Abbildungen der Seite

them as hostages for some time. They were, however, set free, after the Abbot of St. Antonius had come to Metz, and promised to do all he possibly could, to save Chastellain. It is probable, he did not intend to keep his promise. Then the anger of the people raged against him and Martin Pinguet. The people were, with difficulty, restrained from tearing down their houses, and had they been in Metz, violent hands would have been laid on them. About this time, the celebrated Franciscan monk, Franz Lambert, of Avignon, a zealous adherent of Luther, was staying a few days in Metz, on his return from Wittenberg, where he contracted an intimate friendship with Chastellain. Lambert wrote letter after letter, from Strasburg, to the magistrates, and to Duke Antonius, of Lorraine, to intercede for his friend. He promised to come himself to Metz, if they would promise him safe escort, and to dispute with all the priests and monks. If the disputants preferred coming to Strasburg, he promised them safe escort. If they could convince him of error, then he should be burned, along with his books. If he convinced them, nothing was to be done. But if they sentenced Chastellain and his companions to death, he would publicly declare them as martyrs. All was fruitless. The inquisitor, Nicholas Salvin, a Dominican, showed himself very active in the business. Many witnesses were summoned. Chastellain, with his simple, honest, true-hearted nature, could not succeed. After nine months of cruel imprisonment, judgment was pronounced against him; he was to be publicly exposed, in the town of Vic, and stripped of his clerical robes, then delivered up to the secular judge, and burned at the stake. To execute this sentence, he was brought from Nomeny to Vic. And shortly afterwards, on Thursday, January 12, 1525, he suffered a martyr's death.

At eight o'clock in the morning, he was exposed in the pillory-an_immense crowd of people surrounding him. Then he was taken back to prison, where he remained until noon. When they came for him, they found him in his shirt, and barefooted. He wished to go thus to his death; "for," he said, 66 our Lord Jesus Christ has suffered much more for us." But they would not suffer this. He was obliged to put on an old gray jacket, and a miserable German hat. The malefactor's bell was tolled. Chastellain, the pious preacher, the mighty, popular orator, was carried, in this style, through the town, to the place of execution. The reporter says: "As a lamb brought to the slaughter; so he opened not his mouth." From time to time, he exclaimed: "Lord, help me!" The hearts of the bystanders were full of grief: all wept, from sympathy with him. At the stake, he began to pray in the Latin and Romanic languages, and to repeat, with great devotion, some of the psalms. Then he raised his eyes towards heaven, and protested aloud, that it had been, for a long time, his most ardent desire, that it might be brought to pass, that he should suffer for the faith, as a witness of the truth. He asked pardon of the bystanders, if he had preached any thing that was offensive, or not edifying. "But," he added, "I have preached nothing that St. Augustine and St. Ambrose have not already preached, before my time. If I have preached false doctrine, then have they also preached false doctrine. I have been called a Lutheran, a believer in Luther. But I will take it with me on my death, and entrance into paradise, that I have never seen Luther. I have borrowed nothing from him, or his doctrine. In this statement I will die." These, and other words, increased the weeping and

sobbing. They then led him to the stake, where it was intended he should sit on a cross-piece. He requested them to suffer him to stand, it would be much too good for him to sit, the Saviour had suffered much more for him. He assisted the executioner, in placing him in a proper position. He suffered all with a joyous heart, and patient resignation. At last he raised his folded hands, and repeated, with a loud voice: "The name of Jesus is my salvation!" Then he gave up the ghost, and departed.

Consternation, indignation, and deep sorrow, were spread abroad throughout Vic, Metz, and the neighboring places, where they had been so frequently edified, with Chastellain's excellent sermons. When the Abbot of St. Antonius came, on the following day, to Metz, he was treated with great contempt by the people. His windows were broken in at night. On Saturday, he wished to attend mass in the principal church. They received him with abusive words. Some called him Pilate, others Annas or Caiaphas. His life was in jeopardy. He was obliged to leave by a side door. Even in his house, he could not remain in safety. Crowds of people collected before it, making a great noise. Bread, and other food, were thrown to them, from the windows. But all was of no account. They wished to tear the Abbot to pieces. At last he escaped, with great trouble, and went to the Duke, at Pont De Mousson. The rage of the populace was then turned against the house of the Governor of Goritz. This was entirely cleared out, and destroyed, even to the walls, all the furniture and utensils being broken up. Several prominent men endeavored to calm the people, but without success. They directed their way, from this house, to the prison, where a second witness to the truth, was held in bonds. The keys were demanded, and Vedastus, of Lille, a friend and companion of Chastellain, was, indeed, set free, being plucked, as it were, from the flames of death, which were awaiting him.

NON-CHURCH-GOER'S EXCUSES.-Overslept myself; could not dress in time; too windy; too dusty; too wet; too damp; too sunny; too cloudy; don't feel disposed; no other time to myself; look over my drawers; put my papers to rights; letters to write to friends; mean to take a ride; tied to business six days in a week; no fresh air but on Sunday; can't breathe in church-always so full; feel a little feverish; feel a little chilly; feel very lazy; expect company to dinner; got a headache; intend nursing myself to-day; new bonnet not come home; tore my muslin dress going down stairs; got a new novel, must be returned on Monday morning; wasn't shaved in time; don't like the liturgy, always praying for the same thing; don't like extemporary prayers; don't like an organ, 'tis too noisy; don't like singing without music, it makes me nervous; the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak; dislike an extemporary sermon, it is too frothy; can't bear written sermon, too prosy; nobody to-day but our own minister, can't always listen to the same preacher; don't like strangers; can't keep awake when I'm at church, fell asleep last time I was there, don't mean to risk it again; mean to inquire of sensible persons about the propriety of going to such a place as church, and shall publish the result.


