embarked and soon completed the residue of our voyage. The foot of Loch
Katrine is very romantic and beautiful. Innumerable hills of moderate
elevation raise their grey, pointed peaks around and above a deeply
wooded glen, opening towards the south-east and forming the outlet of
the lake. The highest of these are Ben-venue and Ben-an, rising on each
side of the pass. Both are fine mountains, something like two thousand
feet in height, with naked masses of granite overhanging wild and woody
bases. From the great number of peaks or _pikes_ which are crowded into
this narrow district, it has been called the Trosachs, or _bristled
region_. The lake is here reduced to less than half a mile in width,
sheltered on all sides from the winds by high promontories, jutting so
far into the water, as to appear like a group of islands.
Towards the north-west, the eye looks up the glen of Strathgartney, in
which tradition says that the grey charger of Fitz-James fell. The
boatman gravely informed us, that _his bones are to be seen to this
day_! Such stories, and the sketches of certain topographers, have
afforded us an infinite fund of amusement.
We landed at the foot of Loch Katrine, and after walking a mile and a
half reached our hotel.
WORSHIP.
By Asa Cummings.
That heart must be desolate indeed, which is a stranger to devotion.
Were it possible to remain undevout, and at the same time not be
criminal, it were still a state of mind most earnestly to be deprecated.
It is a joyless condition, to live without God in the world; to be
unsusceptible to the attractions of his moral excellence; to pass the
time of our sojourning in a world of trial, without ever communing with
the Father of our spirits, or voluntarily casting ourselves on an
Almighty arm for support, and breathing forth to the Author of our
being, the language of supplication and praise.
And how is the effect of devotion heightened by the junction of numbers
in the same service--even of the "multitude who keep holy day!" A scene,
so honorable to Him "who inhabiteth the praises of Israel," so fit in
itself, so congruous to man's social nature and dependant condition, so
impressive on the actors and spectators, and so salutary in its
influence,--awakened in the "sweet singer of Israel," the most ardent
longings for the courts of the Lord, and constituted the glowing theme
of more than one of his unrivalled songs. Nay, under the influence of
that inspiration which prompted his thoughts and guided his pen, he does
not hesitate to affirm:--"_The Lord loveth the gates of Zion more than
all the dwellings of Jacob._"[1]
Far from us be the thought of casting upon the Psalmist the imputation
of undervaluing himself, or of designing to lead his fellow-men to
undervalue domestic or private worship. Every contrite heart is an abode
where God delights to dwell--a temple where he abides and operates--a
chosen habitation, where he reveals his love and displays his grace. It
is a complacent sight to the Father of spirits, to behold one prodigal
returning, to see an individual prostrate before him, and lifting up his
cry for pardon and spiritual strength. It is pleasing in his eyes to see
a family at their morning and evening devotions, pouring out their souls
with all the workings of pious affection, and the various pleadings of
faith. No sweeter incense than this, ever ascends to heaven. When,
therefore, God expresses his preference for the worship of the
sanctuary, it is not the _quality_ which he regards, but the _degree_;
not the _kind_ of influence exerted, but the _amount_. In the sanctuary
is the concentrated devotion of many hearts. Here are more minds to be
wrought upon; here is a wider scope for the operation of truth; here a
light is raised which is seen from afar, and attracts the gaze of
distant beholders, as the temple on the summit of Moriah, "fretted with
golden fires," arrested the eye of the distant traveller. Here is a
public, practical declaration to all the world, that there is a God, and
that adoration and service are his due.
In the sanctuary the Creator and the creature are brought near to each
other. The character and perfections of God, his law and government, the
wonders of his providence, the riches of his grace, the duty and destiny
of man, are brought directly before the mind by the "lively oracles."
"Beholding, as in a glass, the glory of the Lord, we are changed into
the same image." Truth, enforced by the energies of the life-giving
Spirit, "is quick and powerful." God "pours water on them that are
thirsty;" and in fulfilment of the prophetic word, "young men and
maidens, old men and children," awakened to "newness of life," spring up
"as willows by the water-courses," and flock to the Refuge of souls, "as
doves to their windows." A spectacle this, well pleasing to God, and
cheering to the hearts of his friends on earth--none more so this side
heaven. None produces such a commingling of wonder, love, humility, and
gratitude; none calls forth such adoring thankfulness; none makes the
songs of the temple below so like that new song of Moses and the Lamb,
which is perpetually sung before the throne above. Heaven is brought
down to earth--eternity takes hold on time; this world yields its
usurped throne in the hearts of men, and Jehovah reigns triumphant, the
Lord of their affections. "The power and glory of God are seen in the
sanctuary."
