 
 
 taking Altenhausen in his route. He remained 
 at B — a fortnight, whence he wrote to his 
 friends at Altenhausen. " I have seen you all 
 again, and that not for a moment; I have passed 
 a whole day with you. I have been in the par- 
 sonage again, and passed by my dear church, 
 in the full consciousness of what these places 
 once were to me ; yet without my heart being 
 distressed and sad. It is a faithful hand that is 
 leading me, if the road is not quite even. Still, 
 I could not but be conscious that I was weak, 
 far different from what I was when I once vi- 
 sited the castle ; yet did that passing day de- 
 mand my thanks to Him who allowed it to me, 
 and I can and do afford to offer them. I have 
 met w 7 ith the kindest reception here. I am 
 giving this new system a fair trial ; if it should 
 gain no honour from me, I shall long to be at 
 Magdeburg." 
 
 He returned home, with the conviction that 
 the suffering at his chest was but secondary to 
 the master disease, which was deeply seated else- 
 where. His health appeared improving till 
 June, when the most alarming symptoms re- 
 turned. On the 23rd, he wrote to a friend, 
 " You have often known how weary it may be 
 to wander on in the body; I too have felt it, 
 and, during the last two weeks, in no slight 
 measure. The body hangs as heavy as lead on 
 
82 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 the soul ; you do not feel to be yourself, and 
 sigh and long to be free from the burden of 
 matter. It is like a man on a quagmire, who 
 cannot disengage his foot from the loamy soil, 
 and who, in spite of all his labour, cannot help 
 himself out. Oh, how he longs for firm ground, 
 where there is freer and easier walking ! And 
 our walk is in heaven. There stands before us, 
 through the might of Him to whom all things 
 are subject, a glorious change ; and in the land 
 of light, where the weariness of earth shall 
 have no place, we shall have the freedom of 
 life. The oppression of the material world done 
 away, we, the blessed and the free, the unbound 
 and ever active, shall possess a nature of light. 
 Till then, for a little while, we may long for our 
 life to come, but we will do this without dejected 
 and impatient side-glances at this life. In the 
 mean time, wandering, and erring, and sinning 
 as we are, it is well that mercy and compassion 
 have planted the cross here, as a way-mark from 
 God, pointing out to the eye of the faithful the 
 road to the City of Refuge. Thus earth be- 
 comes the way to that height to which our Lord 
 has ascended, where labour and weariness shall 
 be under foot. Here and there, on the road, we 
 meet with a companion, who renders our wan- 
 dering towards home a delightful walk, under 
 whose escort, or in whose society, even the as- 
 
REV. II. MO WES. 83 
 
 cent of the rocky footpath seems easy ; and, on 
 the farther distance, bright eternal sunshine ever 
 pests." 
 
 On the same day, his wife writes of him : — 
 P For the most part, he makes the best of the 
 depression and want of the world ; and where a 
 pious, holy spirit gives peace to the soul, the 
 body can so much the better bear sorrow, and 
 suffering:, and woe. Do not these remarks come 
 naturally when I think of my dear Mowes ? I 
 cannot sufficiently thank God that he has again 
 preserved to me the life of my beloved husband ; 
 and if I dare indulge but little hope for the fu- 
 ture, I feel in my inmost soul that I am not 
 worthy of the mercy shown me in this partial 
 restoration. He was very ill, and if he slum- 
 bered, an indescribable anguish often fell on my 
 heart, as if his dear eye would never open again : 
 those were moments in which I could not con- 
 ceive that I could ever again be happy on 
 earth." 
 
 Again his fluctuating strength seemed coming 
 back, and he could give better tidings of him- 
 self to his friends. To one he writes, Septem- 
 ber 14th, " Shall I now tell you of my situation ? 
 I must do so, because you have repeatedly de- 
 sired it, and I rejoice that to-day I can give you 
 much better news than I did some time ago. It 
 is true, that my little boat, which had so often 
 
84 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 mounted the billows and gone down again, 
 had sunk once more to a fearful depth ; I saw, 
 if I may say so, the bottom of the sea ; and it 
 was no mere view, the waves broke over my 
 bark as though they would dash it to pieces, 
 and again ran mountains high. I felt their 
 weight against my slightly built vessel, and out 
 of the depths I looked earnestly upwards. Hi- 
 therto I had been sufficiently master of myself to 
 allow no wish to predominate : neither desiring 
 to remain, nor to go ; neither anxiously wishing 
 still to drive over the sea, nor longing to enter 
 port. I left both the one and the other in the 
 hand of my God. But now a wish escaped my 
 heart, which hitherto I had not ventured to al- 
 low ; it found expression in the lines I have 
 sent you. I called from the deep ; God from 
 above raised the sinking vessel, but otherwise 
 than I had expected. Where it was weak, there 
 it was strengthened again ; it had been almost 
 stranded, but it now once more floated, and was 
 borne onward, though slowly and wearily, over 
 the sea of life. I have cause to offer heartfelt 
 thanks to Him whose eye is ever watching over 
 us. I see how He has turned the storm, so that 
 I cannot enter the port which leads into the land 
 of peace, in order that I may be yet purified 
 and strengthened, before he makes use of me 
 above. And when I cast a glance on my wife 
 
REV. II . MOWES. 85 
 
 and children, for their sakes too must I thank 
 Him. My dear wife, I well believe, will not 
 dishonour the wav of the living God, through 
 any heathenish grief, when, sooner or later, He 
 takes me away from her. She will be sure that 
 I am hers, even when she can only look at me 
 on high. She will give Him honour even in 
 this visitation, and her faith will triumph 
 through quiet submission and joyful hope. Still, 
 I know how much lighter the burden of life will 
 be while I remain her companion. She is pre- 
 pared for my departure, and is comforted by the 
 thought, that our divided paths will meet again 
 in the kingdom of our Saviour; yet she is some- 
 times fearful of a long journey here without me. 
 * May you but remain here/ she said, ' if only 
 weak and inactive. If I can but have you, and 
 see you, may you, though but a shadow, never 
 leave me.' God has granted the desire of her 
 afflicted heart. We can yet see each other, and 
 my shadowy life is regaining colour and strength; 
 this gives her joy, therefore my own is doubled." 
 With touching truth, might these faithful-hearted 
 ones have made the language, as they did the 
 sentiment, of our sweet poetess their own : 
 
 u A little while, between our hearts 
 
 The shadowy pass must lie ; 
 Yet have we for their communings, 
 
 Still, still, eternity." 
 
 I 
 
86 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 In a letter of the same date as the one just 
 quoted, he speaks of the approach of the cholera. 
 " Shall I now mention that thunder-cloud, which 
 is the topic of general conversation, which all 
 look out for, and which no one sees till it strike 
 him or his ? To me it comes like a majestic 
 tempest, mighty to make the most careless 
 solemn, and to impress the boldest scoffer with 
 the feeling of his dependence on a higher, an 
 irresistible power. The world has in part learned 
 what that means, ' God is a living God.' From 
 his gifts of immediate good, the sun which he 
 guides in its course, the blessings which he 
 sends, the health which he bestows, the peace he 
 guards, the harvests he blesses, they will not per- 
 ceive that he is the living God. So now, through 
 the fearfulness of his judgments, they must learn 
 what manner of care His is. He is there on 
 the earth, and walks among men with searching 
 eyes, and marks from the thunder-path of his 
 solemn progress if any will seek to know Him. 
 You will calmly contemplate what fills so many 
 with terror and trembling. In truth, I rejoice 
 in that terror and trembling ; it is good for man 
 that his comfort be disturbed, and his poor pride 
 humbled ; his wandering heart, thus bruised, is 
 prepared to receive the seed of faith; it takes 
 root, and rises, and bears the fruit of the fear of 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 87 
 
 God. Great precaution will everywhere be 
 used, too much will be done to prepare against 
 death, too little to prepare for death. " In the 
 spirit of these lines he composed a poem, of 
 which he speaks in a later letter. 
 
 The sufferings of the last month were only the 
 beginning of conflicts fearful beyond descrip- 
 tion. Early in October, intelligence reached 
 Altenhausen that his death was near. " His 
 agony is great, very great/' wrote a friend ; 
 " yet is his couch of sickness a speaking witness 
 that Christ has taken away the sting of death." 
 " A heavy time is over us," wrote another friend, 
 who was staying in the house; " yet God will 
 sustain our hearts, that w r e shall not be wholly 
 unblest under this sore grief. We have trem- 
 bled at the sight of our dear Mowes' fearful 
 sufferings ; we have prayed earnestly, as we 
 never did before ; and, through God's mercy and 
 faithfulness in Christ, he now lies calm. The 
 great expectoration of blood has reduced his 
 strength very low; but, if God will, he may even 
 yet become strong. His will be done. Yes- 
 terday, the preacher A — , who is attached to 
 Mowes with a truly touching fidelity and love, 
 on his knees in the pulpit prayed extempore to 
 the Lord for help and deliverance for the sufferer ; 
 and many hearts, glowing with the love and 
 
88 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 devotedness to which our Mowes could so well 
 respond, joined in tears. Oh, may He who has 
 been our help till now, help yet again !" 
 
 It was in this time of deep affliction that two 
 of his sweetest little poems were written. They 
 were entitled, " Prayer in Distress and Death," 
 and, " Thanksgiving after the Storm." In a 
 letter to a friend, he gives a vivid picture of his 
 mental and physical conflicts with the power of 
 the grave. " You want to know what has oc- 
 curred since you heard from me last. In one 
 respect it is but little, in another it is much. 
 Little, for in mv outward condition nothing is 
 decided. Up to the threads which the hand of 
 the Lord will have joined, but which I see not, 
 all remains as it was. Whether I shall be 
 counsellor, or secretary, or revenue officer, comp- 
 troller, inspector, or receiver, or anything else, in 
 future, I know not. In another respect, my life 
 has been eventful, for it is only through God's 
 wonderful and great power that I can write to 
 you to-day, my dear S — , with my own hand. 
 I have been led through a dark valley ; I did 
 not expect to see its termination here in light, 
 but when He wills, even the dead must rise. 
 In July and August, my strength declined ; in 
 September, it was so far exhausted, that I could 
 not mount even a low step without great effort. 
 At last, early in October, came, to say all in one 
 
REV. H. MOW] 89 
 
 word, the time of death ; yes, the time of death, 
 to me, who am nevertheless yet one of the living. 
 I have before, at different times of my illness, 
 stood at that gate which opens to the pilgrim the 
 entrance to his home; but always have I been 
 driven back again into this life. Yet once more 
 have I reached that gate : not gently conducted 
 to it, but cast there by the tempest. It was not 
 a short, passing conflict between life and death, 
 but a whole week, during which death tried all 
 his power on me. He came in a fearful form to 
 my couch, and caused a scene of horrors to pass 
 before the eyes of my beloved friends. He had 
 long before lost the sting which he naturally has, 
 through Him who has given us the victory ; 
 and when his power is at the highest, secure 
 under the banner of Him who rose again on the 
 third day, I smile at all he can do. But this 
 time he attacked me with another sting, to prove 
 my faith and truth ; with wild and fearful suffer- 
 ings, more intense and prolonged than I had 
 before known. It was only an introduction to 
 the events of the coming week, that after a quiet 
 night, on the sabbath of the harvest thanksgiv- 
 ing, while I was dressing, in order, if possible, to 
 go to church, I felt the still approach of a fear- 
 ful time — the last solemn hour of existence, as I 
 thought. I feared I should scarcely have time 
 to call my wife, to fall into her arms, and 
 
 i2 
 
90 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 commend my spirit into the hand of my Father 
 in heaven. She came, and another came; they 
 had before them a dying man, from whom life 
 was retreating, and who could only console them 
 with the words of the Lord, c I am the resur- 
 rection and the life.' But no ! contrary to all 
 expectation, he who was weakened to death was 
 raised again, but raised to unimagined conflict. 
 I go over this period with trembling — may you 
 never be placed in a similar scene — but by God's 
 merciful help I have lived through it, and my 
 soul, thereby refined, has, I hope, come out 
 without loss. My spirit wrestled with all her 
 strength to be free from the torturing body, and 
 her prayers pierced through the clouds, even to 
 the throne of God, to obtain permission to depart. 
 I took leave of all : in comparatively calm hours, 
 I arranged my little affairs ; I was so happy 
 with my beloved wife on Saturday evening to 
 take the holy sacrament, though, before the hour 
 came, my eyes threatened every moment to close. 
 I, however, lived to see the sabbath, when A — , 
 one of the preachers at the cathedral, from whom 
 I had the evening before received the sacrament, 
 a man full of evangelic faith, and a powerful 
 preacher of the old genuine truth as contained in 
 the Scriptures, made known my situation in 
 public. Many friends, in consequence, assembled 
 round my bed after the service, and they can 
 
REV. H. MO WES. 91 
 
 bear a joyful testimony to the power of the 
 Prince of life, to the life that He gives, and 
 the strength He imparts. After this period of 
 suffering and labour, after these festive and joy- 
 ful hours, I became better; God helped me, not 
 as I expected, but as He would ; helped me to 
 earthly life, alleviated my pain, and at last 
 removed it ; gave me rest, and so far weakened 
 my disease, that after the crisis it became really 
 less, and had more appearance of being ulti- 
 mately eradicated than it had had for w^eeks and 
 months previously; so that, if I am not mis- 
 taken, a real and visible step towards probable 
 recovery is made. To-day, after eight weeks, 
 four of which were spent in bed, I walk w T ith a 
 much firmer step, the deathly paleness of my 
 countenance has given place to the unfolding 
 colours of life, the rose is returning to my lips, 
 and the old brightness is gradually coming back 
 to my eyes. Also, my dear friend, my prospects 
 have improved ; perhaps my spirit w T as led 
 through this scene, that it might become better 
 acquainted with itself, before available help was 
 to arrive. Certainly, this late time of darkness 
 was a valuable time to me, and I thank God, 
 w T ho allowed it to befall me, that I was not 
 spared it. ' We must through much tribulation 
 enter into the kingdom of God/ Acts xiv. 22. 
 I have now experienced that, though a thorny, 
 
92 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 this is a safe path ; though one to be trod with 
 trembling, it is a holy and love-appointed path. 
 As a man, who, during the day, descends into a 
 deep ph% sees the friendly stars of heaven, invisi- 
 ble to others; so when God allowed me to fall in- 
 to the depths of distress and woe, I saw, through 
 the dense darkness around me, the bright star of 
 the Father's eternal mercy in Christ our Saviour 
 shining over me. And this star was my polar star, 
 never setting, but ever growing brighter ; and I 
 know where it stands, I cannot lose sight of it ; 
 wherever I am, it is over me; wherever I go, it 
 goes before me. And is it not a joy to perceive 
 that we are in any trait becoming like our 
 Master ; like Him in self-renunciation or mild- 
 ness, in love or resignation ? So, too, is it a joy, 
 when a cup is reached out to us, with Him to 
 say, l Father ! if it be possible, let this cup pass 
 from me ; ' and then, receiving strength from 
 Him, again with Him to pray, ' Nevertheless, 
 not as I will, but as thou wilt/ Matt. xxvi. 39. 
 Oh, it is a high and holy joy to be with Him 
 even in Gethsemane, to bear with him a crown 
 of thorns, and in such an hour, strengthened by 
 him, to say, ' The disciple is not above his Mas- 
 ter.' Can we have such happiness without tribu- 
 lation ? To follow him in bright days, and to 
 sun ourselves in his love and glory, is sweet in- 
 deed; but in days of sorrow, to see Him near, to 
 
REV. H. MO YVES. 93 
 
 prove his faithfulness, is a precious addition to 
 the happiness of communion with him; there the 
 bond is drawn yet nearer, there the heart presses 
 yet closer to him, there the soul lays herself 
 down at his feet, with fuller love and trust. To 
 experience a storm on the open sea, when our 
 bark is covered with waves, and we go to Him 
 with the cry, ( Lord, help;' to feel, vividly to 
 fee] y that while He is beside us we cannot perish; 
 tossed here and there by the tempest, the stormy 
 sea threatening to overwhelm us, still to keep our 
 faith firm, knowing that he will calm the tempest 
 when his hour is come — oh, this is an invalu- 
 able trial and strengthening of faith ! Therefore 
 is it said, in the Scriptures, * Blessed is the man 
 that endureth temptation.' Therefore, I look 
 on the time of distress, not with weak, but with 
 joyful feelings, and I reckon not what I have 
 suffered, but rejoice that I have entered on the 
 field of conflict with the weapons and armour 
 which He has provided, who overcame the world 
 for us. During the same week in which my life 
 was despaired of, my dear wife had a second 
 grief. Mary, our eldest girl, was taken ill, and 
 her death seemed as probable as her recovery. 
 In this case, too, God had ordered otherwise 
 than we feared : our child again plays joyfully 
 round us." 
 
