'TSi] 
 
 
 
 
 -t 
 
 
 18 3L'. 
 
THE 
 
 CHRISTIAN OFFERING, 
 
 FOR 
 
 MDCCCXXXII 
 
 . ■• _ -> >^ > 
 
 BOSTON: 
 LINCOLN AND EDMANDS, 
 
 AND 
 
 B. FRANKLIN EDMANDS. 
 
 1832. 
 
Entered according to Act of Confess, in the year 1831, 
 
 By Lincoln and Edmands, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 C C "^c G 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 There can be no doubt entertained, by a re- 
 flecting mind, that the wide diffusion of the light 
 and elegant literature of the day is exerting a 
 powerful influence on the community, and espe- 
 cially on the youthful mind; and it is therefore 
 incumbent on the friends of truth to aid the 
 circulation of such works of taste as shall produce 
 the best moral and religious effects. 
 
 In this volume, an attempt has been made to 
 show, that literary elegance and Christian in- 
 struction may happily coalesce. 
 
 The editor feels his oblio-ations to the kindness 
 of those who have enriched his voiume with their 
 efforts, and hopes for a continuance of their aid. 
 
 J. O. C. 
 
 Newport, R. I., Oct, 1831. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Chaiity beareth all Things. Mrs. Sigourney . 1 
 
 Lilies written on a Print of Sir Isaac Newton. 
 
 William R. Williams, Esq 4 
 
 A Church in the Backwoods. IMiss Isabel Ann 
 
 Drysdale 6 
 
 The Mourner. T. W. H 18 
 
 Rome buried in her own Ruins 19 
 
 God is Love. Iota 21 
 
 Biographical Sketch of the late Right Honorable 
 
 Seliiia, Countess Dowager of Hunthigdon. 22 
 
 The God of Israel. B '.-... 35 
 
 Lines addressed to the Rev. Joshua Tinson, on 
 his leaving England to enter upon Mission- 
 ary Labors in the Island of Jamaica. By 
 the Rev. J. P. Saffery 37 
 
 Evening amongst tlie Alps. By the Author of 
 "Modem Greece." 40 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Remarks upon the Character of the late Em- 
 peror of France, Napoleon Bonaparte. . . 41 
 
 The Hindoo Widow. A Fragment. From an 
 
 unpublished Poem. H 58 
 
 Ode to Thought. Clarissa GO 
 
 ReUgion not a Hinderance to the Student. By 
 
 Rev. Irah Chase 64 
 
 "WUt tliou be there?" T. W.H 71 
 
 Lines written on a Drawing of Mount Vernon, 
 the Seat of General Washington. B}^ the 
 Rev. William Jay, of Bath 72 
 
 " The effectual fervent Prayer of a righteous 
 Manavaileth much." By the Rev. John 
 Harris 73 
 
 Lines wiitten by the Rev. William Jay, of Bath, 
 on a Visit to his native Village (Tisbury), in 
 August, 1800 89 
 
 The Christian. T. W. H 87 
 
 Lines composed by the Rev. Dr. Ryland, the Day 
 . before his Death, April, 1825 88 
 
 The Spread of the Gospel. By the Rev. S. P. 
 
 Hill 90 
 
 A Year of Life. By the Rev. John Newton 
 Bro^vn ^-8 
 
CONTENTS. VU 
 
 Page. 
 The Resurrection Hope. At the Grave of a 
 
 Friend. T. W. H 101 
 
 The Convict's Friend 102 
 
 The Baptism. By Mrs. Sigouniey 127 
 
 The Triumph of Jesus. By the Rev. J. Lawson, 
 
 Missionary, Calcutta 131 
 
 Pagoda at Rangoon. By the Rev. James D. 
 
 Knowles 133 
 
 To the Eye. By the Author of "Modem 
 
 Greece." 138 
 
 The Remonstrance. By Miss Anne Taylor. . 140 
 
 The new Heavens and the new Earth. J. O. C. 148 
 
 The Bard. T. H. W 153 
 
 A Prayer. By the Rev. George W. Bethune. 155 
 
 The exceeding Sinfulness of Sin exhibited in 
 the Gospel of Christ. By the Rev. William 
 
 Hamilton 157 
 
 A Lament for Ellen. By Mrs. M'Cartee. ... 162 
 
 Metastasio. Sprezza II Fudor Del Vento. . . 164 
 
 Ministerial Education. By B. B. Edwards. , 165 
 
 The Morning Star. By the late Rev. James 
 
 Eastburn 176 
 
Vlil CONTENTS. 
 
 Tago. 
 
 Hints on Literary Habits. By the Rev. Jaines 
 
 D. Knowles ^ 179 
 
 Home. By WilUam R. Williams, Esq 196 
 
 Foster's Lecture. Notes of a Lectm-e by the 
 
 Rev. John Foster 200 
 
 The Invalid. By Miss Isabel Ann Drysdale. . 211 
 
 The Death of Howard, the Philanthropist. 
 
 J. W— n 221 
 
 Illustration of John xiv. 8, 9. By the Rev. 
 Jeremiah Chaplin, D. D., President of 
 Waterville College 223 
 
 The Jewish Captive. W. V 225 
 
 The Dying Wanior. By the Rev. Robert 
 
 M'Cartee, D. D 228 
 
 The Sabbath Day. T. W. H 230 
 
1 • •»»»,» 
 
 ''CHARITY BEARETH ALL THINGS." 
 
 St. Paul 
 by 3irs. sigour>'ey. 
 
 The Lion loves Ms own. — The desert sands, 
 High tossed beneath his spurnmg foot, attest 
 The rage of his bereavement. With hoarse cries, 
 Vindictive, echoing round the rocky shores, 
 The polar bear her slauglitered cub bewails ; 
 While with a softer plaint, where verdant groves 
 Responsive quiver to the evemng breeze. 
 The mother-bird deplores her ravaged nest. 
 
 Tfic Savage loves his own. — His Vviud-rocked babe, 
 That, rudely cradled 'mid the fragrant boughs, 
 Or on its toiling mother's shoulders bound, 
 Shiinks not from sun or ram, — his hoaiy sire. 
 And hunting-spear, and forest spoils, are dear. 
 
 The Pagan loves his own. — The faithful friend 
 Who by his side the stormy battle dares. 
 The chieftain at whose nod his life-blood flows. 
 His simple hut, and native earth, are dear. 
 
 The Christian loves his own. — But is his God 
 Content with this, who, full of bounty, pours 
 His sun-ray on the evil and the good. 
 And, like a parent, gathereth round his board 
 The thankless with the just.^ 
 1 
 
2 , T;i?I' CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 ' /, Shall man, who shares 
 
 "."'Vh iinrequit'a^Tjair^uet, sternly bar 
 From his heart's brotherhood a fellow-guest ? 
 Shall he within his bosom sternly liide 
 Retahation's poison, when the smile 
 Of Heaven doth wm hhn to the deeds of love ? 
 Speak, servants of that Blessed One who gave 
 The glorious precept, " Love your enemies ;" — 
 Is it enough that ye should love your friends, 
 Even as the heathen do ? — Is He, who bore 
 The flight of friendship, the denial-vow 
 Of coward love, the Pharisaic taunt, 
 Judea's maddened scourge, the Roman spear, 
 A world's offences, and the pang of death, — 
 Is He your Master, if ye only walk 
 As Nature prompts ? — If the love-beaming eye 
 Druik fond return reciprocal, the hp 
 That pours your praise partake your sympathy 
 When sorrow blanches it, the liberal hand 
 Wm by its gifts your meed of gratitude, — 
 What do ye more than others ? But on him 
 Whose frown of settled hatred mars your rest, 
 W^lio to the bosom of your fame doth strike 
 A serpent-sting, your kindest deeds requite 
 V/ith treachery, and o'er your motives cast 
 The mist of prejudice, — say, can you look 
 With the meek smile of patient tenderness. 
 And from the deep pavilion of your soul 
 Send up the prayer of blessing? 
 
CHARITY. 
 
 God of Strength ! 
 Be merciful ; and, when we duly kneel 
 Beside our pillow of repose, and say, 
 »• Forgive us, Father, even as we forgive,''^ 
 Grant that the murmured orison seal not 
 Our condemnation. 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON A PRINT OF SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 
 
 BY WILLIAM R. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 His mind was like the starry skies he read, 
 Bright, vast, and cahn, and fathomless : the dreams 
 Of ancient days, that men had worshipped long 
 As glorious forms of truth, to it were clouds 
 That gorgeous floated by, nor found a home 
 Nor left a stain m all that vault of hght. 
 His country, proud her laurelled sons amid, 
 Him hails with mighty Bacon, and with Locke 
 Keen-eyed, her chiefs ^vith mental empire girt. 
 And throned in deathless fame. With kmdliug eye, 
 She turns to other ages, and to climes 
 Remote, and flings the gauntlet of his fame 
 To all, " From those who on Euphrates' bank, 
 Or by far Ganges counted first the stars, 
 To Galileo, Kepler and Des Cartes ; 
 Who can with peerless Ne^vton vie ?" 
 
 The babe 
 That died but yesternight, ere yet its lips 
 Had framed a word, or it had learned to know 
 
SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 
 
 The mother, on whose breast, all helpless hung, 
 It feebly wailing gasped away its Ufe, 
 Shall \-ie \^dth England's sage, and prove his peer ; 
 For it has learnt, as with a moment's glance. 
 More than the mortal Ne^\lon knew, and now 
 At all the scanty lore of earth it smiles ! 
 1* 
 
A CHURCH IN THE BACKWOODS. 
 
 BY MISS ISABEL ANN DRTSDALE. 
 
 Many years ago, dui-ing a rambling excursion 
 through the interior of Georgia and Carohna, 1 
 remember stopping late, one Saturday evening, at 
 a shabby little iim, in one of the most remote and 
 recently settled districts. All around was wild, and 
 rude, and imperfect, proclaiming, at every step, the 
 new sdtlement. At that time, I was utterly devoid 
 of religious feehng : still I was decorous in my con- 
 duct, and was regarded as " a good kind of a man." 
 At home, on the Sabbath morning, duly as the town 
 clock struck nine, the door of my counting-room 
 was closed, the leger abandoned, with all its 
 perplexities, and home I hastened to make the 
 customary preparations for appearing in " the great 
 congregation." Let none of my readers misunder- 
 stand me : this preparation had no connection with 
 the regulation of my thoughts and affections, — 
 no heavenl}^ meditation, introductory to my au- 
 dience with the King of kings. It was simply the 
 changing of my every day drab coat for a superfine 
 surtout, or smoothing into more than ordmary sleek- 
 ness my Sunday beaver. Yet, strange to say, from 
 
A CHURCH IX THE BACKWOODS. 7 
 
 this most gross and worldly-minded conformity, I 
 derived a vast fund of internal complacency and 
 self-security, and, contemplating the bolder offender, 
 I was often ready to say, " God, I thank thee that I 
 am not as this man." And, thus placed under the 
 incessant influence of religious truth, my heart at 
 last became like a pohshed stone, worn harder by 
 constant, but ineffectual attrition. 
 
 Such bemg my habits, I Avas obviously a " church- 
 going" man, and before I retired at night, I learned 
 with gi-eat satisfaction, that, " the best meeting-house 
 in the settlement" was only a few miles distant. 
 Accordingly, the next morning, I set forth rather 
 earher than the appointed hour, and, foUo^Aing one 
 of the almost innumerable paths, which, winding 
 from every direction, converged towards a certain 
 pomt, I found myself, after a short ride, enteiing the 
 grove in which I expected to find the church. Nor 
 was it long before it appeared, in the midst of a 
 v^-ide clearing, but certainly veiy unhke the concep- 
 tion I had formed of it in my oa\ti mind. Assuredly 
 I had not expected to find in this church of the 
 backwoods, an edifice of stone, or brick, or even 
 of well-painted wood, with tall steeple and gilded 
 vane, such as I was famihar with in cities; but 
 some vague notion I had of rustic simplicity and 
 beauty, and when I beheld an uncouth-looking loff 
 building, its unhewn timbei-s still cased hi their 
 original sylvan envelope of shaggj- bark, I acknowl- 
 edge, that the little temple of the woods scarcely 
 
8 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 received from me that respect which I had been 
 accustomed to accord to every house of God. 
 
 In the open space before the church, seated on 
 the grass, and dispersed through the neighboring 
 woods, I found its humble congregation ; and, 
 learning that the minister had not arrived, I strayed 
 onward into the green shades surrounding us. 
 Here I was soon constrained to confess, that, though 
 the church of the "new settlement" had disappoint- 
 ed my expectations, it certainly enjoyed the most 
 lovely and picturesque situation I had ever beheld. 
 From the deep, black loam, shot up a giant forest 
 groAVth, whose broad, umbrageous branches spread 
 around an almost unbroken continuity of shade : no 
 confused under-brush obstructed the view ; all was 
 clear and free, and long vistas opened on every side, 
 between the massy columns of mighty oaks, syca- 
 mores, and magnolias. Beneath the whole was 
 spread a close-cropped gi*een, richly sprinkled with 
 the crmison leaves of the gum-tree, and the bright, 
 yellow foHage of the sassafras, for it was late in 
 September, and every passing breeze showered the 
 earth Avith these brilliant, but transient honors of the 
 autumnal gi'ove. 
 
 On my return to the church, I found that the 
 minister had amved : the congregation were crowd- 
 ing into the church, and it was with some difficulty 
 that I procured a seat. I had a few minutes to 
 reconnoitre my situation, in the midst of a plain, 
 homespun-clad people, whose expectant looks and 
 
 ^- 
 
A CHURCH IN THE BACKWOODS. 9 
 
 earnest attention I mentally contrasted with the 
 stiff, artificial propriety of a city congregation. But 
 my speculations were suddenly interrupted by the 
 appearance of the mmister himself, slowly rising in 
 the httle stand which served for a pulpit. He wore 
 the common garb of the country, and his face, deeply 
 bronzed by exposure, showed that he shared its 
 common lal)or. But the thin, white locks, which 
 grew around his sunken temples, and a sweet 
 seriousness in liis whole look, redeemed his counte- 
 nance from any thing like coarseness or vulgarity 
 of expression. I could not help looking reverently 
 on the old man, maugre all my city prejudices 
 against a coarse coat and clergy out of Hack ; and 
 when he began to read, in a voice which was full of 
 natural music, though evidently untrained to the 
 elegances of the art, I listened with pleased attention, 
 deeply touched by the profound solemnity and 
 pathos with which he recited the following lines 
 from Watts : — 
 
 God of my childhood and my youth, 
 
 The Guide of all my days, 
 I have declared thy heavenly truth, 
 
 And told thy wondrous ways. 
 
 Wilt thou forsake my hoary hairs, 
 
 And leave my fainting heart ? 
 Who shall sustain my sinking' j'ears. 
 
 If God, my strength, depart ? 
 
 The fire of devotion, which Idndled in his languid 
 eye at the commencement, was quickly quenched 
 
10 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 ill a glistening tear, and the strong quiver of emotion 
 rendered liis voice nearly inaudible in the last verse. 
 My heart was considerably softened by this introduc- 
 tion, and the avenues of feeling, long sealed by in- 
 veterate worldliness, were gently opened to the 
 holy influences which flowed from the following 
 services. 
 
 The humble pastor of the backwoods was an 
 unlettered man ; his " Bible true" was his only 
 book ; but from that pure fountain, he had drunk 
 deeply of holy wisdom and divine philosophy ; and 
 to his thoughtful, observant eye, the rich volume of 
 nature presented an aflfecting and harmonious 
 commentary. There was not a rural landscape, a 
 changing season, or varying hour, not a home- 
 scene in life, which he could not find clearly re- 
 flected in the mirror of inspiration : the finger of 
 God had painted both, and he loved the venerable 
 impress. This it was, this beautiful appropriation 
 of scriptural imagery, which constituted the pecuhar 
 charm of his preacliing, giving an ever- varying fresh- 
 ness to his thoughts, and tinging them, as it were, 
 with the hues of heaven. He was an unlettered 
 man, and he meekly contented himself Avith the 
 beaten track of experience, avoiding those heights 
 and depths of doctrine, which require the strong 
 pinion of a trained and disciplined mind. He 
 talked of the bitterness of sin, which he had felt, 
 of the love and goodness of Christ, which he had 
 tasted ; and when he spoke of a faithful God, liis 
 
A CHURCH IN THE BACKWOODS. 11 
 
 hand mstinctively rose to his own gray locks, as 
 an affecting testimonial. There was so much of 
 the powerful interest of reality in all this, that as he 
 painted, with glowing fervor, the future glories of the 
 redeemed, I looked on the coarse sleeve on his ex- 
 tended arm, and almost thought that I saw it already 
 transmuted into the ethereal garment of light. 
 
 I left the church lo\dng and reverencmg its aged 
 preacher, and deeply affected by aU that I had heard, 
 A short intermission was to be followed by a second 
 sermon, and I lingered near the church to hear it. 
 In the mean time, the congregation were gi-ouped 
 about, in little clusters, under the trees, strongly 
 reminduig me of those companies seated on the 
 grass, into which the pitying Redeemer arranged 
 the fainting multitude in the wilderness. From one 
 of these gi-oups I saw the venerable minister ad- 
 vancing towards me ; he accosted me with hearty 
 kindness, and invited me to a seat under his tree, 
 and a share of his httle refreshments, \A\h. a sim- 
 plicity' and frank courtesy which reminded me of 
 patriarchal hospitality. During this hasty repast, I 
 made some progress in his acquaintance, and 
 received from him an invitation for the night, to 
 which I gladly assented. 
 
 It was late before the congregation dispersed, and 
 the beams of the setting sun hghted them home, 
 some on foot, and others on horses, in carts and in 
 carnages. AVe listened for some time to the mingled 
 hum of voices as they receded from us, and occa- 
 
12 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERIXG. 
 
 sioiially a distant strain of sacred music floated 
 sweetly by us, the holy vesper of the closing 
 Sabbath. 
 
 I led my horse, and wall<:ed by the side of the 
 man of God, whose firm step and rapid pace, as ho 
 tlireaded the forest by a httle winding foot-path, 
 bespoke a green and vigorous old age. The dusky 
 shades of twilight enveloped every object before we 
 discovered a httle hght, shining like a twinliling star 
 at a distance. 
 
 " That is my light," said the old man, mending his 
 pace as if animated by the sight ; and we pursued 
 its " long levelled rule," until led by it to the door 
 of a common log cabin. 
 
 I felt pained and confused as we entered thia 
 humble dwelUng, fearing that this exposure of his 
 poverty might wound the feelings of my new friend. 
 But his frank, unembai-rassed mamier soon reheved 
 my uneasiness, and I took the oaken chau*, which 
 lie presented, with pleasure and alacrity. 
 
 Our supper was soon served, sweetened by peace 
 and heart-felt good- will ; it was clean and abundant, 
 but very homely : indeed, every thing that I saw 
 informed me that I was under a poor man's roof. 
 
 Anxious to do him all the honor in my power, 1 
 ventured something hke a compliment on the dis- 
 courses I had heard through the day. He smiled, 
 and said that he was much obhged by the atten- 
 tion with which I had hstened ; he was sure I must 
 be accustomed to very different j)reaching. I 
 
A CHURCH IN THE BACKWOODS. 13 
 
 warmly disclaimed this fact, and was proceeding in 
 a still more complimentaiy strain, when he modestly, 
 but with dignity, waved the sulyect. " You are very 
 kind, sir," he said, " veiy kind ; I see your motive, 
 and am bound to be thankful for it. Indeed, I hope 
 I am not so unmindful of the dignity of the message 
 which I bear, as to forget its claims, even when 
 dehvered by a poor and ignorant man, like myself. 
 God speaks in the rough, hoarse east wind, as Avell 
 as in the soft breezes of spring. He is the God of 
 battles for Israel, whether he conquers by the pebble 
 of the brook, or the pohshed shaft from the armory 
 of kings." 
 
 In the course of the evening, I drew from my 
 host a little histoiy of himself, deUvered, as nearly 
 as I can remember, in the following words. 
 
 "I have veiy litde story to tell. I am a poor 
 man myself, and was a poor man's son. When I 
 was a tall lad, about the age of my eldest son, who 
 sits next to you at table, my father trusted me with 
 his httle crop to carry to market. A more foolish 
 and careless youth than I was at that time you can 
 scarcely conceive : I had hardly more thought than 
 the beasts by whose side I trudged whistling along. 
 My w^hole ambition was to possess a horse and gun 
 of my o^vn, and I asked no higher honor than 
 being caUed the best marksman and racer in our 
 settlement. 
 
 " was the first to^vn I had ever seen, and, 
 
 after putting up my cotton as my father had di- 
 2 
 
14 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 reeled (for it was Sunday), I walked from street 
 to street, gaping about me, and stopping, every 
 minute, to admire some strange sight. Suddenly I 
 was startled by the loud, solemn tones of a church 
 bell, close above me. I had never heard any thing 
 Uke it before, and the curioshy and dehght, which 
 I expressed with the utmost simj)licity, so amused 
 and pleased a gentleman who was passing at the 
 moment, that he offered to take me to the place 
 whence the sound came. He accordingly carried 
 me with" him to church ; but I suspect that he was 
 rather ashamed of my clownish appearance, for he 
 stowed me away in a galleiy pew, and left me 
 immediately. 
 
 "At first I did nothing but gaze at the highly 
 di'essed congregation, and the beautiful ornaments 
 of the church ; but at last the minister attracted my 
 attention, and I think it never wandered from liim 
 again for a single minute. I suppose that he was a 
 very popular preacher, for the church was greatly 
 thronged ; j^et there was a meek humility in his man- 
 ner, which looked as if his wonted place was at 
 Jesus' feet. He had an elegance and refinement of 
 speech and tone, which we poor rustic preachers 
 never can attain ; but in him it was evidently natural : 
 there was nothing hke vanity or thsplay about him ; 
 he seemed to think only of winning souls to Christ. 
 
 " I listened to him with eager attention ; it seemed 
 as if a thick shroud was gradually withdra-wii from 
 my mind, and new and most overpowering light 
 
A CHURCH IN THE BACKWOODS. 15 
 
 poured in upon it. At first, indeed, it was only 
 a faint glimmering breaking through the darkness ; 
 but gradually I saw more clearly, and I left that 
 house a changed creature. I cared no more for 
 the novelties by which I was sm-rounded, — God, 
 God was in all my thoughts, — and, shrinking away 
 from every living creature, m the stillness of retire- 
 ment, I looked inward and upward, into the secrets 
 of tvvo strange worlds, hitherto unknown to me. 
 
 "I returned home an altered man. My father 
 often asked what made me so do%\-n-hearted. He 
 missed my merry whistle at the plough, my bois- 
 terous glee in the harvest. But the secret was soon 
 read: an old one-covered Bible of my mother's, 
 which had long been preserved, as the decent orna- 
 mi^nt of our parlor shelf, was now my constant 
 companion ; and, a poor, unlettered peasant boy, I 
 would spell over its blessed lessons by oiu* evening 
 torch, and chve mto those affecting mysteries, in 
 which the Avay-faruag man, though a fool, shall not 
 
 eiT. 
 
 "At first, I had many a bitter gibe and surly 
 reproof from my father ; but I bore it all patiently, 
 and God rewarded me— God abundantly rewarded 
 me I" (he exclaimed, vnth sudden animation, a bright 
 glow sufiTusing his tanned and wrinkled coimte- 
 nance) " for he gave me my father's soul, as the fruit 
 of my endurance ; and m this wide world, there is 
 no spot so dear to my heart as the aged pme, under 
 
16 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 whose shade my father fell on my neck, and wept 
 his first tears of contrition. 
 
 " Gradually I began to be noticed as a serious 
 young man : on Sundays the people encouraged me 
 to speak to them upon rehgious subjects, and it was 
 not many years before I became a preacher without 
 knowing it myself. Ah, sir, how earnesdy I longed 
 then for the advantages of education ! The minister 
 
 whom I had heard in haunted my thoughts, 
 
 night and day ; and hard I toiled in sun and snow, 
 strauiing my young sinews in vain efforts to amass a 
 httle treasure for this pui-pose, hoping that I might at 
 last learn hke him to deUver my Master's message. 
 That was not the day of rehgious enterprise and 
 rehgious seminaries. Our pious youth pined m ob- 
 scurity, and passed away unknown to the generation 
 among whom they might have hved as burning and 
 shining hghts. It is too late for me; but I rejoice, I 
 magnify the goodness of God for the rising pros- 
 perity of Zion, for the schools of the prophets 
 growing up in the land." 
 
 By this time, I felt so familiar with my host, that 1 
 ventured a few questions on his condition as to 
 temporal things, which seemed to me so every way 
 unworthy of his deserts. Upon this subject he was 
 rather reserved : he said, however, that he had had 
 some hard struggles in his tune ; but, checldng liim- 
 self, he added, " I bless God, I have never known 
 the wo of a houseless head, or famishing family: 
 
A CHURCH I>J THE BACKWOODS. 17 
 
 my bread and my ivater have been sure^ and this is all 
 that I have a right to claim." 
 
 JMy feehiigs were gi'eatly excited, and I spoke 
 warnily of the duty of his church to provide for 
 hhn in a more suitable manner. A deep blush 
 crossed the old man's face, and he said, " Our strength 
 is not ' the strength of stones, nor our flesh brass,' 
 yet our brethren think so, and jealously grant our 
 most modest requisitions ; but," con-ecting himself, 
 he added meekly, " I am WTong to speak thus, and I 
 pray God to give me a contented heart. Yet some- 
 times, when I look upon my childi-en growing up hi 
 ignorance around me, I sigh, and wish that while I 
 labor for them in spiritual things, they would feed 
 me at least with the crumbs which fall from their 
 tables ; for, oh ! how small a mite from their abun- 
 dance, would supply all our wants ! But let me not 
 wrong my bretliren. Whenever I go among them, 
 I find the open door, and ready smile of welcome : 
 my presence makes a little holyday among them, 
 and they spread before me the best that they have ; 
 but bitter are the damties which are unshared by 
 those we love, and tasteless the enjoyments which 
 they cannot know." 
 
 Thus closed our conversation. I left the good 
 man early the next mommg, never to forget the 
 little church in the backwoods, and its venerable 
 minister. 
 
 2^ 
 
THE MOURNER. 
 
 Diseased — reviled — of all but life bereft, 
 
 Stretched on the cold, damp earth, the mourner lay ; 
 No friendly hand, no child's endearment left 
 
 To soothe his gi'ief, or ^^dpe his tears away; — 
 Fallen like the forest oak beneath the blast, 
 
 A mighty victim to the ruthless storm. 
 Its beauties withered, and its grandeur past, 
 
 Stripped of its every leaf, and scathed its form ; — 
 Still, still he owned the arm whose dreadful sweep. 
 
 Whose oft-repeated strokes had pierced liis soul ; 
 And in that night of wo, so long, so deep. 
 
 No word reproachful from the sufferer stole. 
 Hear him — " Though death itself these eyes may dim, 
 Dealt by his hand, yet will I trust in him." 
 
 T W. H. 
 
ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. 
 
 "BUSCAS EN ROMA A ROMA, O PEREGRINO !" 
 
 QUEVEDO. 
 
 Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim, seek'st thou Rome ? 
 
 Vain is thy search — the pomp of Rome is fled ; 
 Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb ; 
 
 Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. 
 
 That hill where Csesars dwelt in other days, 
 
 Forsaken mourns, where once it towered sublime ; 
 
 Each mouldering medal now far less displays 
 The triumphs won by Latium than by Time 
 
 Tiber alone survives: the passing wave. 
 
 That bathed her towers, now murmurs by her grave. 
 
 Wailing, with plaintive sound, her fallen fanes- 
 Rome ! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, 
 That seemed for years eternal framed to last: 
 
 Nouffht but the wave — a fuoritive — remains ! 
 
GOD IS LOVE. 
 
 While seraphim are singing 
 Thy praises, Lord, on high, 
 
 And heaven's arches ringing 
 Above the starry sky, — 
 
 On smihng vale and mountain 
 Thy mercies' dews descend, 
 
 Dravi^n from the sacred fountain, 
 Still flowing without end. 
 
 Sunbeams the earth enlighten, 
 And shades of midnight go : 
 
 Thy smiles of love thus brighten 
 Life's darkest scenes below. 
 
 Man, beast, air, earth and ocean,— 
 Beneath, around, above, — 
 
 And seasons in their motion, 
 All, all are full of love. 
 
 With " God is love" each leaflet 
 Is wi'itten o'er and o'er ; 
 
 I bless the mystic letters, 
 Inwove with heavenly lore. 
 
GOD IS LOVE. 21 
 
 But none ol these can ease us, 
 
 Our guilt and sin subdue, 
 Until the dying Jesus : 
 
 On Calvary we view. 
 
 In him, the burning centre, 
 
 These scattered beams combine ; 
 
 On thee, on thee I venture, 
 Mirror of love divine. 
 
 When saddening shades aroimd me 
 
 Are falling from above, 
 And troubled thoughts confound me, 
 
 Oh ! whisper, " God is love." 
 
 Thy love, oh ! let me taste it. 
 
 When pangs of death are nigh, 
 And keep me hke a bracelet. 
 
 Or apple of thine eye. 
 
 Soon gales divine shall fan us. 
 
 In paradise above ; 
 Oh ! then, with glad hosannas, 
 
 We'll hail the God of love. 
 
 Iota. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 ' OF THE LATE 
 
 RIGHT HONORABLE SELINA, COUNTESS DOWAGER 
 OF HUNTINGDON. 
 
 The biography of pious persons, who have devoted 
 their lives to the benefit of mankind, and to the 
 glory of God, is an acknowledged source of pleasure 
 and profit. 
 
 It is a species of wiiting possessing peculiar 
 attraction, from its delineating the quaUties and 
 actions which mark tha subject of its record. And 
 when there is the stamp of divine approbation on 
 personal character, how interesting is the biographic 
 page, and with what satisfaction do we trace the 
 object of our attention tlirough the various scenes 
 of Ufe, to the chamber of death, and even to the very 
 gate of heaven ! From the long roll of eminent 
 persons, whose hereditary honors, or mental attain- 
 ments, whose heroic deeds, or consummate skill in 
 directing the affairs of nations, might diversify the 
 extended naiTative, it is not difficult to select exam- 
 ples for the entertainment and instruction of man- 
 
FHinistone nz: 
 
 », , >,« ^ OP^ri^Sc*!::' 
 
 ' /^/^ ///^.^t^^-^-^t 
 
LADY HUXTIXGDON'S BIOGRAPHY. 23 
 
 kiiid. But to record the character of the ilkistrious 
 lady whose name stands at the head of this article, 
 is to describe piety, benevolence and zeal in the best 
 of causes, which succeedhig generations may admire 
 when warriors and statesmen are knowii no more. 
 
 Selina, Countess of Huntingdon, a descendant of 
 the house of SMrley, was the daughter of Washing- 
 ton, Earl Ferrers, and was born August 24, 1707. 
 In early life, when only nine years old, seeing the 
 corpse of a child about her own age earned by to 
 the grave, she was led to attend the funeral. There 
 she received the first impressions of deep concern 
 respecting an eternal world ; and with many tears 
 she cried earnestly on the spot to God, that, when- 
 ever he should be pleased to call her hence, he 
 would dehver her from all her fears, and give her a 
 happy departure. 
 
 She frequently after visited the grave, and always 
 retained a lively sense of the affecting scene. 
 Though no ^^ews of evangehcal truth had hitherto 
 opened on her mind, yet, even in her juvenile days, 
 she often retired to her closet, and, in all her httle 
 troubles, found relief in pouring out her requests 
 unto God. 
 
 When she grew up, and w^as introduced into the 
 world, she constantly prayed that she might marry 
 into a serious family. No branch of the peerage 
 maintained more of the ancient dignit\^ of English 
 nobihty, or was more amiable in a moral point of 
 view, tlian the house of Himtingdon, which, as well 
 
24 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 as the house of Shirley, bore the royal arms of 
 England, as d^'scendants from her ancient mon- 
 archs. 
 
 With the head of that family, Theophilus, Earl of 
 Huntingdon, she became united on tlie third of 
 June, 1728. 
 
 In this high estate, she maintained a deportment 
 pecuharly serious. Though sometimes at court, 
 and visiting in the highest circles, she took no 
 pleasure in the fashionable folhes of the great. And 
 when in the country, she dehghted to scatter her 
 bounty among her neighbors and dependants, with a 
 hberal hand, endeavoring by prayer, and fasting, and 
 alms-deeds, to commend herself to the favor of 
 the Most High, and to establish her own righteous- 
 ness before liim. Lady Betty and Lady Margaret 
 Hastings, Lord Huntingdon's sisters, were women 
 of singular excellence. Lady Margaret was brought 
 to the saving knowledge of the gospel under the 
 preaching of the zealous Methodists of that time. 
 
 Conversing one day Vvith Lady Margaret, on the 
 subject of religion. Lady Huntingdon was very 
 much struck with one expression which she uttered, 
 — that "since she had known the Lord Jesus 
 Christ, and believed in him for life and salvation, she 
 had been as happy as an angel." To happiness like 
 this, arising from the favor of God, Lady Hunting- 
 don felt that she was as yet a total stranger. Soon 
 after this circumstance, a dangerous illness brought 
 her to the brink of the grave : the fear of death ex- 
 
LADY IIUXTIXGDOX'S BIOGRAPHY. 25 
 
 cited terrors in her niiud, and her conscience was 
 greatly distressed. 
 
 Under these affectmg circumstances, the words of 
 Lady 3Iargaret forcibly recurred to her recollection, 
 and she felt an earnest deske to cast herself wholly 
 upon Christ for salvation, with a determuiation to 
 renounce eveiy other hope. She mstantly hfted up 
 her heart to Jesus the Saviour in importunate 
 prayer ; her distress and fear were speechly removed, 
 and she was filled A\dth joy and peace in belie vmg. 
 