Here, too, are ample provisions to meet all future wants--moral means to
restore the wandering, to recover the spiritually faint, to refresh and
fortify their souls to sustain the conflict with temptation, to inspire
the heart with religious joy, to nourish that spiritual life which has
dawned in their souls. Here is the "sincere milk of the word," on which
they may "grow;" the significant ordinances, so quickening to the
affections, so invigorating to man's spiritual nature. The Baptismal
water affects the heart through the medium of the eye, and enforces the
worshipper's obligation to abjure the world, and to be pure as Christ is
pure. The Emblematic Feast, exhibiting "Jesus Christ set forth
crucified before his eyes,"--while it affectingly reminds him of his
lost condition as a sinner, contains an impressive demonstration of the
power and grace of his Deliverer, "in whom we have redemption through
his blood." His faith fastens itself on this sacrifice. He is loosed
from the bondage of sin; his "soul is satisfied as with marrow and
fatness." His fellowship is with the Father, and with the Son. He has
communion with the saints. He derives new support to his fainting faith,
and goes on his pilgrimage rejoicing.
The entire exercises and scenes of the house of worship--the reading of
the scriptures, the confessions, prayers, and praises, the songs of the
temple--for "as well the singers as the players on instruments" are
there[2]--the preaching of the gospel, the celebration of the
sacraments,--all combine their aid to strengthen pious principle, holy
purpose, virtuous habit, and to render the children of God "perfect,
thoroughly furnished to every good work." The place, the day, the
multitude, the power of sympathy, all conspire to give effect to truth,
and to rouse them up to labor for God, for their species, for eternity:
all combine to render the house of God "the gate of heaven," the image
of heaven, and a precious antepast of the enjoyments of heaven!
"My willing soul would stay
In such a frame as this,
And sit, and sing herself away
To everlasting bliss."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Psalm lxxxvii, 2.
[2] Psalm lxxxvii, 7.
THE VALLEY OF SILENCE.
By William Cutter.
It was a perfect Eden for beauty. The scent of flowers came
up on the gale, the swift stream sparkled like a flow of
diamonds in the sun, and a smile of soft light glistened on
every leaf and blade, as they drank in the life-giving ray.
Its significant loveliness was eloquent to the eye and the
heart--but a strange deep silence reigned over it all. So
perfect was the unearthly stillness, you could almost hear
yourself think.--_Katahdin._
Has thy foot ever trod that silent dell?
'Tis a place for the voiceless thought to swell
And the eloquent song to go up unspoken,
Like the incense of flowers whose urns are broken;
And the unveiled heart may look in, and see,
In that deep strange silence, its motions free,
And learn how the pure in spirit feel
That unseen Presence to which they kneel.
No sound goes up from the quivering trees,
When they spread their arms to the welcome breeze;
They wave in the Zephyr--they bow to the blast--
But they breathe not a word of the power that passed;
And their leaves come down on the turf and the stream,
With as noiseless a fall as the step of a dream;
And the breath that is bending the grass and the flowers,
Moves o'er them as lightly as evening hours.
The merry bird lights down on that dell,
And, hushing his breath, lest the song should swell,
Sits with folded wing in the balmy shade,
Like a musical thought in the soul unsaid.
And they of strong pinion and loftier flight,
Pass over that valley, like clouds in the night--
They move not a wing in that solemn sky,
But sail in a reverent silence by.
The deer, in his flight, has passed that way,
And felt the deep spell's mysterious sway--
He hears not the rush of the path he cleaves,
Nor his bounding step on the trampled leaves.
The hare goes up on that sunny hill,
And the footsteps of morning are not more still,
And the wild, and the fierce, and the mighty are there,
Unheard in the hush of that slumbering air.
The stream rolls down in that valley serene,
Content in its beautiful flow to be seen,
And its fresh flowery banks, and its pebbly bed
Were never yet told of its fountain head;
And it still rushes on--but they ask not why,
With its smile of light, it is hurrying by;
Still, gliding, or leaping, unwhispered, unsung,
Like the flow of bright fancies, it flashes along.
