The weekly pioneer and Democrat. [volume], December 09, 1859, Image 1

About The weekly pioneer and Democrat. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn. Territory) 1855-1865

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VOL. XI—NO. 34.
“ Haste not!—rest not!” Calmly wait;
Meekly bear the storms of fate;
Duty be thy polar guide;
Do the right, what’er betide !
Haste not!—rest not! Conflicts past,
God shall crown thy work at last!—Goethe
The telegraph conveys the sad news that
Washington Irving, the greatest prose
writer, perhaps, that this country ever pro-
duced, and who was conceded to be as great
as the most eminent of other lasds, died on
Monday night at Irvington. No particu-
lars are given. The Chicago limes pre
sents the following sketch of the life of this
charming author and good man :
Washington Irving was born in the city
of New York, April 3, 1783, in which
place his father, William Irving, had been
settled as a merchant some twenty years.
After receiving an ordinary school educa
-1 tion, at the age of sixteen, he commenced
the study of law. Three years later he con
tributed, under the signature of Jonathan
Oldstyle, a series of letters to the Morning
Chronicle , a newspaper of which his brother,
| Peter Irving, was editor. These juvenile
essays attracted much notice at the time,
were extensively copied by other journals,
and in 1823 or 1824 were collected and
published without the sanction of the
author. In 1804, in consequence of ill
health, he sailed for Bordeaux on a visit to
Earope, and traveled through the south of
France and Nice, where he took a felucca
to Genoa, in which city lie remained some
two months. He then went by sea to
Sicily, made the tour of the island, crossed
from Palermo to Naples, passed through
Italy, meeting Allston at Rome, who
strongly recommended his devoting himself
to art, thence over the St. Gothard, through
Switzerland to Paris, where he remained
several months. He theu went to Holland,
whence he embarked for England, where he
spent part of the autumn, and returned to
New York in March, 1806, completely re
stored to health. He again resumed the
study of the law, and wa3 admitted to the
bar in November of that year, but never
practised. Shortly after he took the chief
part in “ Salmagundi,” the first number of
which appeared in January, 1807, and the
last in January, 1808. In December, the
. following year, lie published his “ Knicker
bocker’s History of New York.” In 1810,
two of his brothers, who were engaged in
commercial btsiness, oue being at the head
j of the establishment in this city, and the
other in Liverpool, gave him an interest in
the concern, with the understanding that he
, was not to enterJnto the duties and details of
the business, but pursue his literary avoca
tions. During the war with Great Britain,
in 1813-T4, he edited the “ Analectic
Magazine,” and in the fall of the latter year,
joined the military staff of the Governor of
the State of New York, as aid-de-camp and
military secretary, with the title of Colonel.
On the close of the war, May, 1815, he
embarked for Liverpool with the intention
of making a second tour of Europe, but was
prevented by the sudden and great reverses
which followed at the return of peace, over
whelming, after a struggle of two or three
j years, in which Mr. Irving took an active part
to avert the catastrophe, the house in which
his brothers had given him an interest, and
involving him in its ruin. In 1818, he deter
mined to try his pen as a means of support,
and commenced the papers of the “ Sketch
; Book,” which were transmitted piecemeal
from London, where he resided, to New
, York for publication. Three or four num
bers were thus published, when, finding that
they attracted notice in England, he had
them published in a volume, February, 1820,
by Mr. John Miller; but he failing shortly
after, the work was transferred to Mr. Mur
i ray, with a second volume, published in Ju
ly of that year. Mr. Murray had bought
the copyright, for £2OO, but its success far
surpassing his expectations, he sent Mr.
Irving, of his own accord, first £IOO, and
the sale still increasing, an additional £IOO.
After a residence of five years in England,
Mr. Irving removed to Paris in August 1820
and remained there till July of the following
year, when he returned to England and
published his “ Bracebridge Hall ” in Lon
don and New York, in May, 1822. The
following winter he passed in Dresden, re
turned to Paris in 1823, and crossed to
London in May, 1824, to publish his “ Tales
of a Traveller,” which appeared in' August
of that year in two volumes, and in Tour
parts in New York. In August, he re
turned to Paris, and in the autumn of 1825,
2
HASTE NOT—REST NOT.
