364 Original. THE EMIGRANT. THE EMIGRANT. BY PROFESSOR LARRABEE. THE emigrant from New England, as he leaves his native home for a residence in the west, experiences some strange and hardly definable feelings. His home has become endeared to him by the associations of childhood, of youth, and of manhood. There is the sloping hill-side on which he gathered the violets of spring, and the lilies of summer. There is the little brook, among whose shady bowers he spent many a summer hour. There is the woodland plain, over which he rambled in autumn, when the leaves were falling around him, and every wild flower had disappeared before the chilling frost. There is the old orchard, whose ripe fruits he had so often gathered upthe meadow all waving with grass-the pasture with its glades and dells all grown over with brakes and ferns. There is the old elm, planted perhaps by the hand of his grand-father, with its long branches overhanging the house; and there is the pine, planted by his own hand, with its evergreen tassels sighing to the wind. In the distance are the blue hills, which have formed the background of the landscape on which he has looked from infancy; and nearer are the silver lakes from whose mirrowy surface he has so often seen reflected the sunlight of morning. from the emigrant's view. There is yet about him the scenery of his native state. These farms, these neat villages, these lakes, these crystal streams, he has seen before. One by one, however, every familiar scene fades away, till the last hill of his native land sinks below the horizon. The whizzing steam car bears him on, and he stands on the summit of the Alleghanies. Here he stops again, to take one more look at the world he is leaving. He stands on the boundary line between the east and the west. On the one side is the world which he has long known and admired-on the other is, to him, an "undiscovered country." He looks back, and there rushes on his soul the thrilling memory of the past-the memory of incidents, and scenes, and friends, which he had long since lost in oblivion. Philosophers tell us that there is reason to believe our thoughts and feelings imperishable; that relics of sensation may exist for an indefinite time in a latent state, and may all be brought up whenever any stimulus, sufficiently exciting, acts on the mind; and that, therefore, there are occasions when there is brought before the mind the collective experience of its whole past existence. Such an occasion occurs to the emigrant, as he stands on the Alleghanies, and looks back, over hill and dale, toward his native home. Scenes long since faded away-incidents long ago forgottenfriends long since followed to the grave-all come up before him as vivid and as bright as though the events had just occurred. His eyes swimming with the recollections of the past, he can look no longer. He closes them; but yet he sees painted on the living canvass of his soul the land of his birth, with its mountains and vallies, its lakes and streams, the cottage where he lived, with all its rural attractions, and the friends he had long known and loved. Gathering up his energies, the emigrant opens his eyes, and looks before him. At his feet he sees a range of hills, lower than that on which he stands, succeeded by another, lower still, and still another, continually diminishing as they recede, till far away, near the distant horizon, he sees spread out, in quiet beauty, tinged with the sunlight of evening, the illimitable plains of the west. The old cottage in which he was born and nurtured, and which has also been thus far the nursery of his own little children, has charms for him, which the princely palace might not equal. Its image, with the scenery around it, is indelibly stamped on his soul. Let him become a wanderer in distant lands-let new and startling scenes everywhere meet him-let him make a new home wherever he may, the impress of his childhood's home will still lie too deep in his memory ever to be effaced. Wherever his waking thoughts may be, his dreams will still linger about this spot. The emigrant, before he leaves this sacred spot, calls his children once more around him. Once more they kneel before the old family altar, and offer up their devotions to a protecting Providence. Then they walk The emigrant's heart is glad. He winds his way together once more about the orchard and garden, in-down the mountain side, and presses on his journey. stinctively bidding good-bye to each flowret and shrub. On the banks of the Scioto he again looks back. Returning, they cast a “longing, lingering look" at last hill has faded away in the east. He looks forward, their cottage halls, and close the doors, to open them no and there sees before him the fertile plains of western more for ever. Ohio, of Indiana, and of Illinois. To him it appears one vast wilderness, without habitation or cultivated field-a dead level, varied by no elevation or depression, and enlivened by no rippling brook. Wending his way, however, westward, he perceives what he supposed a level plain to be an undulating surface, intersected by many a meandering stream, and covered with corn, wheat, grass, and forest trees, in such abundance and magnitude as to defy all his former calculations of the productive powers of nature. Pursuing his way, he reaches the Wabash, flowing through the most fer Slowly and sadly the emigrant proceeds on his weary way. From the topmost ridge of some long hill, he catches the last glance at his cottage home. The carriage stops. The family, little children and all, fix their eyes, full of tears, on that loved spot. There it is, in quiet, silent beauty, embowered in shrubbery, and rendered still more enchanting to the sight by the soft blue tinge which distance throws around it. A moment more-one other look, and the carriage moves on, and the cottage disappears for ever. The Not yet, however, has every familiar scene gone tile valley ever wet with the dews of heaven, or warmed TO A YOUNG DISCIPLE. 