 Her disorder soon took a favorable turn, and she 
 was not only restored to perfect health, but, what was 
 uifinitely better, she was raised to newness of life. 
 From that period, she determined to offer herself to 
 God, as "a hving sacrifice, holy and acceptaljle," 
 which, she was now convinced, was her " reasonable 
 sen-ice." The change which divine grace thus 
 wrought in her was soon observed by all around, in 
 the open confession Avhich she made of the faith 
 once delivered to the saints, and by the zealous 
 support which she began to give to the cause of 
 God, amidst all the reproach %vith which it was 
 attended. She had set her face as a flint, and Avas 
 not ashamed of Christ or his cross. 
 
 There were not Vv-anting some who, mider tlie 
 guise of friendship, wislied Lord Huntingdon to 
 mterpose his authority ; but, although he differed 
 from her ladyship in his views of religion, he con- 
 tinued to manifest the same affection and respect. 
 3 
 
26 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Some of tlie dignitaries of the cliiircli wore not so 
 candid and liberal as his lordship, as appears from 
 the following authentic anecdote. Lady Huntingdon, 
 one day, in conversation with Dr. Benson, bishop of 
 Gloucester (who had been the tutor of Lord 
 Huntingdon, and had ordained Mr. Whitefield), 
 pressed him so hard with the articles and homiUes, 
 and so plainly and faithfully urged upon him the 
 awful responsibilities of his station, that his temper 
 was ruffled, and he rose in haste to depart, bitterly 
 lamenting that he ever had laid hands on George 
 Whitefield, to whom he imputed, though without 
 cause, the change produced in her ladyship. 
 
 " My lord," said she, calling him back, " mark my 
 words : when you come upon your dying bed, that 
 will be one of the few ordinations you will reflect 
 upon with complacence." It deserves remark, that 
 Bishop Benson, when near death, sent ten guineas 
 to Mr. Whitefield, as a token of his regard, and 
 begged to be remembered by him in his prayers. 
 It is gi'eatly to be regretted, that the splendid talents 
 of Dr. Southey, which might have served his genera- 
 tion to so much better purpose, should be prostituted 
 to the work of sarcasm, ridicule and contempt. 
 These he has unblushingly heaped upon the coun- 
 tess. In his Life of Wesley, he insinuates that her 
 religion originated "in a decided insanity in her 
 family ;" and tells us truly, that all the arguments of 
 Bishop Benson " were ineffectual to bring her to a 
 
LADY HUNTINGDON'S BIOGRAPHY. 27 
 
 saner sense of devotion." He thus relates the first 
 part of the anecdote, but has omitted the latter part, 
 whether from ignorance or design must be left for 
 him to determine. 
 
 Lady Huntingdon's heart was now truly devoted 
 to Grod, and she resolved that she would lay herself 
 out to do good to the utmost of her ability. The 
 poor around her were the natural objects of her 
 attention. These she bountifully reheved in their 
 necessities, visited in sickness, conversed Avith, and 
 led them to the throne of grace, praying with them 
 and for them. The Prince of Wales once asked 
 Lady Charlotte E. where Lady Huntingdon was, 
 tliat she so seldom visited the court. Lady Charlotte 
 rephed contemptuously, "I suppose praying with 
 her beggars." The prince shook his head, and 
 said, " Lady Charlotte, when I am dying, I think I 
 shall be happy to seize the skut of Lady Hunting- 
 don's mantle." 
 
 During Lord Huntingdon's hfe, his coimtess 
 warmly espoused the cause of God and ti'uth, 
 though her means of usefulness were necessarily 
 circumscribed, and her family engagements occupied 
 much of her time and attention. On his demise, he 
 left her the entire management of her children and 
 of their fortunes, which she improved for their 
 advantage with the strictest fidehty. Having become 
 her own mistress, she resolved to devote herself 
 wholly to the service of Christ and his church. Her 
 zealous heart embraced with cordialitv all whom she 
 
28 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 esteemed real Christians, whatever their denomina- 
 tional sentiments might be ; but her o^vn opinions 
 were m imison with those ministers who were 
 Calvinistic, according to the evident and hteral 
 sense of the church of England. 
 
 With an intention of givmg these good men a 
 greater scene of usefulness, she opened her house in 
 Park street, London, for the preaching of the gospel, 
 supposing that as a peeress of the realm, she had an 
 indisputable right to employ, as her family chajjlains, 
 those ministers whom she preferred. 
 
 On week-days, her spacious kitchen was filled 
 with the poor of the flock, for whom she provided 
 instruction ; and, on the Lord's day, the gi'eat and 
 noble were invited to spend the evening in her 
 drawing-room, where the Rev. Messrs. Whitefield, 
 Romaine, Jones, and other able ministers of Christ, 
 were heard "with deep and serious attention. The 
 illness of her youngest son, which proved fatal, had 
 led her ladyship to Brighton, for the sake of sea- 
 batlimg. There her active spirit produced some 
 awakening among the people ; for it was her practice 
 to visi<^ the habitations of the poor, and to converse 
 with them respecting the concerns of their souls. 
 Encouraged by these attempts to promote the spirit- 
 ual benefit of others, and by the happy effects of the 
 preaching of the Rev. George Wliitefield in that 
 town. Lady Huntingdon was induced, in the year 
 1761, to erect a place of worship in North street, 
 Brighton. The expense of this edifice she defrayed 
 
LADY HUNTENGDOX'S BIOGRAPHY. 29 
 
 in pait by the sale of her jewels (diamonds and 
 pearlri), to the amount of sLx himdred and ninety- 
 eight pounds fifteen shillings ! 
 
 Exalted soul, that thus could'st treat 
 
 The toys thy sex esteem so high ! 
 Thou, when God's jewels are complete, 
 Shalt shine a diamond in the sky. 
 
 The success attending tliis fii-st efi:oit encouraged 
 her to proceed, and, in a few years, several other 
 towns received the gospel by her means. 
 
 In selectuig preachers for the supply of her 
 chapels, Lady Huntingdon at first confined herself 
 to the ministers of the estabUshed church, many of 
 whom accepted her invitation, and labored in the 
 places which she had opened. But, her zeal 
 enlarging with her success, and many persons in 
 diflTerent parts of tlie kingdom sohciting her assist- 
 ance, she set up the standai'd of the gospel, and 
 purchased, built, or hired, large and commodious 
 chapels for the performance of divine sen^ice in the 
 prmcipal towns and cities. As these multiplied m 
 England, Ireland, and Wales, the ministers who had 
 before labored for her ladyship were now in- 
 sufficient for the task. 
 
 In order, therefore, to provide more fully for the 
 work, she retu'ed into Wales, where she founded a 
 college in the i)arish of Talgarth, Brecknockshire, 
 which was publicly opened by the Rev. George 
 Whitefield, August 24, 1768, being the anniversary 
 8* 
 
30 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 of her ladyship's birth. The college was provided 
 with al)lc teachers, aiid soon filled with students ; 
 and from thence were sent forth the requisite 
 supplies for the numerous congi-egations under her 
 patronage. Their muiistiy was greatly blessed, 
 and the accounts of their success animated her to 
 still further exertions. Her correspondence with 
 them, in order to regulate and provide a constant 
 supply, was a labor to which her active spirit alone 
 was equal. 
 
 Though Lady Huntingdon devoted the whole of 
 her income to the gospel, yet it is not a httle sur- 
 prismg how it sufficed for the lieaxj expencUture 
 wliich she necessarily incurred. 
 
 Her jointure was no more than tsvelve hundred 
 pounds a year ; nor was it till after the death of her 
 son, a fcAV years precedmg her outi, that she had 
 the addition of another thousand. She often in- 
 volved herself in expenses for building chapels, 
 which she found it burdensome to discharge ; but 
 Divme Pro\idence always brought her through her 
 engagements with honor, and provided a supply 
 when her o^vn purse was exhausted. A gentleman 
 who assisted her in the management of Spa Fields' 
 chapel, called one day at her house, to expostulate 
 with her on the imprudence of entering into engage- 
 ments for another chapel in the metropolis, ex-press- 
 ing his fears that her means would not allow her to 
 fulfil them. Before he left the house, her letters 
 aiTived. As she opened one, her countenance 
 
LADY HUXTIXGDOX'S BIOGRAPHY. 31 
 
 brightened, and her tears began to flow. The 
 letter was as follows: "An individual who has 
 heard of Lady Huntingdon's exertions to spread the 
 gospel, requests her acceptance of the enclosed 
 draft, to assist her m the laudable undertaking." 
 The draft was for £500, the exact sum for wliich 
 she stood engaged. "Here," said she, "take it — 
 pay for the chapel — be no longer faithless, but 
 beheving." 
 
 Lady Huntingdon's person, endowments, and 
 spirit, were all uncommon. She was rather above 
 the middle size ; her presence noble, and command- 
 ing respect; her address singularly engaging; her 
 mind acute, and formed for business ; her cUhgence 
 indefatigable ; and the constant labors of her con-e- 
 spondence is hardly to be conceived. During forty- 
 five years of widowhood, she devoted her time, 
 talents, and property, to the support and chfFusion of 
 tlie gospel. To the age of fourscore and upwards, 
 she maintained all the vigor of youth ; and though, 
 in her latter years, a contraction of her throat 
 reduced her ahnost wholly to a hquid diet, her 
 sphits never seemed to fail. To the very last days 
 of her Ufe, her active mind was plannmg extensive 
 schemes of usefldness for the si)read of the gospel 
 of Christ. Her most distinguished excellence was, 
 the fervent zeal which always burned in her breast, 
 to make known the glad tidings to all the dwellers 
 upon earth. This no disappointments quenched, 
 no labors slackened, no opposition discouraged, no 
 
32 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 progress of years abated: it flamed strongest in her 
 latest moments. The world has seldom seen such a 
 character. But she was not perfect — this is not the 
 lot of mortals on this side of the gi-ave. When the 
 moon walks heaven in her brightness, her shadows 
 are most visible. Lady Huntingdon was in her tem- 
 per warm and sanguine : her predilections for some, 
 and her prejudices against others, were sometimes 
 too easily adopted ; and by these she was led to form 
 conclusions not always correspondent to truth and 
 wisdom. 
 
 In the month of November, 1790, her ladyship 
 broke a blood-vessel, which was the commencement 
 of her last illness. On that occasion, being asked 
 how she did, by Lady Ann Ersldne, she replied, " I 
 am well ! all is well ! well forever ! I see, whether 
 I hve or die, wherever I turn my eyes, nothing but 
 victory." As death approached, she often repeated, 
 with great emphasis, "The coming of the Lord 
 draweth nigh ! O Lady Ann, the coming of the 
 Lord draweth nigh !" adding, " The thought fills 
 my soul with joy unspeakable." 
 
 At another time, she said, " All the little ruffles and 
 difficulties which surround me, and all the pains I 
 am exercised with, in this poor body, though many, 
 affect not the settled peace and joy of my soul." 
 To a friend who called on her a few weeks before 
 her death, she said, " I see myself, a poor worm, 
 drawing near to Jesus. What hope could I entertain, 
 if I did not know the efficacv of his blood, and turn 
 
LADY HUXTIXGDOX'S BIOGRAPHY. 3S 
 
 to this hold, as the prisoner of hope ? How httle 
 could any tiling of niiue give a moment's rest to 
 a departing soul ! so much sin and self are mixed 
 \vith the best, and that best is always so short of 
 what we owe ! 'Tis well for us that he can pity and 
 pardon ; and we have confidence that he will do so. 
 I confess, I have no hope, but that which inspired 
 the dymg malefactor at the side of my Lord ; and I 
 must be saved in the same way, as freely, as fully, 
 or not at all." A few days before her decease, she 
 said, "I cannot teU you in what light I now see 
 these words — ' If a man love me, he will keep my 
 words, and my Father will love him, and we ^^^ll 
 come unto hhn, and make our abode with him.' — 
 To have in this room such company, and to have 
 such an eternal prospect ! I see tliis subject now in 
 a hght impossible to be described. I know my 
 capacity will then be enlarged ; but I am novv' as 
 sensible of the presence of God, as I am of the 
 presence of those I have with me." 
 
 On the very day of her death, she expressed to 
 the Rev. Dr. Haweis, in the strongest manner, her 
 desire to send missionaries to Otaheite ; but, as this 
 was impossible, she m-ged Mm, with affecting and 
 powerful argimients, to do all m his power 'to 
 accomplish so desirable an object. He promised 
 her lie would; and the Christian world is not 
 ignorant of his fidehty and hberaht}^ in fulfilhng his 
 promise. She had often hi her lifetime mentioned, 
 that, from the moment that God pronounced the 
 
S4 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 pardon of her sins, she had such a desire for the 
 conversion of mankind, that she coinpared herself 
 to a ship in full sail before the wind, and that she 
 was carried on by divine influence to this glorious 
 work. Almost her last words were, " My work is 
 done ; I have notliing to do but to go to my Father." 
 Her ladysliip died at her house in Spa-Fields, June 
 17, 1791, in die 84th year of her age, and was 
 interred in the family vault at Ashby-de-Ia-Zouch, in 
 Leicestershire. Tlie mournful event was improved 
 at Spa Fields' chapel on Lord's day, July 3, by 
 the Rev. David Jones, of Llaugan, who preached 
 from Genesis 1. 24 — "And Joseph said unto liis 
 brethren, I die, and God will surely ^dsit you." 
 
 Thus termuiated a lal)orious and useful hfe, spent 
 in the seiTice of God, and for the good of mankind. 
 Many, hving and dying, blessed God for her, as 
 having been the happy instrument of bringing them 
 out of dai'kness into marvellous hglit ; and multi- 
 tudes, converted to God by the instrumentality of 
 ministers in that connexion of which she was the 
 patroness, have met her in the regions of glory, to 
 rejoice together in the presence of God and the 
 Lamb. 
 
THE GOD OF ISRAEL. 
 
 " God is known in her palaces for a Refuge." 
 
 Psalm xJviii. 3. 
 
 Why wakes that moan of deep distress 
 
 In Pharaoh's halls of state, 
 Pealing through every long recess 
 
 In accents desolate ? — 
 The monarch views his lifeless heir, 
 And trembles ; — Israel's God is there. 
 
 A sound of revelry by night 
 
 Is heard in Babel's towers, 
 Where impious freaks of wild dehght 
 
 Disturb the listening hours ; — 
 The jealousy of Judah's fear 
 Burns, and 'tis silence deep and drear. 
 
 Sublime on Sion's holy ground, 
 
 A sacred fane appears ; 
 And many a bulwark, stretched around, 
 
 Its massive front uprears ; — 
 There God is for a Refuge known. 
 And there, on all the earth, alone. 
 
36 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Commingling there with choral lays, 
 
 Sabean perfumes rise ; 
 The fi-equent victim there poitrays 
 
 That future Sacrifice 
 Whose blood for human guilt should flow, 
 And let tlie trembling culprit go. 
 
 Salem, exult ! thy God displays 
 
 His adamantine shield ; 
 Fearless thy 'habitant surveys 
 
 The widely-tented field ; — 
 The spoiler marks thee with his eye, 
 Scowls in despair, — and passes by. 
 
 £. 
 
LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE REV. JOSHUA TINSON, 
 
 ON HIS LEAVING ENGLAND TO ENTER UPON MISSIONARY 
 LABORS IN THE ISLAND OF JAMAICA. 
 
 BY THE REV. I. P. SAFFERT. 
 
 Must Friendship's ties be rent anevr ? — 
 
 Yes, we must say, Farewell, 
 To one who always round us threw 
 A soul-enchanting spell. 
 Words can't impart 
 
 Our thoughts to you ; 
 The throbbing heart, 
 The faint adieu, 
 The speaking eye, must tell. 
 
 And yet wc would not have our will ; 
 
 No ! go beyond the sea ; 
 The cause of God is dearer still, 
 And He will go with thee. 
 Like summer gales. 
 
 The breath of prayer 
 Shall swell thy sails, 
 And waft thee where 
 Our souls shall follow thee. 
 4 
 
38 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Though oft Jamaica's sickly breath 
 
 Has laid our envoys low, 
 And sealed their slumbers deep in death, 
 Yet do not fear to go ; — 
 The voice of prayer 
 For thee shall rise, 
 To keep thee there, 
 'Midst burning skies. 
 From death's destructive blow. 
 
 When to their chieftain's trophied tomb 
 
 The Grecian heroes came. 
 Undaunted Ijy his mournful doom, 
 And fired by valor's fame. 
 They there adored 
 
 Their gods, and swore 
 To sheath the sword 
 From thence no more 
 While Freedom urged her claim. 
 
 So when the hallowed graves appear 
 
 Where Rowe and Kitchen lie, 
 Then dash away the starting tear, 
 Nor heave one trembling sigh ; 
 But swear by him 
 Who ever lives. 
 You'll give to him 
 The life he gives, 
 Nor fear for hun to die ! 
 
LINES TO A MISSIONARY. 39 
 
 Yes, go, the Spirit's sword to wield ; 
 Our prayers shall guard your way, 
 Till triumphs gi-ace the bloodless field, 
 And captive souls obey. 
 Go, break their chains, 
 
 SpoU Satan's wiles. 
 Till Jesus reigns 
 O'er Western Isles, 
 And milhons own his sway ! 
 
EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " MODERN GREECE.'' 
 
 Soft skies of Italy, how, richly dressedj 
 
 Smile these \vild scenes in your purpureal glow ! 
 
 What glorious hues, reflected from the west, 
 Float o'er the dwelHngs of eternal snow ! 
 
 Yon torrent, foamhig down the granite steep, 
 Sparkles, all brilUance, in the settiug beam ; 
 
 Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, 
 
 Where pipes the goatherd by his mountain-stream. 
 
 Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, 
 That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; 
 
 From rock and torrent fade the tints away. 
 And all is wrapped in t%vilight's deep repose : 
 
 While through the pine- wood gleams the vesper star. 
 
 And roves the Alpine gale o'er sohtudes afar. 
 
REMARKS. 
 
 UPON THE CH.\EACTER OF THE LATE EMPEROR OF 
 FRANCE, NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 BY THE REV. JOH>" STYLES, D. D. 
 
 In ti*acmg the character of the ambition which 
 rendered Napoleon the scourge of the human race, 
 I shall be guided, not by any mere human estimate 
 of this most fatal and anti-social passion, but by the 
 dictates of the Holy Scriptures. The Bible reveals 
 all its objects in the hght of etemitj'. It always 
 connects earth with heaven, and man with God. 
 Thus, in the sacred page, we are enabled to perceive 
 the ti'uth of even* tiling, and to estmiate persons and 
 events, not as they appear to the short-sightedness 
 of man, but as they are m themselves ; and it not 
 unfrequently happens that. the good and the e'V'il, the 
 great and the iusignificaut, in the book of the world, 
 have their characters totally reversed in the book 
 of God. For instance, men glorify ambition. In 
 humai^ apprehension, it is only another name for 
 gi'eatness ; and, wherever it sti'ongly exists, it is 
 supposed to mark out its possessor as one of the 
 4* 
 
42 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 master-spirits of the world. It is the femd theme 
 of the historian, as he traces the progress of some 
 extermmator of his species from ohsciirity to a 
 throne: it glows and brightens in the poet's song; 
 and the loftiest intellects have fallen prostrate at its 
 Bhrine. The patriot, hero, and the warrior of free- 
 dom, are, indeed, sacred names; but, with such 
 exalted beings, war has been an enforced necessity, 
 not a voluntary choice. Their own aggrandizement 
 has never been an object, but an accident ; a means 
 to bless others, and not an ultimate pursuit to deify 
 themselves. A few such glorious individuals have, 
 at distant intervals, adorned the earth, and elevated 
 almost to di\'inity our weak and fallen nature. But 
 these are not the world's favorites. Ambition, sepa- 
 rated from love of counti-y and of kind, has been, 
 and still is, the god of its idolatry. Success, not 
 character, coimriands its homage, and he who places 
 hbnself at the summit of power is adored, though he 
 wear the moral features of the prince of darkness ; 
 but let the same bemg fall from his giddy eminence, 
 and his former worshippers become his accusei-s, 
 and denounce, forsooth, the enormity of his 
 crimes. 
 
 Ambition is essentially the same in every bosom 
 that cherishes it. But why is it only execrated in 
 the bosom of an enemy, or in him who is unfor- 
 tunate ? Human nature loves the principle, and 
 only complains of it as an evil, when it directly 
 suffers from its crimes. From our earliest infancy, 
 
CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. 43 
 
 we are accustomed to dwell Avith admiration on the 
 adventurous spirit, the daring energj', the -svondi-ous 
 exploits, of heroes and conquerors. We have heard 
 the plaudits of their own and succeeding tmies, and 
 have caught the infatuation. We despise avarice as 
 the soul of the WTetch ; but ambition is only the 
 glorious weakness of the lofty and the brave ; and, 
 till this moral delusion be banished fi*om the world, 
 till ambition is understood, loathed, and abhorred, as 
 concenti-ating in itself all that is mean, as well as all 
 that is wicked, we shall cherish in the heart of 
 society its worst and most destructive enemy. 
 
 What, then, are the elementary principles that 
 form the character of ambition, and that have been 
 so unbodied in so many accursed tyrants and san- 
 guinaiy conquerors ? The great motive which 
 always operates in the heart of the ambitious is 
 6clf-aggrandizement. He is covetous of distinction, 
 either of wealth, splendor or fame. In its lowest 
 state, ambition is incompatible with the existence 
 even of a solitary \irtue ; and, in its most exalted, 
 it is prolific of every cruiie. It originates either in 
 pride or vanity, or both ; and it is, therefore, the 
 energy of selfishness. 
 
 It cannot be happy while it has a superior to 
 degrade, or a rival to subdue. It exacts, but never 
 reciprocates. The ambitious man is without creed 
 and without law. He fears not God, and therefore 
 pays him no homage : he loves not his fellow crea- 
 tures ; therefore he never consults their interest or 
 
44 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 happiness any further than they can be rendered 
 suborchuate to his own purpose. 
 
 In short, ambition is the practical anniliilation of 
 every being, and of every claim in the universe, 
 which mterferes with its gratification. It is petty or 
 formidable, accorcUng to the intellectual character 
 and accidental condition of the individual. It is 
 the same principle which auns to supplant a village 
 demagogue and to subvert a mighty empire. Great 
 talents may for a time conceal its malignity ; and, 
 thus associated, it may command the thoughtless 
 admiration of thousands. On the other hand, a 
 wretch not two removes from idiocy or barbarism, 
 born to empire, seized with this mania, and obeying 
 its impulse with an inglorious stupidity, may excite 
 the ridicule and abhorrence of the whole world. 
 But what is the moral difference between the two ? 
 They are equally detestable, and ought to be equally 
 detested. Whether it is the brilUant tail of a comet 
 that sweeps and scathes the creation, or the dark 
 earthquake that agitates its surface with universal 
 ruin, they are both visitations of calamity. 
 
 The tiger and the hyena, though of different 
 species, are equally beasts of prey ; and the nobler 
 animal, as he is called, though less despicable, is, 
 therefore, an object of greater terror. It is mipossible 
 not to loathe the idiotic ambition of the legitimate 
 despots of Europe ; and it would fill us with just alann 
 did we not believe that the brute mass it puts in mo- 
 tion partakes of the imbecility of its masters ; or were 
 
CHARACTER OF XAPOLEOX. 45 
 
 we uot led to hope, that it wi]l, one day, hke a 
 machine ill managed, tear to atoms those who have 
 touched its springs, but who know not how to du'ect 
 its powers. But, when intellectual energy', united 
 with a deep reach of pohcy, is rendered subseni- 
 ent to despotism ; when the difference is between a 
 Bourbon and a Bonapaite, though the latter, in the 
 comparison, seems to be httle less than " archangel 
 ruined,''^ yet he is, in his nature, as much the enemy 
 of his species as the other, and far more to be 
 dreaded, on account of his superior capacity. 
 
 What crimes may not a man perpetrate, who feels 
 that, in the universe, there is none greater than him- 
 self; who is awed by no consideration of account- 
 ableness, and who identifies hmiself with destiny ! 
 This pei*suasion alone, in the mind of any mere 
 creature, would deprave lum into a demon. What, 
 then, must be its influence over a being, who, under 
 every restraint which can be unposed upon him, is 
 " prone to e\il as the sparks fly upwards ?" That 
 influence is strikingly exhibited in prophecy. Aim- 
 ing at universal empu-e, the terrible and arrogant 
 tyrant to whom it refers, is described as utterly de- 
 void of pity and humanity — '■^ the feller of the. fir- 
 trees and the cedars of Lebanon f^ not merely the 
 conqueror of monarchs and governments, but their 
 destroyer. Cruel and rapacious in all his progi-ess, 
 he razed cities to then* foimdations, shook mighty 
 kingdoms to their centre, turned the fair and fruitful 
 world into a " loildemess" and made the Aery earth to 
 
46 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 tremble ; and in order that he might maintain his con- 
 quests, and keep down the spirit of resistance which 
 tyranny never fails to provoke, " he opened not the 
 house of his prisonei's, and ruled the nations in anger, 
 and smote the people in wrath, with a continual stroked 
 What a picture is tliis of the modern conqueror ! 
 
 Of tliis extraordniary man I wish to speak with 
 the discrimination and candor of a Christian. It is 
 not with his splendid deeds or magnificent projects 
 as a sovereign, that we have now to do. Whatever 
 they were, they were solely the work and tlie dream 
 of his ambition. In the Christian view of his 
 character, therefore, they are reduced to one simple 
 principle, of which, whatever may be tlie actual re- 
 sults, the dh'ect aun and operation are, to demoralize 
 the heart m which it is cherished, and to sacrifice 
 the most sacred rights of humanity. 
 
 Were I to be guided, in formuig my estimate of 
 the late exile of St. Helena, by the common principles 
 of the world, by the principles which are equally 
 maintained and acted upon by those that reverence 
 and those that detest hun ; above all., were I to rest 
 satisfied by compaiing him with his heartless, imbe- 
 cile and vindictive contemporaries, who wanted only 
 his talents, his opportunities and resources, to render 
 them all that they affect to condemn in liim, — 
 I should ceitainl}^ pronounce Iiun to have been a 
 great man ; but, judging of him by a totally different 
 standard, and viewing him as separated from the 
 bad things and the weak things around him, — taking 
 
CHARACTER OF XAPOLEOX 
 
 47 
 
 his real and not his relative moral dmiensions, — I 
 cannot award the character of greatness to one who 
 never conceived a gi*eat and a magnificent idea that 
 was not tarnished and dmiinished by the most un- 
 disguised selfishness, and who never formed a wdsh 
 unconnected with the degi*adation and misery of 
 his species. 
 
 Napoleon Bonaparte was not, in the Christian, in 
 the noble, in the only sense of the phrase, a great 
 man. His career was wonderful, and it can never 
 be forgotten that he lived. But when the time shall 
 come that men will estmiate the distinguished of 
 then* species, not by their talents, but their virtues, 
 and when superior philanthropy and goodness shall 
 be the only passport to glory and renown, — then will 
 the names of Bonaparte, of Alexander, and Caesar, 
 be associated in one common infamy. 
 
 It may be instructive to mark the growth and 
 progi-ess of Napoleon's ambition. 
 
 I behold hmi the child of obscurity, friendless and 
 poor; unsustained by any veiy peculiar endowTnents 
 of intellect and uncommon accunuilation of knowl- 
 edge, and who, had he been bom under a quiet and 
 firmly established despotism, would never have risen 
 beyond the elevation of a general officer. He found 
 himself, in the morning of life, amidst the ele- 
 ments of a revolution the most tremendous that ever 
 changed the dynasty of kings or conti'olled the 
 destiny of nations — elements which, in their strange 
 and unnatural combinations, quickened into active 
 
48 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 energy all the dormant powers of intellect and ambi- 
 tion which were to be found in a population of 
 thirty millions. All this mighty energy was prevent- 
 ed from wasting itself in factious and internal 
 commotions by the insane interference of European 
 sovereigns and their armies. Thus were all the 
 bowers of anarchy consohdated into one stupendous 
 military cstabUshment, which disciplined the entire 
 people into soldiers, and animated them with the 
 spirit of vengeance against their royal persecutors 
 and their sanguinary slaves. 
 
 Struggling first for domestic Hberty, and after- 
 wards for national independence, France at last 
 maintamed a despotic rule over all Europe ; and it 
 was at the very crisis of her fate, that the military 
 adventurer, who was destined to raise her to such 
 disastrous gi-eatn ess, first presented himself to public 
 view. He sprung up the creature of circumstances ; 
 circumstances which, with the power they conferred, 
 stimulated the worst and most formidable passions 
 of human nature in a mind which, in point of moral 
 sentiment, Avas at least three centuries behind the 
 age in which it was suddenly called to act. A new 
 world of forces was strangely committed to the 
 hands of one who seized it ■with the avidity and the 
 spirit of a being determined to employ it for himself 
 alone ; of one who felt a perfect contempt for liis 
 whole species, and disdained to conceal it. Power 
 was his object, and he sought it by every means. 
 Unmoved by justice, humanity, the faith of treaties, 
 
CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. 49 
 
 or the execration of mankind, when power was to 
 be grasped, he defied them all, and considered the 
 possession of it more than a compensation for every 
 saci-ifice which he made to gain it. He rested his 
 strength in physical force and militan,^ pomp. 3Ioral 
 energj^ he despised. He calcidated on vice and the 
 wicked passions of mankind as his auxiharies ; but 
 he beheved not in the existence of religion and 
 virtue. He was not personally cruel, for he had a 
 lion-like courage, and was a sti-anger to fear ; yet, to 
 secure his darling power, he suffered acts to be 
 perpetrated in his name, which would have dis- 
 graced the weakest and most pusillanimous tyrant. 
 Naturally austere, he seldom discovered any of the 
 spnpathies of humanity ; and when he did, their 
 ostentatious display justified the suspicion that he 
 could not really feel them. His courage and his 
 policy wanted the sanction of a good cause. He 
 used the cant of hbert}' that he might more effectually 
 enslave the dupes he despised ; and when he talked 
 of " the glory of France," it was evident that he 
 meant her complete subjugation to his despotic MvilL 
 
 He did not often condescend to vail his designs in 
 the mask of li\'pocrisy : yet, when it was the best 
 means to effect his purpose, he was not reluctant to 
 assmne it ; and it was a matter of perfect indiffer- 
 ence whether it was the mask of religion, of chivalry, 
 of hberahty, or of science. 
 
 "When \-irtues were deemed necessarj^ to the ac- 
 comphshment of his will, their coimterfeits were 
 5 
 
50 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 always at his command, and he acted them to the 
 life. Some, who have drawn his character, have 
 exhibited him as an inexplicable paradox of good 
 and evil, and have assigned to him virtues and vices 
 totally incompatible ^vith each other, and which 
 cannot possibly exist together in the same bosom. 
 But it is not uncharitable to assume, that, in the soul 
 of ambition, the bad was real, and the good a pre- 
 tence. He that can assume any rehgion to suit a 
 present pui-pose, must be in his heart a stranger to all 
 rehgion ; lie that is habitually a calculator, can never 
 be truly romantic; he that is essentially misan- 
 thropic, — and ambition is only another name for mis- 
 anthropy, — can never be generous; and he that 
 loves despotic rule, must be the enemy of knowledge. 
 Those who knew Imn best, have declared that 
 Bonaparte was the most selfish of mankind, and that 
 whatever appeared sublime and dazzling in his 
 character was calculated and artificial. When in 
 the plenitude of his power, and before he had felt 
 reverses, he imagmed himself mvmcible, and acted 
 the god, as if he were really omnipotent. He even 
 announced the dethronement of kings before he had 
 struck a blow to humiliate them, and imagbied that 
 it was only for him to v/ill, and empires must obey 
 his nod. He boldly declared to the world that it 
 was madness, and even impiety, to resist him. Yet 
 might the most supei-ficial observer have perceived, 
 that, in the enormity of his power, there was nothing 
 inherent, ilgtUing permanent. He had made it a 
 
CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. 53 
 
 despotism ; he had separated the interests and liber- 
 ties of the people from tlie government, and the 
 immense materials which he had moulded for con- 
 quest were held in his single gi-asp. His whole 
 system, if system it might be called, proceeded upon 
 the fatal prmciple that the many are made for one. 
 Whatever benefits he conferred upon France, with 
 whatever spoils he enriched her capital, and what- 
 ever splendor he connected 'svitli her name, it 
 was not for her, but for hmi. His spirit was that 
 of the haughty monarch who exclaimed, "is not 
 this great Babylon ivMch I have huiltV If by 
 his rule the French nation acquired energy, it lost 
 repose ; if it rose to military glory, that glory was 
 purchased by the sacrifice of every social tie and 
 domestic joy. Every private dwelling was a milita- 
 ry school, and the whole countiy displayed the gor- 
 geousness and parade of a camp. It was necessary 
 that a nation of soldiers should constantly labor in 
 their vocation, both for the sake of keeping up their 
 discipline, givmg them emplojanent, and furnishing 
 them ■\vith support. 
 
 They were therefore conducted by their rapacious 
 chief to the territories of sun-ounding states, and 
 derived thek subsistence from the plunder of unof- 
 fending nations. In order to maijitain the momen- 
 tmn necessaiy for permanent conquest, all Europe 
 was laid under contributions to France, and her 
 very name, associated mth the character of her 
 ruler, became terrible to the whole civilized world. 
 
52 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 It was universally known, that the greatest power 
 ever wielded upon earth was in the hands of a 
 man who was capable of every refinement of dis- 
 simulation and every artifice of perfidy ; who would 
 shiink from no excess of barbarity, however atro- 
 cious, in the prosecution of his views. Indeed, it 
 was to this, principally, that the tyrant owed his 
 destruction. All the nations of the earth felt that, 
 however oppressive were then' own govenunents, 
 a military despot could not set them free, and 
 that a French invasion was but another name for 
 confiscation, plunder, and massacre. Wherever the 
 armies of the conqueror had penetrated (and their 
 shock was felt through the universe), what horrors 
 were presented to the moral miagination ! 
 
