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 The Churchman, listening to the solemn chant of vocal music or the deep tones of the organ, thinks of the song of the elders and the golden harps of the New Jerusalem. The heaven of the northern nations of Europe was a gross and sensual reflection of the earthly life of a barbarous and brutal people. The Indians of North America had a vague notion of a sunset land, a beautiful paradise far in the west, mountains and forests filled with deer and buffalo, lakes and streams swarming with fishes,—the happy hunting-ground of souls. In a late letter from a devoted missionary among the Western Indians (Paul Blohm, a converted Jew) we have noticed a beautiful illustration of this belief. Near the Omaha mission-house, on a high bluff, was a solitary Indian grave. ‘One evening,’ says the missionary, ‘having come home with some cattle which I had been seeking, I heard some one wailing; and, looking in the direction from whence it proceeded, I found it to be from the grave near our house. In a moment after a mourner rose up from a kneeling or lying posture, and, turning to the setting sun, stretched forth his arms in prayer and supplication with an intensity and earnestness as though he would detain the splendid luminary from running his course. With his body leaning forward and his arms stretched towards the sun, he presented a most striking figure of sorrow and petition. It was solemnly awful. He seemed to me to be one of the ancients come forth to teach me how to pray.’ A venerable and worthy New England clergyman,
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