Newspaper Page Text
TIIE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLI3IIKD
EVERY FRIDAY MORNING,
HY
T. LOMAX &, CO.
TENXEXT LOMAX, phmciml editor.
Office on Randolph street.
Citerimj D f}i a lira cut.
Convocicb bt CAROLINE ÜBE HEJITZ.
LAMORAH:
OR
TIIE WESTERN WILD.
A
TRAGEDY OR NATIONAL DRAMA,
IN FIVE ACTS.
BY CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ.
ACT II —scent, first.
[ The A merican camp tents pitched around
—That of (he General being in the centre,
with the American flag waving over it—Gen- j
cral Winfichl, officers and soldiers—Enter
another officer, with an open letter in his ;
hand.]
Officer. General; I have received most j
painful tidings;
A widowed mother on the bed of death
Prays but to see and bless me.
Gen. Hnstc, then ;
I grieve to lose a valiant soldier now,
But nature’s claims are holy. I submit.
[The officer turns to depart.] j
1 To! Maurice, ere thou goest. It is not well
My daughter in her helplessness and youth
Should he exposed to dangers in this camp.
I have indulged her filial wish too long;
Thy home is near the kind, maternal friend j
Who watched so tenderly her orphan years; j
Wilt thou protect my daughter ?
Officer. Like a soldier,
And deem myself most honored by the trust.
Gen. (To a soldier.) Tell her her father
waits her; speed thy errant.
[Ex it soldi erf] |
Gen. ( Walking to and fro with restless j
gestures) Most strange! that Forester j
should linger thus.
Could he desert his post ? Perish the thought. \
Brave, honorable, firm—it cannot be;
IJis sole defect a wild and reckless spi:it,
A too self-sacrificing, generous zeal ;
1 fear the ambushed dogs
[Enter Virginia.] j
Virginia!
Virginia. What would mv father?
Gen. Maurice is summoned hence;
lie dwells near her, who with a mother’s care, j
Supplied the loss of one, an angel now’.
Virginia! thou art dearer than a tongue
Unused to soft and melting words can tell.
But is the soldiers’ camp a place for thee ?
These tents fit shelter for thy maiden charms ?
No! thou must leave me, child.
Virginia. What! leave thee, father?
®What have 1 done unworthy of the name
In which I glory most —a soldier’s child?
When have I murmured for a happier home, ;
A fairer dwelling, than the tented field?
4Frue, I am young and of a feeble sex,
But in my bosom glows my father’s spirit.
Oh! let that spirit be my passport here.
Gen. Too lon*', mv child, I’ve yielded to !
thy prayer.
Wert thou a boy
Virginia. (live me a sword and plume,
And let me march beneath our glorious ban
ner,
Rather than send me from thee. Thou hast
said,
In sportive hour, I was thy forest rose ;
Thy wild rose, blushing mid the sheltered
oaks.
No! I w’ould be the laurel that entwines
The hero’s brow, and bloom perennial there.
Gen. Ah, my sweet child, how littie dost
thou think
The dew that gives the laurel’s brightest
bloom
Is the b.-st blood of young and noble hearts.
The scene is darkening—every hour may
bring
A bloody conflict—not with manly foes,
But with these tameless dwellers of the w’oods,
Fell and inglorious warfare.
Virginia. Oh! in danger’s hour,
When death and peril gather round thy head,
And faint and wounded, thou, perchance, art
borne
To some lone tent; then shall these filial
arms
Protect atid cherish thee; this filial breast
Become at once thv pillow and th\ shield !
In tears, dear father ?
Gen. A es! thou hast prevailed.
Maurice, Heaven bless thee, go; I am un
manned.
[Exit Maurice.]
\To Virginia.) Thou art indeed all that is
left on earth,
lonely offspring of my buried love;
Thou hast a warrior’s spirit. I display
A woman’s weakness. Shame! it must not
be.
[Enter Weatherton and Gabriel ]
Ha! Weatherton, old comrade, welcome
here;
Gabriel alone—what tidings of the Captain ?
Gab. (Doggedly.) Don’t know’, sir.
Gen. Not know! Then dare not show that
coward tace.
Gab. Coward, forsooth! Ami to blame
because a man’s a fool, and bolts himself into
the devil’s face ! Heaven save his soul, I fear
his honor is in a woful plight.