 Let us transport ourselves to the scene where this 
 great captain of the age gathered liis laurels. Let 
 our fancy visit the continent at the precise moment 
 when the tyrant's will was law. Let us learn his 
 character, 
 
 " Where, sunk by many a wound, heroic states 
 
 Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown 
 
 Of hard ambition ; where the generous band 
 
 Of youths, who fought for freedom and their sires^ 
 
 Lie side by side in blood ; where brutal force 
 
 Usurps the throne of justice, turns the pomp 
 
 Of guardian power, the majesty of rule, 
 
 The hood, the laurel, and the purple robe. 
 
 To poor dishonest pageants, to adorn 
 
 A robber's walk, and glitter in the eyes 
 
 Of such as bow the knee." 
 
CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 53 
 
 Behold the proud monarch of many cro^vns, and 
 ask the price of his elevation. Alas ! his throne " is 
 erected in a stall of slaughter, and environed by a 
 lake of blood." Those diadems, that dazzle the eyes 
 of admimig vassals, were purchased by the destruc- 
 tion of three millions of human beings ; to each of 
 whom God had given life, and fiiends, and comfort, 
 and joy. But the bawble of empu*e, the monster, 
 who declared that his heart was in his head, sacri- 
 ficed them all as a matter of mere calculation, 
 without either pity or remorse. He once declared, 
 that the most mipressive s_ceue he had ever witness- 
 ed was at the battle of Leipsic, when he saw, at one 
 moment, seveutj^ thousand troops struggling in the 
 conflict of death. And with what emotions he 
 viewed the conflagration of Moscow — an event 
 which was at once the eflect and the ruin of his 
 ambition — ^^ve also leam from his own testmiony: 
 — " It was," he exclaims, " the spectacle of a sea 
 and billows of fire, a sky and clouds of flame ; 
 mountams of red, rolhug flames, like immense waves 
 of the sea, alternately bursting forth, and elevating 
 themselves to skies of fire, and then sinking into the 
 ocean of flame below. Oh ! it was the most gi-and, 
 the most sublune, the most terrific sight, the world 
 ever beheld !" Thus did this murderer of millions, 
 this destroyer of cities, that shook kingdoms, and 
 made the earth to tremble, regard the atrocities he 
 committed. Like some malignant being from 
 5* 
 
54 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 another sphere, commissioned for a season to be 
 the curse and the scourge of humanity, he was un- 
 wearied in the work of destruction ; but Heaven at 
 length arrested his progress, and his fall was as 
 rapid as his elevation. It produced, throughout the 
 civilized world, mingled astonishment and exulta- 
 tion ; the cedars of Lebanon, the trees of the forest, 
 and the very underwood, the brambles and the 
 creepers, clapped then- hands for joy. The terrified 
 birds of prey, that "hid themselves, and did not dare 
 to peep, or mutter, or move the whig, while he 
 gathered, as a nest, the riches of the nations," now 
 adjusted their plumes, and spread their pinions in 
 the sun, to hover with delight over the ruined 
 majesty they no longer feared. Some believed not 
 for joy, and wondered : others, affected at the vicissi- 
 tudes of human greatness, exclaimed, " How are the 
 mighty fallen!" while multitudes, struck with the 
 contrast between the exile of a barren rock, and the 
 mighty conqueror of nations, were heard to utter the 
 sublune apostrophe, " Is this the man that made the 
 earth to tremble ? that did shake kingdoms ? that made 
 the world as a wilderiiess, and destroyed the cities 
 thereof 'J that opened not the house of his prisoners ?" 
 
 And, now he is in his tomb, what avails his former 
 grandeur and power ? A few years since, and liis 
 command was destiny ; his eye glanced favor or 
 terror, and the raising of his hand was death or life 
 to millions : — ^but what is he now ? 
 
CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. 55 
 
 " His mandate is a thunder-peal tliat died 
 In ages past 3 iiis gaze a transient flash 
 On which the michiight closed 5 and on his arm 
 The worm has made his meal." 
 
 It has been said, that " his whole history was Uke 
 a dream to the world, and that no man can ever tell 
 how or why he was awakened from the reverie." 
 It is mdeed true, that his career was rapid, brilliant, 
 appalling ; that, like a bright meteor, he shone for a 
 short season in the heavens, and then fell, in showei*s 
 of blood and vengeance, upon the earth. It is 
 equally true, that, having more good at his disposal 
 them any other potentate of any former age, he 
 actually employed his immense resourses to the 
 production of a greater share of mischief and miseiy 
 to his fellow-creatures ; and that, while, on the basis 
 of French hberty, he might have founded that of 
 eveiy otlier state in Europe, he carried on a series 
 of oppressions against foreign states, to divert the 
 minds of his own subjects from the sense of their 
 domestic slavery; thus imposing upon foreign na- 
 tions a necessity for amiing to shake off his yoke, 
 and affordhig to other despots a pretext for following 
 his example. It must also be admitted, that the 
 crhnes of Bonaparte are more to be abhoiTed than 
 those of other denaturahzed creatures, whose actions 
 are pamted in histoiy, because the author of those 
 Climes was guilty wdth less temptation, and simied 
 in the presence of a clearer light. Yet we are at no 
 loss to account for his existence, elevation, and ruin. 
 
THE HINDOO WIDOW 
 
 ^ JFraflment, 
 
 ; PROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. 
 
 On Poonah's plains, behold the fragrant pile, 
 Around whose summit orient garlands smile : 
 Columns of teak support the ponderous frame, 
 That bears the victim of devouring flame, 
 For whom yon salle widoic dares deny 
 The feelings of her sex, and proudly die. 
 Her last ablutions o'er, the dame ascends 
 The river's bank, amidst surrounding friends j 
 Her steadfast eyes the mind's devotion tell. 
 Scarce raised to bid the weeping train farewell ! 
 The chosen Brahmins, with applauding voice, 
 In her unshaken fortitude rejoice, 
 Her blind obedience bless with fond regard. 
 And falsely promise a divine reward ! 
 With dauntless step, she mounts the bier above, 
 
 .■v« 
 
 And cl^^ps the breathless husband of her love ; 
 
 The demon executioner applies 
 
 The torch of hell — the glimmering flames arise. 
 
]S'^F_^."5j® ®w ^winEi®w SFf immM.. 
 
• 
 
 o « « 
 
THE HIXDOO WIDOW. 59 
 
 Now, lest the mind its energies forego, 
 
 And yielding Nature utter shrieks of wo, 
 
 The trumpets pour their ceaseless clamors round, 
 
 And in rude shouts the groans of death are drowned- 
 
 Pillars of fragrant smoke o'erwhelming rise 
 
 And veil the mouldering shrine from gazing eyea% 
 
 Till now they drive before the moaning wind, 
 
 And but a heap of embers leave beliind. 
 
 Yet shall this horrid immolation long 
 
 Live in Brahmanic praise and Eastern soncr • 
 
 Such awful rule has sin, the tyrant, gained, 
 
 By custom fostered, and by craft sustained I 
 
 Columbia's daughters ! highly favored race ! 
 Adore the God of providence and grace. 
 Whose mercy fixed your habitation's bound 
 Beneath the glorious gospel's charming sound ; 
 Whose laws, supremely clement, wise and good, 
 Require no penance stained with human blood. 
 Oh ! pour on India revelation's light, 
 To chase the gloom of error's seven-fold night ; 
 Shake Satan's tottering kingdom from its base. 
 And found Immanuel's empire in its place. 
 
 H. 
 
^f^ 
 
 ODE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 Thought ! thou wondrous, wondrous thinsr. 
 On thee I muse, of thee I smg ; 
 
 And, while my sph'it rolls along 
 Her mortal dwelhng-place. 
 
 Thou theme of my mquiring song, 
 'Tis tliou thyself must trace. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a clime of breadth unknown, 
 Where no horizon bounds the sky ; 
 
 Yet that vast breadth I call my own, 
 Far as my plumes can fly. 
 This orb terrene, 
 This busy scene. 
 How soon in thought I sweep it round ! 
 
 Then I look upward through the air, 
 
 And see imperial regions there — 
 Oh ! could I rise, and reach tliat holy ground ! 
 
 Thought was not given for grovelling here, 
 
 Where every spot with sm is fraught : 
 Ah ! no ; 'tis heaven's majestic sphere 
 Which is vernacular to Thought. 
 But still, environed by a mass 
 Of intercepting clay, 
 
ODE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 ''t 61 
 
 She sees but darkly through a glass 
 Those lands to which she soon must pass, 
 Those searching lands of glowing, godlike day. 
 
 O Thought ! thou deep, exuberant fount, 
 
 Where wHl thy flowings end ? 
 Thy channels can I e'er recount ? 
 No ! my best talents they surmount. 
 
 Although on them my strains depend. 
 Thou emanation of my soul, 
 Why does thy stream so devious roll ? — 
 So devious roll, 
 Beyond control, 
 When sin impels it strongly on ? 
 
 But when I wish thy tide to rise. 
 It straight recedes before my eyes. 
 Till every wave is gone. 
 
 I 
 
 Thought ! what a wondrous thing thou art I 
 
 Wild rover, never known to rest ; 
 Thy flight more agile than the dart 
 
 That perforates the breast. 
 But why, thou low, degenerate thing, 
 Why thus dh-ect thy viewless wing 
 
 To hunt a phantom, far beneath a thought ? 
 The wind tliat vibrates from thy plumes. 
 Fans it still farther from those glooms. 
 Where many a shade reality assumes. 
 
 But, once possessed, returns to nought ! 
 6 
 
62 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 This thought, my soul, is that to tliee 
 Which constitutes thyself to be ; 
 
 For God's o^vn breath infixed it there ! 
 So one short suppliant thought can rise 
 Through clouds, and stars, and suns, and skies, 
 
 With seraphs' songs to share ; 
 And one short thought deserves a hell. 
 Where thought must ever, ever swell 
 The fountain of their fiercest wo. 
 That no reprieve of thought can know. 
 
 Oh ! what a man^ellous thing is thought ! 
 
 With vast, terrific mysteries fraught ! 
 
 It is a space so deep and wide. 
 
 That not all heaven its depth can hide ! 
 
 Full many a crown effulgent stands 
 
 Unclamied on Jesus' golden lands ; 
 
 Full many a weight of gloiy rests 
 
 Implanted on Jehovah's guests. 
 
 But thought insatiate still must he. 
 
 Though feedmg on eternity. 
 
 O God ! thou breathest through my soul 
 
 These thoughts that never ceasing roll : 
 
 Then turn their wandering bias round 
 
 From earth to supramundane ground ; 
 
 Guide the rover, Jesus, guide 
 
 To thy lacerated side. 
 
 My soul, behold, those tides divine 
 
 Must rise to wash a thought of thme. 
 
ODE TO THOUGHT. 63 
 
 Could I remember this, my Lord, 
 
 When thought indulges sin, 
 I'd invocate thy two-edged sword 
 
 To hurl the rebel from within. 
 Let, let not Thought enamored be 
 With earth, nor heaven, nor ought but Thee ! 
 Chain her, oh ! chain her to thy throne ; 
 May she be thine, and not ray own ; 
 That I may ripen for the day 
 When Thought from Thee shall never stray. 
 
 Clarissa. 
 
RELIGION NOT A HINDERANCE TO 
 THE STUDENT. 
 
 ET REV. IRAH CHASE. 
 
 To deter men from a serious and timely attention 
 to religion, every expedient has been tried which 
 subtlety could devise ; eveiy passion has been en- 
 hsted ; all the corrupt propensities of human nature 
 have been flattered and caressed; and, as if oui" 
 evil incUnations were not sufficient, resort has been 
 had to representations the most palpably erroneous. 
 It has been asserted, that religion tends to impede 
 the student's progress in science and literature. 
 
 This assertion, coming as it does from those who 
 claim for themselves all the hght of reason and phi- 
 losophy, is well calculated to influence the youth of 
 ])riUiaut talents. He contemplates, with delight and 
 admiration, the characters of those whose genius 
 has thrown around them a dazzling lustre. High 
 above the region of moral and political fluctuations 
 he sees them enthroned on the esteem of the world; 
 and crowned with garlands, which, amidst the frost 
 of a thousand winters, perpetually blossom and 
 flourish. He chscovers, in that exalted station, many 
 
RELIGION NO OBSTACLE TO STUDY 65 
 
 a vacancy yet to be filled. Encouraged by promising 
 abilities, and impelled by an ardent desire of com- 
 manding the admiration of his contemporaries, and 
 the applause and homage of posterity, he sighs for 
 literaiy eminence. He resolves to make every exer- 
 tion to gain some envied seat among the illustrious 
 objects of his veneration. But when he thinks of 
 his duty to God, and his obUgation to obey the 
 gospel, he is told that rehgion would blast liis fairest 
 hopes ; that it is hostile to rational investigation ; that 
 it distracts the attention from scientific pursuits ; and 
 tliat it robs genius of its splendor. 
 
 Illiberal and erroneous as this account of Christian- 
 ity must appear to every candid inquirer, it has had 
 many supporters. It lias been too much beheved ; 
 and, among a certain class of persons, its influence 
 has been gi-eat and lamentable. 
 
 So far, however, is Religion from discouraging 
 philosophical inquiry, that she holds out to it the 
 Btrongest and most noble incentives. "Which, we 
 would ask, has the greatest inducement to investiga- 
 tion, he who ^dews the operations of the material 
 sj^stem as the contrivance of infinite wisdom and 
 benevolence, or he who sees in that system no 
 design, no superintendmg Providence, notliing but 
 a huge mass of matter thro^vn together by chance, 
 put in motion by chance, and by chance liable, every 
 moment, to stop its movements, or to revert to primi- 
 tive chaos, or to sink into non-existence ? AVhat 
 
 person has not sti'onger motives to analyze the 
 (3# 
 
66 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 powers, and tiace the workings of a mind destined 
 to inunortality, than to perplex himself conceraing 
 any nmnber of mere animal instincts which are soon 
 to perish forever ? Who would not deem it more 
 important to establish rules for the regulation of 
 bemgs on whose present conduct depends their 
 eternal bUss or endless wo, than of creatiu*es the 
 consequences of whose actions can be, at most, but 
 temporary ? Rehgion, it is true, never attempts to 
 teach earthly science. Her object is infinitely more 
 grand and unportant. But she appeals to reason for 
 proof of her divine origm. IMany truths, indeed, she 
 discloses, which human sagachy could never have 
 ascertained. But in every declaration of hers, which 
 is not absolutely above their province, reason and 
 conscience echo to her voice. 
 
 Should it, at length, be admitted, that the Scriptures 
 are not at variance with the language of enlightened 
 reason, still the votary of science is told that a devout 
 and scrupulous attention to then* injimctions, will so 
 divert him fi*om his studies as to be detiimental to 
 his progress. 
 
 To prove the erroneousness of tliis opmion, we 
 might only point to many of those who have en- 
 larged the boundaries of human knowledge, and ask, 
 Were they not chsciples of Christ? But, \\ithout 
 adverting to those brightest lummaries that ever 
 shone upon the regions of science, Ave are willing to 
 rest our arguments upon the natural effect which 
 true religion has upon the mind. To say nothing 
 
RELIGION NO OBSTACLE TO STUDY. 67 
 
 of its preventiug all those excessive gratifications of 
 the seiises, which are fatal alike to health of body 
 and to vigor of intellect, what is its immediate effect 
 upon those corroding anxieties and restless passions 
 which distract the thoughts? It subjects them to 
 the dominion of reason. By moulding the will to 
 a cordial acquiescence in the di\dne government, 
 it tranquilhzes the soul, and prepares it for the 
 most complicated and abstruse investigations. The 
 Chiistian, if he obey the dictates of his religion, attends 
 conscientiously to the preservation of his heaitli. 
 The prompt, and cheerful, and systematic use of all 
 the appropriate means of preserving it, he regards 
 as one of his primary duties ; and the happy effect 
 upon his real and lasting proficiency must be obvi- 
 ous. Frequent relaxation from study is absolutely 
 necessary; and the time required to be spent in 
 religious exercises is far from being lost, even if 
 viewed only hi reference to the natural influence 
 upon intellectual progi'ess. Such exercises, by call- 
 ing off the mind from all perplexing subjects, and 
 diffusing over it a dignified serenity, enable the 
 Christian to resume his stuches with fresh vigor and 
 delight. His motives to diligent exertion must 
 certainly be more powerful than any which can 
 actuate the irreligious. The present world, viewed 
 by itself, he indeed looks upon as vain and transitory. 
 But, considered as the place allotted to prepare for 
 an endless state of existence, it rises in his estima- 
 tion to unspeakable importance. Every day is big 
 
68 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 with everlasting consequences. He feels himself 
 urged to activity by the most tremendous considera- 
 tions, while he hears, as the voice of God, " Whatso- 
 ever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." 
 He is sensible of duties devolving upon liim, which 
 ai'e inthnately connected with the dearest temporal, 
 as well as with the etenial interests of himself and 
 of his fellow-men. Emoluments and fame, alluring 
 as they are in themselves, he regards only as affording 
 him the means of becoming extensively useful, and 
 of gaining more noble objects. What others view as 
 the ultimate reward of their labors, are with him in- 
 ferior considerations, compared with the great object 
 of Ms pursuits. He looks beyond the wreath thai 
 entwines the brow of the learned. He looks beyond 
 the wealth and the applause of the world. Ho 
 elevates his thoughts to the grandeur of his destiny, 
 and seeks the approbation of his almighty Re- 
 deemer. 
 
 If, then, it appears that religion is not hostile, but 
 friendly to scientific research, and that, instead of 
 diverting the student from his pursuits, it is admi- 
 rably adapted to purify and strengthen his mind, and 
 excite him to industry, we have now only to mquiro 
 into the justness of the charge, that it robs genius of 
 its splendor. 
 
 The effect here alleged, it is easy to perceive, 
 must be produced either by diminishing the range of 
 tliought, or by blunting the sensibilities of the souL 
 The first supposition is too palpably absurd to be 
 
RELIGION NO OBSTACLE TO STUDY. 69 
 
 eeriously maintained. Religion presents scenes too 
 gi'and for imagination to grasp. It furnishes ideas 
 wliich not only fill, but expand and exalt the sub- 
 limest conceptions, and will continue to expand and 
 exalt them forever. It adds immensity to our pros- 
 pects, and infinity to our existence. It is also so far 
 from tending to blunt the sensibihties of the soul, that 
 it has precisely the contrary effect. By its influence 
 the obdurate heart is softened, and the tenderest sym- 
 pathies are awakened. Friends and companions, 
 and the whole human species, appear more impoitant 
 in the scale of being ; and, of course, the social and 
 benevolent affections become more ardent. The 
 mind is prepared for enjoying, in the highest de- 
 gree, all the pleasures of taste. The works of 
 nature, by being associated with " the fii*st good 
 and the first fair," appear vsith new beauties and 
 peculiar charms. The passions, divested of all 
 tliat is hateful, are not destroyed, but directed to 
 proper objects ; and, gathering strength from what- 
 ever is beautiful, affecting, or subhme, they greatly 
 conduce to that ardor of feeUng and glow of devo- 
 tion, which never fail to exalt the natural powers of 
 genius. 
 
 Examples in confirmation of these remarks, were 
 it necessaiy, might be adduced ; for they are iimu- 
 merable. JMany of them must be familiar to every 
 well-inlbrmed and reflecting mind. A vast multi- 
 tude rise at once to the view, eminent for religious 
 devotion, and for splendor of talents. When tliis 
 
70 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 is reiiienibered in connexion with tlie fact that the 
 whole number of real Christians has ever been 
 email in comparison with that of those who have 
 been of a different character, who does not perceive 
 an evidence of the ennobhng nature of genuine piety ? 
 And, with the considerations before us wliich have 
 now been presented, who can doubt, that, whenever 
 we find Christians of but inferior parts or attain- 
 ments, we ought to ascribe their inferiority to some 
 other cause than the tendency of rehgion ? 
 
"WILT THOU BE THERE?" 
 
 Wilt thou be there to gild that mournful scene, 
 When the dull stream of life shall feebly flow, 
 
 And earth shall be as it had never been, 
 With all its mingled hues of joy and wo ? 
 
 Wilt thou be there when Friendship's fervent clasp, 
 
 And melting voice, and look, meet no return? 
 When silence follows the convulsive grasp, 
 
 And tremblingly I reach that awful bourn, 
 That hidden world, that undiscovered shore, 
 
 Where the faint gleams of lingering life decay ; 
 And whence the pilgrim shall return no more 
 
 To tell the sorrows of his lonely way ? 
 To raise my drooping hope — to hear my prayer ?— 
 Source of undying light ! — wilt thou be there ? 
 
 T= W. H. 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON A DRAWING OF MOUNT VERNON, 
 
 THE SEAT OF GENERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 BY REV. WILLIAM JAY, BATH. 
 
 There dwelt the man, the flower of human kind, 
 Whose visage, mild, bespoke his nobler mind. 
 
 There dwelt the soldier, who his sword ne'er drew 
 Bu^ in a righteous cause, to freedom true. 
 
 There dwelt the hero, who ne'er killed for fame 
 Yet gained more glory than a Caesar's name. 
 
 There dwelt the statesman, who, devoid of art, 
 Gave soundest counsels from an upright heart. 
 
 And, O Columbia, by thy sons caressed, 
 There dwelt the father of the realms he blest"; 
 Who no wish felt to make his mighty praise, 
 Like other chiefs, the means himself to raise ; 
 But there, retiring, breathed in pure renown, 
 And felt a grandeur that disdained a crown. 
 
THE EFFECTUAL FERVENT PRAYER 
 OF A RIGHTEOUS MAN AVAILETH 
 
 MUCH." 
 
 James v. 16. 
 
 by the rev. john harris. 
 
 All who have made pretensions to religion, have 
 uniformly assigned a distinguished place to the ex- 
 ercise and efficacy of prayer ; and even they who 
 have practically renounced religion, are generally 
 found, m the hour of suffering or danger, to make 
 an involuntary effort to call on the- name of the 
 Lord. The voice of nature, at such periods, over- 
 powering the prejudices of irreligion, wliich had 
 hitherto silenced it, asserts the power, the presence 
 and the goodness of God, and invokes his favorable 
 interpositions. But the Christian, taught by tliat 
 Being who is at once the great Object and Spirit of 
 prayer, avails himself of this holy exercise as of the 
 richest privilege ; not that he is always equally dis- 
 posed to engage in it, but, having acquired this habit, 
 and enjoyed the advantage of prayer, he can never 
 allow himself to regard it merely in the light of an 
 arbitraiy duty, dangerous to be neglected, and there- 
 fore necessary to be performed. It is his meat and 
 7 
 
74 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 liis drink, the aliment which sustains and invigorates 
 his spiritual life ; he values it as the only channel of 
 communication with his unseen and almighty Friend ; 
 he regards it as the instrument wliich alhes his 
 weakness to the power of God, and his emptmess 
 and unworthiness to the grace that is in Christ Jesus. 
 The Scriptures reveal the character of a Being who 
 is mfinite in wisdom, unchangeable in truth, and un- 
 limited in power and benevolence. Prayer alhes 
 the believer to all these perfections, and makes them 
 all virtually liis own. They lay open to his view the 
 economy of redemption, with all its blessings of par- 
 don, adoption, and complete preparation for heaven. 
 By prayer, the beUever appropriates all these bless- 
 higs to himself; they tell liim of a world where all is 
 pure, and glorious, and happy ; he prays, and be- 
 comes entitled to it, prepared for it, and soon 
 receives the call to enter on its richest joys. Nor is 
 the efficacy of prayer confined to the behever hun- 
 self : it places him in a new relation to all around 
 him. He was needy, and helpless, cud unable to take 
 a single step toward the accomphshment of liis own 
 salvation ; but, having acquired the habit of prayer, 
 he can contribute largely toward the salvation of 
 others. It is an invisible cord by which he can draw 
 tliem toward heaven; it uivests him with an in- 
 definite power over the destiny and happiness of the 
 world at large. Now, it is of intercessory prayer 
 that the apostle speaks :— " Confess your faults one 
 to another, and pray one for another, that you may 
 
INTERCESSORY PRAYER. 
 
 75 
 
 be healed. The eflectual fei'vent prayer of a righteous 
 man availeth much." x\nd, having ilhistrated the 
 truth of this declaration, by refening to the prayers of 
 Elijah, he concludes the epistle by saying, " Brethren, 
 if any of you do err from the truth, and one convert 
 him, let him know that he who converteth the 
 sinner from the error of his ways shall save a soul 
 from deatli, and shall liide a midtitude of sins ;" thus 
 inthnating that the salvation of a sinner, and even of 
 an apostate, the most hopeless of sinners, is quite 
 within the limits of prayer, and may be eifected 
 by it. 
 
 The text describes the character aiid efficacy of 
 genuine prayer. 
 
 I, It describes the character of prayer. 
 
 5fr ^ ^ ^ •j^ 
 
 It is in\^Tought by the energy of the Spirit. 
 This is a characteristic of prayer suggested by the 
 text; and most abundantly is it confirmed by the 
 imiversal experience of behevers and the testimony 
 of the word of God : — " Likewise the Spirit also 
 helpeth our iafirmities ; for we know not what we 
 should pray for as we ought ; but the Spirit itself 
 maketh intercession for us with groaning that cannot 
 be uttered ; and he that searcheth the hearts knoweth 
 what is the mind of the Sphit, because he maketh in- 
 tercession for the saints according to the will of God." 
 ***** 
 
 He makes the behever a temple of the Lord, and 
 graciously takes upon himself the office of con- 
 
76 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 ducting the worship of this temple; he becomes 
 the High-priest and Intercessor; he prepares and 
 presents to God the welcome sacrifice of a broken 
 and contrite heart; he calls the affections and 
 desires of the soul away from the world, and brmgs 
 them, like a company of humble worshippers, to 
 the throne of God, and constrains all that is within 
 the soul to bless his holy name. He so regulates 
 and purifies the affections and desires, that they 
 become, in effect, his own affections and desires ; so 
 that, when the behever gives utterance to them, the 
 almighty Father regards them as the urgent desires 
 of his own Spirit. Or, should the believer be unable 
 to give full utterance to his desires ; should he only be 
 able to express them in sighs, and tears, and groans, 
 he that searcheth the heart knoweth what is the 
 mind of the Spirit ; he that is always lookmg into 
 the hearts of men, detecting all that is evil, and 
 discerning and approving all that is good, — he knows, 
 from the peculiar state of the mind, though no 
 intelhgible words have been uttered, that his Spirit 
 has been operatmg there ; he reads every thought, 
 understands every desire, and recognises, with 
 perfect ease, that these thoughts and desires are tlie 
 well known operations of his Spirit ; they perfectly 
 coincide with his own divine will, and he therefore 
 gratifies these desires and fulfils his own will at the 
 same time. Now, it is only the utterance of such 
 desu-es that can be regarded as genuine prayer ; it 
 is only such as have been excited and presented by 
 
INTERCESSORY PRAYER. // 
 
 the great Intercessor within us, that the Almighty 
 does or can regard. These alone, as they arise fi'om 
 a sense of need, and of the magnitude of the bless- 
 ings sought, vdU. be expressed and urged Avith 
 becoming earnestness. We are naturally in the 
 condition of Elijah when his altar and offering were 
 immersed in water; the fire of heaven must de- 
 scend, or we shall thus remain mimersed. 
 
 It is only in proportion as the Spmt puts forth liis 
 energy -sAithin, that we put forth our energy at the 
 throne of grace, and present the inwrought fervent 
 prayer of a righteous man. 
 
 II. When the apostle declares that prayer of this 
 description availeth much, he states the efficacy of 
 prayer. Like every other means, prayer depends, 
 for its efficacy, on the sovereign appointment of 
 God ; but, in the whole compass of divinely appoint- 
 ed means, prayer occupies the liighest place, and 
 possesses the mightiest efficacy. Passing by all 
 inferior objects, all created agency, it makes a direct 
 appeal to the throne of God ; and it appeals to him in 
 a manner and through a medium which has never 
 failed — in the name and for the sake of his only- 
 begotten Son. It enables the behever to take hold 
 of his almighty strength ; it identifies him with the 
 Almight}" ; and so closely identifies him, that the 
 voice of God declares, " He that toucheth you touch- 
 eth the apple of mine eye :" it gives liim immediate 
 access to the treasury of the divine benevolence, so 
 
 that, even in this world of danger and sin, he can 
 
 7# 
 
78 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 not only ward off and suspend around him every 
 evil, but lie can encompass himself with every good, 
 as though he possessed an omnipotent charm; he 
 can create around him an atmosphere of joy and 
 happiness; it gives him access to the armory of 
 God, and to all his resources of strength ; so that, 
 like the angel which had the key of the bottomless 
 pit and a gi-eat chain in his hand, he can fetter the 
 operations and restrain the poAver of the prince of 
 darlmess, or he can enter the field of conflict, and 
 overpower him. It has been said that the smallest 
 pebble cannot be thrown into the seas from our 
 shores without producing some effect on the other 
 side of the great Atlantic ; but, without waiting 
 to examine the truth of diis assertion, it is only sober 
 and undeniable truth to assert, that the humblest 
 Christian cannot offer a single breath in prayer, 
 which does not reach the throne of God, and become 
 productive of effects which spread through the 
 universe. " If ye abide m me," said Jesus, " and 
 my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, 
 and it shall be done unto you." Here is an unlimited 
 promise ; and it cannot be pleaded in faitli without 
 producmg unlimited effects. But the text directs 
 our attention particularly to the eflicacy of inter- 
 cessory prayer. And here we are at once reminded 
 of the numerous instances of its power, recorded, 
 doubtless for our encouragement, in the Avord of 
 God. Sodom and the cities of the plain are to be 
 burnt from tlie face of the earth ; but what is it 
 
INTERCESSORY PRAYER. 79 
 
 which for a time delays theu* doom, and gives them, 
 humanly speaking, a probability of escape ? It is 
 the intercession of Abraham pleading with God, that 
 fifty, or forty, or thirty, or twenty, or at least ten 
 righteous men might be found there. The Israehtes 
 have made a molten image at the foot of the very 
 mount on which the glory of God has descended. 
 " And the Lord said unto Moses, I have seen tliis 
 people, and, behold, it is a stiff-necked people ; now, 
 therefore, let me alone, that my wrath may wax hot 
 against them, that I may consume them." And 
 what coidd allay, at tliis fearful moment, the fierce- 
 ness of his anger ? What could restrain him from 
 destroying them with the breath of his nostrils ? 
 The fervent, the impassioned intercession of Moses. 
 It held back liis uphfted arm ; it changed the pm-- 
 pose of his heart ; " and the Lord repented of the 
 evil which lis thought to do to liis people." Again 
 they incurred his displeasure by their rebelhous 
 discontent, " and the fire of the Lord burnt among 
 them, and consumed them ; and the people cried 
 unto ]Moses, and, when Moses prayed unto the Lord, 
 the fire was quenched." 
 
 Again they revolt, and mm-mur against the Lord ; 
 " and he said unto 3Ioses, How long will this 
 people provoke me ? I will smite them with the pes- 
 tilence, and disinherit them, and will make of thee 
 a greater nation, and mightier than they." But again 
 this intercessor prayed for them ; and the Lord said 
 "I have pardoned them according to thy word." 
 
80 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 "Elias was a man subject to like passions as we are ; 
 and he prayed earnestly that it might not rain, and it 
 rauied not on the earth by the space of three years 
 and six months; and he prayed again, and the 
 heaven gave rain, and the earth brought forth 
 fruit." 
 
 Prayer has suspended and controlled the elements 
 and operations of nature ; it has procured the 
 ministry of angels ; it has quenched the violence of 
 fire that came forth from the Lord ; it has arrest- 
 ed the progress of almighty displeasure ; hke the 
 great Object to whom it is addressed, it operates 
 silently and unseen, but irresistibly and universally. 
 It has proved its unlimited efficacy in turning the 
 sinner from the eiTor of his ways, and saving a soul 
 from death. This is the greatest, the most glorious 
 triumph which it can achieve. It has raised the 
 dead in sin, and brought the light of heaven into the 
 benighted soul, and subdued the enmity and hostility 
 with which it was anned ; it has aiTested the sinner 
 at the gates of hell, transformed Mm, and lifted him 
 up to the joys of heaven ; it has saved his soul 
 1. om death : and who, that has not looked into the 
 region of perdition, that has not felt the gnawmg of 
 the undying worm, and the raging of the quenchless 
 fire, can tell the meaning of that expression ? It 
 has instrumentally raised hhn to the enjoyment of 
 heaven : and who, that has not been caught up to 
 the third heaven, and beheld the unveiled glory 
 of the Lamb, and heard the hymnings of the blessed, 
 
INTERCESSORY PRAYER. 81 
 
 and drank of the river of the water of hfe, can esti- 
 mate fitly the import of that expression ? But this is 
 not all that intercessory prayer could effect ; — its full 
 efficacy is unknown ; for it has never been tried. 
 Like the elements of nature, it contains a power 
 wliich, if put forth to the utmost, would infallibly 
 change the face of the earth : and the day is hasten- 
 ing on, when its efficacy shall be tried on a scale 
 before unknown; for all flesh shall come to pray 
 before the Lord ; and then it shall be found, that to 
 pray is to use the mightiest instrument for the conver- 
 sion of the world. Nor let us be deterred from tiying 
 the efficacy of intercessory prayer by the fear of 
 failm-e. Our success may not equal our desires ; but 
 let us unpress it on our minds, that our prayer, if 
 earnest and hnportimate, availeth much. It may not 
 procure for the object of our sohcitude the desired 
 good ; but it may avert from him numerous evils ; 
 and, if so, it availeth much. It may not avail bim 
 so soon as our impatience would dictate; but, 
 finally, it will avail, and avail him much. It will 
 avail him more than any other means or instrument 
 we can employ in his behalf. Yes ! let it encourage 
 us to persevere in prayer, when we reflect that, of 
 aU the instruments with which God has intrusted us 
 for the benefit of the world, prayer is incompara- 
 bly the most efficacious. " The effectual fervent 
 prayer of a righteous man availeth much;" how 
 much, the day of judgment alone can fully disclose. 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN BY THE REV. WILLIAM JAY, OF BATH, 
 
 ON A VISIT TO HIS NATIVE VILLAGE (TISBURY), 
 IN AUGUST, 1800. 
 