“ Without haste! without rest!”
Bind the motto to thy breast!
Bear it with thee as a spell;
Storm or sunshine, guard it well:
Heed not flowers that round thee bloom
Bear it onward to the tomb !
Haste not—let no thoughtless deed
Mar fore’er the spirit’s speed :
Ponder well and know the right,
Onward then with all thy might;
Haste not—years can ne’er atone
For one reckless action done !
Rest not!—life is sweeping by,
Go and dare before you die ;
Something mighty and sublime
Leave behind to conquer time;
Glorious ’tis to live for aye
When these forms have passed away
Dtath of Washington Irving.
visited the South of France, spending part
lif the winter in Bordeaux. In February,
1826, he left that city for Madrid, where he
remained two years. Here he wrote the
ofe of “ Columbus,” which appeared in
1828. In the spring of 1828, he left Mad
rid on a tour to the south of Spain, visiting
Granada and main points mentioned in he
“ Chronicles of the Conquest of Granada,
by Fray Agapida," of which he made a
rough sketch. This he, prepared for the
press at Seville, and transmitted to London
and New York for publication ; it appeared
in 1829. In the spring of this year he
again visited Granada, and resided some
three months in the Alhambra, where he
collected materials for the work published
under that name in 1832.
In July he went to England, being ap
pointed secretary of legation to the Ameri
can embassy in London, which office he held
until the return of Mr. McLane in 1881,
when, after remaining a few months as
charge, he resigned, on the arrival of Mr.
Yan Buren. While in England, in 1830.
Mr. Irving received one of the fifty-guinea
gold medals,. provided by George IV., for
eminence in historical compassion, the other
was awarded to Mr. Hallam, the historian.
In 1831, the University of Oxford, England,
conferred on Mr. Irving the degree of LL.
D. In the spring of 1832, he returned to
New York, after an absence of seventeen
years. His return was greeted on all hands
with the warmest enthusiasm; a public
dinner was given to him, at which Chancel
lor Kent presided ; and similar testimonials
were offered in other cities, but which he
declined. In the summer of this year he
accompanied Mr. Ellsworth, one of the
commissioners for removing the Indian
tribes west of the Mississippi, and whom he
had met on a tour to the west, on his expe
dition. The most interesting portion of this
journey has appeared in the “ Tour on the
Prairies,” published in 1835. This was
followed in the same year by “Abbotsford
and Newstead Abbey,” and “ Legends of
the Conquest of Spain.” In 1836 he pub
lished “ Astoria,” and in the following year
he published the “ Adventures of Captain
Bonneville.” In 1839 he entered into an
engagement which lasted two years with the
proprietors of the “ Knickerbocker Maga
zine ” to furnish monthly articles for that
periodical. In February, 1842, he received
unsolicited the appointment of minister to
Spain. He left for Madrid on the 10th of
April of that year. His official duties ter
minating in the summer of 1846, he returned
to this conntry, and, in 1848, commenced
the publication of a revised edition of his
works which bad long been out of print.
In 1849 he published “ Oliver Goldsmith,
a Biography,” and “ Mahomet and his Suc
cessors,” 1849-’SO. His last work was a
Life of Washington. Mr. Irving was essen
tially the man of his works, genial, warm
hearted, and benevolent. His country seat
was “ Sunnyside,” on the banks of the Hud
son, twenty-five miles from the city of New
York, where he died.
We make the following extracts from a
letter of Theodore Tilton’s to the Inde
pendent for this week, describing a visit he
made to Washington Irving. They will
be read with extreme interest:
SUNNYBIDE.
The morning had been rainy, and the
afternoon showed only a few momentary
openings of clear sky ; so that I saw Sunny
side without the sun. But under the heavy
clouds there was something awe-inspiring in
the sombre view of those grand hills with
their many colored forests, and of Hendrik
Hudson’s ancient river still Sowing at the
feet of the ancient palisades.
