return to the idolatrous worship you have abjured. Promise me, that
you will never kneel to any but the one, invisible God, and that this
blessed book, which I give you, as a parting pledge, shall be as a
lamp to your feet and a light to your path. Oh! should you forget the
faith you have vowed to embrace, and should I, when I come back to my
country, find you an alien from God, I should mourn, I should weep
tears of blood over your fall; but you could never be the wife of
Adellan. The friend of his bosom must be a Christian."
"I cannot be a Christian," sobbed the disconsolate girl, "for I love
you better than God himself, and I am still an idolater. Oh! Adellan,
you are dearer to me than ten thousand worlds, and yet you are going
to leave me."
The grief she had struggled to restrain, here burst its bounds. Like
the unchastened daughters of those ardent climes, she gave way to the
wildest paroxysms of agony. She threw herself on the ground, tore out
her long raven locks, and startled the silence of night by her wild,
hysterical screams. Adellan in vain endeavoured to soothe and restore
her to reason; when, finding his caresses and sympathy worse than
unavailing, he knelt down by her side, and lifting his hands above her
head, prayed to the Almighty to forgive her for her sacrilegious love.
As the stormy waves are said to subside, when the wing of the halcyon
passes over them, so were the tempestuous emotions that raged in the
bosom of this unhappy maiden, lulled into calmness by the holy breath
of prayer. As Adellan continued his deep and fervent aspirations, a
sense of the omnipresence, the omnipotence and holiness of God stole
over her. She raised her weeping eyes, and as the moonbeams glittered
on her tears, they seemed but the glances of his all-seeing eye. As
the wind sighed through the branches, she felt as if _His_ breath were
passing by her, in mercy and in love. Filled with melting and
penitential feelings, she lifted herself on her knees, by the side of
Adellan, and softly whispered a response to every supplication for
pardon.
"Oh! Father, I thank thee for this hour!" exclaimed Adellan,
overpowered by so unlooked-for a change, and throwing his arms around
her, he wept from alternate ecstasy and sorrow. Let not the feelings
of Adellan be deemed too refined and exalted for the region in which
he dwelt. From early boyhood he had been kept apart from the
companionship of the ruder throng; his adolescence had been passed in
the shades of a convent, in study, and deep observation, and more than
all he was a Christian; and wherever Christianity sheds its pure and
purifying light, it imparts an elevation, a sublimity to the character
and the language, which princes, untaught of God, may vainly emulate.
The morning sunbeam lighted the pilgrims on their way. The slight and
feeble frame of Mary was borne on a litter by four sturdy Ethiopians.
Seven or eight more accompanied to rest them, when weary, and to bear
Mr. M---- in the same manner, when overcome by fatigue, for it was a
long distance to Massowak. Their journey led them through a desert
wilderness, where they might vainly sigh for the shadow of the rock,
or the murmur of the stream. Adellan walked in silence by the side of
his friend. His thoughts were with the weeping Ozora, and of the
parting hour by the banks of the moonlighted fountain. Mary remembered
the grave of her infant, and wept, as she caught a last glimpse of the
hill where she had dwelt. The spirit of the missionary was lingering
with the beings for whose salvation he had laboured, and he made a
solemn covenant with his own soul, that he would return with Adellan,
if God spared his life, and leave his Mary under the shelter of the
paternal roof, if she indeed lived to behold it. On the third day, Mr.
M---- was overcome with such excessive languor, he was compelled to be
borne constantly by the side of his wife, unable to direct, or to
exercise any controlling influence on his followers. Adellan alone,
unwearied and energetic, presided over all, encouraged, sustained, and
soothed. He assisted the bearers in upholding their burdens, and
whenever he put his shoulder to the litter, the invalids immediately
felt with what gentleness and steadiness they were supported. When
they reached the desert, and camels were provided for the travellers,
they were still often obliged to exchange their backs for the litter,
unable long to endure the fatigue. Adellan was still unwilling to
intrust his friends to any guidance but his own. He travelled day
after day through the burning sands, animating by his example the
exhausted slaves, and personally administering to the wants of the
sufferers. When they paused for rest or refreshment, before he carried
the cup to his own parched lips, he brought it to theirs. It was his
hand that bathed with water their feverish brows, and drew the curtain
around them at night, when slumber shed its dews upon their eyelids.
