A SABBATH MORNING AT FAIRMOUNT.
Having spent a few hours in meditating on the great facts of the Christian faith, an exercise in which I have for many years been in the habit of engaging on a Saturday evening, I retired to rest, and soon fell asleep; and in my sleep I had a dream. I dreamt that, under a serene sky, I was passing through a beautiful vale, belted on each side by a plantation of gigantic trees; and, on reaching the end of it, I saw a broad gravel walk, running along the margin of a rapid river; then turning off rather abruptly under the shade of a high mountain, winding itself gradually into a grove of large and beauteous shrubs, whose foliage surpassed, in diversified forms and variegated colours, anything of the kind I had ever seen. The soft breezes were laden with the most delicious odours of flowers; and the air vibrated with the music of its feathered tribes. I often paused; and while listening to the soft sounds of melody, and while inhaling the sweet fragrance, I felt an unusual elevation of spirit, a calm ecstasy of emotion. In about half an hour I came to a spot which commanded a bold view of an extensive landscape; but the most attractive object in this scene of beauty and of grandeur was a church, imbedded in an inclosure of evergreens. I now quickened my pace. As I advanced near it I heard the harmony of sacred song; but it soon died away into profound silence. The devotional part of the service was over before I entered the church, and the minister had named his text; but, from the tenor of his discourse, I judged it was "A Prince and a Saviour." The following is the only paragraph which was distinct and fresh upon my memory when I awoke, and it was delivered with an impressiveness of manner and intonation which kept the entire congregation in breathless silence:—
"He walked through the province of human misery and crime, a mysterious being, doing what He pleased, without ostentation and with perfect ease. He gave sight to the blind, and hearing to the deaf; disease, in its multifarious forms of infliction, withdrew when He issued the command; the dead arose to do Him homage; the raging elements, when His disciples were in danger, hushed to a calm at His bidding; and the dumb became vocal in His praise. These were the triumphs of benevolence over the miseries of man, requiring, on His part, no privations or suffering to effect them. Shift the scene of His history, and what a sight do we behold! He is poor, homeless, and unpitied; often weary in His great exertions of beneficence; and sometimes having to endure the extreme of hunger and of thirst. His enemies revile Him as a fanatic; denounce Him as an impostor and maniac; and accuse Him of treason and blasphemy; and secretly conspire to put Him to death. The quietude of Gethsemane, where He was pleading with heaven in behalf of the people, is broken by the foot-treads of His betrayer, stepping in advance of an armed force; in the council-chamber of Caiaphas he is maligned and insulted; and when arraigned at Pilate's tribunal, He is scourged and condemned; and at Calvary they crucify Him between two malefactors. There this illustrious Prince bleeds, and there He dies; for what? and for whom?" The pathetic tones in which this sentence was uttered—there He bleeds, and there He dies; for what? and for whom?—bathed the whole audience in tears; there was a sudden pause, and its stillness awoke me.
"This," I said, as I came back to wakeful consciousness, "is a dream, which has called up day thoughts in the visions of the night; painting on the fancy, in vivid colours, the meditations of the heart. A dream! strange phenomenon! the mysterious action of the mysterious spirit, ever active, with or without the auxiliary aid of the senses; but the facts of this dream are the realities of absolute truth—the most wonderful and important realities within the compass of universal knowledge. I can reply to the questions of the dream in my wakeful hour. He bleeds; for what? The iniquities of the people. He dies; for whom? He gave His life a ransom for the redemption and salvation of man. Wondrous event!"
On looking out of my bedroom window, I saw the sun rising in his splendour; the winds were at rest, no clouds veiled the heavens in gloom. "It is," I involuntarily exclaimed, "a delightful Sabbath morning." Seeing Hervey's Meditations on my dressing-table, I took it, and read his "Descant upon Creation," closing with the following soul-inspiring paragraph:—
"Most of all, ye ministers of the sanctuary, heralds commissioned from above, lift every one his voice like a trumpet, and loudly proclaim the Redeemer. Get ye up, ye ambassadors of peace, get ye up into the high mountains, and spread far and wide the honours of the Lamb that was slain, but is alive for evermore. Teach every sacred roof to resound with His fame, and every human heart to glow with His love. Declare, as far as the force of words will go, declare the inexhaustible fulness of that great atonement, whose merits are commensurate with the glories of the Divinity. Tell the sinful wretch what pity yearns at Immanuel's breast; what blood He has spilt, what agonies He has endured, what wonders He has wrought for the salvation of His enemies. Invite the indigent to become rich; entreat the guilty to accept of pardon; because with the crucified Jesus is plenteous redemption and all-sufficiency to save. While you, placed in conspicuous stations, proclaim the joyful sound, may I, as I steal through the vale of humble life, catch the pleasing accents! For me the Author of all blessings became a curse; for me His bones were dislocated, and His flesh was torn. He hung with streaming veins and an agonizing soul on the cross for me. O! may I, in my little sphere, and amidst the scanty circle of my acquaintance, at least whisper these glad transporting tidings!—whisper them from my own heart, that they may surely reach and sweetly penetrate theirs.
"But when men and angels raise the grand hymn; when all worlds and all beings add their collective acclamations—this full, fervent, and universal chorus, will be so inferior to the riches of the Redeemer's grace, so disproportionate to the magnificence of His glory, that it will seem but to debase the unutterable subject it attempts to exalt. The loud hallelujah will die away in the solemn mental eloquence of prostrate, rapturous, silent admiration.
'O goodness infinite! goodness immense!
And love that passeth knowledge! Words are vain;
Language is lost in wonder so divine;
Come, then, expressive silence, muse his praise.'"
On my way to the church, passing a cottage which stood a short distance from a foot-path I was crossing, I saw a man and his two sons at work in his garden; they made me a bow, which I acknowledged.