 The way by which a gracious God 
 
 Has led me all my days, 
 Demands, on each review, a song 
 
 Of wonder and of praise. 
 
 His care, attending every step, 
 
 Was my perpetual guide ; 
 His ear, attentive, heard my prayer ; 
 
 His hand my wants supplied. 
 
 The course through wliich my journey ran 
 
 Was winding and unknovni ; 
 His Providence the scenes had planned. 
 
 And each appeared his own. 
 
 More, now, since first I left the spot, 
 Than twice eight years have fled, 
 
 And many, once who charmed my youth, 
 Are numbered "svith the dead. 
 
LINES BY REV. WM. JAY. ^3 
 
 'Twas here I drew my native breath, 
 
 Here fled my mfant liours, 
 Here first I heard the gospel sound, 
 
 And felt its heavenly powers. 
 
 Now o'er my former walks I rove, 
 
 And ii-esh the scenes appear ; 
 And here I poured an aitless prayer, 
 
 And there indulged a tear. 
 
 Unknovm to fortune and to fame. 
 
 My early years expired ; 
 No science had enriched my mind, 
 
 Or hope my bosom fired. 
 
 But Heaven a Winter thus addressed : 
 
 " This youth I charge on thee ; 
 Go, take him ; I the impulse gave ; 
 
 And bring him up for me. 
 
 " Awaken thou each dormant power, 
 
 Chase every cloud away, 
 And on his imderstanding pour. 
 
 An intellectual day." 
 
 The tree which, in a barren soil, 
 
 Can no good produce bear, 
 Transposed, may flourish, and with fruit 
 
 Repay the dresser's care. 
 
84 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Winter, I love to think of thee, 
 And those dear hours review, 
 
 When, in thy house, and from thy hps, 
 I sacred wisdom ch-ew. 
 
 Thy Hfe, enforcing all thy rules, 
 
 Shed every grace abroad, 
 And thine example, all alive, 
 
 Portrayed the man of God. 
 
 Nor would I now the blessings lose, 
 Which from thy care have flowed, 
 
 For all the schools of fame have given, 
 Or colleges bestowed. 
 
 Here, O my soul, the time recall 
 When my commission came, 
 
 How blessed, when sixteen years had rolled 
 To preach a Saviour's name. 
 
 Poor Abington, among thy sons. 
 
 The shepherds of the plam. 
 My first attempt to preach was made, 
 
 Nor was it made in vain. 
 
 The cloudy pillar leading on, 
 
 Its motions I pursued. 
 Till o'er the city famed for cures 
 
 The holy symbol stood. 
 
LINES BY REV. WM. JAY. 85 
 
 " Here," cried the voice, " thy station fix, 
 
 Aiid here thy rovings end ; 
 Here teach the words of endless life, 
 
 And here my charge attend. 
 
 " Proclaim a fountain nobler far 
 
 Than tliis Bethesda knows ; 
 It's always open, always free, 
 
 And ^vith salvation flows. 
 
 " The sons of pleasure here who come 
 
 Invite to real bliss ; 
 He who another life secures 
 
 Can only relish this. 
 
 " Here Satan's seat exalted stands, 
 
 And vice in triumph reigns : 
 A crown for him who owns me here. 
 
 And all my truth maintains !" 
 
 O Lord, evince the choice thine own, 
 Which placed me where I move ; 
 
 And, while thy people feel thy power, 
 May one a thousand prove ! 
 
 Here I return, increased and blest 
 
 By all-indulgent Heaven : 
 My God the joys of wedded love. 
 
 And children, too, has given. 
 
 8 ^ 
 
86 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Yonder appears, by led, 
 
 My lovely train in view ! 
 My cherubs, round your mother play ; 
 
 Tliis scene shall end witli you. 
 
 To raise an Ebenezer here. 
 
 My God, is surely just; 
 The motto, " Praise for all the past, 
 
 And for the future, trust !" 
 
THE CHRISTIAN. 
 
 No victor's wreath adorned his humble brow ; 
 
 On him no grateful nation proudly smiled ; 
 With noiseless steps, he traced his way below, 
 
 Or through the flowery mead, or dreary wild. 
 
 Patient, unmoved, amid the varying scene, 
 
 His heart, and hope, and converse, were above; 
 
 In all the storms of grief, resigned, serene, 
 Held in the arms of everlasting love.^ 
 
 Speak, ye who stood around him in that hour. 
 
 When, faint and pale, he breathed his farewell sigh, 
 
 Wlien hope's full bud was bursting into flower, 
 
 When light, when heaven, was dawning on his eye; 
 
 Say how he smiled, and pain and death defied, 
 
 Struggled to tell his mighty joys — and died. 
 
 T. W. H. 
 
LINES 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE REV. DR. RYLAND, 
 THE DAY BEFORE HIS DEATH, APRIL, 1825. 
 
 Though often my mind is dejected, 
 
 Yet will I not dare to repine ; 
 My trials, I know, are selected 
 
 By wisdom and mercy divine. 
 
 My Father's severest correction 
 
 Shall work, in the end, for my good ; 
 
 Nor ought I to doubt his affection, 
 Though all be not yet understood. 
 
 Whatever to him brings me nearer. 
 From earth and from sin weans my heart. 
 
 Makes Christ and his Spirit still dearer, 
 I ought to receive in good part. 
 
 I know what perverse contradiction 
 My dearest Redeemer once shared ; 
 
 And light is my present affliction 
 Witli joy everlasting compared. 
 
LINES BY REV. DR. RYLAND. 89 
 
 Though never with evil infected, 
 
 Yet, oh ! how afflicted was he ! 
 Despised by men, and rejected. 
 
 And wounded and bruised for me ! 
 
 'Tis surely enough for the servant 
 
 To share the same fate with his Lord ; 
 
 Were my zeal and affection more fervent, 
 Wliat suffering for him would be hard ? 
 
 The conflict will shortly be ended ; 
 
 The conquest and crown are at hand ; 
 When I, to his kingdom ascended, 
 
 Secure in/ his presence shall stand. 
 
 That happiness daily expecting, 
 
 In patience my soul I possess, 
 And, earth and its shadows rejecting, 
 
 To glory eternal would press. 
 
 8* 
 
THE SPREAD OF THE GOSPEL. 
 
 BY THE REV. S. P. HILL. 
 
 To a mind that reflects much on the present con 
 dition of mankmd, and longs to have it better than 
 it now is, nothing can be more truly delightful than 
 the bright hopes and glorious visions which the 
 gospel paints on the future prospects of the world. 
 It finds not, throughout its whole range of intellec- 
 tual and scientific pursuit, a subject so congenial to 
 its most exalted capacities, or so gi"ateful to its 
 loftiest aspirations. We feel, while contemplating 
 this theme, that we are standing on solid ground ; 
 that we are giving to our powers their best exercise ; 
 that we are gi-asping at something substantial ; and 
 that we are entering a field of research which 
 promises to the soul unlimited expansion. We 
 ])ehokl, in the object of our meditations, the im- 
 bodied beauties, the living, breatliiug energies of the 
 most powerful creations of genius and imagina- 
 tion ; the real existence of all the beautiful forms 
 of happiness and peace which ever philosophers 
 have described or poets sung. 
 
 It cannot be doubted, that principles, which so 
 vitally affect the destinies of the race, should take a 
 
SPREAD OF THE GOSPEL. 91 
 
 deep hold of the best sympathies of the human heart. 
 We love them for the happy and cheermg contrast 
 they afford to the selfishness, passion and animosities 
 which meet the retrospective eye, to the farthest 
 limit of vision. We love them for then- adapteduess 
 to the noble and capacious poAvers of the soul. We 
 love them for their fitness to gratify the most un- 
 bounded desires of domg good. We love them for 
 their tranquilhzing and holy influence, for their 
 blissful hopes, and for their glorious rewards. The 
 cause of Christianity we beUeve to be the cause of 
 truth, of principle, of human happiness, and of God. 
 We bring to its altar our highest admiration, our 
 choicest energies and our warmest zeal. Inter- 
 woven, then, as are our dearest hopes with its 
 success ; committed to it as is the warmtli of our 
 affections, — we pause to contemplate some of the 
 evidences of its imiversal triumph. 
 
 We recognise a cheermg indication of this glori- 
 ous result, in the enlargement of views which is 
 obtaming on the social, and political relations of 
 man. The narrow and stinted views entertained by 
 Voltaire are now fro^^iied upon with deserved con- 
 tempt. Mankind are beginning to see, that they are 
 dependent beings; and that society advances, and 
 wealth increases, in proportion as all are prosperous 
 alike ; that, in fact, the whole human family have 
 common ties and common interests ; and that, con- 
 sequently, the surest guarantee of individual and 
 national prosperity, is the good of the whole. Such 
 
92 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 views must have a tendency to bind men together 
 in one friendly and endearing brotherhood; and, 
 when they shall become general, the prejudices and 
 anmiosities, which have hitherto " made enemies of 
 nations," will be extinguished and forgotten. And 
 we think, that we have already, in the happy ten- 
 dency of such views, a pledge of the auspicious in- 
 fluence they are destined in future to exert. The 
 intercourse which is now spreading so wddely 
 between the nations of the earth, is continually 
 developing among them more close and interesting 
 relations, and awakening a spirit of more enlarged 
 benevolence. Now, we need not be told of the 
 exact coincidence between these views and the 
 precepts of Christianity ; nor do we need proof that 
 these very principles, which are found to harmonize 
 so well with the best interests of man, and to which 
 pliilosophers, after the severest thought, have been 
 forced to come, may be traced to the Bible as their 
 legitimate source. And it is a fact that is fraught 
 with the highest interest, and which utters an 
 irresistible voice in favor of that precious volume, 
 tliat its insti'uctions are as much now in the advance 
 of society as they were when they were first 
 promulgated : and hence we infer, that, as hght and 
 knowledge advance, these \vill be universally re- 
 ceived and venerated. 
 
 Again ; it will be admitted by every one, that there 
 are certain vuiues essential to the existence of every 
 good government; such as frugaUty, industry, in- 
 
SPREAD OF THE GOSPEL. ' 93 
 
 telligence, and moral confidence. Where, then, do 
 these virtues find then- happiest soil ? What is the 
 vital principle, which gives them their activity and 
 support ? For an answer to these iaquiries, we ap- 
 jjeal to fact. Survey the mass of the world, and 
 wherever you behold any thing dehghtful in social 
 order, endeai-ing in kind affections, subhme in just 
 government, or cheering in domestic comfort, — 
 there you may recognise an ardent attachment to 
 the precepts of the gospel. Turn to a land on which 
 the light of revelation has never shone, and all is over- 
 spread with desolateness and unbroken night. Go to 
 those comitries of moral darkness, on w hich only a 
 few rays of gospel hght have yet been thrown, and the 
 contrast is as striking as impressive. Here you may 
 behold the beauty of holiness, shining amid the 
 wilderness of foul and fiendlike atrocities. The 
 voice of pious affection, and the meUow ed tone of 
 Christian gratitude, will meet your delighted ear 
 from the side of aU that is unkind, and revengefiil, 
 and malignant, m savage passions. You may be- 
 hold fields reposing in peace and clothed with 
 verdure, amid vast tracts of entire sterihty. But, to 
 come nearer home, what gives vigor to our pur- 
 poses, loveliness to our endearments, w^armth to our 
 afiections, and elevation to our hopes ? Why waits 
 your child around your dying couch, with noiseless 
 tread, with tender assiduity, and with sofl;ened tones 
 of sympathetic kindness ? Why looks not here the 
 eye of the mother on the immolation of her infant ? 
 
94 THE ciiiiirrriAX offering. 
 
 Why do toe not throw our bodies beneath the car of 
 an idol god? Whence the difference between the 
 refined poUteness of a Christian assembly and the 
 savage yell of a Hindoo sacrifice, or the infernal 
 ci'uelty of the Roman amphitheatre? For this and 
 for all the improvement which history traces on 
 the face of society, since the Christian era, the Gospel 
 claims the sole honor, and shows on her credentials 
 the stamp and signature of heaven. What, then, 
 may we not hope for the extension of principles so 
 truly benevolent, so preeminently pure ? 
 
 But much has already been done in subduing the 
 passions, and overthrowing the idolatrous practices 
 of the heathen: and hence we discern another 
 pleasing vision of the future. On this point we 
 cannot speak without admiration. Let an estimate 
 be made, on common principles, of the chances of 
 success that would attend the introduction of the 
 gospel among the heathen ; and when we take into 
 account their savageness and extreme degradation ; 
 their jealousy of foreigners ; their inflexible attach- 
 ment to the customs and superstitious rites of their 
 country ; their shrewd and cavilling disposition ; and 
 then thousand abominable vices sanctioned by their 
 law, and grown inveterate by indulgence ; — ^besides 
 aJl this, when we consider the apparently insuperable 
 difficulties which are in the way of a missionary 
 before he can even gain access to them, and the many 
 obstacles which are constantly impeding his path 
 afterwards ; — ^let any one determine whether any 
 
SPIIEAD OF THE GOSPEL. 95 
 
 moral change could be effected iii such a people by 
 any thing short of ahnighty and creative power. 
 And this power has been exerted. We have seen it 
 exiiibiting its divinest effects in renovating, stubborn 
 and obdui'ate though it be, the heart of the savage 
 idolater. Amid the ice-bound shores of Greenland ; 
 in tiie burning chines of Africa and India ; on the 
 lonely islands of the Pacific ; in our own western 
 forests, 
 
 " Where rolls Ohio's streams, Missouri's floods, 
 
 Beneath the umbrage of eternal woods. 
 
 The Indian roved a hunter-warrior wild : 
 
 On him the everlasting- gospel smiled ; 
 
 His heart was awed, confounded, pierced, subdued, 
 
 Divinely melted, moulded, and renewed : 
 
 The base, bold savage, nature's harshest clod, 
 
 Rose from the dust, the image of his God." 
 
 It would be interesting, in illustration of this 
 particular, to trace the progress of the Gospel amid 
 fiery trials and distresses, amid tears and blood, and 
 to contemplate her glorious triumphs over all ; to 
 witness her emerging from clouds which had 
 gathered fearfully round her, and threatened to shut 
 in her last rays, — fah-er and brighter than before, 
 and pouring, vnth more intensitj^, on the world her 
 holy and renovating light. But we pass from these 
 reflections to glance only for a moment to that 
 of encouragement, on which, as on adamantine 
 pillars, our hopes of the universal spread of the 
 gospel rest. We refer to the promise of God. 
 Passages relating to this glorious result are inter- 
 
96 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 woven throughout every prophecy, and form a 
 distinguishing part of the whole vohnne of reva- 
 elation. How striking and impressive are the 
 prospects of the gospel thus made to appear ! Every 
 desire we express, every effort we make, for the 
 extension of divine truth, finds in God's ovni designs 
 of mercy a sympathetic response ; and for their 
 gi'atification his own word is solemnly pledged. 
 
 Here, then, we gi-ound our hopes of the future. 
 We cherish, in consequence of these evidences, a 
 belief which nothing can shake, that the gospel is 
 destined to produce a most wonderful moral revolu- 
 tion in the rehgious, intellectual and economic con- 
 dition of man ; that its influence is to widen and 
 deepen, till the whole world shall become a moun- 
 tain of hohness, and a habitation for God. In the 
 language of Foster, "What limit may a devout 
 observer affix to his expectations ? With the picture 
 on his imagination, of the heathen world, as pre- 
 served authentic descriptions will agi'ee m represent- 
 ing it, he may look over the ample region, to wonder 
 what has become of that direful element, which was 
 once perceived pervading and corrupting the whole 
 wide diffusion of mental and moral existence. The 
 dusky visages, the attire, the structures of habitations, 
 the grand features of nature, will be seen the same ; 
 but a horrid something, composed of hes, and crimes, 
 and curses, and w^oes, that did rest its deadly 
 possession over all the land, will be broken up and 
 gone. Where has a place been found, for what 
 
SPREAD OF THE GOSPEL. 97 
 
 occupied, for ages and ages, so many cities, and 
 villages, and houses, and minds? What tempest 
 has driven it away? What presence has been 
 here wliicli that presence could not abide ? 
 
 " How will he exult in the palpable evidence, that 
 the Son of God has spread his dominion from the 
 soutliern shores towards the subUme mountain 
 boundary of the region on the north ; that the oracles 
 of truth have taken place of the most silly, and 
 loathsome, and monstrous legends, with which the 
 father of lies ever made contemptuous sport of 
 the folly of his dupes ; £ind that the new rehgion, 
 admitted in faith, has crowned itself and its be- 
 lievers with all its appropriate vutues !" 
 9 
 
A YEAR OF LIFE. 
 
 BY THE REV. JOHN NEWTON BROWN. 
 
 I HAVE closed another year of life, 
 
 And commenced anew to-day ; 
 And I fain would mark my spirit's strife, 
 
 To maintain her heaven- ward way. 
 
 Her heaven-ward w^ay ! And can it be, 
 That to heaven my path- way tends ? 
 
 That, with calm and devoted constancy, 
 Toward heaven my footstep bends ? 
 
 It does, it does, through richest grace ! — 
 
 Though, from that blessed goal, 
 A wandering path I sometunes trace, 
 
 Yet God restores my soul. 
 
 Oh ! let me weep over every track 
 
 Of en*or that mars my way ; 
 And rear to the love that has brought me back^ 
 
 A monument to-day ! 
 
A YEAR OF LIFE. 99 
 
 Another and most eventful year 
 
 Its hurried flight has fled ; 
 And many a change, m its swift career, 
 
 It has poui-ed upon my head. 
 
 She who rose with me side by side, 
 
 In childliood's sweetest hours, — 
 "Who led me, with a sister's pride, 
 
 Through learning's fragrant bowers, — 
 
 She who before me so early walked, 
 
 In rehgion's holy ways, 
 And with cheering voice of affection talked. 
 
 In the blest Redeemer's praise, — 
 
 Whose example w^as like an inspiring breath, 
 
 For years, amid peril's dread, — 
 And whose smile came bright through the cloud 
 of death, — 
 
 Now rests in her clay-cold bed. 
 
 When last IMay came, \^dth her laughing hours, 
 
 Others might jom the ling ; 
 But my sister was crowned with the deathless 
 flowei-s 
 
 Of an everlasting spring. 
 
 She is gone to our " Father's house" above, 
 
 Where her heart had gone before ; 
 And she dwells in the hght of that holy love, 
 
 ^Vhich at distance we adore. 
 
100 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 So, one by one, do my friends depart. 
 
 So leave me my kindred all ; 
 And in accents that pierce my inmost heart, 
 
 Comes God's most solemn call. 
 
 Ye cherished ones, who have gone before, 
 Though your names I may not tell, 
 
 Till we meet again on a pangless shore, 
 A sweet, but brief farewell ! 
 
THE RESURRECTION HOPE. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. 
 
 I HEARD thee : not the seraph's strain 
 Could wake such raptures in my breast ; 
 
 Thy prayer could ease the bed of pain, 
 And soothe the struggling soul to rest. 
 
 I loved thee : not the mountain's brow 
 More gladly caught day's youngest beam 
 
 Than I thy smile : 'tis vanished now — 
 A brief delight, a lovely dream. 
 
 Avails it that thy mantling bloom 
 
 Hath left thee m this lonely cell ? 
 Avails it that death's darkening gloom 
 
 Hath dimmed those eyes where love should 
 dwell ? 
 
 That cheek shall wear a fairer hue. 
 
 When risen from this yielding sod ; 
 Those eyes shall wear a softer blue, 
 
 Love, in the paradise of God ! 
 
 T .W. H. 
 
 9» 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. 
 
 In no instance has Christian benevolence and 
 genuine philanthropy, in this country, fallen farther 
 behind its developement in the old world, than in 
 efforts for the benefit of prison convicts. Nearly 
 half a century after Howard commenced the humble 
 couree of inspection and reformation of prisons, 
 which gradually enlarged itself into a system of the 
 most splendid and benign charity which has ever 
 been so completely exhibited by any individual, and 
 wliich cannot fail to give deathless celebrity to his 
 name, no systematic or general effort had been 
 made, in this country, to detect hke abuses, and 
 introduce like reforms. The name and the efforts 
 of the Transatlantic philantlu'opist were indeed well 
 known. Poetry had here woven garlands for his 
 brow ; and Eloquence, both in the pulpit and in the 
 halls of legislation, had not forgotten to adorn her 
 offerings by the rehearsal of his peerless deeds. 
 But, for all practical pui-jjoses connected with the 
 sphere of his labors, the light of his experience had 
 been shed on us in vain. 
 
 Was it because the abuse and pei-version which 
 his perseverance had unmasked was supposed to be 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEXD. 103 
 
 possible only in older and more corrupt communities 
 than our own, that we so complacently presumed 
 there was here no room for improvement ? Let the 
 dark catalogue of abuses, brought to hglit within the 
 last few years, tell how erroneous was that pre- 
 sumption. 
 
 Was it because the Christian compassion wliich 
 yearned over the heathen — alienated from happiness 
 and God, and shut up m the gloomy prison of 
 pagan darkness — had no kind sensibUities for those 
 scarcely less ignorant, and ahenated more fearfully 
 from all that is good, in the prisons at our very doors ? 
 Or had those whose confidence in the gospel was 
 perfect, for accomplisliiug a transformation on the 
 former, absolutely no confidence in the same gospel, 
 to produce any salutary change in the latter ? Or 
 could it have escaped the eagle eye of those patriots 
 who loved almost to idolatry their country's freedom, 
 and who are ever so ready to espy the dangers 
 which threaten it, that to let loose upon the com- 
 munity, fi'om the very hot-beds of moral corruption, 
 the vitiated beings who had there been trained to 
 the artful coimnission and concealment of crime in 
 all its baleful forms, was more certain to shake the 
 pillai-s of the temple of Liberty, than the combined 
 force of foreign assault? 
 
 To whatever cause the long-continued and giulty 
 apathy upon this subject must be attributed, it is a 
 subject of just and universal congratulation, that at 
 
104 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 last it has been broken. Reform of prisons and of 
 prison discipline has of late advanced rapidly and 
 regularl}' by the instrumentality of the American 
 Prison Discipline Society, and their judicious and 
 efficient general agent. Their first efforts have 
 been wisely directed to the sti'ucture of prisons ; 
 and, in several instances, the beneficial results of this 
 change alone have been strikingly manifest. It gives 
 to each convict the advantages of such seclusion, 
 dming the night and upon the Christian Sabbath, 
 OS is most favorable to instruction and meditation. 
 It renders him also accessible to the efforts of Chris- 
 tian kindness ; and, w^herever this reform has been 
 introduced, even if no legislative provision has been 
 made for the rehgious instruction of prisoners, the 
 deficiency has been, to a considerable extent, sup- 
 plied by the casual and free-will offerings of personal 
 service, which those in immediate proximity to such 
 institutions have been prompted to render. Of such 
 labors, humble and unpretending as is their charac- 
 ter, it would be difficult to speak in terms of ade- 
 quate eulogy, without offenduig the single-hearted 
 piety of their mstrmnents. 
 
 This will be my apology for the veil which I 
 must throw over the name and residence of the 
 principal actor of the following narrative. A Idnd 
 Providence threw in jny way the scene which is 
 here described, during a short tour through some of 
 the Northern and Eastern States, in the winter of 
 182—. 
 
THE COXVICT'S FRIEND. 105 
 
 It is copied, with very slight alteration, from the 
 leaves of my journal. The closing mcident rests, of 
 course, on other testimony. 
 
 At an early hour on Saturday afternoon, I found 
 myself obliged, by the ahuost impracticable badness 
 of the roads, to give over the idea of farther progress 
 in my journey, and seek for such a home as the 
 weary traveller needs upon the Christian Sabbath. 
 This was soon aiTanged ; and an opportunity then 
 offered to consider tlie best method of improving 
 the few hours of leisure thus casually furnished. 
 It occm*red to me that in the immediate vicinity 
 resided one of my revered father's friends, the 
 early recollection of whom had not entirely faded 
 from my mind. I sought and found him. 
 
 The same chastened smile, which in childhood 
 won my heart, while it inspired a sacred regard, still 
 animated his countenance ; and most cordial was the 
 recognition and the welcome which the friend of the 
 father extended to the son. Mr. Heniy, by which 
 name I may designate the worthy man, if past the 
 meridian of Ufe, had lost none of its \agor ; and a 
 circle of interesting children, now risen up aroimd 
 him, almost to maturity, gave additional chamis to 
 his attractiveness. He had some years before 
 retired from professional cares, and, by strict 
 economy, secured from his patiimony not only a 
 comfortable subsistence for his family, but also that 
 which he seemed not less highly to prize, — the means 
 of rendering important assistance in the principal 
 
lOG THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 departments of Christian entei*prise and effort. 
 Having given himself to Christ, he practically un- 
 derstood the obvious deduction, which many, alas ! 
 seem continually to forget, that he was not his own. 
 His time, his thoughts, his all, were most cheerfully 
 rendered a willing thank-offering to the Redeemer. 
 In his company, surrounded by those who had im- 
 bibed such lessons from his lips, the evening glided 
 rapidly away. On parting, for the night, with the 
 man whom I had just before sought as my father's 
 friend, but who had secured, in a few hours, the 
 confidence and esteem usually felt only after 
 protracted intercourse, it gave me unfeigned pleas- 
 ure to accept his invitation to spend a part of the 
 approaching Sabbath with him in visiting the neigh- 
 boring prison. An early hour of the following 
 morning saw us on the way, and, long before the 
 church-going bell smnmons the worshippers to the 
 sanctuary, we were approaching the gloomy, grated, 
 and now silent walls, where 
 
 Sons of guilt, who sell themselves to bondage, 
 Endure its galling chains. 
 
 It would seem as though, in bitter mockery of 
 its destination, the surrounding scenery had put 
 on unusual charn.s. An extensive sloping la^vn 
 stretches far in front and to the left of the prison, 
 while, on the right, one of the loveliest rivers 
 of North America, in every thing poetic but its 
 name, spreads its broad surface. The ripple of its 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. 107 
 
 slightest waves, breaking upon the pebbles of the 
 sliore, would fall even upon the ear of the cell's 
 sohtaiy inmate. In what melancholy proximity do 
 nature's beauties and our own moral deformities 
 tlius present themselves ! and how painfully over- 
 whehniug is the conviction thus produced of whai 
 t^vLS world might be, were it not for sin ! 
 
 Entering the massy walls, I was soon convinced 
 that my companion was a frequent, an expected, and 
 a most welcome visiter. Bars and bolts and guards 
 yielded us a ready ingress, and we found ourselves 
 in the enclosure, and dkectly before the cells, where, 
 sohtary, but easily accessible, nearly two hundred 
 immortal beings were now held. They were in- 
 deed felons. Many of them, undoubtedly, had been 
 hardened by a long-contmued course of evil. But 
 Jesus came to seek and to save the lost, and even 
 these, mipromismg as they were, still were " pris- 
 oners of hope." 
 
 " Here," said Mr. Henrj'^, " let us separate. In this 
 row of cells you will find some of the most interesting 
 of the prisoners, and "^ome, too, on whom you may 
 think the labor of Christian instruction bestowed in 
 vain. I will introduce you to them, and then repair 
 to another section of the buildmg." When left 
 alone ^vith each indvidual, to whom I successively 
 addressed myself, my earnest effort was to learn, 
 from his own lips, the views ho entertained of him- 
 self, of his sins, both those against the conununity, 
 for which he was here mcarcerated, and those i lore 
 
108 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 directly or solely against God. Some, with much 
 freedom and feeling, presented their own characters 
 in such a light as cai'ried full conviction that the Holy 
 Spirit had taught them ; and here I learned, what I 
 hatl only suspected before, that the friend who 
 accompanied me had, for several months, with 
 persevering faithfulness, visited these outcasts ; and 
 God had manifestly blessed his efforts, and those 
 of another pious individual, in turning the flinty 
 hearts of some of them to flesh. With tears of 
 gi'atitude, they mentioned his name, and his efforts 
 for their benefit. Each had some independent 
 testimony of his kindness (communication with each 
 other was impossible ); and those who had obviously 
 profited most by his instructions, evinced the 
 greatest degree of attachment and regard to the 
 instrument of their illumination. 
 
 It was indeed as he had apprized me. On some, 
 instruction and the kindest words of aflTectionate 
 entreaty, seemed lost. One who was, in every sense, 
 an old offender, havhig early commenced a career 
 of wickedness, and now, in his waning years, serv- 
 ing out, for the tlmxl time, the period which the law 
 had awarded for his oflTence, was, more than any 
 other individual, hardened, impudent, and appa- 
 rently reckless of his danger. With every tiling 
 around him he seemed at fault. The other pris- 
 oners professed themselves satisfied with their fare 
 and the paternal character and deportment of those 
 to whom the law had committed them. He raut- 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. 109 
 
 tered out bis complaints, in no sparing measure, 
 against all with whom he had connexion. Poor, 
 miserable old man ! with almost unparalleled in- 
 fatuation thus seeking to fill up to the very brim 
 the bitter cup of retribution which so soon must 
 be forced back upon him. 
 
 Every cell was furnished witli a Bible ; and tliose 
 convicts who could read, and who were willing to 
 accept them, were supplied, each Sabbath, with 
 such tracts of appropriate character as they pre- 
 ferred. With these, or w^th the Word of God.. I 
 found most of them engaged ; and to these, after 
 such instruction and counsel as I could give, I felt 
 it a pleasure and rehef again to commend them, 
 that what in my instructions had been erroneous or 
 deficient, might there be corrected and supplied. 
 
 But the results of the mstruction which had here 
 been conmiunicated by one whom I had now 
 learned to regard as peculiarly the convict's friend, 
 had excited in me an intense desh'e to learn, by 
 personal observation, the sacred art and secret of 
 his success. Almost by stealth, therefore, I followed 
 liim to the higher range of cells, where he was now- 
 plying his and the blaster's suit, "to each attentive, 
 solitar}' ear." The projections between the cells 
 entirely shielded me from observation ; and, as I 
 followed him from one to another, so as distinctly 
 to hear his conversations with their several in- 
 mates, a happy opportunity was furnished me to 
 learn his usual method of address. It was uni- 
 10 
 
110 THE CIIIilSTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 fornily characterized l3y great solemnity, earnestness 
 and affection. He approaclied eacli individual with 
 the measured severity and reserve of an offended 
 father. His very manner was calculated, and 
 probably intended, to rebuke all undue famiUarity, 
 wliicli, if allowed, would, in his frequent intercourse, 
 be productive of the most disastrous results. At the 
 same time, there was an entire absence of haughti- 
 ness in his bearing. It all betokened the deep 
 severity of conviction that one great errand had 
 brought him thither, and that every thing foreign to 
 that was an unwelcome intruder. It may, perhaps, 
 be doubted whether this method of approach would 
 succeed with men at large in the world, having am- 
 ple opportunity to select their own associates, and 
 tlieir own topics of conversation. But to the solitary 
 convict, any voice, and almost any theme, is wel- 
 come. His first inquiries generally led direcdy to 
 the great and essential themes of God's character, 
 government, law and grace. He would pass by 
 the evasions and subterfuges, to which some desired 
 to betake themselves, apparently unnoticed ; yet liis 
 further inquiries would sweep all those refuges 
 away, and urge upon the conscience and the heart 
 such considerations as were best adapted to their 
 state. 
 
 Some, whom he addressed, were evidently stran- 
 gers ; and I witnessed, probably, the first interview. 
 Others, it was obvious, had been, as to their spirit- 
 ual state, closely scanned by him before; and he 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. HI 
 
 readily availed liiinself of past concessions, and drew 
 their attention to some unanswered inten*ogatory, on 
 which he had solicited their careful reflection, that 
 they might he better prepared to communicate their 
 matured convictions. His retention and ready 
 application of all these, considering how many 
 were his conversations, each Sabbath, were indeed 
 sm-prising, but clearly e\-inced what the concentrated 
 energy of the mmd can accomplish when remed up 
 by the high requirements of duty, and sustained 
 by the Spirit of God. His most earnest and pro- 
 tracted inteniews were \vith those who most 
 needed, and most cordially welcomed, insti-uction. 
 To these, especially near the close of each intendew, 
 there was a manifestation of such affectionate 
 sohcitude, as ob\-iously seemed to say, that he was 
 ready to impart to them not the gospel only, but 
 also his own soul. He uniformly took their hand, 
 if offered through the nan'ow aperture ; and, while 
 pressing it m his oavti, his whole countenance 
 carrj^ing conviction of the estimate he placed upon 
 their reception of his counsels, he would, in the 
 most solemn and impressive language, cany home 
 his closmg appeal, and briefly commend them to 
 God. To some of them it seemed not ua vam ; for, 
 long after he left them, in noiselessly passing their 
 cells, I noticed that the sighs and prayers of con- 
 trition were yet audibly continued. 
 
 How many, who, at one time, gave promise of 
 amendment, afterwards relapsed; and how many 
 
112 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 who persevered in hopeful reform till sent forth 
 again to an ensnaring world, then to fall more hope- 
 lessly into sin and crime, the records of time or the 
 final judgment can only show. It encourages to 
 perseverance, however, that, of the number reform- 
 ed, few have actually been known to forsake the 
 paths of peace; while some, undoubtedly, as the 
 sequel will shoAV, have been restrained from the 
 practice of much evil by the moral and rehgious 
 instruction which has been furnished them. 
 
