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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive Leaves, by Lydia Howard Sigourney
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Olive Leaves
Or, Sketches of Character
Author: Lydia Howard Sigourney
Release Date: June 23, 2011 [EBook #36501]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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</pre>
<div class="mynote">
<p><strong>TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:</strong></p>
<p>This work has no errata. The following typos were corrected:</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="#Page_82">p. 82</a>: chesnuts → chestnuts</li>
</ul>
<p>The table of contents is on <a href="#Page_5">page 5</a>.</p>
<p><strong>Index of illustrations:</strong></p>
<ol>
<li><a href="#image_cover">Book cover</a></li>
<li><a href="#image_indian_chief"><em>The Indian Chief</em></a></li>
<li><a href="#image_continue_command"><em>"Continue the command of your passions; make virtue the scope of all your actions."</em></a></li>
<li><a href="#image_logo">Gall & Inglis logo</a></li>
</ol>
</div>
<div class="center" id="image_cover">
<a href="images/ill-000a.jpg">
<img src="images/ill-000a-th.jpg"
alt="Book cover"
title="Book cover" /></a>
</div>
<h1>Olive Leaves</h1>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></div>
<div class="center" id="image_indian_chief">
<a href="images/ill-000b.jpg">
<img src="images/ill-000b-th.jpg"
alt="The Indian Chief"
title="The Indian Chief" /></a>
<p class="caption">The Indian Chief.—<i><a href="#Page_229">P. 229</a></i>.</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="center">
<h1>OLIVE LEAVES.</h1>
<p>OR,</p>
<h2>SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.</h2>
<p>BY</p>
<p>MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.</p>
<p style="padding-top:6ex;letter-spacing:0.2em;font-size:125%">GALL & INGLIS.</p>
<table summary="Gall & Inglis offices">
<tr>
<td style="width:15em;border-right:1px solid black">London:<br />
25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE.</td>
<td style="width:15em">
Edinburgh:<br />
<span style="letter-spacing:0.1em">20 BERNARD TERRACE</span>.</td>
</tr></table>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></div>
<h1>PREFACE.</h1>
<p>An Olive Leaf was the first gift of the Earth after the
Flood, to the sole survivors of a buried race. It was borne
by the Dove, spreading a timid wing over the surging waters,
so lately without a shore.</p>
<p>The plant thus honoured, as the love-token of a World,
rising in freshness from the wrecks of the Deluge, has long
been a consecrated emblem of peace. It then brought the
joyful tidings to the voyagers in the lonely Ark, of a home
once more upon the green earth; and has since cheered many
a Christian heart, with the assurance that the bitter waters
of strife had abated.</p>
<p>These, my simple "Olive Leaves," would fain be love-tokens
to you, sweet young friends, who may chance to take
them in your hand. Buds of the olive and of the rose, are
ye: pour forth the spirit of peace and love, as ye unfold and
ripen on the pilgrimage of life, that you may be gathered
at its close, where their bloom is eternal.</p>
<p class="right" style="margin-right:6em">L. H. S.</p>
<p><i>Hartford, Connecticut.</i></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></div>
<h1>CONTENTS.</h1>
<table summary="Table of contents"><tr>
<td></td><td class="right">Page</td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">PREFACE,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE LOST AND FOUND,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">CHILDHOOD'S PIETY,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">FRANK LUDLOW,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">VICTORY,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">SILENT PEOPLE,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">LAURA BRIDGMAN,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">HUMBLE FRIENDS,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">BUTTERFLY IN A SCHOOL-ROOM,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">A BRAVE BOY,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">MAY MORNING,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE HUGUENOT GRANDFATHER'S TALE,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE OLD WATCH,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">ENTERTAINING BOOKS,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE NEW YEAR,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">CYRUS,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">ROME AND ITS RULERS,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_97">97</a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE PLOUGHING OF THE SWORD,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE GOOD AND BAD EMPEROR,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">BONAPARTE AT ST. HELENA,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">POLYCARP,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">CHRISTMAS HYMN,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE FRIVOLOUS KING,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">TO A PUPIL LEAVING SCHOOL,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">PIOUS PRINCES,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">EVILS OF WAR,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE LIBERATED FLY,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE GOOD BROTHER AND SISTER,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE WAITING CHILD,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE ADOPTED NIECE,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE ORPHAN,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE ONLY SON,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">LIFE,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">A REMARKABLE CHILD,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE DYING SUNDAY SCHOOL BOY,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE PRECOCIOUS INFANT,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE LAST ROSE BUD,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE CHERUB'S WELCOME,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE BABE, AND THE FORGET-ME-NOT,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">TREATMENT OF ANIMALS,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE TREMBLING EYELID,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">PEACEFUL DISPOSITIONS,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">JOHN AND JAMES WILLIAMS,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_220">220</a>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE INDIAN KING,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE DOVES,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_232">232</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">THE WAR-SPIRIT,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_236">236</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">EARLY RECOLLECTIONS,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_238">238</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">HUGUENOT FORT,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></td>
</tr><tr>
<td class="smaller">I HAVE SEEN AN END OF ALL PERFECTION,</td><td class="right"><a href="#Page_252">252</a></td>
</tr></table>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></div>
<h1><a name="OLIVE_LEAVES" id="OLIVE_LEAVES"></a>OLIVE LEAVES.</h1>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h1><a name="The_Lost_and_Found" id="The_Lost_and_Found"></a>The Lost and Found.</h1>
<p>I have something to say to the young, about the
advantage, as well as duty of obeying their parents.
My story will be of an interesting boy, by the name
of Charles Morton. He had a pleasant temper, and
almost always wore a smile. He ardently loved his
sister Caroline, who was several years younger than himself;
and whenever he came from school, would ask for
her, and take her in his arms, or guide her tottering
footsteps.</p>
<p>But Charles, with all his kindness of heart, had a
sad fault. He would sometimes disobey his parents,
when he was out of their sight. He did not remember
that the Eye of God always saw him, both in darkness
and in light, and would take note of the sin that
he committed, though his parents knew it not. At a
short distance from his home, was a beautiful river,
broad and deep. His parents had strictly charged him
never to venture in, and had explained to him the
danger which a boy of eight years old would incur, in
a tide so strong. Notwithstanding this, he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>
sometimes seek a spot where the banks, or the trees
upon the shore, concealed him, and take off his shoes,
and step into the water. He grew fond of wading, and
would occasionally stay in the water a long time.
Then, he greatly desired to swim. He frequently saw
larger boys amusing themselves in this way, and longed
to join them. But he feared lest they might mention
it to his father, and determined to go alone.</p>
<p>Here was the sin of the little boy, not only in continuing
to disobey, but in studying how to deceive his
kind parents. One fine afternoon in summer, school
was dismissed at an earlier hour than usual. Now,
thought Charles, I can make a trial at swimming, and
get home, before my mother misses me. He sought a
retired spot, where he had never seen his companions
go, and hastened to throw off his clothes, and plunge
into the water. He did not imagine that it was so
deep there, and that the current was so exceedingly
swift. He struggled with all his might, but was borne
farther and farther from the shore. The sea was not
a great distance from the mouth of the river, and the
tide was driving on violently, and what could he do?
Nothing, but to exhaust his feeble strength, and then
give up, and be carried onwards. He became weary
of beating the water with his feet and hands to no
purpose, and his throat was dry with crying, and so he
floated along, like a poor, uprooted weed. It was fearful
to him to be hurried away so, with the waters roaring
in his ears. He gave up all hope of seeing his
dear home again, and dreaded the thought of being
drowned, and devoured by monstrous fishes. How he
wished that he had not disobeyed his good parents;
and he earnestly prayed God to forgive him, and have
mercy upon his soul.</p>
<p>At Charles Morton's home, his mother had prepared<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
a bowl of bread and milk for him, because he usually
was hungry when he came from school.</p>
<p>At length she began to look from the window, and
to feel uneasy. Little Caroline crept to the door, and
continually called "Tarle, Tarle!" But when the sun
disappeared, and Mr. Morton returned, and nothing had
been seen of the dear boy, they were greatly alarmed.
They searched the places where he had been accustomed
to play, and questioned his companions, but in
vain. The neighbours collected, and attended the
father in pursuit of his lost son. What was their distress,
at finding his clothes in a remote recess, near the
river's brink! They immediately gave him up as
drowned, and commenced the search for his body.
There was bitter mourning in his once happy home,
that night. Many weeks elapsed, ere little Caroline
ceased calling for her "<i>dear Tarle</i>," or the sad parents
could be comforted. And it was remembered amid
their affliction, that the beloved child whom they had
endeavoured to teach the fear of God, had forgotten
that All-seeing Eye, when he disobeyed his parents.</p>
<p>But while they were lamenting their lost son, he was
not dead. While faintly struggling on the river, he
had been discovered, and taken up by an Indian canoe.
He had been borne by the swift current far from the
place where he first went into the water. And it was
very long after he was rescued, before he came to his
senses, so as to give any connected account of himself.
Then, he was greatly shocked at finding himself in a
boat, with two huge Indians. He shrieked, and begged
to be taken to his father's house; but they paid no
attention to his cries, and silently proceeded on their
voyage. They wrapped a blanket around him, because
he had no clothes, and offered him some parched corn,
but he had no heart to eat. By the rough tossing of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>
the boat, he discovered that they were upon the deep
sea, and the broad moon rose high, and shone long,
ere they drew near to land. Stupefied with terror, one
of the Indians carried him in his arms to a rude hut,
and gave him to his wife.</p>
<p>"What have you brought?" said she, as she loosened
the blanket, and discovered the dripping locks and
shivering form of the affrighted child.</p>
<p>"A white pappoose," answered the hoarse voice of
the husband. Poor Charles looked up with a cry of
horror and despair. The woman regarded him earnestly
for a moment.</p>
<p>"He is like my son that I buried," said she, and she
folded her dark arms around him, and wept. She
kindled a fire to warm him, and pressed food upon
him, but he was sick at heart. She laid him in the
rude bed of her dead child, and he sobbed himself into
a deep, long sleep. It was late in the morning when
he opened his eyes. Who can describe his distress!
No kind parent to speak to him, no little sister to
twine her arms around his neck. Nothing but a dark
hovel, and strange Indian faces. The woman, with
her husband and father, were the sole inhabitants of
the hut, and of this lone, sea-girt island. A dreadful
feeling of desolation came over him, and he laid down
his head, and mourned bitterly. The red-browed
woman pitied him, and adopted him into her heart, in
place of the child she had lost. She brought him the
coarse garments of her dead son, and he was obliged
to put them on, for he had no other.</p>
<p>His heart sunk within him, when on going out of
the door, he could see no roof save the one where he
had lodged. Some little rocky islands were in sight,
but none of them inhabited. He felt as if he was
alone in the world, and said, "This is the punishment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>
of my disobedience." Continually he was begging with
tears, to be taken to his home, and the men promised
"when we go so far again in the boat, we will carry
you." But their manners were so stern, that he began
to fear to urge them as much as he wished. So
every night, when he had retired to sleep, the woman
said to her husband, "We will keep him. He will be
contented. His beautiful blue eye is not so wild and
strained, as when you brought him. My heart yearns
towards him, as it did over the one that shall wake no
more."</p>
<p>She took him with her to gather the rushes, with
which she platted mats and baskets, and showed him
where the solitary bittern made her nest, and how to
trace the swift steps of the heron, as with whirring
wing half spread it hasted through the marshes to the
sea. And she taught him to dig roots, which contain
the spirit of health, and to know the herbs that bring
sleep to the sick, and staunch the flowing blood: for
she trusted that in industry, and the simple knowledge
of nature, he would find content. At first, she brought
him wild flowers, but she perceived that they always
made him weep, for he had been accustomed to gather
them for his little Caroline. So she passed them by,
blooming in their wild recesses, and instructed him how
to climb the trees where the grape-vine hung its airy
clusters. And she gave him a choice bow and arrow,
ornamented with brilliant feathers, and encouraged him
to take aim at the birds that sang among the low
branches. But he shrank back at the thought of hurting
the warbler, and she said silently,</p>
<p>"Surely, the babe of the white woman is not in spirit
like his red brother. He who sleeps in the grave was
happy when he bent the bow and followed his father
to the chase."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p>
<p>Little Charles spent a part of each day in watching
the sails, as they glided along on the broad sea. For
a long time, he would stand as near the shore as
possible, and make signs, and shout, hoping they might
be induced to come and take him to his home. But
an object so diminutive, attracted no attention, and
the small island, with its neighbouring group of rocks,
looked so desolate, and the channel so obstructed and
dangerous, that vessels had no motive to approach it.</p>
<p>When the chill of early autumn was in the air, the
Indian woman invited him to assist her in gathering
the golden ears of the maize, and in separating them
from their investing sheath. But he worked sorrowfully,
for he was ever thinking of his own dear home.
Once the men permitted him to accompany them,
when they went on a short fishing excursion; but he
wept and implored so violently to be taken to his
parents, that they frowned, and forbade him to go any
more in the boat. They told him, that twice or thrice
in the year they performed a long voyage, and went up
the river, to dispose of the articles of their manufacture
and purchase some necessary stores. They should go
when spring returned, and would then carry him to
his parents. So the poor little boy perceived that he
must try to be patient and quiet, through the long,
dreary winter, in an Indian hut. The red-browed
woman ever looked smilingly upon him, and spoke to
him with a sweet, fond tone. She wished him to call
her mother, and was always trying to promote his comfort.
After Charles had obtained the promise of her
husband and father, to take him home in the spring,
his mind was more at rest. He worked diligently as
his strength and skill would permit, on the baskets,
mats, and brooms, with which the boat was to be
freighted. He took pleasure in painting with the bright<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>
colours which they obtained from plants, two baskets,
which were intended as presents for his mother and
Caroline.</p>
<p>The Indian woman often entertained him with stories
of her ancestors. She spoke of their dexterity in the
chase, of their valour in battle. She described their
war-dances, and the feathery lightness of their canoes
upon the wave. She told of the gravity of their chiefs,
the eloquence of their orators, the respect of the young
men for those of hoary hairs. She related instances
of the firmness of their friendship, and the terror of
their revenge.</p>
<p>"Once the whole land was theirs, said she, and no
white man dwelt in it, or had discovered it. Now, our
race are few and feeble, they are driven away and
perish. They leave their fathers' graves, and hide
among the forests. The forests fall before the axe of
the white man, and they are again driven out, we
know not where. No voice asks after them. They
fade away like a mist, and are forgotten."</p>
<p>The little boy wept at the plaintive tone in which
she spoke of the sorrows of her people, and said, "<i>I</i>
will pity and love the Indians, as long as I live."
Sometimes, during the long storms of winter, he would
tell them of the Bible, in which he had loved to read,
and would repeat the hymns and chapters which he
had learned at the Sabbath school. And then he regretted
that he had not exerted himself to learn more
when it was in his power, and that he had ever grieved
his teachers. He found that these Indians were not
able to read, and said, "Oh that I had now but <i>one</i> of
those books, which I used to prize so little when I was
at home, and had so many." They listened attentively
to all that he said. Sometimes he told them what he
had learned of God, and added,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p>
<p>"He is a good God, and a God of truth, but I displeased
him when I was disobedient to my parents."</p>
<p>At length, Spring appeared. The heart of little
Charles leaped for joy, when he heard the sweet song
of the earliest bird. Every morning he rose early, and
went forth to see if the grass had not become greener
during the night. Every hour, he desired to remind
them of the long-treasured promise. But he saw that
the men looked grave if he was impatient, and the
brow of his Indian mother became each day more sad.</p>
<p>The appointed period arrived. The boat was laden
with the products of their industry. All was ready
for departure. Charles wept when he was about to
take leave of his kind Indian nurse.</p>
<p>"I will go also," said she; and they made room for
her in the boat. The bright sun was rising gloriously
in the east, as they left the desolate island. Through
the whole voyage she held the boy near her, or in her
arms, but spoke not. Birds were winging their way
over the blue sea, and, after they entered the river,
poured forth the clearest melodies from shore and tree,
but still she spoke not. There seemed a sorrow at her
breast, which made her lip tremble, yet her eye was
tearless. Charles refrained to utter the joy which
swelled in his bosom, for he saw she was unhappy.
He put his arm round her neck, and leaned his head
on her shoulder. As evening approached, they drew
near the spot, where she understood she must part
from him. Then Charles said eagerly to her,</p>
<p>"Oh, go home with me to my father's house. Yes,
yes, come all of you with me, my dear, good people,
that all of us may thank you together for having saved
my life."</p>
<p>"No," she answered sorrowfully: "I could not bear
to see thy mother fold thee in her arms, and to know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
that thou wert mine no more. Since thou hast told
me of thy God, and that he listened to prayer, my
prayer has been lifted up to Him night and day, that
thy heart might find rest in an Indian home. But this
is over. Henceforth, my path and my soul are desolate.
Yet go thy way, to thy mother, that she may
have joy when she rises up in the morning, and at night
goes to rest."</p>
<p>Her tears fell down like rain, as she embraced him,
and they lifted him upon the bank. And eager as he
was to meet his parents, and his beloved sister, he
lingered to watch the boat as it glided away. He saw
that she raised not her head, nor uncovered her face.
He remembered her long and true kindness, and asked
God to bless and reward her, as he hastened over the well
known space that divided him from his native village.</p>
<p>His heart beat so thick as almost to suffocate him,
when he saw his father's roof. It was twilight, and
the trees where he used to gather apples, were in full
and fragrant bloom. Half breathless, he rushed in at
the door. His father was reading in the parlour,
and rose coldly to meet him. So changed was his
person, and dress, that he did not know his son. But
the mother shrieked. She knew the blue eye, that no
misery of garb could change. She sprang to embrace
him, and fainted. It was a keen anguish to him, that
his mother thus should suffer. Little Caroline clung
around his neck, and as he kissed her, he whispered
"Remember, God sees, and punishes the disobedient."
His pale mother lifted up her head, and drew him from
his father's arms, upon the bed, beside her. "Father,
Mother," said the delighted boy, "forgive me." They
both assured him of their love, and his father looking
upward said, "My God, I thank thee! for this my son
was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Childhoods_Piety" id="Childhoods_Piety"></a>Childhood's Piety.</h1>
<p>If the meek faith that Jesus taught,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Admission fail to gain</span><br />
Neath domes with wealth and splendour fraught,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where dwell a haughty train,</span><br />
<br />
Turn to the humble hearth and see<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Mother's tender care,</span><br />
Luring the nursling on her knee<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To link the words of prayer:</span><br />
<br />
Or to the little bed, where kneels<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The child with heaven-raised eye,</span><br />
And all its guileless soul reveals<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To Him who rules the sky;</span><br />
<br />
Where the young babe's first lispings keep<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">So bright the parents tear,</span><br />
The "<i>Now, I lay me down to sleep</i>,"<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That angels love to hear.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Frank_Ludlow" id="Frank_Ludlow"></a>Frank Ludlow.</h1>
<p>"It is time Frank and Edward were at home,"
said Mrs. Ludlow. So she stirred and replenished the
fire, for it was a cold winter's evening.</p>
<p>"Mother, you gave them liberty to stay and play
after school," said little Eliza.</p>
<p>"Yes, my daughter, but the time is expired. I wish
my children to come home at the appointed time, as
well as to obey me in all other things. The stars are
already shining, and they are not allowed to stay out
so late."</p>
<p>"Dear mother, I think I hear their voices now."
Little Eliza climbed into a chair, and drawing aside
the window-curtain, said joyfully, "O yes, they are
just coming into the piazza."</p>
<p>Mrs. Ludlow told her to go to the kitchen, and see
that the bread was toasted nice and warm, for their
bowls of milk which had been some time ready.</p>
<p>Frank and Edward Ludlow were fine boys, of
eleven and nine years old. They returned in high
spirits, from their sport on the frozen pond. They
hung up their skates in the proper place, and then
hastened to kiss their mother.</p>
<p>"We have stayed longer at play than we ought,
my dear mother," said Edward.</p>
<p>"You are nearly an hour beyond the time," said
Mrs. Ludlow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p>
<p>"Edward reminded me twice," said Frank, "that
we ought to go home. But O, it was such excellent
skating, that I could not help going round the pond
a few times more. We left all the boys there when
we came away. The next time, we will try to be as
true as the town-clock. And it is not Edward's fault
now, mother."</p>
<p>"My sons, I always expect you to leave your
sports, at the time that I appoint. I know that you
do not intend to disobey, or to give me anxiety. But
you must take pains to be punctual. When you become
men, it will be of great importance that you
observe your engagements. Unless you perform what
is expected of you, at the proper time, people will
cease to have confidence in you."</p>
<p>The boys promised to be punctual and obedient,
and their mother assured them, that they were not
often forgetful of these important duties.</p>
<p>Eliza came in with the bread nicely toasted, for
their supper.</p>
<p>"What a good little one, to be thinking of her
brothers, when they are away. Come, sweet sister,
sit between us."</p>
<p>Eliza felt very happy, when her brothers each gave
her a kiss, and she looked up in their faces, with a
sweet smile.</p>
<p>The evening meal was a pleasant one. The mother
and her children talked cheerfully together. Each
had some little agreeable circumstance to relate, and
they felt how happy it is for a family to live in love.</p>
<p>After supper, books and maps were laid on the
table, and Mrs. Ludlow said,</p>
<p>"Come boys, you go to school every day, and your
sister does not. It is but fair that you should teach
her something. First examine her in the lessons she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
has learned with me, and then you may add some gift
of knowledge from your own store."</p>
<p>So Frank overlooked her geography, and asked her
a few questions on the map; and Edward explained to
her a little arithmetic, and told a story from the history
of England, with which she was much pleased. Soon
she grew sleepy, and kissing her brothers, wished them
an affectionate good-night. Her mother went with
her, to see her laid comfortably in bed, and to hear
her repeat her evening hymns, and thank her Father
in heaven, for his care of her through the day.</p>
<p>When Mrs. Ludlow returned to the parlour, she
found her sons busily employed in studying their
lessons for the following day. She sat down beside
them with her work, and when they now and then
looked up from their books, they saw that their
diligence was rewarded by her approving eye.</p>
<p>When they had completed their studies, they replaced
the books which they had used, in the bookcase,
and drew their chairs nearer to the fire. The
kind mother joined them, with a basket of fruit, and
while they partook of it, they had the following conversation.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Ludlow.</i> "I should like to hear, my dear
boys, more of what you have learned to-day."</p>
<p><i>Frank.</i> "I have been much pleased with a book
that I borrowed of one of the boys. Indeed, I have
hardly thought of any thing else. I must confess that
I put it inside of my geography, and read it while the
master thought I was studying."</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Ludlow.</i> "I am truly sorry, Frank, that you
should be willing to deceive. What are called <i>boy's
tricks</i>, too often lead to falsehood, and end in disgrace.
On this occasion you cheated yourself also. You
lost the knowledge which you might have gained, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
the sake of what, I suppose, was only some book of
amusement."</p>
<p><i>Frank.</i> "Mother, it was the life of Charles the
XII. of Sweden. You know that he was the bravest
soldier of his times. He beat the king of Denmark,
when he was only eighteen years old. Then he defeated
the Russians, at the battle of Narva, though
they had 80,000 soldiers, and he had not a quarter of
that number."</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Ludlow.</i> "How did he die?"</p>
<p><i>Frank.</i> "He went to make war in Norway. It
was a terribly severe winter, but he feared no hardship.
The cold was so great, that his sentinels were
often found frozen to death at their posts. He was
besieging a town called Frederickshall. It was about
the middle of December. He gave orders that they
should continue to work on the trenches, though the
feet of the soldiers were benumbed, and their hands
froze to the tools. He got up very early one morning,
to see if they were at their work. The stars
shone clear and bright on the snow that covered
every thing. Sometimes a firing was heard from the
enemy. But he was too courageous to mind that.
Suddenly, a cannon-shot struck him, and he fell.
When they took him up, his forehead was beat in, but
his right hand still strongly grasped the sword.
Mother, was not that dying like a brave man?"</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Ludlow.</i> "I should think there was more of
rashness than bravery in thus exposing himself, for no
better reason. Do you not feel that it was cruel to
force his soldiers to such labours in that dreadful
climate, and to make war when it was not necessary?
