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 n.o.blest 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 G.o.d. He knows and remembers that he is the _servant of G.o.d_ 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d_--and all n.o.ble 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 G.o.dless world, and we cannot make it so, in speculation and in practice, without a deterioration a.n.a.logous to the dwarfish tendency of emigration to a region colder than our native clime. "G.o.d 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 n.o.ble motto, "_Bene ora.s.se 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 G.o.d of truth and of right, sees and approves his course! With what new power does his mind grasp a difficult and embarra.s.sed 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 surpa.s.s 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 mult.i.tude of bright attendants, pouring their mild radiance, like living light, upon the sea of gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s--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 cl.u.s.tering to every socket--and, as they wave and tremble in the light breeze that is pa.s.sing, 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 gla.s.sy 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 alt.i.tude 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 sh.o.r.es, 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.s, 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 sh.o.r.es, 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 sh.o.r.e 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s. Both are fine mountains, something like two thousand feet in height, with naked ma.s.ses 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

We landed at the foot of Loch Katrine, and after walking a mile and a half reached our hotel.

WORSHIP.

By Asa c.u.mmings.

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 G.o.d in the world; to be unsusceptible to the attractions of his moral excellence; to pa.s.s 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 "mult.i.tude 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 const.i.tuted 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 G.o.d 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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 gla.s.s, 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." G.o.d "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 G.o.d, 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 grat.i.tude; 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d "perfect, thoroughly furnished to every good work." The place, the day, the mult.i.tude, the power of sympathy, all conspire to give effect to truth, and to rouse them up to labor for G.o.d, for their species, for eternity: all combine to render the house of G.o.d "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 lx.x.xvii, 2.

[2] Psalm lx.x.xvii, 7.

THE VALLEY OF SILENCE.

By William Cutter.