Suffice it that the king of terrors was there with all his hideous retinue. His wretched victim quivered with anguish in his mighty grasp, and seemed already to be anticipating the scorpion-stings of the second death. And thus, after four or five hours of excruciating suffering, his sun went down in midnight darkness. Before we committed his remains to their rude and lonely grave, in a field too desolate for any sepulture but one like this, I made some inquiry of the faithful servant who had waited on him respecting his conversation. He told me and it is for this incident I have introduced the narrative here that on the day before his death, as he was alone with him, the sick man said to him, "What sort of a world is that to which I am going?" Will the young men before me who may be skeptically inclined do themselves the justice to ponder this utterance? Here was a man of education and ability, who had served the cause of infidelity for, perhaps, seventy years. And now, as his clay tabernacle is crumbling to ruins and the immortal spirit is about to be driven forth into another state of being, the irrepressible yearning of his nature triumphs over his towering pride, and he begs a poor African servant to tell him "what sort of a world that is to which he is going." Here, when of all the crises of his life he most needs a guide, his oracle is mute. It has conducted him to those august portals which divide the visible from the invisible world. In another moment the ponderous gates may open to receive him; and, in helpless amazement and alarm, he cries, "What is beyond ? What is beyond?" The earth-born philosophy to which he has confided his all answers not at all, or answers with a sneer. has extinguished the light with which Christianity irradiated the scene; and the dim taper it substituted for the Sun of righteousness now serves only to make the gloom of eternity more impenetrable. It Why should it be expected to do for a convert like him more than it was able to do for its great high-priest, Voltaire? When this prince of scoffers found his end approaching, all his fortitude forsook him. The gorgeous fabric of unbelief which it had cost the malignant, hypocritical freethinker fourscore years to rear, death pressed with but a single icy finger, and it shrank as Satan did when touched by the spear of Ithuriel. Sending for the Abbé Gauthier, he besought him to administer to him the rites of the church. His friends never came near him, but to witness their own shame. "Sirs," he said to them, "it is you who have brought me to my present state. Begone! I could have done without you all." He was alternately supplicating and blaspheming God, and crying out, "O Christ!" "O Jesus Christ!" And thus the wretched man expired, a terror to all around him and an immortal witness to the true value of infidelity in a dying hour. Other witnesses might be summoned, but I simply invoke these two to admonish you that, before you let go your hold of Christianity, it may be well to consider what you are to get in the place of it. For the Presbyterian Magazine. THE SONGS OF ZION. WE all love the good old hymns our fathers loved and sang before us. They ripple back to us on the tide of our earliest, sweetest memories. It seems but as yesterday since we were little children, and fell asleep in our "trundle-beds," lulled to rest by one of Zion's songs. It seems but as yesterday since we sang so at worship, running away in our zeal from the tune, and leaving the elder singers at least two words behind us. Those dear old hymns! whether sang by cradle-bed, or round the family altar, or in the midst of "the great congregation," their memory is sweet to us. And in these later years these years of thought and care-we sing them, it may be, with graver tone and graver heart, yet not a whit less lovingly. The world has her songs,-patriot-strains, which stir the loyal soul, and songs of feeling, which the true and tender-hearted cherish; and these are lovely; but Zion's songs are lovelier. Their themes are higher, their influences more sublime, stretching far beyond the stars. To the humblest "stake and cord of Zion" God giveth strength and beauty, and assigns to each its place and work. And spiritual songs have surely their mission, not merely to be sang but once or twice a week, and then locked up in church, hidden and silent between the well-thumbed covers. Ah no! their ministry is wider than this. It commences in the sanctuary, but there it does not end. Its field is the world, its fellow-labourers the word read, the word preached, and, in that day when the Lord of the reapers shall bring the harvest home, its sheaves of rejoicing will be many and beautiful. Said a devoted Christian minister,* now a saint in glory, "I am persuaded that the influence of hymns and spiritual songs is greater than we know. I have always thought they had a twofold mission,-one of conviction, another of consolation. I often think of a sweet scene in one of the old graveyards Many of the young converts were with me, and we were standing by the grave of the Rev. R, reading the inscription on the tombstone. I looked up and saw the tears coursing rapidly down his daughter's cheek as we stood there, no heart feeling as her young heart felt,-that a father lay beneath that stone. My soul yearned over her, and yet rejoiced that now a better than a fond earthly father was hers. I took out my hymn-book, and said, 'We will sing, "Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee." We