The historians say that he undertook it, only
to fill up an interval of time, until he could be
prepared for his great campaign in Poland. So, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>
amuse his restless mind, he was willing to destroy his
own soldiers, willing to see even his most faithful friends
frozen every morning into statues. Edward, tell me
what you remember."</p>
<p><i>Edward.</i> "My lesson in the history of Rome, was
the character of Antoninus Pius. He was one of the
best of the Roman Emperors. While he was young, he
paid great respect to the aged, and when he grew rich
he gave liberally to the poor. He greatly disliked war.
He said he had 'rather save the life of one subject, than
destroy a thousand enemies.' Rome was prosperous
and happy, under his government. He reigned 22
years, and died, with many friends surrounding his bed,
at the age of 74."</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Ludlow.</i> "Was he not beloved by the people
whom he ruled? I have read that they all mourned at
his death, as if they had lost a father. Was it not
better to be thus lamented, than to be remembered
only by the numbers he had slain, and the miseries he
had caused?"</p>
<p><i>Frank.</i> "But mother, the glory of Charles the
XII. of Sweden, was certainly greater than that of a
quiet old man, who, I dare say, was afraid to fight.
Antoninus Pius was clever enough, but you cannot
deny that Alexander, and Cćsar, and Bonaparte, had
far greater talents. They will be called heroes and
praised, as long as the world stands."</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Ludlow.</i> "My dear children, those talents
should be most admired, which produce the greatest
good. That fame is the highest, which best agrees with
our duty to God and man. Do not be dazzled by the
false glory that surrounds the hero. Consider it your
glory to live in peace, and to make others happy. Believe
me, when you come to your death-beds, and oh,
how soon will that be, for the longest life is short, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
will give you more comfort to reflect that you have
healed one broken heart, given one poor child the means
of education, or sent to one heathen the book of salvation,
than that you lifted your hand to destroy your
fellow-creatures, and wrung forth the tears of widows
and of orphans."</p>
<p>The hour of rest had come, and the mother opened
the large family Bible, that they might together remember
and thank Him, who had preserved them
through the day. When Frank and Edward took leave
of her for the night, they were grieved to see that there
were tears in her eyes. They lingered by her side,
hoping she would tell them if any thing had troubled
her. But she only said, "My sons, my dear sons, before
you sleep, pray to God for a heart to love peace."</p>
<p>After they had retired, Frank said to his brother,</p>
<p>"I cannot feel that it is wrong to be a soldier. Was
not our father one? I shall never forget the fine stories
he used to tell me about battles, when I was almost a
baby. I remember that I used to climb up on his
knee, and put my face close to his. Then I used to
dream of prancing horses, and glittering swords, and
sounding trumpets, and wake up and wish I was a
soldier. Indeed, Edward, I wish so now. But I cannot
tell dear mother what is in my heart, for it would
grieve her."</p>
<p>"No, no, don't tell her so, dear Frank, and pray,
never be a soldier. I have heard her say, that father's
ill health, and most of his troubles, came from the life
that he led in camps. He said on his death-bed, that
if he could live his youth over again, he would be a meek
follower of the Saviour, and not a man of blood."</p>
<p>"Edward, our father was engaged in the war of the
Revolution, without which we should all have been
slaves. Do you pretend to say that it was not a holy war?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p>
<p>"I pretend to say nothing, brother, only what the
Bible says, Render to no man evil for evil, but follow
after the things that make for peace."</p>
<p>The boys had frequent conversations on the subject
of war and peace. Their opinions still continued to
differ. Their love for their mother, prevented their
holding these discourses often in her presence; for
they perceived that Frank's admiration of martial renown
gave her increased pain. She devoted her life
to the education and happiness of her children. She
secured for them every opportunity in her power, for
the acquisition of useful knowledge, and both by precept
and example urged them to add to their "knowledge,
temperance, and to temperance, brotherly kindness, and
to brotherly kindness, charity."</p>
<p>This little family were models of kindness and affection
among themselves. Each strove to make the
others happy. Their fire-side was always cheerful, and
the summer evening walks which the mother took
with her children were sources both of delight and
improvement.</p>
<p>Thus years passed away. The young saplings which
they had cherished grew up to be trees, and the boys
became men. The health of the kind and faithful
mother became feeble. At length, she visibly declined.
But she wore on her brow the same sweet smile which
had cheered their childhood.</p>
<p>Eliza watched over her, night and day, with the
tenderest care. She was not willing that any other
hand should give the medicine, or smooth the pillow
of the sufferer. She remembered the love that had
nurtured her own childhood, and wished to perform
every office that grateful affection could dictate.</p>
<p>Edward had completed his collegiate course, and was
studying at a distant seminary, to prepare himself for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
the ministry. He had sustained a high character as
a scholar, and had early chosen his place among the
followers of the Redeemer. As often as was in his
power, he visited his beloved parent, during her long
sickness, and his letters full of fond regard, and pious
confidence, continually cheered her.</p>
<p>Frank resided at home. He had chosen to pursue
the business of agriculture, and superintended their
small family estate. He had an affectionate heart, and
his attentions to his declining mother, were unceasing.
In her last moments he stood by her side. His spirit
was deeply smitten, as he supported his weeping sister,
at the bed of the dying. Pain had departed, and the
meek Christian patiently awaited the coming of her
Lord. She had given much council to her children,
and sent tender messages to the absent one. She seemed
to have done speaking. But while they were uncertain
whether she yet breathed, she raised her eyes once
more to her first-born, and said faintly, "My son, follow
peace with all men."</p>
<p>These were her last words. They listened attentively,
but her voice was heard no more.</p>
<p>Edward Ludlow was summoned to the funeral of
his beloved mother. After she was committed to the
dust, he remained a few days to mingle his sympathies
with his brother and sister. He knew how to comfort
them, out of the Scriptures, for therein was his hope,
in all time of his tribulation.</p>
<p>Frank listened to all his admonitions, with a serious
countenance, and a sorrowful heart. He loved his
brother with great ardour, and to the mother for whom
they mourned, he had always been dutiful. Yet she
had felt painfully anxious for him to the last, because
he had not made choice of religion for his guide, and
secretly coveted the glory of the warrior.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p>
<p>After he became the head of the household, he
continued to take the kindest care of his sister, who
prudently managed all his affairs, until his marriage.
The companion whom he chose was a most amiable
young woman, whose society and friendship greatly
cheered the heart of Eliza. There seemed to be not a
shadow over the happiness of that small and loving
family.</p>
<p>But in little more than a year after Frank's marriage,
the second war between this country and Great Britain
commenced. Eliza trembled as she saw him possessing
himself of all its details, and neglecting his business
to gather and relate every rumour of war. Still she
relied on his affection for his wife, to retain him at home.
She could not understand the depth and force of the
passion that prompted him to be a soldier.</p>
<p>At length he rashly enlisted. It was a sad night for
that affectionate family, when he informed them that
he must leave them and join the army. His young
wife felt it the more deeply, because she had but
recently buried a new-born babe. He comforted her
as well as he could. He assured her that his regiment
would not probably be stationed at any great distance,
that he would come home as often as possible, and that
she should constantly receive letters from him. He
told her that she could not imagine how restless and
miserable he had been in his mind, ever since war was
declared. He could not bear to have his country insulted,
and take no part in her defence. Now, he said,
he should again feel a quiet conscience, because he
had done his duty, that the war would undoubtedly
soon be terminated, and then he should return home,
and they would all be happy together. He hinted at
the promotion which courage might win, but such
ambition had no part in his wife's gentler nature. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>
begged her not to distress him by her lamentations,
but to let him go away with a strong heart, like a hero.</p>
<p>When his wife and sister found that there was no
alternative, they endeavoured to comply with his request,
and to part with him as calmly as possible. So Frank
Ludlow went to be a soldier. He was twenty-five
years old, a tall, handsome, and healthful young man.
At the regimental trainings in his native town, he had
often been told how well he looked in a military dress.
This had flattered his vanity. He loved martial music,
and thought he should never be tired of serving his
country.</p>
<p>But a life in camps has many evils, of which those who
dwell at home are entirely ignorant. Frank Ludlow
scorned to complain of hardships, and bore fatigue and
privation, as well as the best. He was undoubtedly a
brave man, and never seemed in higher spirits, than
when preparing for battle.</p>
<p>When a few months had past, the novelty of his
situation wore off. There were many times in which
he thought of his quiet home, and his dear wife and
sister, until his heart was heavy in his bosom. He longed
to see them, but leave of absence could not be obtained.
He felt so unhappy, that he thought he could not
endure it, and, always moved more by impulse than
principle, absconded to visit them.</p>
<p>When he returned to the regiment, it was to be
disgraced for disobedience. Thus humbled before his
comrades, he felt indignant and disgusted. He knew
it was according to the rules of war, but he hoped that
<i>he</i> might have been excused.</p>
<p>Some time after, a letter from home informed him
of the birth of an infant. His feelings as a father
were strong, and he yearned to see it. He attempted
to obtain a furlough, but in vain. He was determined<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
to go, and so departed without leave. On the second
day of his journey, when at no great distance from the
house, he was taken, and brought back as a deserter.</p>
<p>The punishment that followed, made him loathe war,
in all its forms. He had seen it at a distance, in its
garb of glory, and worshipped the splendour that encircles
the hero. But he had not taken into view the
miseries of the private soldier, nor believed that the
cup of glory was for others, and the dregs of bitterness
for him. The patriotism of which he had boasted,
vanished like a shadow, in the hour of trial; for ambition,
and not principle, had induced him to become a
soldier.</p>
<p>His state of mind rendered him an object of compassion.
The strains of martial music, which he once
admired, were discordant to his ear. His daily duties
became irksome to him. He shunned conversation,
and thought continually of his sweet, forsaken home,
of the admonitions of his departed mother, and the
disappointment of all his gilded hopes.</p>
<p>The regiment to which he was attached, was ordered
to a distant part of the country. It was an additional
affliction to be so widely separated from the objects of
his love. In utter desperation he again deserted.</p>
<p>He was greatly fatigued, when he came in sight of
his home. Its green trees, and the fair fields which he
so oft had tilled, smiled as an Eden upon him. But
he entered, as a lost spirit. His wife and sister wept
with joy, as they embraced him, and put his infant son
into his arms. Its smiles and caresses woke him to
agony, for he knew he must soon take his leave of it,
perhaps for ever.</p>
<p>He mentioned that his furlough would expire in a
few days, and that he had some hopes when winter
came of obtaining a substitute, and then they would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>
be parted no more. He strove to appear cheerful, but
his wife and sister saw that there was a weight upon
his spirit, and a cloud on his brow, which they had
never perceived before. He started at every sudden
sound, for he feared that he should be sought for in
his own house, and taken back to the army.</p>
<p>When he dared no longer remain, he tore himself
away, but not, as his family supposed, to return to his
duty. Disguising himself, he travelled rapidly in a
different direction, resolving to conceal himself in the
far west, or if necessary, to fly his country, rather than
rejoin the army.</p>
<p>But in spite of every precaution, he was recognized
by a party of soldiers, who carried him back to his
regiment, having been three times a deserter. He was
bound, and taken to the guard-house, where a court-martial
convened, to try his offence.</p>
<p>It was now the summer of 1814. The morning sun
shone forth brightly upon rock, and hill, and stream.
But the quiet beauty of the rural landscape was vexed
by the bustle and glare of a military encampment.
Tent and barrack rose up among the verdure, and the
shrill, spirit-stirring bugle echoed through the deep
valley.</p>
<p>On the day of which we speak, the music seemed
strangely subdued and solemn. Muffled drums, and
wind instruments mournfully playing, announced the
slow march of a procession. A pinioned prisoner came
forth from his confinement. A coffin of rough boards
was borne before him. By his side walked the chaplain,
who had laboured to prepare his soul for its
extremity, and went with him as a pitying and sustaining
spirit, to the last verge of life.</p>
<p>The sentenced man wore a long white mantle, like a
winding-sheet. On his head was a cap of the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>
colour, bordered with black. Behind him, several
prisoners walked, two and two. They had been confined
for various offences, and a part of their punishment was
to stand by, and witness the fate of their comrade. A
strong guard of soldiers, marched in order, with loaded
muskets, and fixed bayonets.</p>
<p>Such was the sad spectacle on that cloudless morning:
a man in full strength and beauty, clad in burial garments,
and walking onward to his grave. The procession
halted at a broad open field. A mound of earth freshly
thrown up in its centre, marked the yawning and untimely
grave. Beyond it, many hundred men, drawn up
in the form of a hollow square, stood in solemn silence.</p>
<p>The voice of the officer of the day, now and then
heard, giving brief orders, or marshalling the soldiers,
was low, and varied by feeling. In the line, but not
yet called forth, were eight men, drawn by lot as executioners.
They stood motionless, revolting from their
office, but not daring to disobey.</p>
<p>Between the coffin and the pit, he whose moments
were numbered, was directed to stand. His noble forehead,
and quivering lips were alike pale. Yet in his
deportment there was a struggle for fortitude, like one
who had resolved to meet death unmoved.</p>
<p>"May I speak to the soldiers?" he said. It was the
voice of Frank Ludlow. Permission was given, and he
spoke something of warning against desertion, and
something, in deep bitterness, against the spirit of war.
But his tones were so hurried and agitated, that their
import could scarcely be gathered.</p>
<p>The eye of the commanding officer was fixed on the
watch which he held in his hand. "The time has come,"
he said, "Kneel upon your coffin."</p>
<p>The cap was drawn over the eyes of the miserable
man. He murmured, with a stifled sob, "God, I thank<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>
thee, that my dear ones cannot see this." Then from
the bottom of his soul, burst forth a cry,</p>
<p>"O mother! mother! had I but believed"—</p>
<p>Ere the sentence was finished, a sword glittered in
the sunbeam. It was the death-signal. Eight soldiers
advanced from the ranks. There was a sharp report
of arms. A shriek of piercing anguish. One convulsive
leap. And then a dead man lay between his coffin
and his grave.</p>
<p>There was a shuddering silence. Afterwards, the
whole line was directed to march by the lifeless body,
that every one might for himself see the punishment
of a deserter.</p>
<p>Suddenly, there was some confusion; and all eyes turned
towards a horseman, approaching at breathless speed.
Alighting, he attempted to raise the dead man, who
had fallen with his face downward. Gazing earnestly
upon the rigid features, he clasped the mangled and
bleeding bosom to his own. Even the sternest veteran
was moved, at the heart-rending cry of "<i>Brother! O
my brother!</i>"</p>
<p>No one disturbed the bitter grief which the living
poured forth in broken sentences over the dead.</p>
<p>"Gone to thine account! Gone to thine everlasting
account! Is it indeed thy heart's blood, that trickles
warmly upon me? My brother, would that I might
have been with thee in thy dreary prison. Would
that we might have breathed together one more prayer,
that I might have seen thee look unto Jesus of
Nazareth."</p>
<p>Rising up from the corpse, and turning to the commanding
officer, he spoke through his tears, with a
tremulous, yet sweet-toned voice.</p>
<p>"And what was the crime, for which my brother
was condemned to this death? There beats no more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>
loyal heart in the bosom of any of these men, who do
the bidding of their country. His greatest fault, the
source of all his misery, was the love of war. In the
bright days of his boyhood, he said he would be content
to die on the field of battle. See, you have taken
away his life, in cold blood, among his own people, and
no eye hath pitied him."</p>
<p>The commandant stated briefly and calmly, that
desertion thrice repeated was death, that the trial of
his brother had been impartial, and the sentence just.
Something too, he added, about the necessity of enforcing
military discipline, and the exceeding danger of
remissness in a point like this.</p>
<p>"If he must die, why was it hidden from those whose
life was bound up in his? Why were they left to learn
from the idle voice of rumour, this death-blow to their
happiness? If they might not have gained his pardon
from an earthly tribunal, they would have been comforted
by knowing that he sought that mercy from above,
which hath no limit. Fearful power have ye, indeed,
to kill the body, but why need you put the never-dying
soul in jeopardy? There are those, to whom the moving
of the lips that you have silenced, would have been
most dear, though their only word had been to say
farewell. There are those, to whom the glance of that
eye, which you have sealed in blood, was like the clear
shining of the sun after rain. The wife of his bosom
would have thanked you, might she but have sat with
him on the floor of his prison, and his infant son would
have played with his fettered hands, and lighted up
his dark soul with one more smile of innocence. The
sister, to whom he has been as a father, would have
soothed his despairing spirit, with the hymn which in
infancy, she sang nightly with him, at their blessed
mother's knee. Nor would his only brother thus have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
mourned, might he but have poured the consolations
of the Gospel, once more upon that stricken wanderer,
and treasured up one tear of penitence."</p>
<p>A burst of grief overpowered him. The officer with
kindness assured him, that it was no fault of theirs,
that the family of his brother was not apprized of his
situation. That he strenuously desired no tidings might
be conveyed to them, saying that the sight of their
sorrow would be more dreadful to him than his doom.
During the brief interval between his sentence and execution,
he had the devoted services of a holy man, to
prepare him for the final hour.</p>
<p>Edward Ludlow composed himself to listen to every
word. The shock of surprise, with its tempest of tears,
had past. As he stood with uncovered brow, the
bright locks clustering around his noble forehead, it
was seen how strongly he resembled his fallen brother,
ere care and sorrow had clouded his manly beauty.
For a moment, his eyes were raised upward, and his
lips moved. Pious hearts felt that he was asking
strength from above, to rule his emotions, and to attain
that submission, which as a teacher of religion he
enforced on others.</p>
<p>Turning meekly towards the commanding officer, he
asked for the body of the dead, that it might be borne
once more to the desolate home of his birth, and buried
by the side of his father and his mother. The request
was granted with sympathy.</p>
<p>He addressed himself to the services connected with
the removal of the body, as one who bows himself
down to bear the will of the Almighty. And as he
raised the bleeding corpse of his beloved brother in
his arms, he said, "O war! war! whose tender mercies
are cruel, what <i>enmity</i> is so fearful to the soul, as
<i>friendship</i> with thee."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Victory" id="Victory"></a>Victory.</h1>
<p>Waft not to me the blast of fame,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That swells the trump of victory,</span><br />
For to my ear it gives the name<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of slaughter, and of misery.</span><br />
<br />
Boast not so much of honour's sword,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wave not so high the victor's plume,</span><br />
They point me to the bosom gor'd,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They point me to the blood-stained tomb.</span><br />
<br />
The boastful shout, the revel loud,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That strive to drown the voice of pain,</span><br />
What are they but the fickle crowd<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rejoicing o'er their brethren slain?</span><br />
<br />
And, ah! through glory's fading blaze,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I see the cottage taper, pale,</span><br />
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where unprotected orphans wail:</span><br />
<br />
Where the sad widow weeping stands,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As if her day of hope was done;</span><br />
Where the wild mother clasps her hands<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And asks the victor for her son:</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span><br />
Where the lone maid in secret sighs<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O'er the lost solace of her heart,</span><br />
As prostrate in despair she lies,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And feels her tortur'd life depart:</span><br />
<br />
Where midst that desolated land,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The sire, lamenting o'er his son,</span><br />
Extends his pale and powerless hand,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And finds its only prop is gone.</span><br />
<br />
See, how the bands of war and woe<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have rifled sweet domestic bliss;</span><br />
And tell me if your laurels grow<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And flourish in a soil like this?</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Silent_People" id="Silent_People"></a>Silent People.</h1>
<p>It was supposed in ancient times, that those who
were deprived of hearing and speech, were shut out
from knowledge. The ear was considered as the only
avenue to the mind. One of the early classic poets
has said.</p>
<p>
"To instruct the deaf, no art could ever reach,<br />
No care improve them, and no wisdom teach."<br />
</p>
<p>But the benevolence of our own days has achieved
this difficult work. Asylums for the education of mute
children are multiplying among us, and men of talents
and learning labour to discover the best modes of adding
to their dialect of pantomime the power of written
language. The neighbourhood of one of these Institutions
has furnished the opportunity of knowing the
progress of many interesting pupils of that class. Their
ideas, especially on religious subjects, are generally very
confused at their arrival there, even when much care
has been bestowed upon them at home.</p>
<p>A little deaf and dumb boy, who had the misfortune
early to lose his father, received tender care and love
from his mother and a younger sister, with whom it
was his chief delight to play, from morning till night.
After a few years, the village where they resided was
visited with a dangerous fever, and this family all lay
sick at the same time. The mother and daughter died,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
but the poor little deaf and dumb orphan recovered.
He had an aged grandmother who took him to her home,
and seemed to love him better for his infirmities. She
fed him carefully, and laid him in his bed with tenderness;
and in her lonely situation, he was all the world to
her. Every day she laboured to understand his signs, and
to communicate some new idea to his imprisoned mind.
She endeavoured to instruct him that there was a Great
Being, who caused the sun to shine, and the grass to
grow; who sent forth the lightning and the rain, and
was the Maker of man and beast. She taught him the
three letters G O and D; and when he saw in a book
this name of the Almighty, he was accustomed to bow
down his head with the deepest reverence. But when
she sought to inform him that he had a soul, accountable,
and immortal when the body died, she was grieved
that he seemed not to comprehend her. The little
silent boy loved his kind grandmother, and would sit
for hours looking earnestly in her wrinkled face, smiling,
and endeavouring to sustain the conversation. He was
anxious to perform any service for her that might testify
his affection; he would fly to pick up her knitting-bag
or her snuff-box when they fell, and traverse the
neighbouring meadows and woods, to gather such
flowers and plants as pleased her. Yet he was sometimes
pensive and wept; she knew not why. She supposed
he might be grieving for the relatives he had
lost, and redoubled her marks of tenderness. She often
perused with great interest, accounts of the intelligence
and happiness of the deaf and dumb, who enjoy a
system of education, adapted to their necessities, and
thought if any thing could separate her from her beloved
charge, it would be that he might share such an
inestimable privilege.</p>
<p>At length, the eyes of this benevolent lady grew<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>
dim through age, and when the little suppliant, by his
dialect of gestures, besought her attention, she was unable
to distinguish the movements of his hands, or
scarcely the form of his features. It was then her
earnest request that he might be placed at the American
Asylum in Hartford, for the education of the deaf
and dumb. There, when his first regrets at separation
had subsided, he began to make rapid improvement.
He became attached to his companions and teachers,
and both in his studies and sports, was happy. When
he had nearly completed the period allotted for a full
course of instruction, a conversation like the following
took place one evening, between him and a preceptor
whom he loved:</p>
<p>"I have frequently desired to ask what were some of
your opinions, before you became a pupil in this Institution.
What, for instance, were your ideas of the
sun and moon?"</p>
<p>"I supposed that the sun was a king and a warrior,
who ruled over, and slew the people, as he pleased.
When I saw brightness in the west, at closing day, I
thought it was the flame and smoke of cities which he
had destroyed in his wrath. The moon, I much disliked.
I considered her prying and officious, because
she looked into my chamber when I wished to sleep.
One evening, I walked in the garden, and the half-moon
seemed to follow me. I sought the shade of
some large trees, but found she was there before me.
I turned to go into the house, and advised her not to
come, because I hated her. But when I lay down in
my bed, she was there. I arose and closed the blinds.
Still there were crevices through which she peeped.
I bade her <i>go away</i>, and wept with passion, because
she disregarded my wishes. I suspected that she gazed
at me, more than at others, because I was deaf and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>
dumb, and that she would tell strangers of it, for I
felt ashamed of being different from other children."</p>
<p>"What did you think of the stars?"</p>
<p>"They were more agreeable to me. I imagined
that they were fair and well-dressed ladies, who gave
brilliant parties in the sky; and that they sometimes
rode for amusement, on beautiful horses, carrying large
candles in their hands."</p>
<p>"Had you any conception of death?"</p>
<p>"When my little sister died, I wondered why she
lay still so long. I thought she was lazy to be sleeping
when the sun had arisen. I gathered violets, and
threw them in her face, and said in my dialect of signs,
"Wake up; wake up!" And I was displeased at her,
and went so far as to say, "What a fool you are!"
when she permitted them to put her in a box, and carry
her away, instead of getting up to play with me.</p>
<p>"Afterwards, when my mother died, they told me
repeatedly, that she was <i>dead, dead</i>; and tried to explain
to me what death meant. But I was distressed
when I asked her for bread, that she did not give it to
me; and when she was buried, I went every day where
they had laid her, waiting, and expecting that she
would rise. Sometimes I grew impatient, and rolled
upon the turf that covered her, striking my forehead
against it, weeping and saying, "Mother, get up! get
up! why do you sleep there so long with the child? I
am sick, and hungry, and alone. Oh, Mother! mother!
get up!" When I was taken to my grandmother's
house, I could no longer visit the grave, and it
grieved me; for I believed if I continued to go and
cry there, she would at length hear me and come
up."</p>
<p>"I know that more pains were taken to instil religious
principles into your mind, than are commonly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>
bestowed upon the deaf and dumb. Will you tell me
what was your opinion of the Supreme Being?"</p>
<p>"My kind grandmother laboured without ceasing, to
impress me with reverence for the Almighty. Through
her efforts I obtained some idea of the power and goodness
which are visible in creation; but of <span class="smcap">Him</span>, who
wrought in the storm and in the sunshine, I was doubtful
whether it were a strong man, a huge animal, or a
vast machine. I was in all the ignorance of heathen
sin, until by patient attendance on your judicious course
of instruction, knowledge entered into my soul."</p>
<p>He then expressed to his teacher, the gratitude he
felt for the blessings of education, and affectionately
wishing him a good night, retired to repose.</p>
<p>Instances of the development of kind affections and
religious hopes, are often touchingly displayed among
the children who share in the privation of hearing and
speech. This was peculiarly the case with two little
silent sisters, beautiful in person and of gentle dispositions.
