Chapter 49

BIRTH AND EDUCATION.--POETICAL TALENT.

In an article in the _North American Review_ of 1835, we find the following admirable sentiments: "It is impossible to peruse the written life of any man or woman who has manifested great intellectual or moral power, whether in a holy cause or an unholy one, without a strong admiration and a deep sympathy, and a powerful impulse toward imitation. The soul is awakened, the active powers are roused, the contemplation of high achievement kindles emulation; and well would it be were the character of those leading minds, which thus draw after them the mass of mankind, always virtuous and noble. But in the vast majority of instances, the leaders of mankind, are individuals whose principles and motives the Christian must condemn, as hostile to the spirit of the gospel. More precious therefore, is the example of that pious few who have devoted themselves with pure hearts fervently, to the glory of God, and the good of man, and whose energy of purpose, and firmness of principle, and magnanimity in despising difficulty and danger, and suffering and death, in the accomplishment of a noble end, rouse into active admiration all who contemplate their glorious career."

Such a 'glorious career' was that of the honored missionary whose life has been sketched in the former part of this volume; and such too was hers who forms the subject of the present memoir. Sarah B. Hall was the eldest of thirteen children. Her parents were Ralph and Abiah Hall, who removed during her infancy from Alstead, New Hampshire, the place of her birth, to Salem, in the State of Massachusetts. Her parents not being wealthy, she was early trained to those habits of industry, thoughtfulness and self-denial which distinguished her through life. Children so situated are sometimes pitied by those who consider childhood as the proper season for careless mirth and reckless glee; but they often form characters of solid excellence rarely possessed by those to whom fortune has been more indulgent. Their struggle with obstacles in the way of improvement, and final triumph over them, is an invaluable preparation for the rude conflicts of life; their ingenuity is quickened by the hourly necessity of expedients to meet emergencies, and the many trials which are unavoidable in their circumstances, and which must be met with energy and resolution, give habits of patient endurance, and noble courage.

From all the accounts which we have of her, Sarah must have been a most engaging child. Gentle and affectionate in disposition, and persuasive and winning in manners, there was yet an ardor and enthusiasm in her character, combined with a quiet firmness and perseverance, that ensured success in whatever she attempted, and gave promise of the lofty excellence to which she afterwards attained. All who have sketched her character notice one peculiarity--and it is one which commonly attends high merit--her modest unobtrusiveness.

She was very fond of little children, and easily won their affections; but showed little disposition even in childhood, to mingle in the sports of those of her own age. This arose from no want of cheerfulness in her bosom; but from a certain thoughtfulness, and fondness for intellectual exercises which were early developed in her character.

Her principle, as well as her fondness for her mother, led her never to shrink from what are termed domestic duties, but her heart was not in them as it was in study and meditation. An illustration of this trait was recently related by her brother. Sarah was repeating some lines on the death of Nancy Cornelius, which attracted the attention of her mother, who asked her where she had learned them. With some hesitation the child confessed that she had composed them the day before, while engaged in some domestic avocation, during which her unusual abstracedness had been noticed. Her early poetical attempts evince uncommon facility in versification; and talent, that if cultivated might have placed her high in the ranks of those who have trod the flowery paths of literature; but hers was a higher vocation; and poetry, which was the delightful recreation of her childhood, and never utterly neglected in her riper years, was never to her anything _more_ than a recreation.

Her effusions at the age of thirteen are truly remarkable, when we consider the circumstances under which they were written. One, which is given by her biographer as it was probably amended by the 'cultivated taste of later years,' now lies before me as it was first written; and the improved copy, though greatly superior in beauty to the first, seems to me to lack the vigor and energy, which more than atone for the many blemishes of the other. Our readers shall judge. We insert the _childish_ composition; the other is to be found in her graceful memoir by 'Fanny Forrester.' She calls it "a Versification of David's lament over Saul and Jonathan."

The 'beauty of Israel' forever is fled, And low lie the noble and strong; Ye daughters of music encircle the dead, And chant the funereal song.

O never let Gath know their sorrowful doom, Nor Askelon hear of their fate; Their daughters would scoff while we lay in the tomb, The relics of Israel's great.

As strong as young lions were they in the field; Like eagles they never knew fear; As dark autumn clouds were the studs of their shield, And swifter than wind flew their spear.

My brother, my friend, must I bid _thee_ adieu! Ah yes, I behold thy deep wound-- Thy bosom, once warm as my tears that fast flow, Is colder than yonder clay mound.

Ye mountains of Gilboa, never may dew Descend on your verdure so green; Loud thunder may roar, and fierce lightning may glow But never let showers be seen.

Your verdure may scorch in the bright blazing sun, The night-blast may level your wood; For beneath it, unhallowed, were broken and thrown The arms of the chosen of God.

Ye daughters of Israel, snatch from your brow Those garlands of eglantine fair; Let cypress and nightshade, the emblems of woe. Be wreathed in your beautiful hair.

Approach, and with sadness encircle the dead And chant the funereal song-- The 'beauty of Israel' forever is fled, And low lie the noble and strong.