The mansion of Sunnyside has been stand
ing for twenty-three years ; but when first
its sharp angled roof wedged its way up
among the branches of the old froods, the
region was far more a solitude than now ;
for at that time our busy author had
secluded himself from almost everybody but
one near neighbor; while he has since un
wittingly gathered around him a little com
munity of New York merchants, whose
elegant country seats, opening into each
other by mutual intertwining roads, form
what looks like one vast and free estate,
called on the time tables of the railroad by
the honorary name of Irvington.
mr. irving’s appearance.
Mr. IrviDg is not so old looking as one
would expect who knew his age. I fancied
him as in the winter of life; I found him
only in its Indian summer. He came down
stairs, and walked through the hall into the
back parlor, with a firm and lively step that
might well have made one doubt whether he
had truly attained his seventy-seventh year 1
He waß suffering from asthma, and was
muffled against the damp air with a Scotch
shawl, wrapped like a loose scarf around his
neck; but as he took his seat in the old
arm-chair, and, despite his hoarseness and
troubled chest, began an unexpectedly viva
cious conversation, he made me almost
forget that I was the gnest of an old man
long past his “three score years and ten.”
WHAT HE THINKS OF HIS WORKS.
Bat what should one talk about who had
only half an hour with Washington Irving ?
I ventured the question,
“ Now that you have laid aside your pen,
which of your books do you look back upon
with most pleasure ?
SAINT PAUL, FRIDAY DECEMBER, 9, 1859.
He immediately replied, “I scarcely look
with full satisfaction upon any ; for they do
not seem what they might have been; I
often wish that I could have twenty years
more, to take them down from the shelf, one
by one, and write them over.”
HIS HABITS OP LITERARY LABOR
He spoke of his daily habits of writing,
before he had made the resolution to write
no more. His usual hours of literary work
were from morning to noon. But, although
he had generally found his mind most vigor
ons in the early part of the day, he had al
ways been subjected to moods and caprices,
and could never tell, when he took up the
pen, how many hours would pass before he
would lay it down.
“ But,” said he, “ these captious periods,
of the heat and glow of composition, have
been the happiest hours of my life. I have
never found in anything outside of the four
walls of my study, any enjoyment equal to
sitting at my writing-desk with a clean
page, a new theme, and a mind awake.”
His literary employments, he remarked,
had always been more like entertainments
than tasks.
“Some writers,” says he, “appear to
have been independent of moods. Sir
Walter Scott, for instance, had great power
of writing, and could work almost at any
time ; so could Crabbe—but seldom wrote
well. I remember,” said he, “ taking break
fast one morning with Rogers, Moore and
Crabbe ; the conversation turned on ByroD’s
poetic moods ; Crabbe said that however
it might be with Lord Byron, as for himself,
he could write as well at one time as at an
other. But,” said Irving with a twinkle of
humor at recalling the incident, “ Crabbe
has written a great deal that no body can
read! ”
He mentioned that while living in Paris,
he went a long period without being able to
write; “ I sat down repeatedly,” said he,
“with pen and ink, but could invent nothing
worth putting on paper* At length, I told
my friend Tom Moore, who dropped in one
morning, that now, after long waiting, I
had the mood, and would keep it, and would
work it out as long as it would last, until I
bad wrung my brain cry. So I began to
write shortly after breakfast; and continued,
without noticing how the time was passing,
until Moore came in again at four in the
afternoon—when I had completely covered
the table with freshly written sheets. I kept
the mood almost without interruption tor
six weeks.”
I asked which of his books was the re
sult of this frenzy ; he replied, “ Bracebridge
Hall.”
None of your works,” I remarked, “are
more charming than the Biography of Gold
smith.”
“Yet that was written,” said he,
“ even more rapidly than the other.”
