They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee’s wild, warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive martyr’s, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beats the heavenward flame;
The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays:
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise,
No unison have they with our Creator’s praise.”
“_This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ
Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief_,” is
announced as his text.
Such a sermon I never heard before; such an one I am afraid I shall
never hear again. His voice, at first weak and tremulous, strengthens
as he progresses with his subject. His eye burns with a new lustre; his
frame becomes more erect, his features kindle with animation, as with
pathetic eloquence he dwells on Christ’s mission to this sin-stained
world of ours. And then, his invitation to those who know Him not.
How simple, how sublime, how earnest! His whole heart is full of the
deepest emotion struggling for utterance. As he looks anxiously on the
waiting congregation, and in accents of melting tenderness, says, _of
whom I am chief!_ the hot blood rushes unbidden to my face, and the
briny tear trickles unconsciously down my cheek.
I shall never forget that Sabbath, that sermon, that minister. They
will go with me to my grave. When I am earnestly engaged in other
pursuits, ever and anon visions of them flit across my mind, and awaken
emotions of the most delightful nature.
* * * * *
THE YOUNG CHRISTIAN’S DEATH-CHAMBER.
“WHY lament the Christian dying?
Why indulge in tears or gloom?
Calmly on the Lord relying,
She can greet the opening tomb.”
EVERY voice was hushed; every step muffled. The soft rays of an April
sun kissed, with a lingering affection, the pale cheek of a young lady,
the tide of whose life was fast ebbing away.
She was the child of Christian parents, who had faithfully endeavored
to bring her up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. At an
early age she was deprived by death of her sainted mother; and before
many years had elapsed, she was called to mourn the loss of a father
upon whom every affection of her young heart was centred. To the
_bitterness_ of orphanage was added the loss of the greatest blessing
on earth—health. The rose of Death was long blooming on her cheek, ere
her nearest friends were aware that she was falling a victim to the
flattering and insidious attacks of consumption.
She had not neglected the early instructions of her pious parents, and,
when very young, made a profession of her faith in Christ. For several
years previous to her last sickness, her mind, at times, was clouded
with doubts, and she occasionally seemed to suffer unutterable anguish
at the absence of God’s Spirit from the heart. A few days preceding
her death, these doubts and fears were all entirely removed, and she
seemed to enjoy, to the fullest extent, the light of God’s reconciled
countenance. It was indeed beautiful to see her, who, but a few weeks
before, was so cold and indifferent, now wholly absorbed in the great
and glorious truth of salvation through Christ. She was frequently
engaged in earnest secret prayer, and never allowed anything to be read
in her presence but the Bible, or some of those sweet and touching
hymns so soothing to the troubled heart of the dying Christian. No
moment was to be lost. During the silent watches of the night, she
would frequently call her brother to her bedside, and say, “T——, read
to your dying sister some of those beautiful passages in Revelation
which our dear father used to love so tenderly, and caused to be read
when dying.” “How beautiful! how grand! how sublime!” she would
exclaim, when the book was closed.
Reader, come with me and stand beside the bed of this dear, dying
young Christian, and see how calmly, serenely and happily a Christian
can die. Contrast _her_ death-bed with that of Hume or Voltaire,
and tell me if there is not something in religion they knew nothing
about—something that fits a man for _life_, and especially for death;
listen attentively to the few words which drop from her faltering
tongue; treasure them in your memory, and so live that your last end
may be like hers.
The devoted Pastor of the —— church had frequent and delightful
interviews with her. In one of them the following conversation
occurred: “Miss M——, you doubtless are aware that you can be with
us but a few days more; are you _perfectly_ resigned to God’s will?”
With calm and sweet composure, she replied, “Yes, Mr. M——, perfectly,
_perfectly_, PERFECTLY; I long to be with my Saviour; earth has no
charms for me now.”
After reading the beautiful 14th chapter of St. John, Mr. M——
extended his hand, and was about bidding her, what seemed to him, a
last farewell, when she made the following remarks: “Perhaps this will
be the last time we shall ever meet again on earth: I wish you to
preach my funeral sermon in the old R——n church—the church of my
father and my mother, where first I listened to the glad tidings of
salvation; preach it from the text, “In the way of righteousness is
life; and in the pathway thereof there is no death”—Prov. xii., 28.