I irginia, Oh, speak, good Gabriel.
Gen. (Sternly.) Interrupt him not.
Weatherton, what of this? Explain this
mvsterv.
II e.ath. W by, as to that, your honor, all 1
know’ about it is a mystery. When Captain
Forester first met me, with that follow quak
ing there
Gab. That’s a lie, 1 never quakes, but
VOL. 111.
when I think of the havoc my valor is going
to make in the world
Gen. Peace!
Weath. Says the Captain, “Weatherton,
you and I have had many a pleasant sail in
the scudder; meet me here at such an hour,
and we’ll sail merrily by the moon-light.”
Gab. Says 1 then—
Gen. Silence, thou babbler. Weatherton,
be brief.
Weath. I will, your honor. Says I, “if I
may be so bold, what may the Captain he
after in the woods alone? If it’s the deer or
p inther, I’il join forces.” “No,” says lie, with
a sort of smile; “I mean to settle down in
the West, some of these days ; I am looking
out for a home in the wilds.”
Gen. Speak to the purpose. Did he not
return ?
Weath. No, your honor. I went and wait
ed at the appointed hour
Gab. And l too.
Weath. But not tiie substance of his sha
dow’ could 1 see. 1 waited till the moon be
gan to go down, then, laughing—that fellow
half dead with fear—into my boat, pushed off
in search of plunder.
Gab. Oh! what a night w’e’ve had of it.
The foul copper-skins
Virginidi (Shrinking.) The savages! Oh,
father! lie is lost. (Shuddering and hid
ing her face in her father's shoulder.)
Gen. V irginia, is this thy warrior spirit ?
Wrath. Cheer up, Miss Virginia. There’s
not an Indian on the borders can stand agin
the rifle of Job W eatherton, if they only give
him fair play; but they’ve such a confound
ed way of skulking about in the bushes.
You might shoot a rattlesnake as soon. I
thought the red skins would be afeard to
show themselves when the Yirginy boys were
by. I searched along up the bed of the river,
hut saw not a critter, dead or alive. I’m
afeard the tribe of Ozembra have got hold of
him. 1 wouldn’t have flinched, but what
can one man do agin, the Lord knows how
many.
Virginia. Oh! father, save him. Every
generous heart
In this bold baud would die in his defence.
Gen. [Leading Virginia on one side.] Vir
ginia, this young man is dear to me;
l cherish, love him for his country’s sake,
But he is naught to thee. If he lias dared
Basely to steal into my daughter’s heart—
A nameless, birthless man—and thou whose
veins
Are warm and throbbing with the noblest
blood
That proud Virginia’s ancient State can
boast
Virginia. He never stooped to baseness :
never stole
A heart too conscious of his matchless worth :
Father, i scorn deceit.
Gen. And this to me ?
Blind that 1 am. Is this thy spotless truth?
Thy maiden shame ? Thou hast betrayed
mv love,
And meanly sought to hide, degenerate girl,
Thy weakness with the veil of filial love.
No more; this is no time for idle words.
(Turning to the officers.) We must prepare
for vigorous attack ;
Vet it would be rash to venture oil the foe
‘Fill the remainder of our band arrive.
Let me be just to Forester; no love
Os wild adventure lured him to the snare
I fear a subtile enemy has laid.
Urged by a generous zeal, he roamed the
woods
| To watch if lurking spy were in their shade,
lie shall not be the victim ; but delay
Will not increase the danger threatening now.
The Indian loves to hover round his prey
And feast him for the carnival of death.
The remnant of our band will soon be here,
When gathering up our strength, with this
sure guide, (Pointing to Weatherton)
We’ll spoil the vultures of their bloody feast.
Gab. Would not your honor be wanting
| some trusty person to stay and take charge
I of your baggage ?
Gen. Out on thee, coward. No! I’ll bind
thy head
Down to the cannon’s mouth. Now, sirrah,
peace!
W eath. And a good heavy pounder ’twould
1 make with any cannon ball in the country.