Their names were Phebe and Frances Hammond.
The eldest was a very fair, interesting child.
She was deaf and dumb from her birth, but from infancy
showed quick perceptions and a lively attention
to every object that passed before the eye. She seemed
perfectly happy, when the little sister, two and a half
years younger, and like herself mute, was old enough
to play with her. She would lead her with the greatest
gentleness, keeping watch lest she should get hurt,
with a tender, continual care. When they were permitted
to amuse themselves out of doors, if she saw
any thing approaching which she feared, she thought not
of herself, but encircled the little one in her arms, and
by cries sought for her relief and protection. If they
wished to climb a fence, she would proceed at first,
alone, trying every part, to be sure of its safety, ere she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>
returned to aid her darling sister, keeping a firm
hold on her as she ascended, and jumping over on the
other side, to extend her little arm and lift her
tenderly down. It was a touching sight, to view
these silent children, at their healthful sports upon the
smooth green lawn, or beneath the shade of spreading
trees, supplying as it were, the deficiency of Nature, by
an increased exercise of the sweetest, most sustaining
affections.</p>
<p>Ere long, they expressed their desire to attend school,
that they might "learn to do, like other children."
Here they were very diligent, and by great attention
from the instructress were taught to sew, to write, and
to spell many words. Visitants of the school expressed
surprise at the neatness of their needle-work, and
chirography.</p>
<p>When they were brought by their father, from their
home in Massachusetts, to the Asylum for the deaf and
dumb, in Hartford, Phebe was ten, and Frances seven
and a half years old. There was at that time a regulation
in force, that no pupil under the age of ten years,
could be received, being supposed unable to derive full
benefit from their system of instruction.</p>
<p>Yet these little silent sisters, who had been together
night and day, whose features and garb were the same,
the smile or the sadness of one face being suddenly
reflected on the other, as if but one soul animated two
bodies, how could they be parted? The idea of a
separate existence, a divided pleasure, had never entered
their minds. Now, they gazed on each other with an
expression of the deepest anguish. They folded each
other in their arms. No power of speech was so eloquent
as their imploring looks. The law relaxed its
prohibition in their case. They were permitted to remain
together.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p>
<p>Phebe took her seat immediately among the one
hundred and forty pupils, forgetting in her desire to
learn, the embarrassment of a stranger. Little Frances
was more diffident, and clung to her as to a mother,
never for a moment disappointed in finding the tenderest
sympathy and love. Soon they became cheerful and
happy. Their affectionate hearts were open to every
innocent pleasure. Though the youngest in school,
they were so docile and industrious as to obtain a rank
among the best scholars; and when the lessons of each
day were over, they comforted themselves with their
sweet, sisterly love. If one received the simplest gift,
it was instantly shared; if it could not be divided it
was considered as the property of both.</p>
<p>Phebe taught the little one to keep her clothes without
spot or stain, and to put every article in its proper
place. She led her by the hand wherever she went,
and if there was a tear on her cheek she kissed it away.
Little Frances looked up to her, with the most endearing
and perfect confidence. When they went home, at
the vacations in spring and autumn, the affectionate
deportment of these beautiful mute children, and their
progress in the dialect of signs, as well as in written
speech, was admired by all. After they had enjoyed
the benefit of instruction somewhat more than two
years, Phebe was observed to have a slight cough, and
being taken ill, was obliged to return to her parents.
Symptoms of consumption were too plainly revealed to
be mistaken. As she became more emaciated and
feeble, she desired to be carried every day at a certain
hour, into an unoccupied room, and left for a while, by
herself. On being asked why she wished this, she
answered that she might better lift up her thoughts to
Him who heareth prayer.</p>
<p>"In heaven," she said, "there are babes, and children,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>
and persons of every age. I think I have seen this in
my mind, in a bright dream. I am so weak, I shall
die. I pray that I may go to heaven. Oh! I wish
Frances to love God. She is my good sister."</p>
<p>She was asked if it was her wish to live and be restored
to health. She replied,</p>
<p>"No, I would see Jesus."</p>
<p>So, in quietness and peace, the voiceless spirit of the
loving child departed, to rejoice, we trust, amid the
melodies of heaven. Sweet, sisterly affection seemed
to have been her principal solace, here below. And if
it was capable of imparting such happiness to these
deaf mutes, surely the children who are blessed with
hearing and speech, might still more fully enjoy, and
exemplify it. All who have brothers and sisters should
perform their duty tenderly towards them, with constant
gratitude to Him who has vouchsafed them the comfort
of such relations.</p>
<p>Any little departure from kindness, will cause painful
remembrances in a time of bereavement. A boy
was seen often at the grave of a brother, younger than
himself. He hid his face upon the grassy mound and
wept bitterly. A friend who once saw him there, said,
"How much you loved your brother." But he replied
through his tears, "My grief is because I did not love
him more."</p>
<p>We have spoken of silent people. I can tell you of
one who suffers a still heavier calamity. At the same
Institution for the deaf and dumb, is a girl, to whom
noonday and midnight are the same, who takes no
pleasure in the summer landscape or the fair changes
of nature, hears not the sound of brooks bursting loose
in spring, nor the song of birds, nor the laughter of the
young child, neither looks upon the face of mother or
of friend. She is not only deaf and dumb, but blind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>
Her name is Julia Brace. Her earliest years were
spent in the home of her parents, who were poor, and
had several younger children. Of all their movements
she was observant, as far as her state would allow; and
when the weather was cold, would sometimes kneel on
the floor of their humble dwelling, to feel if their little
feet were naked as well as her own. If she ascertained
that others, and not herself, were furnished with shoes
and stockings, she would express uneasiness at the contrast.
Her perception, with regard to articles of dress,
was more accurate than could have been expected, and
when any gifts were presented her, soon ascertained
and preferred those which were of the most delicate
texture. Seated on her little block, weaving thin strips
of bark with bits of leather, which her father who was
a shoemaker threw away, she constructed for her cat,
strange bonnets, or other ornaments, equally rude, and
yet not wholly discordant with the principles of taste.</p>
<p>Sometimes, when the mother went out to a day's
work of washing, she left Julia, notwithstanding her
peculiar helplessness, with the care of the younger
children. On such occasions, she evinced more of
maternal solicitude, and even of skill in domestic legislation
than could have been rationally expected.</p>
<p>Once, when a dish had been broken, she imitated
what she supposed might be her mother's discipline, and
shook the little careless offender with some force. Then
placing her hand upon its eyes, and discovering that
it wept, and considering the act of discipline complete,
she hastened to take it in her arms and press it to her
bosom, and by preserving tenderness, soothe it into
good-humour and confidence.</p>
<p>While yet a child, her parents were relieved from
the expense of her maintenance, by some charitable
ladies, who placed her in the family of an elderly matron<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>
who kept a small day-school. Her curiosity was now
called forth into great activity, to search out the employments
of the scholars, and try to imitate them. She
observed that much of their time was occupied with
books. So she held a book long before her own sightless
eyes. But no knowledge visited her imprisoned
mind. Then, she held an open book before the face
of her favourite kitten, feeling its mouth at the same
time, and perceiving that its lips did not move, shook
its shoulder and rapped its ear, to quicken its imitation
of the studious children.</p>
<p>Trifling as these circumstances are in themselves,
they show perception, and perseverance, struggling
against the barriers that Nature had interposed.
Needle-work and knitting had been taught her, and
from these employments she drew her principal
solace. With these she would busy herself for hours,
until it became necessary to prompt her to the exercise
that health required. Counterpanes, patiently constructed
by her, of small pieces of calico, were sold to
aid in supplying her wardrobe, and specimens of her
work were distributed by her patrons, to prove of
what nicety and industry the poor, blind, and silent
girl was capable.</p>
<p>It was sometimes an amusement to her visitants to
give into her hand their watches, and test a peculiar
sagacity which she possessed, in restoring each to its
owner. Though their position with regard to her, or
to each other, was frequently and studiously varied,
and though she might hold at the same time, two or
three watches, neither stratagem nor persuasion could
induce her to yield either, except to the person from
whom she received it. This tenacity of principle, to
give every one his own, might be resolved into that
moral honesty which has ever formed a conspicuous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>
part of her character. Though nurtured in poverty,
and after her removal from the parental roof, in the
constant habit of being in contact with articles of dress
or food which strongly tempted her desires, she has
never been known to appropriate to herself, without
permission, the most trifling object. In a well-educated
child, this might be no remarkable virtue;
but in one, whose sealed ear can receive no explanation
of the rights of property, and whose perfect
blindness must often render it difficult even to define
them, the incorruptible firmness of this innate principle
is truly laudable. There is also connected with
it a delicacy of feeling, or scrupulousness of conscience,
which renders it necessary, in presenting her
any gift, to assure her repeatedly, by a sign which she
understands, that it is <i>for her</i>, ere she will consent to
accept it.</p>
<p>After her admission into the Asylum for the deaf
and dumb, in Hartford, her native place, efforts were
made by one of the benevolent instructors in that
Institution to teach her the alphabet. For this purpose
raised letters, as well as those indented beneath a
smooth surface, were put in requisition. Punctually
she repaired to the school-room, with the seeing
pupils, and spent hour after hour in imitating with
pins upon a cushion, the forms of each separate letter.
But all in vain. However accurate her delineations
might sometimes be, they conveyed no idea to the
mind, sitting in thick darkness. It was therefore
deemed best that it should pursue those occupations
which more immediately ministered to its comfort
and satisfaction.</p>
<p>It has been observed that persons who are deprived
any one sense, have additional vigour infused into
those that remain. Thus blind persons are distinguished<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>
by exquisite delicacy of touch, and the deaf and dumb
concentrate their whole souls in the eye, their only
avenue to knowledge. But with her, whose ear, eye,
and tongue, are alike dead to action, the power of the
olfactory organs is so heightened, as almost to form a
new and peculiar sense. It almost transcends the
sagacity of the spaniel.</p>
<p>As the abodes which from her earliest recollection
she had inhabited, were circumscribed and humble, it
was supposed that at her first reception into the Asylum,
she might testify surprise. But she immediately busied
herself in quietly exploring the size of the apartments,
and smelled at the thresholds, and then, as if by the
union of a mysterious geometry with a powerful memory,
never made a false step upon a flight of stairs, or
entered a wrong door, or mistook her seat at the table.
At the tea-table with the whole family, on sending her
cup to be replenished, if one is accidentally returned
to her, which has been used by another person, she
perceives it in a moment, and pushes it from her with
some slight appearance of disgust, as if her sense of
propriety had been invaded. There is not the
slightest difference in the cups, and in this instance
she seems endowed by a sense of penetration not
possessed by those in the full enjoyment of sight.</p>
<p>Among her various excellencies, neatness and love
of order are conspicuous. Her simple wardrobe is
systematically arranged, and it is impossible to displace
a single article in her drawers, without her perceiving
and reinstating it. When the large baskets of
clean linen are weekly brought from the laundress,
she selects her own garments without hesitation, however
widely they may be dispersed among the mass.
If any part of her dress requires mending, she is
prompt and skilful in repairing it, and her perseverance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>
in this branch of economy greatly diminishes the
expense of her clothing.</p>
<p>The donations of charitable visitants are deposited
in a box with an inscription, and she has been made
to understand that the contents are devoted to her
benefit. This box she frequently poises in her hand,
and expresses pleasure when it testifies an increase of
weight, for she has long since ascertained that money
is the medium for the supply of her wants, and
attaches to it a proportionable value.</p>
<p>Though her habits are perfectly regular and consistent,
yet occasionally, some action occurs which it is
difficult to explain. One summer morning, while
employed with her needle, she found herself incommoded
by the warmth of the sun. She arose, opened
the window, closed the blinds, and again resumed her
work. This movement, though perfectly simple in a
young child, who had seen it performed by others,
must in her case have required a more complex train
of reasoning. How did she know that the heat which
she felt was caused by the sun, or that by interposing
an opaque body she might exclude his rays?</p>
<p>Persons most intimately acquainted with her habits
assert, that she constantly regards the recurrence of
the Sabbath, and composes herself to a deeper quietness
of meditation. Her needle-work, from which she
will not consent to be debarred on other days, she
never attempts to resort to, and this wholly without
influence from those around her. Who can have impressed
upon her benighted mind the sacredness of
that day? and by what art does she, who is ignorant
of all numerical calculation, compute without error
the period of its rotation? A philosopher who
should make this mysterious being his study, might
find much to astonish him, and perhaps something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
to throw light upon the structure of the human
mind.</p>
<p>Before her entrance at the Asylum, it was one of her
sources of satisfaction to be permitted to lay her hand
upon the persons who visited her, and thus to scrutinize
with some minuteness, their features, or the nature of
their apparel. It seemed to constitute one mode of
intercourse with her fellow-beings, which was soothing
to her lonely heart, and sometimes gave rise to degrees
of admiration or dislike, not always to be accounted for
by those whose judgment rested upon the combined
evidence of all their senses. But since her removal to
this noble institution, where the visits of strangers are
so numerous as to cease to be a novelty, she has discontinued
this species of attention, and is not pleased
with any long interruption to her established system of
industry.</p>
<p>The genial influences of spring wake her lone
heart to gladness, and she gathers the first flowers,
and even the young blades of grass, and inhales their
freshness with a delight bordering on transport.
Sometimes, when apparently in deep thought, she is
observed to burst into laughter, as if her associations
of ideas were favourable, not only to cheerfulness, but
to mirth. The society of the female pupils at the
Asylum is soothing to her feelings, and their habitual
kind offices, their guiding arm in her walks, or the
affectionate pressure of their hands, awaken in her
demonstrations of gratitude and friendship. One of
them was sick, but it was not supposed that amid the
multitude that surrounded her, the blind girl would
be conscious of her absence. A physician was called,
and she was made to understand his profession by
placing a finger upon her pulse. She immediately
arose, and led him with the earnest solicitude of friendship<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
to the bedside of the invalid, placing her hand in
his with an affecting confidence in the power of healing.
As she has herself never been sick, it is the more
surprising that she should so readily comprehend the
efficacy and benevolence of the medical profession.</p>
<p>Julia Brace is still an inmate of the Asylum at
Hartford. She leads a life of quiet industry, and
apparent contentment. Some slight services in the
domestic department supply the exercise that health
requires, and the remainder of the time she chooses to
be employed in sewing or knitting. Visitants often
linger by her side, to witness the mystical process of
threading her needle, which is accomplished rapidly by
the aid of her tongue. So, the tongue that hath never
spoken is still in continual use.</p>
<p>Her youth is now past, and she seems to make few,
if any, new mental acquisitions. Her sister in calamity,
Laura Bridgman, of the Institution for the Blind in
Boston, has far surpassed her in intellectual attainments,
and excites the wondering admiration of every
beholder. The felicity of her position, the untiring
philanthropy of her patron, Dr. Howe, and the constant
devotion of an accomplished teacher, have probably
produced this difference of result, more than any original
disparity of talents or capacity.</p>
<p>Julia, in her life of patient regularity, affords as
strong a lesson as can be given of the power of industry
to soothe privation and to confer content.
While employed she is satisfied, but if at any time unprovided
with work, her mind preys upon itself, not
being able to gather ideas from surrounding objects, and
having but a limited stock of knowledge to furnish
material for meditation. If this poor heart which is
never to thrill at the sound of a human voice, or be
lifted up with joy at the fair scenery of earth, and sky<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>
and waters, finds in willing diligence a source of happiness,
with how much more gladness should we turn to
the pursuits of industry, who are impelled by motives
and repaid by results which she must never enjoy!</p>
<p>Dear young friends, who can see the smile on the
faces of those whom you love, who can hear their
approving voices, who can utter the words of knowledge,
and rejoice in the glorious charms of nature, who know
also that life is short, and that you must give strict
account of it to God, how faithfully and earnestly
should you improve your time! You who have the
great, blessed gift of speech, be careful to make a right
use of it. Yes: speak kind, and sweet, and true words,
and so help your own souls on their way to Heaven.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Laura_Bridgman" id="Laura_Bridgman"></a>Laura Bridgman.</h1>
<p class="center">THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL, AT THE INSTITUTION FOR THE
BLIND, IN BOSTON</p>
<p>Where is the light that to the eye<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Heaven's holy message gave,</span><br />
Tinging the retina with rays<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From sky, and earth, and wave?</span><br />
<br />
Where is the sound that to the soul<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mysterious passage wrought,</span><br />
And strangely made the moving lip<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A harp-string for the thought?</span><br />
<br />
All fled! all lost! Not even the rose<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a><br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An odour leaves behind,</span><br />
That, like a broken reed, might trace<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tablet of the mind.</span><br />
<br />
That mind! It struggles with its fate,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The anxious conflict, see!</span><br />
As if through Bastile-bars it sought<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Communion with the free.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>Yet still its prison-robe it wears<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Without a prisoner's pain;</span><br />
For happy childhood's beaming sun<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Glows in each bounding vein.</span><br />
<br />
And bless'd Philosophy is near,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In Christian armour bright,</span><br />
To scan the subtlest clew that leads<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To intellectual light.</span><br />
<br />
Say, lurks there not some ray of heaven<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amid thy bosom's night,</span><br />
Some echo from a better land,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To make the smile so bright?</span><br />
<br />
The lonely lamp in Greenland cell,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Deep 'neath a world of snow,</span><br />
Doth cheer the loving household group<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though none around may know;</span><br />
<br />
And, sweet one, hath our Father's hand<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Plac'd in thy casket dim</span><br />
Some radiant and peculiar lamp,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To guide thy steps to Him?</span><br />
</p>
<div class="footnotes">
<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Laura is deprived of the sense of smell, which in Julia's case is so acute.</p></div>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Humble_Friends" id="Humble_Friends"></a>Humble Friends.</h1>
<p>Kindness to animals shows an amiable disposition,
and correct principles. The inferior creation
were given for our use, but not for our abuse or
cruelty. Many of them add greatly to the comfort
of domestic life, and also display qualities deserving of
regard. The noble properties of the dog, the horse,
and the "half-reasoning elephant," have long been
known and praised. But among the lower grades of
animals, especially if they receive kind treatment, traits
of character are often discovered that surprise or delight
us.</p>
<p>Cats, so frequently the objects of neglect or barbarity,
are more sagacious than is generally supposed. The
mother of four young kittens missed one of her nurslings,
and diligently searched the house to find it.
Then she commenced calling upon the neighbours, gliding
from room to room, and looking under sofas and
beds with a troubled air. At length she found it in a
family in the vicinity, where it had been given by her
mistress. Taking it in her mouth, she brought it home
and bestowed on it her nursing cares and maternal
caresses for a few weeks, then carried it back to the
same neighbour, and left it in the same spot where she
found it. It would seem as if she wished to testify her
approbation of the home selected for her child, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
desired only to nurture it until it should be old enough
to fill it properly.</p>
<p>A cat who had repeatedly had her kittens taken
from her and drowned immediately after their birth,
went to a barn belonging to the family, quite at a long
distance from the house. She so judiciously divided
her time, as to obtain her meals at home and attend
to her nursery abroad. At length she entered the
kitchen, followed by four of her offspring, well-grown,
all mewing in chorus. Had she foresight enough to
conclude, that if she could protect them until they
reached a more mature age, they would escape the fate
of their unfortunate kindred?</p>
<p>A little girl once sat reading, with a large favourite
cat in her lap. She was gently stroking it, while it
purred loudly, to express its joy. She invited a person
who was near, to feel its velvet softness. Reluctant to
be interrupted in an industrious occupation that required
the use of both hands, the person did not immediately
comply, but at length touched the head so
abruptly that the cat supposed itself to have been
struck. Resenting the indignity, it ceased its song, and
continued alternately rolling and closing its eyes, yet
secretly watching, until both the busy hands had
resumed their employment. Then, stretching forth
a broad, black velvet paw, it inflicted on the back of
one of them a quick stroke, and jumping down, concealed
itself beneath the chair of its patron. There
seemed in this simple action a nice adaptation of means
to ends: a prudent waiting, until the retaliation that
was meditated could be conveniently indulged, and a
prompt flight from the evil that might ensue.</p>
<p>The race of rats are usually considered remarkable
only for voraciousness, or for ingenious and mischievous
inventions to obtain the gratification of appetite. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>
vessel that had been much infested by them, was when
in port fumigated with brimstone, to expel them.
Escaping in great numbers, they were dispatched by
people stationed for that purpose. Amid the flying
victims a group was observed to approach slowly, upon
the board placed between the vessel and the shore.
One of those animals held in his mouth a stick, the
extremities of which were held by two others, who
carefully led him. It was discovered that he was entirely
blind. The executioners making way for them,
suffered them to live. It was not in the heart of man
to scorn such an example.</p>
<p>Another of our ships, while in a foreign port, took
similar measures to free itself from those troublesome
inmates. Amid the throngs that fled from suffocating
smoke to slaughtering foes, one was seen moving laboriously
as if overburdened. Climbing over the bodies
of his dead companions, he bore upon his back another,
so old as to be unable to walk. Like Eneas, escaping
from the flames of Troy, perhaps it was an aged father
that he thus carried upon his shoulders. Whether it
were filial piety or respect for age, his noble conduct,
as in the previous instance, saved his life and that of
his venerable friend.</p>
<p>Sheep are admired for their innocence and meekness,
more than for strong demonstrations of character.
Yet the owner of a flock was once surprised by seeing
one of his fleecy people rushing to and fro beneath his
window, in great agitation and alarm. Following her
to the pasture, where she eagerly led the way, he found
a fierce dog tearing the sheep. Having put him to
flight, he turned in search of the messenger, and found
her in a close thicket, where she had carefully hidden
her own little lamb, ere she fled to apprize the master of
their danger. This strangely intelligent animal was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
permitted to live to the utmost limit of longevity
allotted to her race.</p>
<p>The instinct of the beaver approaches the bounds of
reason. Their dexterity in constructing habitations
and rearing mounds to repel the watery element, surpasses
that of all other animals. A gentleman who
resided where they abound, wished to ascertain whether
this was inherent, or the effect of imitation. He took
therefore, to his house, an infant beaver, ere its eyes
were opened. It was an inmate of his kitchen, where
one day, from a leaky pail, a small stream of water
oozed out upon the floor. Out ran the little beaver,
and collected sticks and clay, with which it built a dam
to stop the passage of the tiny brook.</p>
<p>An Indian, going out to shoot beaver, saw a large
one felling a lofty tree. Ere he gave the finishing
strokes, he ascended a neighbouring hill, throwing his
head about, and taking deep draughts of air. The Indian,
who stedfastly regarded him, supposed that he
was taking an observation of which way the wind blew:
as when he made his last effort on the tree, he made
use of this knowledge to shelter himself from injury at
its fall. He then measured the trunk into equal
lengths for the height of the house he was to build,
and loading his broad tail with wet clay, made a mark
at each division. Uttering a peculiar cry, three little
beavers appeared at their father's call, and began to
knaw asunder the wood at the places which he had
designated.</p>
<p>"When I saw this," said the Indian, "I turned away.