He then added :
“ When I have been engaged on a con
tinuous work, I have often been obliged to
rise in the middle of the night, light my
lamp, and write an hour or two,to relieve my
mind ; and now that I write no more, I am
sometimes compelled to get up in the same
way to read.” ,
Sometimes, also, as the last Idlewild let
ter mentions, he gets up to shave!
“When I was in Spain,”he remarked,
“ searching the old chronicles, and engaged
on the Life of Columbus, I* often wrote
fourteen or fifteen hours out of the twenty
four.”
He said that whenever he had forced his
mind unwilling to work, the product was
worthless; and he invariably threw it away
and began again; “for,” as he obeerved
“an essay or chapter that has been ham
mered out, is seldom good for anything. An
author's right time to work is when his
mind is aglow; when his imagination is
kindled—these are precious moments; let
him wait until they come, but when they,
have come, let him make the most of them.”
HIS LAST WORK.
I referred to hfe last and greatest work,
the Life ot Washington, and asked if he felt,
on finishing it, any such sensation as Gibbon
is said to have experienced over the last
Bheet of the Decline and Fall. He replied
that the whole work had eogrossed his mind
to such a degree, that, before he was aware,
he had written himself into feebleness of
health ; that he feared, in the midst of his
labors, that it would break him down be
fore he coaid end it; that when at laßt the
final pages were written, he gave the manu
script to his nephew to be conducted through
the press, and threw himself back on his red
cushioned lounge with an indescribable feel
ing of relief! He added that the great fa
tigue of mind, throughout the whole task,
had resulted from the care and pains re
quired in the construction and arrangement
of material, and not in the mere literary
composition of the successive chapters.
NO HORE BOOKS.
On the parlor wall hong the engraving of
Faed’s picture of “Scott and his Contempo
raries,” I alluded to it as presenting a group
of his former friends.
“ Yes,” said, “I knew every mao of them
but three: and now they are all gone!”
“ Are Hie portraits good ?” 1 enquired.
“ Scott’s head,” he replied, “is well drawn,
though the expression lacks something of
Scott’s pforoe; Campbell’s is tolerable;
Lockhart’s is the worst. Lockhart,” said
he, “was a man of very delicate organiza-
T ~
tion, but he had a more manly look than in
the picture.”
“ You should write one more book,” I
hinted.
“ What is that ?”
“ Your reminiscences of those literary
friends.”
“ Ah,” he exclaimed, “it is too late now !
I shall never take the pen again ; I have so
entirely given up writing that even my best
friend’s letters lie.unanswered. I must have
rest. No more books now.”
A HAPPY OLD BACHELOR.
He referred to the visit of the week be
fore, from Mr. Willis, whose letter he has
j'ust been reading in the Home Journal.
“ I am most glad,” said he, “ that Mr.
Willis remembered my nieces ; they are my
housekeepers and nurses; they take such
good care of me that really I am the most
fortunate old bachelor in the world ! Yes,”
he repeated with a merry emphasis, “ the
most fortunate old bachelor in all the
world! ”
It was delightful to witness the animation
of his manner, and the heartiness of his
gratitude, as he continued to relate how
they supplied all his wants —gave him his
medicine at the right time, without troub
ling him to look at the clock for himself —
called him down to breakfast—cloaked and
shawled him for his morning ride—brought
him his hat for his fine weather walks—and
in every possible way humored him in every
possible whim!
“ I call them sometimes my nieces,” he
said, “but oftener my daughters! ”
HIS LOVE OP CHILDREN, AND THEIRS OP HIM
As I rose to go, he brought from a cor
ner of the room a photograph of a little
girl, exhibiting it with great enthusiasm.
It was a gift from a little child, who had
come to see him every day during his sick
ness. The picture was accompanied with a
note printed in large letters with a lead
pencil, by the little correspondent, who said
she was too young to write. He spoke with
great vivacity of his childish visitor.
“ Children,” said the old man, “ are great
pets.; lam very fond of the little creatures.”
REJUVENATED.