 The morning's mtercourse with the convicts in- 
 dividually prepared Mr. Henry for the discharge of 
 a more public duty, which, immediately after a 
 frugal dinner in the apartment of the warden, we 
 repaired to that part of the building used as a chapel 
 to perform. Here all the prisoners vrere closely 
 seated, waiting for our arrival. We entered ; and, 
 for a few moments, the survey of this group of 
 guilt and wretchedness, as it was presented in one 
 view before us, almost overcame me. There v/as, 
 too, something impressive, if not morally subhme, 
 in the discipline here evinced. With only two of 
 the guard and the warden, entu-ely unarmed, we 
 were in the presence of neai-ly two hundred athletic 
 and recently hardened and lawless men, each as 
 free as ourselves, and into whose power, apparent- 
 ly^ — aiid I see not but really, — we threw ourselves 
 without any reserve. But there is moral influence 
 in the gosj^el more potent than fetters or dun- 
 geons. 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. 113 
 
 Before this group, upon the bare pavement on 
 which their seats were arranged, Mr. Henry knelt, 
 and offered a fervent prayer. He seemed to bear to 
 the mercy-seat the case of each class of mdividuals 
 witli w^hom he had lately mmgled, and, with the 
 humble earnestness of one whose exigency, like that 
 of the wi-estling patriarch, impelled hmi to say, " I will 
 not let thee go without the blessing," he pressed his 
 suit, and plead for those before him. In the worthy 
 name of Jesus, and through liis merits alone, were 
 all the intel-cessions offered. It was, indeed, a 
 most affecting consideration, that the community 
 had shut out these men from their regards } their 
 friends had abandoned, and many, undoubtedly, 
 wished to forget them ; and yet the holy man could 
 plead for them with full assurance that the exalted 
 Redeemer still deemed them not unworthy his 
 regard, and, therefore, they were prisoners of hope. 
 Many of their rough features were melted by that 
 prayer, and tears flowed freely from the eyes of 
 those long unused to weep. 
 
 The Sacred Scriptures were then read, and from 
 an appropriate portion they were addressed. The 
 object of the discourse seemed to be, to show them 
 what must be their character in order to enjoy 
 the divine favor, and to press upon them, by the 
 most ob-vdous motives, the attainment of that 
 character. Some of these motives referred par- 
 ticularly, though with sufficient dehcacy, to their 
 unhappy condition. When allusion was made to 
 10^ 
 
114 THE CIimSTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 the situation of those who, once in the bosom of 
 friends, and participating the privileges of the chil- 
 dren of God", had now jjlunged themselves deep 
 in infamy and misery, I noticed some who hid their 
 faces with overwhehning confusion and remorse, 
 nor raised their eyes again till the services were 
 closed, and the signal of the warden bade them 
 silently retire. One of this description, whose tall 
 stature and haggard features rendered him conspicu- 
 ous, in passing the place where we stood, raised his 
 eyes, and, fixing them for a moment on us, beckoned 
 us to follow him to his cell. Judge of my feehngs 
 on recognising, in the altered form and miserable 
 aspect of this man, the wi*eck of a former neighbor 
 and acquaintance. His melancholy story may be 
 briefly told. He was the son of pious parents. His 
 now aged father for many years held the office of 
 
 deacon in the church at . Though amiable 
 
 and correct in his own deportment, as a Christian 
 and a father, his sin was that of Eli. For the evil 
 of his sons he mourned, and even expostulated with 
 them ; but he restrained them not. Moral principle 
 was never earnestly inculcated; the restramts of 
 religion were, of course, unwelcome, and were never 
 enforced upon them with becoming energy. The 
 retched being now before us was one of the eldest 
 >sons. He married early in life, and settled in the 
 paternal neighborhood. An extensive revival of 
 religion saw him and his companion numbered 
 among its hopeful subjects ; and at the same table 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. 115 
 
 from wliich I first received the memorials of a 
 Saviour's sufferings aud love, he w^as also seated. 
 It was soon, however, apparent, that, in him, as on 
 ihe stony gi'ound, the seed had immediately sprung 
 up where "there was no deepness of earth, and, 
 because it had no root, it ■withered away." Along 
 witli painfully apparent coldness of affection, and 
 neglect of reUgious duty, came, for a season, the 
 engrossing cares and distractions of consummate 
 worldly-muidedness. He had now abandoned God, 
 and, at a tune when least prepared for it, the smiles 
 of a hitherto favoring Providence abandoned 
 him. 
 
 The speculations which he had pushed too eager- 
 ly, now involved liim in pecuniary embarrassment. 
 To all the rest was joined — whether as cause 
 or effect, it would not, perhaps, be easy to deter- 
 mine — a decided disposition for inebriety. He was 
 not, indeed, in the common estimation, a drunkard ; 
 but the constant and now free use of intoxicating 
 liquors, was making daily and dreadful inroads upon 
 whatever of peace and enjoyment still remained. 
 When at home, he was sullen and morose ; when 
 abroad, in affecting to be cheerful, he was strangely 
 foohsh and indiscreet. At the late hour of night, 
 those who kept their faithful vigil in anxious expec- 
 tation of his return, often received him " as ho 
 should not be," yet kindly strove to hide it v/ith 
 themselves. But this progress from bad to worse 
 cannot, by such means, be retarded ; and here it was 
 
116 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING 
 
 accelerated with awful rapidity. His appearance 
 gave additional dissatisfaction and alarm to creditors, 
 whose claims were often more earnestly pressed, on 
 account of the singularly inappropriate manner of 
 his refusals and evasions. A crisis was evidently ap- 
 proaching ; nor could its amval be any longer either 
 delayed or forgotten. It can excite little wonder, 
 that, under such circumstances, destitute of early 
 and deep-rooted moral principle, and having now 
 cast away the fear of the Lord, he accepted tlie 
 proffer of aid from a gang of counterfeiters, into 
 whose snares one of his younger brotliers had before 
 fallen. He yielded himself up to the delusive hope 
 which those lawless men desired hhn to cherish, 
 and made liimself and another the dupes of their 
 artifice. His attempts were bold, but unsuccessful, 
 and, abandoned by tliose who had thrust him be- 
 tween themselves and punisliment, he now found 
 himself a guilty, self-condemned, and almost unpitied 
 convict. In the prison, his whole nature seemed 
 "changed, but not improved." On the contrary, 
 the deep moitification of spirit, which the fall from 
 such an elevation had produced, with the total 
 ungodhness to which he now abandoned himself, 
 seemed to have wrought a hard, stubborn, and even 
 revengeful temper, which made him most odious 
 and repulsive. Up to that veiy hour, when we stood 
 before him, no word or look of contrition had escaped 
 him ; and whether the apparent tenderness he now 
 manifested in oin- recognition and brief interview 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND; 117 
 
 was any tiling more than natural sensibility which 
 my sympathy for his changed state and aspect called 
 forth, must be determined by the great Searcher of 
 hearts. An outcast from the church and from the 
 world, to the mercy of God we commended liim, 
 and were constrained, by previous aiTangements, to 
 hasten from the scene. 
 
 The sanctuaiy that evening was filled with pro- 
 fessed w^orshippers, most unlike, in all respects, to 
 those we had just visited. But yet, the deep organ's 
 notes, the harmony of a full-voiced choir, and the 
 reverent attitude of the suppliant multitude, seemed 
 less impressive than the prayer which had been 
 that moiTiing offered for those so long and so fatally 
 prayerless. Even the ministrations of that gospel, 
 which must be always welcome to the renewed, 
 seemed to possess a sweeter relish and more heav- 
 enly attractions, when it fell upon the ears of those 
 grievously wounded by sin, and even now ready to 
 perish. Who would not unite in the prayer of 
 Asaph, "Let the sighing of the prisoner come before 
 thee ; according to the greatness of thy pow^r, 
 preserve thou the sons of death" ? 
 
 Some years had passed away, and the scene 
 of my narrative is changed to one of the principal 
 commercial cities of our country. The close of the 
 Sabbath evening found 3Ir. Henry wandering forth, 
 in lonely musing, toward the principal wharfs, now 
 deserted and sohtary. There was an air of uncom- 
 mon sadness indicated in his movements, and occa- 
 
118 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 sionally, as he raised his eyes, apparently to descry 
 some object in the harbor, they seemed filled with 
 teal's which he strove in vain to suppress. In 
 changing his position for another pier, which 
 stretched farther into the bay, and wliich prom- 
 ised to present a fairer view of the object he 
 was endeavoring to descry, he passed through a 
 dark and narrow alley, and, turnmg its corner, 
 met two men, wlio crossed his way, and passed by 
 him so closely that one of them jostled his steps. 
 Absorbed as he now was with other thoughts, 
 the incident would not have been noticed, had 
 not the other, and taller of the two, fixed on him 
 an earnest and inquiring gaze, which seemed to 
 ask, Have we not met before ? For a moment 
 only did the thought occupy his mind, and he hur- 
 ried on, to gain sight, from the extreme point of the 
 projecting quay, of the object of his solicitude. 
 
 It was now near ten o'clock, and the waning 
 moon just began to shed her hght from the eastern 
 horizon. A gallant ship was riding at anchor, 
 distant, perhaps, a furlong from the position he had 
 now gained. His gaze was riveted, and, with 
 agitating emotion, he seemed to scan her noble form 
 and tall masts, which cast their shadows ahnost to 
 his feet. Scarcely a breath of air ruffled the surface 
 of the broad bay, and the gurgling sound of the 
 swelling tide, as it rushed past the artificial projec- 
 tion on which he stood, was the only interruption of 
 the lonely silence. 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. 119 
 
 A father, but not every father, may judge what 
 were then his feehugs. For that barque, wliich 
 now rested so quietly, was the next morning to 
 spread her sails to the coming breeze, and bear 
 away from him, far and forever, his motherless 
 first-born. Slie who had been his solace and his 
 joy, around whom the doting affections of paternal 
 tenderness had been allowed to gather and entwine, 
 when soiTOW for the loss of the companion of his 
 youth had melted down his soul, — she who was 
 the hvmg image of her whom he mourned, and 
 who was now more sacredly endeared to him than 
 ever, since her heart, renovated by divine grace, and 
 controlled by the Holy Spirit, seemed cemented to 
 his own by the blood of atonement, — even she was 
 to be gazed upon by him, on the coming morning, 
 and probably on that veiy spot, for the last time. 
 After her conversion, she had asked, as did Paul, and 
 Harriet Newell, and ]Mrs. Judson, " Lord, what wilt 
 thou have me to dor" and to her, as to them, the 
 response had been given, " Thou art a chosen vessel 
 unto me, to bear my name far hence unto the 
 heathen, and I will show thee how great things 
 tliou must suffer for my name's sake." She dared 
 not be disobedient to the heavenly mandate, and, 
 fully gathering that the Lord required the sacrifice 
 at her hand, slie had parted with the endearments 
 of home and kmdred, and was now setting forth 
 toward the destmed field of her future toils, for the 
 
120 THE CIIllISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 especial benefit of the degraded and sinful of her 
 own sex in the Farther India. 
 
 Her feelings and convictions on this interesting 
 subject she had dutifully communicated to her father, 
 ffom their first existence to their consummation. The 
 lesson of self-denial, on which she was now prao- 
 tising, was one which liis hps and life had taught her. 
 She could not therefore anticipate, nor did she expe- 
 rience, either opposition or reluctance, on his part, 
 to the measure. " Freely," said he, " have I received, 
 and shall I not freely give ?" But, cheerfully as he 
 had resolved, and steadfastly as he persevered in 
 making this greatest personal sacrifice, it was not for 
 a frail nature, sanctified in part, to carry the resolu- 
 tion into full effect, and sever ties so strong and 
 tender, without a struggle, which he had indeed 
 anticipated, but which, as the moment of separation 
 approached, he now began to fear would quite im- 
 man him. It was to prepare, in some degree, for 
 tlie trying hour, that he had now sought this soli- 
 tude ; that, upon the very spot where the conflict 
 would soon take place, he might thus seek and ob- 
 tain grace to conquer. The place and the hour were 
 adapted to his purpose, and, after viewing, for a few 
 moments, the now silent vessel, which for months 
 would be the home of one so dear to him, he knelt 
 in prayer to ask, both for parent and child, the 
 aid which each now required. It was a spectacle 
 such as moonbeams rarely witness ; and on it angels 
 might look down with interest. 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. 121 
 
 It was the felicity of Mr. Henry, that he never 
 came before God in prayer without such adoring con- 
 ceptions of the divine character and glory, as were 
 happily adapted to tranquillize and elevate his mind. 
 Even on this occasion, the radiance of that Divine 
 Being whom he approached seemed to shed im wont- 
 ed lustre upon his countenance, and cahnness into his 
 soul. He had come to pour out his spirit m agony 
 before God's tin-one ; but in his approach, ere he was 
 aware, entire composure and gi'ateful and cheerful 
 resignation to the will of Heaven, had been restored 
 to him. So clearly did the divine glory and the 
 salvation of perishing heathen seem identified w^ith 
 the offering he was about to make, that his own 
 sacrifice of earthly enjoyment seemed altogether 
 unworthy to be regarded in comparison. That 
 Spu'it, which, all along the way, he had invoked, 
 rendered such gracious and effectual aid in liis 
 supphcation, that, when he expected to mourn, and 
 wrestle, and almost complain, he was enabled to 
 rejoice and triumph. Tears did indeed bedew his 
 cheek, but they were not those of bitter and repining 
 grief — rather of holy joy ; and as he was rendering 
 thanks for this surprising deliverance (how gi'eat, 
 even at that moment, he did not reahze), the sound 
 of footsteps near him interrupted his devotions. He 
 rose from his knees, and, looking round, saw two 
 men rapidly receding from the place where he 
 stood. The one most clearly seen seemed hurried 
 11 
 
122 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 awa)'', almost against liis will, by the more powerful 
 grasp of the other ; and, when removed to a little 
 distance, thej^ appeared in earnest and almost pas- 
 sionate conversation for a few moments, and then 
 suddenly left the wharf. 
 
 His sanctuary had evidently been invaded , and 
 the thought crossed his mind, that perhaps he had 
 unnecessarily exposed himself to observation in those 
 duties which were intended only for the notice of 
 Him who seeth in secret. He recollected, too, the 
 lateness of the hour, and hastened to the friends who 
 had already become sohcitous for his return. 
 
 The next morning's sun had but just commenced 
 his circuit of the heavens, when a multitude were 
 seen standhig on that same wharf; the parting hymn 
 was sung; the fervent prayer was offered; fathei 
 and daughter had separated from an embrace of 
 mutual and almost overpowering tenderness. His 
 eye still followed the boat which was conveying her 
 to the ship, when, pressing through the crowd, a tall 
 and athletic form laid his hand almost rudely upon 
 that father. Turning for h moment, he was present- 
 ed with a sealed envelope, while, witli averted face, 
 the man who offered it hastily departed. The eyes 
 and the heart of Mr. Henry were then, and for some 
 subsequent hours, too full to allow him to examine it. 
 When afterwards he broke the seal, he read with 
 surprise and gratitude the following letter, hastily 
 and almost illegibly written : — 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. 123 
 
 « Dbab Sir, 
 
 " The hand which traces these hues has 
 often been extended thi'ough the gratuigs of the 
 
 prison in to meet your own. Never shall I 
 
 forget the counsels and prayers I have there heard 
 from your lips. For months after my discharge, I 
 studiously followed your advice, and began to feel 
 that the dangers against which you so faithfully 
 warned me, were all passed away. My friends began 
 to inquire, with renewed interest, after my welfare, 
 and at length invited my return to them. To make 
 arrangements for that return, I left my employment 
 in the countiy, and, tlu-ee days smce, arrived in this 
 city. By accident, I met with one of the com- 
 panions of my former career of wickedness. 
 Though younger than myself, he had always 
 possessed an mfluence over me far greater than any 
 other of my associates. All my former regard now 
 impelled me to endeavor to accomphsh his refor- 
 mation. He appeared to hsten to me with deference, 
 and I felt pride in thought of the change which I 
 expected soon to produce in his course. The Sab- 
 bath came, and I proposed his attendance with me 
 on public worship. To this he consented in the 
 morning, on condition that I Avould ride with him a 
 short distance aftei-ward, to visit, as he said, a 
 particular friend. I felt, indeed, some compimctions 
 of conscience m thus profanmg the Sabbath, and 
 more especially when I found the friend he 
 sought was one of liis own character. They were 
 
124 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 soon joined by others of kindred spirit, and, not wish- 
 ing, in their presence, to di'aw upon my companion 
 any suspicions that would excite their ridicule, 
 and perhaps their hatred, and thus endanger my 
 plans for liis future amendment, I strove to appear 
 as cheerful and as familiar as possible. The social 
 glass went round, and once and again, to banish 
 their suspicions, I partook. We returned to the 
 city too late for evening service ; in fact, unfitted 
 for it. In company with him whom I had purposed 
 to lead, but whom I now rather followed, we strolled 
 from street to street, and from alley to alley, till, 
 near the principal dock, we passed so near a 
 Bohtary gentleman, that the master sphit who now 
 controlled me, contrived, with his usual dexterity, to 
 secure liis purse. I did not at the moment perceive 
 what he had done, perhaps on account of a shght 
 conviction, which his appearance m the partial 
 darkness gave, that the man we met was not a 
 stranger to me. Turning a corner, however, brought 
 us near a lamp, and the ill-gotten treasure was im- 
 mediately scanned with eager haste, and the manner 
 of its attainment admitted, wdth a kind of appeal 
 which seemed to demand my concurrence. Almost 
 stupified with amazement, I had not time or decision 
 to reply, before he communicated his further pur- 
 pose. ' The contents of this purse give promise of 
 richer spoils. Take this m your keeping, and I wdll 
 follow this midnight lounger, and soon meet you 
 here.' Horror-struck, I stood gazing after him. The 
 
THE CONVICT'S FRIEND. 125 
 
 purse lay open in my hand. I cast my eye over it, 
 and your initials, plainly engraved on its clasp, and 
 some undefined shadows of recollection, seemed to 
 awaken me from the dream. Without any other 
 pui-pose than to overtake and dissuade the lawless 
 man from his nefarious pui^pose, I hastily followed 
 him. The moon was now risen, and T soon caught 
 sight of him, as he was gaining the covert of a pro- 
 jection just beyond which the stranger, m an attitude 
 of suppUcation, perfectly unconscious of his approach, 
 was now absorbed in secret communion with God. 
 The moon shone full upon the features. In breath- 
 less silence I approached. Gracious Pro\ddence! 
 could it be ? yes, it must be he. The same form, in 
 the same attitude, had often riveted my eyes and my 
 heart when he interceded for us in the prison. 
 All his mstructions, which I had that veiy day begun 
 to disregard, rushed upon my recollection, and I 
 could scarce restrain the impulse wliich I felt imme- 
 diately to throw myself at his feet. As yet my late 
 comrade had not perceived my approach. Prepared 
 for his diabolical pui-pose, he now crept from his 
 concealment ; he approached the kneeling suppliant ; 
 his hand was just raising a stone, the fall of which 
 must have been fatal, when, with a giant's strength, 
 I seized and bore him away. His indignation, at 
 first, was m proportion to his disappointment. He 
 affected to be incredulous that I could recognise 
 you under such circumstances ; but a slight ex- 
 amination of the purse now in my possession showed 
 11* 
 
126 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 the certainty of my convictions. Even he confessed 
 to me, that he would more readily have assaulted a 
 man aimed, and m the attitude of defiance, than one 
 who was addressing God in prayer. ' Twice,' said 
 he, 'my courage failed me, and I determined to 
 retire ; but the demon of avarice hardened my 
 heart, and in another moment his rescue would 
 have been unpossible.' 
 
 " The events of the last evening now seem to me 
 as a dream. Your purse hes before me. It is the 
 same from whicli you generously furnished me, for 
 a few days, on the morning when I was discharged 
 from the prison. Its contents I return; but the 
 ti-ifling memorial itself I must preserve, to remind 
 me continually of those lessons w^hich you have im- 
 parted, and wliich, now more deeply than ever, I 
 desire to have engraven on my heart. I now" feel 
 that you much better understood than I the dangers 
 to which my path is exposed. Yesterday has given 
 me another warning, — to shun the company of evil 
 men, rather than boast of my power to reform them ; 
 to guard agamst violations of the Sabbath, and 
 against the intoxicating cup. May that impressive 
 attitude of the convict's friend be ever present to my 
 mind, and often win me to a throne of grace to 
 which I know you will bear the case of the now 
 humbled and self-distrustful 
 
 George." 
 
THE BAPTISM. 
 
 BY MRS. SIGOURNET. 
 
 'TwAS near the close of that blest day, when, with 
 
 melodious swell, 
 To crowded mart and lonely shade had spoke the 
 
 Sabbath-bell, 
 And on a broad, unruffled stream, with bordering 
 
 verdure bright. 
 The westering sunbeam richly shed a tinge of 
 
 crimson light, — 
 
 When, lo ! a solemn train appeared, by their loved 
 
 pastor led. 
 And sweetly rose the holy hymn as toward that 
 
 stream they sped ; 
 And he its cleavmg, crystal breast, with graceful 
 
 movement, trod. 
 His steadfast eye upraised, to seek communion with 
 
 his God. 
 
128 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Then, bending o'er his staff, approached the willow- 
 fringed shore, 
 
 A man of many weaiy years, with fun*owed temples 
 hoar ; 
 
 And faintly breathed his trembling lip, " Behold ! I 
 fain would be 
 
 Buried in baptism with my Lord, ere death shall 
 summon me." 
 
 With brow benign, like Him whose hand did 
 
 wavering Peter guide, 
 The pastor bore his tottering frame through that 
 
 translucent tide. 
 And plunged him 'neath the shrouding wave, and 
 
 spake the triune name. 
 And joy upon that withered face in wondering 
 
 radiance came. 
 
 And then advanced a lordly fonn in manhood's 
 
 towering pride. 
 Who from the gilded snares of earth had wisely 
 
 turned aside, 
 And, following in His steps who bowed to Jordan's 
 
 startled wave, 
 In deep humility of soul, this faithful witness 
 
 gave 
 
THE BAPTISM. 129 
 
 Who next ? A fair and fragile form in snowy robe 
 
 doth move, 
 That tender beauty in her eye that wakes the vow 
 
 of love. 
 Yea, come, thou gentle one, and clothe thyself with 
 
 strength divine : 
 This stem world hath a thousand darts to vex a 
 
 breast like thme. 
 
 Beneath its smile a traitor's kiss is oft in darkness 
 
 bound : 
 Cling to that Comforter who holds a balm for every 
 
 wound ; 
 Propitiate that Protector's care who never will 
 
 forsake. 
 And thou shalt strike the harp of praise even when 
 
 thy heartstrings break. 
 
 Then, with a firm, unshrinking step, the watery 
 
 path she trod, 
 And gave, with woman's deathless trust, her being 
 
 to her God ; 
 And when, all drooping from the flood, she rose 
 
 like hly's stem, 
 Methought that spotless brow might wear an angel's 
 
 diadem. 
 
130 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Yet more! Yet more! How meek they bow to 
 
 thcii' Redeemer's rite, 
 Then pass with music on their way, hke joyous sons 
 
 of hght ! 
 But, hngering on those shores, I staid till eveiy 
 
 sound was hushed ; 
 For hallowed musings o'er my soul like spring- 
 
 swoln rivers rushed. 
 
 "'Tis better," said the voice within, "to bear a 
 
 Christian's cross,. 
 Than sell this fleeting life for gold, which Death 
 
 shall prove but di'oss ; 
 Far better, when yon shrivelled skies are like a 
 
 bamier furled. 
 To share in Christ's reproach than gain the glory of 
 
 the world." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF JESUS. 
 
 •■' For the battle is the Lord's." 1 Sam. xvii. 47. 
 
 BY THE REV. J. LAW SOW, 
 
 HISSIOKART, CALCUTTA. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the warlike clarion : 
 
 " On to the battle, heroes, on ! 
 
 To arms ! to arms !" resounds on high 
 
 The voice of w^ar and victory 
 
 Haste to the battle ; see, the Lord 
 Waves to the clouds his conquering sword ! 
 " To arms ! to arms !" I hear the cry, 
 " On, on to death or victory." 
 
 High in the winds, the flag, unfurled, 
 Reveals the red cross to the world ; 
 To arms ! to arms ! I haste, I fly. 
 To war and bloodless victory. 
 
132 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 The fierce, embattled hosts of hell 
 Before the dreadful onset fell ; 
 " To arms ! to arms !" was once the cry ; 
 But now tlie trump sounds, " Victory !" 
 
 Lo ! the white war-horse treads them down ; 
 I know the Rider by his crown : 
 " All hail ! All hail !" his legions cry, — 
 " Jesus, be thine the victory !" 
 
PAGODA AT RANGOON. 
 
 BT REV. JAMES D. K>0TVLE3. 
 
 The annexed plate is a reduced copy of a beauti- 
 fully colored engraving, executed in England from a 
 di-awing made at Rangoon, while the British troops 
 were in possession of that city, in 1824. It presents 
 one view of the great pagoda near Rangoon, a temple 
 of Gaudama, which is said to enjoy more celebrity, 
 and to receive more numerous visits and more ex- 
 pensive offerings, than any other pagoda in Burmah, 
 on account, partly, of its extent and splendor, but 
 principally because it is supposed to contain a relic 
 (a small lock of hair, we beheve) of Gaudama liim- 
 self. The principal pile, of wliich a partial view is 
 given on the left, is a huge pyi'amid of brick. In 
 tlie foregi'ound of the plate are nmnerous small ^ 
 pagodas, ^vith their spires, and structures of 
 various shapes, interspersed "vvith figures of imag- 
 inary beings. The pagoda itself, and all its 
 sun'oundmg buildings and images, being profusely 
 decorated with gold leaf, present to the eye a splendid 
 scene. The plate is interesting as a specimen of 
 12 
 
134 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Burman arcliitecture, which displays considerable 
 skill, mingled with a seini-barbarous taste for glitter 
 and for incongruous decorations. But the Christian 
 \^^ll gaze on this plate with feeUngs of commiser- 
 ation for the deluded worshippers of Gaudama, 
 and with sorrowful reflections on the guilt and 
 degradation of idolatry. The description, given 
 by ]Mrs. Judson, of the pagoda, and of the cere- 
 monies and offerings with which the worship of 
 Gaudama is there celebrated, is subjoined, as an 
 appropriate accompaniment and illustration of the 
 plate : 
 
 " This is the season for the great feast of Gauda- 
 ma. It commenced yesterday, and it is to continue 
 for three days. It is observed all over the countiy ; 
 but I presume the multitude collected in this place 
 is much greater than at any other, excepting Ava. 
 Priests and people come in boats from a great dis- 
 tance, to worship at the pagoda in this place, which 
 is supposed to contain a relic of Gaudama. The 
 viceroy, on these days, goes out in all the pomp 
 and splendor possible, dressed and ornamented 
 with all his msignia of office, attended by the mem- 
 bers of government and the common people. After 
 kneeling and worshipping at the pagoda, they gen- 
 erally spend the day in amusements, such as boxing, 
 dancing, singing, theatrical exhibitions, and fire- 
 works. Most of the older people spend the night 
 at the pagoda, and listen to the instructions of the 
 priests. 
 
PAGODA AT RAXGOON. J35 
 
 " Great and expensive offerings are made at this 
 season. One last year, presented by a member of 
 government, cost three thousand tickals, or twelve 
 hundred dollai-s. It was a kind of portable pagoda, 
 made of bamboo and paper, richly ornamented with 
 gold leaf and paintings. It was a hundred feet in 
 height, and the circumference of its base about fifty. 
 Half way up its height, was a man ludicrously 
 dressed, vnth a mask on his face, white wmgs on his 
 shoulders, and artificial finger nails, two inches in 
 length, in tlie posture of dancing. This oflTering was 
 carried by sixty men, preceded by a band of music, 
 and followed by the ofiicer who made it, and his 
 suite. Other offerings presented at this festival are 
 various kinds of artificial trees, the branches and 
 twigs of which are filled with cups, bowls, handker- 
 chiefs, and garments of all descriptions ; these are 
 given to the slaves attached to the pagoda, who, the 
 week following, have something like a fair, to dispose 
 of their offerings. 
 
 " The pagoda, to wliich such multitudes resort, is 
 one of the largest and most splendid m the empire. 
 After having ascended a flight of steps, a large gate 
 opens, when a wild, fairy scene is abruptly presented 
 to view. It resembles more the descriptions we 
 sometimes have in novels, of enchanted castles, or 
 ancient abbeys in ruins, than anything we ever meet 
 in real fife. The gi'ound is completely covered with 
 a variety of ludicrous objects which meet the eye in 
 
136 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 every direction, interspersed with the banyan, cocoa- 
 nut, and toddy trees. Here and there are large open 
 buildings, containhig hUji;e images of Gaudama; 
 some in a sitthig, some in a sleepmg position, sur- 
 rounded by images of priests and attendants, in the 
 act of worship, or hstening to his instructions. Be- 
 fore the unage of Gaudama are erected small altars, 
 on which offerings of fruit, flowers, &c. are laid. 
 Large images of elephants, hons, angels, and demons, 
 together with a number of indescribable objects, 
 all assist in filhng the picturesque scene. 
 
 " The ground on which this pagoda is situated, 
 commands a view of the surrounding country, w^hich 
 presents one of the most beautiful landscapes in 
 nature. The polished spires of the pagodas, glisten- 
 ing among the trees at a distance, appear like the 
 steeples of meeting-houses in our American sea- 
 ports. The verdant appearance of the country, the 
 hills and valleys, ponds and rivers, the banks of 
 which are covered with cattle, and fields of rice, — 
 all, in their turn, attract the eye, and cause the 
 beholder to exclaun, ' Was this dehghtful country 
 made to be the residence of idolaters ? Are those 
 ghttering spires, which, in consequence of association 
 of ideas, recall to mind so many animating sensa- 
 tions, but the monuments of idolatiy?' Oh! my 
 friend ! scenes like these, productive of feelmgs so 
 various and opposite, do, notwithstanding, fire the 
 Boul with an unconquerable desire to make an effort 
 
PAGODA AT RANGOON. 137 
 
 to rescue this people from destruction, and lead 
 them to the Rock that is liigher than they."* 
 
 In 1824, the pagoda was occupied by the EngUsh 
 troops as a fortress, and was defended, by a small 
 force, against the attacks of a large Burman army 
 who made several assaults upon it, but who were 
 at last obliged to retire, with the loss of a great 
 number of men. 
 
 * Memoir of Mrs. Judson, p. 164, 165. 4th edition. 
 12* 
 
TO THE EYE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " MODERN GREECE. 
 
 Throne of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
 Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, 
 Where Fancy's fire, Affection's melting beam, 
 Thought, Genius, Passion, reign in turn supreme, 
 And many a feeling words can ne'er impart, 
 Finds its own language to pervade the heart ; 
 Thy power, bright orb, what bosom hath not felt. 
 To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt. 
 And, by some spell of undefined control, 
 With magnet influence, touch the secret soul ? 
 
 Light of the features ! in the morn of youth. 
 Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth ; 
 And, ere the world, with all-corrupting sway. 
 Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray, 
 Th' ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal. 
 Or speak one thought that interest would conceal : 
 While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror, given 
 But to reflect the purity of Heaven ; — 
 Oh ! then, how lovely, there, unveiled, to trace 
 Th' unsullied brightness of each mental grace ! 
 
TO THE EYE. 139 
 
 When Genius lends thee all his living light. 
 Where the full beams of intellect unite, 
 When Love illumes thee with his varying ray, 
 Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play, 
 Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues, 
 Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews,— 
 Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell 
 Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well, 
 Bid some new feeling to existence start, 
 From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. 
 
 And, oh ! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, 
 That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time, 
 Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze. 
 The light of Heaven, the hope of nobler days 
 (As glorious dreams, for utterance far too hiffh. 
 Flash through the mist. of dim mortality). 
 Who does not own, that, through thy lightning beams, 
 A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams ? 
 That pure, though captive effluence of the sky 
 The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die ! 
 
THE REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 " Women; in the course of action, describe a smaller circle 
 than men 5 but the perfection of a circle consists not in its 
 dimensions, but in its correctness." 
 
 Hannah More. 
 
 BY MISS ANNE TATLOR. 
 
 * * * * why this hopeless feud ? 
 
 This worse than civil strife, 
 Wliich long, with poisoned darts, has strewed 
 
 The vale of social life ? 
 
 To each, an helpmate each was made. 
 
 Congenial, but diverse : 
 The rougher path was his to tread ; 
 
 The mild domestic, hers. 
 
 His iron arm was braced for toil, 
 
 Or danger's ruder shock ; 
 To win the cursed, reluctant soil, 
 
 Or fence the caverned rock. 
 
 ^ 
 
THE KEMOXSTRANCE. 141 
 
 The watchful eye, the pliant hand, 
 
 To gentler duties led. 
 By iier the rural rite \yas planned, 
 
 The simple table spread. 
 
 Composed, retiring, modest, she ; 
 
 Impeti.ious he, and bra^-e : 
 His passions, boisterous as the sea ; 
 
 Hers, oil upon the wave. 
 
 Wearied in far-extended chase. 
 
 His ready meal she dressed ; 
 With smiles illumed liis dwelling-place, 
 
 With kindness soothed his breast. 
 
 Thus, in the days of ancient man, 
 Th' harmonious friendship grew. 
 
 Ere yet those hostile names began 
 
 The tyrant and the shrew 
 
 'Twas Nature's will that each obeyed ; 
 
 Nor envious question rose : 
 They felt for mutual semce made ; 
 
 For friends, and not for foes. 
 
 But, tired of Nature's wise control, 
 
 Immediate war began : 
 He had the power, and, proud of soul, 
 
 Became the tyrant, man. 
 
142 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Too feeble to sustain her part. 
 
 >S7ie fell a sullen prey ; 
 Content, by influence and art, 
 
 To counteract his sway. 
 
 Degenerate with degenerate time. 
 Still wider breach was seen ; 
 
 His was the bold, ferocious crime 
 Hers, petulant and mean. 
 
 Strange ! thus to mar the plan of Heaven, 
 
 Ingeniously perverse ! 
 To turn the solace it had given, 
 
 A blessing, to a curse ! 
 
 Sure 'twas a cold, mimanly pride, 
 
 The harmony that broke : 
 Why should the oak the hly chide, 
 
 Because she's not an oak ? 
 
 If all were lihes, where's the use, 
 Or strength, the forest yields ? 
 
 If oaks, the fragrancy we lose. 
 And beauty of the fields. 
 
 Through followmg ages, dark and drear, 
 
 Th' unnatural «ontest ran ; 
 Nor generous feeling stole a tear 
 
 From hard, obdurate man ! 
 
THE REMOXSTRAXCE. 143 
 
 Woman his haughty will consigned 
 
 In joyless paths to run ; 
 No beam of day-hght reached her mind, 
 
 And sages said she'd none. 
 