Could I harm such a creature? No. He was to me
as a brother."</p>
<p>Among the insect tribes, the ant sustains a good
character for foresight and industry, having been cited
by the wise monarch of Israel as an example and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
reproof to the sluggard. Their almost resistless force
in the tropical countries, where they move in bodies,
shows the power that the feeble may acquire through
unity of effort and design.</p>
<p>When Dr. Franklin was on his embassy in France,
soon after our Revolution, he one morning sat musing
over his solitary breakfast, and perceived a legion of
large black ants taking possession of the sugar-bowl.
His philosophic mind being ever ready for experiments,
he caused it to be suspended from the ceiling by a
string. They returned. The sweet food was above
their reach. It was worth an effort to regain it. One
placed himself in a perpendicular position, and another
mounted upon his shoulders. Others ascended the
same scaffolding, each stretching to his utmost altitude.
Down fell the line. Yet it was again and again renewed.
Then the Babel-builders disappeared. Had
they given up the siege? No. They had only
changed their mode of attack. Soon they were seen
traversing the ceiling, and precipitating themselves
upon the coveted spoil, by the string that sustained it.
Here was somewhat of the same boldness and perseverance
that led Hannibal across the Alps, to pour his
soldiers down upon astonished Italy.</p>
<p>Thus the spider that sought so many times to fasten
its frail thread, and at length succeeded, gave a profitable
lesson to King Robert the Bruce, when he
ruminated in discouragement and despair on his failing
enterprises.</p>
<p>Parrots are generally considered as senseless repeaters
of sounds and words, that convey neither sentiment
nor feeling. Now and then, there seems some variation
from this rule. A parrot who had been reared with
kindness, selected as his prime favourite the youngest
child in the family. By every means in his power he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>
expressed this preference. The little girl was seized
with a severe sickness. He missed her in her accustomed
haunts, and turning his head quickly from side
to side, called loudly for her.</p>
<p>At length, the fair form, stretched in its coffin, met
his view. In wild and mournful tones, he continued
to utter her name. He was removed far from the
room, but the shrill echo of his voice was still heard
amid the funeral obsequies, pronouncing with frantic
grief the name of his lost Mary. Ever afterwards,
when the sound of the tolling bell met his ear, the
fountains of memory were troubled, and the cry of
"Mary! Mary!" mingled with the mournful knell, till
it ceased.</p>
<p>Since so many interesting properties are discovered in
the inferior creation, where, perhaps, we least expected
them, it is well to search for such traits of character
as deserve our regard, and consider them as humble
friends, that we may better do our duty to them, and
please Him who has entrusted them to our protection.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Butterfly_in_a_School-Room" id="Butterfly_in_a_School-Room"></a>Butterfly in a School-Room.</h1>
<p>Gay inmate of our studious room.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adorn'd with nature's brightest dyes,</span><br />
Whose gadding wing, and tissued plume,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Allure so many wandering eyes.</span><br />
<br />
The breath of eve is gathering bleak,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And thou dost shrink beneath its power,</span><br />
And faint, or famish'd, seem'st to seek<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The essence from yon withering flower</span><br />
<br />
Haste to thine own secluded cell,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And shield thee from the chilling blast,</span><br />
And let the honied casket well<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Supply a fresh and free repast.</span><br />
<br />
Hast thou no home? Didst thou provide<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No shelter from autumnal rain?</span><br />
Hast thou no cheering board supplied<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From all the treasures of the plain?</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span><br />
What wilt thou do 'neath wintry skies?<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Behold! the charms of summer fade,</span><br />
Thy friend, the labouring bee, was wise<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ere on their stalks the plants decay'd,</span><br />
<br />
Frail insect! shivering 'mid the storm,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thy season of delight is past,</span><br />
And soon that gaudy, graceful form,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall stiffen on the whelming blast.</span><br />
<br />
Companions dear! whose frequent glance<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Marks yon fair creature's brilliant hue,</span><br />
Methinks, its wing in frolic dance,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Doth speak in wisdom's lore to you:</span><br />
<br />
Seek not to flutter, and to flaunt,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While a few years their courses roll,</span><br />
But heed approaching winter's want,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And store the sweetness of the soul.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></div>
<h1><a name="A_Brave_Boy" id="A_Brave_Boy"></a>A Brave Boy.</h1>
<p>There are ways in which boys may show true courage,
without being forward and bold in contention. It
often requires more to avoid it. To show forbearance
when they are provoked, or to tell the whole truth
when they have committed faults, are proofs of more
lofty and high principle than to imitate the fighting
animals, and repel force by force, or the fox-like ones,
and practise cunning. To live at peace, may need
more firmness than to quarrel; because one is to control
our passions, and the other to indulge them.</p>
<p>The bravest boy is he who rules himself, and does
his duty without boasting. I have known some beautiful
instances of this class of virtues, and will mention
one that is now in my mind.</p>
<p>A widow, who was the mother of several children,
resided in a pleasant part of New England. She faithfully
nurtured and instructed them, and one of her
precepts was, that when they had any difficult duty to
perform, they should ask strength from above. Her
youngest was a boy of eight years old, active and intelligent.
He was not only obedient to her, but
attentive to his studies, and beloved by his instructors.</p>
<p>One fine summer afternoon, when there was no
school, he was walking on the banks of a river that
beautified the scenery of his native place. He admired<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>
the silver stream as it sparkled in the sunbeams, and
the rich verdure that clothed its banks. Suddenly, a
large boy plunged in, as if for the purpose of bathing,
though he did not divest himself of any part of his
clothing. Soon, he struggled in distress, as if ready to
sink.</p>
<p>Ralph Edward, the son of the widow, had been
taught to swim. Throwing off his boots and his little
coat, he hastened to the relief of the drowning stranger.
He found him nearly senseless, and though much larger
than himself, and nearly twice his age, succeeded by
great exertions in bringing him to the shore. There,
he supported him against a bank, until he had thrown
from his mouth a quantity of water, and was able to
thank his benefactor. He confessed that he was ignorant
of the art of swimming, but had a great desire
to learn, and had no idea that the river was so deep and
swift. When he was able to proceed on his way,
Ralph Edward returned home. His head was giddy,
and his breast throbbed with the efforts he had made
He went to his little chamber, and throwing himself
upon the bed, wept bitterly. His mother heard him
moaning, and inquired the cause of his grief. He told
her he could not forget the convulsed features of a
half-drowned boy, and the pain he seemed to feel when
he gasped for breath upon the bank. Then, in compliance
with her request, he related all the circumstances.</p>
<p>"My son, do you know that you have been in great
danger? Have you never heard that the grasp of
drowning persons is fatal?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes. But mother, what could I do? Should
I stand still, and see him die? Had I waited for other
help, he must have sunk to rise no more."</p>
<p>"Was he your friend?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p>
<p>"I do not even know his name. I think he is a
servant in some family not far off. I have seen him
driving a cow to pasture, but never spoke to him until
to-day."</p>
<p>"How were you able to swim, and support a boy
so much larger than yourself?"</p>
<p>"Mother, I cannot say. I only know that I remember
what you told us to do when we had any difficult
duty to perform, and I begged for strength of our
Father who is in Heaven."</p>
<p>The mother comforted her child, and soothed his
agitated nerves, and gave him her blessing. After
that he slept sweetly and awoke refreshed. Trembling
at the risk he had run, she still was thankful for the
spirit that had moved him to do good to a stranger, and
the piety that had made him mindful of the great
Giver of strength and Hearer of prayer.</p>
<p>She reflected with gratitude also, upon his humility.
He did not say boastfully, "I have rescued a boy from
the river, when he was ready to sink. He was larger
than I, but I did it all alone. He is almost twice as
old too, and does not even know how to keep himself
up in the water, while I can swim as well and boldly as
a man."</p>
<p>No. He came home without alluding to the occurrence,
as if it were a matter of course, to help those
who were in need. He complained not of fatigue,
though every nerve was strained and tremulous. He
went silently to his own secluded room, and shed tears
of pity at the remembrance of the struggles of the sufferer.
The true greatness that prompted this forgetfulness
of self, was as remarkable as the courage that
snatched a fellow-creature from danger.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></div>
<h1><a name="May_Morning" id="May_Morning"></a>May Morning.</h1>
<p>May is here, with skies of blue,<br />
Tuneful birds of varied hue,<br />
Blossoms bright on plant and tree:<br />
Ye, who love her smile of glee,<br />
Leave the city's thronging streets,<br />
Meet her in her green retreats,<br />
And, with thrilling heart inhale<br />
Perfumes from her balmy gale.<br />
<br />
Come! for countless gifts she bears;<br />
Take her cordial for your cares:<br />
Cull the charms that never cloy,<br />
Twine the wreaths of social joy,<br />
And with liberal hand dispense<br />
Blessings of benevolence:<br />
For when Spring shall fade away,<br />
And the year grow dim and gray,<br />
These, with changeless warmth shall glow<br />
Mid the hills of wintry snow,<br />
And undying fragrance cast,<br />
When the <i>Spring of life</i> is past.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Huguenot_Grandfathers_Tale" id="The_Huguenot_Grandfathers_Tale"></a>The Huguenot Grandfather's Tale.</h1>
<p>It is doubtless known to my readers, that the Huguenots
were French Protestants, who on account of
religious persecution fled from their country. The
Edict of Nantz was a law made by Henry IV. of
France, allowing liberty of conscience, and safety to
those who dissented from the faith of the Church of
Rome, the established religion of the realm. This
edict was repealed by Louis XIV. in 1685; and the
Protestants, or Huguenots, as they were generally
called, left their country in great numbers and sought
refuge in foreign lands. Thousands found a peaceful
home in this western world, and their descendants are
among the most respected and honoured inhabitants of
our happy country.</p>
<p>Once, on a cold wintry evening, somewhat more than
a century since, a bright light was seen streaming from
the casement of a pleasant abode in Boston, casting
cheerful radiance upon the snow-covered pavement.
Within, by a blazing hearth, a group of children gathered
around their mother, and the white-haired grandsire,
singing with sweet voices, their evening hymn.
Then, as the mother led away the little ones to their
rest, the eldest, a boy of about twelve years old, drew
his seat near the arm-chair of the aged man, and
gazing affectionately on his mild, venerable countenance,
said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p>
<p>"Please, dear grandfather, tell me another of your
good stories about our ancestors."</p>
<p>"So, I asked, in my boyhood, of our blessed grandmother,
tales of olden times, sitting close at her feet,
when the lamps were just lighted. Even now, I think
I see her before me, with her silver locks, her brow but
slightly wrinkled, and her eye beaming with a brilliance
like youth, as she granted my request. My brothers
and sisters loved and respected her, as a being of a
superior order. Her memory of early scenes was clear
and vivid, even in extreme age, when passing events
made but a slight impression. I perceive that my own
memory is assuming somewhat of the same character,
and dwells with peculiar delight among the people and
events of ancient times."</p>
<p>"Those are exactly what I delight to hear. I love
the conversation of those who can tell what happened
long before I was born. I will listen most attentively
to whatever you shall be pleased to relate."</p>
<p>"I shall tell you of my grandfather's first visit to
Paris. He was then about two years older than yourself,
and was taken thither by his father, who held a
military command under Lord Teligny, who, you remember
to have seen in history, was son-in-law to the
great Admiral Coligny. They were summoned to attend
and take part in the public demonstrations of joy
which marked the nuptials of young Henry of Navarre,
and the princess Margaret. This was in the spring of
1572. The Queen of Navarre, with her son and suite,
had just arrived, and were received with great pomp
and festivity. Charles IX. was at that time king of
France. He was a treacherous, vacillating character,
and ruled by his mother, Catharine de Medicis, who
was far more wicked than himself. To further her
own plots, she induced him to treat the Protestant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>
noblemen with marked attention. He complimented
the manly beauty of De Teligny, the dignified deportment
of the Baron de Rosny, and the philosophy of the
Count de la Rochefaucault. He was fond of being
seen walking arm in arm with the great Admiral Coligny,
whom he often addressed by the title of "<i>Mon
Pere</i>." Among the gallant, high-spirited Huguenots of
rank, who dared and did so much for conscience' sake,
Coligny was at that period the most distinguished.</p>
<p>His whole life was marked by decided and habitual
piety. Prayers, and the chanted praise of psalms,
arose up twice a day from his household. The officers
both of France and Germany, who often surrounded
his hospitable table, were the witnesses of his humble
devotion. For as soon as the cloth was removed, he
rose up, with all who were present, and if there was no
minister there, rendered himself, earnest thanks to
Almighty God. The sacred worship which he enjoyed
in the quiet of his family, he endeavoured as far as
possible to establish in the camp and in the army.</p>
<p>Many of the French nobles followed under their own
roofs the religious example of Coligny. For he was
ever exhorting and impressing on them the importance
of daily, practical piety, saying that it was not enough
that the father of a family should himself lead a holy
life, unless he led and induced his household to follow
his footsteps and imitate his example."</p>
<p>"Was Jane, Queen of Navarre, a Protestant?"</p>
<p>"Yes, and distinguished by the most devoted piety.
She had not been long in Paris, ere she was seized with
mortal sickness. Some suspected it to be the effect of
poison, administered by Catharine, that this formidable
protector of the Protestants might be out of the way,
ere her plot to destroy them was hazarded. When the
Queen of Navarre saw that her end drew nigh, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
called her son to her bedside, and charged him solemnly
to maintain the true religion, to take a tender care of
the education of his sister, to avoid the society of
vicious persons, and not to suffer his soul to be diverted
from duty, by the empty pleasures of the world.
With patience and even cheerful serenity of countenance,
she endured the pains of her disease, and to her
mourning friends said, "I pray you not to weep for
me. God by this sickness calleth me to the enjoyment
of a better life." It was on the 9th of June,
1572, that she departed, with the prayer of faith on
her lips, and the benignity of an angel."</p>
<p>"Was your grandfather in Paris at the time of the
marriage of Henry and Margaret?"</p>
<p>"He was, and attentively observed the splendid
scene. The 18th of August was appointed for the
nuptial ceremony. An ample pavilion was erected opposite
to the great church of Notre Dame. It was
magnificently covered with cloth of gold. The concourse
of spectators was immense, and their shouts
seemed to rend the sky, as the youthful pair appeared
in their royal garments. When Henry, bowing almost
to the feet of his beautiful bride, took from his brow
the coronet of Navarre, the ladies admired his gracefulness,
and the freshness of his auburn hair, which
inclining to red, curled richly around his noble forehead.
The princess had a highly brilliant complexion, and
was decorated with a profusion of splendid jewels.</p>
<p>The Cardinal of Bourbon received their vows.
There seemed some degree of displeasure to curl his
haughty lip. Probably he was dissatisfied that all the
ceremonies of the Romish church were not observed.
For as the prince was a Protestant, and the princess
Catholic, the solemnities were of a mixed nature, accommodated
to both. It had been settled in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>
marriage contract, that neither party should interfere
with the other, in the exercise of their different religions.
To give public proof of this, as soon as the
nuptial ceremony was performed, the bride left the
pavilion to attend mass, and the bridegroom to hear
the sermon of a Protestant divine. Acclamations and
music from countless instruments loudly resounded,
when the royal couple again appeared, and proceeded
together to the magnificent bridal banquet. Charles
presented his sister with 100,000 crowns for her
dower, and in the festivities which succeeded the marriage,
who could have foreseen the dreadful massacre of
St. Bartholomew?"</p>
<p>"I have read in my history of that frightful scene.
Dear Grandfather, how soon did it follow the nuptials
which you have described?"</p>
<p>"Less than a week intervened. The ringing of the
bells for morning prayers, at three o'clock, on Sunday,
August 24th, was the signal for the Catholics to rush
forth and murder the Protestants. The holy Sabbath
dawned in peace. The matin-bell, calling the devout
to worship a God of mercy, was heard. Man came
forth to shed the blood of his unsuspecting brother.
The work of destruction began in many parts of the
city, at the same moment. Tumult and shrieks and
uproar increased, until they deepened into a terrible
and universal groan. The streets were filled with infuriated
soldiers, and almost every habitation of the
Huguenots became a slaughter-house. Infants were
transfixed on pikes, and women precipitated themselves
from high windows and battlements, that they might
die without outrage. Thirty thousand fell victims in
this horrible massacre, which extending itself from
Paris to the provinces, was not satiated until more than
twice that number had been sacrificed."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p>
<p>"What became of your grandfather during this scene
of horror?"</p>
<p>"At the commencement of the tumult, his father
hastily armed himself, and supposing it some temporary
disturbance, went forth to aid in quelling it, commanding
him to remain in the house. He obeyed
until he was no longer able to endure the tortures of
suspense, and then rushed out in search of a father
whom he was never more to behold. Hasting to the
quarters of Lord Teligny, his friend and benefactor, he
found him mortally wounded, and faintly repeating the
names of his wife and children. He then flew to the
Hotel de St. Pierre, where Admiral Coligny lodged.
But his headless trunk was precipitated from the window,
and dragged onward by blood-smeared men, with
faces scarcely human.</p>
<p>He had been wounded previous to the massacre. On
Friday, the 22nd, he was coming from the Louvre, with
a group of noblemen. He walked slowly, reading a
petition which had been presented him. As he passed
the cloister of St. Germain, he was shot by an arquebus
loaded with three balls. His left arm was deeply
wounded, and the fore-finger of his right hand carried
away. No trace of the assassin, who had been employed
by the Duke of Guise, could be found, though
the friends of the Admiral made persevering search.</p>
<p>As the surgeon on examination feared that the
copper balls were poisoned, this illustrious man supposed
that his hour had come, and turning to his
lamenting friends, said,</p>
<p>"Why do you weep? For myself, I am honoured
to receive these wounds, for the holy cause of my God.
Pray him to strengthen me."</p>
<p>The massacre commenced while it was yet dark, on
Sunday morning, and the Duke of Guise, dreading lest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>
Coligny, notwithstanding his injuries, should escape, and
by his courage and influence reanimate the Protestants,
hastened to his lodgings with three hundred soldiers.
Knocking at the outer gate, they demanded admission
in the name of the king. The gentleman who opened
it, fell, stabbed to the heart.</p>
<p>The wounded Admiral, in his apartment, was engaged
in prayer with a minister who attended him. A
terrified servant rushed in, exclaiming,</p>
<p>"My Lord, the inner gate is forced. We have no
means of resisting."</p>
<p>"It is long since," replied Coligny, calmly, "that I
prepared myself to die. Save yourselves all who can.
Me, you cannot defend. I commend my soul to the
mercy of God."</p>
<p>He arose from his bed, and being unable to stand
upright, on account of his wounds, supported himself
with his back against the wall. The first who burst
into his chamber was a grim German, servant to the
Duke of Guise.</p>
<p>"Are you the Admiral?"</p>
<p>"Yes. I am he."</p>
<p>And the illustrious man, fixing his eyes without
emotion on the naked sword of his murderer, said, with
the dignity of a Christian,</p>
<p>"Young man! you ought to respect my age and
infirmities."</p>
<p>The answer of the assassin was to plunge his weapon
deep in that noble bosom. The Duke of Guise traversed
the court below, with breathless impatience. To
his fierce spirit, every moment seemed an age.</p>
<p>"Is the work done?" he asked.</p>
<p>"It is finished, my Lord!"</p>
<p>He demanded to see it, with his own eyes. They
raised the body of the Admiral to cast it down to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>
Still faintly respiring, it seemed to cling to the casement.</p>
<p>At length, the ruthless murderers precipitated it into
the court-yard. Guise wiped with his handkerchief the
face suffused with blood, and gazing intensely upon it by
the flaring lamps, exclaimed,</p>
<p>"It is the man."</p>
<p>Rushing into the streets, he bade, with hoarse cries,
the work of death to proceed, in the name of the
king.</p>
<p>While our ancestor was hurrying in amazement and
terror from place to place, he met a boy of nearly his
own age, whose placid countenance and unmoved deportment
strongly contrasted with the surrounding
horrors. Two soldiers apparently had him in charge,
shouting "<i>To mass! to mass!</i>" while he, neither in
compliance nor opposition, calmly continued his course,
until they found some more conspicuous object of barbarity,
and released him from their grasp. This proved
to be Maximilian Bethune, afterwards the great Duke
of Sully, prime minister of Henry IV., who by a wonderful
mixture of prudence and firmness, preserved a
life which was to be of such value to the realm. He
was at this time making his way through the infuriated
mob, to the College of Burgundy, where in the friendship
of its principal, La Faye, he found protection and
safety."</p>
<p>"Please not to forget what befell our relative."</p>
<p>It was in vain that he attempted to imitate this
example of self-command. Distracted with fear for
his father, he searched for him in scenes of the utmost
danger, wildly repeating his name. A soldier raised
over his head a sword dripping with blood. Ere it fell,
a man in a black habit took his arm through his, and
with some exertion of strength led him onward. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>
entered less populous streets, where carnage seemed
not to have extended, before he perfectly recovered his
recollection. Then he would have disengaged himself,
but his arm was detained, as strongly as if it were
pinioned. "Let me seek my father!" he exclaimed.
"Be silent!" said his conductor, with a voice of power
that made him tremble. At length he knocked at the
massive gate of a monastery. The porter admitted
them, and they passed to an inner cell. Affected by
his passionate bursts of grief, and exclamations of
'Father, dear father!' his protector said, 'Thank God,
my son, that thy own life is saved. I ventured forth
amid scenes of horror, hoping to bring to this refuge a
brother, whom I loved as my own soul. I found him
lifeless and mangled. Thou wert near, and methought
thou didst resemble him. Thy voice had his very tone,
as it cried, 'Father, father!' My heart yearned to be
as a father to thee. And I have led thee hither through
blood and death. Poor child, be comforted, and lift
up thy soul to God.'"</p>
<p>"Was it not very strange, that a Catholic should be
so good?"</p>
<p>"There are good men among every sect of Christians,
my child. We should never condemn those who
differ from us in opinion, if their lives are according to
the Gospel. This ecclesiastic was a man of true benevolence.
Nothing could exceed his kindness to him
whose life he had saved. It was ascertained that he
was not only fatherless but an orphan, for the work of
destruction, extending itself into many parts of the
kingdom, involved his family in its wreck. The greatest
attention was paid to his education, and his patron
instructed him in the sciences, and particularly from
the study of history he taught him the emptiness of
glory without virtue, and the changeful nature of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
earthly good. He made him the companion of his
walks, and by the innocent and beautiful things of
nature, sought to win him from that melancholy which
is so corrosive to intellect, and so fatal to peace. He
permitted him to take part in his works of charity, and
to stand with him by the beds of the sick and dying,
that he might witness the power of that piety which
upholds when flesh and heart fainteth.</p>
<p>During his residence here, the death of Charles IX.
took place. He was a king in whom his people and
even his nearest friends had no confidence. After the
savage massacre of St. Bartholomew, which was conducted
under his auspices, he had neither satisfaction
nor repose. He had always a flush and fierceness upon
his countenance, which it had never before worn. Conscience
haunted him with a sense of guilt, and he could
obtain no quiet sleep. He seemed to be surrounded
by vague and nameless terrors. He fancied that he
heard groans in the air, and suffered a strange sickness
which forced blood from all the pores of his body.</p>
<p>He was attended in his illness by a faithful old
nurse, to whom, notwithstanding she was a Huguenot,
he affectionately trusted. One who has described the
close of his life, says, that two nights before his death,
she was sitting near him on a chest, almost overcome
with the drowsiness of fatigue. She was aroused by
hearing the king bitterly moan and weep. As she
softly approached his bed, he exclaimed, through sighs
and sobs, so interrupting his voice that it was difficult
to understand him,</p>
<p>"Ah! my nurse, my dear nurse, what blood! what
murders! Alas! what evil counsels have I followed!