365 by the rays of the sun. Here there appears before him of thanksgiving and praise. Wherever the loved ones a variegated landscape of woodland and prairies, ex-are, there is home-wherever home is, there may be hibiting a scene of beauty, to which, even in fair New peace, and content, and happiness. England, his eye had never been accustomed. Still moving toward the setting sun, the emigrant soon finds himself on the interminable, tenantless, homeless, treeless prairie. Day after day he moves on, nor meets one human face, unless some traveler like himself may cross his path, and then all is loneliness again. The sense of loneliness is one that must oppress him, wherever he may make his journey through the interior of the great west. The dense and continuous forests, the prairies, and even the immense fields of corn, all tend to make him feel lost in the vastness of the scenes with which he is surrounded. He stands on the bluff and looks down on ten thousand acres of corn, all in one continuous field. He looks on the cultivated prairie, waving for miles with the golden wheat, all ready for the sickle. He goes into the forest, and the prodigious trees overwhelm him by their size, and make him dizzy by their height. The calmness of the atmosphere, the stillness that everywhere prevails, oppress him with emotions of sadness. He feels like the shepherd king of Palestine when he looked on the heavens in their grandeur, and then thought on the frailty of man. TO A YOUNG DISCIPLE. Witney, Oct. 16, 1771. IT is no fault to be grieved at the unkindness of those we love: only it may go to an excess; so that we have need to watch in this, as in all things, seeing the life of man is a temptation upon earth. And it is no fault not to grieve for the censure we must often meet with for following our own conscience. Of those little ones you cannot be too tender or too careful; and as you are frequently alone, you may teach them many important lessons, as they are able to bear them. But it requires immense patience; for you must tell them the same thing ten times over, or you do nothing. AFFLICTION. IT is a worse sign to be without chastisement than to be under chastisement. A higher degree of that peace which may well be said to "pass all understanding" will keep, not only your heart, but all the workings of your mind, (as the word properly signifies,) both of your reason and imagination, from all irregular sallies. This peace will increase as your faith increases: one always keeps pace with the In some retired spot, surrounded by primeval beauty, other. So that on this account also your continual the emigrant makes him another home. The forest is prayer should be, "Lord, increase my faith!" A concleared away, and the fields grow green with corn.tinual desire is a continual prayer, that is, in a low Soon the little white cottage, resembling as much as sense of the word; for there is a far higher sensepossible his former home, erects its modest front. Up such an open intercourse with God, such a close, uninits walls climb the woodbine, the jessamine, the eglan-terrupted communion with him as G. Lopez experitine, and the honeysuckle; and around it cluster the enced, and not a few of our brethren now alive. This sweet-brier, the almond, the lilac, and the rose, exhibit- you also should aspire after; as you know He with ing the same beauty, and emitting the same fragrance whom we have to do is no respecter of persons. as those around his home on the Atlantic hill. His JOHN WESLEY. cottage halls now again echo with the merry laugh of childhood. Tiny hands gather up the dandelions of spring, and little feet bound over the decorated landscape. The little ones-rambling from nook to nook, and dell to dell, gathering wild flowers of every hue, walking hand in hand along the garden avenues, admiring the shrubbery and flowers, and listening to the mockingbird, the sweetest of all songsters, and unknown in the north-earnestly inquire of their mother if she supposes their old place can be so pleasant. Then is the emigrant's heart glad. The cloud of sadness is dispelled from his soul. He is lonely no more. He meets not, it is true, the familiar faces of his old friends; but he is content with the society of his own household. He misses the excitement and the stirring scenes with which he was once surrounded; but he heeds it nothe learns to find sufficient interest and amusement at his own fireside. He dreams of his old home; but his new home has, in his waking hours, sufficient charms to remove the sadness of his dreams. He looks in vain for the church of his native village, with its spire pointing to the blue sky; but he still may worship with renewed zeal at his own family altar. The pealing organ he hears no more; but sweet voices around his domestic hearth chaunt the morning and evening hymn Two things should comfort suffering Christians, viz., all that they suffer is not hell; yet it is all the hell that they should suffer. Afflictions are not so much threatened as promised to the children of God. To be a Christian, and a suffering Christian, is a double honor. By affliction God separates the sin which he hates from the soul which he loves. The more a man fears sin, the less will he fear trouble. Afflictions are of God's sending, but of sin's deserving. Sin is the poison, affliction the medicine. When God is humbling us, let us endeavor to humble ourselves. If the servants of God are ever so low, yet his heart is with them, and his eye upon them. God takes it unkindly when we grieve too much for any outward thing; because it is a sign we derive not that comfort from him which we should. 