Fragments from the Study of a Pastor

Every minister of the gospel who indulges himself in the use of his pen beyond his weekly preparations for the pulpit, has probably found no small amount of matter unexpected ‘y accumulating upon his hands, which though inappropriate to the services of the Sanctuary, is in his partial judgment too valuable to be thrown away. The writer of this little volume challenges for it nothing more than what it purports to be. — “Fragments from the study of a Pastor.” They are truly parts broken off from the mass — small detached portions, collected by an occasional employment of those leisure hours, and fragments of time which have remained after the more serious duties of the week have been discharged.

The taste of the age is too obviously unfitted for heavy reading and continuous thought. And yet, it has been the wish of the author that these pages should present important truth. And he will feel not a little gratified, if the event should justify the conclusion that religious instruction is here conveyed to some minds to which it might otherwise have no access.

Some of the pieces here presented will be recognized by those who belong to the author’s pastoral charge. The first and third were publicly read, several years ago, at his weekly lecture of a Thursday evening-He was solicited at the time to publish them. They have since been revised, and however imperfect, are, he hopes, better adapted to do good.

The “Inquiring meeting” is substantially founded in fact, so far as it regards the instances of religious impression. With some exceptions, of the reality of which the writer has the most satisfactory evidence, they have all fallen under his own immediate observation. With all their incidents, they may be confided in as a true narrative. The letter to a young clergyman was sug. gested by a correspondence with one of his junior brethren in the ministry, and was subsequently thrown into the form of an address to the students of the Theological Seminary at Princeton, at their semi-annual examination in the Spring of the present year.

The whole is submitted to the public eye with hesitation, yet with some hope that it may be useful. If a single child of God should hereby be refreshed and comforted; if any poor Prodigal should be induced to return to his Father’s house where there is bread enough and to spare; if any of the lambs of the flock that have been driven away should be restored, or any sick healed; these fragments will not have been gathered up in vain.

New York, July 1838.

I was crossing a narrow strip of land which lies upon the frontiers of France and Italy, where the Alps, without losing their loftiness and sublimity, begin to incline toward the Mediterranean, and occasionally put on an appearance of freshness and verdure. I had resolved, if possible, to ascend Mont Viso. Though not so high as Mont Blanc, yet from its solitary and isolated position, it presents a more imposing appearance of grandeur. It stands almost alone; and like a colossal pyramid, rises high above the various crests, and peaks, and ridges which surround its base. It presented to my mind the aspect of some huge beacon towering amid the storm; and the strange irregularity of the scenery gave strength to the impression. It seemed as though the heaving, angry ocean had been here arrested in the extreme fury of its tempest, and as if the power which had caused, had suddenly stilled its terrors, and bound it in solid and enduring chains. Inconstancy and change seemed strongly represented in constant and changing forms — the very emblem of mutability fixed as it might seem immutable.

Already had I ascended far up the mountain, and all the beautiful plain of Italy was spread out before me. That immense reservoir of waters, that well-known extent of gardens and cities, of wealth and splendour, which the heroes of ancient and modern times pointed out to their soldiers as the reward of perseverance and victory, glittered upon my eye. At the foot of the mountain, on the one side, had once stood the elephants of Hannibal and the armies of Francis the First; on the other, the forces of Caesar, Charlemagne, and Napoleon. So vivid was my fancy, it almost seemed that I could hear the sullen tramp of their legions; and the rushing of the streams around me seemed disturbed by the fording of their thronging cavalry, and all the tumult of a hurried march. I looked almost to see the Roman eagle hovering over their steps, or the lillies of France trembling to the mountain air.

The continued and almost unbroken stillness of the scene recalled me from this vision of the past.

All this glory and greatness had departed. Sooner will the first drops which issued from these torrents, come back from the vast ocean in which they are mingled, and flow again from their source, than aught of all this life and renown return, to trouble or astonish the scene on which they once played so conspicuous and interesting a part. Yet I dwelt long, and with singular pleasure on the names of those illustrious heroes. And who does not, as he crosses the Alps 7

It was with a feeling of self-reproach that I turned at last to think of others. The glory and splendour of this world had first taken possession of my mind, while true worth and piety had also their monuments near me. I was standing in the retreat of the ancient Vandois.

“Few remember them. They lived unknown,

“Till persecution dragged them into fame, “And chased them up to heaven.”

From the eminence from which I surveyed them, four beautiful vallies spread themselves before me something in the form of a fan, converging from the distance, and terminating almost in a point near the spot where I stood. I had heard of this asylum of the faithful as the region of barrenness and ice. I had read of it as a desert environed with frightful precipices, and protected by eternal snows. But such was not the scene on which I gazed. A beautiful sky spread its blue arch above. The verdure was springing- from the sides of the mountain, scantily it is true, but for that the more welcome. The valley below seemed spread with a carpet of rich emerald, wrought in with the brightest flowers. Nor were the light and life of civilization wanting to complete the picture. Scattered villages and villas were seen at intervals, and every where the vine and the fig tree enriched the plain. The Po and the Dora too, with their almost innumerable branches were wildly urging their waters down the rocks and through the crevices of the mountains, till you might see them quietly stealing to the vallies and mingle with the streams below.

I stood gazing, sometimes at the naked and barren cliffs of some distant promontory; sometimes at mountains that lifted their snowy summits where the eagle is never seen to soar; and sometimes at the enchanting plain beneath. And are these the rocks, said I, which looked down upon those sanguinary persecutions? Are these the mountains whence vibrated those songs of salvation that indicated to the foe the retreut of the faithful?

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