Zounds! I don’t know what the fellow is
made of. He has not a drop of true American
blood in him. He’s a changeling. He’s one ol
your backwoodsmen, who never heard there
was such a thing as fear. Why, every black
stump he sees, whist! he pops down into the
bottom of the boat and halloos, “the sav
ages !” and every time he hears an old owl
hooting in the air, he thinks it is the war
whoop of the Indian. I was nigh giving him
a ducking to bring him to his senses.
Gab. If I did not see as many brown dogs
skulking about in the woods as there are stars
in the sky, I wish I may be scalped.
Weath. What of your wig?
Gen. Virginia, would to Heaven thou wert
aloof
From these dark, stormy scenes. Why did I
yield,
With woman’s weakness, to a daughter’s
tears ?
The meanest hovel, sheltered from the blast,
Far from the din of carnage, were to me
; A palace for my child.
Weath. I have a cabin, your honor, that’s
moor'd in a spot where the rough winds nev
, er blow in’t, and I’ve the kindest critter for a
wife that ever bore the name of woman since
the days of our mother Eve; and it’s as safe
from the Indians as if it stood on the top of
the Allegany.
Gen. You speak in parables.
Weath. Why, you must know my Jenny,
who never saw one of God’s children suffer
but she held out her hand to help ’em, once
saved the life of an Indian who came faint
and dying to her door; she nursed him like
her own child ; and ever since the whole tribe
of the red skins have looked with reverence on
the cabin of Job Weatherton- Cruel and
vengeful they may be, but they know how to
he grateful, and I wish every Christian could
have as much said of them. Now, if Miss
\ irginia will trust to a weather-beaten arm
and my honest heart, and come with me to
Jenny’s cabin, I’ll promise her as true and
kind a welcome as any city dame could give
her; and with this good rifle, that never failed
yet in the hour of need, I'll keep off* all harm
by the way, your honor.
Gen. Heaven bless thee for the thought,
my trusty friend ;
Go, take her with thee, guard her as thou
hop’st to find
Thv dying pillow free from thorns.
And when this war cloud bursts and peace re
.. turns
|h<s priceless treasure to my arms again,
I’ll scatter golden blessings in thy path ;
Now, then, my child.
Virginia. Oh, father, ere we part,
Say thou forgiv’st tne; say the only words
That ever fell unkindly from thy lips
Told all of bitterness thy heart can feel.
I may be weak, but never could betray
A father’s trust, a parent's stainless honor ;
Never! Oh, never shalt thou blush to own
A daughter, when thou hearest Virginia’s
name.
Gen. Then spoke my child—inv own he
roic girl—
Faiewell jonce more —a thousand angels
gua/ thee. (Embraces her.)
Weath. jjang me if it does not bring the
salt water into my eyes. It is nothing to look
at a woman weep, no more than an April
squall; but when I see a tear twinkling in a
brave nrVm’s e/e, everything looks mighty
lik e a fog was rising. Come along, Miss Vir
ginia; Brownbess and 1 (shouldering his ri
jle.) shall keep off’the varmints. K
[E vit with Virginia.]
Gen. (To the officers.) Come to our tent,
my friends, we must dispatch
A courier t> our comrades in the rear.
Gab. (h'trrrupting him as he goes out.) I
am ready, (you- honor, to dispatch myself at
a moment’s’ earning. [Exeunt.]
1 -
SCENE SECOND.
[ Tlhc Indian encampment—Enter Si. Fran
cis and Foreste'f]
Forest. No! ,t can never be; I may sub
-11. it
To stern necessity’s inglorious law,
And dwell awhile 1 more than captive here;
A debtor for the paltry boon of life,
If life there be whe 1 the free spirit’s chained ;
But to become an alien from my kind,
Cut ofl‘ from those imperishable ties,
These golden links—religion, friendship, love !
St. F. Imperishable ties; ha! friendship!
love 1
Talk of the morn’s imperishable clouds,
The summer dew and flower; and yet the
cloud,
The dew and flower are everlasting things,
Compared with those poor, hollow, treacher
ous names.
lla! ha ! ha ! Friendship ! love !
Forest. Forbear!
Chill not my glowing heart with such cold
taunts.
They who with misanthropic hatred turn
From all the genial charities of life,
Believe me, are unworthy to excite
Those bright celestial sparks of heaven’s own
flame.