We have the pleasure of giving the reader a few more specimens from the literature of the little Evening prayer. They have been kindly sent us by Rev. M. Sheeleigh. One of the poems, as will be seen, is from his own pen, and is written in monosyllables. This peculiarity is in imitation of the little prayer itself, which, with the exception of a single word, is monosyllablic.



A father came home from his business at early evening, and took his little girl upon his knee. After a few dove-like caresses, she crept to his bosom and fell asleep. He carried her himself to her chamber, and said, “Nellie would not like to go to bed and not say her prayers?" Half opening her lazy blue eyes, she dreamily articulated,

"Now I down to sleep,
pray the Lord-


then adding, in a sweet murmur, "H ows rest," she sank on her pillow, in his watchful care who "giveth his beloved sleep."




"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."

Well known, like words oft said and sung,
And yet not known whence it has sprung,
This pray'r has moved the heart and tongue,
For long, long years, of old and young.

Who is there that was led our plain, full tongue
To know and speak, when round the head were sung
The strains which lull to sleep the babe's soft eyes;
Learned not from lips most dear to lisp and prize
Those sweet old words of pray'r our hearts shall keep,
Keep and love-"Now I lay me down to sleep?"

Oh, who of all the hearts could think to tell,
That knew these lines, and used them long and well,
Each eve, from those bright days that cheer the child
To days far on through scenes both stern and mild,
When age bears down, and men, for their last sleep
Call out "I pray the Lord my soul to keep?"

How oft that pray'r calls up to youth and age
Dear home, loved forms, sweet hours, and God's blest page,
Brings back once more a time when all was bright,
When Heav'n was to the eyes all but in sight,
And mind was wont in deep, calm thought to take
The words "If I should die before I wake!"

Blest words, so framed that they might suit each tongue;
Well joined, for high and low, for old and young;
Fit words to use each night, when bent the knee;
And fit the line, if this the last should be,
Of all the pray'rs we pray ere we shall wake
In heav'n, "I pray the Lord my soul to take!"



"Now I lay me down to sleep!"

First beside my mother kneeling;
Through the hushed-up silence deep,
Hear the double whisper stealing—
"If I should die before I wake,
I pray
the Lord my soul to take.”

"Now I lay me down to sleep!"

And the angels o'er me bending,
Sent by God my soul to keep,

Through the purple night descending,
Wide-arched wings above me spread
Heavenly shelter round my head.

"Now I lay me down to sleep!"

No wild dream could break that slumber-
I had prayed for God to keep-
Blessed visions without number,
Glory caught from Heavenly things,
Showered from those bright angel wings.

"Now I lay me down to sleep!"
Had I died before the waking,
I had never learned to keep

Memories of a life's heart-breaking!
From the future and the past,
God has caught me up at last.

"Now I lay me down to sleep!"

Ah! the angels cease their keeping
Watch above the haunted dreams,

When the prayerless man is sleeping—
Where such feverish visions burn,
Back the sorrowing watchers turn.

"Now I lay me down to sleep!"

O, my God! when I am dying,
Hear me pray that old-time prayer,

On my haunted death-bed lying;
From the old dreams let me wake-
"I pray the Lord my soul to take!"


BY L. H. S.

No practical duty of religion seems to have been more enjoined, by the Saviour, than that, of bringing consolation to those, who are suffering under the burden of disease or affliction. He went about doing good to sufferers, suffered, ay, wept with them, shared their burdens with a sympathizing soul, and ministered unto their wants. Moreover, He taught us, that, inasmuch as this same kind of ministration of sympathy was rendered, by any one, to the least of His brethren, it was done to him. St. James sums up all pure religion as consisting, before God, and the Father, in visiting "the fatherless and the widows in their affliction," and in keeping ourselves "unspotted from the world."

Now, ministrations to the afflicted, may not always be offered from a simple desire to do good, but from a morbid anxiety to affect such a spirit. This is seen in those, who make a pharasaic boast of what they are doing, and who try to impress the sufferers, with the amount of self-sacrificing spirit which they possess. And this is sometimes seen, even in the mode in which consolation and assistance are offered. Such persons are not included in the Saviour's blessing, upon those who do good because he commands it.

Shakspeare speaks truth, when he says:

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.








It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God Himself.

* in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy!

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

A beautiful little incident occurred after the bloody battle of Antietam, which deserves to be put on record, as showing, in how simple a manner, the sweet ministrations of kindness may be made effective. A young lady, whose whole life, since the beginning of the war, has been devoted to the bedsides of our soldiers, and whose gentle manner has endeared her to the soldiers' hearts, as an angel of mercy, was engaged in alleviating, as far as possible, the sufferings of a large number of wounded men, who had been collected in a barn, then used as a temporary hospital. Quietly and gently, she moved from one to another, wetting the bandage of one, placing pillows and cushions under the wounded limb of a second, saying a cheering word to a third, and doing, to all, some little act of kindness, such as the loved ones at home would feel it a precious privilege to do, had they been present.

« ZurückWeiter »