converse with its creator, God.

The scenery of the most brilliant theatre of the world was only a
painting for children compared with this. Meantime, the multitude, with
the highest excitement of social feeling, added to the general
enthusiasm of expectation, was passing from tent to tent interchanging
apostolic greetings and embraces, while they talked of the approaching
solemnities. A few minutes sufficed to finish the evening's repast, when
the moon (for they had taken thought to appoint the meeting at the time
of the full moon) began to show its disc above the dark summits of the
distant mountains, while a few stars were seen glimmering in the west.
Then the service began. The whole constituted a temple worthy of the
grandeur of God. An old man in a dress of the quaintest simplicity
ascended a platform, wiped the dust from his spectacles, and, in a voice
of suppressed emotion "lined the hymn," of which that vast multitude
could recite the words, to be sung with an air in which every voice
could join. Every heart capable of feeling thrilled with emotion as that
song swelled forth, "Like the sound of many waters, echoing among the
hills and mountains." The service proceeded. The hoary-haired orator
talked of God, of eternity, of a judgment to come and all that is
impressive beyond. He spoke of his experiences and toils, his travels,
his persecutions and triumphs, and how many he had seen in hope, in
peace and triumph gathered to their fathers. When he spoke of the short
space that remained for him, his only regret was that he could no longer
proclaim, in the silence of death, the unsearchable riches and mercies
of his crucified Redeemer.

No wonder, as the speaker paused to dash the gathering moisture from his
own eye, his audience was dissolved in tears, or uttered exclamations of
penitence. Many who prided themselves on an estimation of a higher