It is spring-time then!
Weeks pass on, but Sunlight does not tarry in her work; the grand commencement she has made, but the work of perfecting is yet to be done.
Gradually she spreads a richer green over all the meadows; all along the banks of streams and lakes the grass grows long and soft—the leaves hang heavier and fuller on the forest boughs—a softer voice whispers through the day-time and the night—flowers blossom more richly and abundantly, and the air is filled with their fragrance. Sunlight has spread the perfection of beauty over earth, and filled with unutterable affection for the world she has beautified, more warm and tender grow her embracings—and in return the voices of all the earth go up in a fervent declaration of love and gratitude to the fair missionary who has so generously, so gloriously labored for them. The good, beautiful Sunlight! no wonder all creation loves her, and blesses her; no wonder that innumerable objects, on all other subjects dull and voiceless, discover a way in which to sing her praises!
It were idle to attempt a detail of all the homes and hearts that even in one day she blesses and enlivens by her presence; but let us for a few moments follow her in her wanderings, perhaps thereby we may gain a proper appreciation of the labors of this good angel.
It is morning, and she has just alighted on the earth; and see now where her light feet are first directed. On yonder hill there stands a lofty building—secure as a fortress, made of stone, and brick, and iron. It is a gloomy, comfortless looking place; the windows, though it is a warm summer morning, are fast closed, and bars of iron stretch over them! It is a prison-house; but, though its inmates are guilty criminals, the pure and high-born Sunlight does not disdain to visit them. She is looking through all those grated windows fronting us—will you also look in?
There is a criminal condemned to death—a hardened villain, whose unbridled passions have worked his ruin. He is yet far from old, not a gray hair is there in all that thick black mass which crowns his head! From his youth up his life has been a life of sin, and little remorse. Heaven has at last overtaken him, and he will soon fearfully expiate, in part, his guilt.
Yesterday, justice delivered to him the sentence; he listened to it as though he heard it in a trance, and ever since they brought him from the presence of the excited court, he has sat on that hard pallet, immoveable as now. His food is untouched—he has no time to feel the wants of nature; his arms are closely, convulsively folded upon his breast; the black, large eyes, have a fixed and stony glare, in which it would seem few tears had ever gathered; firmly compressed are the pale lips; no prayer or sigh, or moan shall issue from them! He knows there is no way of escape for him—that on such a day, at such an hour, he will perish by the executioner’s hand; and that dreadful fact it is which is constantly staring in his face, and writing such a record of shame and terror in his heart.
He feels no penitence—nothing but anger, that he has stupidly suffered himself to be overtaken by the hand of the law—that his crimes have been detected. It is not the fear of God that is before his eyes; it is not dread of the hereafter which so overpowers him, but hatred of his fellow men, and a desire to wreak his vengeance on them who have brought to light his guilt!
Through all the long, dark hours he has rested on his hard bed, listening to the “voices of the night,” and not one softening thought has entered his heart, not one repentant sigh has he breathed. It seemed then as though nothing could arouse him as he so coldly beheld the reality, death staring him in the face. But now see, there is a faint glow on the narrow window-pane, and it grows brighter and brighter. Creeping slowly along the wall it reaches him at last—it falls upon his breast—it glances over his hard face, where sin has written her signature with a pen, as of iron—it looks into his stern eyes—that light arouses him, and while he returns the piercing gaze of the sunbeam, human feelings are aroused in his breast once more. He rises from the place where in his rage he had flung himself—he gazes round the contracted, miserable cell in which he is secured! Alas! and he has fallen so far that humanity acknowledges the justice of immuring him in a prison! and as he gazes on the gentle spirit whose presence fills his cell with light, the recollections of his far-off, innocent childhood—of his early home, from whence not a great many years ago he went with the blessing of his old mother sounding in his ears, steals over him—his heart is softening—his lips tremble—the stolid, hardened look has passed from his countenance—he is human again—he weeps! Blessed Sunlight! Fairest and holiest of the missionaries, who come from the halls of heaven to purify the earth, she has subdued him! Oh, we will hope that now, since the heart of stone has been changed to one of flesh, the good, redeeming work may not stop there; we will hope that when he is standing in his last hour upon the scaffold, when she comes to him again, it may be with a faith-supported heart that he will behold in her brightness a token of the blissful rest which awaits his repentant, pardoned spirit!
Close adjoining this cell there is another which likewise has its guilty inmate—a miserable, abandoned woman. She is sleeping. For her violation of the laws both of God and man she is now imprisoned.