366 PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION.* BY JESSE T. PECK. the feeling of awful sublimity almost suspends the power of self-consciousness. Indeed, the scenes of sublimity in nature-in moral principles, relations, and ac THE elements of pleasure to the fancy are chiefly tions; and in the world of towering intellect, are actuvivacity, beauty, sublimity, and novelty. ally inexhaustible. But from all these scenes the orator may draw his power to astonish and delight his auditors. There may be a sublimity in his thought, a sublimity in his descriptions, illustrations, and appeals, which is actually irresistible. But here we must not fail to urge that the occasions for the sublime in oratory are rare and transient. He who feels himself under obligation to be sublime in every description, in every effort at public speaking, whatever is the occasion, or whatever the state of feeling in his audience, greatly mistakes the genius of oratory, overlooks the philosophy of mind, and, in the most sig Vivacity exists primarily in the thoughts, and it is much more easily understood than defined. It is that kind of definiteness, spirit, and energy, which gives distinctness to the view. With this distinctness the mind is always pleased and interested. A degree of impatience, amounting to resentment, is instinctively felt when the mind, encouraged to expect a treat in the development of well-defined ideas, is perplexed with dark and ambiguous sayings-dull, trite, and stale thoughts; or dry, abstract, and impracticable theories. But if no labor is required—no conjecture necessary to unravel the mystery of confused thought or unintelligi-nificant manner possible, proclaims his own incompeble language-if the idea, clear and well-defined, arrests the attention, rivets the soul instantaneously, leaving no room to doubt-presenting at one view the relations and dependencies of vigorous thoughts, sprightly and pertinent illustrations, and sound indubitable arguments, the mind is delighted and the hearer is a captive. This is vivacity. But man's susceptibility to emotions of beauty must be regarded in an attempt to please. This susceptibility is original with mind, and hence it is intuitive and universal. He whose wisdom produced it, has benevolently furnished the materials of its gratification, in the greatest abundance and variety. Nature is little else than an assemblage of beauties, addressed to every organ of sense. Delightful odors perfume the air-delicious flavors gratify the taste-graceful forms, gentle resistance, soft breezes, and genial warmth play upon the feelings-sounds of sweetest melody and ravishing harmony thrill the ear-and gorgeous paintings and sunlight dazzle the eye. Nor these alone. The principles and relations perceived by the intellect; the vivid conceptions of past mental states, and the novel, bold, and brilliant creations of imagination, are all elements of the beautiful, furnishing additional materials for the gratification of fancy. tency to the functions of the orator. As in the case of beauty, the occasion of sublimity must be seized when it exists. It cannot be created by art for purposes of effect, nor invoked as the servant at will of the specious declaimer. The orator must rather be the servant of sublimity. He must be the victim of its feeling-the agent of its power. He must lose himself in its sweeping current-bury his language in its rolling wave; and stand out of the way till its dashing surges have passed over its audience and disappeared for ever. The only remaining element of pleasure to the imagination which we shall consider is, novelty. The desire of novelty is a wise provision of our nature, nearly identical with curiosity. The mind is so formed as not to remain stationary, not to be satisfied with present knowledge or attainments. It is for ever on the stretch for new truths, new relations, new elements of gratification. It is to this fact that we are primarily indebted for the development of mind—for the endlessly progressive movements of our race. Hence it is that in attempts to please, the orator must know how to accommodate this universal law of our nature. But to know how to do this is comparatively easy, if he only possess the means of doing it. If the speaker has nothing new to present, then, of course, however much he may gratify other feelings of the soul, he can take no advantage of this one. But if he has nothing Sublimity is another element of pleasure to the imagination. The emotion of beauty, swelled by the idea of vastness, power, or fear, becomes an emotion of sub-new, it may well be doubted whether he can establish limity. The mountain rill is beautiful-the rolling his claims to consideration as a public teacher. This river is grand; but the vast ocean is sublime. When remark, however, must not be misinterpreted. It is by the storm-cloud gathers blackness in the heavens-when no means intended to assert that no thought is valua"Along the woods, along the moorish fens ble, or