 From another letter, dated November 19th, 
 
94 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 we take the following extract: — "I lookback 
 with joy on the days that have lately passed, 
 not because I have now drunk the bitter cup, 
 and it is no longer before me. I know not but 
 that He may please again to appoint it me, and 
 render it still more bitter to flesh and blood. I 
 had not thought that it could so come as He 
 has already sent it ; but as He will, his will be 
 done. Nor do I so much rejoice that a time of 
 sorrow lies behind me, as that during it I felt 
 his nearness, and in the midst of the darkest 
 night saw his mercy shine out as the eternal star 
 of the soul. John says, 'This is the love of God, 
 that we keep his commandments ; and his com- 
 mandments are not grievous/ 1 John v. 3. The 
 time of distress, through which he has led me, 
 has taught me that this is the love of God, that 
 we suffer the tribulation he sends patiently ; and 
 the tribulation he sends is not grievous ; the 
 feeling of it may be oppressive, but the hand 
 which lays it on us is a dear and faithful hand. 
 Is it not true, that such experience is gain, 
 which can make us glad even to rejoicing, 
 strong even to patient waiting? So I look 
 cheerfully behind me, but also before me. So 
 many hearts prayed to God on my behalf, for 
 new life and prolonged existence here, that I 
 shall indeed willingly remain if it be his will ; 
 yet has the Lord of mercy and goodness made 
 
REV. H. MO WES. 95 
 
 the way hence appear easy to me. He has let 
 me discover the unsatisfyingness and the po- 
 verty of earthly existence. He has placed me 
 so near the door of another life, that I could 
 almost, as it were, touch it with the point of my 
 finger — all, all lay behind me, and I thought, 
 hoped, longed, each moment to raise my foot, 
 and step over the threshold. In short, He hns 
 made me familiar with what others call l death/ 
 familiar with that life with which he renews the 
 pilgrim whom he sets on yonder shore. As a 
 child on the strand plays with the passing 
 waves, till his brother comes from the opposite 
 shore to call him away to the beautiful green 
 meadows that lie there; so I sit joyfully on this 
 side, and cheerfully wait, and quite happily 
 watch, while the boat that shall bear me over 
 comes across. God blesses when he appears to 
 be angry, therefore truly have I cause to rejoice 
 in the time of need and woe. It was life, and 
 life's rich consciousness, and the return of life's 
 strength, that in the past I sought from God ; 
 and still, in the time of affliction, it is this for 
 which I pray. Life distinct from the life of the 
 soul, life dependent on those material organs 
 which the soul now uses, is what I long for, and 
 sparks of this life begin again to glimmer. The 
 hand which furnishes this fragile lamp with oil 
 is now giving it out again, but slowly and 
 
96 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 sparingly. Since the first of the month, I have 
 been able to leave my bed ; and I now sit, or 
 rather lie, during the day, in the room where, a 
 short time ago, I was struggling with death. I 
 am beginning to make rather more rapid pro- 
 gress, and I hope, on the first Sunday in 
 Advent, to solemnize the day in the cathedral, 
 and there, beneath its high arches and fretted 
 
 dome, to lift up my heart to the eternal temple. 
 
 ***** 
 
 That I have sought to bring men to the consi- 
 deration of time, and their most solemn inter- 
 ests, the poems which my dear wife has lately sent 
 you are a proof. I can tell you one interesting 
 fact with regard to them : I placed two copies 
 before our king ; he graciously received them, 
 and sent me fifty dollars on behalf of the widows 
 and orphans, who, in consequence of the 
 present scarcity, greatly need assistance. In 
 Magdeburg only a hundred copies have yet 
 been sold ; but yesterday a person who interests 
 himself in the dissemination of Christian senti- 
 ments, ordered a thousand copies ; and, to-day, a 
 blind man, who is of the same mind, took five 
 hundred, intending to circulate them, gratuit- 
 ously or at a low price, partly here, but more 
 particularly at a distance : of course the terms 
 are very moderate. Without these conditions, 
 the sale would entirely cease ; so it is better to 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 1)7 
 
 promote, with the slightest remuneration, the 
 object I have in view, than without this help, 
 entirely to fail in it. In this way, I preach to 
 those whom my voice would otherwise never 
 reach. With the money that has come in, or 
 that may come in, I hope, on Christmas day, in 
 many a cottage, by relieving earthly wants, to 
 lighten the sorrowful heart, that it may join in 
 the song, ( To-day is the Saviour born to us.' I 
 heartily thank all who inquire after me through 
 your house, and take so warm an interest in my 
 outward concerns ; say to them, that it is well, 
 very well with me, even when my bodily ex- 
 istence appears critical. My wife's heart is 
 again lighter ; for she has seen him on whom 
 her love hangs, whom she had watched in fear- 
 ful suffering, and had already given away, as it 
 were, into the other world, come back again to 
 her in this life. Our little Mary is again in 
 good health ; and, instead of the incoherent 
 wanderings of delirium, we hear the overflow- 
 ings of childlike joy on her recovery." 
 
 During the winter, Mowes' health was much 
 better. His suffering was comparatively slight. 
 It was at this period that he employed himself 
 in composing a small work, which was published 
 in 1832, under the title of "Der Pfarrer von 
 Andouse," (The Pastor of Andouse.) While 
 engaged on this work, he writes to a friend in 
 
 K 
 
98 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 the following terms : — " Will my undertaking 
 meet with your approbation ? I hope so; though 
 I should imagine you would not soon expect to 
 find my name on the title page of a work of fic- 
 tion. At any rate, you will be reconciled to the 
 affair, when, under the foreign ornamental dress, 
 you find the same spirit which you would look 
 for in anything coming from my pen. Should 
 my work be published, and come into your 
 hands, it will not escape your notice that it aims 
 to give a vivid representation of striking pas- 
 sages in a life originating under the influence of 
 God's Spirit ; and that I have not been without 
 intention in placing such a picture in this kind 
 of frame. The canvass on which I worked is 
 the period at which Louis xiv. began to execute 
 the resolution he had taken, of extirpating the 
 Huguenots from his dominions : and the design 
 of the picture is, to exhibit life grounded on the 
 Scriptures, as the true life of men. My idea is 
 developed, by contrasting men without faith with 
 men who, having the true life, overcome the 
 world, distress, and death. The catastrophe is 
 what would be called tragic. I myself trembled 
 and wept in writing it ; but, as I have written, 
 so has it ever occurred in the world, and he who 
 sows with tears shall hereafter bring in his 
 sheaves rejoicing. He whose eye is practised 
 to ( see into the life of things,' will discover 
 
REV. If. MOWES. 90 
 
 under the ashes the self-raising phenix, and re- 
 cognise in the cloud the car of triumph on which 
 the noble spirit mounts to heaven. " 
 
 The winter passed away without any very se- 
 vere returns of indisposition, and the recovery 
 of this excellent man appeared, though slowly, 
 really advancing. On the 25th of February, 
 1832, he celebrated his birthday. It was truly 
 a festal day to him, and to a large circle of 
 friends, who rejoiced with him and his ; while 
 the recollection of the intense suffering of the 
 past year served but to mellow and deepen their 
 joy. In the evening, they met and congratulated 
 him in the usual way. He was deeply touched. 
 11 Truly," said he, " I am not neglected or for- 
 gotten by Him who has all hearts in his hand ; 
 and were any one to attempt to tell the weight 
 of what He lays on me, the tongue of the ba- 
 lance would show that my burden is far out- 
 Aveighed by what he has so tenderly sent." He 
 afterwards wrote, in reply to these congratula- 
 tions, some beautifully sportive lines, which his 
 biographer has inserted. We regret that the 
 difficulty of presenting these, and many other 
 of his poems to which reference is so frequently 
 made, in an English dress worthy of them, pre- 
 vents their being laid before the reader. 
 
 A day later, he wrote to a friend : — " It is a 
 fine thing to have a birthday. It was once said, 
 
TOO MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 that God has ordered the close of life wisely for 
 us. I would say, too, that its commencement is 
 as beneficently arranged : this I feel when my 
 friends take such kind notice of the anniversary 
 of my entrance into life. On the arrival of a 
 new pilgrim on earth, we find that many a 
 friendly hand has been long before occupied, 
 and sympathising care has provided, not merely 
 for its physical necessities, but has, too, had the 
 needs of its spirit in view. My heart has often 
 been made glad on the anniversary of my birth- 
 day, and especially on the last 26th of February 
 could I sing a cheerful song." His reception of 
 a gift offered by affection was indescribably 
 amiable. " Others can give as well as he can, 
 but nobody knows how to receive like him," 
 said the friend to whom we have more than once 
 before referred. 
 
 If the return of spring did not perceptibly 
 improve his health, it by no means weakened it. 
 On the 22nd of June, he writes : — " My health 
 does not retrograde, even though some days of 
 suffering remind me that I cannot be very dis- 
 tant from that point, which, farther or nearer, 
 is ever in my view." 
 
 It was at this time that unexpected circum- 
 stances obliged him once more to change his re- 
 sidence. He wrote to Altenhausen that, on the 
 8th of July, he hoped to return to that place, 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 101 
 
 and to await among his parishioners the con- 
 clusion of his life. This was, however, subse- 
 quently rendered doubtful, by the prospect of a 
 situation as secretary in the consistory court 
 unexpectedly opening itself. In a very short 
 time, he received information that another was 
 nominated to the office. He had then to renew 
 the resolution, which he had given up, of leav- 
 ing Magdeburg, and to recommence his prepa- 
 rations for returning to his former abode. On 
 the 24th of July, he and his family removed to 
 Altenhausen, which place he was never again to 
 leave. 
 
 Mowes occupied himself at Altenhausen in 
 deep and extensive research, preparatory to 
 commencing a new work which he projected. 
 The title of it was to be, " Magdeburg under 
 the Ban of the Empire, 1552;" but only a few 
 scenes were fully drawn. To this occupation he 
 added theological studies : he took part in 
 a literary and philological association of the 
 neighbouring clergy; he performed, as often as 
 his strength allowed, official duties for his suc- 
 cessor, gave lessons to his daughters, composed 
 poems, worked in his garden, refreshed himself 
 in the rays of God's precious sun, and quietly, 
 patiently, and happily awaited his Lord's further 
 pleasure. 
 
 Yet were his circumstances far from leaving 
 k2 
 
102 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 him nothing to desire. No day was he free from 
 pain. The hemorrhage still returned after short 
 intervals, and he was frequently exhausted to 
 the last degree. Occasionally, a day came when 
 his weakness could scarcely be perceived, from 
 the joy and peace which beamed in his eye and 
 mien. To show the reader how severe his suf- 
 fering was, even when at the lightest, we will 
 give some notices bearing the date of this period, 
 which, under the title of Ad valetudinem meam 
 spectantia, he wrote daily for the satisfaction of 
 his physician. 
 
 " Dec. 16th, strong bleedings; 17th, the 
 same ; 19th, 20th, 21st, 22nd, the same ; 24th, 
 25th, the same; 27th, something less; 28th, 
 but little; 29th, free, but strong, quick, inter- 
 mittent palpitations at the heart ; 30th, 31st, 
 free, but these days very unwell. 
 
 " General remarks on this time. Accumula- 
 tion at the chest ; swelling of the feet, disap- 
 pearing in the morning ; stiffness in the joints 
 of the fingers ; inflamed and painful state of the 
 suffering organs ; strong and quick palpitations 
 on slight movements ; constant internal weak- 
 ness, and muscular relaxation, but which do 
 not impede activity ; occasional entire loss of 
 appetite, and aversion to many kinds of meat, 
 and other food ; frequent hemorrhage and loss of 
 blood ; dull headaches. " 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 108 
 
 So closed the year 1832, and so dawned its 
 successor on this child of suffering. Were this 
 life all, we should wonder why such things 
 were; but it is not, and all is plain. Were there 
 no higher region which is ultimately to be its 
 own sphere, the nest of the young eagle would 
 not be stirred up. 
 
104 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Joy ! for the stormy sea is crossed, 
 
 The trial hour is past, 
 The earnest faith is proved and sealed, 
 
 The links of love are fast, 
 
 E. 
 
 We shall now faithfully adhere to the Ger- 
 man narrative, which the reader will recollect 
 was written bv one of Mowes' most intimate 
 friends, one who was constantly in his society 
 during the last two years of his life, and who 
 had, at the period of his former residence at 
 Altenhausen, been long an inmate of the par- 
 sonage. 
 
 The first months of the year 1833 pre- 
 sented a repetition of the scenes of the past 
 autumn. In the night of the 21st and 22nd 
 of April, a paroxysm of severe suffering came 
 on. With trembling hearts we stood round his 
 bed ; for several hours he endured a piercing, 
 burning pain about the heart, which rendered 
 
 ■ 
 
REV. H. MO WES. 105 
 
 breathing almost impossible, and threatened 
 every moment to suffocate him. As soon as the 
 pain had in a slight degree subsided, he wrote, 
 supported by us, directions that were necessary 
 to be attended to in the event of his death ; for 
 he expected the spasm would return, and in it 
 his life terminate. He took leave of us, and 
 prepared himself to obey the will of his Lord. 
 The danger, however, passed away, only leaving 
 a degree of irritation in the side. Indeed, his 
 health subsequently rallied in a surprising man- 
 ner, and continued to improve during the whole 
 summer. His eye grew bright with its old lus- 
 tre; his movements were quick and elastic. The 
 whole tone of his system seemed raised ; he 
 took long walks ; and often, when he joined the 
 social circle, we forgot that the quick, ardent 
 man, who was rejoicing in existence before us, 
 was an invalid. 
 