The wind sweeps by, and the leaves are stirred,
But never a whisper or sigh is heard;
And when its strong rush laid low the oak,
Not a murmur the eloquent stillness broke.
And the gay young echoes--those mockers that lie
In the dark mountain-sides--make no reply,
But, hushed in their caves, they are listening still
For the songs of that valley to burst o'er the hill.
I love society;--I am o'erblest to hear
The mingling voices of a world; mine ear
Drinks in their music with a spiritual taste;
I love companionship on life's dark waste,
And could not live unheard;--yet that still vale--
It had no fearful mystery in its tale;--
Its hush was grand, not awful, as if there
The voice of nature were a breathing prayer.
'Twas like a holy temple, where the pure
Might blend in their heart-worship, and be sure
No sound of earth could come--a soul kept still,
In faith's unanswering meekness, for heaven's will,
Its eloquent thoughts sent upward and abroad,
But all its deep hushed voices kept for God!
DESCRIPTIONS OF THE DIVINE BEING.
By Gershom F. Cox.
It is a difficult task to shadow forth spirit. The best emblems of the
earth can give but faint and distant views of its incomprehensible
nature. Our own consciousness, too, must fail to give us adequate
notions of the mysterious traits of its character. Aided by the
brightest images of earth, or the most subtle principles of philosophy,
who can bring to view any tolerably good picture of a HUMAN SOUL!--who
can draw the outlines of thought!--thought that is as immeasurable as
the universe!--thought that _could encompass_, with more than the
quickness of the lightning's flash, all that God has made!--thought that
gives to us, at once, the gravity of the merest atom, the beauties and
properties of the petal of a single flower, or the structure, density,
size and weight of the worlds that border on the outskirts of our own
universe; and when it has done its noble work, as if plumed for fresh
conquests, stretches itself far beyond the material universe, into the
deep solitudes of eternity, in quest of something more! Who, we ask
again, can give the outlines of thought? Who can tell us of its yet
hidden resources; or of a mind like that of Newton, or of Bacon, which,
after they had taken from the arcana of nature some of her most hidden
principles, "entered the secret place of the Most High, and lodged
beneath the shadow of the Almighty?" How much less, then, can we give
just descriptions of the DEITY! How can we describe Him "who covereth
himself with LIGHT as with a garment,"--whom no man hath seen, nor can
see.
We are aware that every thing speaks of _a_ God. All nature has its
language; and however dark the alphabet, it still speaks, and speaks
every where; for there is no place where he has not "left a witness." We
acknowledge, too, that the only reason why the deep tones of nature are
not more audible, may be found in the imbecilities or transgressions of
man. But, while the babbling brook hath its story to tell of its Maker,
and the willow that bends and sighs by its side, and the pebble o'er
which the streamlet rolls;--while the glorious dew-drop has its power of
speech--the soft south breeze, and "the hoar-frost of heaven;" while the
deep vale may offer its chorus to the waving corn, or to the lofty
summit by its side; while often may be heard the full notes of the angry
tempest, and of the tornado as it sweeps by us, carrying fearful
desolation in its path; although these may all speak forcibly of the
power, of the goodness, of the wisdom, of the terrible justice of God;
yet, without divine revelation, like the inscription at Athens, they
only point to a God UNKNOWN. The awful precipice, where
"Leaps the live thunder,"
in the hour of the tempest, doth but stun the intellect of man with its
overhanging and dizzy heights. And "the sound of many waters," or "the
deep, lifting up his hands on high,"--although they may arouse every
passion of the spirit, and address it as with the voice of God; yet, to
man, these all want an interpreter. Lo! these are but "_parts_ of his
ways." But what a mere "_whisper_ of the matter is heard in it, and the
thunder of his power who can understand!"
Nature speaks--we repeat it--but her language, to us, is often
indefinite; like the dream of Nebuchadnezzar, it may arouse the spirit
to inquiry--agitate every passion to consternation; but without a Daniel
to interpret her admonitions, "the thing is passed from us." Else why
this gross ignorance of the character of God among even the enlightened,
or rather civilized, nations of antiquity? Why did not Egypt, when all
the "wisdom of the east" was concentrated in her sons, have _some_
notions of the Deity that would have raised their minds above the
serpent or crocodile, or some insignificant article of the vegetable
creation? Why did not the savage, roaming in the freedom of his
interminable forests, have some correct views of God? He had talked with
the sun, and heard the roar of the tempest; the evening sky in its
grandeur was an everlasting map spread out before him, and the broad
lake mirrored back to him its glories. But how confused--how degraded
were the loftiest notions of the Deity, among the most powerful of
Indian minds!