St. F. And who art thou, in green, un
blighted youth,
Unwithered strength and feeling, dar’st to
preach
High words of wisdom to a man like me,
Pallid and worn with sorrow more than years ?
j Young man, I have a right; contest it not;
An awful right to loathe, to curse mankind.
’Tis bought by injuries. Oh ! I could unroll
A scene so black -. But no, ’tis locked
forever
In this dark cell, where memory dwells alone.
Forest. If thou hast sorrows, I can mourn
with thee;
Wrongs, name them. Here’s a hand that
may redress ;
But hurl not on the wild and reckless world
The bolt of burning vengeance forged for one.
St. F. Enough! euough! I did forget my
self.
Fool! thus to suffer an unconscious breath
To stir the sullen waters of despair!
Tell me, young stranger, who and what thou
art;
Who, with unknown, inexplicable power,
Has waked the memories of other days.
Forest. My name is Forester. They call
me thus,
For I was found beneath the greenwood
shade,
Baptized already by the dews of Heaven.
I have a dim remembrance of the scene :
A dying Indian gasping by my side,
A sense of loneliness and horror, chill,
Freezing in my young heart, and then the joy,
The gushing rapture, when the cheering sound
Os human voices echo’d through the gloom.
There is an earlier vision, faint but sweet,
Os a fair spot. I think it was my home:
And of a kind and tender face that bent,
Each night, beside my infant couch in prayer.
It must have been my mother’s.
Who I am,
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, APRIL 23, 1852.
Whose blood flows warm in this aspiring
heart,
I know not, but I feel a spirit here
That tells me I am not ignobly born.
St. F. Strange destiny of man ! Oh, would
that I
Had found thee in the wilderness. Where
are they,
The saviours, guardians of thy infant years ?
Forest. Cold in the grave. An isolated
youth,
My country called the forest child her own.
I have been born to arms, and the good sword,
As vet unstained by gore, yon savage stole
Was all the wealth I had. I’m doweiiess
now.
St. F. No, thou art rich in nature’s noblest
gifts,
Most rich in being what the world calls poor.
Forester,be my son. Thou’rt nature’s child;
Here she spreads forth her virgin arms for
thee.
Here! on her lone and august altars, pour
Fresh, unpolluted incense. God is here ;
And man, as God has made him, free from
guile.
Forest. Strange, that a soul like thine can
thu3 forget
Its glorious origin, its loftj T end,
And dream that these wild tenants of the
woods
Wear, undefiled, the imago of their God.
Cold, selfish, cruel.
St. F. Stay, ungrateful youth ;
What led the Indian maid to rush between
Thy bosom and the arrow’s barbed point?
To face, undaunted, death in thy defence—
Her arms thy shelter and her breast* thy
shield?
See where she comes! now call her selfish,
cold.
Fores'. Lamorah! she’s the angel of her
tribe.
lam not such an ingrate; I would give
My life for hers, yet think the debt unpaid.
[Enter Lamorah.]
St. F. Lamorah, thou art truth. What bid
thee save
The stranger from the arrow of thy sire ?
LamOrah. The stranger’s voice is sweet:
his face is fair:
His heart is brave. I could not see him die.
St. F. Oli, nature, simple, true. My daugh
ter, say,
Wilt thou rejoice if Forester remains,
(Such the white stranger’s name,) to chase
the deer,
And wing the skiff, with us, o’er yon blue
wave ?
Lamorah. Lamorah’s heart is glad.
Forest. Thou hast redeemed,
Maid of the wilderness, a stranger’s life;
What deed of his can show how deep and
strong
His gratitude for mercy so divine?
Lamorah. Talk not of gratitude. The
mountain stream
Falls joyous on the sunny vale below ;
The valley smiles, the waters are at rest.
St. F. (To Forester.) Would’at thou repay
the debt thou ow’st to her ?
Forest. I would, were it with life.
St. F. Lamorah, thou art truth; say, dost
thou love
The stranger thou hast ransomed ? Falter
not.
[Forester turns away in agitation.]
Lamorah. They tell me maidens of the
snow while face
Speak not their own true hearts. The forest
maid
Was never taught disguise. Dear as the dew,
The gale, the sun-beam to the fading flower,
Is this young stranger to Lainorah’s heart.