As I came away, the old gentleman bun
dled his shawl about him, and stood a few
moments on the steps. A momentary burst
of sunshine fell on him through the break
ing clouds. In that full light he looked
still less like an old man than in the dark
parlor by the shaded window. His form
was slightly bent, but the humor of the
early portraits was still lingering in his face.
He was the same genial, generous, merry
eyed man at seventy-seven that Jarvis had
painted him nearly fifty years before.
A Picture.
This morning, as I rode through the
country, I saw a young mother (her child
her only companion) sitting, sewing at her
cottage’ door. I was going to say it was
quite an English scene, as if such a scene
was not as universal as life itself. A curly
headed urchin, just master of its plump,
round legs, in its play, run to hide itself
from its mother round the corner of the
house. There it stood, both arms extended,
flattening itself against the wall, in the
bright sunshine, and laughing aloud at the
idea of being out of sight. The pleased
mother pretended not to have seen the fu
gitive, pretended not to hear the laugh which
told her he was safe and close at hand. The
child had itself only to be discovered. It
was playing at being lost—say rather at
being found. Soon the mother would give
chase, and snatch the little captive in her
arms. What a shower of kisses was In
store —for both I for both!
Oh, happy time for mother and for child.
On other occasions, as I have passed by this
cottage, the mother has been sitting at the
open window, and the child amusing itself,
as if alone, in the garden—absorbed with
no mortal can say what—busy at the same
structure ot' strange device: dirt, sticks,
straws, mingled together for some architec
tural purpose, hidden from all eyes but his
own. That cottage garden has often led
hack my thoughts to my own childhood and
my own early home.
I, who have so short a time to live, feel
as old men feel. I find myself, for hours
together, traveling through a retrospect of
the past I can now understand and forgive
the garrulity of old age, which dwells for
ever on scenes of boyhood and ot youth.
Memory, and not hope, has become the star
of life. Have patience with the old man:
he must pause, and turn and look behind ;
there lice for him the “happy valley,’’ if any
where on earth. When we have bid fare
well to all our joys, there is yet another
parting—almost as sad—our farewell to the
memory of them. What hosts of long
forgotten things rush from their hiding pla
ces to look at me once more, and for the last
time.— Thomdale,
A couple of Kentuckians lately visited
Boston, and sat down to dine at the Reviere
House. Cod-fish balls were sarved at the
table, and one of tjie Kentuckians taking
them for “corn-dodgeos,” proceeded to
break one in two. Getting the scent of it,
he turned to his partner, remarking in the
most solemn manner, “ Something dead in
that, Tom 1”
A Quack Doctor’s Career.
SENTENCE OP DR. W. H. M. HOWARD, OP BRAD
FORD, VERMONT.
Prom the BoUon Traveler, November 27th.
This notorious individual, who has so long
managed to elude justice, has at length met
his reward, he having been sentenced to two
years imprisonment in the State Prison at
Windsor, on Saturday last. Howard, it will
be remembered, was convicted some months
since, at Chelsea, of having procured abor
tion ; the case was a most atrocious one.
He appealed to the Superior Court, but it
refused him a new trial. Howard’s real
name is Drew, and though he asserts himself
an Englishman, is a native of Limerick,
Ireland. On establishing himself at Thet
ford, Vermont, a few years since, he gave
out that he was a surgeon in the British
army, and that he had attended Queen Vic
toria by special request; but, as some know
ing ones discovered that he could neither
read or write, that story went for nothing.
He set up a dashing team, and soon got,
by sheer brass, the name of a “great doctor.”
But an action for malpractice shook faith in
him, and he had to pay $1,200 damages.
While in full blast he was recognizad at
Bradford as a man who, under the name of
Houghton, had, by reason of false pretences,
swindled the Burlington Bank out of more
than a thousand dollars; this he paid to es
cape punishment. He was next arrested
for a rape on a patient, the wife of a student
of Dartmouth College. Tbe death of his
victim let him out of this scrape for a time ;
but her dying declaration still hangs over
him. While at Bradford he attended a man
who died, and whose widow he married,
taking possession of all her property which
he got hold of; she died last summer, broken
hearted.