Oh my God! pardon me! and have mercy on me, if
thou canst. What shall I do? I am lost! I see it
but too well."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p>
<p>The pitying nurse answered with tears.</p>
<p>"Sire! let the guilt rest on those who counselled
you to it. For if you consented not in your heart to
those murders, and are repentant, trust that God will
not charge them to you, but will cover them with the
mantle of his Son's great love, to whom alone you
should turn."</p>
<p>He listened mournfully to her words, and taking from
her hand a handkerchief, his own being saturated with
tears, gave a sign that she should retire, and take a
little rest.</p>
<p>His attachment to this pious nurse was strongly contrasted
with his shrinking aversion whenever his mother
approached him. He viewed her as the instigator to
that horrible massacre which troubled his conscience,
and her presence greatly distressed him. This miserable
monarch died on the 30th of May, 1574, at the age of
23, having sinned much and suffered much, though his
years were few.</p>
<p>He was succeeded by his brother Henry III., against
whom, and Catharine, the Queen-mother, three powerful
armies were opposed, one led by the King of
Navarre, one by the Prince of Condé, and the other by
the Duke of Anjou. The tidings of these civil wars penetrated
into the seclusion of the religious house where my
grandfather had already passed three years in quiet
study. They kept alive the martial spirit which he
inherited, and quickened his desire to partake in their
tumultuous scenes. At length he communicated to
his patron his discontentment with a life of inaction,
and his irrepressible wish to mingle again with the
world. Unusual paleness settled on the brow of the
venerable man, as he replied,</p>
<p>"I have long seen that thy heart was not in these
quiet shades, and I have lamented it. Yet thus it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>
with the young: they will not be wise from the experience
of others. They must feel with their own feet,
the thorns in the path of pleasure. They must grasp
with their own hand, the sharp briers that cling around
the objects of their ambition. They must come trusting
to the world's broken cisterns, find the dregs from
her cup cleaving in bitterness to their lip, and feel her
in their bosom, ere they will believe."</p>
<p>The youth enlarged with emotion on his gratitude
to his benefactor. He mentioned the efforts he had
made to comply with his desires, and lead a life of contemplative
piety, but that these efforts were overpowered
by an impulse to mingle in more active pursuits, and
to visit the home of his ancestors.</p>
<p>"Go, then, my son, and still the wild throbbings of
thy heart over the silent beds of those who wake no
more till the resurrection morn. Think not that I
have read thy nature slightly, or with a careless glance.
The spirit of a warrior slumbers there. Thou dost
long to mix in the battle. I have marked, in thy
musings, the lightning of thine eye shoot forth, as if
thou hadst forgotten Him who said: 'Vengeance is
mine.' Would that thou hadst loved peace. Go; yet
remember, that 'he who taketh the sword shall perish
by the sword.' As for me, my path on earth is short,
or I should more deeply mourn thy departure. Thou
hast been but too dear to me; and when thou art gone,
my spirit shall cast from its wings the last cumbrance
of earthly love."</p>
<p>He gave him his benediction with great tenderness
and solemnity, and the parting was tearful and affectionate.
But the young traveller soon dismissed his
sorrow, for the cheering influence of the charms of
nature, and the gladness of liberty.</p>
<p>The genial season of spring diffused universal beauty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>
The vales spread out their green mantles to catch
the showers of blossoms, with which every breeze
covered them. Luxuriant vines lifted up their fragrant
coronets. Young lambs playfully cropped the tender
leaves. Quiet kids stood ruminating by the clear
streams. Music was in all the branches. The father-bird
cheered his companion, who, patient on her nest,
brooded their future hopes.</p>
<p>"Surely," thought he, "the peasant is the most
happy of men, dwelling in the midst of the innocence
and beauty of creation."</p>
<p>Then, with the inconsistency natural to youth, he
would extol the life of the soldier, its energy, hardihood,
and contempt of danger; forgetting that, in this preference
of war, he was applauding the science of all
others the most hostile to nature and to man.</p>
<p>In the midst of such reflections he reached the spot
of his nativity. The home of his ancestors was in the
possession of others, a new and lordly race. Strange
eyes looked upon him, where the voice of his parents
was wont to welcome his returning steps with delight.
He could not endure the grief in which none participated,
and this solitude among scenes which his childhood
loved. He sought to shake off at once his sorrow
and his loneliness, and enlisted as a volunteer in the
Protestant army. He flattered himself that religion
dictated the measure: yet sometimes, in a sleepless
hour, the monition of his distant benefactor would come
mournfully, "He that taketh the sword shall perish by
the sword." His first exploit in arms was at the siege
of Ville-Franche, in Perigord, in the year 1576. He
continued to follow the fortunes of the King of Navarre,
and to endure without shrinking the dangers and
privations of a soldier, with scarcely any intervals of
peaceful life, until the battle of Coutras, where he fell,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
covered with wounds. This severe combat took place
on the morning of October 20th, 1587. There, the
King of Navarre, who, you remember, was afterwards
Henry the Great, of France, distinguished himself by a
daring courage. He first forced the ranks of the
enemy. He seized several prisoners with his own hand.
Conspicuous by the plume of white feathers in his lofty
helmet, he was continually singled out as a mark, and
yet escaped uninjured. Perceiving the Prince of Condé
and the Count de Soissons, in the most exposed parts
of the field, he exclaimed, 'All that I shall say to you,
is, that you are of the house of Bourbon, and please
God, I will show you that I am your elder brother.'
The victory of the Protestants was complete. The
contest lasted scarcely an hour, yet 5000 of their opponents
were left dead upon the field. They were led
on by the Duke de Joyeuse, who with his haughty
brother, St. Sauveur, were drawn lifeless from among
heaps of slain, their brows still fierce and frowning, as
if they hated that death which could thus level all
distinctions. I have mentioned that our ancestor fell
in this engagement. He was not thirty years old, and
left a wife and infant son, to mourn his untimely departure."</p>
<p>"Is it then from our grandmother that you learned
all the circumstances of his story?"</p>
<p>"All these and many more. She was never weary
of relating the changes of his life, and the sorrows of
her early widowhood. Deeply did she impress on the
mind of her son, and of his offspring, the evils of war,
and the blessings of peaceful Christianity. Under his
roof she dwelt, cherished and venerated, till the children
of the third generation rose up to call her blessed.
Never shall I forget with what emotions of grief and
reverence he laid his hand upon her dying eyes, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
wept at her tomb. The piety and love of peace which
she had early instilled into his heart, rendered his
home the abode of tranquillity, and domestic happiness.
His industry, and correct judgment restored competence
to a family, which the desolations of war had impoverished,
and almost annihilated. Our paternal residence,
even now, seems to rise up before me, visible
and distinct, as in a picture. Uniting simplicity with
comfort, it stood on a gentle slope of ground. In front,
a row of chestnuts reared a canopy of lofty shade. Here
the traveller sometimes rested, refreshing himself with
the water of a little fountain, which, clear as crystal,
oozed into a rustic limestone reservoir. In the rear of
our residence, rose a hill where our goats found herbage.
There they might sometimes be seen, maintaining
so slight a footing on projecting cliffs, that they
seemed to hang suspended by the mouth from the
slight branch they were cropping. The tall poplars,
which were interspersed among the foliage, conveyed to
us the pensive murmur of approaching storms, and
around their trunks, mossy seats were constructed,
where we sometimes sat, watching the chequered rays
of the moon, and singing our simple provincial melodies.
Stretching at the foot of this hill, was the small
domain whence we drew our subsistence. Diligence
and economy made it fully equal to our wants, and to
the claims of charity. Over the roots of the filbert,
fig, and mulberry, crept the prolific melon. The gourd,
supporting itself by their trunks, lifted its yellow globes
into the air like orbs of gold, while still higher rose the
aspiring vine, filling its glowing clusters for the wine-press.
Our fields of wheat gave us bread, and the
bearded oat rewarded the faithful animal that gathered
in our harvest. Bees, hastening with busy hum to their
sheltered cells, provided the luxury of our evening<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>
repast. The olive yielded us its treasures, and furnished
an emblem of the peace that pervaded our abode.
A genial soil made our labours light, and correct principles
converted those labours into happiness. Our
parents early taught their large family of twelve children,
that indolence was but another name for vice and
disgrace; that he, who for his subsistence rendered no
return of usefulness, was unjust to society, and disobedient
to God. So our industry commenced in infancy.
In our hive there were no drones. We early began to
look with pity on those whose parents neglected to teach
them that well-directed industry was bliss. Among us
there were no servants. With the first beams of morning,
the band of brothers were seen cheerfully entering
on their allotted employments. Some broke the surface
of the earth, others strowed seeds or kernels of
fruits, others removed the weeds which threatened to
impede the harvest. By the same hands was our vintage
tended, and our grain gathered into the garner.
Our sisters wrought the flax which we cultivated, and
changed the fleece of our flocks into a wardrobe for
winter. They refreshed us after our toil with cakes
flavoured with honey, and with cheeses, rivalling in
delicacy those of Parma. They arranged in tasteful
baskets of their own construction, fresh fruits or aromatic
herbs, or rich flowers for the market. They
delighted sometimes to mingle in our severer labours;
and when we saw the unwonted exertion heightening
the bloom of their cheeks, or placed in their hair the
half-blown wild rose, to us, who had seen nothing more
fair, they were perfect in grace and beauty. Sometimes
at twilight, or beneath the soft evening air of
summer, we mingled in the dance, to the music of our
flute and viol. Our parents and our grandmother
seated near, enjoyed the pastime, and spoke of their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
own youth, and of the goodness of the Almighty Sire.
Often, assembled in our pleasant parlour, each read in
turn to the listening auditory, histories of what man
has been, or fictitious representations of what he might
be, from the pages of the moral painter or the poet.
The younger ones received regular lessons in the rudiments
of education, and the elder ones, in succession,
devoted a stated portion of each day to the pursuit of
higher studies, under the direction of their parents.
When the family circle convened in the evening, he was
the happiest who could bring the greatest amount of
useful and interesting information to the general stock.
The acquisition of knowledge, which to indolent minds
is so irksome, was to us a delightful recreation from
severer labours. The exercise which gave us physical
vigour, seemed also to impart intellectual energy. The
application to which we were inured gave us the more
entire control of our mental powers, while the almost
unvaried health that we enjoyed preserved elasticity of
spirits, and made all our pleasures more sweet. Such
was our mode of life, that we were almost insensible to
inconvenience from the slight changes of the seasons.
In any temporary indisposition or casualty, our mother
was our ministering angel. Her acquaintance with the
powers of the medicinal plants, that filled her favourite
part of the garden, and still more, her intimate knowledge
of the little diversities in our constitutions, usually
produced a favourable result. She also perfectly understood
the slight shades in our disposition and character,
and by thus tracing the springs of action to
their minuter sources, advanced with more certainty to
the good ends of education. Mingled with her love,
was a dignity, a decision that commanded our respect.
Without this, the parental relation loses its influence,
and sacrifices that attribute of authority with which it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
was invested by the Eternal. Piety was taught us by
the example of our parents. We were early led to
consider the morning and evening orison and the Sabbath,
as periods in which we were invited to mingle our
thoughts with angels; and that he who was negligent
or indifferent to them, forfeited one of the highest privileges
of his nature.</p>
<p>Thus happy was our domestic government. It
mingled the pastoral and patriarchal features. I have
never seen any system more favourable to individual
improvement, and the order, harmony, and prosperity of
the whole.</p>
<p>But I am forgetting, dear child, that you must be
wearied with my wandering tale and numerous reflections.
It is so pleasant to recall the days of childhood,
and the images of my parents and brothers and sisters,
that I may have taken an old man's privilege too freely,
and talked beyond your patience."</p>
<p>"How much I am indebted to you, my dear grandfather,
for your kind evening's entertainment. I hope
I shall profit from the moral of your story, as well as
from the pleasure of listening to it. I trust I shall
learn to love peace, and industry, and piety."</p>
<p>"Strive to do so, my dear boy, and ask God's help,
and you will be sure to be happy. Obey your parents,
and respect all who are wiser and better than yourself,
whether rich or poor. This will lay the foundation of
that virtue and subordination to the laws of the land,
which make a good citizen.</p>
<p>Should you live to be old, like me, you will view
objects differently from what you do now. You will
stand upon an isthmus, between the <i>things that have
been, and the things that are</i>. On one hand, will come
up the waves of memory, bold and strong; on the other,
the little billows of hope, like such bubbles as children<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>
play with. Experience will be there, gathering riches
even from rocks and quicksands. Then, when you look
back, like me, and find your dear parents gone, you
will wish that you might for one moment recall them
from the grave, to render them your undying offering
of gratitude, not for that indulgence which blinded their
eye to your faults, and gave you the weak gratification
of an hour, perhaps, at the expense of an eternity, but
for that salutary discipline which uprooted error,
established good habits, and taught that 'fear of God
which maketh wise unto salvation.'"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Old_Watch" id="The_Old_Watch"></a>The Old Watch.</h1>
<p>My Father's watch! Thy face is dear,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And still thou speak'st to me</span><br />
The self-same words that met my ear,<br />
When in old times of joyous cheer<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I gladly climb'd his knee.</span><br />
<br />
For oft as to his side I clung,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thou wert mine own to hold,</span><br />
Though to my simple mind, thy tongue<br />
Uttering "<i>tick, tick</i>", to old and young<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Seem'd mystery untold.</span><br />
<br />
And still thy wondrous movements too<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amaz'd my gazing eye,</span><br />
Thy hands that to their purpose true<br />
Their undeclining circles drew,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were magic strange and high.</span><br />
<br />
But thou from days of toil and care,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That manhood's powers employ,</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>Didst duly point him home to share<br />
The garden-walk, the fireside chair,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The feast of social joy.</span><br />
<br />
When those whom most he loved were nigh,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with beguiling flight,</span><br />
The downy-pinioned hours swept by,<br />
Thou, with a calm, unswerving eye<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Didst note their numbers right.</span><br />
<br />
And he, who knew so well to test<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of time, the fleeting prize,</span><br />
Did on thy meek monitions rest<br />
And take their wisdom to his breast,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And gird him for the skies.</span><br />
<br />
But now, no more serenely sweet<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He turns to thee for aid,</span><br />
Yet still thy bloodless heart doth beat.<br />
Though summon'd to a lone retreat<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His own in dust is laid.</span><br />
<br />
My Father's Friend! what memories bless'd<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thy lingering accents wake,</span><br />
Here, in my sacred casket rest,<br />
Or slumber on my filial breast,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Most honour'd for his sake.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Entertaining_Books" id="Entertaining_Books"></a>Entertaining Books.</h1>
<p>The age in which we live abounds with entertaining
books. Stories of every description, some of them
containing good lessons, are exceedingly numerous.
Those of the better class furnish food for fancy and
feeling.</p>
<p>Fiction has its peculiar attractions, and so has truth.
Imagination can scarcely devise more strange events,
more striking characters, or more romantic results, than
occur on the pages of history. The entertainment derived
from true books is the most valuable, because it
is the most worthy of being remembered. The mind
rests upon it with satisfaction. It accords with its
native tastes. The child as soon as it can speak, says,
"Please to tell me a <i>true</i> story." Those who are most
familiar with unfolding infancy, agree, that incidents
simplified from the Scriptures, delight it, though they
may be frequently repeated.</p>
<p>So, from the great storehouse of history, the young
may entertain and enrich themselves at the same time.
By extending their acquaintance through past ages and
distant nations, the powers of thought expand themselves,
an acquaintance with illustrious characters is
formed, and knowledge gained which will be profitable
through life, both for reflection and conversation.</p>
<p>Some have objected, that a wide range of history<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
may give the young mind a premature introduction to
the vices and follies that disgrace mankind. Yet thus
to study them on the map of man, and to form a correct
opinion of good and evil, and to deepen the love of
virtue, and the hatred of vice, by the force of selected
examples, might prepare the young better to understand
character, and resist temptation, in the actual
struggle of life. The entertainments of history may be
as safe as those of fiction, and more salutary. If they
sometimes reveal the whirlpools of ambition or the
abysses of cruelty, they change the scene, and present
the quiet waters of peace fertilizing the valleys, and the
pure rose of virtue blooming in the wilderness. Examples
of true greatness, generosity, and piety, if less
frequent than those of an opposite nature, borrow force
from contrast, and may therefore make a deeper impression,
and awaken a stronger desire of imitation.</p>
<p>The entertainments of history aid in acquiring a
knowledge of human nature. We there see what man
has been from the beginning, and what motives or
temptations have moved him to good or to evil. Great
care should be taken to form a correct judgment, and
to measure by a true standard of excellence those whom
the world has called illustrious.</p>
<p>Especially, should opinions be cautiously formed, of
those whose fame rests only upon military exploits.
Though the pride, cruelty, and revenge, that stain many
of those whom the Old World applauded as heroes, are
in a measure palliated because they were heathen, still
<i>we</i> are bound to judge of right and wrong, as Christians.
When we think of the misery, mourning, and death,
that marked their course upon the earth, we cannot
but wonder by what rule of equity, "<i>one</i> murder should
make a <i>villain</i>, and <i>many, a hero</i>!"</p>
<p>To purchase a single conquest, how many eyes have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>
wept, how many bosoms been pierced, how many hearts
broken. If victories, and triumphs, and trophies,
dazzle the eye, look at their dark reverse: torrents of
blood flowing, widows and orphans plunged in despair,
throngs of unprepared souls driven into the presence of
their Maker.</p>
<p>The patriotism that dares danger for the preservation
of liberty, the firmness that repels the encroachments
of tyranny, the courage that protects those whose lives
are entrusted to its care, differ from the ambition that
is willing to build its glory on contention, suffering, and
death. This spirit is at war with His precepts, at whose
birth the harps of angels breathed the song of "Peace
on earth, and good-will to men."</p>
<p>History may be read by the young with a resolution
of transcribing into their own character, whatever it
exhibits that is "just, lovely, and of good report."
Thus will its pages not only afford rational entertainment,
but be subservient to usefulness and piety in this
life, and to the happiness of that which is to come.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_New_Year" id="The_New_Year"></a>The New Year.</h1>
<p>Who, with smiles, and wishes fair,<br />
Through drifted snows and branches bare,<br />
Comes, and liberal-handed brings<br />
Countless gifts, and pleasant things,<br />
Many a cake, and many a kiss,<br />
Gilded toys, and sports of bliss,<br />
Pictured books, with covers gay:<br />
Who thus crowns our holiday?<br />
While the sleigh-bells' merry peal<br />
Rings, and glides the skater's heel?<br />
<span style="margin-left: 5em;">The glad New Year.</span><br />
<br />
Who, a tablet in his breast<br />
Hides, with characters impress'd,<br />
Mystic signs, and tints that show<br />
Chance, and change of joy and woe,<br />
Wreaths of hope in darkness laid<br />
Boasted wealth a winged shade,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>Brows that fade in youthful bloom,<br />
Empty cradle, open tomb:<br />
Who, alas! such course shall tread<br />
Ere his farewell words are said?<br />
<span style="margin-left: 5em;">The sad New Year.</span><br />
<br />
Who, of those that never stray<br />
Wilfully, from Duty's way,<br />
Seek for knowledge, prize the truth,<br />
Wisdom gain in early youth,<br />
With a pure, and peaceful mind<br />
Live in love with all mankind,<br />
And a Saviour's precepts dear,<br />
Treasure in His holy fear:<br />
Who, of such leaves record high<br />
On the pages of the sky?<br />
<span style="margin-left: 5em;">The bless'd New Year.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Cyrus" id="Cyrus"></a>Cyrus.</h1>
<p>Cyrus is among the most interesting characters
described in ancient history. He seemed fitted by
nature, as well as by education, for the exalted sphere
that was allotted him. He is usually considered as the
founder of the Persian empire, and was born about 600
years before the Christian era. He was beautiful
in person, and still more admirable for the amiable
qualities of his mind. His early training inured him
to study, the endurance of fatigue, and the control of
his appetites and passions. In his first twelve years
of life, he was said to surpass all of his own age in
knowledge, and a frank, noble dignity of carriage.</p>
<p>At this early period, he was sent to the court of
his grandfather, Astyages, the Median king, where he
remained for five years. There, the temptations of
luxury and self-indulgence, by which he was surrounded,
had no power to draw him from temperance and simplicity.
He was ever anxious to make peace between
those who differed, and to obtain pardon for such as
had offended. So gentle, generous, and beneficent was
he, as to become the idol of the people among whom
he dwelt.</p>
<p>In his expedition into Assyria with his father, though
still but a youth, he discovered great judgment, courage,
and presence of mind. Military talents and skill,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>
were in those times held essential to every illustrious
man, and these he eminently possessed. After
his conquest of Babylon and marriage with a Median
princess, three kingdoms were united under his sway:
Persia, Media, and Assyria. When he was peacefully
settled in his great empire, he busied himself with
framing laws for its prosperity and repose. "For a
king," said he, "should be the shepherd of his people,
and exercise vigilance and care over his flock."</p>
<p>This sentiment reminds us of the prophecy of Isaiah,
uttered more than a century before the birth of this
prince, and 170 years before the fall of Babylon, which
it also predicts: "That saith of Cyrus, he is my
shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure."</p>
<p>Prosperity crowned his efforts for the good of his
people; and unbroken health, the reward of temperance
and tranquillity of spirit, enabled him to persevere in
these efforts. Yet he kept in his secret heart, a fear,
founded on the changes of this mortal life, and the
frailty of man, which restrained all pride, and kept
him as humble as he was active and powerful. Of
him it might have been said, as it was of our own
Washington, that true merit was the foundation of
his greatness.</p>
<p>Therefore, he affected no self-importance, but was
affable to all, and repaid by cordial attachment. Cicero
asserts that during the whole period of his reign, he
was never heard to speak a rough or angry word.
Xenophon speaks of him, as exhibiting the "model of a
perfect government." Herodotus modifies this praise,
and charges him with some faults. But the most
exalted characters are subject to error, and the purest
may be misunderstood or misrepresented. Even patriarchs,
prophets, and apostles, have taught us by
their own failings, the infirmity of our nature, and we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span>
should not require or expect perfection in others, until
we are able to give an example of it ourselves.</p>
<p>When Cyrus approached death, he called around
him his children and chief officers, gave them solemn
and excellent advice by which to regulate their future
conduct, and, thanking Heaven for all its blessings,
calmly resigned his breath.</p>
<p>Cambyses, his successor, supplied mournful proof of
the contrast that may exist between the son and the
father. He was barbarous both at home and abroad,
and put to death his own brother, from malignant envy,
because he was able to shoot with a larger bow than
himself. We will turn from the contemplation of such
wickedness, to some of the last words of the great
Cyrus to his children, which are here presented in a
poetical garb:</p>
<p>
Behold, I die! Restore my form<br />
To dust, to darkness, and the worm:<br />
For from the earth it first arose.<br />
And there, at last, it finds repose.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Yet when this breath forsakes the clay,</span><br />
Think ye the spirit shall decay?<br />
No, no, my sons! Its mystic flight<br />
Hath ever mock'd your keenest sight,<br />
Even when it deign'd with mortal care<br />
This prison of the flesh to share:<br />
So, when stern Death my frame shall blot,<br />
It lives, though you perceive it not.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Believe you trace through yonder sky</span><br />
Your disembodied father's eye,<br />
And be your motives pure and high:<br />
But dread the ages yet unborn<br />
Who stamp your deeds with praise or scorn:<br />
Dread more than all, the Powers who seal<br />
That sentence, man can ne'er repeal.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Rome_and_its_Rulers" id="Rome_and_its_Rulers"></a>Rome and its Rulers.</h1>
<p>The magnificent city of Rome was at first a rude
hamlet of ruder people. Its earliest buildings were
upon the Palatine Hill, near the Tiber. In process of
time, it extended itself over the six adjacent eminences.
Hence the name that it sometimes bears of the "seven-hilled
city."</p>
<p>Two brothers, Romulus and Remus, were its founders,
752 years before the birth of Christ. They were
twins, and trained up in the humble and hardy habits
of a shepherd's life. But from feeding their peaceful
flocks they aspired to rule men.</p>
<p>Romulus reared a wall around a portion of the new
settlement, in which he took pride. Remus, in sport,
or contempt, jumped over it, saying that he had given
proof it would afford no protection against invaders.
Romulus, forgetting the love he should have borne to
his twin-brother, in a transport of rage struck him
dead upon the spot. Thus, to the first king of Rome,
as to the first-born of Eden, might have been said,
"The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto thee
from the ground." He who gave his own name to the
Mistress of the World, left that name stained with
the crime of fratricide.</p>
<p>The kings of Rome were the same in number as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>
hills on which she seated herself. The seventh, and last,
was Tarquinius Superbus. After the abolition of the
royal sway she had various forms of government. Sometimes
her rulers bore the title of Consuls, Dictators,
Tribunes, Ediles, and Questors. Then the supreme
power was vested in Emperors, of whom there were
fifty-five. Some of these were fearful examples of
every vice. The excess of luxurious indulgence and
pitiless cruelty darken their names in history.</p>
<p>Among this mass of shameless rulers, five appeared
in regular succession, who, by their comparatively
virtuous course, have obtained the honourable distinction
of the "good Emperors." The first of this line
was Nerva, who began his reign in the year 96 after
the Christian era, when he was himself quite advanced
in age. He was a native of Spain, and the first foreigner
who had been permitted to wear Rome's imperial
purple. He was welcomed with great joy, for the
people had just been suffering from the monstrous barbarities
of Domitian. Nerva was a man of gentle
temper, and like Numa Pompilius, the second king, who
had reigned about eight centuries before him, a true
lover of peace. With paternal care he used the public
money for the public good, instead of wasting it in mad
extravagance, like his predecessors. Unfortunately,
his sway was short, only about sixteen months, when
he fell a victim to a sudden fever, at the age of sixty-six.
