MARRIAGE SERMONS AND SERENADES.

BY THE EDITOR.

"Dear me, but that was a long ceremony you had!" said a venerable clerical friend to us, after we had joined a loving couple in the bonds of holy wedlock. "I could have performed it in half the time." Now, we dare say he could, howbeit he not unusually spins out a sermon over an hour. At the request of the parties most deeply interested in the matter, we read the whole of the marriage service. It may have seemed long to the large congregation present. And yet there was a beautiful propriety and solemn expressiveness in the use of the entire form.

As a rule, short marriage services are in great favor. This is partly owing to a dislike to religious forms. In the minds of many, their use tends to an empty formality. If we only have the substance, say they, the form will be of little importance. Given, two persons loving each other, and espoused, and they are one. A formal marriage service is only had in compliance with a Christian custom, but adds nothing to the validity or binding force of the marriage relation. With this view, a service of twenty seconds will be as satisfactory as one of twenty minutes. A magistrate can officiate as well as a minister.

For this aversion to formal religious rites and ceremonies, we are partly indebted to an unhealthy extreme of Puritanism. We revere many of the. earnest men who were among the founders and advocates of this system. It has accomplished much good. The stern, rigid piety of its leading spirits, unbending and brave in the face of danger and death, is a keen rebuke to the temporizing character of many of its opponents. But it was, after all, an unhealthy and perilous rebound from the errors of Romanism. Some of the old Puritan divines seemed to make it a cardinal virtue to differ in all points, without discrimination, from the usages of the Catholic Church. Even Calvin, if we are not in error, absolutely forbade prayer at funerals in Geneva. And so did John Knox in Scotland, and the English Puritans of the Westminster Assembly, and the French Huguenots. The church bells might ring. Heart broken mourners might walk in solemn procession to the grave, and sob out their ill-repressed grief as they took a long, last look at the coffin, lowered to its narrow abode; but not a word of prayer, by some man of God, to the Friend of the sorrowing, was permitted. This was done to get away, as far as possible, from the Catholic burial service. "Doctor," said King James to a Puritan divine, "do you go barefoot, because the Papists wear shoes and stockings?" It is even alleged that one of the earlier habits of New England Christians. of eating salt fish on Saturday, was started in opposition to the Roman Catholic custom of eating it on Friday.

At weddings, they were equally strict. No prayer was allowed. To guard against priestly pretensions, magistrates alone could perform the marriage ceremony. In 1641, Governor Bellingham, of Mas-achusetts, even undertook to officiate at his own marriage. His wife having died, a young gentleman was about to form an engagement with a friend of his.

The Governor deeming her worthy of himself, seized the prize, to the sorrow of the young suitor. Owing to a failure in publishing the bans, he could not at once secure the services of a magistrate. He cut the Gordian knot by acting as his own officer. He was prosecuted for violating the law. But in the trial he acted as judge in own case, and acquitted himself.

Instead of the prayer at these Puritan weddings, a sermon was preached. And this was sometimes from one to two hours long. Sometimes the bride was allowed to select the wedding text. Thus, when a certain Parson Smith's daughter, Mary, was to marry young Mr. Cranch, the father asked the maiden to select her text. She modestly handed him: "Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her." The happy couple were edified by an apt discourse.

This Mary Smith had a younger sister, Abby-a merry, frisking maiden. A certain Squire Adams had won her heart, and she was bent on having him. Now her father had a mortal antipathy to this John Adams. In vain Abby longed to give John a specimen of her baking and cooking skill. The Parson stubbornly refused to invite him to come to dinner. At length, however, he consented to their marriage. She selected for her wedding text: "John came, neither eating bread nor drinking wine, and ye say he hath a devil." It is doubtful whether this sermon was actually preached. We need scarcely remind the reader, that Abby became the wife of the second President of the United States, and the mother of the seventh.

There are instances, especially at a later period, where a prayer was offered in connection with the marriage service. In the life of Dr. Backus, we find the following record in his Journal:

"We arrived near night, and found some hundreds of people assembled. So matters being prepared, Squire Paine, of that town, married them; while, at his motion, I prayed before, and gave a word of counsel after the transaction; then, also, at his desire, Brother Hines offered prayer, we sung part of Psalm 145, and Brother Hines preached an excellent sermon from Solomon's Song, v. 9."