And often, in the stillness of the midnight, when the tired bearers
and weary camels rested and slept after their toils, the voice of
Adellan rose sweet and solemn in the loneliness of the desert, holding
communion with the high and holy One who inhabiteth eternity.
There was a boy among the negro attendants, who was the object of
Adellan's peculiar kindness. He seemed feeble and incapable of bearing
long fatigue, and at the commencement of the journey Adellan urged him
to stay behind, but he expressed so strong a desire to follow the good
missionary, he could not refuse his request. He wore his face muffled
in a handkerchief, on account of some natural deformity, a
circumstance which exposed him to the derision of his fellow slaves,
but which only excited the sympathy of the compassionate Adellan.
Often, when the boy, panting and exhausted, would throw himself for
breath on the hot sand, Adellan placed him on his own camel and
compelled him to ride. And when they rested at night, and Adellan
thought every one but himself wrapped in slumber, he would steal
towards him, and ask him to tell him something out of God's book, that
he, Adellan, had been reading. It was a delightful task to Adellan to
pour the light of divine truth into the dark mind of this poor negro
boy, and every moment he could spare from his friends was devoted to
his instruction.
One evening, after a day of unusual toil and exertion, they reached
one of those verdant spots, called the Oases of the desert; and sweet
to the weary travellers was the fragrance and coolness of this green
resting-place. They made their tent under the boughs of the flowering
acacia, whose pure white blossoms diffused their odours even over the
sandy waste they had passed. The date tree, too, was blooming
luxuriantly there, and, more delicious than all, the waters of a
fountain, gushing out of the rock, reminded them how God had provided
for the wants of his ancient people in the wilderness. The missionary
and his wife were able to lift their languid heads, and drink in the
freshness of the balmy atmosphere. All seemed invigorated and revived
but the negro boy, who lay drooping on the ground, and refused the
nourishment which the others eagerly shared.
"What is the matter, my boy?" asked Adellan, kindly, and taking his
hand in his, was struck by its burning heat. "You are ill," continued
he, "and have not complained." He made a pallet for him under the
trees, and they brought him a medicinal draught. Seeing him sink after
a while in a deep sleep, Adellan's anxiety abated. But about midnight
he was awakened by the moanings of the boy, and bending over him, laid
his hand on his forehead. The sufferer opened his eyes, and gasped,
"Water, or I die!" Adellan ran to the fountain, and brought the water
immediately to his lips. Then kneeling down, he removed the muffling
folds of the handkerchief from his face, and unbound the same from his
head, that he might bathe his temples in the cooling stream. The moon
shone as clearly and resplendently as when it beamed on Ozora's
parting tears, and lighted up with an intense radiance the features of
the apparently expiring negro. Adellan was astonished that no
disfiguring traces appeared on the regular outline of his youthful
face; his hair, too, instead of the woolly locks of the Ethiopian, was
of shining length and profusion, and as Adellan's hand bathed his brow
with water, he discovered beneath the jetty dye of his complexion the
olive skin of the Abyssinian.
"Ozora!" exclaimed Adellan, throwing himself in agony by her side;
"Ozora, you have followed me, but to die!"
"Forgive me, Adellan," cried she, faintly; "it was death to live
without you; but oh! I have found everlasting life, in dying at your
feet. Your prayers have been heard in the desert, and I die in the
faith and the hope of a Christian."
Adellan's fearful cry had roused the slumberers of the tent. Mr.
M----, and Mary, herself, gathering strength from terror, drew near
the spot. What was her astonishment to behold her beloved nurse,
supported in the arms of Adellan, and seemingly breathing out her last
sighs! Every restorative was applied, but in vain. The blood was
literally burning up in her veins.
This last fatal proof of her love and constancy wrung the heart of
Adellan. He remembered how often he had seen her slender arms bearing
the litter, her feet blistering in the sands; and when he knew, too,
that it was for the love of him she had done this, he felt as if he
would willingly lay down his life for hers. But when he saw her mind,
clear and undimmed by the mists of disease, bearing its spontaneous
testimony to the truth of that religion which reserves its most
glorious triumphs for the dying hour, he was filled with rejoicing
emotions.