Preach to the living—to the living—to the living! And I want the
congregation to sing that delightful hymn, beginning,
‘God moves in a mysterious way—’
Good-bye.” The Sabbath previous to her death, several of her friends
united in singing that beautiful old hymn,
“Rock of ages,” &c.
When they had completed the 3d verse, and were just beginning the last—
“While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my heart-strings break in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgment throne,—
_Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee_”—
she, with a sweetness and heavenly melody which beggars description,
joined with them and sung the entire verse _alone_,—as the voices of
all in the room were so much choked with emotion they could not utter
a word. Oh, what a scene! That feeble, faltering voice spending its
“last lingering breath” in singing her Redeemer’s praise! I felt as if
I was standing in the very vestibule of heaven, catching some of those
sweet accents of devotion warbled by immortal tongues. Such composure,
confiding trust, holy resignation!
When her brothers and sister stood around her bed to receive the dying
embrace and last fond kiss of their dear sister, she made them kneel
down at her side, laid her feeble hands on their _orphan_ heads, (yea,
_doubly orphan_, since she was about leaving them,) and gave them a
sister’s dying blessing. She then remarked to her younger brother:—“My
brother, you _alone_, of the three which will be left when I am gone,
are not a Christian. My brother—my young, fatherless, motherless,
almost sisterless brother—_be a Christian!_”
A few moments before her death, a new and unusual lustre shone forth
from her eyes, a beautiful glow mantled her hitherto pale and wan
check, and in accents of the most touching and rapt eloquence, her
voice rich and full, she gave utterance to the following sublime
sentiment, which should live forever, and be proclaimed wherever the
Gospel of Christ is preached:—“I have tasted of Racine; I have dipped
into Voltaire; I have read Tom Paine; I have had the daring audacity
to study Hume; I have attempted to form a Philosophy myself—but have
found them all”—not one exception—“FALLACY, FALLACY!”
With these words lingering on her lips, she calmly and resignedly fell
asleep in Jesus. O for the death of those that die in the Lord!
The devoted Mr. M—— complied with her minutest requests; and when
he informed the congregation that he preached to them from the text
selected by his departed sister in Christ, and that she urgently
requested him to preach to the _living_, there was not a dry eye in the
house. Many a soul left that old time-honored church, feeling that “IN
THE WAY OF RIGHTEOUSNESS IS LIFE; AND IN THE PATHWAY THEREOF THERE IS
NO DEATH.”
* * * * *
WHAT PRAYER DOES.
“PRAYER moves the arm that moves the world.”
HEROD Agrippa, finding that the death of the Apostle James pleases the
Jews, has seized the venerable Galileean fisherman and thrust him into
prison. Four quaternions of soldiers are guarding him. He is chained
by each hand to a Roman soldier—soldiers who know that, to sleep at
their post is to die. Thus guarded, the doors and windows and gates
all bolted and barred, he lays himself down to sleep. His sleep is
doubtless sweet and refreshing. His faith is strong in the promises of
the Lord. To human eyes, death seems certain. On the coming morrow,
this veteran soldier of the cross must lay his life down for Jesus.
Tears, hot and bitter, will be shed by God’s people over the lifeless
form of him who once so fearlessly breasted the strong waves of Galilee
to meet his Master.
But we are told that the Church “made prayer unto _God, without
ceasing, for him_.” And even while he is quietly and sweetly sleeping,
there is going up from an inner chamber on one of the dark and
unfrequented streets of Jerusalem, a fervent, importunate prayer in his
behalf.
During the prayer, an angel of the Lord descends and stands by the side
of the slumbering apostle. A heavenly radiance lights up the dark cells
of the dismal prison. The heaven-sent messenger arouses the sleeper,
and the chains fall from his hands. No sound of footsteps is heard; no
rattle of chains breaks the solemn silence. There is no hurry. Peter
slowly girds his coat about him, and binds on his sandals. He then
throws his rough cloak around him, and follows the angel. They pass,
unheard and unseen, through the wards of the prison; the massive gate
moves on its hinges, and opens wide at their approach. At last he is
safe—safe from the wrath of his enemies. All—all of this accomplished
through importunate intercessory prayer!