 After passing through so many scenes of suf- 
 fering and fear, so many hours of anxious care, 
 we began to exult in hope. This hope was so 
 natural, so human. Had he not already been so 
 long and so heavily tried? Was not Mowes 
 then in the prime of his years ? Was not his 
 life so necessary, according to our view, to his 
 wife and children ? Might he not, even yet, 
 perform many and great things for the kingdom 
 of God and the spiritual good of men ? And if 
 
106 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 his sorrows were sent to try and purify him, had 
 they not, as it appeared to imperfect man, en- 
 tirely fulfilled their object ? Mowes alone did 
 not fully participate in these hopes ; yet he ac- 
 knowledged the advances which his health was 
 making. He wrote, on June 21st, " My health 
 is in many respects better than it has been, until 
 the last two months. On one point my recovery 
 has taken an undoubted turn. My sufferings 
 are considerably relieved, and my strength has 
 increased, but — health is still for me a point in 
 the distance, and my prayer must still be, in this 
 respect, the seventh petition, l Deliver us from 
 evil/ " 
 
 On the 29th of July, he writes more in detail. 
 " As I have often said, Could I only be with 
 you just now ! I have time enough for it cer- 
 tainly, and I am constantly in a state to have 
 time, in a state in which I can only look on, and 
 see another labour in that vineyard in which I 
 once laboured. You know so far, from my for- 
 mer letter. In the grand matter nothing is 
 altered. That I am again in Altenhausen, with 
 my wife and my two girls, instead of spend- 
 ing my time, as I did the preceding year, at 
 Magdeburg, makes no essential difference. 
 How this change of residence was brought 
 about, I cannot now detail ; I can only say that 
 circumstances, not agreeable, and fully unex- 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 107 
 
 pected, have made this alteration expedient, 
 indeed necessary. Truly, if I had completely 
 recovered in Magdeburg, and found myself 
 strong enough to enter on my old duties, it 
 would have been a change, a joyful change — 
 but no, it is not so ; I am here, but I have no 
 part in my office. A — fills it as before. I 
 have only this problem given me — to see behind 
 me, with a still heart, the double blessing of in- 
 estimable health and a precious office taken 
 from me by the hand of God, and ever to train 
 myself to bear the loss of both blessings tran- 
 quilly ; to go with hearty submission in that 
 path where my God is with me ; and to see 
 another happy in the blessings which once were 
 mine, without envying him, or complaining 
 that I am of little consideration ; in this state 
 you saw me when you were with me, and in 
 this state I am to-day. I can believe that you 
 sigh when you read this ; but I do not sigh. 
 Yet I would not convey to you a high idea of 
 my fortitude ; I would only anew bear witness 
 how much I owe my God, who has become my 
 strength, and who, heartfelt thanks to his name, 
 will continue to be so. What could I do but 
 sigh and complain, if I had no support but from 
 within ? To be sick, not for weeks and months, 
 but for years, without a sign in heaven that 
 after the night a bright and refreshing morning 
 
108 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 will arise ; to walk in fetters heavy in them- 
 selves, and yet heavier from no probability 
 being seen of ever shaking them off : and, what 
 is more than all, to retire from a career in 
 which I had gladly run towards a glorious end, 
 and to see others still joyfully running therein, 
 like a crane whose broken wing prevents her 
 cleaving the air, while her companions with 
 firm pinion hold on their course. My friend, is 
 it not true, that it would be pardonable in a 
 weak man, if tears, scarcely dried, flow forth 
 again ? Oh yes, I measure the greatness of the 
 trial I endure ; but I now understand His word, 
 1 My grace is sufficient for thee : for my strength 
 is made perfect in weakness/ 2 Cor. xii. 9. Still 
 further, I see that I can glorify Him who gives 
 peace and brings adversity, as much by my 
 patience, and by a heart which gives itself up to 
 Him, as I could have done, in full health, in the 
 widest sphere of activity, by undertaking all my 
 enterprises in his name : and He enables me thus 
 to glorify him. I am, in my hour of need, a 
 living witness of the gifts which come down 
 from above, from his hand, to them who believe 
 on Him from the heart. Now, upheld by Him, 
 endowed with his gifts, where flesh and blood 
 would mourn and tremble, I can look serenely 
 up to heaven, and, in the midst of my weakness, 
 rejoice in his strength. But still I am allowed 
 
REV. II. HOWES. 109 
 
 to pray with earnestness that he would release 
 me from suffering ; and you will not think it 
 strange if, while bearing the burden laid upon 
 me, my hands are often folded, and my eyes 
 ' look up to the hills from whence cometh my 
 help/ and my lips open in the heartfelt prayer, 
 which pierces even to the clouds, ' My God, 
 help me!' With such a prayer, a more than 
 earthly strength comes into the soul, it comes to 
 us from heaven ; we grow strong, and increase 
 in vigour ; the prayer ascends to the throne of 
 the Saviour, and draws down blessings on him 
 who sends it ; it reaches the fatherly ear of 
 God, and the heart of our Redeemer, and peace 
 and consolation flow into the united heart, with 
 the experience of the truth, 'Blessed are they 
 that mourn, for they shall be comforted/ Matt. 
 v. 4. During these hours of darkness, I have 
 become somewhat familiar with the way, lead- 
 ing the soul banished to this prison of earthly 
 existence, out of darkness to light, which is in- 
 dicated by these words, l Pray without ceasing/ 
 1 Thess. v. 17. This path was not unknown 
 or untrodden before ; now I know it better, 
 I oftener enter it, and I walk in it with a firmer 
 step ; and while my body is fettered to earth, 
 so that I cannot ascend far, a way is opened 
 to me which leads beyond the clouds, to the 
 heavenly inheritance, and I follow as on the 
 
 i. 
 
110 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 wing of the eagle. I reckon my loss my richest 
 gain, and therefore, my dear friend, I forget 
 to sigh. One request I have to make; when 
 you, dearest S — , are advancing on this path, 
 think, as your end comes in sight, of your 
 friend, and go to your God for help for him 
 who is writing these lines. I want much, and — 
 He can give all things. I can tell you nothing 
 very cheering that has occurred since I wrote to 
 you last. My body has had, in its depressed 
 circumstances, to labour through many painful, 
 agonizing, and wearying hours ; with God's 
 help it has lived through them. In May, a de- 
 cided improvement took place, which continues ; 
 but still the enemy is not hunted down and van- 
 quished : yet I hope God will make a path." 
 
 And it appeared as though He were about to 
 make an open path, and, after so many and 
 such varied trials, to say to his servant, " It is 
 enough." Week after week his health made 
 perceptible advances ; he had not known a time 
 of equal ease since the commencement of his 
 illness. What had been formerly beyond his 
 strength, he could now accomplish : he preach- 
 ed on three successive Sundays, without feeling 
 any ill effect. Experiments like these, with 
 results so satisfactory, made it appear probable 
 to him that he might again enter on his chosen 
 career, and once more bear that pastoral staffj 
 
REV. H. HOWES. Ill 
 
 which in his time of weakness had fallen from 
 his hand. An indescribable happiness came 
 over his spirit. The autumn found him yet 
 more vigorous, and he took actual steps in order 
 to re-enter on his clerical office. Such a joyful 
 end of his Bufferings was contrary to the ex- 
 pectation of all his friends, and to his own. Oh, 
 how light and joyful were our hearts during 
 this winter ! On Christmas day he ventured to 
 do what he so long had not dared to attempt — 
 to celebrate in public the descending Saviour. 
 After the festival, a new cause of rejoicing await- 
 ed him ; his dear friend and patron, the Count 
 of Altenhausen, unexpectedly entered the apart- 
 ment, and with intense delight announced to 
 him the determination of his majesty's cabinet, 
 that he should shortly be reinstated in the cleri- 
 cal office. The living; of Weferlingen was at 
 this time vacant, and Mbwes immediately made 
 application for it. We will leave him to speak 
 for himself. On January 15th, 1834, he thus 
 writes to a friend : — 
 
 " Your friends at Altenhausen, and especially 
 your present correspondent and his dear wife, 
 have rejoiced in the intelligence of your safe ar- 
 rival at B — , in the confidence that, in the mean 
 time, nothing has occurred to disturb or trouble 
 the happiness of your house, and that within 
 your four walls life moves on in its wonted 
 
112 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 peaceful and joyful manner. My recovery has, 
 I think, advanced during the past months ; at 
 least, I was better in November and December 
 than I had been for twelve months, and the 
 prospect of spring raises my spirits. What will 
 not the next spring do for me, finding me so 
 much better than his predecessor did ? You 
 know, my friend, how I stood between life and 
 death ; but now I have the expectation of con- 
 tinuing here for a time. I eagerly stretch my 
 hand out towards the messenger of health, that 
 vital heat and strength may be communicated 
 from his glowing life into my feeble pulse. I 
 cast a glance over the five shadowy years be- 
 hind me, and I weep a little while, and then go 
 forward on my career with a firm step, taking 
 hold of the plough in God's vineyard, and guid- 
 ing it with a powerful arm. I should forget 
 how r dear I am to you, did I not, in imagina- 
 tion, see your heart beat at these words, and 
 hear the low sound of your prayerful congratu- 
 lation, i My God, help him.' Though my ex- 
 pectations are not so confident, that the appear- 
 ance of the contrary would surprise me as a 
 strange thing, yet I do hope that He whose dis- 
 cipline I have not resisted, whose hand, even 
 when it was laid heavily upon me, I acknow- 
 ledged with bended knee and thankful lips, I do 
 hope that he has now thought on me, and send- 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 113 
 
 ing his messenger of life, the new spring, has 
 placed in his hand a magic staff, whose touch 
 shall animate me, and bring the conflict within 
 to a truce that may end in a confirmed peace. 
 At present, as you will see by the date of this 
 letter, I am not in Altenhausen ; I was obliged 
 to come here in spite of way and weather; a 
 prospect for my earthly future seemed opening, 
 in consequence of which I left home. There 
 are many things to be done at a distance, and I 
 can place my lever at most advantage here. 
 Application is being made for me for a parish 
 which has become vacant, about two miles from 
 Altenhausen. It is a very good living. I have 
 presented my petition ; in a modest, but firm 
 and connected manner, enumerated my qualifica- 
 tions ; and then placed the paper before the chief 
 personage who has the disposal of patronage : 
 and now, supported by strong interest, I await 
 his determination. It is nearly a fortnight since 
 our dear count received an answer to my first 
 application from his majesty's cabinet ; it was 
 to this effect, that, on his petition, the pastor 
 Mowes is recommended for an appointment to a 
 cure, to be exclusively his own. That is itself 
 something, and it may conduce to further good. 
 I have taken steps, through the medium of 
 to obtain the vacant living I have 
 mentioned. I shall soon see how all this will 
 
 i. 2 
 
114 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 work, and you shall immediately be informed. 
 If the result be not the desired end, it will con- 
 duce to it. My dear, precious wife hopes, as I 
 do, joyfully and submissively." 
 
 With such a prospect of returning health, and 
 of the recommencement of his public duties, 
 Mowes entered on the year 1834. Everything 
 seemed to indicate that this year would make 
 the determination of God, with regard to the 
 future path of his servant, plain, and show what 
 he had appointed for him and his family, after 
 leading them for these five years, as it were, in 
 the dark. His hope of obtaining the living of 
 Weferlingen was disappointed ; it was given, by 
 order of the cabinet, to the military chaplain 
 Z — , at Berlin. Mowes now turned his eye to- 
 wards that place. In answer to the application 
 he made for the situation of military chaplain, 
 he was informed, that he should be appointed 
 either to that office, or to some other that would 
 soon become vacant. We now scarcely doubted 
 of the happy termination of his applications. 
 The chaplaincy at Berlin was exactly adapted to 
 his strength and ability. In imagination, we 
 saw him labouring there, in his accustomed 
 happy manner. We* thought nothing could be 
 more natural than such a close, after years of 
 waiting in quiet faith. He was perfectly free 
 from anxiety as to what was about to be ap- 
 
REV. H. MO WES. 115 
 
 pointed him. On the 5th of April, he writes : — 
 " It is possible I may be placed at Berlin. I 
 was ready to go to Weferlingen, and now I am 
 ready to follow the call to B. I waited for the 
 determination of government, with regard to the 
 former place, without disquietude ; I await with 
 the same tranquillity the decision respecting this 
 appointment. The unfavourable result of my 
 former application has not moved me, and, 
 should it again turn out different from what so 
 many hope, it will not trouble my spirit. 6 Hope 
 thou in God : for I shall yet praise him, who is 
 the health of my countenance, and my God,' 
 Psa. xlii. 11. My greatest, most solemn, and 
 holiest interests are well cared for by him ; there- 
 fore I can tranquilly refer the lesser ones of this 
 earthly life to him.'*' 
 
 A paper written about this time, for a second 
 prose work which he contemplated, w r ill show 
 how he bore what would be to most men a state 
 of intensely anxious expectation. 
 
 u A glance onward meets only clouds, which 
 shut out all view of the future, and my heart 
 trembles as on the undulating wave. Are new, 
 and, perhaps, increased sufferings coming ? or 
 will tranquil days bring recovery ? Will the 
 shattered tent fall in ? or will it remain stand- 
 ing? or will it be rendered yet stronger, and that 
 through unwonted supports ? Ah ! so would 
 
116 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 the struggling heart have it. Will healing 
 come to me here or above ? Oh, it is not for 
 me to determine, even by a wish, the remoteness 
 or nearness of the end of my sufferings, nor 
 whether that end is to be here or on high. Such 
 a state of things, formerly, when God was not 
 my strength, would have been unbearable ; and 
 even now it is not in itself agreeable : but it 
 must come, and come again and again, till it is 
 no longer necessary, till we have learned to 
 wait quietly in full faith. All other things we 
 are more willing to learn ; to act, to renounce 
 self, to sacrifice, to lose — all these are easier 
 than to wait. In these exercises of our being, 
 we are ever something ourselves; we still feel 
 our own strength, seeing that demands are made 
 on it, that it is yet in action ; and all this can- 
 not be without a certain satisfaction, a certain 
 self-content, and a pride and vanity — refined 
 vanity, and sublime pride, if you will — but still 
 vanity and pride. But in this lesson the I 
 is entirely set aside, no account is made of it, 
 no kind of activity is demanded from it, by 
 which it can feel itself flattered. All w 7 e have 
 to do is, to be contented to feel, with a full resig- 
 nation of our I, its spirit and its efforts, our- 
 selves absolutely dependent. This silent in- 
 action, this humble greatness, which men na- 
 turally regard as thraldom, and the character- 
 
II KV. H. MOWES. 117 
 
 istic of a weak and slavish spirit, becomes easy 
 to him who allows himself to be led by his 
 Father's hand. He can bear it, and be con- 
 tented under it, as a child who joyfully pursues 
 his little day's work or play, till the hour comes 
 when his father takes him by the hand, and 
 leads him with him into the garden or field. 
 He becomes stronger than Samson, who burst 
 asunder his bands as tow ; stronger than the 
 man who breaks down the walls, and over- 
 thrown the ramparts of a fortress, as a worm- 
 eaten partition." 
 
 Alas ! it occurred far otherwise than our 
 sanguine hopes had pictured. All that Mowes 
 had already experienced, was no assurance 
 against new trials. In the spring of 1834, while 
 we were waiting, in perhaps too confident ex- 
 pectation, for his appointment to one of the 
 situations to which we have referred, his health 
 suddenly failed. A very severe attack came on, 
 in which all his former suffering seemed to 
 return in a much higher degree. The physical 
 and mental anguish he endured was most dis- 
 tressing to his friends. When we cast a glance 
 full of grief on him, he would repeat from 
 Luther's translation the promise, " Out of six 
 troubles I have saved thee, and in the seventh 
 shall no evil befall thee;" adding, " He has said 
 it to me, who is the Truth, six great troubles 
 
118 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 have passed over me, this is the last, then comes 
 life." His own words may show the reader the 
 abyss of suffering into which he was this summer 
 plunged. June 24th, he writes : — " I have 
 gained new experience, under a storm which 
 came on unexpectedly April 31st. I will not 
 write you the details ; perhaps we may once 
 more meet, then I can give you them. Oh that 
 my God would grant that his word may be 
 verified ! 6 Out of six troubles I have saved 
 thee, and in the seventh shall no evil befall thee/ 
 Shattered as my body is, my soul is powerfully 
 made firm. This is my sixth climacterical year; 
 it may be the last advance for me before my 
 entrance into the higher world, (it will certainly 
 be decisive,) or it may assert its wonderful cha- 
 racter, and bring me new health and re-admis- 
 sion into my sacred office ; in either case, it will 
 be a climacterical year." * 
 
 On July lltb, he writes to a friend: — " Only 
 pray with me, that God, if he determines to 
 let me continue longer here, may at last find 
 me worthy to be released from the fiery ordeal 
 which I have undergone so long, and which 
 
 * The term " climacterical year " refers to the division of 
 man's life into periods of seven years, at the close of each 
 of which periods a radical change is supposed to have taken 
 place in the constitution. MOwes had now entered on his 
 forty-second year. 
 