"My Saviour found me in the wilderness," cried she, "while listening
to the prayers of Adellan. His head was filled with dew, and his locks
were heavy with the drops of night. Oh, Adellan, there is a love
stronger than that which has bound my soul to yours. In the strength
of that love I am willing to resign you. I feel there is forgiveness
even for me."
She paused, and lifting her eyes to heaven, with a serene expression,
folded her hands on her bosom. The missionary saw that her soul was
about to take its flight, and kneeling over her, his feeble voice rose
in prayer and adoration. While the holy incense was ascending up to
heaven, her spirit winged its upward way, so peacefully and silently,
that Adellan still clasped her cold hand, unconscious that he was
clinging to dust and ashes.
They made her grave beneath the acacia, whose blossoms were strewed
over her dying couch. They placed a rude stone at the head, and the
hand of Adellan carved upon it this simple, but sublime inscription,
"I know that my Redeemer liveth." The name of _Ozora_, on the opposite
side, was all the memorial left in the desert, of her whose memory was
immortal in the bosom of her friends. But there was a grandeur in that
lonely grave which no marble monument could exalt. It was the grave of
a Christian:
"And angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground now sacred by her relics made."
It would be a weary task to follow the travellers through every step
of their journey. Adellan still continued his unwearied offices to his
grateful and now convalescent friends, but his spirit mourned for his
lost Ozora. When, however, he set foot on Christian land, he felt
something of the rapture that swelled the breast of Columbus on the
discovery of a new world. It was, indeed, a new world to him, and
almost realized his dreams of Paradise.
The friends of Mary and her husband welcomed him, as the guardian
angel who had watched over their lives in the desert, at the hazard of
his own; and Christians pressed forward to open their hearts and their
homes to their Abyssinian brother. Mary, once more surrounded by the
loved scenes of her youth, and all the appliances of kindred love, and
all the medicinal balms the healing art can furnish, slowly recovered
her former strength. All that female gratitude and tenderness could
do, she exerted to interest and enliven the feelings of Adellan, when,
after each day of intense study, he returned to their domestic circle.
The rapidity with which he acquired the German language was
extraordinary. He found it, however, only a key, opening to him
treasures of unknown value. Mr. M---- feared the effects of his
excessive application, and endeavoured to draw him from his books and
studies. He led him abroad amongst the works of nature, and the
wonders of art, and tried to engage him in the athletic exercises the
youth of the country delighted in.
Whatever Adellan undertook he performed with an ardour which no
obstacles could damp, no difficulties subdue. Knowledge, purified by
religion, was now the object of his existence; and, while it was
flowing in upon his mind, from such various sources, finding, instead
of its capacities being filled, that they were constantly enlarging
and multiplying, and the fountains, though overflowing, still
undrained: and knowing too, that it was only for a short time that his
spirit could drink in these immortal influences, and that through them
he was to fertilize and refresh, hereafter, the waste places of his
country, he considered every moment devoted to relaxation alone, as
something robbed from eternity.
One day, Adellan accompanied a number of young men belonging to the
institution in which he was placed, in an excursion for the collection
of minerals. Their path led them through the wildest and most
luxuriant country, through scenes where nature rioted in all its
virgin bloom; yet, where the eye glancing around, could discern the
gilding traces of art, the triumphs of man's creating hand. Adellan,
who beheld in every object, whether of nature or of art, the
manifestation of God's glory, became lost in a trance of ecstasy. He
wandered from his companions. He knelt down amid the rocks, upon the
green turf, and on the banks of the streams. In every place he found
an altar, and consecrated it with the incense of prayer and of praise.