But I have already strayed from my purpose. I intended only to give a
specimen or two, of attempted descriptions of the Deity, for the purpose
of showing the infinite superiority of those contained in the bible,
above every other in the world.
It ought, however, to be recollected, that the descriptions we find
among heathen authors, are doubtless more or less indebted to sentiments
borrowed from the Jewish scriptures; although we believe the contrast
will show that they have passed through heathen hands. One of the most
sublime to be met with in the world, out of the bible, was engraved in
hieroglyphics upon the temple of Neith, the Egyptian Minerva. It is as
follows:
"I am that which is, was, and shall be: no mortal hath lifted up my
veil: the offspring of my power is the sun."
A similar inscription still remains at Capua, on the temple of Isis:
"Thou art one, and from thee all things proceed."
In the above, evident traces are to be seen of the Hebrew term JEHOVAH.
Some of Homer's descriptions have their excellencies; but they all
suffer from the fact, that he clothes the deities he describes, not only
with human passions, but with human appetites of the most degrading
character. And he never seems more satisfied with himself than when he
represents them heated for war! "Warring gods," when placed at the foot
of Calvary, or contrasted with any just description of the true God, is
certainly a revolting idea; and it is still worse to introduce them as
does Homer, with the shuddering thought that,
"Gods on gods exert _eternal rage_!"
And our impressions are scarcely more favorable when he presents us with
an _un_incarnate, and yet "bleeding god," retiring from the field of
battle, "pierced with Grecian darts," "though fatal, not to die." The
following from this author is singular indeed:
"Of lawless force shall _lawless_ MARS complain?
Of all the _most unjust_, most odious in our eyes!
In human discord is thy dire delight,
The waste of slaughter, and the rage of fight.
No bound, no law thy fiery temper quells,
And all _thy mother_ in thy soul rebels!"--_Illiad, Book 5._
The following is far less exceptionable:
"And know, the Almighty is the God of gods.
League all your forces then, ye powers above,
Join all, and try the omnipotence of Jove;
Let down our golden everlasting chain,
Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and earth and main:
Strive all, of mortal or immortal birth,
To draw, by this, the thunderer down to earth:
Ye strive in vain! If I but stretch this hand,
I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land;
I fix the chain to great Olympus' height,
And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight!
For such I reign unbounded and above;
And such are men, and gods, compared to Jove."--Ill. b. vi.
Some of the above ideas are certainly sublime, and considering the age
that produced them, they have no superior but the bible.
As the KORAN has attained considerable celebrity, we should hardly be
pardoned should we not notice it. The passage on which the Mohammedan
rests his whole faith, for sublimity, and which is confessedly
unapproached by any thing else in the koran, is the following:
"God! There is no God but he; the living, the self-subsisting; neither
slumber nor sleep seizeth him; to him belongeth whatsoever is in heaven,
and on earth. Who is he that can intercede with him but through his good
pleasure? He knoweth that which is past, and that which is to come. His
throne is extended over heaven and earth, and the preservation of both
is to him no burden. He is the High, the Mighty."
If the above passage contained a single _original_ thought, it might
entitle it to higher praise than it can now receive. But as there is no
thought expressed, but may be found in the book of Job, or among the
inimitable Psalms of David, written from sixteen hundred to two thousand
years before Mohammed, and which this pretended prophet had before
him--and as we can hardly allow their originality of expression--the
only praise that can be bestowed upon its author is, that of having
studied the Jewish scriptures pretty closely, a fact that is exhibited
throughout his famous production. But while we acknowledge that this is
a brilliant passage, it evidently does not surpass, nor even equal,
either of the following, selected from our own times.
"Eternal Spirit! God of truth! to whom
All things seem as they are. Thou who of old
The prophet's eye unsealed, that nightly saw
While heavy sleep fell down on other men,
In holy vision tranced, the future pass
Before him, and to Judah's harp attuned
Burdens which make the pagan mountains shake,
And Zion's cedars bow,--inspire my song;
My eye unscale; me what is substance teach,
And shadow what, while I of things to come,
As past rehearsing, sing the course of time.