His memory was gratefully embalmed, for his
justice and generosity, and the tranquillity he had
given to the empire.</p>
<div class="center" id="image_continue_command">
<a href="images/ill-098b.jpg">
<img src="images/ill-098b-th.jpg"
alt="Continue the command of your passions…"
title="Continue the command of your passions…" /></a>
<p class="caption">"Continue the command of your passions; make virtue the scope of all your actions."—<a href="#Page_98">p. 98</a></p>
</div>
<p>Trajan, his successor, was also born in Spain. In
his youth he had been the pupil of Plutarch, the philosopher,
who after his elevation thus addressed him in
an affectionate speech "Continue the command of
your passions. Make virtue the scope of all your
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>actions. You have it in your power to render me the
most honoured of men, by continuing your present
course of conduct. If you follow my instructions, I
shall glory in having given them. If you neglect them,
this address shall be my testimony, that you have not
erred through the counsel or authority of Plutarch."</p>
<p>The Emperor did not disregard the motives set before
him by his revered teacher. The principles that
had been impressed on his boyhood, were as a guiding
helm amid the cares of state. He carefully improved
his time, was moderate in expense, and modest
amid pomp and power. Among his public works was
a noble bridge over the Danube, whose massy ruins
are still seen by the traveller. He adorned the city of
Rome with splendid and substantial buildings, and delighted
to draw men of merit from obscurity. His
faults were, great fondness for war, and persecuting
the Christians, which his strong attachment to the
heathen ritual in which he had been educated made
him consider as a duty, or a proof of sincerity. He
died, during an absence from home, of apoplexy, at the
age of sixty-three, having reigned nineteen years.</p>
<p>Adrian, the fifteenth Roman Emperor, began his
reign in 117. He had received an excellent education.
He was an eloquent speaker, and wrote well, both in
prose and poetry. One of his greatest virtues was,
that he truly loved peace. He treated those who were
in humble stations with kindness. He said that the
chief ruler of a nation should be "like the sun, giving
warmth to the lowly vales as well as to the mountains."
He travelled to France, to Germany, and to Holland;
not to make war, but to show himself friendly to their
inhabitants. From thence he went to England, and
built a wall from Cumberland to Northumberland, to
assist in protecting that part of the island from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
natives of the north, who were unfriendly and barbarous.
He visited Spain and Athens, showing kindness
to the people, and went also to many parts of
Asia and Africa. He made just laws, and favoured
men of learning. He had so remarkable a memory,
that he could repeat the substance of a book after once
reading it, and he knew the name of every soldier in
the Roman army. Though he had so many virtues,
he had also great faults. He committed some acts of
cruelty, and was very unkind to the Jews. He banished
them from their beloved city Jerusalem, and forbade
them to come even in sight of it, or to enter it,
except one day in the year. In his last sickness he
became impatient of pain, and even entreated those
around him to take away his life. He cried out, "How
miserable a thing it is to seek death and not to find it!"
Being a heathen, he had not the comfort of hope in
another life. Just before he expired, he composed some
verses addressed to his soul, expressing uncertainty with
regard to its immortality. He died at the age of sixty-two,
having reigned twenty-two years.</p>
<p>Titus Antoninus Pius was one of the most faultless
of the good emperors. As his father died in his childhood,
his mother and grandfather conducted his
education. To them, as well as to all aged persons, he
habitually paid great respect. In his youth, his temper
was so mild and affectionate, that he gained the
love of all with whom he associated. After he became
Emperor, he distributed among the poor the greater
part of the revenue from his own estates. He completed
a magnificent tomb for his predecessor Adrian,
repaired many of the edifices of ancient Greece, and
built a wall in Britain, between the rivers Esk and
Tweed. He laboured to prevent wars, and uttered the
noble sentiment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p>
<p>"I had rather save the life of one citizen than to
destroy a thousand enemies."</p>
<p>He was friendly to the Christians, and showed them
favour. He sought to be a peace-maker between all
contending persons, and to set a consistent example of
moral excellence. In these respects he has been compared
both to Nerva and to Numa, the latter of whom
preserved the blessings of peace to the people during
his whole reign of forty-three years. Marcus Antoninus
reigned somewhat more than half as long, namely,
twenty-two years. During a residence at one of his
country-seats, he was attacked by a fever which proved
fatal to him at the age of seventy-four. He was loved
and lamented by the whole empire, over which he had
ruled as a father, seeking the welfare of his children.</p>
<p>Marcus Aurelius is a favourite with historians, and
has been ranked among the greatest of the good emperors.
He made his predecessor, who was his father-in-law,
his model in the affairs of government. He
took pleasure in praising his virtues, and thus affectionately
mentions some of them, in a work of which
he was the author:</p>
<p>"I have much observed his meekness, and his
constancy without wavering, in those things which after
due deliberation he had determined. I remember his
freedom from all vanity, his patient industry, his readiness
to hear any man that had aught to say tending
to the common good. How readily and impartially
would he give every man his due. How modestly
would he condescend to other men, as though he was
an ordinary man himself. How accurately would he
examine and consult, and how patiently would he hear
others. Neither would he hastily give over the search
of difficult matters, or be easily satisfied with sudden
notions and opinions. How carefully would he preserve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
his friends, never treating them with neglect, or growing
weary of them.</p>
<p>I love to remember his contented mind, his cheerful
countenance, his care to foresee things afar off, and to
give orders without noise or clamour. How was all
flattery repressed by him, and how carefully did he observe
all things necessary to the government, and keep
an account of all the common expenses. And when he
was reproached by some for this very strictness, how
patiently did he bear it. He was neither studious to
please men, nor ambitious of popular applause, but sober
in all things, every where observant of that which was
fitting. In those things which conduce to ease and
convenience, of which his great fortune allowed him a
plentiful supply, he was without pride or boasting. He
freely enjoyed them when they were present, and when
they were absent, was never uneasy for the want of
them. He was commended as a man that could not
endure to be flattered, but was able to govern both
himself and others. He honoured all true philosophers,
without upbraiding those who were not so. In his
conversation he was sociable and delightful. How gently
would he yield to those who had any peculiar talent,
such as eloquence, or knowledge of the laws, or ancient
customs, and how heartily he endeavoured that everyone
might, according to their excellence, be regarded and
esteemed. How constant was he in his attention to
business; and after his great fits of headache, how fresh
and vigorous would he return to his wonted affairs. In
all things having respect unto men, only as men, and
to the equity of things, and not unto the glory that
might follow."</p>
<p>Marcus Aurelius still further evinced his gratitude
and reverence for Antoninus Pius, by erecting to his
memory a beautifully sculptured marble column, more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>
than a hundred feet in height, and surmounted by his
statue, which may still be seen at Rome, though more
than 1700 years old.</p>
<p>He was a lover of knowledge. Through his whole
life he laboured to obtain it. After he became an
emperor, he used to go, and sometimes on foot, to the
house of a man of wisdom, named Apollonius, that he
might take lessons of him. He valued intellectual
riches more than gold or power. Among all the cares
of state, he found time for it, saying that it was his
desire to learn as long as he lived.</p>
<p>He was particularly attached to the study of philosophy,
and used to call it his mother, to prove his affection.
He established schools for it, both at Rome and
Athens. He often gave lectures in that science to the
people, deeming it no derogation from imperial dignity
to instruct and elevate the public mind. Especially,
when about to be absent from the city, for any length
of time, he thus addressed his people, that if he never
returned, their last remembrance of him might be connected
with precepts of virtue.</p>
<p>His principal faults were allowing the Christians to
be persecuted, and being often engaged in war, though
his principles revolted against it, and he considered it a
calamity. He died at Vindobona, where the city of
Vienna, in Austria, now stands, after the sickness of a
week, on March 17th, 180; having lived fifty-nine years,
and reigned nineteen. He was so much beloved, that
many kept his image or statue in their houses, offering
it flowers and incense, as one of their heathen gods.</p>
<p>The two last of these Emperors were called Antonines.
Their united periods of sway amounted to
forty-one years, and Rome never enjoyed greater happiness
than during their sovereignty. Afterwards, it
declined both in prosperity and virtue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p>
<p>The reigns of the five good Emperors extended over
a period of eighty-four years, just the length of one of
the revolutions of the planet Herschel around the sun.
With a single one of his years he measured out the
earthly span of all these mighty monarchs. Ere he
returned to his annual goal, they had risen, and flourished,
and fallen.</p>
<p>A hoary-headed man might have seen the whole of
their imperial sway. An aged English statesman, Sir
John Mason, outlived five of his own sovereigns. In
looking back upon so long a life, he said that he had
received favours from them all, and been promoted to
many honours, but that religion and hope in heaven
were the truest riches, and all things else forsook him,
but his God, his duty, and his prayers.</p>
<p>The study of history is salutary to the young mind.
To know what has been done in all countries, since man
was placed upon the earth, is a laudable curiosity, and
an ennobling pursuit. To form a correct opinion of the
characters thus presented us, affords useful exercise to
the judgment. Those who have delighted only to shed
blood, and to build their fame on the misery of mankind,
should not be admired though the world may
pronounce them heroes.</p>
<p>In reading of the truly wise and good, we should
strive to imbibe their spirit and tread in their steps. The
highest end of knowledge is to advance in goodness and
piety, and to make the heart and life more acceptable
to God.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Ploughing_of_the_Sword" id="The_Ploughing_of_the_Sword"></a>The Ploughing of the Sword.</h1>
<blockquote><p>"They shall beat their swords into Plough-shares." Isaiah, II, 4.</p></blockquote>
<p>The ploughing of the Sword<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Breaks up the greensward deep,</span><br />
And stirs the old foundations<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the baleful passions sleep;</span><br />
The quiet beauty of the vales<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It rudely rends away,</span><br />
And turns the roots of the riven flowers<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To the scorching eye of day.</span><br />
<br />
And then, they madly sow<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The seeds of bitter strife,</span><br />
Ambition, wrath, revenge,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And stern contempt of life.</span><br />
They wildly scatter o'er the land<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dissension, pain, and care,</span><br />
And fright away the birds of peace<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That fain would carol there.</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span><br />
Now call the reapers forth,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With the thundering cannon's roar,</span><br />
Hark! to the rush of an armed host<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like the surge on a rocky shore,</span><br />
With tramp and clang, the warrior's heel<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Doth the red wine-press tread,</span><br />
And heavily roll the loaded wains<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With their burdens of the dead.</span><br />
<br />
They reap with murderous sickle,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mid the shrill trumpet's cry,</span><br />
Till the mightiest and the lowest,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In equal ruin lie.</span><br />
Till the screaming vulture whets his beak,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the blood-pools blot the green,</span><br />
And the gaunt hyena prowls at night<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His dire repast to glean.</span><br />
<br />
They store their carnage spoil<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In History's garner wide,</span><br />
A reeking overflowing crop<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of crime, and woe, and pride,</span><br />
The widow's pang, the orphan's tear<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The exulting tyrant's might,</span><br />
And the cry of souls for ever lost,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As they take their fearful flight.</span><br />
<br />
Oh! mourning Mother Earth,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lift up thy heart and pray</span><br />
That the ploughing of the sword<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Be for ever done away,</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>And thine own meekly-cultur'd fields<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With nodding corn be dress'd,</span><br />
To feed thy children, ere they take<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their slumber in thy breast.</span><br />
<br />
And thou, terrific Sword!<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose ministry accurs'd</span><br />
Doth waste the span of mortal life<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That was so brief at first,</span><br />
God speed the day when promis'd Peace<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall reign from shore to shore,</span><br />
And thou, into a plough-share beat,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Convulse the world no more.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Good_and_Bad_Emperor" id="The_Good_and_Bad_Emperor"></a>The Good and Bad Emperor.</h1>
<p>Marcus Aurelius Antoninus was the seventeenth
Emperor of Rome, and began his reign on the 2nd of
March, 161 years before the Christian era. Besides
these three names, he had several others, <i>Annius Verus</i>,
after his grandfather; <i>Elius</i>, which was given him by
the Emperor Adrian; <i>Verissimus</i>, from his constant
regard to truth; and <i>Philosophos</i>, from his love of
wisdom.</p>
<p>In early childhood he was instructed by his mother,
who took great pains to teach him not to do wrong, or
to think unkindly of any person. She would not permit
him to be dainty in his food, or to partake in
luxuries that might be hurtful to his health; and
though he saw much to tempt his taste, he regarded the
restrictions of his mother. She also counselled him not
to be proud, but to relieve the poor whenever he had
opportunity. By his respect and obedience to her, he
began life with the elements of virtue and happiness.</p>
<p>His grandfather also conducted a part of his education,
in childhood. He listened reverently to his words,
and followed all his directions. Thus, he began to
honour and love the aged, and to bow down before
them. In one of the wise books which he wrote in
manhood, the very first sentences are expressive of
gratitude to these his earliest teachers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p>
<p>"Of my grandfather, I learned to be gentle and
meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. Of
my mother, I learned to be religious and bountiful, to
forbear not only to do, but to intend any evil; to content
myself with a spare diet, and to fly all the excesses
that come from great wealth."</p>
<p>Not content with the high moral training of his immediate
instructors, he was careful to imitate whatever
he saw that was praiseworthy in the conduct of others.
"Of my brother," he writes, "I have learned to be
kind and loving to all of my house and family, bountiful
and liberal in the largest measure, always to hope
for the best, and to believe that my friends love me."</p>
<p>As he grew older, masters were called in to direct
his studies. Two of these were from Greece, and he
acquired the language of that classic clime with great
accuracy. Junius Rusticus, his instructor in philosophy,
he says, "taught me to write letters simply, and without
affectation, to be easily reconciled to those who had
offended me, as soon as any of them would be content
to seek unto me again; also, to read with diligence,
and never to be content with light and superficial
knowledge."</p>
<p>He was particularly partial to that department of
philosophy which teaches the regulation of the temper
and conduct. Such excellence did he attain in its
principles and their exemplification, that he was permitted
to assume, at the age of twelve, the philosophical
gown. His rapid progress in knowledge, and preeminence
for truth and integrity, gained him the favour
of the Emperor Adrian, who was a patron of learning
and virtue. Among other distinctions, he appointed
him prefect of the city, when only fifteen years old. It
was an office of power and importance, comprising the
superintendence of buildings, and navigation, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
judging of causes, as a chief magistrate, if the Emperor
should be absent from the city. In this responsible
station, he acquitted himself with justice and
dignity, not at all vain of his elevation, but improving
every opportunity to advance in knowledge.</p>
<p>Amid the pressure of his public offices and private
studies, he did not overlook the domestic affections. To
his sister Annia Corneficia, he showed the utmost tenderness.
He liked to impart his knowledge to her, and
to have her enjoy the new ideas that he gathered. After
the death of their father, he became her watchful protector,
and the paternal estate having been left to him,
he presented it to her, rejoicing at having it in his
power to make her so valuable a gift. His generosity
was equalled by his gratitude. When he became Emperor
of Rome, he remembered all who had done him
services, and recompensed them. Especially to his
teachers, his regard was unbounded. His obligations
to them he frequently mentioned, and said the knowledge
with which they had stored his mind was more
precious than the wealth of an empire. While they
lived, he loaded them with benefits. When they died,
he paid to their memories the tribute of affectionate respect.
He laid chaplets of flowers on their tombs, and
caused their statues to be made of gold, which he kept
in his domestic chapel.</p>
<p>In this feature of attachment to his instructors he
resembled Alexander the Great, who was never weary
of testifying gratitude to his master, Aristotle. Comparing
it to the affection for his father, he said, "I am
indebted to Philip for <i>living</i>, and to Aristotle for <i>living
well</i>." He rebuilt and beautified Stagyra, after it had
been destroyed, because it was the native place of Aristotle,
and enclosed a copy of Homer's poems, to which
this beloved preceptor had written notes, in a gold box,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
carrying it wherever he went with his armies, and
laying it under his head every night, when he retired to
rest. In a letter to his teacher, he says, "I had rather
surpass the rest of men in the knowledge of sublime
and excellent things, than in greatness and extent of
power."</p>
<p>More truly great was Alexander in this sentiment,
than in his renown as a warrior. And surely, in the
beautiful sentiment of gratitude to our instructors in
knowledge and virtue, we, who are Christians, ought
not to suffer ourselves to be surpassed by the followers
of false gods.</p>
<p>When Marcus Aurelius was raised to the highest
office in the Empire, he felt it incumbent on him to be
the father of his people. He strove to do good to all.
He laboured to frame just laws. He directed the courts
to take a longer time for the transaction of business,
that they might not be tempted, through haste, to neglect
the causes of the poor. So great was his own
industry and patience, that he not unfrequently gave
ten days to the study of a case whose decision was important
or difficult.</p>
<p>He showed great respect for the opinion of the
Senate, and never took any portion of the revenue for
public expenses without their permission. He evinced
much prudence in the use of what they entrusted to
him. Once, when the claims of the nation were peculiarly
pressing, he said to his wife, the Empress
Faustina,</p>
<p>"I will sell the furniture of my palace, and you can
dispose of your richest clothing, rather than burden our
people to part with more than they can spare."</p>
<p>He was anxious for the improvement of the young,
and appointed a magistrate to whom minors might
apply, who needed protection or assistance. He was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
careful to add an example of morality to the precepts
that he impressed on others. Though he had power
to punish, it was his practice to forgive those who had
done him personal injuries. He had a foe, named
Avidius, whose slanders he generously pardoned. Afterwards,
hearing that Avidius had destroyed his own life,
he said, "Ah! I have now lost the opportunity of
changing an enemy into a friend."</p>
<p>He also cultivated the virtue of patience with the
infirmities of others. "If we cannot make them in all
things as we wish them to be," he used to say, "we must
take them as they are, and do the best with them that
lies in our power." This principle of forbearance was
strongly put to the test by Lucius Verus, his colleague
during the earlier part of his reign. This person rendered
little aid in the cares of the government, whose
authority he partook. He led an idle life, and selfishly
regarded only his own wishes. He possessed much
vanity, and coveted popular applause, though he did
nothing to deserve it. He liked the pomp and pageantry
of war, but not its hardships. Though he was
forward to promote it, yet he threw its toils upon others,
and when in distant countries with the Roman armies,
spent his time in indolence or unmanly sports. He was
addicted to indulgence in wine, and a luxurious table.
Hence he injured his health, and probably shortened his
days, dying suddenly in a fit, ere he was forty years old.</p>
<p>The efforts that Marcus Aurelius made for his improvement
and reformation, were like those of a kind
father, anxious for his erring son. He mildly reasoned
with him, and faithfully advised him, and laboured
to excuse his faults, even when the whole nation was
exasperated.</p>
<p>The command over his passions, which was so conspicuous
in Marcus Aurelius, he derived from long study<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
and practice of that Philosophy to which he was so
much attached, as to call it his "mother." He made
choice of the sect of the Stoics, who were sometimes
called scholars of the Portico, because their master gave
his lectures in a portico adorned with pictures, at Athens,
in Greece. Zeno, the founder of this school of philosophers,
discouraged luxury, and the pride of wealth. He
set an example of great simplicity of life, dressing
plainly, and being frugal in all his expenses. Bread,
figs, and honey, were his principal diet, and when the
most distinguished men sat at his table, he made no
change in its provisions. He was modest in the estimation
of himself, and amid any concourse of people,
sought the humblest and lowest place. To poor men
of merit, he paid the same respect as if they had been
rich. He had many opposers, but never lost his
temper through their provocations. He taught that
virtue was the true good, that happiness existed in the
mind and not in outward circumstances, and that men
should be unmoved either by pleasure or pain. His
temperance and tranquil spirit were probably favourable
to longevity, as he died on the verge of ninety-nine,
two hundred and sixty-four years before the
Christian era.</p>
<p>Marcus Aurelius embodied some of the precepts of
his philosophy in a book which has been praised by wise
and learned men. As a specimen of its style, I will
extract some of his sentiments on the diligent improvement
of time.</p>
<p>"In the morning, if thou feelest reluctant to rise,
consider how much work thou hast to do. Say to
thy heart, Am I unwilling to go about that for which
I was born, and brought into this world? Was I made
to please myself idly, in a warm bed?</p>
<p>"Wert thou born only to enjoy pleasure? Was it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>
not rather that thou mightest be always busy, and in
action? Seest thou not how every tree and plant, how
sparrows and ants, spiders and bees, are industrious and
intent to perform what belongs unto them? And wilt
not thou hasten to do that which thy nobler nature
doth require?"</p>
<p>In his Meditations he thus reasons on the firmness
with which this mortal existence should be resigned;
and his argument is as strong as any that philosophy,
unenlightened by the Gospel, could furnish.</p>
<p>"Thou hast taken ship. Thou hast sailed. Thou
hast come to land. Get out of the ship into another
life. The Gods are there."</p>
<p>Yet this good Emperor, who seemed as perfect as it
was possible for pagan morality and belief to make
any human being, still had faults. One of the most
prominent of these was persecuting the Christians.
That a man so habitually mild should have been thus
severe, can only be explained on the principle that he
believed himself to be doing right. Thus the Apostle
Paul, when he imprisoned and punished the followers of
Christ, and consented to the stoning of Stephen, "calling
upon God," persuaded himself that he was discharging
a sacred duty.</p>
<p>Marcus Aurelius was much influenced by the priests
of the heathen temples, who were jealous of whatever
interfered with their own idol-worship, and also by the
philosophers, who despised the Christians. Much of
the barbarity to which they were subjected was hidden
from him, as the governors of the distant provinces put
many to death without his knowledge. Still, he ought
to have more thoroughly investigated the truth with
regard to them, and had he been acquainted with the
New Testament, would doubtless have admired its pure
and sublime morality.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p>
<p>Another of his faults was, that he so often engaged
in war when he did not approve of it, but considered it
both a calamity and disgrace. It has been already
mentioned that his colleague, Lucius Verus, was proud
of military parade, and encouraged bloodshed. The
Romans, also, were an iron-hearted people, placing their
glory in foreign conquest. Any disorder in the countries
that they had subjected, they were prompt to
punish by the sword.</p>
<p>On one such occasion, when Marcus Aurelius led an
army into Germany, to chastise the Quadi, a tribe who
had rebelled against the sway of Rome, some remarkable
circumstances occurred. It was a wild region
which he traversed, where it was difficult to obtain
sustenance. The troops were in danger of famine.
The heat was intense, and no rain had fallen for a long
time, so that the grass was withered, and many of their
horses perished. The brooks and fountains wasted
away, and they endured distressing thirst. The enemy
shut them up between the mountains and themselves,
preventing as far as possible their approach to the
rivers. Then in this weak condition they forced them
to give battle or be cut off.</p>
<p>It was pitiful to see the Roman soldiers standing in
their ranks, with enfeebled limbs and parched lips,
almost suffocated with heat. For four days they had
scarcely tasted water. As their barbarous enemies
pressed closely and fiercely upon them, the Emperor
advanced to the head of his forces, and, oppressed with
anxiety, raised his eyes to heaven, and said,</p>
<p>"By this hand, which hath taken no life away, I
desire to appease Thee. Giver of life! I pray unto
Thee."</p>
<p>Poor and empty, indeed, was this form of heathen
devotion, contrasted with the triumphant trust of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
king of Judah, who, when the mighty host of the Ethiopians
stood ready to swallow him up, exclaimed,</p>
<p>"It is nothing for God to help, whether by many or
by them that have no power."</p>
<p>Then it was told the Emperor, that there was in the
camp an Egyptian, who boasted that the gods of his
country could give rain.</p>
<p>"Call him forth!" was the imperial command, "bid
him pray for water to relieve our thirst, and make to
his gods any offerings that spirit propitiate them."</p>
<p>The dark-browed man came forward and with many
ceremonies invoked Isis, the goddess who presided over
the waters. He implored her with the most piercing
earnestness to be gracious, and give rain. Thus the
idol-priests, during the long drought in Israel, under
Ahab, when the grass and brooks dried up, and the
cattle died, cried in their frantic sacrifices, "from
morning until noon, Oh Baal! hear us. But there was
no voice, neither any that regarded."</p>
<p>In the pause of despair that ensued, some Christian
soldiers, who had been constrained to join the army,
were led forward. Kneeling on the glowing sands, they
besought the Great Maker of heaven and earth, for
the sake of their dear crucified Saviour, to pity, and
to save. Solemnly arose their voices in that time of
trouble.</p>
<p>But the interval allotted to this supplication of faith
was brief. The conflict might no longer be deferred.