Christian, I care not how lowly your situation, never say again, “_I
can’t do any thing for Jesus._” YOU CAN PRAY.
* * * * *
“PRAY WITHOUT CEASING.”
DURING a great outpouring of God’s Spirit at —— college, my attention
was called to the case of a young man of the most wicked and immoral
character. It is true, he was the son of a godly father and a praying
mother; but this, rather than softening, seemed to harden his heart.
It was one of the most copious outpourings of God’s Spirit I ever
witnessed. The windows of heaven were indeed opened, and God was
pouring out such a blessing that it seemed there could not be room to
contain it. The dry bones of the valley had been breathed upon by His
Spirit, and hearts once dead in trespasses and sins were awakened to a
new life, and rejoicing in the blessed hope of salvation through Jesus
Christ.
Nearly every student seemed to feel the need of a Saviour. Every
countenance was marked with concern; every heart lifted to God in
prayer for mercy and forgiveness. Rooms which once resounded with
drunken revellings, were now Bethels of the living God. Lips which
once profaned Jehovah’s name, and joined in singing lewd and vulgar
songs, now trembled with the accents of prayer, and sung the songs of
Zion. It was a delightful season—I shall never forget it.
Amid such scenes as these, there was one whose hard heart was steeled
against the influence of God’s awakening Spirit. It was A. M——, the
son of pious parents. Many and fervent were the prayers which ascended
in his behalf, but they seemingly were of no avail. The more Christians
prayed for him, the more hardened he became. The campus, time and
again, resounded with his awful profanity; and even the most obdurate
would stop and wonder that man, “whose breath was in his nostrils,”
could call upon God so frequently and earnestly to _damn_ rather than
_save_ his soul.
Such was the extent to which his God-defying; wickedness went, that
frequently, when the Christian students were engaged in the exercises
of a prayer-meeting, he gathered together a few of his sinful
comrades and held a _mock prayer-meeting_ in an adjoining room. Is
it not wonderful that God did not cut him down in the midst of such
heaven-daring presumption? But, like Paul, he was a chosen vessel. God
had yet a great and glorious work for him to perform.
During one of those meetings which he was in the habit of holding, the
arrow of conviction pierced his flinty heart, and laid him low and
bleeding at the foot of the cross.
Great was the joy among the students, when the glad tidings flew from
lip to lip that A. M—— had come to Jesus and fallen at His feet. Old
men wept with delight, and yearning hearts throbbed with inexpressible
pleasure.
The “tidings of great joy” soon winged their way to the ear of the
young man’s mother. Her heart overflowed with rejoicing, and tears of
exultation flowed in quick succession down her furrowed cheek. Said she
to a friend, “_I have never bowed my knee without beseeching God to
convert my poor wayward boy; and now my prayer is answered. Joy, joy,
joy!_ Now let thy servant depart in peace. My son is a Christian.”
This wayward boy is now a devoted minister of Christ, and has gone far
hence to proclaim the glad tidings of salvation to the hundreds of
settlers scattered along our western territories. Christian fathers,
Christian mothers, Christian brothers, Christian sisters, _pray without
ceasing_ for those who are near and dear to you. Your prayers will be
answered.
APPENDIX.
* * * * *
Letters from Staunton, Va.
NO. 1.
INSTITUTION FOR THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND.
_Staunton, Va._, May, 1859.
THE Institution for the Deaf, Dumb, and Blind, situated at this place,
is a building of very attractive and beautiful appearance. Occupying
an eminence to the right of the Virginia Central Railroad, it is among
the first things that attract the attention in your approach to this
beautiful mountain town,—for we believe it has not yet risen to the
dignity of a city.
The style of the building is Doric; the entrance being a large portico
supported by six massive pillars. On each side of the portico are two
attractive wings, used for the reception of visitors and recitation
rooms;—in the rear are several other apartments, all large and well
arranged, appropriated to the different purposes of the Institution.
The building is situated in the midst of quite a number of stalwart
mountain oaks, and the yard is beautifully diversified by various
kinds of shrubbery and winding graveled walks. There is an absence
of everything like studied formality in the arrangement of both
the shrubbery and the walks, and the eye is at once struck with
the peculiarly easy and natural appearance of the building and its
surrounding ornaments.