The shades of night fell around him, before he was conscious that the
sun had declined. The dews fell heavy on his temples, that still
throbbed with the heat and the exertions of the day. He returned
chilled and exhausted. The smile of rapture yet lingered on his lips,
but the damps of death had descended with the dews of night, and from
that hour consumption commenced its slow but certain progress. When
his friends became aware of his danger, they sought by every possible
means to ward off the fatal blow. Mr. M---- induced him to travel,
that he might wean him from his too sedentary habits. He carried him
with him, through the magnificent valleys of Switzerland, those
valleys, embosomed in hills, on whose white and glittering summits
Adellan imagined he could see the visible footprints of the Deity. "Up
to the hills," he exclaimed, with the sweet singer of Israel, in a
kind of holy rapture, "up to the hills do I lift mine eyes, from
whence cometh my help." When returning, they lingered on the lovely
banks of the Rhine, his devout mind, imbued with sacred lore, recalled
"the green fields and still waters," where the Shepherd of Israel
gathered his flock.
The languid frame of Adellan seemed to have gathered strength, and his
friends rejoiced in their reviving hopes; but "He who seeth not as man
seeth," had sent forth his messenger to call him to his heavenly home.
Gentle was the summons, but Adellan knew the voice of his divine
Master, and prepared to obey. One night, as he reclined in his easy
chair, and Mr. M---- was seated near, he stretched out his hand
towards him, with a bright and earnest glance: "My brother," said he,
"I can now say from my heart, the will of God be done. It was hard to
give up my beloved Abyssinians, but I leave them in the hands of One
who is strong to deliver, and mighty to save. You, too, will return,
when you have laid this wasted frame in its clay-cold bed."
"I made a vow unto my God," answered Mr. M----, "that I would see them
again, and that vow shall not be broken. When they ask me the parting
words of Adellan, tell me what I shall utter."
"Tell them," exclaimed Adellan, raising himself up, with an energy
that was startling, and in a voice surprisingly clear, while the glow
of sensibility mingled with the hectic fires that burned upon his
cheek; "tell them that the only reflection that planted a thorn in my
dying pillow, was the sorrow I felt that I was not permitted to
declare to them once more, the eternal truths of the Gospel. Tell
them, with the solemnities of death gathering around me, in the near
prospect of judgment and eternity, I declare my triumphant faith in
that religion your lips revealed unto me, that religion which was
sealed by the blood of Jesus, and attested by the Spirit of Almighty
God; and say, too, that had I ten thousand lives, and for every life
ten thousand years to live, I should deem them all too short to devote
to the glory of God, and the service of my Redeemer."
He sunk back exhausted in his chair, and continued, in a lower voice,
"You will travel once more through the desert, but the hand of Adellan
will no longer minister to the friend he loves. Remember him when you
pass the grave of Ozora, and hallow it once more with the breath of
prayer. She died for love of me, but she is gone to him who loved her
_as man never loved_. Her spirit awaits my coming."
The last tear that ever dimmed the eye of Adellan here fell to the
memory of Ozora. It seemed a parting tribute to the world he was about
to leave. His future hours were gilded by anticipations of the
happiness of heaven, and by visions of glory too bright, too holy for
description. He died in the arms of the missionary, while the hand of
Mary wiped from his brow the dews of dissolution. Their united tears
embalmed the body of one, who, had he lived, would have been a burning
and a shining light, in the midst of the dark places of the earth;
one, who combined in his character, notwithstanding his youth and his
country, the humility of the Publican, the ardour of Peter, the love
of John, and the faith and zeal of the great Apostle of the Gentiles.
Perhaps it should rather be said, with the reverence due to these holy
evangelists and saints, that a large portion of their divine
attributes animated the spirit of the Abyssinian Neophyte.
THE
VILLAGE ANTHEM.
"What is that bell ringing for?" asked Villeneuve of the waiter, who
was leaving the room.
"For church," was the reply.
"For church! Oh! is it Sunday? I had forgotten it. I did not think
there was a church in this little village."
"Yes, indeed," answered the boy, his village pride taking the alarm,
"and a very handsome one, too. Just look out at that window, sir. Do
you see that tall, white steeple, behind those big trees there? That
is the church, and I know there is not a better preacher in the whole
world than Parson Blandford. He was never pestered for a word yet, and
his voice makes one feel so warm and tender about the heart, it does
one good to hear him."