As they approached to join in battle, the enemy exulted
to see the Roman soldiers perishing with thirst, and
worn almost to skeletons, through famine and hardship.</p>
<p>Suddenly the skies grew black. At first a few large
drops fell, Heaven's sweet promise of mercy. Then came
a plentiful shower, then rain in torrents. The sufferers,
with shouts of joy, caught it in their helmets, and in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>
hollow of their shields. The blessed draught gave
them new strength and courage.</p>
<p>While they were yet drinking, their foes rushed upon
them, and blood was mingled with the water that
quenched their thirst. But the storm grew more terrible,
with keen flashes of lightning, and thunder
heavily reverberating from rock to rock. The barbarians,
smitten with sudden panic, exclaimed that the
gods fought against them with the fires of heaven, and
fled from the field. Thus the fortune of the day was
turned, and the vanquished left victors.</p>
<p>Marcus Aurelius received this deliverance with deep
gratitude. In his heart he connected it with the
prayer of the Christians, and caused their persecutions
to cease. An ancient historian mentions that the
soldiers who had thus supplicated for relief, received
the name of the "thundering legion," and were permitted
to have a thunderbolt graven on their shields,
as a memorial of the tempest that had discomfited
their enemies, and saved the Roman forces, when ready
to perish. The Emperor, in his letter to the Senate,
recorded the events of that wonderful occasion, which,
among others connected with the war he then conducted,
were sculptured on the Antonine column, still
standing in the city of Rome.</p>
<p>When the career of Marcus Aurelius terminated, and
his time came to die, he gave parting advice to his son
and successor, Commodus, solemnly charging his chief
officers and the friends who loved him, to aid him in
the discharge of his duties. Though he uttered so
many precepts of wisdom and fatherly tenderness, it
still seemed as if much was left unspoken, which he
would fain have said. Anxious care sat upon his brow
after his pale lips breathed no sound. It was supposed
that this trouble was for his son, in whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
right dispositions and habits he could have little
confidence.</p>
<p>Commodus was the only son of Marcus Aurelius, his
twin brother having died during infancy. The utmost
pains had been taken with his education. But he had
no love of knowledge, preferring sports or idleness,
having no correct value of the preciousness of time.</p>
<p>When he was but fourteen years of age, his father
permitted him to have a share in the government, hoping
thus to elevate him above trifling pursuits, and
implant in his young heart an interest for the people
over whom he was appointed to rule. But no sooner
was he in possession of power, than he began to abuse
it. He grew haughty, and despised the rights of others,
studying only his own selfish gratification.</p>
<p>He was nineteen, when, by the death of his father,
he assumed the supreme authority. For a time his
course was more judicious than could have been expected,
as he consented to take the advice of aged
counsellors, who were experienced in the cares of state.
Afterwards, he rejected their guidance, and would
listen only to the suggestions of young and rash advisers.
Ere long he became unjust and cruel, taking
away life as his own caprices dictated.</p>
<p>Among some of his most illustrious victims were the
Quintillian brothers, Maximin and Cardianus. They
were distinguished for wealth and liberality, and a
zealous kindness in relieving the poor. They were also
remarkable for their mutual affection, their studies and
pleasures being the same. They read the same books,
and so uniform was their flow of thought, that they
could pursue together the composition of the same
treatise. Such delight had they in each other's company,
that they were seldom seen separate, and had no
idea of divided or opposing interests. Rome admired<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>
this beautiful example of fraternal love, pointing them
out as two forms animated by one soul. Without just
cause, Commodus put to death these two brothers, who,
having lived in each other's life, were executed at the
same time.</p>
<p>In the midst of such barbarities, this bad Emperor
was amusing himself with the hunting of wild beasts,
and the company of vain and vicious people. His excesses
were at length terminated by violence, being
strangled after a reign of twelve years, December 31st,
192. His memory was execrated by those over whom
he had ruled. Indolence and hatred of knowledge in
his boyhood, and love of wicked associates in youth,
brought the vices of a bad heart to early ripeness, so
that he was at once dreaded and despised.</p>
<p>In analyzing his character, it will be found in two
respects similar to that of Rehoboam, king of Israel, in
his rejection of the advice of aged counsellors, to follow
the guidance of the young, and in being the unwise son
of a wise father.</p>
<p>We see that the honours won by illustrious ancestors
will avail us nothing, unless by our own virtues
we sustain their reputation. Indeed, if we take a different
course, our disgrace will be deeper, as the career
of the bad Emperor, which we have briefly traced,
seems darker when contrasted with the lustre and glory
of his predecessor.</p>
<p>Therefore, let every child of a good and distinguished
parent, give added diligence, that he may not blemish
the memory of those whom he loves, or stain the
brightness of a transmitted name.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Bonaparte_at_St_Helena" id="Bonaparte_at_St_Helena"></a>Bonaparte at St. Helena.</h1>
<p>The drama sinks, the tragic scene is o'er,<br />
And he who rul'd their springs, returns no more;<br />
He, who with mystery cloth'd, pale wonder chain'd,<br />
And all mankind his auditors detain'd,<br />
Whose plot unfolding agoniz'd the world,<br />
Resigns his mask, and from the stage is hurl'd.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When from the wilds of Corsica he broke,</span><br />
To snatch the sceptre and to bind the yoke,<br />
He rais'd the curtain with his dagger's blade,<br />
And pour'd red carnage o'er the slumbering shade.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His fearful plan, terrific, strange, and new,</span><br />
Nor Fancy prompted, nor Experience drew,<br />
It sprang inventive from a daring mind<br />
Where dauntless nerve and intellect combined;<br />
Thence bursting wildly, like the lightning's flame,<br />
Gave birth to deeds that language fails to name.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With battle-clouds the shrinking sun he veil'd,</span><br />
With flashing fires astonish'd Night assail'd,<br />
By ravag'd fields, and streams with carnage red,<br />
Trac'd o'er the earth his desolating tread:<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span><br />
Without a signal to the conflict rush'd<br />
O'er friends enslav'd, foes wounded, allies crush'd;<br />
High from the Alps, amid eternal snow,<br />
Pour'd his fierce legions on the vale below,<br />
With tramp of hurrying steed and armour's clang<br />
War followed war; from conquest, conquest sprang.<br />
In Scythian caves he fought; on Afric's sands,<br />
Chas'd the wild Arab and his roving bands;<br />
Perch'd on the pyramids in dizzy height.<br />
Look'd scornful down on Alexander's might;<br />
O'er Europe's realm like Attila he rush'd,<br />
Snatch'd, rent, divided, subjugated, crush'd;<br />
<i>Here</i>, planted minions in his smile to reign,<br />
<i>There</i>, loaded monarchs with his vassal chain.<br />
Rome's haughty pontiff trembled at the nod<br />
That dar'd to threat the altar of his God;<br />
While Albion's ships, whose bristled lightnings glow,<br />
Were seen like Argus watching for their foe,<br />
And her white cliffs in close array were lin'd<br />
With sleepless soldiers, on their arms reclin'd.<br />
<br />
Far distant realms beheld his glories tower,<br />
And France forgot her wrongs, to boast his power;<br />
The pale-brow'd conscript left, without a sigh,<br />
Home, love, and liberty, for him to die.<br />
Even heaven-taught Genius proffer'd venal lays,<br />
The servile arts enlisted in his praise,<br />
And the rich spoils of old Italia's shore<br />
As trophies proud, his pirate legions bore.<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>In that gay city where his lofty throne<br />
On run rear'd, in sudden brilliance shone,<br />
The Old World met the New, and sons of fame<br />
Who fill'd with awe, in long procession came,<br />
Rais'd the imploring eye, to ask sublime<br />
A milder sentence on the tyrant's crime.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But how can Europe grant their warm appeal,</span><br />
Reft of her sons, and mangled by his steel?<br />
Hath she a couch so dark, a cell so deep,<br />
That burning Moscow's memory there may sleep?<br />
What can the scenes of purple Jaffa blot?<br />
And when shall Lodi's slaughter be forgot?<br />
Who from a race unborn shall hide the view<br />
Of Jena, Austerlitz, and Waterloo?<br />
Earth, clad in sable, never can forego<br />
The deep-grav'd trace, nor man forget the woe.<br />
<br />
Yet, <i>let him live</i>, if life can yet be borne,<br />
Disrob'd of glory, and depress'd with scorn;<br />
Yes, <i>let him live</i>, if he to life can bend,<br />
Without a flatterer, and without a friend;<br />
If from the hand he hated, he can bear<br />
To take the gift, his stain'd existence spare.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But who from yon lone islet shall exclude</span><br />
The fearful step of Conscience, foul with blood?<br />
What diamond shield repel the impetuous force<br />
Or break the shafts of pitiless remorse?<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh! in his sea-girt cell of guilt and fear,</span><br />
Stretch the red map that marks his dire career,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>Light the funereal torch, in terror spread<br />
His reeking hecatombs of slaughter'd dead,<br />
And if to hearts like his, Contrition comes,<br />
There let him seek her 'mid impending glooms;<br />
<i>There</i> let him live, and to mankind display<br />
The mighty miseries of Ambition's sway;<br />
There let him sink, to teach them by his fate,<br />
The dread requital of the falsely great.<br />
Great, in the stores of an ambitious mind;<br />
Great, in the deeds that desolate mankind;<br />
Great, like the pestilence in mystic shroud<br />
That darts its arrow from the midnight cloud;<br />
Great, like the whirlwind in its wrecking path,<br />
To sow in evil, and to reap in wrath.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Polycarp" id="Polycarp"></a>Polycarp.</h1>
<p>There have been in all ages some firm and consistent
Christians, who, rather than deny the true faith,
have chosen martyrdom. Polycarp, the Bishop of
Smyrna, in Asia, was one of the earliest of these. He
had become very old and venerable, when, during one of
the persecutions under the Roman Emperors, his life
was taken away. No accusation was ever made against
him, except that he was a follower of Christ.</p>
<p>Suddenly there was a great noise in the streets, and
multitudes shouted, "Let Polycarp be brought!" Not
dismayed at the tumult, he retired to pray, as was his
custom at that hour. Then his enemies rushed forcibly
into his house, and foreseeing their purpose, he said,</p>
<p>"The will of the Lord be done."</p>
<p>Calmly he talked with them, and as some seemed
weary and exhausted, he commanded food to be set
before them, remembering the words of the forgiving
and compassionate Redeemer, "If thine enemy hunger,
feed him; if he thirst, give him drink."</p>
<p>He requested that he might have one hour for his
devotions, ere they took him from his home, to which
he felt persuaded that he should return no more. This
they granted, and when the hour was passed, placed
him on an ass, to carry him to the city. Two Romans
of wealth and power, passing by, took him up into their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>
chariot. There they endeavoured to persuade him to
sacrifice to the heathen gods. He replied, "I shall
never do what you advise." Then they threw him out
of the chariot so roughly, that he was bruised and hurt.
But rising, he walked on cheerfully, notwithstanding his
great age. When he was brought before the tribunal,
the Governor urged him to deny the Saviour. "Reverence
thine age," said he. "Repent. Swear by the
fortunes of Cćsar. Reproach Christ, and I will set thee
at liberty."</p>
<p>But Polycarp replied, "Fourscore and six years have
I served him, and he hath never done me an injury.
How then can I blaspheme my King and Saviour?"</p>
<p>"I have wild beasts," said the furious governor. "I
will cast you unto them, unless you change your mind."</p>
<p>"Call for them," answered Polycarp.</p>
<p>"Nay, if you dread not the lions," said the Roman,
"I will order you to be consumed by fire, except you
repent."</p>
<p>"Threatenest thou me," said the gray-haired Christian,
"with the fire that burns for an hour, and then is
extinguished? And art thou ignorant of the fire of
the future judgment, and of the everlasting punishment
reserved for the wicked?"</p>
<p>Then the whole multitude, both of Jews and Gentiles
that inhabited Smyrna, cried out furiously, "This
is the father of the Christians, who teaches all Asia not
to worship our gods. Let a lion loose upon him, or let
him be cast into the flame."</p>
<p>They hastened to raise a pile of wood and dry
branches. He unclothed himself at their command,
and endeavoured to stoop down and take off his shoes,
which he had long been unable to do, because of his
age and infirmity. When all things were ready, they
were going to nail him to the stake. But he said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
"He who gives me strength to bear this fire, will enable
me to stand unmoved without being fastened with
nails." Then he thus prayed:</p>
<p>"Oh Father of the beloved and blessed Son, Jesus
Christ, through whom we have obtained the knowledge
of Thee, Oh God of angels and principalities, of all
creation, and of all the just who live in thy sight, I
bless Thee that Thou hast counted me worthy of this
day, and at this hour, to receive my portion in the
number of martyrs, in the cup of Christ, for the resurrection
of eternal life, both of soul and body, in the
incorruption of the Holy Ghost, among whom may I be
received before Thee, as an acceptable sacrifice, which
Thou, the faithful and true God, hast prepared, promised,
and fulfilled accordingly. Wherefore, I praise
Thee for all these things, I bless Thee, I glorify Thee,
by the eternal High Priest, Jesus Christ, thy well-beloved
Son, through whom and with whom, in the Holy
Spirit, be glory to Thee, both now and for ever."</p>
<p>Scarcely had the hoary-headed saint uttered his last
earnest <i>Amen</i>, ere the impatient officers kindled the
pile. Flame and smoke enwrapped the blackening
body of the martyr. It was long in consuming, and
so they ran it through with a sword. Thus died the
faithful and venerable Polycarp in the year 168, at the
age of eighty-six.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Christmas_Hymn" id="Christmas_Hymn"></a>Christmas Hymn.</h1>
<blockquote><p>"Peace on earth, and good-will to men."</p></blockquote>
<p>Lift up the grateful heart to Him,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Friend of want and pain,</span><br />
Whose birth the joyous angels sang,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On green Judea's plain;</span><br />
<br />
"Good-will and peace!" how sweet the sound<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the midnight air,</span><br />
While sleep the fleecy flocks around,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Watched by their shepherd's care.</span><br />
<br />
So we, within this Christian fold,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lambs of our teacher's love,</span><br />
Who hear that melody divine,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still echoing from above,</span><br />
<br />
Would fain, through all of life, obey<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The spirit of the strain,</span><br />
That so the bliss by angels sung<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Might not to us be vain.</span><br /></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Frivolous_King" id="The_Frivolous_King"></a>The Frivolous King.</h1>
<p>Richard the Second was grandson of Edward the
Third, and the only son of the celebrated Black Prince.
He ascended the throne at the age of eleven, with
every advantage that could be derived from the partiality
of the people for his illustrious ancestors.
Especially the firmness and magnanimity of his father,
and his union of goodness with greatness, won the
favour of the historians of his times, who assert that he
left a stainless honour and an unblemished name.</p>
<p>The young king, during an insurrection, gave some
proofs of courage and presence of mind that impressed
the nation favourably: and as he approached maturity,
his graceful, majestic person awakened their admiration
and pride. Had he by wise conduct and deportment
confirmed these impressions, he might have swayed
their affections, and firmly established himself in their
love. But his demeanour was so light and frivolous,
that he commanded no respect, while his self-confidence
and contempt of wise counsel plunged him into misfortune.
And as the mind that indulges itself in error
is never stationary, he passed from indolence to acts of
injustice, and even of cruelty.</p>
<p>He banished for life the Duke of Norfolk, against
whom no crime had been proved, and condemned to a
ten years' exile the young Duke of Bolingbroke, against<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>
whom no offence had been alleged. The last named
nobleman was his own cousin, the son of John of Gaunt,
Duke of Lancaster, brother of the Black Prince. The
aged father deeply mourned this disgrace and unjust
punishment inflicted on his only son. Had not Richard
been destitute of true sympathy, it would have grieved
him to see his white-haired relative sinking in despondence,
and mourning night and day for the absence of
his son. Borne down by sorrow, and the infirmities of
declining years, he died, and his large estates were immediately
taken for the use of the crown.</p>
<p>The banished Bolingbroke, exasperated at the seizure
of his paternal inheritance, returned before the term of
his exile had expired. When he entered his native
land, some followers joined him, and as he passed onward,
they increased to a formidable force. Richard
was dilatory in his preparations to oppose them, and
unfortunate in his encounters. He was defeated, and
made prisoner by him who had once been the victim of
his own tyranny.</p>
<p>The weather was cold and cheerless, when, on almost
the last day of December, 1399, a strange and sad
scene was exhibited in the streets of London. There,
Bolingbroke, with the title of Henry Fourth, appeared
riding in great pomp, with a vast retinue, who filled
the air with acclamations, followed by the drooping
and degraded Richard, exposed to the insults of those
who flattered or feared him in his day of power, and
now spared not to cast dust and rubbish upon him.
Shakspeare has given a most striking description of this
entrance into the city, which seems to bring it before
the eye like a picture.</p>
<p>Though the fickle throng showered their praises upon
the fortunate monarch, there were some left to pity the
fallen. He was kept a close prisoner in Pomfret Castle,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
and subjected to many sufferings and indignities. There
he died, some historians say by the stroke of an axe,
and others, by the slow torture of starvation.</p>
<p>From his untimely grave, a voice seems to rise,
warning the young against the folly and rashness that
were his ruin. Let them avoid this thoughtlessness
and waste of time, and if they are ever tempted to
frivolity, or contempt of the rights of others, remember
what this prince might have been, and what he became,
nor pass by this melancholy monument of blasted hope
without learning a lesson of wisdom.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></div>
<h1><a name="To_a_Pupil_Leaving_School" id="To_a_Pupil_Leaving_School"></a>To a Pupil Leaving School.</h1>
<p>Farewell! Farewell! Once more regain<br />
Your happy home, your native plain;<br />
Yet here, in Learning's classic fane,<br />
None have discharg'd the allotted part<br />
With firmer zeal or fonder heart.<br />
And true affection still shall hold<br />
Your image, set in Memory's gold.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet think, sweet friend, where'er you rove,</span><br />
That He who strews your path with love,<br />
Accords no boon of which to say,<br />
"'Tis light, go trifle it away."<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No. Every fleeting hour survives;</span><br />
It seems to vanish, yet it lives;<br />
Though buried, it shall burst the tomb,<br />
And meet you at the bar of doom.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But <i>how</i> it rises, <i>how</i> appears,</span><br />
With smiles or frowns, with joys or fears.<br />
And ah! what verdict then it bears,<br />
Rests on your labours, and your prayers.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Pious_Princes" id="Pious_Princes"></a>Pious Princes.</h1>
<p>The pomp with which royalty is surrounded must
be unfavourable to a right education. Its proud expectations
are often destructive to humility, and its
flatteries blind the mind to a knowledge of itself.</p>
<p>Yet History records a few instances, where the young
heart has escaped these dangers, and chosen truth for
its guide, and wisdom as its portion. Here and there,
we find one, whom the possession of an earthly crown
did not deter from the pursuit of that which is incorruptible
and eternal.</p>
<p>Josiah, the king of Judah, was one of these rare
examples. He was born about the year six hundred
and thirty-three, before the Christian era, and at the
early age of eight was called to succeed his father on
the throne. The temptations of kingly power, which
are so often a hindrance to piety, seemed rather to dispose
his heart to its influence, for the sacred historian
records that in the eighth year of his reign, while he
was yet young, "he began to seek after the God of
David his father."</p>
<p>The religion of this young prince of sixteen soon unfolded
itself in earnest deeds; the overthrow of idolatry,
the repair of the Holy Temple, and the establishment
of laws for the welfare of his people and realm.</p>
<p>Modern history, also, describes some young heirs of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>
royalty, whom it is pleasant to contemplate. Conspicuous
among these is Edward VI. of England, who began
his reign in 1547, at the age of nine years. His mother
died almost immediately after his birth, and until he
was nearly seven he was under the care of females,
whose virtues and accomplishments were calculated to
make the happiest impression on his character. Thus,
by the grace of God, was laid the foundation of that
deep, tender, and consistent piety, that marked his
conduct through life, and left him, at death, an unblemished
fame.</p>
<p>In early childhood he discovered strong powers of
mind, and a conscientious heart. His reverence for the
Scriptures was remarkable. Once, while playing with
some infantine companions, he desired to reach an
article that was considerably above their heads. So
they moved a large book for him to stand upon.
Scarcely had he placed his foot upon the covers when
he saw it was the Bible. Instantly drawing back, he
folded his arms around it and said seriously to his play-fellows,
"Shall I trample under my feet that which
God hath commanded me to treasure up in my heart?"</p>
<p>On his seventh birth-day he was placed under the
tuition of learned men, to study such branches of
knowledge as they considered best for him, among
which were the Latin and French languages. He was
docile to all their directions, and frequently expressed
his gratitude for their instructions. Letters elegantly
written in Latin, at the age of eight, to his father,
Henry Eighth, Queen Catharine Parr, his mother-in-law,
and the Earl of Hertford, his uncle, are preserved
as curiosities in the annals of those times.</p>
<p>At his coronation, being then nine years old, three
swords were laid before him to signify that he was the
monarch of three separate kingdoms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p>
<p>"There is another sword yet wanting," said the
child-prince, "one more, the sword of the Spirit, which
is the Word of God. Without that we are nothing, we
can do nothing; we have no power. Through that, we
are what we are, at this day. From that Book alone,
we obtain all virtue and salvation, and whatever we
have of divine strength."</p>
<p>Constancy and regularity in prayer was among his
early traits of character. After he became a king, and
was subject to the interruptions and temptations of a
court, nothing could induce him to neglect his daily
seasons of private devotion. One day, he was told,
that Sir John Cheeke, who had given him lessons in
Latin, when quite a young child, was dangerously sick.
With deep solemnity on his countenance, he went to
his stated retirement, and afterwards hearing that the
physician had said there was little hope of his recovery,
replied in the simple fervour of faith,</p>
<p>"Ah! but I think there is. For I have most earnestly
begged of God, in my prayers, this morning, to
spare him."</p>
<p>When the sufferer was restored to health, and informed
of this circumstance, he was deeply touched by
the grateful affection and confiding piety of his royal
pupil.</p>
<p>Edward Sixth kept an exact diary of all the memorable
events that passed under his observation. The
conferring of every office, civil or ecclesiastical, the receipts
and expenditure of the revenue, the repairs or
erection of forts, the sending forth or reception of ambassadors,
and indeed, all matters of business that
occurred during his reign, were legibly recorded by his
own hand, with their appropriate dates. This diary,
which evinces industry and uprightness of purpose, is
often quoted by historians.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p>
<p>But pulmonary consumption early made fatal inroads
on his health, and he prepared for a higher and happier
state with the benignity of one whose heart was
already there. The following prayer, which is among
those which he used as the close of life drew nigh, will
show how much the progress of true religion among his
people dwelt on his mind, when about to be taken from
them:</p>
<p>"My Lord God! if thou wilt deliver me from this
miserable and wretched life, take me among thy chosen.
Yet, not <i>my</i> will, but <i>Thy</i> will be done. Lord I commit
my spirit unto Thee. Thou knowest how happy
it were for me to be with Thee. But if Thou dost
send me life and health, grant that I may more truly
serve Thee.</p>
<p>"Oh my God! save thy people, and bless thine inheritance.
Preserve thy chosen realm of England, and
maintain Thy true religion, that both king and people
may praise Thy holy name, for the sake of our Lord
Jesus Christ."</p>
<p>Edward Sixth died at the age of sixteen, July 6th,
1553, beloved and lamented by all over whom he had
reigned.</p>
<p>The historians of France record, with high encomium,
the virtues of one of their princes, a son of Louis
Fifteenth, who died before his father. He possessed a
noble spirit, amiable manners, and in all the duties and
sympathies of private life was so exemplary, that he
was pronounced by national enthusiasm, "too perfect
to continue on earth." He was exceedingly attentive
to the education of his children, and vigilant in guarding
them against the pride and arrogance of royalty.
