Chapter III: Part 3

No argument is necessary to show that he who feels himself accountable to God, will be but slightly constrained by the bonds of party influence. So far as he regards the ends of a party as accordant with the true ends of government, which in some cases may be nothing more than the truth, and in others nothing _less_--his sense of religious obligation will of course not interfere with his diligent prosecution of those ends. But at that critical point, where ends zeal for party, for the sake of the common weal, and begins zeal for party, for the party's sake, and for ambition's sake, there a sense of paramount obligation, like the magnetic power, will still the whispers of selfishness, and counteract the tendencies of party commitment. The Christian politician knows no party but the party of patriots, or, if that party be divided, he seeks not the building up of either fragment for its own sake--but the building up on the best and most hopeful, or if need be, on the ruins of both, the great fabric of public welfare. Who does not desire to see a deep sense of allegiance to one who is our Master, pervading the leaders and the adherents of the great political parties, into which it is so common and perhaps necessary, for nations to be divided?--under such an influence, how might excesses be restrained, needless repellances be neutralized, and how soon, instead of fierce bands of brethren gathered in distinct and opposing array, like the dark clouds of summer, meeting over our heads, might we see the beauty and the strength of party organization, without its wide severance and its deadly hate, like the rainbow, which is not more beautiful in the variety of its colors, than in the grace with which the divine Painter has blended them.

It will be denied by none, of whatever religious or political faith, that public morals are, under a government like ours, the life-blood of national strength and safety. The day that shall behold us a nation of gamblers, or duelists, or profane swearers or drunkards, or Sabbath-breakers--will be the day of our political death. Armies, and navies, and enterprise, and numbers, with a sound hereditary government, may for a time give prosperity to a dissolute immoral people. But in a government like ours, where the laws and the administration of law, are as quickly and as certainly affected by the popular sentiment, owing to frequent elections, as the sunbeams are reflected from the summer clouds, prosperity cannot survive morality a single day. And who can tell how important, in this view, it is, that our public men should be public models of private virtue!

Oh, when, our hearts exclaim, when shall the _evil_ example be unknown in the high places of power; and purity, truth, high-toned Christian morality, beam like another sun, from the seats of influence? The true answer to this question would afford another argument for the importance of that sense of religious obligation which has now been considered. The command of God is the only mandate in the universe which can effectually restrain human passions and desires. The voice which comes attended by the sanction, "Thus saith the Lord," is the only voice which can successfully say, "peace! be still," to the winds and the waves of wrong inclination. When our rulers shall "all be taught of God,"--and yield themselves to a constraining sense of his dominion, and their own accountableness--then, and not till then, will they as a body, be such models of private correctness and virtue, as many of them, both among the dead and among the living, have been, for the imitation of the young men, the hope and glory of our land.

Again, and it is the last consideration we shall present, how powerful a tendency would such views on the part of our rulers, possess, to awaken the utmost vigilance in the guardianship of their sacred trust, and to elevate the mind and heart to the purest feelings, and the noblest efforts.

A sense of accountability, in some manner and to some tribunal, is essential to ensure fidelity under all temptations to indolence or perversion, in every case in which men are the recipients of any trust. Apply this principle to the case of him who holds some political station of high importance. He feels himself responsible, not only to men, but to God. He knows and remembers that he is the _servant of God_ for good, to the people. This remembrance and impression is the sheet anchor of his steadfastness. Other principles _might_ hold him amidst the storms and commotions of the popular sea, and of his own heart; this _must_. With what care will he watch the precious trust, which comes to him under the seal of heaven! How sedulously will he guard the doors of the temple of liberty, when he perceives within it the altar of God, and finds his sentinel's commission countersigned with the handwriting of Jehovah! His heart, too, will be filled with the purest and most exalted sentiments.

The fountain from which such a man daily drinks, sparkles with the elements of all that is grateful and refreshing.

The purest patriotism, the sweetest charities of domestic life, the most expansive and wise benevolence, all spring up in the heart together, the consentaneous and harmonious fruits of the love and fear of God. It was in the same school that Wilberforce learned to love the slave--Howard to love the prisoner--Wirt to love his country--and all to love the world. They _feared and obeyed God_--and all noble and generous emotions grow spontaneously in the soil of the heart thus prepared and enriched.