On entering, you are at once pleased with the neatness and beauty of
the internal arrangements. A very polite and attentive gentleman meets
you in the reception room, and inquires if you wish to look through the
Institution. On replying affirmatively, you are first ushered into the
apartment for
THE BLIND.
The scene is one which awakens mingled feelings of pleasure and pain;
of pleasure to see so many afflicted little ones, for most of them are
young, led by the hand of kindness in the pleasant and peaceful ways of
wisdom; of pain, when you behold them rolling wildly their sightless
orbs, and seemingly endeavoring to gather in some few straggling rays
of the cheerful sun, or to look out upon the beautifully draped fields
of nature, and know that all these things, so attractive to us, are
midnight darkness to them.
One of the scholars, a little girl about ten years old, read several
passages from various books for me, and then pointed out on a large
map of the United States, Pittsburg, and told me at the junction of
what rivers it was situated, Richmond, Staunton, and many other places,
with an ease and accuracy really astonishing. Two other girls, somewhat
older, sung, and played on the piano “Do they miss me at home?” As
I listened to the sweet melody of their well-tuned voices, I, for a
moment, forgot their blindness, and felt tears dimming my eyes as my
mind wandered back to the two near and dear ones at home, and I thought
to myself, “Do they miss ME at home?” I then listened to the reading of
several passages in French by a young lady of about sixteen. It really
was surprising to witness the fluency with which her delicate fingers
glided over word after word, and sentence after sentence.
In all these cases the reading is done by passing the fingers over
raised letters.
The sweetness of expression, the amiability of character, the flow of
spirits which characterized one of the little pupils, Bettie Archibald,
engaged my attention, and enlisted my affection. On being asked if she
would be blind in heaven, she very sweetly and quickly replied, “No,
sir.”
Quite a number of the male pupils are daily instructed in instrumental
music, and many of them display more than ordinary talents. It was
quite a treat to hear the little fellows play “Yankee Doodle:” their
faces were soon lighted up with smiles, and they played with as much
life and animation, as if they were leading an American army on to
victory.
We now wend our way into the apartments for
THE DEAF AND DUMB.
A large class, consisting of boys and girls, is seated in regular
order opposite their instructor, who is also deaf and dumb. At a given
signal, they all devoutly rise, and with eyes fixed on the fingers
of their teacher, follow him in his devotions, as he leads them to a
throne of grace. It is the most touching scene I ever witnessed. There
is but one person (he, your correspondent,) in that large assembly can
utter a syllable, or distinguish a sound. Not a sound is heard; the
stillness becomes painful—deathlike; the devotion seems to grow warmer
and warmer; the prayer is concluded; the seats resumed; all of this
gone through without the utterance of _one_ word.
What a lesson should it teach us! How true is it that we shall not
be heard for our much speaking! Leaving the chapel, we enter the
recitation room. Each pupil is standing opposite a black-board, with
his eyes turned to the teacher; questions and answers are written
by the instructor, and then copied by the pupils. In this room are
assembled classes, each under the charge of a separate teacher,
studying geography, grammar, history; and in one room is a small class
just beginning to read. The chirography of some of the pupils is really
beautiful; and we leave the room feeling that though God has deprived
them of two senses, yet, in his loving kindness, he has bestowed upon
them unusual capacities in the others. It may be a fact worthy of
mentioning, that the deaf and dumb do the printing (raised letters) for
the Blind: such is the economy of the Institute.
The number of pupils in the departments is at present sixty-nine.
In conclusion, I would express my especial thanks and obligations to
Assistant-principal Mr. COVELL, Mrs. COLEMAN, of the Blind, and Mr.
FINK, of the Deaf-mute Department, for their extreme kindness and
attention.
In my next, I shall give you a sketch of the Lunatic Asylum, also
situated at this place.
Yours, truly,
PHILIP BARRETT.
No. 2.
THE LUNATIC ASYLUM.
STAUNTON, VA., June, 1859.