Some other effusions, probably of a later date, we will here insert, not only for their merit, but to show what those powers were which she sacrificed, when she turned from the cultivation of her fancy to that of her higher and nobler faculties.

ENCAMPMENT OF ISRAELITES AT ELIM.

"Slowly and sadly, through the desert waste, The fainting tribes their dreary pathway traced; Far as the eye could reach th' horizon round, Did one vast sea of sand the vision bound. No verdant shrub, nor murmuring brook was near, The weary eye and sinking soul to cheer; No fanning zephyr lent its cooling breath, But all was silent as the sleep of death; Their very footsteps fell all noiseless there As stifled by the moveless, burning air; And hope expired in many a fainting breast, And many a tongue e'en Egypt's bondage blest. Hark! through the silent waste, what murmur breaks? What scene of beauty 'mid the desert wakes? Oh! 'tis a fountain! shading trees are there. And their cool freshness steals out on the air! With eager haste the fainting pilgrims rush, Where Elim's cool and sacred waters gush; Prone on the bank, where murmuring fountains flow, Their wearied, fainting, listless forms they throw, Deep of the vivifying waters drink, Then rest in peace and coolness on the brink, While the soft zephyrs, and the fountain's flow, Breathe their sweet lullaby in cadence low. Oh! to the way-worn pilgrim's closing eyes, How rare the beauty that about him lies! Each leaf that quivers on the waving trees, Each wave that swells and murmurs in the breeze, Brings to his grateful heart a thrill of bliss, And wakes each nerve to life and happiness. When day's last flush had faded from the sky, And night's calm glories rose upon the eye, Sweet hymns of rapture through the palm-trees broke, And the loud timbrels deep response awoke; Rich, full of melody the concert ran, Of praise to God, of gratitude in man, While, as at intervals, the music fell, Was heard, monotonous, the fountain's swell, That in their rocky shrines, flowed murmuring there, And song and coolness shed along the air; Night mantled deeper, voices died away, The deep-toned timbrel ceased its thrilling sway; And there, beside, no other music gushing, Were heard the solitary fountains rushing, In melody their song around was shed, And lulled the sleepers on their verdant bed."

"COME OVER AND HELP US."

"Ye, on whom the glorious gospel, Shines with beams serenely bright, Pity the deluded nations, Wrapped in shades of dismal night; Ye, whose bosoms glow with rapture, At the precious hopes they bear; Ye, who know a Saviour's mercy, Listen to our earnest prayer!

See that race, deluded, blinded, Bending at yon horrid shrine; Madness pictured in their faces, Emblems of the frantic mind; They have never heard of Jesus, Never to th' Eternal prayed; Paths of death and woe they're treading, Christian! Christian! come and aid!

By that rending shriek of horror Issuing from the flaming pile, By the bursts of mirth that follow, By that Brahmin's fiend-like smile By the infant's piercing cry, Drowned in Ganges' rolling wave; By the mother's tearful eye, Friends of Jesus, come and save!

By that pilgrim, weak and hoary, Wandering far from friends and home Vainly seeking endless glory At the false Mahomet's tomb; By that blind, derided nation, Murderers of the Son of God, Christians, grant us our petition, Ere we lie beneath the sod!

By the Afric's hopes so wretched, Which at death's approach shall fly By the scalding tears that trickle From the slave's wild sunken eye By the terrors of that judgment, Which shall fix our final doom; Listen to our cry so earnest;-- Friends of Jesus, come, oh, come

By the martyrs' toils and sufferings, By their patience, zeal, and love; By the promise of the Mighty, Bending from His throne above; By the last command so precious, Issued by the risen God; Christians! Christians! come and help us, Ere we lie beneath the sod!"

Sarah, from her earliest years took great delight in reading. At four years, says her brother, she could read readily in any common book. Her rank in her classes in school was always high, and her teachers felt a pleasure in instructing her. On one occasion, when about thirteen, she was compelled to signify to the principal of a female seminary, that her circumstances would no longer permit her to enjoy its advantages. The teacher, unwilling to lose a pupil who was an honor to the school, and who so highly appreciated its privileges, remonstrated with her upon her intention, and finally prevailed on her to remain. Soon after she commenced instructing a class of small children, and was thus enabled to keep her situation in the seminary, without sacrificing her feelings of independence.

Her earliest journals, fragmentary as they are, disclose a zeal and ardor in self-improvement exceedingly unusual. "My mother cannot spare me to attend school this winter, but I have begun to pursue my studies at home." Again: "My parents are not in a situation to send me to school this summer, so I must make every exertion in my power to improve at home." Again, in a note to a little friend, "I feel very anxious to adopt some plan for our mutual improvement." How touching are these simple expressions! How severely do they rebuke the apathy of thousands of young persons, who allow golden opportunities of improvement to slip away from then forever--opportunities which to Sarah Hall and such as she, were of priceless value! Yet it is not one of the least of the _compensations_ with which the providence of God abounds, that the very lack of favorable circumstances is sometimes _most_ favorable to the development of latent resources. Thus it was with Sarah. Her whole career shows that her mind had been early trained and disciplined in that noblest of all schools, the school of adverse fortune.