--Hold my right hand, Almighty! and me teach
To strike the lyre----to notes
Which wake the echoes of Eternity."--_Pollok._
In the above extracts there is this remarkable difference: Mohammed, in
his description of Deity, has _no thought_ that refers to a _moral
perfection_ of God! And indeed gross sensuality, and a destitution of
high and spiritual views, characterize his whole work.
But with Pollok, the first thought is SPIRIT--a second, TRUTH. And aside
from this peculiarity, although you turn over every leaf of the koran,
we affirm that you cannot find so sublime a conception as the following:
"Hold my right hand, Almighty! and me teach
To strike the lyre,----to notes
That wake the echoes of eternity."
But how infinitely, both in grandeur and simplicity, do all these fall
short of the inimitable _original_ of most of these, penned by David of
the Old, or Paul of the New Testament.
"O, my God, take me not away in the midst of my days: THY years are
throughout all generations. Of old hast THOU laid the foundations of the
earth, and the heavens are the work of thine hands. They shall perish,
but THOU shalt endure; yea, all of them shall wax old like a garment; as
a vesture shalt thou change them, and they shall be changed. BUT THOU
ART THE SAME, AND THY YEARS SHALL HAVE NO END."
"Who is the blessed and only Potentate, the King of kings, and the Lord
of lords; who only hath IMMORTALITY, dwelling in Light which no man can
approach unto,--whom no man hath seen, nor can see!"
Or as in another place, "The King eternal, immortal, invisible,--the
only wise God."
In the above specimens, there is a grandeur and simplicity not to be
found in any merely human composition.
The following is very fine, from Habakkuk:
"God came from Teman,
The Holy One from Mount Paran.
His glory covered the heavens,
And his praise filled the earth.
His brightness was like the sun,
Out of his hand [or side] came flashes of lightning,
And there was only the veil of his might.
Before him walked the pestilence,
And burning coals went forth at his feet.
He stood, and the earth was moved;
He looked, and caused the nations to quake.
And the everlasting mountains were broken in pieces,
And the perpetual hills did bow.
His goings are from everlasting."
We scarcely know which to admire most, the above or the following from
the same author:
"The mountains saw THEE and trembled,
The overflowing waters passed away.
The deep uttered his voice,
And lifted up his hands on high.
The sun and moon stood still in their habitations.
At the shining of thine arrows, (i. e. the lightnings,) they
disappeared--
At the brightness of thy glittering spear!"
The following paraphrastic reference may be regarded as barren in some
respects, compared with others that might be selected from the same
living fountain.
The EYE of the Supreme Being is regarded as so piercing as to pervade
heaven, earth and hell, and the awful depths of eternity. His
COUNTENANCE is as the sun shining in his strength. The wind, in its
endless whirl, is but his breath or breathing. His HAND is represented
so immense, that even its "hollow" will "contain the waters of the great
deep,"--and, when "spanned," he "measures with it the whole heavens."
While "_sitting_ in the circle of the heavens," the earth is represented
as the place where his feet rest. So rapid in his motion, that "He
_walks_ upon the wings of the wind." Of such awful strength, "that the
earth," with its countless inhabitants, are "less than the dust" that
accumulates "upon the balance." At one time "He covereth himself with
_light_ as with a garment,"--and at another, "He maketh _darkness_ his
pavilion, and the thick clouds of the skies."
These however are images all borrowed from sensible objects, and,
magnificent as they may be, they fail of throwing upon the mind a full
image of Him who hath "no likeness in the heavens above, nor in the
earth beneath." And, besides, these glowing pictures present to the mind
none of his moral attributes. For a description of these, we must look
either to the events of his providence, or a more particular disclosure
in the bible. And it may well astonish us, that, after the lapse of more
than three thousand years, we may look in vain for a fuller or more
perfect description of the Divine Being, in words, than is given by
MOSES in that memorable moment upon Mount Sinai--
"Whose grey tops did tremble, when God ordained their laws."
A description that is like the sun rising upon the chaos that surrounded
him in the Egyptian mythology, which at that time was so gross that no
object in nature was too mean for a deity. But "in the midst of this
darkness that might be felt," God was pleased to reveal himself in the
following language, at once sufficiently grave and impressive to afford
irrefragable proof of its high origin.