During the burning of the Richmond theatre, in 1811, a gentleman who had nobly endangered his own life in endeavoring to rescue others from the jaws of the devouring flames, was seen to leap from one of the topmost windows to the ground. So severe was the fall, he was unable to move an inch. Above him stood the tottering wall, ready to fall and crush him to death. He looked around him; not a soul was near. From the depths of his agony, he cried out, “Will nobody save me?” The cry fell on the ear of a sturdy negro, who rushed to him, and bore him away in his strong and brawny arms to a place of safety.
Such is the case with the sinner. When he finds that of himself he can do nothing, that God’s angry vengeance is tottering above his head, that no one is near to save him, then it is that he cries, “Will nobody save me?” The cry comes to the waiting ear of his blessed Saviour, and He bears him away in His arms of love to His Father’s bosom.
A SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY.
There is something to me peculiarly pleasant in a country Sabbath. No rattle of carts, no bustle of crowds, no hum of voices, disturb the calm and holy quietude of the hallowed day. Cattle are quietly grazing on grassy meadows, or sleeping in the refreshing shade; the irregular tinkle of the sheep-bell falls sweetly on the ear; the plough stands motionless in the unfinished furrow; the little songster trills from some swinging bough its morning song. The household dog seems to know it is a day of peaceful rest. His voice is hushed in silence. The clouds glide calmly across the heavens; the rays of the Sabbath sun rest sweetly on the face of nature. A dreamy, delightful serenity hovers over all the land. The incense of prayer rises from many a family altar, and the accents of praise tremble on many a lip.
Let us go up to the house of God. How different from our city churches! Perhaps it is some venerable building whose foundation was laid by men to whom the faces and forms of a Samuel Davies, or William Wilson, were familiar; perhaps remains of the foundation erected for the protection of God’s people against savage cruelty still linger around it; perhaps marks of the Indian’s bullet have not yet been effaced from its rude stone walls. Let us cross its threshold. No stained glass softens the rays of light, no cushioned pew invites you to a seat, no costly pulpit meets your eye; no beautiful fresco will draw your attention from the minister or the word of God. Every thing is as plain, as practical, as solid, as the men who first worshipped beneath its roof, but who now sleep beneath the waving grass of the adjoining cemetery.
One by one the congregation begin to enter and take their seats. They reverently bow their heads and seek the aid of God’s Spirit to enable them rightly to understand and apply the truths to which they shall listen. Many and varied are the personages which draw the attention. One is a venerable elder: time has not dealt gently with him; his brow is furrowed, his cheek wrinkled, and he totters feebly to his seat beneath the weight of many years, and a life of laborious toil. Though the fires of life are well nigh gone out, hope burns brightly in his heart, and beams forth from his eye. The assurance that his Redeemer liveth, is the rod and staff on which he leans for support. Another is a young man. His step is firm, his frame robust. He has not seen the snows of more than twenty winters. His countenance wears a thoughtful, solemn air. He is thinking of God, of heaven, of eternity. He has not come to the house of God because it is his custom, to see a friend, or to while away an hour. His is a nobler object. It is to worship God, to obtain instruction which shall lead his steps in the ways of righteousness, the paths of peace. At his side sits his mother—“he is the only son of his mother, and she a widow.”
But another form, of dignified, yet gentle, demeanor, enters the door. The placid features of his face, the mildness of his eye, point him out as “the man of God.” His appearance is such as at once to attract the attention. He is very tall, perhaps above six feet. His person is quite spare. He is slightly bowed with age, and as he feebly walks down the aisle, you almost involuntarily rise from your seat as if to do him reverence. He has long been a laborer in his Master’s vineyard. For more than half a century has he proclaimed the glad tidings of salvation from the same pulpit which he now occupies. His mind easily reverts to the time when the whistle of the red man’s bullet was liable at any moment to disturb the worship of God’s people; when the hardy pioneers of Christ and His kingdom came up to the house of God with muskets lashed to their backs. The thriving village in which he now resides was then almost a wilderness; cattle grazed, and corn grew in the fertile valleys from which now rises the populous city. The wild Alleghanies, then the home of the beasts of the forest, now daily echo with the rattle of the stage coach; and the shrill whistle of the locomotive has made the panther and the bear to seek shelter in the more distant West. He is one of a very few of the links which bind the Virginia of the present with the Virginia of fifty years ago. His few remaining silver locks are combed back from a forehead of fine proportions. He enters the sacred desk; bows his head and supplicates the assistance of God’s Spirit. He rises; “Let us worship God,” falls tremblingly from his lips, and the whole congregation rise to their feet. With earnestness, with simplicity, he invokes the presence of Him with whom is the residue of the Spirit. He then slowly turns to that beautiful old hymn, so dear to God’s people—
“Whilst Thee I seek protecting power!