Nor is the effort less marked or less salutary upon the _mind_. Its thoughts are loftier, and its purposes deeper and more steadfast, for being conversant with the great subject of divine obligation. No man can think much of the Deity, and realize strongly His constant presence and inspection, without an elevation of views, and a growing consciousness of that mental power, for the right use of which he is accountable to Him who bestowed it. We were not made to inhabit a godless world, and we cannot make it so, in speculation and in practice, without a deterioration analogous to the dwarfish tendency of emigration to a region colder than our native clime. "God is a sun," to the mental as well as to the moral powers; and in the frozen zone of practical atheism, both degenerate and die. The noble motto, "_Bene orasse est bene studisse_," applies with hardly less force to secular, than to sacred studies.

With what energy must it arm the soul of the patriot statesman struggling against wrong counsels, and discredited dangers, to know that the God of truth and of right, sees and approves his course! With what new power does his mind grasp a difficult and embarrassed subject, when he feels that the Former of that mind, now demands from him an exertion of its highest powers! What exciting power, to call forth the most thrilling eloquence, can be found in the crowded senate-chamber, compared with the consciousness that for every word he must give account to Him, whose applause, if he fulfils his high behest, will surpass in value the shouts of an enraptured universe besides!

A NEW-ENGLAND WINTER-SCENE.

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER TO A FRIEND IN ONE OF THE WEST INDIA ISLANDS.

By William Cutter.

I have sometimes almost envied you the perpetual summer you enjoy. You have none of the bleak, dark wastes of Winter around you, and have never to look, with aching heart, upon all fair, bright, beautiful things, withering before your eyes, in the severe frown of frosty Autumn. It is always green, and fresh, and fragrant, in your Islands of eternal June. Your gardens are always gardens, gay and redolent with sweet blossoms, and rich with ripe fruits, mingling like youth and manhood vying with each other, "from laughing morning up to sober prime," pursuing, without blight or dimness, the same gay round--blooming and ripening--ripening and blooming, but never falling, through all generations. Through all seasons, you have only to reach forth your hands, and there are bright bouquets, and mellow, delicious fruits, ready to fill them. Your trees have always a shade to spread over you; and they cast off their gorgeous blossoms, and their luxuriant load, as if they were conscious of immortal youth and energy--as if they knew they should never fade, become fruitless, or die. There is no frail, bending, withering age, in any thing of nature you look upon--no blasting of the unripened bud by untimely frosts--no falling prematurely of all that is beautiful and rare, to remind you daily that time is on his flight, and that you will not always be young. I wonder you do not think yourselves immortal in those everlasting gardens! Oh! that perpetual youth and maturity of every thing lovely!--how I have sometimes envied you the possession!

But I shall never envy you again. No--delightful as summer is, soft as its breezes, and sweet as its music, I would not lose the unutterable glory of this scene, that is now before me, for all the riches of your Island,--its unfading summer, and everlasting sweets. I wish I could describe it to you--could give you some faint idea of its celestial splendor. But, to do it any justice, I should have travelled through the fields of those glittering constellations above me, to borrow images from the host of heaven. The attempt will be vain--presumptuous--but I will try to tell you as much of it as I can.

The day has been dark, cold, and stormy. The snow has been falling lightly, mingled with rain, which, freezing as it fell, has formed a perfect covering of ice upon every object. The trees and shrubbery, even to their minutest branches, are all perfectly encased in this transparent drapery. Nothing could look more bleak and melancholy while the storm continued. But, just as evening closed in, the storm ceased, and the clouds rolled swiftly away. Never was a clearer, a more spotless sky. The moon is in the zenith of her march, with her multitude of bright attendants, pouring their mild radiance, like living light, upon the sea of glass that is all around us. Oh! how it kindles me to look at it! how it maddens me that I have no language to tell it to you! Do but imagine--The fields blazing out, like oceans of molten silver!--every tree and shrub, as far as the eye can reach, of pure transparent glass--a perfect garden of moving, waving breathing chrystals, lighted into unearthly splendor by a full, unclouded moon, and scattering undimmed, in every direction, the beams that are poured upon them. The air, all around, seems alive with illuminated gems. Every tree is a diamond chandelier, with a whole constellation of stars clustering to every socket--and, as they wave and tremble in the light breeze that is passing, I think of the dance of the morning stars, while they sang together on the birth-day of creation. Earth is a mirror of heaven. I can almost imagine myself borne up among the spheres, and looking through their vast theatre of lights. There are stars of every magnitude--from the humble twig, that glows and sparkles on the very bosom of the glassy earth, and the delicate thorn that points its glittering needle to the light, to the gorgeous, stately tree, that lifts loftily its crowned head and stretches its gemmed and almost overborne arms, proudly and gloriously to the heavens--all glowing--glittering--flashing--blazing--like--but why do I attempt it? As well might I begin to paint the noon-day sun. Give a loose to your imagination. Think of gardens and forests, hung with myriads of diamonds--nay, every tree, every branch, every stem and twig, a perfect, polished crystal, and the full, glorious moon, and all the host of evening, down in the very midst of them--and you will know what I am looking at. I am all eye and thought, but have no voice, no words to convey to you an impression of what I see and feel--No, I'll not envy you again! What a picture for mortal eyes to look on undimmed! The eagle, that goes up at noon-day to the sun, would be amazed in its effulgence. It is the coronation-eve of winter--and nature has opened her casket, and poured out every dazzling gem, and brilliant in her keeping, and hung out all her rain-bow drops, and lighted up every lamp, and they are all glowing, twinkling, sparkling, flashing together, like legions of spiritual eyes, glancing from world to world, in such unearthly rivalry, that the eye, even of the mind, turns away from it, pained and weary with beholding. There--look--but I can say no more, my words are consumed, drunk up in this unutterable glory, like morning mist when the sun looks on it!