THE sun was hanging low in the west, when we stood at the gateway
of the Staunton Lunatic Asylum. His rays were gilding with a golden
lustre the hoary summits of the Blue Ridge, as they printed their bold
outlines on the cloudless evening sky; and as a few beams fell here
and there on the graveled walks, the flower-crowned terraces, and
verdant shrubbery of the beautiful greensward which stretches forth in
front of the Asylum, we could but thank an ever-gracious and ever-good
Providence, for His inestimable gift to mankind—the bright, sparkling,
joyous sunshine.
A moment’s glance at the general appearance of the buildings convinces
the beholder that they are not as beautiful nor as commanding as
those of the Blind Institute; though much taste is displayed in the
arrangement of the walks, and selection of many and choice specimens
of rare and beauteous flowers and shrubbery. You enter the main
building, after ascending a flight of granite steps, through a portico
of Ionic architecture, supported by four graceful pillars. The first
apartment which we enter is the _chapel_. On either side of the pulpit
are painted in beautiful gilt letters, the Ten Commandments; in the
opposite end of the room stands a large and handsome organ; the dome
and walls are beautifully frescoed. The pulpit is occupied every
Sabbath evening by some one of the ministers of the various evangelical
denominations worshipping in Staunton. All these bespeak that these
poor demented creatures are not forgotten on the Sabbath; and even
where a few sparks of intellect linger amid the ashes of minds once
proud and noble, it is interesting to see how those sparks are kindled
anew by the light of religion.
After wending our way through various other portions of the buildings,
and stopping here and there to bestow a hasty glance at one and
another rare specimen of curiously carved workmanship, by some lunatic
genius, we find ourselves gazing through iron bars at a scene which
would cause the most unfeeling heart to shudder with horror. There are
grouped together, in the narrow confines of four tall brick walls, not
less than a hundred patients in the very worst stages of lunacy. It
seems that the darkest cavern in the regions of Despair could present
no more heart-rending picture.
The wild glare of the piercing eye, the dishevelled locks; the
meaningless gibberish; the incoherent babbling; the fiendish ravings
that rent the silent air, together with numberless other acts which
constitute the sum of a poor maniac’s life, have left an impression on
our mind that will go with us to our grave.
How true are the words of the poet—
“Oh, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!
The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s eye, tongue, sword;
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,
The observed of all observers, quite, quite down.”
We willingly leave such scenes, and turn our ready steps to an
observatory which crowns the main building, and commands one of the
loveliest views we ever witnessed.
Let us forget the painful sights we have just beheld, and drink in the
resplendent beauty of nature as she stands robed in the crimson folds
of evening—
“For the west yet glimmers with some streaks of day.”
Beneath us are the various buildings of the Asylum, glittering, like
burnished gold, in the rays of the setting sun. To the north rise the
graceful proportions of the Blind Institute, nestled in its grove of
wide-spreading oaks; to the west are seen the heaven-pointing spires
and beautiful residences of Staunton; to the east is the graveyard of
the asylum, with its plain, upright marble slabs, marking the spot
where slumber the remains of many a friendless maniac; to the south
is one wide-extended view of sloping hills, smiling valleys, sunlit
streams and snow-white cottages, dotted over the scene like stars in
the blue canopy of heaven.
Who can look upon such a prospect and not feel his thoughts turn from
nature to nature’s God?
“All things are calm and fair and passive; earth
Looks as if lulled upon an angel’s lap,
Into a breathless, dewy slumber: so still
That we can only say of things, they be.”—FESTUS.
The gathering darkness reminds us that we have trespassed too long on
the kindness of the gentleman who has so cheerfully shown us through
the many apartments of this truly noble institution, whose object is to
ameliorate the condition of the suffering maniac.
We bid her, her directors and her officers “God-speed” in their noble
enterprise, and earnestly pray that they may continue “blessing and
being blessed” until the light of reason shall be shed abroad in the
darkened intellect of every lunatic in our land.
There are many other points which we might mention; but they are of
such a nature as only to sicken the heart, and we pass them by in
silence, simply remarking that if there be one crowning blessing for
which our hearts should ever be outgushing in grateful thanks to our
Heavenly Father, it is REASON.
PHILIP BARRETT.
Transcriber’s Note:
APPENDIX has been added to the Contents. Punctuation has been
standardized, and spelling and hyphenation have been retained
as they appear in the original publication, except as follows:
Page 23
but dependant upon the cold _changed to_
but dependent upon the cold