St. F. She loves thee, Forester. This sim
ple child,
This self-devoted, unbetrayiug maid,
Gives thee a richer boon than kings can offer.
( Taking her hand and joining it to that of
Forester.)
Take her and pay her for thy life with love;
She is not of that fair, deceitful race,
Who smile and vow, and stab thee to the vi
tals ;
Her heart is on her lips: she will not. lie,
And sigh and flatter while she wreaths with
flowers
The iron shaft that is entering in your soul.
Oh ! what a fiend is memory !
[Rushes out.]
Forest. What can I,
Misjudging man ! can I confirm the deed,
And with deceit, this generous trust repay !
Forbid it, heaven! Lamorah, there is one,
Fair, generous, noble, tender, like thyself,
Who weeps, in secret, for the stranger’s fate.
Our love has been the silent growth of years,
Deepening and strength’ning with each pass
ing hour.
Could I betray the holy vows I’ve pledged,
I were unworthy of Lamorah’s love.
Lamorah. Oh! there is something here that
told me this:
That some fair daughter of the race of snow
Had won the pallid warrior to her bower.
But says the white friend true ? He who has
taught
Our tribe the thoughts and language of his
own ?
Is then this love so light ? The mist, the snow,
That melts when kissed aud leaves the vale
in tears ?
Forest. My life upou her truth.
Lamorah. She weeps thy fate!
In secret weeps Why does she veil her soul ? j
Is it a sin in thy fair land to love ?
Forest. She fears a father’s anger: she’s
the child
Os wealth—and L a poor and nameless man.
Lamorah. She fears! Oh! poor and weak
must be her love.
‘l'lie daughter of Ozembra knew not fear
When thou to the Great Spirit prayed for life.
But, warrior, thou shalt see the rainbow yet
Shining upon the cloud. The young fawn
knows
The secret windings of the forest path.
Son of the white man, rest: and in thy
dreams,
Go tell the blue-eyed daughter of thy tribe—
Thy snowy love— Lamorali s soul is white!
[Exit.]
Forest. And is this noble creature of the
blood
That animates the tawny Indian’s veins!
llow rich the glow that ardent spirit spreads
O’er her dark cheek, and from her sable eye,
What light, what glory breaks ! She should
not fling
Her young affections on a bosom where
Bloom the sweetest flowers another hand has
strewn.
Oh ! my Virginia! severed as we are,
Oar spirits are indissolubly joined !
[Exit.]
SCKNK THIRD.
[The banks of the Ohio near the collage of
Weatherton—Flashes of lightning and dis
tant thunder.]
[Enter Virginia.]
Virginia. What weary hours! My restless
spirit chafes
Like the chained eagle, in these cabin walls.
And yet their rough, true-hearted kindness
wakes
That gratitude that fain would smile with joy.
I have deceived their care; I yearned to bo
Alone with nature, and to feel the air
Flow cold and balmy on my burning brow.
The. lightning throws its dazzling wreath
across
The shadowed Heavens, and ever and anon,
‘Fhe thunder rolls in solemn music near.
’Tis the Creator’s bidding. But this storm
Os hope, and fear, and passion, in my breast,
These human elements, oh ! thou who breath
ed
Thy inspiration in me : Thou who fill’st
These lonely forests with thy glorious pres
ence,
Protect him! protect him ! save him from the
savage foe.
Perchance, e’en now, mid gathering flames
he yields
His tortured spirit at the burning stake!
My father, too. All! me, do I forget
A father’s danger in a lover’s fate ?
Unhappy <rirl! did not an unseen hand
Arrest the deed, I’d still this troubled breast
In the calm bosom of yon silver waves.
[ Turns towards the river and wildly shrieks
—Two Indians who have jumped from their
canoe on shore and advanced towards her, un
perceived, now attempt to seize her—They
drag her, struggling and fainting, into the
canoe and push rapidly off.]
[EXD of act second.]
(Our Contributors.
’ WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
APRIL Ist, 1852.
Pegasus ii lame, arid won’t canter—
Excuse him, inon amie, I pray ;
The chords of my lyre are all broken,
‘l’iie Mioses don’t travel this way!
Last month an Idea came to see ue—
A strange kind of animal sure !