LOCH KATRINE.

By N. H. Carter.

An eminence in the road afforded us the first view of Loch Katrine, a blue and bright expanse of water, cradled among lofty hills, though moderate both in point of altitude and boldness, when contrasted with those which had already been seen. The first feature that arrested attention, was the peculiar complexion of the water, which is cerulean, and differs several shades from that of the other Scottish lakes. Its hue is probably modified by the verdure upon the shores, as well as by the geological structure of its bed, in which there is little or no mud. Like some of our own pellucid waters, it is a Naiad of the purest kind, sleeping on coral and crystal couches. Its blue tinge was doubtless in some degree heightened by the distance whence it was first descried, as well as by the deep azure of the skies after the late storm.

Hastening to the shore, we waited some time for the oarsmen, who accompanied us from Loch Lomond, to bring out their boat from behind a little promontory, which for aught I know, was the very place where Rob Roy and Ellen Douglas used to hide their canoes. There is no house within several miles of the landing. The only building of any kind is a small temporary hut, of rude construction, serving as a poor shelter in case of rain. As this lake has become a fashionable resort, one would suppose the number of travellers would justify the expense of a boatman's house, which would relieve the oarsmen from the trouble of walking half a dozen miles, and the tourist from the vexation of paying for it.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, seven of us, including the boat's crew, embarked, and commenced a voyage to the foot of the lake, a distance of nine miles in a south-eastern direction. Winds and waves both conspired to accelerate our progress, and no Highland bark probably ever bounded more merrily over the blue billows. The cone of Ben-Lomond rapidly receded, and Ben-venue and Ben-an, on opposite sides of the outlet, came more fully in view. At the head, Glengyle opens prettily from the north-west, with serrated hills forming the lofty ramparts of the pass, in the entrance of which is a seat belonging to one of the descendants of Rob Roy M'Gregor. The width of the lake is about two miles, with deeply indented shores, which are generally bold and romantic, exhibiting occasionally scattered houses and patches of cultivation, particularly on the north-eastern borders. Our course was nearest the south-western side, touching at one little desolate promontory, to exchange boats, and often approaching so close, as to enable us to examine the scanty growth upon the margin.

In about two hours from the time of embarkation, we reached Ellen's Island, near the outlet; and half encircling the green eminence, rising beautifully from the bosom of the lake, our Highland mariners made a port in the identical little bay, where the far-famed heroine was wont to moor her skiff, fastening it to an oak, which still hangs its aged arms over the flood. This miniature harbor is also signalized, as the place where Helen Stuart cut off the head of one of Cromwell's soldiers. As the story goes, all the women and children fled hither for refuge. After a decisive victory, one of the veterans of the Protector attempted to swim to the island for a boat, with an intention of pillaging and laying waste the asylum; but as he approached the shore the above mentioned heroine, stepped from her ambuscade, and with one stroke of her dirk decapitated the marauder, thus rescuing her narrow dominion with its tenants from destruction.

The Island is small and rises perhaps fifty feet above the water. It rests on a basis of granite, covered with a thin coat of earth, through which the rocks occasionally appear, and which affords scanty nutriment to a growth of oak, birch, and mountain ash. The red berries of the latter hung gracefully over the cliffs, in many places shaded with brown heath. A winding pathway leads to the summit, which is beautifully tufted, and affords a charming view of the surrounding hills and waters.

In a little secluded copse near the top stands Ellen's Bower, fashioned exactly according to the description of the same object in the Lady of the Lake. Those who are curious to form a minute and accurate image of it, have only to turn to that picture. The exterior is composed of unhewn logs or sticks of fir, fantastically arranged, with a thatched, moss-covered roof, and skins of beasts converted into semi-transparent parchment for windows. Every thing within is in rustic style. A living aspen grows in the centre, and supports the ceiling. Upon its branches hangs a great variety of ancient armor, with trophies of the chase. Here may be seen the Lochaber axe, Rob Roy's dirk, and sundry other curiosities. A table strewed with leaves extends nearly the whole length of the bower. The walls are hung with shields, and the skins of various animals. Chairs and sofas woven of osiers fill the apartment. The chimney is formed of sticks, and the head of a stag with his branching horns decorates the mantlepiece. Half an hour was passed in lolling upon Ellen's sofas, and in examining her domestic arrangements.

Bidding a lingering farewell to the sweet little island, we again 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.

~Vay'avor Adonai 'al panav vaykra Adonai Adonai El ra[h.]um
ve[h.]anun erekh apayim verav [h.]esed veemeth. Notzer
[h.]esed laalafim nose 'avon vafesha ve [h.]atah venakeh lo
yinakeh poked 'avon avoth 'al banim ve'al bnei vanim 'al
shileshim ve'al ribe'im.~

"And the Lord passed by before him, and proclaimed, The Lord, The Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear _the guilty_; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children's children, unto the third and to the fourth generation."

Or, as these striking appellatives of the Divine Being might be translated, without offering any violation to the Hebrew,--the JEHOVAH, the STRONG and MIGHTY GOD, the _merciful_ ONE, the GRACIOUS ONE, the long-suffering ONE, the GREAT and MIGHTY ONE, the BOUNTIFUL BEING, the TRUE ONE, or TRUTH, the Preserver of BOUNTIFULNESS, the REDEEMER, or Pardoner, the Righteous JUDGE, and He who VISITS INIQUITY.

This is a remarkable description indeed to come from one educated in the midst of Egyptian mythology; and the awful names by which the Supreme Being is designated, can only be accounted for, under such circumstances, on the supposition that Moses received them directly from the Almighty himself.

But to close our article. The Divine Being is nowhere so perfectly, so interestingly described as in the CHARACTER OF CHRIST. Here LOVE is unbosomed as it could not be by language. Here heaven drops down to earth; and the otherwise invisible beauties of the invisible God, are made tangible even to the eye. The _arm_ of mercy, outstretched to the sinner--the eye of justice softened by the tear of mercy--the heart of love beating intensely with benignity, as well as every perfection of the divine nature; are all laid open to the view of sinful, helpless man, and we become "eye witness of his glorious majesty." Here the tears of mercy may be seen dropping upon its wretched objects of commiseration; and the most secret emotions of the divine mind, we may behold, heaving in the bosom of the immaculate Jesus. Here indeed "God tabernacles and walks with man." And as a confirmation of the glorious truth, at beholding Him, "the sun stood still in his habitation." "The sea saw him, and was afraid." The earth trembled at his presence, and gave back the dead at his voice. Well indeed might one exclaim, to behold such a personage, "MY LORD AND MY GOD."

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

By Charles S. Daveis.

Never--since the period that Cæsar conquered Gaul, when the inhabitants enjoyed a barbarian license under their native chiefs and druids, had the voice of liberty been heard in France, till the 14th of July, 1789. Never before did such a note of exultation spread over the vine-covered hills,--and echo among the beautiful valleys, of that fair country. Never perhaps before was there such a burden lifted from the minds of men. In the unwonted consciousness of power, they seemed to tread a new earth. In the intoxication of triumph they burst from the bonds of morality and humanity. So very singular, and strange, indeed, was the position in which the people of France were placed by the revolution, that their vernacular language was found deficient in the appropriate phraseology of freedom; and they were obliged to resort to a foreign idiom, and to the customs of other climes, and the usages of other nations, and to ransack the regions of fancy and invention, for the vocabulary, as well as the drapery, of their new republic.

It is remarkable, that the revolution in France, beginning in fact, with the destruction of the Bastile, should end in the re-establishment of despotism. It was a revolution indeed not more remarkable for the original character of its cause, than its catastrophe; for the astonishing contrast it exhibits between the splendor of its talents and the atrocity of its crimes: for the reverence which it professed for antiquity, and the mischief it produced to posterity; for adopting the most enormous maxims, and enforcing them by the most audacious means; for the use which it made of its own freedom to enslave other nations to its law, for erecting the empire of Rome upon the democracy of Athens, for the adoption of a model of colossal grandeur, and establishing the most tremendous system of policy, that ever convulsed human kind:--a revolution, conspicuous also for the sudden appearance of a race of men springing up from the earth, as though it had been sown with dragons' teeth, and its monstrous fruits produced with hydras' heads and tigers' hearts;--resounding, together, with the tribune, and the guillotine;--not merely remarkable for tearing the priest from the altar, but for rasing the altar likewise to the ground; and distinguished for the successive destruction of some of the most ancient thrones and crowns in Europe;--for the ignominious death of the last in a royal line of seventy sovereigns, who, at any former period of the monarchy, would have been blessed as the father of his people, and canonized as the true descendant of St. Louis,--and the most affecting example on record of an anointed queen, not more famed for her charms than for her sorrows,--her errors more than atoned by her sufferings, perishing without a tear, in a land of ancient renown for chivalry, upon the scaffold! The revolution in France was a scene at which sensibility sinks. It seemed to extinguish the hopes of its friends in the blood of its martyrs; and it was hardly relieved by the virtues of its purest patriot, educated in the schools of America, banished from the air of France, and doomed to breathe the dungeons of despotism.

To what are we indebted again for our escape from that wild turmoil, which involved the elements of society and government in Europe with an overwhelming violence? Why was it, that while the storm, that shook the continent abroad, beat against our iron-bound shore, its fury was expended at our feet; and we heard it howl along our agitated coast and die away at a distance? Why did we enjoy a light, like the children of Israel, in our dwellings, while Egyptian darkness brooded around? Why, in this universal chaos, had we such reason to congratulate ourselves on the good providence of God, in ordaining us to be a world by ourselves?--It was certainly not, that we did not enter into the cause of liberty in France with enthusiasm; for our hearts were in it as warmly as they were in our own. Our sympathy was with it as long as it could be sustained; our regret pursued it in dishonor,--and our affection followed it into misfortune. We lamented to see, that all the results of that amazing movement of the human mind, contemplating the happiness of millions, and looking to the improvement of ages, should follow the fortune of foreign war; and that they should centre in a single individual, carried away into captivity, and doomed to end his days upon a solitary rock. We grieved to behold the beautiful and brilliant star of the French Revolution sink at last into mid-ocean, the mere meteor of military glory.--Feeling all the disappointment of its friends, we cannot but contrast it with the deep repose, which our own illustrious and honored patriots enjoy, in the land which gave them birth, beneath the mighty shadows of our happy political revolution.

Although, as Americans, we cease to cling to the cause of revolutionary liberty in France with the lingering fondness of early affection, we continue to follow its dying light, as though we could not believe it had entirely sunk in darkness and despair. If it be not possible to regard it uninfluenced by its unfortunate termination, if we can borrow nothing from its origin to relieve its mournful catastrophe, it behoves us still to embalm the wounds of liberty with its healing spirit, and it concerns us also, that all its sacrifices and services for the sake of man should not have perished with its victims. The vices of the ancient government rendered it unfit for the happiness of France, without essential alterations; and while we reflect with pain upon the results of the revolution, we must bear in mind that they were the excesses of men like ourselves, transported by hopes excited by our example, and exalted by a more ardent temper, untrained by the same favorable habits and beneficial institutions;--and although its transient violence may shock and repel our sympathy, it ought not to disgust us with its principles, or to alienate our attachment from its rational objects. Let us not fail to perceive, as we shall, if we are attentive to the facts, that what was good was in the cause; and what was evil was the effect of that long oppression by which it was corrupted. In this wonderful dispensation to mankind we may not perhaps pretend to scan the ways of providence; yet in common with the christian world we cannot fail to behold the dealing of a divine and overruling hand. Where the seed of liberty has been sown, and watered with the blood, as well as tears, of patriots, that seed is yet _in_ the earth; and whether it spring up before our eyes or not, it may be the will of Him, to whom no eye is raised in vain, that nothing shall be lost!

MRS. SYKES.

By Nathaniel Deering.