REV. II. MOWES. 119 
 
 during these last months has glowed with such 
 intensity. I pray, pray constantly; I have 
 clone so for years; morning and evening, and 
 often during the day, I turn my eyes, filled 
 with binning tears, to heaven ; but the chain 
 that irritates my wounds, and bows me down, 
 falls not off. But I cease not to pray, and 
 my last breath shall offer the prayer, l De- 
 liver me from evil.' Pray then with me. You 
 will conclude, from what has been accidentally 
 written, how it is with my health. It has been 
 better for a fortnight ; I have risen from the 
 depth into which my God had allowed me to 
 sink, to show Satan and his legion whether, in 
 extreme and long-continued need, I would leave 
 my Rock, and throw away my confidence, and, 
 after advancing some steps towards heaven, fall 
 again into despair. You know I have been led 
 through many a dark valley, but the last was 
 horrible as none before had been. To others, 
 there has often seemed something great in meet- 
 ing the face of death in full consciousness, in 
 speaking of it with tranquillity, and in greeting 
 it with a serene countenance. Ah ! this is easy 
 for him who stands in the faith of the Son of 
 God. A much more difficult problem, a much 
 stronger trial, dearest A — , has just been mine. 
 I can only say thus much in writing. In the 
 dark valley through which I had then to pass, 
 
120 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 death was the radiating point of light ; in my 
 readiness to give my hand to this messenger in 
 God's name from the other world, to follow him. 
 was something little, less than little. It is pos- 
 sible that my God, after I have tasted the dregs 
 of such a cup, may mercifully remit it for the 
 future. I have endured, and under the bitterest 
 agony my soul has not taken her eye off Him 
 who presented the cup to her: — but I shudder to 
 look back." 
 
 Yet thou, dear patient one, thou must go yet 
 deeper into this fearful suffering \ yet must these 
 words be wrung from thee, as from Him on the 
 cross, " My God, my God, why hast thou for- 
 saken me?" One more extract from his cor- 
 respondence, and it closes. 
 
 " August 12th. The world considers death a 
 mournful spectacle. Oh ! how much more 
 mournful are the servants whom he sends to 
 sift the body, and through it the soul, as wheat : 
 those slow diseases which, as the consuming spot 
 on the once sound apple, eat into our frame, 
 fix there, and undermine the constitution, while 
 we are unable to tell how long the malady has 
 prevailed, or to what extent it has gone." 
 
 A beautiful lyric, entitled, " Aufblick aus 
 der Feuerprobe," * (A Glance out of the Fiery 
 
 * See Addenda. 
 
REV. H. MOWES. J 21 
 
 Trial,) was composed at this time. The reader is 
 begged to turn to it before proceeding with the 
 narrative. It has one additional point of in- 
 terest, as being, with the exception of a few 
 lines on the sabbath bells, his last effort. 
 
 For an account of his closing days, and his 
 death, we shall transcribe a letter addressed, a 
 few days subsequently, to a friend at a distance. 
 
 " We entered on the spring with hope. 
 Mowes thought that the use of the mineral 
 waters which he w r as then drinking would com- 
 plete his recovery. But what bitter deception 
 was this, to us at least ! To him, nothing was a 
 surprise. Before the close of April, the hemor- 
 rhage returned, to a greater extent than ever 
 before. It continued, with very little intermis- 
 sion, for a whole week. Then my view of the 
 future became sad, and my heart depressed, 
 while I thought on him, on his poor wife, on 
 myself. The agonizing thought arose in my 
 mind, that it w r as, perhaps, on account of my 
 sins that our intercourse, during which I had 
 often murmured against the chastening hand 
 that was laid upon my friend, was broken off; 
 the thought drove me to prayer, and I prayed 
 earnestly that the worst might not happen. 
 Mowes recovered again to a certain degree, and 
 was strong enough, in August, to undertake the 
 journey to Magdeburg ; and on the parish of 
 
 M 
 
122 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 Bahrendorf becoming vacant, he made appli- 
 cation for it. His strength increased rapidly 
 during his stay in Magdeburg; so much so, that 
 all his friends said they had never seen him so 
 well. Oh how suddenly all was changed ! In 
 the second week of his stay, the bleeding at his 
 lungs returned with new symptoms, and he 
 wrote in serious alarm for his beloved wife. 
 Dear as she had ever been, he seemed to press 
 her closer to his heart, as the time of their sepa- 
 ration approached ; indeed, he felt it quite a 
 privation to lose sight of her for an hour. She 
 went in haste to him : the moment he saw her, 
 quick tears of joy ran down his pale cheeks, his 
 eyes sparkled, and he could only say, i Now I 
 shall never again be separated from you, my 
 dear wife; never till death/ They returned 
 directly to Altenhausen. On his descending 
 from the carriage, I found him so much changed, 
 that I was fearfully alarmed. But he had so 
 often suffered, and to so great a degree, that we 
 did not think of the worst. We lived through 
 every day in a state of the most anxious expec- 
 tation, hoping this disturbance of the physical 
 system might be calmed ; but ever were we 
 deceived. The strong man held himself uori^ht 
 in spite of his exhaustion; and, under all, he 
 alone awaited the result with full tranquillity. 
 A friend from Ivenrode saying, ( I will pray to 
 
REV. H. MO WES. 1*23 
 
 God till he is better/ he immediately replied, 
 1 We will not pray for that; we will rejoice that 
 at all times, it is His will that happens, whether 
 I recover or die/ He would often remark, 
 1 Dying is hard work, but death is delightful/ 
 Oh what hours we then lived through, and yet 
 they were only the beginning of what was coming 
 upon us. His illness increased to that degree, 
 that, during the time of the bleeding, we fre- 
 quently listened with intense anxiety for his 
 breathing, in the fear that life itself had de- 
 parted. 
 
 " In all his sorrow and suffering, he held his 
 beloved and deeply-tried wife in full remem- 
 brance. One day, when we were sitting in a 
 state of fearful anticipation, he, enfeebled almost 
 to death as he was, rose, and walked towards 
 her ; his strength was not equal to the effort, 
 and he sank powerless on the floor. He was 
 so completely helpless, that we could not move 
 him back into his room ; it seemed impossible to 
 raise him ; we had a bed brought and placed on 
 the ground, and we laid him on it. What a 
 spectacle, to see a man once so powerful lie thus, 
 and to hear the sorrowful tones of that heart 
 which at other times never complained ! After 
 the lapse of an hour and a half, we were able to 
 take him into his room. This faintness fre- 
 quently returned, once in the middle of the night. 
 
124 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 He did not afterwards leave his room, and his 
 disease very perceptibly gained ground. Yet 
 did the strong principle of life ever struggle 
 with approaching death, and his was mighty in 
 the midst of the conflict. We stood round the 
 sufferer ; his words and looks breathed of life, 
 but promised it not, at least not earthly life ; 
 but eternal life was there, and therefore we 
 sometimes forgot the passing and earthly, and 
 thought that all might yet be well. He rejoiced 
 in dying, for to him it was the same as living. A 
 week before his death, when he had received the 
 holy sacrament, and was, as he thought, at the 
 point of death, he said, ' I shall soon stand 
 before the throne of God : my soul might 
 tremble when she looks back on a life, in which 
 so little has been accomplished, which I ought 
 and wished to have done; and with deep repent- 
 ance I feel how far I am below the high aim 
 which was placed before me : but yet I tremble 
 not; but I die peacefully, joyfully, for my Lord 
 and Saviour will answer for me in judgment; 
 and if my weakness will allow, I shall pass 
 hence with songs of triumph.' A day before 
 his departure, the intelligence reached him of 
 the death of a sister of his wife, on whom cross 
 after cross was laid. As he watched her tears, 
 he said, l Let us not weep, but rather rejoice 
 that she has overcome.' He had, even at this 
 
 
REV. II. MOWES. 125 
 
 period, some hours of weakness to pass through, 
 which were, as indeed everything about him 
 appeared to be, peculiar. Not that he capri- 
 ciously desired to remain here ; such a wish he 
 never strongly indulged : not that he feared 
 death ; he greeted the hour of his approach with 
 joy : his distress was of another kind ; a fear- 
 fulness and trembling, different from anything I 
 had ever known ; conflict with the spirit of evil, 
 who yet once more, and for the last time, tried 
 his power and art on this faithful one. At the 
 period of his bitterest suffering, he seemed to 
 approach his bed, and say, ' See, that is the 
 mercy of Him, on whom thou hast so firmly 
 relied ;' and we then heard from the lips of our 
 friend, the victorious w T ord with which he repulsed 
 the enemy. My spirit trembles, and yet rejoices, 
 when I look back on this time. Full well I 
 know that this account will deeply impress you. 
 To me it was sometimes very striking to observe, 
 that, almost agonized as he was, he was never 
 overwhelmed ; absolute distress of spirit he 
 never appeared to have ; never did I see his 
 tranquillity or peace fail ; and this was because, 
 strong as his suffering and conflict might be, he 
 was yet stronger. 
 
 " On the second Saturday evening before his 
 death, (he died on Tuesday, October 14th, 
 1834,) we found him better : during the last 
 
 m 2 
 
126 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 few days he had spoken but little ; now again 
 words full of life and spirit flowed from his lips. 
 Our hearts rejoiced. I laboured the next day 
 in my church till noon, when my tranquillity 
 was suddenly disturbed by the intelligence that 
 he was much worse, and that he thought himself 
 dying. I went immediately to him : he begged 
 me to administer the sacrament. I need not 
 describe this scene to you ; you celebrated it 
 once with him at Magdeburg, as he stood on 
 the threshold of the future life. He would have 
 the teacher of one of the schools and some of 
 the children come, and when he had sung 
 with them the hymn, 6 Christ is my life/ I spoke 
 a few words, but with what a heart ! and then 
 called on him for the confession prayer for him- 
 self and his dear wife, who stood trembling be- 
 side his bed. Oh, how he then prayed ! What 
 a humble acknowledgment of weakness and 
 guilt, what confidence in the abounding mercy 
 of our God and Saviour ! What affecting yet 
 firm joyfulness in the references he made to his 
 dear, precious children, who, with folded hands 
 and tearful eyes, looked on their beloved father ! 
 What intercession for us all, for our spirits and 
 their salvation ! and how he then yielded all — 
 wife, children, life and body, heart and soul — 
 into His hand; and, as though all now lay well 
 protected there, he concluded rejoicing, as he 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 127 
 
 had begun weeping over his weakness. Then 
 he received, as a dying man, the supper of the 
 Lord's death. I, and all with me, had grown 
 strong under his prayer ; it seemed to our spirits 
 that death was no longer death ; a feeling of 
 life pervaded us all. During the heavenly ser- 
 vice, and after it, his eye sparkled with light, a 
 sweet smile was on his lips, he looked already 
 like a glorious spirit ; as if his soul had been 
 then free from the body it had so long borne, he 
 delivered his last sermon on Christ to the little 
 auditory, who, with many tears, but no agony, 
 only an unutterable sadness, stood round him. 
 He was then silent and exhausted ; we still re- 
 mained beside him. But his God came not for 
 him ; he had yet days and nights to wait. Yet 
 more ; it was, I think, on the Monday following, 
 that official information was received, that his 
 majesty was pleased to direct that Henry 
 Mbwes should either be nominated successor to 
 the military chaplain Z — , as superintendent at 
 Wefcrlingen ; or, if he preferred it, he should 
 be appointed to the living at Bahrendorf. Why 
 this now ? I think the intention of the Lord 
 was, yet once more to try his servant, and prove 
 whether earth, presenting such a prospect be- 
 fore him, co'uld not draw off his eye from hea- 
 ven. Oh how entirely different would not the 
 lives of his wife and children become, if he 
 
128 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 might again enter his office ! I imparted the 
 intelligence to him ; he received it with perfect 
 tranquillity, only replying, " Nach Bahrendorf 
 also, ocler auf die Bahre," (To Bahrendorf then, 
 or on the bier.) During these last days, he re- 
 freshed himself particularly with the first Epis- 
 tle of Peter, and Theremin's Evening Hours, 
 which we placed before him. With that rest- 
 lessness which so frequently marks the dying, 
 our friend liked to be moved from place to 
 place ; sometimes, when we so moved or raised 
 him, it occasioned great pain, and he would beg 
 us to stand back, adding, l Children, it is truly 
 ill with me now ; but soon I believe it will be 
 right well with me/ Such, or similar expres- 
 sions, always rich in spirit, brought tears into 
 our eyes ; it is natural to weep when we see a 
 fellow man so strong under all weakness. In 
 our house, even in our hearts, all was now still; 
 each one felt that a solemn hour was approach- 
 ing, which was not to be disturbed by himself 
 or others. Mowes spoke but seldom. Monday 
 the 13th came. Renewed bleedings marked 
 even this day ; the dear sufferer sighed in heart- 
 rending tones, i My much-loved Lord, come ! 
 wilt thou not come?' and then, in a weaker 
 voice, ' My God, let it be the last time ! ' And 
 he who cried was heard. The evening came. 
 Madame Mowes and I were to watch by him the 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 129 
 
 first half of the night, and our faithful servant 
 the second part. We did not expect he would 
 leave us that night. After nine o'clock, he spoke 
 much to himself, but we could not follow his 
 thoughts ; he afterwards became more quiet. 
 He lay in the large room, with his back towards 
 the first window. I was exhausted, and retired 
 into the anteroom to rest ; if possible, to sleep a 
 little. About eleven o'clock, Madame Mowes 
 came in, and said — oh, with what a voice! — 
 6 Ah, he is dying !' I went to his couch ; there 
 he lay, with failing eyes and closed lips, stiff, 
 pale, and dying ; his spirit struggling with death. 
 His hands sought ours for the last greeting ; he 
 held us fast, his dear wife on one side, me on the 
 other. Then I called the children, the dear, 
 young, tender children, and the faithful Doro- 
 thy. No cry of sorrow was heard ; nothing dis- 
 turbed our tranquillity ; our God was among us, 
 and sustained us all. We sang the hymn he so 
 loved, ' Christ is my life/ You remember it 
 was his own wish, expressed in his ' Parting 
 Words/ that we should do so. His wife then 
 read the beautiful hymn, commencing, ' There 
 is a peace at hand/ I offered the prayer for 
 the dying, i Protect us, O faithful God, our 
 Father so rich in love/ etc. Though his words 
 could no longer express it, his whole appearance 
 indicated joy. The solemn moment of departure 
 
130 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 ever came nearer and nearer, yet lie remained 
 with us. Hour after hour passed away; we 
 trembled at the sight of the struggle ; his dear 
 wife and I threw ourselves beside his couch, 
 and prayed earnestly for his deliverance. At 
 last the spirit was released — the noble spirit. I 
 asked him, ' Dear Mowes, is your Saviour and 
 God still your rod and staff in the valley of the 
 shadow of death V He turned his dying head 
 towards me, and lightly pressed my hand in as- 
 sent; I then pronounced the benediction over 
 him, and he bowed his head, and his spirit de- 
 parted to her much-loved Lord, and found her 
 long-sought home. By me stood a widow and 
 two orphans. Adalbert was not present, poor 
 child ! At this moment, our dear countess en- 
 tered the room; it was half-past four o'clock; 
 she took the dear dead hand, and a stream of 
 still tears fell over it. We sang the resurrection 
 hymn, * The life of Christ consoles me/ We 
 stood silent by each other for an hour; the 
 solemnity of his death held our hearts ; then 
 the deep, deathlike sorrow of the poor widow 
 broke the silence ; the feelings of nature would 
 have their right, and who would not honour 
 such sorrow ? We could only weep silently 
 with her. 
 