sang it in hopes that soon parents and children, minister and people, would all be where no gravestones call forth tears; and when we had finished, I saw that the beautiful consoling influence of the hymn had not been lost." at And at this very moment memory brings before me the radiant eyes and dimpled face of a dear little child, who often in her baby * Rev. D. M'Kinley, D. D.; died December 7, 1855. troubles comforted herself by softly repeating portions of that fine old hymn, "Jerusalem." The lines, "Blest seats, through rude and stormy scenes I onward press to you," always seemed to soothe her. But the chapter of her life was short. Then to the hearts of those who watched the dear child die, most touchingly came back the memory of those words. In the fierce spasms of pain which distorted her sweet face and dimmed her bright eyes they read that she indeed was pressing through "rude and stormy scenes to the blest seats above." Zion's songs have not only a mission to cheer and sustain the Christian through life, but also in death, most sweet consolers, they may go with him to the very banks of Jordan. Like Bunyan's pilgrim, many a saint has "passed through the river singing." And of one whom the writer well knew-a beloved former pastor,* who but recently fell asleep in the midst of a sorrowing flock-it has not long been written, "He also found much comfort in repeating and singing hymns, such as those beginning, 'Jesus, lover of my soul;' 'I love to steal a while away;' Jesus! I my cross have taken.' Yes! side by side with the precious Bible, the voice of prayer, and all the lovely consolations of religion, come Zion's songs, angel-like, to cheer and brighten the good man's waning hours upon the shores of time. A mission of conviction God likewise bestows upon these spiritual songs, often keen and soul-subduing, for the blessing of the Spirit goes with it. Many a thoughtless heart, to whom the Bible was a sealed book, and words of counsel but as empty sounds, has been awakened by the gentle ministry of Zion's songs. A touching little instance has been given in illustration of this. Along one of the quieter streets of a town in England a gay young actress was passing. Suddenly the sound of music fell upon her ear. She stopped to listen. The music was but simple,-only a few poor women singing a hymn as they sat at their work; but she could not go on, and, as she lingered and listened, the hymn came home to her hitherto careless soul with strong convicting power. The actress went on her way, but the words went with her; they rang in her ears and trembled in her heart: 'Depth of mercy! can there be And from that hour an awakened soul sought counsel from her long-neglected Bible, and wept and prayed, and gave neither "sleep to her eyes nor slumber to her eyelids" till she had indeed found mercy in the exhaustless "depth of mercy." She left the stage, appearing upon it but once again at the urgent request of the manager; then, with a gay crowd before her, in the very midst of earth's vain pageantry, the young actress fell upon her anity. * Rev. R. W. Dunlap; died February, 1856. knees, and, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, sang the words "Depth of mercy! can there be * * * * The amusement for that evening was over. Soon the wondering audience dispersed. They went away, many to mock and laugh at the weeping singer, some to muse and tremble. Yes! to the hearts of many now safe within the fold, "versified truth" has come home as saving truth. Already what a host of those we loved, and who sang with us the songs of the church. militant, have crossed the stream and entered the church triumphant, there to join in the exulting anthems of praise! And, as in the quiet eventide we sit and sing the hymns they loved, their faces come back to us, their gentle presence seems to overshadow us. This hymn-we learned it from a mother who is walking now the streets of the "New Jerusalem;" and that a sister loved and sang it often with us, but she is far away to-night; a sweeter strain has been put within her mouth, and her fellow-choristers are angels and the spirits of the "just made perfect." And we remember, with unutterable tenderness, one who loved these songs of Zion,* and sang them as he toiled in "the vineyard" or as he rested by the fireside; one who, following in the Master's steps, "went about doing good," whose heart was full of love, whose actions beautiful,a faithful minister of Christ,-a spiritual father, indeed, to many,a child of the covenant. It seems but a little while since, and he was with us, singing these very hymns; and now he has gone-gone to join in the "new song," to mingle with Christ's ransomed children in the courts of Heaven. * * "Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight." COLUMBIA, Pa. * L. M. L. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY. We give to our readers, by request, this celebrated hymn by COLERidge. Beside the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and, within a few paces of the glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue." HAST thou a charm to stay the Morning Star In his course? So long he seems to pause The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! As with a wedge! But when I look again O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody,- Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, And who commanded-and the silence came- Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven |