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guide thee with mine eye, is the sure declaration of God. But in order to this, the christian must look at the indications of his eye; and in order to this he must have a single eye himself. He must walk by faith, he must never acquiesce in sin, he must never allow the world to get dominion over him. Doing this, he will be directed what to do, where to go, exercised in the best ways, perform the best service. The EYE OF THE LORD will lead him about through all the rounds of the Spirit, and the glory of the divine holiness will ever encompass him.
O christian! man renewed by grace, dost thou indeed believe that God inhabits thee with his holiness, and makes thee his temple ? Be thou then a temple indeed, a sacred place to him. Exclude covetousness; make not thy Father's house a house of merchandize ; deem every sin a sacrilege. Let all thy thoughts within, like priests stoled in white, move round the altar and keep the fire burning. Let thine affections be always a cloud, filling the room and inwrapping thy priest-like thoughts. Let thy hallowed desires be ever fanning the mercy-seat with their wings.
ART. IX.--REMINISCENCES OF THE CHOLERA IN 1832.
A MANUSCRIPT has lately come into our hands, written by a friend at a distance, containing some graphic sketches of scenes witnessed by himself during the progress of that scourge, the approach and ravages of which struck terror into thousands in our land. The details given in this paper are painful in the extreme, yet we have read it with a melancholy interest, and thinking it might be acceptable to some of our readers, and useful to all who may peruse it, we have given it a place on our pages. This we have done, both as a record of the past and also on account of the monitory lesson which it reads us of our frailty and of the value of timely preparation for death. It is in such scenes as here described we realize the utter emptiness of reliance on the closing hour in which to secure our acceptance with God. When the body is racked with pain ; when the mind is unhinged for its appropriate exercise, how wretched the hope of then performing the work to which the best faculties of a sound and vigorous state, both of body and mind, are sufficiently needful. The contrast furnished between the chris
tian's and the infidel's death-bed at such a period, speaks more than volumes. The position occupied by the servant of God in a season so replete with distress is one most trying to his feelings. He must visit multitudes panic-struck, and cheer them on, while he warns them to prepare for every possible event of providence. To others he must repair, feeling, that he can but offer sympathy, and see them expire unblessed by hope, while the long-rejected message of grace, and the salvation of the gospel, is, as it were, shut out from their reach. The frequent sight of the dying and the dead, too, after the first alarm has passed, hardens the hearts of the living, and they meet the calls and warnings he is commissioned to deliver with a heedless apathy, or with a scornful denial. There is a moral heroism in the simple narrative given by our friend of his performance of duty, in such circumstances, which entitles him to high praise ; for it was at the risk of his own life he devoted his time and his strength to impart his assistance to others. These sketches before us, too, were, we believe, not originally written for publication, but simply to place before the eye of here and there a friend an image of some events which providence had recorded in lines of desolation and gloom. We will detain our readers no longer from the tale of death, than to say, that we feel assured the utmost reliance may be placed upon this record of facts.
“ This fearful scourge has twice visited the city of In those seasons have occurred facts unequaled for deep and tragic interest.
The severe and exhausting duties imposed at such times on physicians and clergymen, leave no leisure for recording the passing events of the day, and subsequent professional engagements either erase the record of the past or diminish our interest in the events. Perhaps, however, the following reminiscences, which originated in a wish to beguile a few hours of partial illness, may possess some interest.
The pestilence burst upon us like a tempest, in the summer of 1832. We had heard of its progress from Asia, and with sympathy for the sufferers, but with no personal apprehension had traced its course from country to country. At length it reached the westernmost border of Europe, and lingered awhile on its shores, as if to wait the bidding of the Almighty, or to gather strength and mark its prey, ere taking its mighty leap over the waste of waters which separated us from its ravages. During the spring considerable anxiety had been felt. But as some weeks elapsed after the first arrivals from Europe, and no case of the disorder had occurred, apprehension subsided, and we began to breathe with the freeness of entire security.
Suddenly, on a summer morning in June, the fearful intelligence was whispered about with partial credence, that one or two cases of the disease existed on board a steamboat laden with emigrants from — On Monday morning, however, the most sceptical were compelled to believe. The fearful certainty, that the cholera was among us, struck us with dismay. It was not creeping about with the slow movements of ordinary disease, but with lightning rapidity was leaping from house to house, grappling and crushing its victims, like some hideous monster delighting in misery and blood.
Then commenced a scene of panic, at the very recollection of which the mind sickens. Some flying from the city with the seeds of the pestilence in their constitution, were taken on the road, and almost literally died by the way-side. Others, superstitiously afraid to leave the city, lest like Jonah they should seem to attempt to baffle God, had recourse to preventives, and by the frantic use of powerful and improper medicines, disordered the functions of their system, and opened the way for the hidden miasma of the pestilence to the seat of life. Still greater numbers had recourse to the brandy bottle to cheer their spirits and keep up the tone of physical action, and thus were swept down by hundreds, almost while the cup was at their lips.
All this while the daily number of deaths was increasing. It mounted upward from 20 to 50, 80, 100, 150 each twenty-four hours, till it seemed as if our fate were sealed, and the curse of heaven was to sweep us all to the grave. When we walked out, the deserted streets, the unfinished buildings abandoned by the workmen, the hearse and dead-carts—for the transportation of the corpses put in requisition all kinds of vehicles—was frightful. To our disturbed imagination it seemed as if the very stones of the street wore an air of melancholy. The man whom we met yesterday, was to-day carried to the grave; the person who rose in health was by sunset in his coffin.
The first case to which I was called, left an impression on my mind which no time can efface. He was a stout laboring man, who had been ill but a few hours. As I entered the dwelling every face was clothed in dismay; all occupations were neglected, and the members of the family listlessly sat or walked, as if stupefied by terror. No one ventured to enter the room, to minister to the sufferer, except one affectionate, devoted girl. Proceeding to the low, confined apartment in which
the patient lay, a scene was there which might well startle my unpracticed eye. On a bed, thrown into confusion by his convulsive and incessant tossings, lay the miserable victim of the pestilence. Though but a short time ill, his features had already assumed the sharpness of a long and consuming disease, and the hideous discoloration of the skin, was at once loathsome to the sight and the fatal precursor of death. It was indeed terrible to see a robust man groaning and writhing, and wildly tossing his arms, as if crushed in the folds of an enormous serpent. Medical relief was out of the question. Spiritual consolation could not be offered to such an agitated and enfeebled mind. We could only give him our look of sympathy, arrange the clothes which his violent spasms displaced, and witness the fearful struggle of the hardy laborer with death.
Soon after, I learned the illness of a young friend, married but a few months, and whose wife, a young woman of uncommon beauty and fascinating manners, had presented him a few days before with a lovely infant. A short time previous I had seen them, had watched her maternal pride as she showed her babe, and cheerfully talked with her of the future.
I found him now with the fatal symptoms of the disease rapidly developing themselves. At my approach he grasped my hand, and with a look which told the hopeless agony of his soul, said, “Oh, sir, I am not prepared to die!" I attempted to converse with him, but the incessant vomiting, and the still more agonizing spasms, which seemed to tear the very lifestrings asunder, allowed little time for anything but attention to his physical wants. I was surprised to see his wife at his bedside. At a time when perfect rest and tranquillity were indispensable, she was in laborious attendance on his sick bed, and her mind agitated by terrible forebodings. I trembled for the consequences, and urged upon her the duty of self-preservation. But her pale and agitated countenance indicated but too well what was to follow.
After a day spent in hurried attendance on the sick, I called early the next morning. In one room I found him lying, gasping for breath, beyond all hope. In the next room lay his lately blooming bride, her delicate frame distorted by spasms, while the destroyer was executing his work of death upon her with fearful rapidity. Soon her husband died, and with a haste which seemed unfeeling, but which imperious necessity demanded, they laid him in his coffin and were carrying him down the staircase. Though the whole sad office was performed as gently as possible, it caused some noise. She hearing it, inquired with some anxiety what was the matter in her husband's room? She was evasively answered, that "he was going down stairs." "He is better, then," was her remark, apparently pleased. A few hours afterwards I repeated my visit. He was in his grave. She lay a lifeless corpse. The little orphan was left in a world of strangers.
While these transactions were going on, I had spent much of the intervening time at the house of a gentleman, whose illness though alarming, as wearing the type of the prevailing epidemic, was not at first considered dangerous. Towards evening, however, his medical attendants despaired of his life, and to me was assigned the melancholy task of communicating to him and to his family the sad intelligence, that there was no hope of his recovery.
As I returned to the room from the outer door, whither I had accompanied the physician, I was oppressed. How could I plunge a dagger into the heart of that affectionate wife, and clothe this lovely family with mourning, lamentation, and woe! But the duty was imperative. I took my seat on the bedside, gently supporting the patient's head on my arm, as I had done much of the day, and in the gentlest and calmest manner I could assume, inquired if he was in much pain, and then assured him, that his pains would soon end, and we hoped end forever. He looked with startled gaze, as though not understanding the import of my address; his wife who stood near, regarded me with a bewildered and horror-struck air. I tenderly repeated my remark, and added a few observations of such consolation as I could offer, for the dying man was a christian of most lovely and consistent character.
But such a wild tempest of grief, as burst from the brokenhearted wife, it had never fallen to my lot to witness before. Such groans of heart-rending anguish, of bitter, stinging, despairing woe, I never heard. After leading her from the room, I returned to the bedside of the dying christian. His only reply to my annunciation was, that is sudden,- I could wish to live longer, in hope, that I should serve God better.” As his strength gradually failed, I often whispered in his ear such passages of scripture as, “the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”—“ Where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.”—“God shall wipe away all tears from their
With calm resignation, his mind ever reposed on these beautiful passages of the word of God, he gently expired about midnight.