 At length the brilliant western star 
 
 Of knowledge 'gan to rise ; 
 The mists of ignorance, afar, 
 
 Rolled sullen from the skies. 
 
 Neglected woman, from the night 
 
 Of dark oppression raised, 
 Caught the fair dawn of mental light, 
 
 And blessed it as she gazed. 
 
 One champion, hardy and alone, 
 
 Stood forth her cause to plead : 
 But no ; the weapons we disown, 
 
 That ask a martial deed. 
 
 Enlightened feehng shall subdue, 
 
 Or may we still endure. 
 Nor brave a combat, though we knew 
 
 Tiiat \'ictor}' were sure. 
 
 Triumph were only bright defeat ; 
 
 Disgrace, the laurel crown : 
 Our conquest is composed retreat. 
 
 Concealment our reno^vn. 
 
144 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 The right that Nature gave we claim, — 
 
 Just honors of our kind : 
 We envy not the manly frame 
 
 Of body or of mind. 
 
 Man, in his way, perfection knows ; 
 
 And ive as much in ours ; 
 The violet is not the rose, 
 
 Yet both alike are flowers. 
 
 Thus Venus round a narrow sphere 
 
 Conducts her silver car ; 
 Nor aims, nor seems to interfere, 
 
 With Jove's imperial star. 
 
 Athwart the dark and deep'ning gloom 
 
 Their blending rays unite. 
 And with commingled beams illume 
 
 The drear expanse of night. 
 
 Boyle, Locke, and Newton, deep in lore, 
 
 Marl's lofty annals trace ; 
 Edgeworth, and Hamilton, and More^ 
 
 Our living annals grace. 
 
 His soul is thoughtful and profound, 
 
 Her^s brilliant and acute — 
 Plants cultured each in different ground, 
 
 And bearing different fruit. 
 
THE REMONSTRANCE. 145 
 
 Among the social duties led, 
 
 Where each excels in part, 
 Man's proudest gloiy is his head, 
 
 A woman's is her heart. 
 
 Unwearied, in the toilsome course, 
 
 He chmbs the hill of fame. 
 Takes immortalit}- by force. 
 
 And wins a mighty name. 
 
 Along a cool, sequestered way, 
 
 Her quiet walk she winds ; 
 Sheds milder sunshine on his day, 
 
 His brow with flowers binds. 
 
 Of ait mtuitive possessed. 
 Her infant tram she rears ; 
 
 To virtue by her smiles caressed 
 Or chastened by her tears ; — 
 
 Beside the flittmg midnight lamp. 
 With fond and wakeful eye, 
 
 Wipes gently off the dying damp. 
 Or soothes the parting sigh. 
 
 'Tis here that woman brightest shines 
 (Though bright in other spheres) : 
 
 Her name is drawn m fairest lines, 
 When written by her tears. 
 13 
 
146 . THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Yet not tho weak, the puny thing, 
 
 Subdued to silly wo ; 
 The firmest dignity may spring 
 
 Where softest feelings gi'ow. 
 
 With you m mental fields to stray 
 
 She has not ill assumed, 
 And follows in the lucid way 
 
 Your studies have illumed. 
 
 Then why, * * * *, why control 
 
 That dictate of the heart, 
 Which could not feel itself a whole, 
 
 Till woman shared a part ? 
 
 Why look with hard, unkindly view, 
 
 On woman's frailer part ? 
 As if the weeds of folly grew 
 
 But in a female heart. 
 
 In sorrow and m sm combined, 
 Both sentenced to the tomb, 
 
 ^Twould better speak a chastened mind, 
 To cheer each other's doom. 
 
 Sweet were the pilgrimage of those, 
 Who, hand in hand to heaven, 
 
 Would learn the cynic eye to close. 
 Forgiving and forgiven. 
 
THE REMONSTRANCE. 147 
 
 Eve fled for refuge from her shame, 
 
 Her gi-ief, to Adam's breast ; 
 The ruined hei'o felt the claim, 
 
 Nor generous love repressed. 
 
 Then, still let generous love beguile 
 
 The weaiy walk of Mfe ; 
 Nor waste a sigh, nor lose a smile, 
 
 In jealousy and strife. 
 
THE NEW HEAVENS AND THE NEW 
 EARTH. 
 
 " Nevertheless, we, according to his promise, look for new 
 heavens and a new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness." 
 
 2 Peter, iii. 13. 
 
 " And I saw a new heaven and a new earth ; for the first 
 heaven and the first earth were passed away." 
 
 Rev. xxi. 1. 
 
 If, in this lower world, where sin has appeared, 
 and introduced so many bitter woes, and where even 
 the very soil has been visited with a curse ; if here 
 Nature smiles so sweetly, and the birds warble, and 
 the flowers breathe, and the hills wave their woods, 
 on waters that reflect then* beauties ; if the teemuig 
 wonders of the elements surpass our feeble powers 
 to describe, and seem to ask for the intellect of an 
 angel or the inspiration of a prophet, — oh! liov/ 
 magnificent will the scenery of heaven appear, 
 when the curtain which now conceals eternity 
 from time shall be removed ! 
 
 " What gardens there, what bowers and vales, 
 What living streams, melodious gales, 
 To glad the immortal climes \" 
 
THE NEW HEAVENS, &,c. 149 
 
 If the sun now shines from the heavens upon a 
 dark and guilty world with such radiance (and who 
 has not felt that it is a pleasant tiling to behold the 
 light ?) ; if the silver moon and the stars of heaven 
 send forth so pure a splendor on a polluted orb, — 
 what magnificence and glory must pervade the 
 dwelling-place of Deity, where there is no night, and 
 where there is the open vision of the great Source of 
 light ! If, in the present state, there are so many 
 modifications of beauty in the world ; if the eye be so 
 eloquent, the form so godlike ; if bodies born to die 
 exhibit such sprightliness and grace on their passage 
 to the tomb, — how glorious to gaze on bodies of ce- 
 lestial birth, the dwelling-places of pure mtelligence ! 
 how joyous to see the whole population shining in 
 immortal youth, all free from the curse which 
 pursues man from the cradle to the grave! holuiess 
 in eveiy eye, and love in every heart ! 
 
 If here knowledge is good for the soul of man, 
 and it affords interest to the mind to enlarge its 
 acquamtance with God and his will, even through 
 a glass darkly ; if man fiiids a cliann in penetrating 
 into the ahnost unearthly imaginings of those master 
 minds who have made the deepest researches 
 into the cause and reason of present appearances, — 
 oh! what ecstasies will be felt when the soul is 
 ripened, when all mediums are removed, wher. 
 we know all mysteries, when matter and mind are 
 ahke unfolded to our gaze, and we are students 
 of the universe, under the teachuig of the blessed 
 13* 
 
150 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 God, the great First Cause ! If here, where our 
 choicest pleasures are short-hved, wliere smiles 
 and tears keep m constant familiarit}'^, and farewells 
 unparadise the greenest spots in our pilgrimage, — 
 if here we can extract a healing bahn from the 
 mterchange of affection, — then what holy joy, 
 what pure communion, where harmony and love 
 aie pei-petual residents, and partings are unknowTi, 
 where the fold is safe from intrusion^ and the only 
 change the inhabitant knows is from bUss to bhss, 
 from joy to joy, from glory to gloiy ! If, in this 
 unfriendly world, where Satan is a prince, and 
 sm bears power, and where mipurity mingles 
 itself with our holiest services, and fear takes hold 
 of us at the very horns of the altar, — if even here 
 love can exert such a constraining influence, and 
 hope can impart a joy full of immortahty and faith, 
 can give present peace, and reveal the beauties of 
 the land yet afar off, then, O for a sight of the land 
 where sin has no place, Satan no influence, sorrow 
 no subject, — where songs of praise shall never be 
 mterrupted by wandering hearts and weary powers ! 
 If we experience holy pleasure in meditating on 
 the trials and labors of a Luther, and perusing the 
 pious aspirations of a Leighton, — in dwelling on the 
 eventful history of the church, the reasoning of 
 Paul, the songs of David, and the words of Him 
 who spake as never man did, — what will it be to 
 join the general assembly and church of tlje first- 
 born, to listen to the trial of faith from the patriarch's 
 
THE NEW HEAVENS, &c. 151 
 
 OAvn lips, and listen to the universal acknowledg- 
 ment, from a multitude that man cannot number, 
 " He led us forth by the right way I" — above all, how 
 rapturous the transport when we see Jesus, and 
 ai-e hke him, and walk under his guidance ! 
 
 If it affords so dehghtful an employment to the 
 pious mind to trace the mipressions of the renewing 
 spirit upon the old man, and to trace the agency 
 of Heaven in all the multiphed affaks of a daily 
 pro\ddence, although the eye be dim, and the 
 surrounding clouds, tlu'ough wliich we gaze, are 
 dense, — then how dehghtful to sit at the very 
 feet of the Mediator and the God of providence, 
 and mark how wisdom, and truth, and love, and 
 mercy, were all enhsted in the economy of Pro\d- 
 dence and the methods of grace for om* good 
 on earth and our glory in heaven! 
 
 If, m solitude and wo, we noAV find it good to 
 draw nigh unto God, and cast all our cares upon 
 our unseen Friend, — if true joys are reaUzed in 
 uniting with our fellow-worshippers m the gates 
 of Zion, — how transpoi*ting will be our rapture 
 when we join the nations of the redeemed, and 
 enter upon the goodly company of angels, and have 
 heaven for a sanctuaiy and eternity for a Sabbath ! 
 But these heavens and this earth, with all their 
 beauties, ai-e fated to disappear; theu- final hour 
 is decreed by Him of whom Job said, " I know that 
 thou canst do eveiy thing ;" by Him who has 
 declared, " Behold, I create all things new." 
 
152 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING- 
 
 There shall be a new heaven and a new earth, 
 wherein dwelleth righteousness, — a world of truth, 
 and hoUness, and peace; for the mouth of the 
 Lord hath spoken it. Then why are men intent 
 upon present scenes, bound up m passing events, 
 satisfied with short-lived pleasures? Why do not 
 men hve for the whole of tlieir existence ? Why, 
 in the enjoyment of gifts, do they forget the Giver ? 
 Why should the wayfaring man, who dwells in 
 the tent, forget his home and his fair portion? 
 Let the eye of faith gaze on the reahties of heaven, 
 till, charmed with their beauty, the whole man is 
 brought under the influence of the powers of the 
 world to come. 
 
 J. O. C. 
 
THE BARD. 
 
 Yes, I have marked his beaming eye, 
 When, bendmg o'er the tuneful lyre, 
 
 He drew such tones of melody 
 As listemng angels might admire. 
 
 But when, with gentler touch, he woke 
 
 Its soft and melancholy strain. 
 And sung the heart that sorrow broke, 
 
 Or mourned the captive's galling chain, — 
 
 Her holy power diffusing round, 
 
 Came Mercy, breathing from each chord ; 
 
 Oppression heard, and fled the sound. 
 
 And Vengeance dropped the murderous sword. 
 
 His harp is mute, his song is past, 
 
 His eyes are closed in lasting sleep 
 And o'er that lone retreat — his last — 
 
 Dejected Friendship loves to weep. 
 
 'Tis said that hallowed symphonies 
 Are heard around his mournful grave, 
 
 Wiiere day's last beam of beauty hes 
 Expiring on the crimsoned wave. 
 
154 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 The freshest hue that spring bestows, 
 The sweetest flowers of summer's bloom, 
 
 Nature, like grieved Aflfection, shows, 
 To grace that miDstrel's humble tomb. 
 
 But vain the music Fancy hears, 
 And vain the bloom that paints the sod ; 
 
 His sph'it asks no friendly tears. 
 He sweeps his lyre before his God. 
 
 Enough that Mercy's voice was known 
 To raise his hope, and calm his fear ; 
 
 He boasts a richer, nobler tone. 
 Which wondering seraphs love to hear. 
 
 T. H. W. 
 
A PRAYER. 
 
 BY REV. GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 
 
 Within some lonely and retired spot, 
 
 Unknown to all, save to my flock and thee, 
 
 My God, be mine the ^■illage pastor's lot, 
 To spend my days in cahu utiht}\ 
 
 And w^hen the sweet-toned bells, at holy time, 
 CaU to the house of God the pious few. 
 
 Be mine to lead them in the sunple chime 
 
 Of praise to Him to whom their praise is due ! 
 
 And be it mine the -widow's bursting heart. 
 And the sad oi-phan's lonely pang, to calm ; 
 
 And heal the wounded spirit's anguished sjnart, 
 AVith holy Gilead's sorrow-heaMng balm. 
 
 And be it mine, beneath the lowly shed, 
 
 To point the wandering one the way to heaven ; 
 
 And soothe the sufferings of the dying bed 
 With the reviving tale of sins forgiven. 
 
156 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 And if, my God, in some high-favored hour, 
 My hfe and labors be approved by thee, 
 
 I'll envy not the pride of pomp and power, 
 Nor sigh for earth's sublimest dignity. 
 
THE 
 
 EXCEEDING SINFULNESS OF SIN 
 
 EXHIBITED IN THE GOSPEL OF CHRIST. 
 
 Sr REV. WILLIAM HAMILTOJN". 
 
 The dispensations of Providence furnish us 
 with many striking and awful proofs of the 
 criniinaUty and enormity of transgression. The 
 ravages of famine, the desolations of pestilence, 
 the wholesale waste and havoc of war; the tur- 
 bulence and havoc of pubhc life, and the fretfulness, 
 irritation and discord, which lower over private 
 habitations, and darken and trouble the domestic 
 circle; the savage satisfaction and cold-blooded 
 cruelty with which the mercenary and covetous 
 batten on the hapless victims of their rapacity and 
 violence ; the wrecks of the most expensive schemes, 
 and the frustration of the dearest hopes ; the 
 povert}', disgrace and suffering, which tread so 
 closely on the heels of vice ; and the scenes of lam- 
 entation and sorrow every where created by the 
 ceaseless operations of death, — all most loudly pro- 
 claim, that it is an evil and a bitter thing to depart 
 14 
 
158 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 from the Most High, and that sin is alike the foe of 
 God, and the plague and scourge of man. 
 
 But, calamitous and painful as they are, can any 
 one of these events, or even the whole of them, 
 when taken together, convey an idea half so deep and 
 affectuig, of the turpitude and baseness of the guilt 
 and atrocity of this root of all bitterness, as the cross 
 of the Lord Jesus Christ ? Let the smner only 
 reflect on the divine dignity, the infinite perfections, 
 the uncreated and eternal excellences of Him, who, 
 in agony and blood, was suspended there ; let him 
 remember that the illustrious and adorable Sufferer 
 was no less than the l)rightness of the Father's glory, 
 and the express image of his person ; He whom all 
 the angels revere, and all nature obeys ; — let him 
 think of all this, and then say what must be the 
 amount of the evil and mahguity of sin, which, 
 before mercy could be extended to the criminal, 
 stretched the Holy One of God upon the accursed 
 tree, and brought the Prince of life to the darkness 
 and dust of death. 
 
 Can the mind conceive, or could Omnipotence, 
 with all its vast resources, have employed a means 
 of manifesting, in a manner by the ten thousandth 
 part so tremendous and moving, the unutterable, 
 the infinite enormity of transgression, as the suffei- 
 ings and death of the ahnighty and ever blessed 
 Immanuel ? Could a proclamation from the throne 
 of the Eternal, announcing his detestation of this foul 
 and loathsome principle of mischief and of misery. 
 
THE SINFULNESS OF SIN. 159 
 
 and his fixed determination, in every instance, to 
 punish it Avith terrible and unsparing rigor ; could 
 the expulsion of the angels that fell from the regions 
 of Ught, and the banishment of the first apostate 
 human pair from the seat of innocence and bUss ; 
 could the destruction of the old world by water, the 
 overthrow of the cities of the plam, the subversion 
 of the whole frame of nature for the base and un- 
 pious revolt of man, or the everlasting anguish and 
 wailings of the place of despah, have left on the 
 mmd of the criminal, or have spread over the 
 empire of Jehovah, an impression half so deep and 
 indelible, of the evil and danger of iniquity, as that 
 which is produced by the suffering and death of 
 the Son of God and the Lord of glory ? 
 
 The anniliilation of the material universe, with 
 all its enormous load of worlds, the never-ending 
 wretchedness and ruin of all the guilty inhabitants 
 which it contains, sad and disastrous as such 
 catastrophies may appear, shrink into insignificance, 
 and are less than nothing, when compared mth the 
 incarnation, the sufferings, and dying agonies of 
 Immanuel ! They are only creatures, but he is the 
 ever-blessed and all-glorious Creator. Mighty and 
 immense as they seem, their dimensions are 
 limited, and their magnitude and value can easily be 
 told by Him, who, by his intelhgence planned, by 
 his power produced, and by his unremitting energy 
 pervades, sustams, and regulates the whole. But 
 what bounds can we assign to his majesty and 
 
160 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 grandeur, or what mind can comprehend the per- 
 fections and the glories of Him who speaks and it 
 is done, who commands and all things stand fast ; 
 who formed creation by a word, and, were it this 
 day dissolved, could in a moment, and with ease, 
 replace it ; who is able to do again what he has 
 uheady done, and to outdo all that he has yet per- 
 formed ? — for he is not only mighty, but almighty ; 
 not only sufficient, but all-sufficient; and all that 
 he has hitherto accomplished, so far from being the 
 measure of his might, is but a mere specimen of his 
 power, and, when compared with the real amount 
 of his wisdom and his strength, is no more than 
 a drop to the ocean, or a grain to the globe. 
 
 It is in his death, accordingly, and there only, 
 where we see, in its full extent and in all its match- 
 less horrors, the exceedmg sinfulness of sm, and 
 what a fearful thing it is to fall into the hands 
 of the hving God. It is here where Jehovah, by 
 the magnitude of the ransom, has published over 
 all worlds, and perpetuated to eternity, the iimnensi- 
 ty of our guilt, and the total mability of man, and 
 every other creature, to expiate the demerit of a 
 single trespass, or I'epair the mischief and dishonor 
 which the least transgression has brought upon the 
 authority and government of God. It is hither, 
 accorduigly, that the best and the highest in creation 
 will come to study the hoUness of his character, 
 and learn the infinite evil and malignity of sin. 
 When they wish to discover the justice of their 
 
THE SINFULNESS OF SIN. 161 
 
 Maker, and impress their own minds with the 
 rectitude and inviolability of his law, passing by the 
 place of perdition, and the scenes of the most aAvful 
 devastation wliich wickedness has created in the 
 other provinces of liis domuiions, they will turn 
 their thoughts to the affecting spot which the suf- 
 fei-inffs of the Saviour have forever emiobled and 
 hallowed, and fix a devout and admirmg eye on 
 Him who bore the cross. 
 
 Now, if nothing less than the sufferings and 
 sacrifice of a person of the divine dignity, and of the 
 uncreated, matchless and eternal excellences of the 
 Lord Jesus Christ, could expiate the guilt of oiu* 
 transgressions, and redeem us from the aw^ul 
 consequences of our cranes, how great must be the 
 sinfulness of sin, and what a fearful thing must it be 
 to fall into the hands of the hving God ! 
 14* 
 
A LAMENT FOR ELLEN. 
 
 BY MRS. M'CARTEE. 
 
 The circumstances wliich elicited the following lines were these : — 
 The writer, passing through a town on the banks of the Susque- 
 hannah, was greeted with a cordial welcome by a young friend, 
 possessed of exquisite loveliness, and in all the bloom and vigor of 
 health. At parting, it was agreed to meet again in a week. The 
 writer returned— and found Ellen cold, pale and lifeless. The spirit 
 which once inhabited the lovely mansion had fled forever. 
 
 " The flower of the grass falleth, and the grace of the fashion 
 of it perisheth." 
 
 Now sadly roll thy waves of blue, 
 
 Sweet Susqiiehannah, beauteous river ; 
 
 The loveliest flower thy borders knew 
 The frosts of Death have nipped forever. 
 
 Ah ! where is now the sparkling eye, 
 
 Those locks of brown in ringlets waving, 
 
 Those blooming cheeks of roseate dye,. 
 That witching smile each heart enslaving ? 
 
A LAM EXT FOR ELLEN. 163 
 
 That fairy form hath passed away ; 
 
 Those sparkling eyes m deatli are shaded ; 
 No more those sportive ringlets play 
 
 Around those cheeks so cold and faded. 
 
 They've laid thee in thy last, lone bed, 
 And placed the cold sod o'er thy bosom ; 
 
 ^Vhile bitter tears each mourner shed, 
 For tliee, sweet floweret, short-lived blossom. 
 
 But may thy spirit brighter shine. 
 
 An angel pure in yonder heaven, 
 To smg, in accents all divine, 
 
 Of Jesus' love and sins forgiven ! 
 
 We'll plant a lily on thy gi*ave, 
 
 Emblem of thee, once lovely Ellen ; 
 
 While autumn's winds shall wildly rave 
 Around thy dark and narrow dwelling. 
 
 Now sadly roll thy waves of blue. 
 
 Sweet Susquehannah, beauteous river ; 
 
 The fairest flower thy borders knew 
 The frosts of Death have nipped forever. 
 
METASTASIO 
 
 SPREZZA IL FUROR DEL VENTO. 
 
 Unbending midst the wintry skies, 
 Rears the finn oak his vigorous form, 
 
 And, stern in rugged strength, defies 
 The rushing of the storm ; 
 
 Then, severed from his native shore. 
 O'er ocean worlds the sail to bear. 
 
 Still with those winds he braved before, 
 He proudly struggles there. 
 
MINISTERIAL EDUCATION. 
 
 BY B. B. EDWARDS. 
 
 To assert the importance of the office of the 
 Christian minister is not my design. On tliis pomt, 
 the word and providence of God bear united and 
 unequivocal testimony. The Jews were preserved 
 from mingUng with the heathen aroimd them by the 
 instructions and example of the sons of Le-vi. 
 Throughout the Roman empire, wherever the 
 gospel was preached there were better men and 
 better communities. It was l^y the declaration 
 of the truths of God's word, that Lutlier and his 
 coadjutors broke the slumber of centuries, and 
 called the dead to life. Our ancestors m Britain 
 were turned from the worship of demons to the 
 service of the Lord by the preaching of the gos- 
 pel. In eveiy country, ancient and modern, the 
 degree of public vutue and of private happiness can 
 be esthnated by the character of the ministers of 
 religion. 
 
 The obvious considerations which are adduced in 
 support of the plans and measures of our education 
 societies, I do not wish, in tliis place, to repeat. 
 
166 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 There are some indirect and collateral arguments 
 which seem worthy of notice, and which have not 
 received that attention which they deserve. 
 
 The first argument which I shall mention is the 
 benefit which the lower and more ignorant classes 
 in society receive through the medium of these 
 institutions. It is a well known fact, that in every 
 part of this land, not excepting New England, there 
 is lamentable and degi-ading ignorance. The streams 
 of kno-\vledge do not circulate through the whole 
 cpmmunity. The pulsations at the heart may be 
 warm and vigorous, while the extremitieg;, are cold 
 and dead. In nearly all our towns, there ^ a por- 
 tion of the inhabitants separate, in a considerable 
 degree, from certain other portions. The districts 
 in which they live are proverbially degraded, and 
 designated by some opprobrious and outlandish 
 epithet, where the dregs of society flow as to their 
 natural reservoir. This ignorance is not by any 
 means an utter midnight of the soul. Our largest 
 city exhibits nothing like those putrid and bottomless 
 gulfs of iniquity, which in Paris swallow up a 
 whole generation at once. The ignorance in this 
 country has not that rank maturity which is manifest 
 in Paris, and Vienna, and Rome ; but it is diffused, 
 and exists every where. The same forms of mis- 
 chief are at work here as in the old world. 
 
 Towards the correction and entire removal of 
 this ignorance, education societies can be made to 
 exert a most efficient instrimientaUty. Of the fifteen 
 
MINISTERIAL EDUCATION. 167 
 
 hundred men whom they have nurtured within 
 twenty years past, at least one half were gathered 
 from the lower classes in society ; and not a few 
 from the most ignorant and depressed famihes. 
 This is not mentioned invidiously, or as a matter 
 of reproach, but as an interesting fact. Taken up 
 in such circumstances, and conducted into the paths 
 of knowledge, and stimulated vnth new hopes, 
 and breathing in a new atmosphere, they instinc- 
 tively feel a deep interest in the scenes of then' 
 nativity and childhood, and in the companions of 
 their youthful sports and labors. The hght of 
 knowledge no sooner breaks in upon their own 
 souls, than they are anxious to impart it to their 
 friends. " The ample page of knowledge" is no 
 sooner unfolded to their gaze, than they wish to 
 spread it before the eyes of their parents, and 
 brothers, and sisters. The progi-ess of these young 
 men in literature and science can be traced m the 
 meliorating condition of their distant relatives. The 
 neighljorhood in which they resided becomes more 
 intellectual, is better furnished with profitable topics 
 of conversation, and, with instructive books, becomes 
 more interested in distant objects and future good. 
 An educated man, if he retams the common 
 sympathies and associations of human nature, wiU 
 ever be an interesting object of contemplation by all 
 who knew him in his early days. He sheds the 
 hght of a beneficent and attractive example. He is 
 often a redeeming spirit, an angel of mercy, in the 
 
168 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 circle with which he was familiar in early life. 
 The education society aims to seek out the genius 
 which lies hidden in the lower classes of society. 
 Not unfrequently, in the wildest portions of our 
 valleys and mountains, it has found genuine talent 
 and moral worth, — concealed, perhaps, beneath the 
 vestments of rigorous poverty, and the awkwardness 
 of an untutored demeanor, — talent and worth suf- 
 ficient to command the respect and esteem of 
 communities and nations. 
 
 Another consideration which I shall adduce re- 
 sults from the fact, that powerful excitement is a 
 marked characteristic of this age and of this coun- 
 try. The success of every institution, of every 
 kind, is coming to depend more and more upon 
 mdividual effort and ceaseless competition. This 
 creates mutual collision and an unwearied and 
 boundless activity. In eveiy department of labor 
 and effort, it is common for men to meet together 
 in large assemblages, and, under the influence of 
 numerous exciting causes, to adopt bold and un- 
 attempted measures. It is also perfectly safe to 
 predict that, for fifty years to come, the face of 
 society in this country will be still more strongly 
 agitated and convulsed. Eveiy extension of the 
 hmits of this nation separates more widely the feel- 
 ings and opinions of those who live at the extrein- 
 ities. There is less and less of sympathy and fellow- 
 feeling. The public press will increase and propa- 
 gate this excitement in a thousand forms. In 1810, 
 
MIXISTEEIAL EDUCATION. 169 
 
 there were but three himdred and fifty newspapers 
 published in this countiy. Now, there are more than 
 one thousand. In ten years hence, they will proba- 
 bly amount to two thousand. Who can estimate the 
 amount of agitated feehng which will flow out from 
 these fountains ? Besides, there are some great 
 questions, partly pohtical and partly moral, wliich, in 
 the next half century, will be brought to an issue. 
 One of these is the question in regard to our slave 
 population. Is slavery to cease gradually and safely, 
 or is it to be swept away by the breath of ahnightj'' 
 justice ? This is a matter of veiy gi*ave import, 
 which contains in itself the elements of an intense 
 and overwhelming excitement. 
 
 Revivals of religion, which have already been 
 productive of incalculable good to the American 
 churches, will probably be a still more marked 
 feature of the coming age. These are seasons of 
 deep and absorbing emotion, when the passions of a 
 community have not unfrequejitly been wrought up 
 to the highest point of endurance. 
 
 Now, what is the obvious dut}^ of the church in 
 view of all these circumstances ? Would she re- 
 press these strong emotions? Would she diy up 
 this current of feeling, and give a sober characteris- 
 tic to the next generation ? It were as vain as to 
 try to annul the ordinances of Heaven. The spirit 
 of this age cannot be chained. No dikes can be 
 thrown up against these waves of excited senti- 
 ment. 
 
 15 
 
170 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 The obvious duty is, to establish as many checks 
 and great balancing powers as possible. Men of 
 well disciplined minds, and of vigorous piety, can 
 shape and control public feeling almost as they wish. 
 They have wisdom, foresight, experience. Station 
 an exemplary and well prepared minister in every 
 city and considerable village m the United States, 
 and you can turn this popular excitement to great 
 and most beneficial purposes. Knowledge and 
 holiness, united, are power, in the best sense. The 
 salvation of our country, under God, is depending, 
 most ijitimately and essentially, on a large increase 
 in the number of such men as have the wisdom 
 to apprehend, and the piety to love, and the steadi- 
 ness to maintain, those great principles of morals 
 and of religion, which have stood the test of the 
 scrutiny of ages. 
 
 Another consideration of great importance is the 
 fact, that the church of God is now taking a peculiar 
 attitude. Sheisassuming that form which she had in the 
 primitive ages, when to " believe, to love, and to suf- 
 fer," was her motto ; when her Bible and her Saviour 
 were dearer to her heart than all the rewards which 
 earth could offer. There was a palpable and marked 
 distmction between her and the children of this 
 world. This is the aspect which the church is 
 now beginning to assume. While she feels a deep 
 compassion for the enemies of the cross, whether 
 withhi her pale or without, she wishes to have 
 her own limits perfectly defined and distinct. 
 
MINISTERIAL EDUCATION. 171 
 
 She wishes to have her own members all separate 
 and holy, so that they may move forward to the con- 
 flict, one disciphned and compact body. But fully 
 to make this separation, perfectly to accompUsh 
 this object, will require efforts and sacrifices, on 
 the part of her ministers, such as have never yet 
 been known. They must understand the Bible 
 better, and be able to communicate its heavenly 
 doctrines, with greater clearness, to eveiy disciple, 
 in that manner, and m that measure, which the 
 ten thousand varying circumstances of individuals 
 may require. There must be a gi-eater di\ision 
 of labor. There must be captains of hundreds 
 and of fifties, as well as of thousands. One great 
 cause of the premature fall of so many of the 
 watchmen of Zion is the heavy ' additional labor 
 which the benevolent spuit of this age calls on 
 them to perform. 
 
 And while this division is making between the 
 church and the world, would you not allure into 
 the bosom of the church as many as possible of the 
 opposmg ranks? Would you not send to the 
 great multitude lying under the condemnation of 
 God's law as many heralds of mercy as possible ? 
 Would you not throw into the midnight darkness 
 which envelopes them as many stars fi*om heaven 
 as you can? W^ould you not furnish them, on 
 the dark and troubled ocean of hfe, with as great 
 a number of skilful pilots as can be found? But 
 these labors will call, must call, for a great in- 
 
172 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 crease in the number of faithful ministers. When 
 the church of God is to arise from the dust, those 
 who serve at her akars must be wakeful, and fully 
 prepared for every good work ; and their num- 
 ber must bear some proportion to the gi-eatness 
 and difficulty of the work to be accomphshed. 
 Their conflict is not to be with flesh and blood, 
 but of intellect with intellect, and conscience with 
 conscience, and heart with heart. 
 
 Now, it is an mteresting and encouraging fact, 
 that the men, whom education societies propose 
 to bring foward to the Christian miuistry, are well 
 adapted to meet this exigency. The men who are 
 patronized, are mostly from that class who have 
 firm nerves and iron resolution, who can face the 
 elements, and weather the storm. 
 
 Another argument in support of education socie- 
 ties proceeds from the fact, that, for a number of 
 years to come, there must be a considerable sacri- 
 fice of hfe in the missionary enterprise. In every 
 part of the unevaugehzed world, a beginning 
 must be made by missionaries from Christendom. 
 They must explore the territory, select the gromid, 
 establish the primary school, gather around them 
 a little band of disciples, and, in this way, re- 
 move all the incipient difficulties. The native 
 converts will be the chosen instruments to caiTy 
 to the great body of the people the messages of 
 salvation. In this way Africa will, doubtless, be 
 converted to God. Her boundless forests, and her 
 
MINISTERIAL EDUCATION. 
 
 173 
 
 burning sands, are to be traversed by native, negro 
 missionaries. The colonies along her western 
 coasts are, probably, intended, in the pro^ddence 
 of God, to train men for tliis service. They will 
 furnish the seed, which will be sown " in broad 
 cast" over this neglected continent. The colonies 
 -will be to those desert regions a place of broad 
 rivers and sti-eams. Nevertheless, these colonies 
 must be estabhshed, these schools must be com- 
 menced, these native, pioneer missionaries must 
 be converted to God by the instrumentality of 
 white missionaries. This work will demand, for 
 a few years, a considerable sacrifice of hfe. Men 
 must be found willing to do as much for their 
 fellow-men, in six or eight years, as Christians 
 will have opportunity to do, in forty years, when 
 Christianity is more firmly and extensively estab- 
 lished. Those men who will preach Christ where 
 ho has never been named, must meet with ap- 
 palling obstacles, must submit to exhausting labor, 
 must be exposed to every variety of clunate. 
 Like Martyn, they must be prepared for the blaze 
 of a scorching sun by day, and at night to lay 
 their throbbing heads on the damp earth ; or hke 
 that devoted woman, who sleeps on an isle of the 
 Indian ocean; or like that other, her companion 
 in tribulation, who, after languishing in dungeons, 
 and flying before contending armies, now rests in 
 hope on the plains of Birmah. Missionaries, for 
 a few years to come, must early fall victims to 
 15* 
 
174 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 death. Incessant fatigue and hardship must cut 
 short life. Who will supply their places? Who 
 will step in to fill up the breach ? I answer, The 
 church must be prepared for this exigency. There 
 must be a number of men brought forward, con-e- 
 sponding to the call which will be made from this 
 quarter. It is not to supply a definite number of 
 missionaries who will be expected to five the usual 
 life of man. Calculation ought to be made for 
 many who will die early. The church needs a 
 forlorn hope — men who will be willing to die in the 
 first battle ; who will pant for nobler honors than 
 those of Warren, who fell " ere he saw the star 
 of his country rise" — for such rewards as those 
 which shall forever cluster upon the head of 
 Ashmun, falling before tlie chains were removed 
 from bleeding Africa, dying before Ethiopia had 
 tasted of the waters of hfe. 
 