The wedding sermon, however, is not confined to the old Puritans. In many parts of Protestant Europe, especially in Germany, it is still in use. We were present at a wedding in the Nikolai Kirche of Berlin, where the pastor delivered a discourse of ten or fifteen minutes' length, in a very cold church. The wedded couple, with their friends, stood patiently before the altar during its delivery. The preacher mainly dwelt on the duties of married life, and the proper regulation of a Christian home. In the early part of this century, a wedding discourse would occasionally be preached in German families in this country. A venerable friend tells us, that a sermon of forty minutes' length formed part of his marriage ceremony, and that he and his bride had to stand during the whole of it.

The ancient custom of publishing the bans is still practiced in Europe. An American, it would strike one as passing strange, to hear a German village pastor, at the close of the Lord's Day service, read off before a whole congregation, a list of the young people lately espoused; among others, that George Burkhard, the son of Henry Burkhard the carpenter, and of his wife Catharine, whose maiden name was Gross, daughter of Gottlieb Gross the shoemaker, and Lisbet Brand, daughter of Jacob Brand the blacksmith, and

of his wife Dorothea, whose maiden name was Kurtz, daughter of Michael Kurtz the locksmith, have been affianced. May God bless their espousal, and sanctify it to their salvation, and His glory. Amen." George sits in the gallery; and Lisbet, with her mother, in a back seat. Both blush like a newly-blown rose at this disclosure of their secret. In this country, espousal, as a rule, are kept a secret. To publish them from the pulpit would set lovers crazy, and busy tongues a-wagging. What a terrible trial to an affianced couple to tell the secret before the congregation! And yet why should it be? In the Fatherland, no one thinks strange of it. There is no attempt at concealment. It is a frank, public avowal of their intention, which relieves them of all the embarrassments which secresy imposes.

"Please do not publish this marriage," said a young friend, after we joined him to a loving bride. "Why not?" "I have been threatened with a calathumpian serenade; and I wish, if possible, to evade this torture." "Perhaps you deserve it. Have you ever taken part in the like of that?" "Yes. But that is another matter." You ought to be pun ished for it. We should let the papers call the band together, in which you yourself have been an inglorious performer." These calathumpian serenades are one of the most barbarous customs to be found in any civilized country. On no occasion could they be more out of place than at a wedding. The whole speaks of harmony and concord. The love of the wedded couple, and of those who grace their festivities, is without a discordant note. All are under the power of this harmonious spell, and keenly sensitive to harsh dissonance. To thrust this grating, screeching, nerve wracking, heart-rending, worse than Pandemonial howling, upon such an occasion, is the climax of cruelty.

Thanks to an inherent aversion to this inhuman custom, we have never given aid or comfort" to this enemy of early wedded love. And yet we are not ignorant of his devices. We have vivid recollections of one of these hideous serenades. At that time we were "a preparatorian" at a certain literary institution, and "roomed" in the preparatory building. For several days rumors had been rife that a certain party on the premises were about to be married. When, precisely. no one seemed to know. On the evening the event took place, the building" was unusually quiet. A strange hush, like the lull before a battle, had settled upon all the rooms and corridors. Even the flutes and fiddles, usually so merrily at work between study hours, all kept silent. Was it out of respect to the transaction "down stairs?" For just then two loving hearts were joined for better or worse, whom no man thereafter should put asunder. Or was there not some mischief brewing?

Just then a sudden bustle outside called us to the window. And lo! a crowd of people, half visible, swarmed in the campus. Scarcely an audible word was heard. All seemed busy in arranging, we knew not what. What could it mean? At length some one gave the signal with a horn. And then the horrid band broke loose. Drums, barrels, bells, pans, kettles, horns, fiddles (cracked and unstrung), produced all that is hideous in noise. A so-called "horse fiddle" played base. This consisted of a large store box as the body of the fiddle. The upper edges of the sides, well rosined, were used as strings. A beam, fifteen or twenty feet in length, served as a bow. Two men at each end of the beam drew it in long

strokes athwart the box. This formed a sort of an earthquake base to the other instruments, setting the windows to clattering.