Villeneuve cast a languid glance through the window, from the sofa on
which he was reclining, thinking that Parson Blandford was very
probably some old hum-drum, puritanical preacher, whose nasal twang
was considered melodious by the vulgar ears which were accustomed to
listen to him. Dull as his present position was, he was resolved to
keep it, rather than inflict upon himself such an intolerable bore.
The boy, who had mounted his hobby, continued, regardless of the
unpropitious countenance of his auditor.
"Then there is Miss Grace Blandford, his daughter, plays so
beautifully on the organ! You never heard such music in your life.
When she sits behind the red curtains, and you can't see anything but
the edge of her white skirt below, I can't help thinking there's an
angel hid there; and when she comes down and takes her father's arm,
to walk out of church, she looks like an angel, sure enough."
Villeneuve's countenance brightened. Allowing for all the hyperbole of
ignorance, there were two positive things which were agreeable in
themselves--music and a young maiden. He rose from the sofa, threw
aside his dressing-gown, called for his coat and hat, and commanded
the delighted boy to direct him to the church, the nearest way. His
guide, proud of ushering in such a handsome and aristocratic-looking
stranger, conducted him to one of the most conspicuous seats in the
broad aisle, in full view of the pulpit and the orchestra, and
Villeneuve's first glance was towards the red curtains, which were
drawn so close, not even a glimpse of white was granted to the
beholder. He smiled at his own curiosity. Very likely this angel of
the village boy was a great red-faced, hard-handed country girl, who
had been taught imperfectly to thrum the keys of an instrument, and
consequently transformed by rustic simplicity into a being of superior
order. No matter, any kind of excitement was better than the ennui
from which he had been aroused. A low, sweet, trembling prelude stole
on his ear. "Surely," thought he, "no vulgar fingers press those
keys--that is the key-note of true harmony." He listened, the sound
swelled, deepened, rolled through the arch of the building, and sank
again with such a melting cadence, the tears involuntarily sprang into
his eyes. Ashamed of his emotions, he leaned his head on his hand, and
yielded unseen to an influence, which, coming over him so
unexpectedly, had all the force of enchantment. The notes died away,
then swelled again in solemn accompaniment with the opening hymn. The
hymn closed with the melodious vibrations of the instrument, and for a
few moments there was a most profound silence.
"The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before
him:" uttered a deep, solemn voice.
Villeneuve raised his head and gazed upon the speaker. He was a man
rather past the meridian of life, but wearing unmarred the noblest
attributes of manhood. His brow was unwrinkled, his piercing eye
undimmed, and his tall figure majestic and unbowed. The sun inclined
from the zenith, but the light, the warmth, the splendour remained in
all their power, and the hearts of the hearers radiated that light and
warmth, till an intense glow pervaded the assembly, and the opening
words of the preacher seemed realized. Villeneuve was an Infidel; he
looked upon the rites of Christianity as theatrical machinery,
necessary, perhaps, towards carrying on the great drama of life, and
when the springs were well adjusted and oiled, and the pulleys worked
without confusion, and every appearance of art was kept successfully
in the background, he was willing to sit and listen as he would to a
fine actor when reciting the impassioned language of the stage. "This
man is a very fine actor," was his first thought, "he knows his part
well. It is astonishing, however, that he is willing to remain in such
a limited sphere--with such an eye and voice--such flowing language
and graceful elocution, he might make his fortune in any city. It is
incomprehensible that he is content to linger in obscurity." Thus
Villeneuve speculated, till his whole attention became absorbed in the
sermon, which as a literary production was exactly suited to his
fastidiously refined taste. The language was simple, the sentiments
sublime. The preacher did not bring himself down to the capacities of
his auditors, he lifted them to his, he elevated them, he
spiritualized them. He was deeply read in the mysteries of the human
heart, and he knew that however ignorant it might be of the truths of
science and the laws of metaphysics, it contained many a divine spark
which only required an eliciting touch to kindle. He looked down into
the eyes upturned to him in breathless interest, and he read in them
the same yearnings after immortality, the same reverence for the
Infinite Majesty of the Universe, which moved and solemnized his own
soul. His manner was in general calm and affectionate, yet there were
moments when he swept the chords of human passion with a master's
hand, and the hectic flush of his cheek told of the fire burning
within.