 It is sometimes said, that there is no need for 
 extraordinaiy effort to prepare men for the min- 
 istry. The supply, as in other things, will be 
 equal to the demand. Men will be found, as 
 stations will be provided for them to occupy. 
 But, in this view of the subject, one gi-eat fact is 
 overlooked. Tliree fourths of the human race loill 
 make no demand for a Christian ministry. They 
 have a strong reluctance, a total opposition to the 
 remedy which is offered. The gospel must be 
 carried to them. IMen must go to heathen lands, 
 and create a demand for the bread of hfe. Between 
 
MINISTERIAL EDUCATION. 175 
 
 the condition of several hundred millions of stupid, 
 degraded pagans, and any other subject, or any 
 other want, there is httle or no analogy. Education 
 societies will not be a needless institution till the 
 gospel is preached to every creature which is un- 
 der heaven. 
 
THE MORNING STAR. 
 
 Rev. xxii. IG. 
 
 BY THE LATE REV. JAMES EASTBURN. 
 
 When darkness hovers o'er the main, 
 
 And tempest glooms the ocean's face, 
 And Time moves on his skiggish train 
 
 With even and unheeding pace, — 
 When tumults rend the nightly air, 
 
 And w^ild waves murmur as they flow, 
 And shrieks of anguish and despair 
 
 Are heard upon the tempest's brow, — 
 How anxious looks the weary eye. 
 
 Through howling storms, and winds afar, 
 And gazes on the darkened sky, 
 
 To watch the bright and Morning Star ! 
 
 So when, on life's tumultuous wave. 
 
 The storms of sin are wildly loud, 
 And hurry to the gloomy grave 
 
 The victims of the tempest cloud, — 
 When moral darlmess broods around. 
 
 When every scene is quenched in gloom, 
 And Horror wakes her awful sound. 
 
 Without one ray of hght or bloom, — 
 
THE MORNING STAR. 177 
 
 How welcome to the weary e3"e 
 
 The hght that gently shmes afar, 
 "When, kindling on the stormy sky, 
 
 Is seen the bright, the Morning Star ! 
 
 It shines upon the sinner's breast, 
 
 Gives hun to see his awful path, 
 And leads him to the scenes of rest, 
 
 Secure from God's eternal wrath. 
 With hoiTor, from his former way 
 
 He starts, and to his Saviour turns ; 
 With him resides the glorious day : 
 
 With him a sacred radiance bums ; 
 He wipes the mourner's weeping eye ; 
 
 He bears liim in his arms afar ; 
 He crowns him in his Father's sky ; 
 
 He is ♦^he bright and IMorning Star ! 
 
 Upon that bright and lovely shore, 
 
 The tears of grief are washed away. 
 And sin and sorrow vex no more. 
 
 Dissolved in that eternal day : 
 Unnumbered harps, with golden strings. 
 
 The wonders of om* jMaker praise ; 
 And many a voice cherubic shigs, 
 
 Amid the inextinguished blaze ; 
 While, glowing on each raptured eye, 
 
 Jesus is seen, not then afar. 
 But glorious in his native sky — 
 
 The pure, the bright and IMorning Star ! 
 
178 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Then let us turn, ere yet too late, 
 
 And seek the blessed band to join, 
 Ere heaven may close its sapphire gate. 
 
 And hurl us from its hope divine ! 
 Oh ! let us leave the things of earth. 
 
 For they must fade and pass away ; 
 Oh ! let us cling to those whose worth 
 
 Shall shine in everlasting day ! 
 Bright opening on the lovely sky, 
 
 A liglit is seen and known afar ; 
 Oh ! be it welcome to our eye : 
 
 It is the bright and Mornuig Star ! 
 
 Jesus, assist us wdth thy love ; 
 
 Cleanse these vile hearts from every stain ; 
 And take us to those realms above. 
 
 Where bliss and joy forever reign ! 
 Teach us to feel, while here below, 
 
 How vile our noblest thoughts have been, 
 And let our souls wit]i ardor glow 
 
 To cast aside the weight of sin ; 
 So, when these mortal frames shall die. 
 
 And Death agamst us wage his war, 
 We shall be blessed in the sky, 
 
 With thee, the bright and Morning Star ! 
 
HINTS ON LITERARY HABITS. 
 
 BY REV. JAMES D. KNOWLES. 
 
 The mind is the glory of man. IMany of the irra- 
 tional animals exceed him in size, in swiftness, in 
 acuteness of vision and of ear, and some of them in 
 length of hfe. But the mind, that imperial endow- 
 ment, gives to man an immeasurable elevation above 
 all the other inhabitants of the earth. 
 
 Nothing has ever acquired so easy and so durable 
 a supremacy over mankmd as intellectual power. 
 He is the only legitimate sovereign over men, who 
 excels them in the endowments, the cultivation, and 
 the beneficent use of the mind. The poet, the ora- 
 tor, the pliilosopher, the sculptor, the painter — he is 
 the true monarch, swaying not the bodies, but tlie 
 minds and the hearts of men ; \\-ielding a dominion, 
 not bounded by rivers and mountains, but co-exten- 
 sive with the civilized world ; not terminating with 
 his mortal life, but reachmg to the end of time. It 
 is not Agamemnon, nor Achilles, nor Priam, but 
 Homer is the kiug of men, whom the Ihad has 
 immortalized. Demosthenes and Cicero held a 
 sway, and won a fame, compared with which " the 
 
 ^ 
 
180 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING 
 
 laurels that a Csesar reaps are weeds." Socrates and 
 Aristotle have controlled more minds than Alexander. 
 The best records of past ages are monuments of 
 the glory of the mmd. It is their poems, their ora- 
 tions, their sculpture, then* architecture, which have 
 preserved the fame of the ancients. Nations, dis- 
 tinguished in their day by wealth, by population, by 
 fierce wars, and by wide conquests, have been 
 forgotten, because the mind had no share in their 
 acliievements. To them may the words of Horace 
 be very justly apphed : — 
 
 '' Omnes illachrymabiles 
 Urgentur, ignotique longa 
 Nocte, quia careut vale sacro." 
 
 And who, that justly estimates the true interests 
 of his own country, does not desire for her the 
 honors of science and literature ; the distinctions 
 which spring from success in the fine arts : the emi- 
 nence of a general education ; the pure fame of un- 
 sullied morals and ujidefiled religion ; the glory, in 
 short, which highly cultivated and well directed 
 minds will confer, rather than vast wealth, extended 
 territory, and successful war ? Who would not 
 point a stranger to our schools and colleges, to our 
 unfettered and prolific press, to the general diffusion 
 of knowledge, and to our free institutions, the noblest 
 fruits of the strong and cultivated intellect of the 
 nation, rather than to the great rivers and moun- 
 tains, to our ships and armies, to our wealth and 
 power ? 
 
HINTS OX LITERARY HABITS. 181 
 
 Yet, while our common nature is exalted by the 
 achievements of learning and genius, there is much 
 in the structure and operations of the mind itself to 
 rebuke the pride of man. The progi-ess of the most 
 successful scholar is soon checked, by barriers which 
 tlie mind cannot pass, or by that event wliich comes 
 alike to all. The greatest learning most clearly 
 shows men how httle they know. Socrates was 
 pronounced by the oracle at Delphi the wisest of 
 mankind, because he most strongly felt liis ovm ig- 
 norance. And Newton spoke of his o^\-n wonderful 
 attainments, in language as poetically beautiful as it 
 was pliilosopliically true, that he seemed to himself 
 like a child picldng up shells on the shore of the 
 great ocean of truth. 
 
 Since, then, the boundless range of knowledge, 
 the narrowness of the mind, the cares of life, and 
 its speedy termination, make it impossible to learn 
 and to accomplish much, it is an inquiry of great 
 moment, How shall we make the best use of the httlc 
 space allowed us, and advance the farthest in the 
 ilUmitable field spread out before us ? A few hints, 
 in answer to this inquiry, will, it is hoped, be deemed 
 useful, and pertinent to the object of this book. 
 
 We might speak of the necessity of beginning 
 education early. No tune is to be lost, in a life so 
 short and so interrupted. The mind, hke the 
 body, begins to grow from the day of its birth. 
 Education should begin with the child. The in- 
 fant school is one of the greatest discoveries of our 
 16 
 
182 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 age. It is destined to do for men what the 
 alchemists hoped to accomphsh by the potent ehxir 
 which they so ardently sought. It will lengthen 
 life, not by adding to the extent of its duration, but 
 by redeenmig from waste many of its most precious 
 years. The Sabbath-school, too, is a kindred insti- 
 tution, Avhich will give to the youthful mind an 
 impidse, that will urge it onward farther than, in 
 similar circumstances, it has ever yet gone. 
 
 But our remarks must be limited to a single 
 principle, that concentrated and persevering efforts 
 are indispensable to great attainments and great 
 usefulness. 
 
 By concentrated efforts, we mean, that we must 
 have some object in view in our studies, and must 
 strive, with steadiness and perseverance, to reach it. 
 We speak not of those who read and study, without 
 any guide but caprice, or any aim but amusement. 
 Not all those who are entitled to the name of 
 students, and who profess to have placed before 
 tliem some point which they propose to attain, 
 possess the singleness of purpose, and the reso- 
 lute perseverance, that are needful to success. It 
 is one thing to aim at a certain pouit, and to advance 
 towards it, yet with an irregular, slow, circuitous 
 progress, like the traveller who loiters along the 
 road, to pluck the flowers, to listen to the songs 
 of the birds, and to gaze at the scenery. It is quite 
 another thing to press onward to the end, with 
 dkect, steady, undeviating energy ^ undiverted by 
 
HINTS OX LITERARY HABITS, 
 
 183 
 
 the attractive sights and sounds which would 
 pei*suade him to pause. 
 
 All instructers are ^vitnesses to the fact, that many 
 pupils, instead of a dihgeut prosecution of their 
 studies, are satisfied with a shght attention to theb* 
 lessons, while their minds are surrendered to 
 indolence, to dissipation, or to desuhorj^ reading. 
 Many a yoimg physician, too, has been drawn away 
 from his professional studies to indulge a taste for 
 general science. IMany a student of the law is 
 seduced fi-om Coke and Blackstone by the charms 
 of poetry or of the Waverley novels. And some 
 divines, it may be feared, permit a taste for 
 Uterature or the arts to divert their minds injuriously 
 from the important studies connected with their 
 sacred ofiice. AU these men have an object in 
 view which they would not consent to rehnquish, but 
 to wliich they do not yield their concentrated ef- 
 forts. Their movements toAvards that object are 
 irregular. Their minds are divided and weakened 
 by the frequent intrusion of the mterfering taste. 
 Their time and energy are dissipated in pursuits 
 foreign to the principal purpose. 
 
 It is easy to foresee, that such persons cannot 
 become very skilful physicians, or eminent lawyers, 
 or sound divines. Each of these professions opens 
 a wide range of studies, which are sufficient to task 
 the powers, and occupy the time of any man. 
 If a person has not so far the mastery of his 
 own mind as to compel it to a steady devotion to 
 
184 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 his appropriate studies, he must be prepared to fore- 
 go the pleasures and the advantages which would 
 crown such efforts. He may amuse himself; he 
 may become familiar with general hterature ; he 
 may be a connoisseur in the arts ; he may acquire 
 much useful and graceful learning: but the prize 
 of enunence and extensive usefulness in liis o\vn 
 profession he cannot expect to win. 
 
 The nature of the mind requires that its powers 
 be combined and concentrated, for the purpose of 
 exerting their utmost force ; just as the body cannot 
 act with its full energy, if its several limbs are employ- 
 ed, at the same time, for different purposes. The eye 
 of the mmd camiot, any more than that of the body, 
 look clearly on two objects at once. 
 
 We do not mean, however, to interdict to the 
 student every study not immediately bearing on his 
 own profession. Every well educated man must 
 acquire a general knowledge of all the branches 
 of Uberal learning. It is the aim of our colleges to 
 give him this knowledge. They lead him around 
 the wide circle of the sciences, detaining him at 
 each a sufficient time to acquaint him with its general 
 principles and its most important facts, so that he 
 may know enough of mathematics, astronomy and 
 natural philosophy, of languages and rhetoric, of 
 history and statistics, for all the purposes of a man 
 who is not to make these particular studies his 
 mam pursuit in hfe. Knowledge, of every kind, is 
 valuable to him who knows how to use it, The 
 
HINTS ON LITERARY HABITS. 185 
 
 most learned physiciau, la^vyer, or divine, is, when 
 other things are equal, the most useful man. Cicero 
 requires that the complete orator be furnished with 
 every kind of knowledge ; and his own example 
 illustrates his precepts. 
 
 The mind, moreover, Uke the body, requires 
 relaxation, and may renew its vigor, not by inac- 
 tion, but by vaiying its pursuits. The most grave 
 divine may usefully refresh himself, at times, with a 
 problem of mathematics or a volume of poetry. 
 
 But the great point is, to consider these occasional 
 Btudies as merely relaxations, while the main pur- 
 pose is steadily pursued ; to keep every thing else 
 subordinate, while the chief object holds its place 
 in unrivalled prominence. The difficulty lies in 
 refusing to yield, for the gratification of taste, that 
 time and attention wliich are demanded by our 
 professional studies ; to give a resolute denial to 
 every temptation which would persuade us to 
 desert the path of our duty, and walk in more at- 
 tractive fields. The scholar, who would accomphsh 
 any thing great or good, must resolve that he will, if 
 possible, be master of that profession which he has 
 chosen, and must nerve himself for the self-denial 
 which may be needful to his success. 
 
 It must be confessed, that considerable self-con- 
 trol and firmness of principle are necessary to keep 
 tlie mind m suljjection, and to restrain its vagrant 
 propensities. But it can, and it must, be done, if the 
 student would be eminent and useful. And he 
 IG* 
 
186 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 must adopt, and act on, a few principles which wo 
 wiU now mention. 
 
 The idea of universal scholarship must be re- 
 nounced at the outset. No man can learn every 
 thing. The shortness of life forbids the attempt. 
 The nature of the mind itself forbids it. God has 
 not granted to any one mind the ability to ex- 
 cel in all branches of learning, as he has not 
 granted to any one climate the power of produc- 
 ing all the fruits of the earth. Experience has es- 
 tablished the truth of the axiom of Pope — 
 
 " One science only can one genius fit, 
 So vast is art; so narrow human wit." 
 
 No man, on the rolls of the learned, has been able 
 to excel in more than one or two departments of 
 intellectual exertion. The men who aim to study 
 every thing, resemble those universal conquerors, 
 who have overrun many countries, but could acquire 
 no permanent dominion. No one man could be- 
 come a skilful workman in all the mechanical arts. 
 It is surely not less impossible, that any one mind 
 should compass the wliole roimd of science. And 
 as the mechanic will be most successful by learning 
 one trade well, and giving to this his faculties and 
 lime, so will the scholar be most useful to his fellow- 
 men, and will reap the most profit and honor to 
 himself, by understanding his own profession well, 
 rather than by forming a slight acquaintance with a 
 multitude of things, while he excels in nothing. 
 
HINTS OX LITERARY HABITS. 187 
 
 No man can read every book that is published. 
 A Ubrary of a very moderate size "would furnish 
 a man with employment for liis whole life. The 
 Vatican hbrarj", at Rome, contains 500,000 volumes. 
 The age of ]Methuselah would be too short to read 
 a tithe of these books. 
 
 A very few books, in fact, can be read by any 
 man ; and it is a fortunate circumstance, that com- 
 paratively few books deserve to be read through. 
 There must be a judicious selection, and a few good 
 books must be read and digested thoroughly. An 
 omnivorous appetite for books, which unpels a man 
 to wish to read every thing, is a fatal barrier to 
 success in study. 
 
 No man, indeed, can read all the new pubhcations 
 which the press multiphes with such rapidity. He 
 must resolutely restrict himself to those which are the 
 most worthy of his attention, and which have the 
 most du'ect bearing on his particular studies. Every 
 literaiy man finds liimself daily beset by temptations 
 to turn aside from his duties and regular studies, 
 to regale himself with the attractive hterature of 
 the day. But he must resist these temptations, and 
 proceed straight onward to his object, or his time 
 will be absorbed, and his mind distracted and weak- 
 ened, by trifles as volatile as the leaves of the 
 Sybil. He must overcome the pride which shrinks 
 from the confession, that he is ignorant of a new 
 and fashionable book. 
 
188 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 It must be remembered, too, that reading is not 
 always studying. A man may read much without 
 becoming wise; and, instead of adding to his in- 
 tellectual power, he may diminish it, by burthening 
 his mind with undigested knowledge. There is a 
 wide distinction between knowledge and wisdom. 
 Cowper has happily defined this distinction in a 
 sententious couplet : — 
 
 " Knowledge resides in thoughts of other men, 
 Wisdom in minds conversant with their owti." 
 
 Thinking is necessaiy to success in study. To 
 teach the mmd to think correctly, promptly and 
 powerfully, is the main object of education. Learn- 
 ing is useful only as it furnishes the mind "with ma- 
 terials for thought. A mass of knowledge may be 
 acquired, but, unless the mind possesses the power 
 of arranging and applying it to practical use, it is 
 of no more utility than a lamp to a blind man. 
 That system of education fails entirely to fulfil 
 its ofiice, which aims to crowd the mind with 
 knowledge, rather than to discipMne it, and train it to 
 tliink. It is a characteristic of modern times, that 
 there is too much reading, and too little thinking. 
 The ancients, perhaps, owed something of their ex- 
 cellence to the fact, that they had fewer books, and 
 tlierefore read less, and reflected more. Newl:on 
 ascribes his great discoveries to the steady practice 
 of ^^ patient thought" 
 
HINTS ON LITERARY HABITS. 189 
 
 We might insist, under this head, on the necessity 
 of a due attention to the heahh of the body, and to 
 the cultivation of the social affections. Let no Hte- 
 rary man suppose, that he will facihtate his progress 
 by denying to himself that bodily exercise which ia 
 needful to health. The early graves of multitudes 
 of the young sous of science are melancholy testi- 
 monies of the danger of neglect in this important 
 point. Without health of body, the mind cannot 
 act with vigor ; and health cannot be maintained 
 without regular and sufficient exercise. It is high 
 time that something was done to prevent the waste 
 of life, which is occasioned by the want of suitable 
 attention to the health of the body. The officers of 
 colleges and academies ought to employ their author- 
 ity, if needful, to constram their pupils to a due 
 course of exercise. 
 
 The cultivation of the social affections and of the 
 manners is highly important. A man must devote 
 some of his hours to society ; and if that society be 
 judiciously selected, and his time properly regulated, 
 his mind %vill return to its studies with renewed 
 vigor and elasticity ; while his affections will be 
 preserved in healthful activity, and his mamiers will 
 be freed from that awkward constraint which is so 
 often the reproach of the student. A knowledge 
 of men cannot be wholly acquired from books. 
 Conversation is one method of acquiring knowl- 
 edge, as well as of improving the mind. Speech, 
 says Young, 
 
190 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 "Speech ventilates our intellectual fire, 
 Speech burnishes our mental magazine ; 
 Brightens for ornament; and whets for use." 
 
 A mail must keep his eye fixed on his main ob- 
 ject, and make every thmg that he reads, or hears, 
 or sees, contribute something to his success. Here 
 will be a nucleus, around wliich he may dispose his 
 daily acquisitions of knowledge. Here will be a 
 principle of association, which "will attract to itself, 
 with magnetic power, the facts, arguments and 
 sentiments, which are met with in the course of 
 readmg or of conversation. For the want of such 
 a nucleus, and such a principle of association, much 
 of what we learn is lost. It lies loose in the mind, 
 and, finding nothing to which it may attach itself, it 
 escapes, and is forgotten. We need that fixed and 
 concentrated aim, which would, Avith a happy alche- 
 my, convert the most common thmgs into precious 
 materials for thought. Virgil said, that lie could 
 find pearls in stercore Ennii. Milton affirmed, that 
 he found benefit in reading the wild romances of 
 chivalry. Pope levied contributions for his poetic 
 treasures from every thing which he heard, or read, 
 or saw. 
 
 But, besides this fixed aim, there must be perse- 
 verance in the pursuit of it. IMany scholars 
 commence their course with ardor, but, after a time, 
 they become weary from familiarity ; or some new 
 project diverts their minds ; or they fancy that they 
 have finished their education^ and that further study 
 
HINTS ON LITERARY HABITS. 191 
 
 is needless. A man of this temperament is not of 
 that chosen few whom future times will remember. 
 A true scholar never speaks ofjinishing his studies, 
 for he must be a student while he lives. His is that 
 classic motto, which Dr. Johnson has translated in 
 one of liis poems : — 
 
 "■ Think notliing gained, he cries, while aught remains/' 
 
 He remembers the great sons of fame. The labo- 
 rious dihgence of Demosthenes to overcome obsta- 
 cles, and to make himself an accomplislied orator, 
 was as wonderful as his success. Cicero followed 
 the same path, and wore the same crown. His aim 
 from his youth was to be an orator, and his eye was 
 fixed on that glorious prize with a gaze which 
 never faltered. Pope's ambition, from his cradle, 
 was to be a poet; and his mind steadily flowed 
 in this channel till poetiy became his mother 
 tongue. Howard is well celebrated by Burke and 
 by Foster, as an astonishing example of perseverance, 
 and of the mastery which one object may gam over 
 the mind. It is said of him, that in his circumnavi- 
 gation of charity, he visited Rome, but could not 
 spare time, from his ministry of benevolence, to 
 examine the rums and wonders of the eternal city. 
 
 These liints will, it is hoped, be thought worthy 
 of attention by every reader. In whatever duties 
 men are engaged, they cannot hope for the highest 
 usefuhiess, and tlie most complete success, without a 
 fixed purpose, and firm constancy. 
 
192 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 There are many powerful motives, which ought 
 to be ever present to our minds, and which 
 may assist to arm us with the needful self-de- 
 nial. 
 
 One motive is, that a very common intellect may 
 accomplish more, by concentrated and persevering 
 efforts, than a mind of far higher powers, which is 
 irregular in its habits. 
 
 Our duty to our Creator demands of us the wisest 
 and most energetic exertion of our faculties. He 
 who has bestowed them, and has given us oppor- 
 tunities to cultivate and use them, requires, that 
 they be not wasted in indolence, nor dissipated by 
 irresolute and desultory efforts, and much less 
 perverted to sinful and selfish ends. He has taught 
 us the great moral lesson, that " one thing is need- 
 ful," and has commanded us to do with our might 
 whatever our hands find to do. He will exact of 
 us an account of all our conduct, with a scrutiny 
 which we cannot elude, and which no thoughtful 
 man can anticipate without anxiety. 
 
 The love of doing good to our fellow men is a 
 noble motive to study and exertion. He who has 
 never felt the desire to benefit mankind by his 
 talents, his learning, his personal ser\dces, or his 
 wealth, is a stranger to one of the purest sources of 
 enjoyment. He may abandon the hope of honorable 
 fame, for he lacks the generous benevolence, the 
 expansive sympathies, the self-denial, and the ele- 
 vated aim, without which no man is capable of great 
 
HINTS ON LITERARY HABITS. 193 
 
 and worthy actions. He who considers how wide 
 is the scope for his benevolence — how much igno- 
 rance there is to be mstructed — how many errors to 
 be corrected — how many sorrows to be soothed — 
 how much sickness, poverty and suffering, which 
 call for the feeling heart and the open hand — ought 
 not to need any other incentive to cultivate his 
 mind to the highest point, and to press forward to 
 tlie mark set before him with all his might. 
 
 And the scholar should reflect on the character 
 of our age and countiy. The time is come when 
 men cannot be governed by the bayonet. IMind 
 must be controlled by mind. Pubhc opinion is now 
 the ruler in civilized countries. What a noble field 
 is here opened for the exercise of intellectual power ! 
 Homer celebrates his heroes, for their exploits in 
 dealing tremendous blows, and hurhng stones of 
 prodigious weight. Such, in great part, has been 
 die fame of men in former times. But bone and 
 muscle are no longer to be the arbiters of nations. 
 The clear thinker, the strong and pure writer, the 
 powerful orator, are henceforth to move and rule 
 men. The hall of legislation, the bar and the pulpit, 
 and not the battle-field, are the places where the 
 weal or the wo of men is to be decided. 
 
 Our own free coimtiy is the happy scene where 
 the mind may win the purest triumphs, and where it 
 is allured to high efforts by the most powerful 
 incitements. Here there is nothing to obstruct the 
 advance of talent, whether it is nurtured in the 
 17 
 
194 THE CIIllISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 dwellings of the rich, hke the delicate exotic, by the 
 artificial culture of wealth, or springs up from the 
 cottages of the poor, by its own inherent energy, 
 like the hardy oak of our mountains. Here learning, 
 power and wealth are placed, like the garlands at 
 the Olympic games, as prizes, open to every com- 
 petitor. Here Freedom mspu-es her orator with 
 noble thoughts and generous emotions, and bids 
 him emulate the glorious eloquence of ancient times. 
 Here, too. Religion, unfettered by entangling and 
 corrupting alhances with human institutions, sheds 
 her selectest influences on her advocates, and gives 
 to piety, learning and eloquence, the purest, the most 
 secm'e and the most delightful dominion which man 
 can exercise over his fellow man — the sway of be- 
 nevolent and cultivated minds over ^vi]ling hearts, 
 instructed, consoled and guided by their ministr^^ 
 
 Let, then, the scholars of our country attempt great 
 tilings, and expect great thmgs. Richer rewards 
 await them, than ever dazzled the eyes and allured 
 the hopes of worldly ambition. 
 
 But the immortality of the mind supplies a motive 
 of indescribable solemnity and force. The mind is 
 but another name for the intellectual attributes of 
 tlie soul. The mind thmks and acts for eternity. 
 All its habits and acquirements contribute to prepare 
 it for the everlasting scenes, either of felicity or wo, 
 to which it will soon be introducetl. The gospel, 
 which brings life and immortality to light, has taught 
 us, diat " whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also 
 
HINTS OX LITERARY HABITS. 195 
 
 reap." If the soul pervert its affections to the love of 
 sin, and waste its mental faculties in the service of er- 
 ror, or in frivolous pursuits, it will reap a harvest of in- 
 terminable wretchedness. What can rouse the mind 
 to a resolute and steady devotion of its powers to the 
 duties which God has "prescribed, and to a diligent 
 use of all the means of self-improvement, if it be 
 not the solenm truth, that its eternal destiny depends 
 on the character which is acquired in this Ufe ; that 
 the muid vnW continue to think and to act forever ; 
 and that eveiy right habit, and eveiy accession of 
 true msdom and valuable knowledge, will unques- 
 tionably tend to enhance its happiness in the future 
 world ? What else should be needed, to urge men 
 to an immediate submission to the authority of the 
 gospel ; and, by patient continuance in well doing, 
 to seek for glory, honor and immortahtj" ? 
 
HOME. 
 
 BY WILLIAM R. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 When reeled, at dead of night, the foundering bark, 
 And through the thick, dark air, above the storm 
 And its fierce bowlings, rose the shriek of death, 
 The wild, brief prayer, and Horror's drowning cry, — 
 What earthward thought, deem ye, clung latest round 
 Each throbbing heart, now hushed in Ocean's depths .'' 
 The thought of home, — effaces round its hearth, 
 That smiled, while voices sweet the absent named, 
 And counted o'er the days that yet must pass 
 Ere he should come, — and he was not to come ! 
 And, as he sunk, Home's voice rung in his ears. 
 
 In years long gone, when England's marshaled hosts 
 Were foiled by peasant bands, and richest blood. 
 Like water, ran along the grassy slopes 
 Of our green hills, — what nerved the death-fraught arm, 
 And winged with fire the glance of warriors rude. 
 That erst had tilled the fields where now they fought ? 
 Before each eye, in all its beauty, rose 
 The quiet home of youth, the sheltered cot : 
 Each well known tree, that o'er the parent roof, 
 
HOME. 
 
 197 
 
 Its shadow threw, in truest vision came. 
 
 They thought of home, and smote the spoiler down j 
 
 They thought of home, and were invincible. 
 
 To nobler strife Home has the watchword been : 
 The patriot's pride, it was the Christian's test. 
 Oh ! who shall tell the martyr's silent pangs, 
 Wliile, as he paced, with fettered step, and slow, 
 His dungeon floor, and night, with chiUing mists, 
 Stole through the rust-worn bars, the quiet hours 
 Came o'er his mind, .when he was wont to sit 
 And trim his cottage fire, his toils recount, 
 And in his children's eyes read love and peace 1 
 Awhile might home from heaven his soul seduce, 
 And wring, with treacherous skill, a bleeding heart. 
 
 A few brief words were all ; his chains would part, 
 
 His prison ope, and he again was free. 
 
 And 'neath that happy roof should stand again. 
 
 'Twas evil's strongest snare : — from off his soul 
 
 He shook the mighty spell, wrenched loose his heart 
 
 From life and its strong bonds, then looked for home 
 
 In higher worlds. The truth had made him free, 
 
 Free in his soul, a denizen of heaven; 
 
 And to the truth he set the seal of death. 
 
 Yet at the stake his spirit homeward glanced ; 
 
 For home's loved inmates rose his latest prayers ; 
 
 His last, his only tears, for them fell fast. 
 
 Abode of peace, shrine of life's charities ! 
 Within thy narrow walls the purest joys. 
 Of earliest growth and longest date, are found. 
 17* 
 
198 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Tlieie Childhood weaves his dreams of rainbow hues, 
 
 And infant Genius imps his eagle wing ; 
 
 To guard thy hearth War lifts his trumpet voice, 
 
 And Law her awful sword, e'er bright, displays ; 
 
 To deck thee roams the pilgrim o'er the earth, 
 
 The victor hither brings his spoils, and Age, 
 
 To thee returning, asks at home to die. 
 
 Yet build thy bower on Empire's giddiest height; 
 Be it some ancient throne, with weaponed men 
 And gorgeous pomp begirt, where frowning towers 
 Scowl o'er a prostrate land; or wend thy way 
 To some lone cot, by sheltering pines o'ertopped. 
 Far from the hum of towns, where Silence dwells, 
 And Nature, like a slumbering infant, smiles, — 
 Thy hopes shall fail thee. Like the desert blast. 
 That smites, unheard, the caravans of Ind, 
 Through thy long arches, bright with fretted gold, 
 And through the forest's verdant fence, steals Death, 
 Sweeps thee away, and bids the stranger tread 
 The palace or the hut that once was thine. 
 
 Oh ! there are walls where Death can never come ; 
 And Sorrow never stole, with blighting tread. 
 Through those bright gates. There be thy chosen rest; 
 Fix there thine eager eye, and thither turn 
 Thine earnest step ; and, as thy way is won, 
 Bless thou the Friend who reared those mansions bright 
 On his own tomb. It was the only home 
 He found on earth. Fear not the awful perch, 
 For all the path is tracked with his pure blood. 
 
HOME. 199 
 
 When he the sceptre broke of raging Death, 
 'Twas He that bade me ask thee to His home 
 Of light, of love, of ceaseless melody. 
 To Him turn, then, thine eye, and bless his name , 
 And now, my friend, e'en now, repent and live. 
 
FOSTER'S LECTURE. 
 
 NOTES OF A LECTURE BY THE REV. JOHN FOSTER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF ESSAYS ON DECISION OF CHARACTER, &C. 
 
 " We all do fade as a leaf." 
 
 Isaiah xliv. 6. 
 
 Our lives have been prolonged to witness once 
 more, within the last few weeks, the wide process of 
 decay over the field of nature : the infinite masses 
 of fohage which unfolded so beautifully in vegetable 
 life in the spring, and have adorned our landscape 
 during the summer, have faded, fallen, and perished. 
 We have beheld the grace of the fashion of them 
 disclosed, continuing awhile bright in the sunshine, 
 and gone forever. Now our text, with many otlier 
 passages of the same character, admonishes us not 
 to see the very leaves fade without being reminded 
 that something else is also fading. We should do 
 well to fix our attention awhile on this very per- 
 nicious fact, of our inaptitude to feel and reflect that 
 our moral existence is fading, and then to note and 
 
.ID 
 
 'i ■ 
 
 Auth-OT oJf the Assays &c. 
 
FOSTER'S LECTURE. 201 
 
 urge a few of those monitoiy circumstances which 
 verify this our declimiig state. 
 