 "Why should I describe g the days which 
 followed till the funeral ? you can imagine 
 
REV. II. HOWES. 131 
 
 them. Our dear friend was greater than her 
 grief; she soon subdued it, and at times her 
 faith was even triumphant. Frequently, each 
 day, we visited the earthly remains of our loved 
 friend, and read beside them appropriate pas- 
 sages of the Holy Scriptures, or hymns which 
 he had particularly loved. A holy task was it for 
 us, a Joseph's and a Nicodemus' task, to prepare 
 the body for its place of rest, and to lay it in its 
 last peaceful dwelling. Then came the day of 
 burial, Friday. Besides the family of the count, 
 and all the neighbouring clergy, many friends, 
 from far and near, were present. We sang a 
 hymn suited to the occasion in the house ; then 
 we bore his remains out : all was arranged as he 
 had directed in one of his hymns. At the grave, 
 each one spoke as inspired by his love and vene- 
 ration for him who was gone home. Madame 
 Mowes accompanied the remains of the beloved 
 man on their last removal ; neither the storm 
 and rain, nor her delicate health, could prevent 
 her from doing so. l He has endured so much 
 more/ said she. We came back ; I read one 
 of his hymns, and gave an account of his beau- 
 tiful death ; then all departed, bearing with sor- 
 rowful love his image in their hearts. God 
 grant that our end may be like that of this 
 righteous one ! " 
 
 Mowes' earthly remains rest among his 
 
132 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 parishioners, and await that day, when the cor- 
 ruptible shall put on incorruption. His grave 
 is inclosed with green turf, and adorned with 
 flowers, which the hand of love tends ; a simple 
 stone covers it, bearing as an inscription his own 
 lines : — 
 
 Living and dying, he pointed his flock to Christ; 
 Therefore were both life and death welcome." 
 
 We have now traced the wanderer home, and 
 with the eye of faith we have seen him sit down 
 in those mansions which will eventually be our 
 own abode, provided his faith be ours, and we 
 feel that the path of sorrow need not be a cheer- 
 less path. We have looked at the long night of 
 the dwellers beneath the polar skies, and have 
 thought theirs must be a dismal existence, for- 
 getting that the aurora lights up their months 
 of darkness with a brilliance unknown to our 
 shorter night; but now we have been taught 
 differently, w r e have grown familiar with sorrow 
 and death, and they are no longer objects of 
 dread. We have learned to look at sorrow as 
 the cloud spread by a Father's hand to temper 
 the glare of prosperity ; it may have been a dis- 
 appointment when the distant prospect was 
 
REV. II . MO WES. 138 
 
 obscured by the shade, but it was love that cast 
 the shadow, lest the overstrained eye, so fondly 
 dwelling on the beautiful without, should lose 
 its susceptibility to nearer objects, its power of 
 looking within. And death has come before us 
 as the last token of our Father's love that we 
 shall receive on earth ; we have felt his hand 
 leading us through every step of our progress, 
 and we have rejoiced to be under its guidance ; 
 death is but that same hand opening the gate of 
 our home. It has long since lost its character 
 of chance or destiny. In the true life and im- 
 mortality brought to light by the gospel, and 
 faintly pictured in the foregoing pages, as 
 brought into contact with the human spirit, we 
 see it is the same hand which spins, that cuts 
 the thread of life ; ours is a " covenant ordered 
 in all things, and sure." He who can so pre- 
 eminently bring good out of evil, though he 
 remits not the penalty of sin, remits its bitter- 
 ness ; that He endured for us, who once tasted 
 death for every man. 
 
 The character of Henry Mowes has been for 
 the most part brought out in the progress of the 
 narrative : his deep spirituality and entire con- 
 secration cannot fail to be noticed; his life fur- 
 nishes another proof that it is not by compromise 
 with the world, but by the high and consistent 
 
 N 
 
134 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 acting out of those principles contrary to its own, 
 that it is to be won over to "the acknowledging 
 of the truth." Mowes was in earnest when he 
 laboured for the salvation of his fellow men ; 
 they saw that he was, and their respect and 
 affection followed of course. The testimony of 
 the physician under whose care he was at Berlin, 
 and who was also for some time his kind host, 
 is to the point, as showing how the earnestness 
 of his character told on men of the world. 
 Writing to the lady who had persuaded Mowes 
 to become his patient, he says, " I now, indeed, 
 know your pastor : if all preachers were like him, 
 it would indeed be worth while to learn of them. 
 But most of them are different, and think of 
 themselves when they speak of God; but he 
 thinks of God alone." 
 
 Mowes' more strictly literary character will 
 admit of much higher relief than has been given 
 it in the foregoing pages. His course as a 
 writer did not commence till a very few years 
 before his death ; yet, during that short career, 
 he has won to himself a distinguished place 
 among the religious poets of his country, rich as 
 it is in Christian lyrics. His poems are distin- 
 guished by exquisite tenderness, partly, perhaps, 
 attributable to the circumstances under which 
 they were written ; they are the music which 
 sorrow ever calls forth from the gifted spirit 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 135 
 
 on which it falls. He never set himself to write, 
 for the mere sake of versifying ; with him, 
 poetry was what it ought to be, life : each poem 
 in his collection is a fact, from which his life's his- 
 tory might be drawn. It was not he who chose 
 the subjects ; they were given to him by the 
 sovereign hand that dispensed to him good and 
 evil. In reading them, we feel no perplexing 
 distinction between the man and the author : 
 they were one, or rather it might be said, the 
 personal experience of the one went far beyond 
 the expression given to it by the other. The 
 " full, rich, fervent strain " yet left the deepest 
 feelings unsung. It must often be seen, on 
 reading the poems, that powerful thoughts and 
 exuberant feelings wrestled with the restraints of 
 language, and could not always master them. 
 Yet, throughout, the deep, powerful, impas- 
 sioned, and highly christianised mind of their 
 author beautifully shines ; and it is far more 
 than pleasure that the reader finds in going over 
 these traces of the now safe-landed pilgrim ; his 
 own pace heavenward is quickened. 
 
 Beautiful and rich as their imagery is, and 
 musical as they must be, even to an ear un- 
 practised in the language in which they were 
 written, these poems are perhaps more distin- 
 guished by their condensed simplicity than by 
 any other quality of style. There is a freshness 
 
136 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 about them, which reminds us of the confiding 
 joyfulness of a child : one on which we have 
 accidentally opened is a happy illustration of 
 this. It is a poem of five stanzas, written after 
 the death of Charles Blume, on the anniversary 
 of his birth.* The thought bares itself to the 
 eye at once ; it is full of consolation, and true to 
 its subject. Indeed, it is the subject, and his art 
 of throwing himself so completely into it, that 
 renders the poems so generally attractive. With 
 but few exceptions, grief is the key-note from 
 which the strain rises ; and 
 
 " to one who ever felt the sting 
 Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing ;" 
 
 it invests them not only with a tenderer, but a 
 holier character ; mirthful notes have often fallen 
 discordant on the ear of sadness, but we question 
 if the voice of grief were ever felt so totally an 
 intruder on the happy ; (never, certainly, if that 
 happy one were a Christian.) We must own 
 our brotherhood with the sufferer. We feel, in 
 re-opening the volume, we are entering on holy 
 ground. But, withal, the poems are essentially 
 human, and this it is that brings them home to 
 our hearts. It is a fellow man, whom we see in 
 the temple of sorrow offering up the sacrifice of 
 
 * The German reader will find it in the Addenda. 
 
REV. H. MOVVES. 137 
 
 praise to the Eternal, whose will it is, that his 
 children should be purified through sufferings. 
 We almost feel that thus we should have felt, 
 thus we should have said, had our u soul been 
 in his soul's stead." 
 
 We cannot forbear giving the remarks which 
 Mbwes' French biographer makes on one of the 
 poems. " I have not read, in any language, 
 anything comparable, for the truth and depth of 
 poetic religious feeling, to some verses poured 
 forth from the depth of his heart after the 
 events I have described," (his resignation of the 
 pastoral office, and removal from Altenhausen.) 
 " l Frage an den Herrn/ is the title of the piece. 
 It would be impossible better to describe the 
 feelings of the heart, or to express the most de- 
 licate emotions in more touching poetic lan- 
 guage. At a time of deep grief and heart- 
 rending recollections, he is full of Christian re- 
 signation, and unmixed submission to the will of 
 the Saviour. Every Christian who has suffered 
 will recognise his own experience in these stan- 
 zas, and will weep with their author. Gothe, 
 who lamented, at the close of his long and bril- 
 liant career, that he could not find in his many 
 poetical works a single piece that might take its 
 place among the hymns of the Lutheran church, 
 Gothe would have found consolation, and a 
 glory more precious than his own, if he could 
 
 N 2 
 
138 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 have said, * I have written the Frage an den 
 Herm.'" It would be idle to enumerate the 
 poems most worthy of notice, yet we must point 
 out " Des Blinden Fragen," (The Blind Man's 
 Questions,) as taking its place among the most 
 touching and beautiful lyrics of modern poetry. 
 His prose work, " Der Pfarrer von Andouse," 
 (The Pastor of Andouse,) is already before the 
 English public. It met with very great success 
 in Germany, and has been translated into more 
 than one European language. 
 
 But Mowes should not be judged of by the 
 few writings he has left behind; those who knew 
 him best, say that they fall far short of the cha- 
 racteristic greatness of his mind. It was in his 
 preaching that his talent came out the most 
 fully; of that we have no remains, save, indeed, 
 in its effects ; his record, in this respect, is not 
 here, but on high. Nor do his writings exhibit 
 that universality of talent which is so frequently 
 the dower of genius, and which was remarkably 
 conspicuous in his mind. Consecrated to a high 
 and holy office, he felt that the whole power of 
 his finely furnished mind was to be brought to 
 bear on its solemn duties : he had no leisure to 
 look on the things of the world ; his calling was 
 to point the deathless spirits of his fellow men 
 to the light of their eternal home : he might 
 not loiter to point out to them the beauties of 
 
REV. 11. MO WES. 139 
 
 earth ; while he trifled, they might perish ; and 
 there are words of warning, which speak of re- 
 quiring the blood of the flock at the hand of the 
 shepherd. And when compelled by feebleness 
 to retire from the public discharge of his office, 
 he still considered its vows were upon him, and 
 still devoted his energies to the same sacred end. 
 From this cause, principally, it is, that we have 
 so few compositions on general subjects ; yet his 
 national songs, " The Blind Man's Questions, " 
 and several other poems that could be named, 
 are sufficient to show that he knew how skilfully 
 to touch the human spirit with the beautiful and 
 the worthy of our external existence. 
 
 To us, one of the most attractive points of 
 Mbwes' character is the union of heartfelt, in- 
 fluential Christianity, with talent, refinement, 
 and the true spirit of poetry. In many refined 
 minds there has existed the notion, that coarse- 
 ness, or imbecility, is necessarily associated with 
 religion — with that humble religion known in 
 the world by the names, evangelicalism, method- 
 ism, or other epithets, signifying, " I do not com- 
 prehend, therefore I do not like you." Of the 
 possible or actual association, w T e have, we be- 
 lieve, a satisfactory explanation ; but that there 
 is a necessary connexion between such a faith 
 and mental deformity and weakness, the single 
 instance before us, were there no other, would 
 
140 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 be sufficient to disprove. A backward glance, 
 however, over our own scroll of imperishable 
 names, will show that genius and the religion of 
 the poor have often lit up the same spirit, and 
 consecrated the same shrine. The loftiest of 
 spirits have bowed to the faith of the lowliest 
 and the most scorned ; and can it be said that 
 the profession of that religion, which minds the 
 most elevated have " beheld with awful adora- 
 tion/'* is the indication of an imbecile and po- 
 verty-stricken understanding? That piety and 
 a very moderate share of mental power may' fre- 
 quently be found together, is not surprising : take 
 any number of men promiscuously, proselyte 
 them to whatever you please, and what will be 
 their general mental character ? Refer to any 
 school embracing all classes of the community. 
 Christianity does not go through the earth se- 
 lecting alone the lofty and refined ; and huma- 
 nity exults in the thought that it does not. But 
 as well might the light of day be accused of an 
 affinity with darkness, because it more frequently 
 penetrates the cellar and the court than the 
 mansion, as Christianity be suspected of having 
 a nature in common with narrow-mindedness or 
 ill taste, because its glory has penetrated through 
 such a medium to the immortal spirit within. 
 
 * Hall's Review of Foster's Essays. Works, vol. iv. p. 28. 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 141 
 
 But, in fact, it is the grossest of sophisms, for a 
 thinking mind to go to the professors of any 
 creed to form an estimation of its nature. 
 Truth must appear deformed when seen in a 
 broken mirror ; and who would seek to see it in 
 a mirror at all, when the reality itself stood be- 
 side him ? Should this humble volume come 
 before a mind educated and refined, but which 
 has ever set aside the idea of the religion we 
 have indicated, as inseparable from that of 
 meanness or incapacity, will it in courtesy pro- 
 long attention to one or two queries, which may 
 not have occurred to itself? 
 
 Are there not words in the Scriptures to 
 which you have no corresponding idea ? Are 
 you sure that those very words do not contain a 
 system of truth on which your happiness may 
 depend ? Some have thought so ; some of the 
 simple of the earth; and master spirits, too, 
 have held it so. Some who have left our shadowy 
 earth, and some yet living, whose names thrill 
 the soul as pure spirit, have deemed that the 
 system contained in those very words, which to 
 you are meaningless as the grotesque figures on 
 the Mexican tablets, contain the sole directions 
 by which immortal happiness may be won. Is 
 it wisdom, common, practical wisdom, to allow 
 one part of the revelation your God has vouch- 
 safed to you, to lie by as a worthless enigma, 
 
142 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 when some of your species have considered that 
 on that very part the life of the whole depends ? 
 True, they are a minority, but a minority may 
 be right ; and, in a question involving such con- 
 sequences, every probability should be examined. 
 You are accustomed to think ; indeed, the habit 
 of thought, hereditary and personal, sustained 
 till the character of your spirit has begun to ap- 
 pear different from theirs, is the grand thing 
 which distinguishes you from the mass. Will 
 you not bring your mind to this subject— to the 
 import of these words ? We need not specify 
 them. Open the New Testament on any page, 
 and you will meet with these, to you, unmeaning 
 characters. And yet, lest the trouble of turning 
 over the pages be too great, or the volume be 
 );0t at hand, we would ask the meaning affixed 
 in your mind to the word " grace. " Does it 
 not rather stand as a character to excite a smile, 
 as a note of interrogation represents a tone of 
 query, than as a word having a definite signifi- 
 cation ? What idea does the term " justifica- 
 tion " call up ? What is the sense conveyed to 
 your mind by such a sentence as the following ? 
 " We know that we have passed from death unto 
 life ; " or by this, " Of him are ye in Christ Je- 
 sus, who of God is made unto us wisdom, and 
 righteousness, and sanctification, and redemp- 
 tion;' 1 John iii. 14 ; 1 Cor. i. 30. Or, if the 
 
REV. II. MOWES. 14-3 
 
 reader's patience may be supposed to be suffi- 
 ciently prolonged to give two chapters an atten- 
 tive reading, what does any verse in the sixth 
 or eighth chapters of the Epistle to the Romans 
 mean ? Will you think on any subject but 
 this ? Will you be content to speculate on a 
 thousand subjects around you and about you ; 
 yet on this one, which, if it have any existence 
 at all, must be your life, not bestow one thought? 
 You know, you exult in, the nature of man, 
 which can grapple with the mysteries of the 
 material universe ; you triumph in the thought, 
 that mind, immeasurable, imponderable, intan- 
 gible as it is, is the mistress of the visible 
 world : yet you refuse to approach a question 
 which may involve the happiness, ay, more 
 than the existence, of that high nature, and 
 that nature your own. Is the cause of your 
 unwillingness to approach the question equal to 
 the magnitude of the risk? 
 