deserves to be repeated, or is adapted to excite Sighs the sad genius of the coming storm;" pleasure, unless it is new. There are a vast many truths which are intrinsically valuable, and their frequent repetition does not diminish their power to please. and "Men look up when and "Thoughts rush in stormy darkness through the soul;" "Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder," * Extracted from Article II, in the Methodist Quarterly Review for October HAIL Temperance, divinely fair! The treasures of the sea. THE VISIONS OF LIFE. 367 Original. THE VISIONS OF LIFE. BY WILLIAM BAXTER. - IT has been said by one who was eminently qualified to judge, and who, doubtless, had been well taught in the school of experience, that "All men are dreamers from the hour That reason first asserts her power." To test the truth of this remark, we have only to look into our own hearts, and commune for a season with the secret monitor within. Life has been fitly called a dream. The strangeness of its incidents, the diversity of its scenes, and the rapidity of its flight amply establish its pretensions to the name; and the experience of all, though unwillingly, must confirm the fact, that the loved and cherished ones do pass away as a vision of the night. Standing as we do, allied to the eternity passed, and the eternity to come, if we turn our gaze in either direction, in order to find the true position which we occupy in relation to both, the thought must, at times, strike the mind that we are but as passing shadows on the stream of time, and our fondest and dearest pursuits are fleeting and transitory as the empty pageants of a dream. But do we wish to turn our gaze from the world within to the world around us, and see if the pursuits of the busy myriads of earth are calculated to produce the same conclusions as our silent communings? or in other words, will the busy scenes of life answer in the same manner the question, Is man a dreamer, and is life a dream? Where are the great, the noble, and the mighty-the rulers of the bodies and minds of men? where is the aspirant after earthly power who would bound his dominions by the last habitation of human kind? where the devotee who poured forth his adoration at the shrine of wisdom, and deemed her treasures beyond all price? where the true son of high-born genius, whose heart was the shrine of every lofty thought and ennobling emotion-who scaled fame's loftiest summit, and won a name that shall never die? As our brightest visions fade with the gray light of morning, and all our bright fancies pass away, they have all vanished, though memory and affection may still linger around the moldering urn. Shall we bring to our aid the light of history and tradition, in order to impress our minds more fully with the evanescent nature of earthly things? Let us, then, look down the ever-receding stream of time, and learn from the past the follies of the present. Where are now the lordly monarchs, the mighty conquerors, the barbaric pomp and magnificence which once surrounded the proudest and noblest of our race? Where the trophied column and the triumphal arch, with all the pageantry of human pride? Gone glimmering in the dim twilight of the past-they have almost receded from our visionlike a dimly remembered dream they have passed away. Let us attend to the sage admonitions of our own experience, and by the light of memory retrace the past of our own short existence. Far, far down in its shadowy vistas the scenes of brighter days appear, like dim shades, softened by distance, and mellowed by time, or as the half forgotten faces of those we loved. And are these the objects which we once esteemed as "the real"-which we deemed so durable that time himself would effect no change, but that the pleasant sunshine of prosperity and the chill blasts of adverse fortune would alike strengthen and secure to us their possession? But is it so? In relation to the guardians of childhood, the partakers of every youthful delight, the hours of joy, pure and unmingled, which the heart in its spring-time of innocency loved to cherish, and which we fondly hoped would ever attend our path, we have to ask the mournful question, "Where are they?" Oft in the still twilight we look for the forms which have faded, and listen for the voices which are silent. We see-we hear them not. Tears! fancy's own creation-the recollection of them falls upon our memories like the lengthening shadows of eve. The dark mantle of forgetfulness is fast closing round them; and thus fade our early dreams. Is the future bright before us? Is it a scene of promise, which seems to mark the past, and makes life appear what it has not been, and what it may not be? Have cherished pleasures lost their attendant pains, and are the roses of life now unsurrounded by thorns? In this respect surely, with the experience of the past behind us, and the future in view, the extravagances of our nightly visions are put to the blush by the dreams of the day. What are our fondest pursuits? Will they ever be realized? Do not their hues fade as we approach them, and does not all their fancied loveliness depart? Yes, like the dreamer, all around us seems to bear the resemblance of unalloyed bliss-to us all things seem but as the bright reflection of enjoyment. Pleasure inspires each drowsy pulse, and our thoughts assume the glowing hues of the scenes by which we are surrounded. These are but mockeries. The vision of life, like our dreamy revels, will soon vanish away-every earth-bound joy will fade-the spell will be broken, and man will be mingled with his kindred dust. TEMPER. THERE are certain vices of character upon which the possessor plumes himself. Hauteur of temper is one of these. Allied as it ever is with a spirit of domination, it over-masters the weak, and imposes on the timid and the young; and, gaining on to station, the world presently concedes to it the respect of high place. It may carry its imposing assumptions into all but the Christian character; but here it is at a nonplusfor who ever heard of a high humility? Christ had none of it. Thomas à Becket, Richelieu, and Wolsey, with all their devices for the sake of worldly preferment-with serge, and tonsure, and the washing of others' feetcould not either of them conceal beneath all this the cloven-foot of their own character. 