 Let us look a httle at the habit of our feehng in 
 regard to this matter. And, first, we are veiy unapt 
 to recognise the common lot and destiny of all 
 human hfe — that it is to fade, and is fading. The 
 vast world of the departed is out of our sight — even 
 what was the material and the visible part. What is 
 constantly in our sight is the ivorld of the living ; and 
 we are unapt to think of them as all appointed not 
 to ]je hving ; and, in our o'v\ti case, while we see the 
 countless population in all the passions and actions 
 of life, &c. &c., it is but now and then, perhaps 
 rather unfrequently, that the reflection, like a sol- 
 emn shade, comes over us — These are all hastening 
 out of sight, tending to dissolution and dust. Such 
 a Mvinff scene our ancestors beheld ; but where are 
 now both those they looked on and themselves? 
 3Ian as he is fills the attention, and precludes a 
 thought of man as he is appointed, and going to he ; 
 and we may note a circiunstance which aids the 
 deception, viz. that the most decayed and faded 
 portion of the Uving world is much less in sight than 
 the fresh and vigorous. Think how many infirm, 
 Bick, debilitated, languishmg, and almost dying 
 persons there are, that are rarely or never out in 
 public view ; not met in our streets, roads, places of 
 resort ; not in our rehgious assemblies ; and then out 
 of sight out of mind in a great degi-ee. Thus we 
 look at the livuig world, so as not to read the des- 
 
202 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERIXG. 
 
 tiny written on every forehead, and, in this thought- 
 lessness, are the more apt to forget our own. But, 
 again, we are very prone to forget our own transi- 
 tory being, even while we do recognise the general 
 appointment to fade and vanish. I am not hope- 
 lessly sick ; I am not sinldng in feebleness ; I am 
 not withering within an inch of the dust. Life, in 
 the case of a being that should be certainly im- 
 mortal, might be considered as an absolute posses- 
 sion ; but, with us, life is an expenditure. We have 
 it as but continually losing it. We have no use of it 
 but as it is continually wasting. Suppose a man 
 confined in some fortress, under the doom to stay 
 there till his death, and suppose there is there for his 
 use a dark reservoir of water, to which it is certain 
 none can ever be added. He knows, suppose, that 
 the quantity is not very great ; he cannot penetrate 
 to ascertain how much, but it may be but veiy little. 
 He has drawn from it, by means of a fountain, 
 a great while already, and draws from it every day ; 
 but hoAV would he feel, each time of drawing, and 
 each time of thinking of it ? Not as if he had a 
 perennial spring to go to ; not, " I have a reservoir ; I 
 may be at my ease." No ; but " I had water yester- 
 day, I have water to-day ; but my having had it, 
 and my having it to-day, is the veiy cause that I 
 shall not have it on some day that is approaching ; 
 and, at the same time, I am compelled to this fatal 
 expenditure." So of our mortal, transient life. With 
 many, the plahi testimony of time comes home with 
 
FOSTER'S LECTURE. 203 
 
 far too little force. Some manifest a solicitous reluc- 
 tance to be considered and classed with the elderly 
 and old, discovering, perhaps, in spite of some effort, 
 a sensation of chagrin at hearing expressions which, 
 directly or by implication, assign them to the aged 
 class — prematurely assign them, they think, or would 
 have it thought ; so that it becomes a point of com- 
 plaisance to beware using any such expressions in 
 their presence. Some such persons have recourse 
 to expedients, undignified, and, at the same time, 
 unavailing, for the purpose of keeping their former 
 gi'ound — as an ill-judged labor of personal decoration 
 — a style of dress and ornament perhaps little worthy 
 of intelligence and piety at any age ; but m every 
 case inappropriate to any but the more lightsome 
 form and unfaded countenance — a forced, overacted 
 vivacity — even attempted rivalry with, not the gayety 
 only, but the very levity of youth, as if they positively 
 would not be old enough yet to be grave on any 
 subject — a resolute addiction to amusements and 
 what is called company. Such are some of the 
 characteristics of man's insensibility to the solemn 
 fact, that we all do fade as the leaf. Now, this in- 
 sensibility is partly wilful ; for it is partly owing to 
 our indulging a reluctance to perceive and think of 
 the signs and proofs which remind us of the fact that 
 we are fading. Therefore it is highly proper there 
 sliould be a solemn remonstrance against this per- 
 verse indisposition, and an endeavor to press on the 
 attention those circumstances and reflections wliich 
 
204 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 are adapted to remind us of the fading, vanishing 
 condition of our mortal existence. They are a 
 mighty number. If the soul could expand itself, 
 and with a lively sensibihty to receive upon it the 
 significance, the glancing intimation, the whisperhig 
 monition, of all things that are adapted to remind it 
 of this fact, what a host of assailing ideas would 
 strike it! Then we should hardly see a shadow 
 pass, or a vapor rise, or a flower fade, or a leaf fall, 
 still less a human visage withered in age, but we 
 should have a thought of the transient continuance 
 of our hfe. We can only note a few of the things 
 that suggest this instruction. It would not be foreign 
 to the purpose to reflect how many successive gen- 
 erations of men have faded and vanished since the 
 text itself was written ; as many, at the average du- 
 ration, as there have been falls of the leaf since the 
 first autunm which the oldest person among us can 
 remember. Let such a person glance a tliought 
 back on the long repetition of this great change over 
 the face of the earth, and think, think of man ! im- 
 agine some great spirit to have been an observer of 
 the human race through all this series of ages! 
 Within his view, the entire multitude has gone once, 
 and once again, and still again. To our view, how- 
 ever, there is a grand circumstance of deception 
 with respect to the removal and renewal of the race. 
 Human beings are continually going and coming, 
 so that, tliougli all die, man, in his vast assemblage, 
 is always hero. The order of the world is, that men 
 
FOSTER'S LECTURE. 205 
 
 be withdrawn one by one, — one here and one there, — 
 leaving the mighty mass, to general appearance, still 
 entire (except in the case of vast and desolating 
 calamities) ; and thus we see nothing parallel to the 
 general autumnal fading of the leaf; — more like the 
 evergreens which lose their leaves by individuals, 
 and still maintaiu their hving foliage. To the 
 thoughtless spectator, the human race is presented 
 under such a fallacious appearance as if it always 
 lived. But a man should have serious consideration 
 enough to look througli this deception. A veiy old 
 man has seen the main substance of two generations 
 vanish. Another warning suggestion arises: We 
 allow oiu^elves to miscalculate the appropriate 
 season for fadmg. Our imagination places it in old 
 age most delusively. The period to be accounted, 
 in a general, collective calculation, as the proper teiTn 
 of mortahty, cannot rightly be placed beyond such a 
 stage in hfe as a large proportion of men do attain, 
 but not exceed. The comparison of the leaves here 
 again fails; the main mass of the foliage of the forest 
 does continue on to the late period which none of it 
 can survive. Not so in the case of human beings. 
 The great majority of them are not appointed to 
 reach what we are accustomed to regard as the late 
 autmnn of life ; and therefore young persons are to 
 be earnestly warned against calculating on that as 
 even a probabihty. On the field of Hfe there are a 
 tliousand things in operation to anticipate time. 
 18 
 
206 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 Then let not young persons amuse themselves whh 
 flattering lies, and say, " We may live, probably, so 
 far as to the term of eighty," But since some of 
 them may perhaps truly say, "We do not much 
 think about such calculations in any way; it is 
 enough for the present that we are youthful and 
 blooming ; there is no fading or signs of its approach ;" 
 well, so have many felt, and perhaps said, in answer 
 to grave admonitions, who, before the recent fall 
 of the leaf, have withered and died ; and so, before 
 the fading of next autmnn, will many more, now gay 
 and blooming. But, without insisting upon these 
 threatening possibihties of premature decline, to a 
 reflecting mind the constant, inevitable progress 
 toward fading would appear very much related to it ; 
 there is daily less and less of that intermediate space 
 remaining, which is all there can be between us and 
 death. One has sometimes looked upon the flowers 
 of the meadow which the mower's scythe was to 
 invade the next day ; perfect life and beauty, as yet ; 
 but to the mind they have seemed already fading, 
 thi-ough the anticipation. If we turn to those who 
 ai-e a good way, or quite far advanced in life, they 
 can tell how rapidly that vernal season passed away ; 
 how much it looks, in the review, like an absolute 
 preternatural fleetness of time. As to their now more 
 advanced period, there are many palpable intimations 
 in their experience to remind them of the truth of 
 the text. Even those who are ranked as middle- 
 
FOSTER'S LECTURE. ^07 
 
 aged have much that speaks to them in a serious, 
 waruiiig voice. They are, most of them, sensible, 
 by their consciousness, as well as by the record of 
 years, that one gi*and period of their terrestrial sea- 
 son has gone by. Let them think on what they feel 
 to be gone — freshness of life — ^vernal prime — over- 
 flowing spirits — elastic, bounding vigor — insuppres- 
 sible activity — quick, ever-vai-j hig emotion — delight- 
 ful unfolding of the faculties — ^the sense of more and 
 more power, both of body and spirit — the prospect as 
 if hfe was entire before them — and all overspread 
 with brightness and fair colors ! This is gone ! and 
 this change is not a httle towards fading. Those 
 poignantly feel it to be so, who look back with 
 sadness or vain fretfulness to think it cannot be 
 recalled. But there are still more decided indications 
 of decay. Some, indeed, as we observed, remain 
 considerably stationary ; but, as to the majority, there 
 are circumstances that will not let them forget 
 whereabouts they are in life : feelings of positive 
 infiraiity — diminished power of exertion — gray haii-s 
 — failure of sight — besetting pains — apprehensive 
 caution against hami and inconvenience, often what 
 are called nei-vous affections — slight injiaies to the 
 body far less easily repaired ; — all this is a great 
 progress in the fading, and the appearance partakes 
 of and indicates the decline, not so perceptible to 
 the person himself, or to constant associates, but 
 strikingly apparent to acquaintances, who see one 
 
208 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 another after a long absence. From this stage there 
 is a very rapid descent toward complete old age, 
 with its accumulated privations and oppressions — 
 great general prostration of strength, often of settled 
 disorders, operating with habitual gi'ievance — loss of 
 memory — furrows marking the countenance — great 
 suffering by little inconveniences — confinement, in a 
 great measure, to a spot — a strange and mighty dis- 
 eeverment, as it were, from the man's own early 
 youthful self. In some instances, there is a last 
 decline mto an utterly withered state of existence — 
 imbecility wholly of body and mind. The final 
 point is that of the fallen leaves — to be reduced to 
 dust — and thus, in so many ways, is the text verified. 
 It will perhaps be said, this is a most gloomy view of 
 human hfe : why exhibit it at such width, and darken 
 it with so many aggravations of shade ? as if to 
 cloud the little sunshme that glhmners on our lot. 
 We answer. Nothing worth is that sunshine that wiU 
 not pierce radiantly through this cloud. No compla- 
 cency, no cheerfulness, no delight, is worth havmg 
 that cannot be enjoyed together with the contempla- 
 tion of this view of our mortal condition. Such an 
 exliibition — is it truth ? is it fact ? and is it truth and 
 fact bearing irresistibly on our own concern ? Then 
 the endeavor to be hapjiy by escaping from the view 
 and thought of it, would be a thing incomparably 
 more gloomy to behold than all that this exhibition 
 presents ; because that would betray the want, the 
 
FOSTER'S LECTURE. 209 
 
 neglect, the rejection, of the grand source against 
 tlie gloom of our mortal state and destiny. To an 
 enhghtened beholder of mankind, it is not their being 
 all under the doom to fade, and be dissolved, and 
 vanish ; — it is not that tliat strikes him as the deepest 
 gloom of the scene ; no, but their being thoughtless 
 of their condition ; their not seeking the true and 
 all-powerful consolation under it ; their not earnestly 
 looking and aimuig toward that glorious state, into 
 which they may emerge from this fading and per- 
 ishing existence. The melancholy thing by empha- 
 sis is, that bemgs under such a doom should disregard 
 the grand countervailing economy of the divine 
 beneficence, in which hfe and immortality are 
 brought to hght ; in which the Lord of hfe has lum- 
 self submitted to the lot of mortals, in order to 
 redeem them to the prospect of another life, where 
 there shall be no fading, decline, nor dissolution. 
 Let us not, then, absurdly turn from the view because 
 it is gi-ave and gloomy, but dwell upon it often and 
 intently, for the great purpose of exciting our spuits 
 to a victoiy over the vanity' of our present condition, 
 to gain from it, through the aid of the Divine Spirit, 
 a mighty impulse toward a state of ever-living, ever- 
 blooming existence beyond the sky. A man who 
 feels this, would accept no substitute consolation 
 against the gloomy character of this mortal life — not 
 the highest health — not the most exuberant spirits, 
 nor early youth itself, if it were possible for tlmt to 
 18* 
 
210 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 be renewed. " No, far rather let me fade, let me 
 languish, let me feci that mortality is upon me, and 
 that the terrestrial scene is darkening around me, 
 but with this inspiration of faith and hope — this 
 rising energy, which is already carrying me out of 
 an existence, which is all frailty, into one of vigor, 
 and power, and pei-petuity." 
 
THE INVALID. 
 
 BY MISS ISABEL ANN DRTSDALE. 
 
 A FEW months since, I was constrained, by 
 declining health, to seek a southern clunate. Mine 
 was that hopeless disease which sometimes sets on 
 whole families the seal of early death. The grave- 
 weed waved over those whose kindred hands had 
 been linked with mine in childhood and in youth. 
 I had seen them gradually fading away from the 
 paths of hfe, cut do^vn, one after another, like the 
 frail " flower of the grass ;" and now the same 
 deadly shaft was ranklmg in my "s-itals. / was now 
 ''•tlie stiicken deer," and with mournful feeling I 
 marked the silent but sure work of decay — ^the eb- 
 bing strength, the faihng spirits — the gentle weaning 
 away fi*om all the strong dehghts and enjoyments of 
 life — the gradual going down into the grave ! — I had 
 no hope of life ; I saw before me the print of kindred 
 feet marking my way to the tomb, and I knew that 
 I must die. Still I longed for reUef, and, like the 
 melancholy poet, I was disposed to invoke my de- 
 stroyer, and say, 
 
^12 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 " Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head, 
 Consumption, lay thy hantl ! Let me decay, 
 Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, 
 
 And softly go to slumber with the dead." 
 
 I longed for the bright suns and mild temperature of 
 the south, and shrunk from the bleak l)lasts of my 
 native hills, which seemed to kindle the consummg 
 fever wliich raged in my system. A small seaport, 
 in one of the Southern States, was recommended to 
 me as a retired and eligible situation for an invalid ; 
 and thither I went, leaving, for a land of strangers, 
 that home over which the memoiy of the past 
 hung like a funereal cloud, , shading all its enjoy- 
 ments. 
 
 At first, the sudden transition and glo-\ving contrast 
 of chmates were beyond expression reviving and ex- 
 hilarating. In place of the sleety shower and 
 howling tempest, I found the mild, elastic breath of 
 Spring, under a golden light, which sent its warm 
 cheering to the inmost heart ; and, instead of the cold 
 glare which emanates from the shrouding snow of a 
 northern winter, I beheld, on every side, the lavish 
 and varied profusion of vegetable beauty, exhibitmg 
 tliose brilliant and exquisite tints, which a southern 
 sun alone can develope. I felt the glad stirrings of 
 health and joy within me ; the fetters seemed melting 
 away from my limbs, and I walked forth once more 
 witli the buoyant tread of conscious \^gor. I was 
 mistaken. My shackles were only relaxed, not 
 removed, and soon again I felt their painful re- 
 
THE INVALID. '^^13 
 
 straiiits. And, ah me ! how sad it is to feel this 
 mournful certainty in a land of strangers ! to look 
 in vain for the familiar face of anxious love, or even 
 for those insensible but beloved objects, around 
 which the young heart had twined its fresh and 
 vigorous sensibilities, stamping them with the sacred 
 impress oHiome! 
 
 The veiy richness and magnificence of nature 
 grew distasteful ; and I turned from the lofty mag- 
 noha, hftmg its large and splendid flowers to the sky, 
 from the groves of orange and myrtle, to think of 
 tlie lovely pine, whose melanchoh'^ shadow fell upon 
 the gi-aves of my kmdred. Oh, sickness is full of 
 querulous sensibihty and unreasonable exactions; 
 and none but the hand of true and patient love 
 should bind its aching brow, or tend its faltering 
 steps. It pines away beneath the cold eye of tlie 
 sti'anger, and his very charities and kindness are 
 like ice to the heart that is yearning for affection. 
 
 All this I soon felt in my new situation ; but 
 tliere came with it a salutaiy bitterness. I was 
 alone, and for the first time I felt that I had no God; 
 that that heavenly friendship, from which distance 
 cannot separate, nor sickness, nor sorrow, divorce, 
 was not mine. This thought first came into my 
 mind in a tide of sorrowful feelings, and I mourned, 
 with a kind of sentimental tendeniess, my " loneli- 
 ness of lot." But there grew upon me, every day, 
 a deeper and more agitating interest in tlie snliject — 
 an energy of anxiety, which seemed to surmount the 
 
214 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 weakness of decaying nature, and revive within me 
 all the strength of early sensil)ilities. With intense 
 emotion I mourned my life-long infatuation, the 
 spirit of slumber which had so long sealed up my 
 spiritual vision^ and, recalling the lost opportunities 
 and privileges of other days, I was ready to fold my 
 hands in despair, believing that the harvest Avas 
 forever over. Indeed, there were times when I had 
 a moody satisfaction in resting in this idea; thus 
 reheving myself from those internal conflicts, and 
 painful efforts, to which a sense of duty, and the 
 faint glimmerings of hope, occasionally prompted 
 me. But the finger of God had touched my heart, 
 and nothing but his own most holy peace could 
 quiet its deep-stirred agitations. Alas ! the curtains 
 of a sick bed often shroud from the world without, 
 scenes which might quell the boldest spirit, and 
 soften the hardest heart : the lonely pillow steeped 
 in tears of hopeless anguish, the feeble and emaci- 
 ated hands wrung in speechless sorrow — but above 
 all, the upward, imploring look of the failing eyes, 
 whose agony of meaning none but He who made 
 the heart of man can fully comprehend, — these are 
 those last communings with his Maker, to which 
 sickness and solitude drive the poor, sinful sufferer. 
 And there, on his bed of pain, he lies, like a crushed 
 worm in the path of that mighty Being, so long and 
 rashly despised. 
 
 The woman with whom I lodged was kind and 
 well meaning, though coarse in her appearance and 
 
THE INVALID. 215 
 
 manners. Observing my downcast looks and de- 
 jected manners, she suggested my going to church, 
 remarking that she thought it would " be a comfort 
 to me." The thought seemed to dart hope and conso- 
 lation into my heart. The church, that holy place 
 where my fathers worshipped God, from which I 
 myself had wafted the reverent prayer of childhood, 
 — how could I so long forget it ? associated as it was 
 with the Redeemer's dying love and forgiving gracB. 
 Tears of thankful rapture streamed down my cheeks, 
 and, raising my heart to God, I thanked hun for iJie 
 church! that hght which his goodness has kindled 
 in this dark world, to cheer the fainting spirits and 
 guide the wandemig steps of the sorrowful and 
 bewildered penitent. 
 
 Thither I went with trembling steps, and still 
 more tremulous hopes. I listened again to those 
 sounds which had so often fallen unheeded on the 
 ear of health, and, as I raised my dim and hea-vy 
 eyes to look on the speaker, I thought upon my 
 ways, and mourned ; thought upon those days, when, 
 in the plenitude of health, and in the lightness of a 
 careless heart, my rovmg glances had wandered 
 from object to object, like "the fool's eye," the 
 messenger and the message of mercy alike unlieeded. 
 But I was altered : the faded face, and bending form 
 of sickness, were not more unlike the erect and 
 sparkhng mien of health, than my depressed and 
 downcast soul to the hght and giddy spirit which 
 animated me then. I Ustened with tlie same breath- 
 
216 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERIXG. 
 
 less and deeply concentrated attention, with which 
 the poor criminal drinks in the words of sentence ; 
 and when the services were closed, instead of the 
 empty mind and frozen heart, which I had so often 
 carried from the house of God, I left the church in a 
 whirl of emotion which language is too feeble to 
 portray. 
 
 I cannot at this time distinctly analyze the effect 
 of each successive sermon ; but, on the whole, 1 
 knew it was hopeful and encouraging, such as drew 
 my willing feet into the path of life ; and if they 
 were often wounded with thorns of difficulty, I 
 knew that it was my ov^di reckless hand which had 
 planted them : all its ruggedness was mme, all its 
 peace and hope came down from above. There 
 was one circumstance connected with my attendance 
 on this church, which seems worthy of particular 
 notice, as it led to my further establishment in the 
 truth. Nearly opposite to the seat which I occupied 
 was situated ' the siranger^s pew^^ that provision for 
 poverty and casualty, from which both alilte seem 
 to shiink, as too marked an acknowledgment of 
 humiliating circumstances. One solitaiy old man 
 
 was the tenant of the stranger's pew at . 
 
 There was a seeming forlornness about him very 
 touching to my feelings. No child, no friend sup- 
 ported his feeble steps: the crutch on which he 
 leaned seemed his only prop. There he came, in 
 his loneliness, Sabbath after Sabbath, moving hum- 
 bly through the ranks of prosperity and happiness. 
 
THE INVALID. 217 
 
 his Stooping form, his thin, gray locks, and dark, 
 wrinkled visage, exliibiting that mysterious history 
 of the heart which time and sorrow trace upon the 
 human form and countenance. Yet was there 
 sometlang in the mild, serene rays, which beamed 
 from his dim and faded eyes, wliich told of tran- 
 quil hope and cheerful trust. I looked on his 
 shabby, though decent dress, his fuiTowed face, and 
 lonely situation, and marvelled at the sacred quiet, 
 the ineffable peace, which dwelt in that aged coun- 
 tenance. Surely, I thought, his spirit is stayed 
 upon God. 
 
 The fluctuations of my disease occasionally per- 
 mitted my rambling around the envhons of . 
 
 In one of these lonely walks, I encountered tlie old 
 man of the stranger's pew. He was alone, seated 
 on an old broken boat, which was half buried in 
 the firm, gravelly sand of the beach. His eyes were 
 fixed upon the blue expanse before us, and seemed 
 pursuing the white sails which, scudding before the 
 evening gale, glanced swiftly onward toward the 
 distant sea. 
 
 I ventured to interrupt his meditations by a re- 
 spectful salutation, and something like the followmg 
 conversation ensued : — 
 
 " I observe you frequently in church : have you 
 lived long in this place ?" 
 
 « AU my hfe, lady." 
 
 " Doubtless you have experienced many changes." 
 19 
 
218 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 " No, madam, not many changes ; except that of 
 which the psahnist speaks, when he says, 'I have 
 been young, and now I am old.' " 
 
 There was something in the quiet simphcity with 
 which this was spoken, and the faint emotion which 
 ruffled for a moment the placid face of the speaker, 
 which affected me inexpressibly. I looked on " tlie 
 wliite, white head," the depressed and bending 
 form, the slow, infirm motion, and thought of the 
 time when perhaps this very beach was printed with 
 his light, bounding step, and this very breeze lifted 
 the dark locks of his youth. 
 
 Perhaps he noticed my emotion ; for when next 
 he spoke, his voice seemed to falter with sympa- 
 thetic feeling, and there was a kind of confidential 
 softening in his manner towards me. 
 
 " I was wrong," he remarked, " to say that I had 
 experienced no change. It is true that I have 
 always moved in the same poor sphere ; that the 
 poor man's crust, and the poor man's toil, have 
 always been mine ; yet I trust that I have experi- 
 enced one great, one blessed change. There was a 
 thne, lady, when I wrestled hard with the troubles 
 of Ufe, and toiled after its fancied pleasures, God 
 Ivtio^vs, in ' the sweat of my brow,' sharing my days 
 between pinching cares, and short, delirious, mad- 
 dening enjoyment. When the dawn broke upon 
 me, I cursed the light which called me to my early 
 labor : and when the settinsr sun dismissed me from 
 
THE INVALID. 
 
 219 
 
 the field, I dragged my stiff and toil-worn limbs to 
 some place of riot, where the name of God never 
 came, but in the blasphemer's oath, his laws were 
 never remembered, but in disobedience. Ah, lady, 
 'tis a grievous thing to live without God in the 
 world, even when the lines have fallen to us in 
 pleasant places, when every day and every hour 
 brings its allotted indulgence ; but miserable, indeed, 
 is the wickedness of the poor ! The ' sweat of the 
 brow,' and thorns of transgression, are all that sin 
 has to offer them ; their pleasures are coarse and 
 rude, and full of conscious crime, not like the decent 
 vices of the rich." 
 
 " Surely you do not regret this," I said earnestly ; 
 "there seems to be most security where there is 
 least delusion." 
 
 "God forbid," replied the old man, reverently 
 liftmg his well-worn hat from his head ; " God 
 forbid that I shoidd complain of Providence. No^ 
 lady, I rejoice that the hedge which God has di*awn 
 around honest poverty is strong, and full of sharp 
 and wounding thorns. He is the poor man's God, 
 his most abundant portion : and it is only when we 
 wander from him, that we are made to taste the 
 bitter wages of sin." 
 
 Gradually I drew from my companion the history 
 of those few and evil days, which make up the 
 longest life. He told me of a life darkened with the 
 cares, and stained with the sordid vices, of poverty. 
 
220 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 He told me of the recovering grace of God, and my 
 heart magnified his goodness, so strong in endur- 
 ance, so patient in neglect, so triumphant over evil. 
 From his aged hps distilled a gentle and refreshing 
 wisdom, wliich came like healmg bahn into my 
 wounded spirit. I gazed on him with love and 
 reverence, as an affecting monument of the goodness 
 of God ; and when I saw the sacred sparks of devotion 
 glowing through the white ashes of decay, I felt a 
 deep, a reahzing sense of the truth of rehgion. 
 Surely, I thought, God is the strength of his heart, 
 and his portion forever ! On this rock will / build 
 my hopes; here will I quietly repose, until the 
 evening of hfe shut peacefully in. 
 
THE DEATH OF HOWARD, 
 
 THE PHILA>"THROPIST. 
 
 On the bleak plain, exposed to many a storm, 
 Nigh Cherson's city, some few versts removed, 
 
 There Howard's tomb presents its simple form, 
 There rest the ashes of the man beloved. 
 
 He chose the spot 5 'twas suited to his mind, 
 
 Solemn and still, each trifling scene withdrawn ; 
 
 Here he coiild trace the woes of human kind. 
 The sickly captive, or the wretch forlorn. 
 
 The gloomy cell rose present to his view ; 
 
 Its pale, weak tenant sighed upon his ear; 
 At which his ardent soul took fire anew. 
 
 And nobly shone through many a falling tear. 
 
 His hberal hand revived the fainting heart, 
 And made the languid current faster roll ; 
 
 Some " word in season " he would there impart, 
 As dew refreshing to the thirsty soul. 
 9=* 
 
222 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 The summons now for his departure came ; 
 
 With cheerful look he hailed the solemn day. 
 " Death has no terrors ;" 'tis a pleasant name, 
 
 " A grateful subject," — he was heard to say. 
 
 Then to a friend : — " You know the spot I love ; 
 
 There place a sun-dial o'er my silent grave ; 
 The pompous monument I disapprove : 
 
 To be forgotten, this is all I crave." 
 
 Forgotten ! No. Thy name endeared shall rise, 
 Diffusing fragrance Lke the spicy grove ; 
 
 Whilst, as some rising star in Eastern skies, 
 Thy spirit brightens in the realms of love 
 
 J. W n. 
 
ILLUSTRATION OF JOHN XIV. 8, 9. 
 
 BY THE REV. JEREMIAH CHAPLIN, D. D., 
 PRESIDENT OF WATERVILLE COLLEGE. 
 
 " Philip saith unto him [Jesus], Lord, show us the Father, 
 and it sufficeth us. Jesus saith unto him. Have I been so long 
 time with you, and yet hast thou not known me, PhiHp ? He 
 that hath seen me hath seen the Father 3 and how sayest thou 
 then, Show us the Father?" 
 
 This passage I have long considered as clearly 
 teacliing the doctrine of our Sa-viour's true and 
 proper divinity. The train of thought by which I 
 arrived at this conclusion, is, substantially, as fol- 
 lows: — Suppose you descend into one of the salt 
 mmes of Poland, some of wliich are said to be sev- 
 eral hundi-ed feet below the surface of the earth, 
 and that you converse with one of the inhabitants 
 of that subterraneous world, and one who was bom 
 tliere, and who had never seen the light of the sun. 
 You undertalve to give him a description of fields, 
 and pastures, and forests, and mountains, and a va- 
 riety of other things to be found on the earth's sur- 
 face. You also attempt to give him some idea of 
 the heavens, of the azure vault, and of the worlds 
 
224 THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 of light with which it is bespangled and adorned. 
 You speak particularly of the sun, and of the splen- 
 dor and majesty in which he appears, when he 
 marches through the heavens in a clear day. The 
 man hstens with profound attention ; and at length 
 exclaims, " Show me that glorious sun, and I shall 
 be satisfied." Suppose you now point him to one 
 of the lamps which burn with a faint and feeble 
 liglit in his dreary cavern, and say to him, " Do you 
 see that lamp ?" " I do," he rephes, " but what of 
 that ?" " Why," say you, " he that hath seen that 
 lamp, hath seen the sun ; and why do you say to me, 
 Show me the sun ?" Should you speak thus to the 
 inhabitant of the mine, how would you appear to 
 him ? and, I may add, how would you appear to all 
 men of sense ? The apphcation is easy. The simil- 
 itude, I admit, is in one respect imperfect. But 
 that very unperfection is adapted to evince the truth 
 of the doctrine which I suppose to be contained in 
 the passage, namely, the doctrine of our Saviour's 
 divinity. There is some proportion between the 
 light of a lamp and the light of the sun. Both 
 ai*e created, and therefore both are finite. But if 
 Jesus Christ be not tridy and properly God, there is 
 an infinite disproportion between him and the eter- 
 nal Father. Hence, if it would be absurd to say, 
 " He that hath seen a lamp hath seen the sun," much 
 more absurd must it be to say, " He that hath seen 
 Christ hath seen the Father," unless Christ be truly 
 and properly divine. 
 
THE JEWISH CAPTIVE. 
 
 Wan was his cheek, and dark was his eye, 
 
 Aiid high heaved his breast of pride, 
 And scornfully spurned he the destiny. 
 
 Which freedom's bright beam had denied. 
 
 Dread vengeance lowered in Albiram's brow, 
 As he thought on the days that were gone — 
 
 Days of bliss ! they had passed — and what was he 
 now? 
 An exile, all homeless and lone ! 
 
 Quick fancy worked in his aching mind, 
 
 And fire through his brain did thrill ; 
 As he mused on the land he had left behind : 
 
 As he thought on sweet Zion's hill ! 
 
 The soft moon-beam silvered o'er the stream ; 
 
 And glittered the host of heaven — 
 But to him of joy there was no dream, 
 
 Nor ray of consolation given ! 
 
 Vain the fair scene ; for was he not 
 
 A slave in Chaldea's land ? 
 And could that hour be e'er forgot, 
 
 He was torn from Judah's strand ? 
 
22G THE CHRISTIAN OFFERING. 
 
 " Oh take the harp from yon willow tree, 
 
 Enron, thou son of the song, 
 And soothing its tones shall be to me, 
 
 And its notes rememhered long. 
 
 " Sing me, oh ! sing a tale of the years 
 
 That may never more return, 
 Such as once filled my youthful ears. 
 
 When the first flame of valor did bum I" 
 
 He has taken the harp from the willow tree, 
 And thus runs the strain of his minstrelsy. — 
 
 THE DEATH OF GOLIATH. 
 
 His heart is cold ; his head is low, 
 And his pride of strength departed ; 
 
 Withered m death the dauntless brow, 
 And the look that terror darted ! 
 
 Oh ! Elah's vale is red with gore. 
 And steel with steel is clashing ; 
 
 But where is he, who rushed before. 
 
 Like a flame through the columns dashing ? 
 
 Young hero of Elah ! did sleep 
 
 Thy sword in its scabbard that morning ? — 
 No : many a maiden shall weep. 
 
 When she sees not her lover returning ! 
 
THE JEWISH CAPTIVE. 227 
 
 And many a widow lament 
 
 The cliariot wheels delaying 
 Of the lord of her heart, thou hast sent 
 
 To his long sleep, thy valor displaying ! 
 
 Ye daughters of Israel, rejoice, 
 
 With tabret and wild cymbals sounding, 
 
 And raised be the loveliest voice, 
 The fame of the hero resounding ! 
 
 But vainly the sword of the brave 
 Might flash, like the meteor gleaming. 
 
 Had the Lord not arisen to save, 
 His chosen from slavery redeeming ! 
 
 But husJti ! — for the scoffer's at hand, 
 And the spirit of song hath departed — 
 
 Oh ! ' tis strange, in a far distant land, 
 That my harp from its willow is parted. 
 
 W. V. 
 
THE DYING WARRIOR. 
 
 BY THE REV. ROBERT m'cARTEE, D. D. 
 
 On Zion's mount the clarion blew, 
 
 That called th' embattled hosts to war ; 
 
 Jehovah's blood-stained banner flew, 
 And on its crest the Morning Star. 
 
 Starting from field, fi-om wood, from wave, 
 
 I saw his chosen ones arise ; 
 Their aim a conquest o'er the grave, 
 
 Their armor tempered in the skies. 
 
 A leader rushed into the field, 
 
 And sought the fiercest of the fight ; 
 
 The bow of promise on his shield, 
 His blade, a brand of heavenly might 
 
 I heard his silver trumpet call, 
 
 As gathering hosts around him pressed ; 
 And " Onward" was his cry to all. 
 As to the foe he bared his breast. 
 
THE DYING WARRIOR. 229 
 
 The sun was high ; the battle poured 
 
 Its full, its fiercest tide along ; 
 Still, where the tempest darkest lowered, 
 
 I heard liim shout his battle song. 
 
 The sun is low ; and other breasts 
 
 The brunt of battle boldly dare ; 
 But he has gained the land of rest, 
 
 And palm and cro^\'n he looked for there. 
 
 I saw him on the well-fought field ; — 
 His sword, his shield beside him lay — 
 
 Like one who knew not how to yield. 
 Until his Master called, " iVway !" 
 
 Around him battle's banners fly, 
 
 And still the " Onward " cry is given ; 
 
 But he nor hears nor gives the ciy, — 
 RoMET>'* has passed to yonder heaven. 
 
 * The late Rev. J. B. Rome>Ti, D. D., pastor of the Cedar 
 Street Presbyterian Church, New York. 
 
 20 
 
THE SABBATH DAY. 
 
 DAT OF PEACE, wliose dawning ray 
 Smiles meekly iii the eastern sky, 
 
 1 love to own thy soothing sway, 
 
 While earth's vain cares and tumults die. 
 
 O DAT OF JOT, thy choral stram 
 
 Sounds sweetly in the pilgrim's ear ; 
 
 The listening soul forgets its pain. 
 And loses all its guilty fear. 
 
 O DAT OF LOVE, wlicn he who died 
 Removes the sinner's load of wo. 
 
 And, smihng, shows his wounded side. 
 Whence hope, and life and pardon flow. 
 
 O DAT OF REST, v/hat lieavculy calm, 
 
 What hallowed peace thine hours impart ! 
 
 How often has thy healing balm 
 
 Revived and soothed the contrite heart ! 
 
THE SABBATH DAY. 231 
 
 The shades of earth shall cloud these eyes, 
 Each earth-born joy be lost, unknown ; 
 
 Yet stiU thy memory' shall arise. 
 
 Till Ufe's last lingering spark is flown. 
 
 T. W. H. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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