 Do not say this subject is too lowly ; do not 
 say it is too lofty : does it involve your happi- 
 ness or not ? Were the secret of eternal life and 
 happiness locked up in fable as obscure as the 
 mysteries of cabalistic fiction, or in mythology 
 as involved and inverted as the accumulated su- 
 perstitions of eastern India, would not your spi- 
 rit rise proudly to the task of unravelling these 
 dark sayings ? Shall it spurn the knowledge, 
 
144 MEMOIR OF THE 
 
 when it lies open in the cottage ? Will you de- 
 spise an immortality which is shared by the low r - 
 liest, if such a term dare intrude itself when our 
 common nature is spoken of? We are not say- 
 ing that the view of religion to which we refer 
 is the true one, we only say it may be; but, if 
 it is, your life is involved in it. And there is a 
 secondary thought, which, to minds of your 
 order, will have weight : how much this sub- 
 ject affects you in your social character. It 
 gives a radically different view of the spirit of 
 man, of the means by which its supreme happi- 
 ness is to be effected. It may be that this is the 
 right view; and that, for want of it, your schemes 
 of private benevolence, and the efforts you make 
 in your public capacity, fall far short of that 
 which your philanthropy has set before it. Or 
 there may be yet higher good, towards which 
 your energy might be directed ; yet securing 
 subordinately, but as fully as you now do, all 
 lesser good. It is said, There is a path the end 
 whereof is death ; and we well know that it is no 
 easy task so to trace our spirit in all its wander- 
 ings, as to be sure that it is not that path on 
 which w r e have entered. The path leading to the 
 precipice is open, and, without the light from 
 heaven, what shall forbid our feet from entering 
 on it? The mariner who distrusts his chart, or 
 misconstrues it, may strike on the rock, or be 
 
REV. H. MOWES. 145 
 
 buried in the quicksand ; then woe for his spirit, 
 however brave, however noble; and woe for the 
 precious ones who had trusted to his skill, for 
 the young and the happy, for the mother and 
 her child, for the strong man, and for the vene- 
 rated head of age. But the sufferers on the 
 wreck may be saved — to the wrecked spirit no 
 friendly vessel ever comes in sight. 
 
ADDENDA. 
 
 It will not be uninteresting to the reader, to know 
 that this fond father has been joined by one of those 
 dear ones whom he left behind. Eliza and Mary, and 
 their beloved father, are now together in that circle 
 where, by the eye of faith, he, while yet on earth, saw 
 his first departed child take her place. In less than a 
 year after his own death, his eldest surviving daughter 
 was removed from earth. Strong and happy in the 
 fresh bloom of childhood, after three days' illness she 
 lay a corpse in the arms of her mother. A short time 
 before her death, she said, " Ah, I would go to my 
 father ; it must be lovely with the dear Saviour ; but 
 yet I am indeed much too sinful : were I fit to be 
 there, he would call me." And as the hour of her 
 death drew nearer, " Dear mother, I yet believe I 
 shall go to my father ; and though I have done much 
 that is wrong, the gracious Lord will yet show me 
 mercy ; and I do so love him !" 
 
148 ADDENDA. 
 
 The following papers are taken from the unfinished 
 tale, " Magdeburg under the Ban of the Empire." 
 They are inserted at the end of the German Memoir, 
 as " Aphorisms from Pastor Henning Frede's Journal." 
 
 I. 
 
 " What is man, that Thou art mindful of him, and the son 
 of man, that Thou visitest him ? " Psa. viii. 4. 
 
 I was sitting to-day in my court yard, leaning against 
 the young apple tree, which I had planted nine years 
 ago, when this passage fiom the Psalms came, with its 
 great and precious truth, forcibly into my weary mind. 
 I had come out to seek the sun, to warm myself in his 
 rays ; and they revived me. I imagined I felt in my 
 own veins something of the living power with which 
 he draws the buds and flowers forth from the woody 
 branch. But will he do so much for me? That 
 Thou only knowest who biddest him shine ! 
 
 But I felt more strongly than usual what a wonder- 
 ful and beautiful heavenly body the sun is. He wakes 
 life, dormant life, in the valleys and on the mountains, 
 in the copse and the forest. When he greets the 
 earth, the earth replies with her thousand-voiced 
 echo : he not only wakes life, he nourishes, feeds, and 
 strengthens it. On the cold heights scarcely a stunted 
 birch delays to put forth its scanty foliage ; in the 
 warm sun-bright vales, the giant oak stretches its 
 spreading head majestically towards heaven. The 
 heathen named the sun the king of heaven, and so in 
 a sense he is ; he reigns, and his eye reaches far and 
 wide, and all that he looks on is blessed ! The heavens 
 are filled with his lustre, and when it closes, the light 
 yet laughs on the summits of the mountains, and they 
 glow as for joy in the kindling glance. 
 
 There are several other such suns, say the astro- 
 nomers j the eighth heaven contains many, and is 
 
ADDENDA. 149 
 
 indeed splendidly ornamented ; how it glitters and 
 lightens through the curtain of night, how the sky- 
 sparkles with great and little, with silver and gold, 
 with bright and yet brighter stars ! While looking 
 up at them, I have often felt as a man feels who stands 
 on the sea shore, and looks out over the immeasur- 
 able mirror ; I have lost myself, as something little, as 
 nothing, with such a spectacle before me. I look on 
 with ever-deepening silent wonder, for He must be a 
 mighty Lord who has made it ; but I am no longer 
 oppressed by his sovereignty. A sun, an army of 
 suns, is something great ; but I am also something, 
 and I am yet more. This I boast, and this will I 
 boast, for the sake of Christ, and to his honour. I am 
 more ! not because I have so large an intellect, and so 
 comprehensive an understanding— oh they wander 
 oftener from their true course than the stars from 
 theirs ; not because I so faithfully fulfil my calling — 
 they are ever true to theirs ; not because I perform so 
 many good deeds — oh how much more good does the 
 sun dispense in one day ! not because I can look back 
 on a line of well-spent years — he enlightened the 
 earth, and gave the days of spring and summer before 
 I existed, and will do so still, when my name is no 
 longer known upon earth. Not for these ! but as 
 thou art a work from the hand of the Lord, so also 
 am I. He created thee, either of earth or fire, or of 
 some other element : he created me also of the earth, 
 but into the earthly vessel he breathed his living 
 spirit. To thee he spoke, " Come and wander ;" and 
 as thy commander, he showed thee thy path, and 
 turned his face from thee : to me he spake, " Come," 
 and I came, and like a father he turned his face to 
 me, and he will never turn it away through eternity ; 
 his eye watches over me day and night ; his hand 
 guides me in every path ; and he has pardoned me 
 through his Son. Thou art his creature ; I am his son 
 through Christ : thou art a silent witness of his sove- 
 reignty ; I am a speaking witness of his mercy : thou 
 
 o 2 
 
150 ADDENDA. 
 
 art a diamond in the garment of light with which he 
 is clothed ; I am, through faith in his Son, an heir in 
 his house. 
 
 II. 
 
 I am often troubled when I notice how many of my 
 friends avoid speaking to me of death. I perceive by 
 this, that faith has not yet entirely pervaded their 
 spirits. He who has Christ, has the resurrection and 
 the life. Yet people think they can say nothing more 
 cheering, nothing more necessary to the sick, than 
 anticipations of their earthly recovery and speedy 
 restoration, thus hiding awhile from the eye that point 
 to which nevertheless we must all come. How slowly 
 man learns that death is something else than an evil ! 
 how deeply, how sorrowfully deeply, has unbelief 
 penetrated his heart ! Many hold it as a duty always 
 to raise fresh hopes of life in the sick ; they consider 
 him who would speak earnestly and truly of the im- 
 probability of recovery, and of a happy going home, 
 as a pitiless monster, who would murder the patient, 
 and do not perceive that they are the pitiless ; they 
 hold out to him a draught which will not quench his 
 thirst, and deny him that draught which would for 
 ever refresh his thirsty soul as with living water ; they 
 place a frail staff in his hand, and leave him on the 
 shaking earth, instead of setting the tottering and 
 sinking one on firm, immovable ground, on the Rock 
 — on Christ, the Prince of life. They say, what 
 they themselves often do not believe, and the last 
 service which they render him is — a deception. Can 
 we do nothing better for the parting one ? The truth 
 is, faith, such as deserves the name, is wanting on 
 both sides ; because it is often so feeble in the dying, 
 they are frequently too weak to bear the truth, just as 
 many sick persons cannot bear the fresh air. Those 
 who surround the dying man, suppose this want of 
 faith in him, because their own belief is often no 
 
ADDENDA. 151 
 
 stronger. It was this unbelief of man, that caused 
 those tears which the Lord wept by the grave of 
 Lazarus. He saw the distress which men make to 
 themselves, and he was grieved. 
 
 The following is the poem referred to, page 120. 
 It is entitled 
 
 AUFBLICK AUS DER FEUERPROBE. 
 
 Wann kommst Du, Engel mit dem Freiheitsbriefe, 
 
 Von Vaterhand mir gnadig ausgestellt ? 
 Und fiihrst mich weg au3 des Verliesses Tiefe, 
 Das mich seit Jahren eng gefangen halt. 
 Wie Noah nach dem trocknen Lande 
 Aus jener Fluthen Wusteney, 
 So span' ich aus dem Zwange schwerer Bande 
 Nach einem Leben, stark und frey. 
 
 Schon 6'fter trug's mich eine Reihe Stufen, 
 
 Zu meines Kerkers hoher Thlir hinan; 
 Mir war, als hort, ich's draussen leise rufen : 
 " Bald loset sich des bosen Zaubers Bann ! " 
 Der Pforte Riegel hort 'ich rlicken, 
 Der mir den Gang ins Freye wehrt : — 
 Doch waren's nur des Kerkermeister's Tucken, 
 Der an der Lust der Tauschung zehrt. 
 
 Des Kerkers Mauern wollen sich nicht spalten, 
 
 Der Boden unter mir bleibt d'urrer Sand, 
 Die Riegel alle und die Schlosser halten, 
 Es halt die kurze Kette an der "Wand. 
 Nur kann mein Aug' in dem Gedrange 
 Sich weiter, frohlicher ergehn : 
 Das Licht dort in der Eisengitter Enge, 
 Das kann mein freies Auge sehn. 
 
 Der Kerkermeister hatt 'es gem verbauet, 
 
 Und zoge gem mich noch in tief re Nacht ; 
 Es ist ein Ungethum, wovor mir grauet, 
 Das Mitleid heuchelt und des Mitleids lacht ; 
 " Dein Kreuz will," sprach er, ** lange dauern, 
 Zu wem Du betest, siehst du nun." 
 " Dich bei lebend'gem Leib hier einzumauern, 
 Kami das ein lieber Vater thun P" 
 
152 ADDENDA. 
 
 " Er hat dich mir zur WillkUhr Uberwiesen ; 
 So lass ihn fahren — und versuch's mit mir, 
 "Was es bedeutet mit den Paradiesen, 
 
 Die er verheisst, das siehst du endlich — hier ! " 
 So sprach er, schielend nach dem Lichte, 
 Pas durch mein Eisengitter fallt, 
 Und in dem lauernd grinsenden Gesichte 
 Ergluhete die Unterwelt. 
 
 Da griff ieh nach des heil 'gen Kreuzes Zeichen, 
 
 Und driickt 'es briinstig an das wunde Herz ; 
 Und den Versucher trieb's, davon zu schleichen, 
 Und nur noch Einmal sah er hinterwarts. 
 " Du kannst mich wohl mit Fausten schlagen," 
 So rief 'ich ihm mit Kiihnheit nach. 
 " Das ist Dein Werk, und meins : es wacker tragen, 
 Dem Herrn zur Ehre — Dir zum Schmach. 
 
 " Du schlirst die Gluth, um schrecklich zu verheeren, 1 
 
 Und wirst der wilden Arbeit schwerlich satt. 
 Der Herr, vor dem du zitterst, will riicht wehren, 
 Weil er gelautert Gold am liebsten hat. 
 So schiire nur den Brand der Flammen, 
 Er brennt, — verbrennt mich aber nicht ; 
 Er schmilzt mich enger nur mit dem zusammen, 
 Der endlich sein ' Bis hieher ! ' spricht ! " 
 
 Ich rief s — der schwarze Meister war verschwundeu, 
 
 Und ich in meiner Oede nicht allein ; 
 Die drey Gefahrten meiner besten Stunden 
 Am Licht des Gitters schwebten sie herein. 
 Der Glaube mit dem Haupt iu Sternen, 
 Die Hoffnung mit dem Perlenbaud, 
 Und die Geduld, den Blick in heil'ge Eernen, 
 Die Palme in gefalt'ner Hand. 
 
 Wann kommst Du, Engel mit dem Freyheitsbriefe, 
 
 Der mir die Kette von dem Fusse streift ? 
 Und stellte sich der Herr, als ob er schliefe, 
 Er wacht, er wacht, und seine Stunde reift. 
 Je stiller Warten — desto schneller 
 Zieht Er heran in Licht und Macht ; 
 Und nimmer strahlt der frische Morgen heller, 
 Als nach gewitterschwarzer Nacht. 
 
ADDENDA, 153 
 
 The following lines will convey to the mind of the 
 English reader the substance of the poem. It vwll be 
 perceived, that the lyrical form of the original has 
 been exchanged for blank verse, as allowing a nearly 
 literal version. 
 
 When wilt thou come, bright angel of deliv'rance, 
 
 Bearing glad letters of discharge, which now, 
 
 E'en now, my Father's hand holds out to view p 
 
 When wilt thou lead me from this depth of woe, 
 
 Where for long years my spirit has been held P 
 
 Oh ! it has been as he, the faithful one 
 
 Of old, looked o'er the waste of waters wide, 
 
 For the sunk earth, that my worn spirit pines 
 
 With longings faint, for life, the strong, the free. 
 
 How has the bitterness of quenched hope 
 
 Been mine ! Through the dim light, a row of steps 
 
 Seemed leading up to the high prison door, 
 
 And a low voice without fell on my ear, 
 
 " The enchanter's spell is broken," and I heard 
 
 The heavy bolt draw back, which barred my flight 
 
 To freedom. — 'Twas but my jailor's malice, 
 
 Making his joy of my delusion still. 
 
 Yet stand my dungeon's walls, firm, strong. Hard, damp, 
 
 The floor beneath. Fast closed the massive bolts, 
 
 And the short chain still holds me to the wall. 
 
 But the free eve, unfettered, wanders forth, 
 
 And in the light that through my grating gleams, 
 
 Greeteth her own. E'en that small ray of light, 
 
 He, the dark prison master, fain would quench, 
 
 Building it in. He is a horrid form, 
 
 Such as man trembles at, a spectral shape, 
 
 Wearing the mask of pity, and in scorn 
 
 Laughing at pity's self. Darkly to me 
 
 He said, " Long will thy cross endure, for see, 
 
 How he to whom thou prayest, here has cast 
 
 Thee and thy living body deep within 
 
 These foul and fearful walls — and this, oh this, 
 
 Can a dear father do P Believe it not. 
 
 Nay he has given thee over to my will ; 
 
 So let him go, my friend ! join hands with me. 
 
 The glorious paradise he promised thee, 
 
 Thou seest at last — 'tis here." So spake the fiend, 
 
 And, with a glance malignant at the light 
 
 Which through the iron grating brightly fell, 
 
154 ADDENDA. 
 
 Turned him toward me : in that dark scowling face 
 Hell glowed. 
 
 But to my wounded heart I pressed 
 The life-procuring cross. And he slunk back, 
 And turned his demon head ; but once again 
 Boldly I cried, " Strike on, that is thy work ; 
 Mine is to bear it, to my Saviour's praise 
 Bravely, and to thy shame. Thou would'st destroy, 
 And with thy savage labour scarce content, 
 Still addest fuel, nor my God restrains. 
 He checks thee not, because he fain would have 
 True and refined gold. The brand may burn, 
 I am but melted in the glowing flame 
 Closer together, till at last is fieard 
 The great Refiner's voice, ' The gold is pure.' " 
 
 Ere I had spoken, the dark master vanish'd. 
 
 I in my solitude was not alone, 
 
 The dim light of the grating brought to view 
 
 The bright companions of my holiest hours. 
 
 Faith, with her queenly head, high in the stars ; 
 
 Hope, with her pearly band ; Patience, her glance 
 
 In the holy distance, and the branch of palm 
 
 In her quiet hand. * * * 
 
 "When wilt thou come with letters of discharge, 
 
 Bright angel, here ? to strike from off my feet 
 
 The fetters down ? Makes He as though He slept, 
 
 My Lord and God ? He wakes, his own hour comes. 
 
 The stiller my proud spirit learns to wait, 
 
 The sooner draws he near in life and power ; 
 
 And never brighter to the watching eye 
 
 Does the fresh morning beam, than when the breath 
 
 Of its glad dawn chases the storm-black night. 
 
 This poem, to which reference is made by M. 
 Bonnet, was written in July, 1832, when Mowes had 
 given up all hope of resuming the pastoral office. 
 
 FRAGE AN DEN HEKRN. 
 
 " Du sollst, so sprach der Herr, du sollst ermatten," 
 Und siehe, meine Kraft verging wie Schaum ; 
 Es blieb von mir ein marklos luft'ger Schatten, 
 Nur locker haften an der Erde Saum. 
 
ADDENDA. 155 
 
 Des Lebens May mit seinen heitern Spielen, 
 Des Lebens Lust mit ihren schonen Miihn, 
 Des Lebens Hoh' mit ihren edlen Zielen, 
 Das Alles sah ieh sinken und verbliihn. 
 
 Da ward's wie Wehmuth in der Seele laut, 
 Da hat's in meinem Auge hell gethaut ! 
 Doch eine Warme, anderswo entglommen, 
 Hat meines Auges Thrane weggenommen, 
 Er weint nicht melir, o lieber Herr, dein Knecht ; 
 1st Dir's so recht ? 
 
 u Du sollst mir diese Heerde nicht mehr f'uhren," 
 So sprach der Herr, der sie mir ubergab. 
 Auch will sich's mir zu fragen nicht gebuhren, 
 Warum entzog Er mir den Hirtenstao ? 
 Wohl hatt' ich sonst so frohlich ihn geschwungen, 
 Und Hirt und Heerde w r aren sicb bekannt, 
 Und mancher Schritt hinan war uns gelungen ; 
 Doch fiel der Hirtenstab mir aus der Hand ; 
 Da ward's wie Wehmuth in der Seele laut, 
 Da hat's in meinem Auge warm gethaut! 
 Doch sah ich Ihn, Ihn selbst auf Dornenwegen 
 Den Hirtenstab am Kreuze niederlegen. 
 Er weint nicht mehr, o lieber Herr, dein Knecht; 
 1st Dir's so recht ? 
 
 " Du sollst mir keine Heerde wieder weiden ! " 
 
 So sprach der Herr mit ernstem Angesicht. 
 
 Des Hirtenschmucks mich vollig zu entkleiden, 
 
 Das forderte sein beugendes Gericht. 
 
 Ich band ihn los, den reinen Priesterkragen, 
 
 Und zog ihn aus, den ehrenden Talar ; 
 
 Und wer ihn hangen sah, dem konnt' ich sagen, 
 
 Dass ich einmal ein Hirt des Herren war ! 
 
 Da ward's wie "VVehmuth in der Seele laut, 
 Da hat's in meinem Auge heiss gethaut ! 
 Doch fiel auch sein Gewand als gute Beute 
 Ihm von der Schulter und an Kriegesleute. 
 Er weint nicht mehr, o lieber Herr, dein Knecht ; 
 1st Dir's so recht ? 
 
 " Du sollst, vom sichern Hafen fortgerissen, 
 Auf hoher See in morschem Boote stehn, 
 Und sollst im Kampf mit Sturm und Finsternissen 
 Nur Wasser um dich her und Himmel sehn ! " 
 So sprach der Herr ; und auf emporten Wogen 
 Riss mich die Ebbe w r eit ins Meer hinaus, 
 Ach, manche Taube ist der Hand entflogen ; 
 Nur brachte sie kein Oelblatt mit nach Haus ! 
 
156 ADDENDA 
 
 Da ward's wie Wehmuth in der Seele laut, 
 Da hat's in meinem Auge still gethaut ! 
 Doch wie Er mir gesagt, so ist's geschehen : 
 Ich konnte auf dem Meer — den Himrael sehen. 
 Er weint nicht mehr, o lieber Herr, dein Knecht, 
 1st Dir's so recht ? 
 
 " Dein Herz soil mir verbund'ne Herzen finden, 
 Und dran erwarmen in der oden Welt ; 
 Doch sey bereit, auch da dich loszuwinden, 
 Und sie zu lassen, wenn es mir gefallt ! " 
 So sprach der Herr : — Er gab, was er verheissen 
 Wie manches Herz hat mir sich aufgethan ! 
 Nur — immer musst' ich wieder los mich reisen, 
 Und aus einander riickte Bahn und Bahn ! 
 
 Da ward's wie Wehmuth in der Seele laut, 
 Da hat's in meinem Auge reich gethaut ! 
 Doch ging auch Er durch bittre Scheidestunden, 
 Und hat sich von Johannes losgewunden, 
 Er weint nicht mehr, o lieber Herr, dein Knecht 
 1st Dir's so recht ? 
 
 The following lines will give a feeble idea of the 
 foregoing poem. The peculiarity of the verse and 
 the thoughts have been preserved, but, alas! the 
 charm of the piece is gone, the fine spirit of the wine 
 is lost in pouring it from one vessel to another. 
 
 " Yield now," said the Lord, " to a swift decay ;" 
 Then melted my strength as the foam away ; 
 A shadow I stood on the verge of earth, 
 Thin, airy, as scarcely of mortal birth. 
 And my life's young May, with its gladsome games, 
 And the joyful cares of life's burning noon, 
 And its glorious heights, with their noble aims, 
 All, all, from my path are now passed and gone. 
 Bright gush'd the tear to my quiv'ring eye, 
 And bow'd my sad spirit mournfully. 
 
 But there came a warmth, from a world unknown, 
 
 And the flowing tear from mine eye was gone. 
 
 Seems it right to thee, O my Father God ! 
 
 Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod. 
 
ADDENDA. 157 
 
 u Thou shalt lead this flock to my feet no more," 
 Said Jehovah, from whom my charge I bore. 
 T bow, I would not the thought awaken, 
 Why the pastoral staff from my hand is taken. 
 Gladly I bore it, in days that are flown, 
 The pastor and flock familiar had grown ; 
 We had wandered long through many a land, 
 Yet, yet, has the shepherd's staff fali'n from my hand. 
 Warm gush'd the tear to my quiv'ring eye, 
 And bow'd my sad spirit mournfully. 
 
 Yet saw I Himself on the thorny way, 
 
 His shepherd's staff down at the fearful cross lay. 
 
 Seems it right to thee, O my Father God ! 
 
 Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod. 
 
 " No flock to me shalt thou e'er again lead ! " 
 And that solemn word made my wrung spirit bleed. 
 The shepherd's dress from my shoulders is torn, 
 And never again mav that lov'd badge be borne. 
 The pure priestly robe is taken off* now, 
 The long honour'd vest. — In silence T bow. 
 To him who beholds them hang up, I can say, 
 I, too, a shepherd have been in my day. 
 Hot gush'd the tear to my quiv'ring eye, 
 And bow'd my sad spirit mournfully. 
 
 "But oh ! from His form on that sorrowful day = 
 
 Hig vest to the rude soldiers fell as a prey. 
 
 Seems it right to thee, O my Father God ! 
 
 Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod. 
 
 " Thou shalt yet from thy haven safe be torn, 
 
 And over the wave in thy frail bark borne ; 
 
 Thou shalt see, in thy strife with storm and night, 
 
 Nought round thee but sky and the billow's might." 
 
 He said it, and swiftly the falling tide 
 
 Bore me far out on the ocean wide. 
 
 Oh many a dove from my hand has flown, 
 
 No olive branch back in return is borne. 
 Still gush'd the tear to my quiv'ring eye, 
 And bow'd my sad spirit mournfully. 
 But yet, as He promis'd, it ever has been, 
 From the desert of waves was the bright heaven seen. 
 Seems it right to thee, O my Father God ! 
 Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod. 
 
 " True hearts shall be thine in a sacred bond, 
 And friendships grow bright for the world beyond, 
 
 P 
 
158 ADDENDA. 
 
 Yet hold thyself ready, whenever I call, 
 To loosen these ties, to break from them all." 
 He spake it — and what He has promis'd has done. 
 How many a heart to myself have I won, 
 But ever to part, before closing day, 
 To bless with kind greetings, and then away ! 
 Full gush'd the tear to my quiv'ring eye, 
 And bow'd my sad spirit mournfully. 
 
 Yet passed e'en He through the parting hour ; 
 
 Prov'd He not with the loved one * its mournful pow'rP 
 
 Seems it right to thee, O my Father God ! 
 
 Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod. 
 
 DES BLINDEN FRAGEN. 
 
 Wo hast du mich, mein Knabe, hingeleitet ? 
 
 Hast du des "Weges heute nicht gefehlt ? 
 Liegt hier die weite Landschaft ausgebreitet P 
 
 Hast du den rechten Hligel mir gewahlt? 
 Spielt dort am Ufer noch die Silberwelle ? 
 
 Und hangt das Dach der Eiche liber mir ? 
 Ihr seyd, so sagst du, an gewohnter Stelle ! 
 
 Meia Knabe, du mein Aug', ich glaube dir. 
 
 Wie sieht es aus, das machtige Gewolbe, 
 
 Das liber diese Erde klihn sich spannt ? 
 Ist's noch so hoch und tiefr* — Ist's noch dasselbe 
 
 Das ich vor Zeiten — o so gut, gekannt ? 
 Zieht ihr noch weidend liber seine Auen 
 
 Ihr zarten, weichen Lammerheerden ihr ? 
 Das alles, sagst du, ist noch so zu schauen, 
 
 Mein Knabe, du mein Aug', ich glaube dir. 
 
 Wo steht das Auge mit dem Flammenblitze 
 
 Das Konigsauge voller Majestat ? 
 Das wie ein Flirst an der Vasallen Spitze, 
 
 Vorauf am Reigen der Planeten geht ? 
 Ist's nicht erblindet und in Nacht gesunken, 
 
 Und sieht es uns auf diesem Rasenhier? 
 " Es sprlihet," sagst du, " noch die alten Funken ! " 
 
 Mein Knabe, du mein Aug', ich glaube dir. 
 
 * " One of his disciples, whom Jesus loved/' John xiii. 23. 
 
ADDENDA. 159 
 
 Du sagst, es kommt ein schwer Gewiilk gezogen, 
 
 Auch traufelt's nass und warm mir ins Gesicht; 
 Schau. bauet sich da noch der Regenbogen ? 
 
 Una hat er noch sein siebenfarbig Licht ? 
 Wie damals, ehe diese Augen starben, 
 
 Sein Gold und seinen Purpur, fur und fur. 
 u Er hat noch," sagst du, u seine schonen Farben." 
 
 Mein Knabe, du mein Aug', ich glaube dir. 
 
 Ich spielte unter Knaben einst als Knabe, 
 
 Wie manches heitre Antlitz sah' ich da ! 
 Hast du bey mir des Frohsinns heitre Gabe, 
 
 Wie ich sie sonst bey Deinesgleichen sah' ? 
 Du warest freyer, wenn ich dich nicht bande, 
 
 Hangt aber noch dein Aug' in Lieb an mir ? 
 " Ja,"' rufst ■ 
 
 Oh wie von 
 
 du, " ja ! " und driickst mir beyde Hande ! 
 1 Herzen, Knabe, glaub' ich dir. 
 
 Translation of the foregoing. 
 
 Where hast thou led me, my gentle boy P 
 
 Still turn we our wonted way ? 
 Seest thou the landscape in distance spread 
 
 From our mossy hill to-day P 
 Still plays on the bank the silver wave, 
 
 Is the oak's green roof above ? 
 " Yes, yes ! " Enough, thou art eye to me, 
 
 Well I trust thy truth and love. 
 
 Tell me if still o'er this lower earth, 
 
 Heaven's beautiful arch is cast? 
 Seems it deep and high in its azure light, 
 
 As once when I saw it last ? 
 
 Yet white on the sunny fields below 
 
 Do the flocks at noontide lie ? 
 " 'Tis fair, as ever of old it was." 
 
 In thy truth I trust, mine eye. 
 
 Yet is the eye of the prince of day 
 
 In its kingly brilliance bright ? 
 Yet shines it in dazzling majesty, 
 
 With its earth-rejoicing light P 
 Is that eye undimmed, nor sunk in night P 
 
 Sees it us on the green turf lie ? 
 Thou say'st those loved rays yet pour down- 
 
 I trust thee, my child, mine eye. 
 
160 ADDENDA. 
 
 Thou say'st the heavy cloud comes on, 
 
 On my face the warm drops fall. 
 Say, on the cloud does the rainbow's light 
 
 With its sevenfold colours fall ? 
 Do its gold and purple yet shine fair, 
 
 As when I beheld the sky ? 
 Thou say'st the radiant bow is yet there, 
 
 I trust thee, my faithful eye. 
 
 I play'd among children once as a child, 
 
 And I know the joyful face 
 Is thine glad with smiles as those I left 
 
 Of yore in a distant place ? 
 Ah ! thou wert free, did I keep thee not, 
 
 Yet look'st thou in love on me ? 
 " Yes ! " And thou pressest my trembling hand, 
 Mine eye no ! my heart — I trust thee ! 
 
 The following is the poem alluded to page 136, 
 
 AN CARLS GEBURTSTAGE. 
 
 Feme 
 Bist du heute mir ; 
 Flog' ich viele tausend Meilen, 
 Konnte doch Dich nicht ereilen, 
 Droben du — ich hier. 
 
 Nahe 
 Bist du dennoch mir ! 
 Bist du auch zum Licht geboren, 
 Hast Dein Herz doch nicht verloren, 
 Das denkt meiner hier. 
 
 Feme 
 Bin ich heute Dir. 
 Deine Bahn geht uber Sterne, 
 Mich siehst Du in tiefer Feme 
 Noch im Staube hier. 
 
 Nahe 
 Bin ich dennoch Dir ; 
 Kann ich doch in schwachen Traumen 
 Dort Dich finden, bey Dir saumen, 
 Liebend, wie einst hier. 
 
ADDENDA. 1G1 
 
 Lieber ! 
 Mir so fern und nah ! 
 Stilles Herz hat kurze Zeiten, 
 W amies— hat einst Ewigkeiten, 
 Und bald bin ich da. 
 
 Allusion is made to the following poem, page 38. 
 
 SCHEIDEWORT. 
 
 Merkt ihr's, Freunde ? — Mein Auge wird mlide : 
 Konnte geschehen, dass ich bald schiede : 
 Muss ich aus eurer Mitte fort : 
 "Wahrt, was ich sage, als Scheidewort. 
 
 "Will die Seele zur Heimath entschweben, 
 Kann ich die Stimme nicht mehr erheben: 
 Tretet dann an mein Lager hin, 
 Singt mir ein Liedlein nach meinem Sinn. 
 
 Singt mir von dem, der den Tod bezwungen, 
 Der uns am Kreuze das Leben errungen. 
 Davon singt mir frohlich und fein, 
 Damit singt mich in Schlummer ein. 
 
 Bringt mich mit Sang und Klang zu Grabe, 
 Und— dass ich ja ein recht trauliches habe, 
 Schliesst's mit griinenden Rasen ein, 
 Lasset's vom Laube beschattet seyn. 
 
 Sieht auch mein Auge den Morgen nicht grauen ; 
 Lasset es dennoch nach Morgenland schauen ; 
 Da hat gewandelt das Licht der Welt, 
 Jesus, der jegliche Nacht erhellt. 
 
 Schmlickt den Hiigel mit einfachem Steine, 
 Schreibt darauf, " Er hat der Gemeine 
 Lebend und sterbend von Christo gezeugt, 
 Drum ward Leben und Sterben ihm leicht." 
 
 Kamet ihr liber meinen Gebeinen 
 Nach mir zu suchen und nach mir zu weinen ; 
 Sucht und weinet ! Und stillet den Schmerz ; 
 Jesus legt euch mir einst wieder an's Herz. 
 
 i>2 
 
162 ADDENDA, 
 
 MEIN WUNSCH. 
 
 Reich mdcht' ich seyn, 
 Und als ein Reicher weit una breit bekannt ; 
 Der Reiche hat viel Menschen in der Hand. 
 Dann ging ich hin mit alien meinen Schatzen ; 
 Dem lieben Herrn zu Flissen mich zu setzen. 
 
 Reich mocht' ich seyn ; 
 Ich zoge Arm' und Reiche hinterdrein. 
 
 Gross mocht' ich seyn, 
 Gross vor der Welt, gleich einem macht'gen Herrn, 
 Den Grossen glaubt und folgt die Welt so gem ; 
 Dann ging' ich hin mit alien meinen Ehren, 
 Dem lieben Herrn in Demuth zuzuhoren. 
 
 Gross mocht' ich sey^n ; 
 Ich zoge Gross' und Kleine hinterdrein. 
 
 Klug mocht' ich seyn, 
 Begabt mit Engels Weisheit und Verstand, 
 Ich hatt' ein Heer von Jungern bald im Land ; 
 Dann ging' ich hin mit alien meinen Gaben, 
 Um an des Herren Liebe mich zu laben. 
 
 Klug mocht' ich seyn ; 
 Ich zoge Klug' und Thoren hinterdrein. 
 
 Es mag drum seyn, 
 Ich hab' nun einmal Gold und Silber nicht, 
 Und bin kein grosser Herr, kein grosses Licht, 
 Doch zieh ich frohlich fort auf meinem Pfade, 
 Und nehme von dem Herren Gnad' um Gnade — 
 
 Es mag drum seyn, 
 Ich ziehe doch wohl Einen hinterdrein. 
 
 DAS GLUCK DES GLAUBENS. 
 
 Ich glaube ! — Hallelujah ! 
 Seit Du, o Glaube, mich gefunden, 
 Steht mir der Pol der Welten fest. 
 Die Binde is mir abgebunden, 
 Die nur im Finstern tappen lasst. 
 Der Zukunft Schleier sind gehoben, 
 Und durch der Erde Labyrinth 
 Ward mir ein Faden, stark, gewoben, 
 Der bis ins Reich des Lichts sich spinnt. 
 
ADDENDA. 163 
 
 Ich glaube ! — Hallelujah ! 
 Seit Du, o Glaube, mich gefunden, 
 1st mir das Leid kein boser Gust, 
 Die Burden, die mir aufgebunden, 
 Die trag ich nun als heiTge Last ! 
 Des Kreuzes dunckle Hieroglyphe 
 Entziffert mir nun ihren Sinn ; 
 Ich lese wie in offnem Briefe 
 Dass ich des Vaters Zogling bin. 
 
 Ich glaube ! — Hallelujah ! 
 Seit du, o Glaube, mich gefunden, 
 Verlosch die Handschrift meiner Schuld ; 
 Bey meinen zehentausend Pfunden 
 Ward mir ein Biirge voller Huld ; 
 Und ach, das Eisfeld starrer Pfiichten 
 Lie^t hinter mir mit seinem Zwang ; 
 Mem Lebensbaum mit seinen Friichten 
 Erwachst in Lieb und innerm Drang. 
 
 Ich glaube ! — Hallelujah ! 
 Seit du, o Glaube, mich gefunden, 
 1st mir das Leben aufgethan ; 
 Ich lieb's in seinen fl'iicht'gen Stunden, 
 Ich sen's in seinem Tode nahn ; 
 Es dringt, begabt mit Seraphsflligeln, 
 Durch alien Kummer frisch hervor, 
 Und schwingt sich heimisch zu den Hiigeln 
 Der ew'gen Gottesstadt empor ! 
 
 Ich glaube ! — Hallelujah ! 
 Seit du, o Glaube, mich gefunden, 
 Kenn ich das Recht der Liebe ganz. 
 Die Bande ? welche sie gewunden, 
 Sie sind kein flucht'ger Bllithenkranz. 
 Die fromme Liebe stammt von druben, 
 Und ihren Anker hat sie dort ; 
 Ja ! ewig haben, ewig lieben, 
 Darauf gab ihr der Herr das Wort ! 
 
 
 DANK NACH DEM STURM. 
 
 Composed Oct., 1831. 
 
 Seele, darfst nicht stille seyn 
 Nach dem Streit mit tiefer Noth ; 
 
164 ADDENDA. 
 
 Nach dem bangen, bittern Schreyn 
 Will dein Heiland, Herr mid Gott 
 Erst von dir gepriesen seyn, 
 
 Der dich armen Wurm 
 
 Aus zermalmendem Sturm, 
 In so grausiger Nacht 
 Gnadig, gnadig hat bindurcb gebraeht. 
 
 Ja, zur Erde hingestreekt 
 Lag ich da in Weh und Ach ; 
 Wie von Flammen angeleckt, 
 Sandt' ich Seufzern Seufzer nach ; 
 Mit dem Schweiss der Angst bedeck t, 
 
 Ward mir nun bekannt, 
 
 Was der Heiland empfand, 
 Als der Nagel und Spiess 
 Seite, Hand und Fuss fur mien durchstiess. 
 
 Sonst schon hab' ich mich geneigt 
 
 Vor dem Konig in der Hon : 
 
 Nun hat mir der Schmerz gezeigt ; 
 
 Dass es noch viel besser geh', 
 
 Wenn der Herr uns selber beugt ; 
 Jeder Nerv' im Kampf, 
 Hand und Auge voll Krampf, 
 
 Sank ich tiefer hinab, 
 
 Als ich je vor ihm gelegen hab'. 
 
 Was ich fiir mich Selber bin, 
 Wenn Er einen Augenblick 
 Seinen Odem — nicht gar hin, 
 Nur ein wenig nimmt zurlick, 
 Trat da hell vor meinen Sinn ; 
 
 Si eh ein armes Nichts 
 
 Vor dem Vater des Lichts ; 
 Siehe, wenn Er mir schilt, 
 Ein unsaglich elend Jammerbild. 
 
 O, Du Treuer, hast gehort, 
 Als ich schrie um gnad' gen Tod ; 
 Hast der heissen Gluth gewehrt, 
 Bist erschienen in der Noth ; 
 Meine Seel' ist unversehrt. 
 
 In der Finsterniss, 
 
 Deiner Liebe gewiss, 
 Halt ich dankend die Hand, 
 Die mir diese Dornenkrone band. 
 
ADDENDA. 165 
 
 The following verses possess an additional interest, 
 from the fact, that they were the last strains given 
 forth, ere the lyre was unstrung. They bear the 
 date of August, 1834. 
 
 DAS KIRCHENGELAUT. 
 
 Woher, woher, du Feyerklang, 
 Fortwallend in machtigem Schwunge ? 
 Du tonst so voll, so frohlich, so bang' 
 Du wogest und hallest, wie heil'ger Gesang, 
 Doch nicht von menschlicher Zunge. 
 
 Du rufst nicht auf den Markt der Welt, 
 Sonst mlisstest du lustiger klin^en ; 
 Du lockst nicht hinaus auf das bunte Feld, 
 Wo taumelnde Lust ihr Gelag sich bestellt. 
 Sonst mlisstest du buhlender singen. 
 
 Du tonst so bang' als trligst du Leid 
 Urn Alle, die horend nicht horen, 
 Als konnten sie saumen und fehlen der Zeit, 
 Zu kaufen den Frieden der Ewigkeit, 
 Wie wenn sie daran nichts verloren. 
 
 Du tonst so frohlich-hell und laut 
 In's irdisehe Sorgen und Bangen, 
 Als woltest du sagen ; Es sey euch vertraut : 
 W r erglaubig aufs Kreuz des Erhoheten schaut, 
 Soil leben und Gnade erlangen. 
 
 Du tonst so voll und mit Gewalt, 
 Als wolltest du alles ervvecken ; 
 Ja Alles, was schlaft und lau ist und kalt, 
 So Manner als Weiber, so Jung als Alt, 
 Die Freundlichkeit Gottes zu schmecken. 
 
 Ich kenne dich, du Festklang, schon, 
 Du Bote, aus Aether gewoben ; 
 Bist mehr als der Liifte vergainglicher Sohn, 
 Dem Munde des tonenden Erzes entrlohn, 
 Bist lebende stimme von Oben. 
 
 Von Oben W T ie ein Wasserfall 
 Entquillst du dem Schoosse des Aethers ; 
 Aus Erzen geboren, verklart sich dein Schall 
 Im tiefen Gemiithe zum Wiederhall 
 Der Andacht des glaubigen Beters. 
 
166 ADDENDA. 
 
 Und geht er dir mit Sehnsucht nach, 
 So lasst du die Welt ihm verschwinden, 
 Die wechselnde Welt voll Weh und voll Ach, 
 Und fuhrest ihn unter ein heiliges Dach, 
 Die ewigen Hlitten zu finden ! 
 
 GETREU 1ST ER. 
 
 O Herr ! O Herr ! wie bist Du treu, 
 
 Wie fest sind Deine Worte ! 
 
 Das sag 'ich, aller Burden frey, 
 
 Dicht an der Todespforte : 
 
 Da steh 'ich mit gehobnem Haupt; 
 
 Oh selig, Herr, wer an Dich glaubt. 
 
 Die ihr muhselig seyd, kommt her, 
 
 Kommt, Ich will euch erquicken. 
 
 Nehmt nur mein Joch, es ist nicht schwer, 
 
 Und schien es auch zu drucken ; 
 
 Denn unter diesem Joch allein 
 
 W T ird Ruhe fur die Seele seyn ! 
 
 So sprach der Herr, — Und Er hat Wort, 
 
 Hat Wort an mir gehalten ; 
 
 Es zogen an mir da und dort 
 
 Feindselige Gewalten, 
 
 Doch ihre Macht hat aufgehort, 
 
 Seit Jesus bei mir eingekehrt. 
 
 Und jjezt, an eines Abgrunds Rand, 
 AufErden " Tod " geheissen, 
 Ergriffen, wie von Riesenhand, 
 Mich jah hinabzureissen, 
 Sieht meine Seele ruhig zu : 
 Denn Er ist meiner Seelen Run.' 
 
 Wo Andre nur den Abgrund sehn, 
 Da hab' ich eine Briicke 
 Auf tausend Demantsaulen stehn, 
 Genannt " der Weg zum Gliicke." 
 Drauf fiihrt mich eines Engels Hand 
 Hinein in das gelobte Land. 
 
 Ich lege wohl an ihrem Thor 
 Die Lust der Erde nieder: 
 
ADDENDA. 107 
 
 Doch Jesus giebt, was ich verlor, 
 Mir siebenfaltig wieder. 
 Er machte mir die Erde schon, 
 Was wirdbei Ihm mein Auge sehn ! 
 
 Und wiirde mir die Seele weich 
 Beym letzten Gruss der Lieben, 
 Herr, sie sind hier in Deinem Reich, 
 Und sind es aucb bald dr'iiben. 
 Sie waren mein — und bleiben mein, 
 Und du trittst als ihr Hiiter ein ! 
 
 O Herr, O Herr, wie treu bist Du, 
 Wie recht sind deine Worte ! 
 Du wurdest meiner Seelen Ruh' 
 Auch an der Todespforte : 
 Da steh' ich mit gehobnem Haupt ! 
 Jaselig, Herr, wer an Dich glaubt. 
 
 ARMUTH DER, ERDE. 
 
 Es ist recht warm auf Erden, 
 Wenn der Hauch der Liebe da weht. 
 Es kann recht kalt drauf. werden, 
 Wenn der Wind liber Graber gent. 
 
 Es ist recht hell auf Erden, 
 Wenn ein gluckliches Auge mir lacht; 
 Es kann recht dunkel da werden, 
 Wenn's auf immer sich zugemacht. 
 
 Es ist recht traulich auf Erden, 
 Halt warme Hand da mich fest ; 
 Es kann recht ode drauf werden, 
 Wenn sie erstarrt, und mich lasst. 
 
 Es ist recht wohnlich auf Erden, 
 Wenn zarte Stimme mir ruft ; 
 Es kann recht unheimlich da werden : 
 Wenn sie verstummt in der Gruft. 
 
 Es ist recht gemuthlich auf Erden, 
 Wenn ein Herz an das meine schlagt ; 
 y Es kann recht betrubt drauf werden : 
 
 W'enn es stockt und zum lezten Mai schlagt, 
 
168 ADDENDA 
 
 Du reiehe, du arme Erde, 
 Noch bin ich an dich gebannt ; 
 Da, wo ich einst wohnen werde, 
 1st mein schoneres Heimathland. 
 
 GEBET IN NOTH UND TOD. 
 
 Der Himmel hangt voll Wolken schwer, 
 Ich seh' das blaue Zelt kaum mehr : 
 Doch liber Wolken, — hell und klar, 
 Nehm' ich ein freundlich Auge wahr ! 
 
 Es tobt der Sturm mit wilder Macht, 
 Sie wird so dunkel oft — die Nacht ; 
 Doch wenn auch meine Seele bebt, 
 Sie weiss, dass dort ein Heiland lebt. 
 
 Sie zoge gar zu gern hinaus 
 Ins grosse, weite Vaterhaus ; 
 Doch halt in Seiner Kraft sie still, 
 Bis Er, b is Er ! — sie losen will. 
 
 Die Erd' ist mir ein morsches Boot, 
 Das unter mir zu sinken droht, 
 Ich steh' auf seines Bordes Hoh' 
 Nur eben noch mit einem Zeh. 
 
 Gebeutst Du, Herr, mit einem Blick, 
 So schleudr' ich's hinter mir zuriick, 
 Und schwinge mich an Deiner Hand 
 Hinauf, hinauf ; und jauchze, " Land : " 
 
 Ich ginge gern, so gern zu Dir ! 
 Doch wenn Du mich noch langer hier 
 In Sturm und dunklen Nachten lasst, 
 So halt Du meine Seele fest. 
 
 Dass sie in Sturm und Nachten treu, 
 Zu Deiner Ehre wacker sey, 
 Bist Du mir rufst : " Nun ist mir's recht, 
 Nun kannst du kommen, treuer Knecht." 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY t INSTITUTED 1799.