He was next arrested on the charge lor
wLich he has been convicted. At his house
near Bradford, there died, last summer, three
young females, in the course of a few weeks.
All had sought his aid to hide their shame.
Suspicion was excited and one of the bodies
examined. He was committed, but released
on bail. He dashed about in great style,
and felt confident that bis luck would carry
him through, but the Supreme Court of
Montpelier decided his fate, and for two
years at least, this fellow will be prevented
from practice g on the credulity of the pub
lic. Howard left Montpelier for Windsor
.on Tuesday strongly guarded.
Brown during the Attack upon the
Armory.
From th<% Louisville Journal.
A distinguished citizen of Indiana, pro
bably Gov. Willard, who attended the late
trialsat Charlestown, Va., had an interview,
while there, with Mr. Washington, who was
one of Old Brown’s prisoners in the United
States Armory. Mr. Washington freely
admits that the prisoners were treated with
gentleness and humanity, yet he came to the
conclusion, that in some respects Old Brown
is a terrible ruffian at heart.
According to Mr. Washington’s state
ment, Old Brown, during the investment of
the Armory and the attack upon it by the
troops, was the busiest and most vigilant of
ail the rebels in watching through loop
holes and crevices for opportunities to kill
those outside. Whilst be was watching,
rifle in hand, one of his own was shot thro’
the body and fell within four or five feet of
him. The young man groaned and cried
aloud in his agony, begging that some one
of his comrades would kill him at once.
Thereupon, Old Brown tnrned for a few
moments au unmoved, an unsympatbiziDg
glance upon his expiring son, sternly, bade
him be silent and die like a man, and then
instantly turned his attention* back to his
own work of killing. A short time after
wards bis other son was shot down almost
exactly like the first, with loud moans, called
upon a comrade for a revolver, that he might
kill himself. And Old Brown, turning upon
him as he had tnrned npon the other broth
er, rebuked him for his noise, without a word
or a look of sympathy or regret, and straight
way betook himself again to the business of
murder. And all the while, standing with
his two dying sons behind him, and holding
his rifle pointed in front, be was dramming
at intervals npoo the barrel of his weapon
of dea'h with the fingers of his left hand,as
calmly and with as much apparent unconcern
as if he had been engaged in some kind of
amnsement.
There can be no doubt of Qld Brown’s
coolness and untamable courage, but such
qualities cannot compensate for the absence
of the ordinary sensibilities of hnman na
ture. It is not enough that be can look
npon his own death as immovably as he
could contemplate the death and hear the
death groans of his children.
“Iwr Had a Afcuarrcl.”
Such is the remark of England’ s greate
general, and the following story may instruct
and profit every person. At a very late
period of the life of the Duke of Wellington
he wrote to a friend thus :
“I am not in the habit of deciding upon
such matters hastily or in anger, and as a
proof of this, that I rover bad a quarrel
with any man in my life t ”
Let any one consider the long and varied
military career of the iron Doke; the innu
merable dames of persons with whom ho
was brought in contact; his constant
vexations in the Peninsula, with red-tapeism
NEW SERIES-NO. 207.
at home, and Spanish pride and suspicion
abroad, his difficulties in political life ; the
habits and character of the army, especially
at that period, and then let him repress, if
he can, his wonder at this great captain’s
beiDg able, when quite over fifty years of
age, to make such a broad declaration as to
his past life It is very evident that he
who so well commanded others, began by
commanding himself; that the coolness,
self-possession and sharpness of view, which
was perhaps his most salient traits in a
campaign, were, in part at least, the fruit
of a constant and careful discipline of his
own feelings under ordinary circumstances.
“Never had a quarrel in all my life ?”
How many civilians, how many Chris
tians—aye! how many clergymeu—can say
the same thing ? Yet it is certainly possi
ble to pass through life without quarrels,
seeing Hie old proverb holds good, that it
requires two to consummate any such un
pleasant business. A. may quarrel with B.