Of course, this unmusical multitude was mainly composed of students. Some

"Had no singing education,

Ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellows."

Others were adepts in the celestial art. In this excruciating orchestra all performed their parts with equal skill. Each one had his own tune and time, regardless of the rest. The President of the College lived in an adjoining house. Sentinels were posted between it and the band, to herald his approach in time to make a safe retreat.

""

A short distance from the outskirts of this boisterous crowd, stood a solitary spectator. He was one of the few you find in all colleges, who climb up the hill of Science under peculiar difficulties-"on all fours." He had connected himself with the Church, when considerably beyond his teens. A conscious call to the ministry prompted him to begin a course of study. Being advanced in years, and limited in means, he felt constrained to take "a partial course. Owing to a want of early mental training, his studies were a constant battle with insuperable obstacles. Books were repulsive to him. Horace filled him with horror. And Sallust with a shudder. But he read his Bible, and said his prayers, and sincerely endeavored to do good. After being a few sessions in the College, he made a long leap into the Seminary. Here he felt more at home than among the idolatries of heathen writers.

He became a sort of evangelist for vacant congregations in the surrounding country. His plain method of putting things in his sermons made him a favorite among the simple mountain people. It was even whispered that he was a greater man than the President of the College. A good man he was, and still is. He was always grave, always at his place in church, always ready to rebuke the mischief of the "rowdy students;" rarely laughed outright, only an occasional solemn smile lighted up his serious countenance. Rarely was he out at night. But this serenade entrapped him. Whether to study human nature, or see and enjoy the fun, we know not. His long, spare form, could be dimly seen on the edge of this noisy crew that night. Was he not, perhaps, taking notes for a sermon to "the rowdies?" A solemn sight was our evangelist among the serenaders, stern and serene.

The band stops. A murmur passes through the crowd, "The President is coming." A pause ensues. Our serious friend is the first to flee. The lightness of his person, and length of his limbs, gave him an advantage over others. He led the retreat with a marvellous fleetness. Over barking dogs, and curbstones, and boxes, he sped through the village as if ten thousand fiends had been at his heels. The terrified crowd followed in the same slyle. He escaped with his ilfe. And we are happy to inform our readers that he is an active, earnest minister of the Gospel to this present. justice to him, we must state that he away from a foe since.

never run

THE way to bliss lies not on beds of down,

He that hath borne no cross will ne'er receive a crown.

THE IDIOT BOY.

[The Philadelphia "Press" quotes the following beautiful poem, and says, "Those who have heard this touching effusion recited by the celebrated tragedian, Mr. Forrest, will never forget either the pathos with which he renders it, or his simple, affecting introduction to it. Mr. Forrest thinks the writer was the brother of the poet Southey; but whoever he was, his name should be connected with, whenever published or read, what will awaken the most melancholy and pleasing emotions:"]

It had pleased God to form poor Ned

A thing of idiot mind,

Yet to the poor, unreas'ning boy
God had not been unkind.

Old Sarah loved her helpless child,
Whom helplessness made dear,
And life was everything to him
Who knew no hope or fear.

She knew his wants, she understood
Each half-artic' late call;

For he was everything to her,
And she to him was all.

And so for many a year they lived,
Nor knew a wish beside;

But age at length on Sarah came,
And she fell sick and died.

He tried in vain to 'waken her
He called her o'er and o'er;

They told him she was dead-the word
To him no import bore.

They closed her eyes and shrouded her,
Whilst he stood wond'ring by,

And when they bore her to the grave
He followed silently.

They laid her in the narrow house,

And sung the funeral stave,

And when the mournful train dispersed

He loitered by the grave.

The rabble boys that used to jeer
Whene'er they saw poor Ned,

Now stood and watched him at the grave,
And not a word was said.

They came and went and came again,

And night at last drew on;

Yet still he lingered at the place

Till every one had gone.