We never had seen one, and wond’ring,
We showed it politely the door.
The negroes, two weeks since, have planted
Parnassus with cotton arid wheat;
Redeemed from waste-ground, it will clothe us,
Beside giving something— to cat.
. So we shall fare better than those, who
Have formerly dwelt on its height;
I’ve heard that they always looked hungry—
Their clothing, I know, was a fright.
They ever seemed languid and puny,
I’m sure I can’t tell what it means,
Except that the dainty called glory,
Don’t strengthen like baked pork and beans !
I write these details that you'll know
Why a Valentine I did not pen,
With my love clad in beautiful verso
For you, Oh, most perfect of men !
Apollo, I tried to engage,
But he vowed he had no time to write ;
You know he's become quite the rage,
And sings for two thousand a night!
Complaining one day of hard times—
His lyre and his curls he had sold—-
“Prince Barnum” walked in with a smile,
And rattled his pockets of gold.
Poor Apollo! Ambrosia’s dear,
And nectar, abominably high ;
“I must have anew suit—that is clear !”
And the contract was signed with a sigh.
Asa clernier resort, I turned
To Helicon, and as I panted
While mounting its height, with surprise
I saw that with turnips ’twas planted !
The fountain so beautifully once
Descending with musical flood,
Was dosed with a house, at whose door,
A shrewd looking Yankee boy stood.
And I heard that the water was sold
(As he said) at the moderate price
Os sixpence a glass! Every where
Is this mighty God mammon’s device.
Heart sick, I have sat me down here
To write all these troubles to you;
You’ll pardon, will not you, “my dear,”
This letter, less pleasant than true ?
So I to plain English must turn,
To tell you how vast is my love—
’ Tis deeper than space, and its height
Is the glittering planets’ above.
’ Tis purer than gold twice refined ;
More constant than life to the soul,
Its strength might the fiery worlds bind,
That will through immensities roll.
To-day the wee, beautiful birds
Are wooing with silvery song,
And golden sunflakes show’ring down
The mighty, broad boughs fall among.
Let the sweet bird of Love in thy heart,
Brood softly with close folded wing ;
Henceforth will it ne’er strive to fly,
But glad in captivity sing.
And spurn not, Oh, light of my soul,
A heart that’s unchangeably thine;
For genius and joy are with thee—
But sorrow and darkness are mine !
YOU KNOW WHO.
[written for tiie sentinel.]
Characteristics of the Nineteenth Century.
BY REV. mix., r. NEELY, I>. D,
- No. 2.
The Preacher of the Nineteenth Century.
The Gospel of the Son of God, contem
plated in any and every possible aspect, stands
pre-eminently above all other systems. The at
; tempts of infidel opponents to lessen its
| glorv, by drawing a contrast between it, and
i the subtleties of Philosophy and the splen
| dors of Pagan Mythology, have proved abor
tive. In all such instances of assailment, it
has cotne forth, crowned with a higher efful
gence, and instinct with a mightier energy.
It is peculiarly an adaptive system —
adapted to the moral wants of the world-
This is seen in the illumination it sheds upon
the mind and conscience,—in its regenerat
ing power,—in its preceptive teachings and
sustaining and consoling character. Man is
! in want of guidance: is a helpless sinner:
is an ignorant wanderer: is a child of afflic
tion. The Gospel supplies these demands, and
I hence its adaptiveness to the condition and
necessities of our race.
To unfold this system is the work of the
preacher. There was a time, in the history
of religion, when God himself was wont to
speak to man, and when, by attendant signs
and wonders, the publication of his will, left
the hearer without doubt, as io the origin
and intent of the revelation. The burning
bush—the quaking mountain—the fearful
handwriting on the wall, and the invisible voice
amid visions of the night, were the signifi
cant attestors that God was speaking to his
: children. The vision, however, is now seal
ed. The Almighty no longer communes
with man, by suspending the laws of nature,
lie has left a book, wherein man, by search
ing, may find him out, as far as he is accessible
to human research. He has also instituted a
ministry, whose one business is, to unfold
the mind of God and to present Jesus as the
hope of sinners and as the only perfect model
of humanity. To this work the minister is
appointed, and for it, when called, the Father
annoiuts him. Assuming that such a mes
senger, having had committed to him interests
of unnamed value, and standing “charged
with the high vindication of God’s honor and
Heaven’s rights,” is a regenerated man : that
he knows something from experience of
the “law of regeneration:” that he is a man
of pure heart and devoted life ; assuming this,
we will suggest a few things, which we hold
as indispensable to enlarged ministerial use
fulness in this age of the world.
Ist- A minister should diligently study,
and faithfully present, the whole truth of God,
as revealed in his Son, Jesus Christ.
Neither the substitution of leligious cere
monies, nor the dependence of the preacher
on mere human learning, will avail, in
the absence of a thorough knowledge and
a faithful presentation of the pure word
!of God. Tiie days of shadows and imposing
! ceremonies, as the prominent element of the
i pulpit, passed away with the extinction of the
Levitical priesthood. Subtle disputations on
questions of “vain philanthropy” belonged
to profane schools of oratoiy, and not to the
college of disciples organized by Jesus
Christ, neither to their true successors.
| The great object of pulpit effort cannot
| be accomplished by the mechanical pronoun
cing of eloquently prepared discourses, in
which the congregation hear nothing of
Christ. The regeneration of the 60ul is not
produced by the observance of church fes
tivals and awe-inspiring rituals. These are
not to be lost sight of; yet of themselves,
and apart from him, in testimony of whom
| they should be observed, they are unavailing.
The Gospel that consecrates a pulpit, be
cause of its saving efficacy, must tell of a
Mediator. It must impress the hearer with
the honor of that Mediator and the ample
ness of that mediation. By the first, the sin
ner is instructed in the turpitude of sin, and
by the second, he has hope that his sins can
jbe forgiven. lie must also hear of a spiritual
! energy—a divine afflatus fresh from the lips
of the Shekinah, glowing and penetrating—
life-giving and sin-censuring—or the message
delivered will be to him but as the chilling
tunes of the wind-harp to the benumbed trav
eller, as he toils among Alpine gorges and
glacier heights. The Gospel preached, if it
save, must be rich with “Christ crucified,”
and luminous and powerful with the Holy
Spirit sent down from Heaven.
The preacher who would be to this age
the evangel of good, must not rely on the
rudiments of a false philosophy, to the neglect
of the uncompounded truth of God. He
must not displace the Gospel—the truth with
out admixture—by the “wisdom of woids,”
or by the irrelevant sciences of the world.
To present these to the soul, as the pabu
lum most needed, is to pursue a course of
miscalled nutrition, by which it will become
surfeited, and ultimately swallowed up, in in- :
tellectuul pride, if notin undisguised infidelity.
The taste of most hearers exposes the
preacher of this age to temptation in this par- :
ticular. There is, among many of the more cul
tivated of our congregations, an itching after
the philosophical speculations of German
metaphysicians: a growing relish for theories
that lead either into pantheism or some other of
the many infidel vagaries, by which that land
of profound learning and of great thinkers is j
characterized. Another class of hearers
evince a growing preponderance for sermons j
festooned with beautiful imagery and gar
landed with rhetoric, rather than such as
come burdened with Christ and the Kesurrcc-
TERMS OF PUBLICATION.
One Copy per annum, if paid in advance... §2 00
“ “ “ “ “ “ in six months, 250
“ u “ •* “ “ at end of year, 300
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
One square, first insertion, - - - - - SI 00
“ “ each subsequent insertion, - 50
A liberal deduction made in favor of those who
advertise largely.
NO. 17.
tion. These demands on the part of those
I who crowd our temples, render it a source of
| some conflict for the preacher to avoid ad
mixing the truth as it is in Jesus. The temp
tation has sometimes proven too strong for
resistance; and as a consequence, the painful
spectacle is being seen in seme American
pulpits of a compromise between philosophi
cal science and the Gospel. Philosophy and
science are not without an adjunctive con
nection with the Gospel; and in proportion
to such connection, they have a relative im
portance, too. A knowledge of them will
enable the discriminating preacher to vary
Gospel illustrations, in such way as will com
mend that Gospel to the varied tastes of
; those to whom it is preached. While this
! is admitted, we protest against making tho
| pulpit tho medium of philosophical instruc
tion. This kind of instruction can be com
municated by other means, such as cheap
publications, lectures, Ac., without prosti
tuting. the pulpit to purposes which, although
elevating of themselves, are far below tho
work to which it should he consecrated. Let
this be the mission of tin- preacher, and we
would soon see the multitudes becoming list
less, and the influence of the sacred desk dead.
An objection to this, and one of philo
sophical importance, is, that it is adverse to
the nature of religion. Science and religion
are, by nature, dissimilar in their progress.
The one is slow—the other quick, in action,
i The way of the one is so plodding that it can
be narrowly watched: its achievements may
be accurately reported, in the order of their
occurrence, to the world. The course of tho
other is such as to enthrone it with startling
suddenness on heights where science would
reel in very dizziness. What science does, is
a matter of patient analysis and is wrought
by reason. The triumphs of religion are
more through faith and lie beyond the range
of the natural vision. The eye cannot fol
low them. As the chariot sweeps on, clouds
enfold it, and the poor* wandering philosopher,
encompassed by dusty volumes of antiquated
lore, hears not its sounding thongs, nor be
holds its wheels, as they
“Bicker and burn to gain the expected goal.’’
Still, the moving car passes on in its mys
terious empallment: faith scatters the clouds
from its path, and hope kindles her beauti
ful lights far away in the distance: love
toils and rejoices—until, finally, tho trusting
and struggling Christian stands at the portal
of iiis Father’s house, the metropolis of God,
and, under the lofty* swell of celestial music,
enters, and is lost amid the sublime visions
of II eaven.
W e confess to but a moiety of patience
with that species of pulpit pedantry that
would rely mainly on scientific statements,
in awakening in the mind a sentiment • £
adoration to God: that would pause amici
the truths of lofty grandeur unfolded in God’s
word, and attested by a thousand voices that
peal out from the solitudes of nature and from
the marts of human industry, and discuss
every geological minutke seen in the struclure
of a pebble: that would take time to meas
ure the distance from the earth to the sun, —
the absolute and relative distances of the heav
enly bodies : or that would enter upon an
analysis of the principles of electricity.
The preacher should betake himself to the
task of acquiring a knowledge of these things,
and so far as they will afford him subsidiary
aid in illustrating or applying the truth of
God, he should employ them; but to convert
the pulpit into a scientific laboratory, and the
house of God into a philosophical lecture
room—entering into the detail of strange
phenomena in nature, just as a professor of
natural science would to his class in the re
citation room—is to send intelligence by drag
ging post boys, when we might transmit it
by tho railway of Jupiter—the telegraph.
When the word of God is made known from
Revelation, let nature come in with her ten
thousand orators to confirm ; but lot not lb ■>
pulpit plod over a minute analysis. Lea-,
that to theses, lectures, books, &c. T. ?
preacher’s use of nature should be instan
taneous, allusive and illustrative. To use a
thought of Richard Watson’s: while science
creeps, ho should expand tho wing of reli
gion and soar. As he is borne on to nltitiuh
untrodden by the weary foot of the phiio. >
pher, let him, if it will give a more vivid ill
tration, or a larger view of divine truth; o ’ .'■f
it will deepen the rapture or heighten i
- sentiment of a soul; summon nat . e
from the central fires of the earth, or the
waltzing comets and the innurnerous starry
beacons that burn in the midnight heavens, to
come forth; but let him do it without pause.
One such allusion to the sun whose beams
lighted the footsteps of his hearers to the
house of the Lord, will crowd the minds of
those hearers with a more adoring reverence
for Ilim who kindled its glory and who feeds
its splendor, than would be done by a learn
ed disquisition on the entire solar system ;
and as these hearers bow upon the solemn
chancel, one peal of thunder rolling among
the cloud sanctuaries above, will shed upon
the prostrate multitude a more hallowed in
fluence than could be produced by an entire
season of lectures on the electric fluid.
The truth as it is in Jesus must be kept
prominent. Other truths are well enough;
but this is the truth. All other truth, to be
made valuable from the pulpit, must he con
nected with that greatest and most precious
of all truths,-—Jesus Christ and him crucified.
They must be vitalized by a principle, gatli
erable only from the “Cross of Christ.” Des
titute of thi-g all pulpit ministrations, liowev-