368 WESTERN FOREST SCENERY. Original. "Ah! who can paint like nature!" changes of nature. The intellect and the heart are more alive than either at a warmer or a colder season, and all tends to impress upon us a deeper sense of piety, at once soothing and salutary. "These are thy changes, Cincinnati, October 23, 1843. Original. AUGUSTA. DEAR H—,—Well do I remember, in the days of our young enthusiasm, how often we have together admired the rich beauty of the Atlantic forests in autumn, and how often we wondered that nature had so few worshipers at her gorgeous shrine at this season. Here in the west the scenery is still more striking and beautiful-the trees attain to a much greater height, and all the productions of the vegetable kingdom are of a THE "CHRISTIAN PATTERN." more luxuriant and enlarged growth. My chamber THIS is the richest little book I ever read. The orighas a full view of the Kentucky hills on the opposite inal larger work I have never seen. This is Wesley's side of the Ohio. But yesterday every vine, and shrub, selection and abridgment. It depicts, and, as it were, and tree, wore one bright hue of emerald green; but imparts, in the perusal, a true knowledge of all of last night "there came a frost"-a "killing frost;" and which it treats-and it treats of the whole course of I would that you could now behold the change. I Christian experience upon a most gifted mind and know that your heart would still thrill with a sponta- character. The promises of Scripture here seem verneous gush of enthusiasm; for the Claude Loraine|ified and approved to the recipient Christian disciple; picture is before me. Had the many-hued Iris descend- whilst, by its process, the heart, the mind, the appreed amidst these sylvan haunts, her foot-prints could hard-hensions, and the soul, have all ministered to those ly have been more gorgeous. The scene is more like the spiritual thirstings which are here portrayed to the life colored effulgence of some magical deception, than any by that exceeding unction of grace which maketh elothing I have ever before witnessed in nature. Wherev- quent unto wisdom. It seemeth, too, the very expoer the eye is turned, it beholds the whole landscape nent and ensample of all secular morality, as of all beglowing with prismatic beauty. nevolence, and, following after these, of all genuine good breeding and politeness. And so judicious and excellent is it, that whilst the most fastidious taste rejoices in it, the most spiritual aspiration is satisfied with it. Yonder stands the superb crimson maple, dying "like warrior clothed in blood." A little further on, conspicuously placed, is a large, solitary tree, of the hue of the amethyst, reminding one of a stately emperor, robed in Tyrian purple, profusely intermixed as with sapphires and carbuncles, with here and there a sweet, refreshing ever-green, which the action of frost cannot destroy. They may be likened to the few pure, devoted spirits still to be found in this lower world, who, while all things around them are changing, Abdiel-like, are still "faithful, found amid the faithless." And although our substance may have been wrecked by misfortune, and perchance our hearts chilled by adversity, they still cling to us unchanged, "through good report and evil report," even unto death. Next stands a cluster of golden and silver birch, shining, as it were, with a light of their own, and looking as though they caught the sun-light, although they stand under the shadow of the hill. They beautifully typify a little band of humble, cheerful Christian pilgrims. Although clouds and darkness rest upon their pathway, yet the light of the indwelling Spirit seems to shed its effulgence upon them. And all this panorama of nature is reflected in the "river of beauty"-to-day as peaceful and placid as a silver lake, but which often, in its turbulence, would remind one of the "swelling of Jordan." But, dear H, how much do I wish that you could see all this, and feel it; for really, at this season of the year, one perceives sensibly the harmony betwixt external and internal nature-the ideas are more vivid, more imaginative, and changeful, and the heart is subject to sudden emotions both of delight and of sadness, which admirably correspond with the outward In short, Thomas â Kempis hath bequeathed to his human brethren of all succeeding ages, a book, surpassing all other books, save the Bible alone—of which, indeed, it seemeth part and parcel. And no other uninspired performance will probably ever effect more good. Yet why should we call that uninspired which was so produced, and which contains so much of perfection? C. M. Original. TO A YOUNG FRIEND. And guard thy craft from harm? May every thought and power of thine, Pursue the things above! |