This is a misfortune, which possibly A.
may in no way be able to avoid. A man
may pick a quarrel for ulterior purposes, or
he may be insolent or offensive without
knowing it, or he may take a perverse de
light in wounding other people’s feelings.
But in any case it depends on B. alone
whether there is to be a mutual quarrel.
If, like Wellington, he avoids acting in anger
or haste—always the two great fermenters
of trouble—he will always invariably come
to despise the affront, if intended, or to
overlook it if not. At all events he will not
“quarrel.” He may give the offender a wide
berth in future, be may shun association
with him, but he will have no altercation,
and he will nurse no grudge. If required
to make a personal statement, oral or writ
ten, he will do it with judicial calmness and
coolness.
“Old Hundred.’?
“ If it be true that Luther composed that
tune, and if the worship of immortals is
carried on the wings of angels, how often
has he heard the declaration, ‘They are
siqging ‘Old Hundred now.'
The solemn strain carries us back to the
times of the reformers—Luther and his de
voted band. He, doubtless, was the first to
strike the grand old chords in the public
sanctuary of his Germany. From his own
stentorian lungs they rolled, vibrating not
through vaulted cathedral roof) but along a
grander arch—the eternal heavens. He
wrought into each note his own sublime
faith, and stamped it with that faith’s im
mortality. Hence it cannot die 1 Neither
men nor angels will let it pass into oblivion.
“ Can you find a tomb in the lands where
sealed lips are, that have not sung that tune?
If they were gray old men, they had heard
or sung ‘Old Hundred.’ If they were babes,
they smiled as their mothers rocked them to
sleep, singing ‘Old Hundred.’ Sinner and
saint have joined with the endless congrega
tion where it has, and without the pealing
organ, sounded on sacred air. The dear
little children, looking with wondering eyes
on this strange world, have lisped it. The
sweet young girl whose tombstone told of
sixteen summers, she whose pure and inno
cent face haunted you with its mild beauty,
loved ‘Old Hundred,’ and as she sung it,
closed her eyes and seemed communing with
the augels who were so soon to chain her.
He whose manhood was devoted to the ser
vice of his God, and who, with faltering
steps, ascended the pulpit stairs with white
hand placed over his laboring breast, loved
‘ Old Hundred.’ And though sometimes
his lips only moved, away down in his heart,
so soon to cease its throbs, the holy melody
was sounding. The dear white-headed
father, with his tremulous voice, how he
loved ‘Old Hundred.’ Do you see him now,
sitting in the venerable arm chair, his arms
crossed over the top of his cane, his silvery
locks floating off from his hollow temples,
and a tear, perchance, stealing down his
furrowed cheeks, as the noble strains ring
out ? Do you hear that thin, quivering, fal
tering sound now bursting forth, now listen
ed for, almost in vain? If you' do not, we
do; and from such lips, hallowed by four
score years’ service in the Master’s cause,
•Old Hundred ’ sounds indeed a sacred mel
ody.
“ You may fill your churches with choirs,
with Sa*:bath prima donnas, whose daring
notes emulate the steeple, and cost almost as
much, but give us the spirit-stirring tones
of ‘ Old Hundred,’ sung by young and old
together. Martyrs have hallowed it; it has
gone up from the dying beds of the saints.
The old churches, where generation after
generation has worshipped, and where many
scores of the dear aeaA have been carried,
and laid before the altar where they gave
themselves to God, seem to breathe of ‘ Old
Hundred ’ from vestibule to tower-top —the
very air is haunted with its spirit.
“ Think, for a moment, of the assembled
company who have, at different times and in
different places, joined in the familiar tune ]
Throng upon throng—the stern, the timid >
the gentle, the brave, the beautiful—theu’
rapt faces all beaming with the inspiration
of the heavenly sounds 1
“ Qld Hundred 1” king of the sacred band
of ancient airs. Never shall our ears grow
weary of hearing, or our tongues of singing
thee? And when we get to Heaven, who
knows but what the first triumphal strain
that welcomes ns may be—
“ Be thou, O God* exalted high.”