He continually endeavoured to impress upon their
minds, that though they had been placed by Heaven
in an elevated station, yet virtue and religion were the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>
only true and enduring distinctions. His death, which
was deeply mourned by the nation over which he had
expected one day to rule, took place on the 20th of
December, 1765, when he had just attained the age of
thirty-seven years.</p>
<p>He directed the preceptor of his children to take
them to the abodes of the poor, and let them taste the
coarsest bread, and lie down upon the hardest pallet,
that they might know how the needy live, and learn
to pity them.</p>
<p>"Ah! suffer them also to weep," he would say, "for
a prince who has never shed tears for the woes of others
can never make a good king."</p>
<blockquote>
<p>Yes, take them to the peasant's cot,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where penury shrinks in pain and care,</span><br />
Spread to their view the humblest lot,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And let them taste the coarsest fare,</span><br />
<br />
And bid their tender limbs recline<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the hard and husky bed,</span><br />
Where want and weary labour pine,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Diseased, unpitied, and unfed;</span><br />
<br />
And let them weep; for if their eyes<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With tender Pity ne'er o'erflow,</span><br />
How will they heed their subjects' signs,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or learn to feel a nation's woe?</span><br />
<br />
Oh children! though your Maker's hand,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hath mark'd for you a lofty sphere,</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>And though your welfare and command<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are now to partial Gallia dear;</span><br />
<br />
Yet many a child from lowliest shed,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose peasant father turns the sod,</span><br />
May in the righteous day of dread<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Be counted <i>greater</i> by his God.</span></p>
</blockquote>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Evils_of_War" id="Evils_of_War"></a>Evils of War.</h1>
<blockquote><p>"From whence come wars and fightings?" James, iv. 1.</p></blockquote>
<p>You will perhaps say they have been from the beginning.
The history of every nation tells of the shedding
of blood. In the Bible and other ancient records of
man, we read of "wars and fightings," ever since he
was placed upon the earth.</p>
<p>Yet there have been always some to lament that the
creatures whom God has made should thus destroy
each other. They have felt that human life was short
enough, without its being made still shorter by violence.
Among the most warlike nations there have been wise
and reflecting minds, who felt that war was an evil, and
deplored it as a judgment.</p>
<p>Rome was one of the most warlike nations of the
ancient world. Yet three of her best Emperors gave
their testimony against war, and were most reluctant
to engage in it. Adrian truly loved peace, and endeavoured
to promote it. He saw that war was a foe to
those arts and sciences which cause nations to prosper.
Titus Antoninus Pius tried to live in peace with every
one. He did all in his power to prevent war, and said
he would "rather save the life of one citizen, than destroy
a thousand enemies." Marcus Aurelius considered
war both as a disgrace and a calamity. When he was
forced into it, his heart revolted.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p>
<p>Yet these were heathen emperors. They had never
received the Gospel, which breathes "peace and good-will
to man." The law of Moses did not forbid war
"An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth," was the
maxim of the Jewish people. But the law of Jesus
Christ is a law of peace. "I say unto you, that ye
resist not evil," were the words not only of his lips, but
of his example. His command to his disciples was,
"See that ye love one another."</p>
<p>The spirit of war, therefore, was not condemned by
the Jewish law, or by the creeds of the heathen. But
it is contrary to the spirit of the Gospel.</p>
<p>Have you ever seriously considered the evil and
sorrow of war? how it destroys the lives of multitudes,
and makes bitter mourning in families and nations?
You are sorry when you see a friend suffering pain,
or a lame man with a broken bone, or even a child with
a cut finger. But after a battle, what gashes and
gaping wounds are seen, while the ground is red with
the flowing blood, and the dying in their agony are
trampled under the feet of horses, or covered with heaps
of dead bodies.</p>
<p>Think too of the poverty and distress that come
upon many families, who have lost the friend whose
labour provided them with bread, upon the mourning
of gray-headed parents from whose feeble limbs the
prop is taken away; upon the anguish of wives for their
slaughtered husbands; and the weeping of children,
because their dear fathers must return to them no more.</p>
<p>All these evils, and many which there is not room to
mention, come from a single battle. But in one war
there are often many battles. Towns are sometimes
burned, and the aged and helpless destroyed. The
mother and her innocent babes perish in the flames of
their own beloved homes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p>
<p>It is very sad to think of the cruelty and bad passions
which war produces. Men, who have no cause to dislike
each other, meet as deadly foes. They raise weapons
of destruction, and exult to hear the groans of death.
Rulers who make war, should remember the suffering
and sin which it occasions, and how much more noble
it is to save life than to destroy it.</p>
<p>Howard visited the prisons of Europe, and relieved
the miseries of those who had no helper, and died with
their blessings on his head. Bonaparte caused multitudes
to be slain, and multitudes to mourn, and died
like a chained lion upon a desolate island. Is not the
fame of Howard better than that of Bonaparte?</p>
<p>The religious sect of Friends, or Quakers, as they
are sometimes called, never go to war. The beautiful
State of Pennsylvania was originally settled by them.
William Penn, its founder, would not permit any discord
with the Indians, its original inhabitants. He obtained
the land of them by fair purchase, and set the example
of treating them with justice and courtesy.</p>
<p>In most of the other colonies there had been fearful
wars with the savages. In ambush and massacre, the
blood of the new-comers had been shed; and they had
retaliated on the sons of the forest with terrible vengeance.
Older States looked upon this proffer of peace
as a dangerous experiment. They said, "These Quakers
have put their heads under the tomahawk." But on
the contrary, no drop of their blood was ever shed by
the Indians in Pennsylvania. They gathered around
William Penn with reverence and love. Rude warriors
as they were, they admired his peaceful spirit. He
explained his views to them with cordiality, and they
listened to his words.</p>
<p>"We will not fight with you," he said, "nor shed
your blood. If a quarrel arise, six of our people and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>
six of your own, shall meet together and judge what is
right, and settle the matter accordingly."</p>
<p>Subdued by his spirit of kindness and truth, they
promised to live in peace with him and his posterity
"so long as the sun and moon shall endure."</p>
<p>On his return to England, among the friends who
gathered around the ship to bid him farewell, were
groups of Indians with mournful brows, the women
holding up their little ones, that they might have one
more sight of the great and good man, whom they
called their Father. Was not this more acceptable to
Heaven than the din of strife, and the false glory of the
conqueror?</p>
<p>So earnest was William Penn to convince his fellowmen
that it was both their duty and privilege to live in
peace, that he travelled into foreign countries for that
purpose, using his eloquence, and knowledge of various
languages with considerable success. Peter the Great,
when studying the arts of civilization in England, was
much interested by visits from this teacher of Peace,
who conversed fluently with him in German. The
young Czar listened with great attention and courtesy,
while he unfolded his system. He then earnestly requested
that it might be expressed for him in a few
words, and William Penn wrote,</p>
<p>"Men must be holy, or they cannot be happy; they
should be few in words, peaceable in life, suffer wrongs,
love enemies, and deny themselves: without which, faith
is false; worship, formality, and religion, hypocrisy."</p>
<p>The future Emperor of the Russians, though not a
convert to the doctrine of the Quakers, regarded it with
so much respect, that he repeatedly attended their
meetings, evincing deep and interested attention. To
his mind, the theory of peace seemed beautiful, yet he
considered it impossible that wars should be prevented.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>
He did not believe that contending nations could be
made to settle their differences without an appeal to
arms, or that their anger might be soothed by the
mediation of a friendly people, as a good man makes
peace between offended neighbours. It did not occur to
him that a Christian ruler might mediate with the
soothing policy of the patriarch Abraham to his wrathful
kinsman:</p>
<p>"Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and
thee, or between my herdsmen and thy herdsmen, for
we be brethren."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Liberated_Fly" id="The_Liberated_Fly"></a>The Liberated Fly.</h1>
<p>A Fly was struggling in a vase of ink,<br />
Which with my feathery quill-top I releas'd,<br />
As the rope saves the drowning mariner.<br />
I thought at first the luckless wight was dead,<br />
But mark'd a quivering of the slender limbs,<br />
And laid him on a paper in the sun,<br />
To renovate himself.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">With sudden spasm</span><br />
Convulsion shook him sore, and on his back<br />
Discomfited he lay. Then, by his side<br />
I strew'd some sugar, and upon his breast<br />
Arrang'd a particle, thinking, perchance,<br />
The odour of his favourite aliment<br />
Might stimulate the palate, and uncoil<br />
The folded trunk.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 9.5em;">But, straight, a troop of friends</span><br />
Gather'd around him, and I deem'd it kind<br />
To express their sympathy, in such dark hour<br />
Of adverse fortune. Yet, behold! they came<br />
To forage on his stores, and rudely turn'd<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>And toss'd him o'er and o'er, to help themselves<br />
With more convenience. Quite incens'd to see<br />
Their utter want of pitying courtesy,<br />
I drove these venal people all away,<br />
And shut a wine-glass o'er him, to exclude<br />
Their coarse intrusion.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;">Forthwith, they return'd,</span><br />
And through his palace peer'd, and, round and round<br />
Gadding, admission sought: yet all in vain.<br />
And so, a wondrous buzzing they set up,<br />
As if with envy mov'd to see him there,<br />
The untasted luxury at his very lips,<br />
For which they long'd so much.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 16em;">Then suddenly,</span><br />
The prisoner mov'd his head, and rose with pain,<br />
And dragg'd his palsied body slow along,<br />
Marking out sinuous lines, as on a map,<br />
Coast, islet, creek, and lithe promontory,<br />
Blank as the Stygian ink-pool, where he plung'd<br />
So foolishly. But a nice bath was made<br />
In a small silver spoon, from which he rose<br />
Most marvellously chang'd, stretching outright<br />
All his six legs uncramp'd, and, opening wide<br />
And shutting with delight his gauzy wings,<br />
Seem'd to applaud the cleansing properties<br />
Of pure cold water. Then with appetite,<br />
He took the food that he had loath'd before;<br />
And in this renovation of the life<br />
Of a poor noteless insect, was a joy,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>And sweet content, I never could have felt<br />
From taking it away.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Still let us guard,</span><br />
For every harmless creature, God's good gifts<br />
Of breath and being; since each beating heart<br />
Doth hide some secret sense of happiness<br />
Which he who treadeth out can ne'er restore.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Good_Brother_and_Sister" id="The_Good_Brother_and_Sister"></a>The Good Brother and Sister.</h1>
<p>Jacob Bicks was a native of Leyden, in Holland,
and born in the year 1657. His parents were religious,
and gave strict attention to his early education, and
their efforts were rewarded. He became tenderly conscientious,
and in all his conduct sought to obey them
and please God.</p>
<p>When the plague raged in Holland, in 1664, he was
seized with the fatal infection. At first he seemed
drowsy and lethargic, but during his waking intervals,
was observed to be engaged in prayer.</p>
<p>"This," said he, "gives me comfort in my distress."</p>
<p>Perceiving that he suffered pain, he was asked if he
would like again to see the physician.</p>
<p>"No," he earnestly answered, "I wish to have him
no more. The Lord will help me, for I well know that
He is about to take me to himself."</p>
<p>"Dear child," said his father, "this grieves us to the
heart."</p>
<p>"Father," answered the meek sufferer, "let us pray.
The Lord will be near for my helper."</p>
<p>After prayer, he spoke with a stronger and more
joyful voice, his parting words,</p>
<p>"Come now, father and mother, come and kiss me,
I feel that I am to die. Farewell, dear parents, farewell,
dear sister, farewell all. Now shall I go to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>
heaven, and to the holy angels. Remember ye not
what is said by Jeremiah, 'Blessed is he who trusteth
in the Lord.' I trust in Him, and lo! he blesseth me.
'Little children, love not the world, for it passeth away.'
Away then with the pleasant things of the world, away
with my toys, away with my books, in heaven I shall
have a sufficiency of the true wisdom without them."</p>
<p>"God will be near thee," said the father. "He shall
uphold thee."</p>
<p>"It is written," answered the child, "that He giveth
grace unto the humble. I shall humble myself under
His mighty hand, and He will lift me up."</p>
<p>"Hast thou indeed, so strong a faith, my dear son?"
asked the afflicted father.</p>
<p>"Yes," said the dying boy, "He hath given me this
strong faith in Jesus Christ. He that believeth on
Him hath everlasting life, and shall overcome the
wicked one. I believe in Jesus Christ, my Redeemer.
He will never leave nor forsake me. He will give me
eternal life. He will let me sing, 'Holy, holy, holy,
Lord God of Sabaoth.'"</p>
<p>Then, with his failing breath, they heard upon his
lips the softly murmured prayer, "Lord, be merciful to
me a poor sinner," as with a trusting smile his spirit
passed away, just as he had completed his seventh
year.</p>
<p>His sister, Susanna, seven years older than himself,
was smitten by the same terrible pestilence, a few
weeks after his death. She had been from the beginning
a child of great sweetness of disposition, attentive
to her studies, and so faithful in her religious duties as
to be considered an example for other young persons,
and even for older Christians.</p>
<p>Bending beneath the anguish of her disease, like a
crushed and beautiful flower she sustained herself and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>
comforted others with the words of that Blessed Book,
in which was her hope.</p>
<p>"If Thy law were not my delight, I should perish in
this my affliction. Be merciful to me, oh Father! be
merciful to me a sinner, according unto thy word."</p>
<p>Fixing her eyes tenderly upon her mourning parents,
she said,</p>
<p>"Cast your burden upon the Lord. He shall sustain
you. He will never suffer the righteous to be moved.
Therefore, dearest mother, be comforted. He will
cause all things to go well that concern you."</p>
<p>Her mother answered with tears,</p>
<p>"O, our dear child, God, by his grace, hath given
me great comfort in thee, in thy religious temper, and
thy great attention to reading the Scriptures, prayer,
and pious discourse, edifying us as well as thyself. He,
even He Himself, who gave thee to us, make up this
loss, if it be His pleasure to take thee away."</p>
<p>"Dear mother, though I must leave you, and you
me, God will never leave either of us. Is it not written,
Can a woman forget her child? Yea, she may forget,
yet will I not forget thee. Behold, I have graven
thee upon the palms of my hands. Oh! most comfortable
words, both for parents and child."</p>
<p>Fatigued with speaking, she fell into a deep slumber,
and on awaking, asked what day it was. She was told
it was Sabbath morning.</p>
<p>"Father, have you commended me to be remembered
in the prayers of the Church?"</p>
<p>"Yes, my daughter."</p>
<p>"This comforts me. For I have learned to believe
that the effectual fervent prayer of the righteous
availeth much."</p>
<p>She had a peculiarly warm and grateful love for her
teachers and pastor, and a veneration for all ministers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>
of the Gospel. She delighted to listen to their conversation
wherever she met them, and counted any
attention from them as an honour. But now, she
would not consent that they should approach her, lest
they might take the fearful disease that was hurrying
her to the tomb.</p>
<p>"I will not expose their valuable lives," she said. "I
cast myself wholly upon the mercies of God. His word
is my comforter."</p>
<p>Her knowledge of the Scriptures was uncommon.
She had committed large portions of it to memory,
which gave hallowed themes to her meditation, and
naturally mingled with her discourse in these solemn,
parting moments.</p>
<p>She felt a deep desire for the progress of true religion,
whose worth she was now able more fully to
appreciate than in the days of health. One morning,
she was found bathed in tears, and when the cause was
inquired, exclaimed,</p>
<p>"Have I not cause to weep? Our dear minister was
taken ill in his pulpit this morning, and went home
very sick. Is it not a sign of God's displeasure against
our country, when such a faithful pastor is smitten?"</p>
<p>She had shed no tear for her own severe pains, but
she bemoaned the sufferings of others, and the afflictions
that threatened the Church. Of her own merits
she entertained a most humble opinion, and would often
repeat with deep feeling,</p>
<p>"The sacrifices of God are a contrite heart. A
broken and a contrite spirit He will not despise. I
desire that brokenness of heart which flows from faith,
and that faith which is built upon Christ, the only
sacrifice for sin."</p>
<p>Waking from a troubled sleep, she said in a faint voice,</p>
<p>"O dear father, dear mother, how very weak I am."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p>
<p>"God in his tender mercy," said the sorrowing
parents, "strengthen your weakness."</p>
<p>"Yea, this is my confidence. A bruised reed will He
not break, and the smoking flax will He not quench."</p>
<p>Her parents, surprised and moved at a piety so far
beyond her years, could not refrain from a strong
burst of tears at the affliction that awaited them in her
loss. Greatly grieved at their sorrow, she soothed
them and argued with them against its indulgence.</p>
<p>"Oh! why should you so weep over me? Is it not
the good Lord that takes me out of this miserable
world? Shall it not be well with me, through all
eternity? Ought you not to be satisfied, seeing God
is in heaven, and doeth whatsoever he pleaseth? Do
you not pray every day, that His will may be done?
Should we not be content when our prayers are answered?
Is not extreme sorrow murmuring against
Him? Although I am struck with this sad disease,
yet because it is His will, let that silence us. For as
long as I live, shall I pray, that <i>His will, and not mine</i>,
be done."</p>
<p>She then spoke of the plague that was raging
throughout the country with violence, and said she chose
to consider it as the especial allotment of the Almighty,
and not, as some supposed, the result of disorder in the
elements. After a pause, she added,</p>
<p>"This is the day appointed for explaining the first
question in the Catechism. Were I able to meet with
the class, I should hear, that whether in life or death,
a true believer is the Lord's. Then be comforted, for
whether I live or die, I am his. Oh! why do you
afflict yourselves so? Yet, with weeping came I into
this world, and with weeping must I go out. But,
dear parents, better is the day of my death, than the
day of my birth."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p>
<p>She requested her father to go to those who had instructed
her in religion, and catechized her, and thank
them in the name of a dying child, and tell them how
precious was the memory of their words, now in the
time of her extreme distress. She desired, also, that
her gratitude might be expressed to those who had
taught her, when very young, to read and work, and
to all who had at any time shown her kindness and
attention. When he told her of the satisfaction he had
enjoyed in her proficiency in the various branches she
had pursued, especially in her study of the Bible, her
readiness to express her thoughts in writing, her constant
filial obedience, and reverence for the ordinances
of religion, she replied with a touching humility and
sweetness,</p>
<p>"I bless God for granting me the means of education,
and the example of such parents and ministers.
This is a far better portion than gold, for thus have I
been enabled to comfort myself from His Holy Book,
with a comfort that the world could never have
afforded."</p>
<p>"My child," said her mournful father, "I perceive
that you are very weak."</p>
<p>"It is true, Sir, and my weakness increases. I see
that your affliction also, increases, and this is a part of
my affliction. Yet be content, I pray you, and let us
both say with David, 'Let me now fall into the hand
of the Lord, for his mercies are great.'"</p>
<p>She besought her parents not to indulge in immoderate
grief, when she should be taken away. She
adduced the example of the King of Israel, who after
the death of his child, arose, and took refreshment,
saying, "He is dead. Can I bring him back again?
I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me." So
ought you to say, when I am no longer here, 'Our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
child is well.' Dear mother, who has done so much
for me, promise me this one thing before I die, not to
sorrow too much for me. I am afraid of your great
affliction. Consider other losses. Remember Job.
Forget not what Christ foretold: 'In the world ye shall
have tribulation, but be of good cheer, I have overcome
the world.'"</p>
<p>While thus comforting those whom she loved out
of the Scriptures, it seemed as if she herself attained
greater confidence of faith, for she exclaimed with a
joyful voice:</p>
<p>"Who shall separate me from the love of Christ?
I am persuaded, neither life, nor death, nor angels, principalities,
nor powers, nor things present, nor things to
come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature.
Behold, Death is swallowed up in victory."</p>
<p>Afterwards, she spoke of the shortness of human
life, quoting passages from the Bible, and of the necessary
law of our nature, appointing that all who are born
must die. Wisdom far beyond her years, flowed from
her lips, for she had early sat at the feet of Jesus, and
learned his holy word.</p>
<p>"And now, what shall I say? I cannot continue
long, for I feel much weakness. O Lord, look upon me
graciously, have pity upon me. I know that my Redeemer
liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day
upon the earth. Dearest parents, we must shortly part.
My speech faileth me. Pray for a quiet close to my
combat."</p>
<p>She expressed, at various times during her sickness,
the most earnest solicitude for the souls of many of
her relatives, solemnly requesting and enforcing that
her young sister should be religiously educated.
Throwing her emaciated arms around her, she embraced
her with great affection, and desired that the babe of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>
six months old might be brought her once more. With
many kisses she took her last farewell, and those who
stood around the bed were greatly affected at the tender
parting of these affectionate children.</p>
<p>"I go," said the dying one, "to heaven, where we
shall find each other again. I go to Jesus Christ. I
go to my dear brother, who did so much cry and call
upon God, to the last moment of his breath. I go to
my little sister, who was but three years old when she
died. Yet when we asked her if she would die, she
answered, 'Yes, if it be the Lord's will: or I will stay
with my mother, if it be His will; but yet, I know
that I shall die and go to heaven and to God.' Oh!
see how so small a babe could behave itself so submissively
to the will of God, as if it had no will of its own.
Therefore, dear father and mother, give the Lord thanks
for this his free and rich grace: and then I shall the
more gladly be gone. Be gracious, then, O Lord, unto
me, also: be gracious unto me. Wash me thoroughly
from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin."</p>
<p>Prayer was offered for her, and her spirit seemed
anew refreshed with a sense of pardon and reconciliation
to her Father in heaven. She conversed with pleasure
of the last sermon that she had been permitted to hear
in the house of God, little supposing at that time, her
mortal sickness was so near. With surprising accuracy,
she quoted several texts that had been used in the different
parts of that discourse, proving with what profound
attention she had listened, and how perfectly
her retentive powers were preserved to the last.</p>
<p>She lay some time, absorbed in mental devotion, and
then raising her head from her feverish pillow, besought
her parents to forgive the errors of her childhood, and
every occasion throughout her whole life, wherein she
had grieved them or given them trouble. Then, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
a clear judgment, she addressed herself to the only unfinished
business of earth, the distribution of her books
and other articles that she had considered her own. To
her little brother she made an earnest request, that he
would never part with the copy of 'Lectures on the
Catechism,' that she gave him, but study it faithfully
for her sake, and in remembrance of her. Being seized
with a sharp and severe pain in her breast, she said
that she felt assured her last hour drew nigh. Her
parents, suppressing their grief, repeated their hope and
trust, that God would support her in the last dread
extremity.</p>
<p>In a dying voice, yet clear and animated by unswerving
faith, she replied,</p>
<p>"He is my shepherd. Though I walk through the
dark valley of the shadow of death, shall I fear when
<i>He</i> comforteth me? The sufferings of this present life
are not worthy to be compared to the glory that shall
be revealed.</p>
<p>My end approacheth. Now shall I put on white
raiment, and be clothed before the Lamb with a spotless
righteousness. Angels are ready to carry me to
the throne of God." Her last words were,</p>
<p>"Lord God, into thy hands, I commend my spirit.
Oh Lord! be gracious, be merciful to me a poor sinner."</p>
<p>Thus fell asleep, on the evening of the first of September,
1664, at the early age of fourteen, one, who
for profound knowledge of the pages of Inspiration,
judgment in applying them, love of their spirit, and
faith in their promises, might serve as an example not
only to those of her own age, but to Christians of hoary
hairs. This good brother and sister teach, both in life
and death, the priceless value of religious nurture, and
of the fear and love of God, infused into the tender
truthful heart.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Waiting_Child" id="The_Waiting_Child"></a>The Waiting Child.</h1>
<p>She lay, in childhood's sunny hour,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The loving and the fair,</span><br />
A smitten bud, a drooping flower,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For death was with her there.</span><br />
<br />
One only unfulfilled desire<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oppress'd her heart with care:</span><br />
"Make smooth the ocean waves, dear Lord,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And home my mother bear."</span><br />
<br />
Up rose that prayer, both night and day,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Heaven heard the tender claim,</span><br />
The favour'd ship its haven found,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The absent mother came;</span><br />
<br />
So then, like dove with folded wing.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Enwrapp'd in calm content,</span><br />
A mother's kiss upon her lips,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She to her Saviour went.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Adopted_Niece" id="The_Adopted_Niece"></a>The Adopted Niece.</h1>
<p>Those who have extended to lonely orphan hearts
the protection of home, and a fostering kindness, are
often repaid by the most tender and grateful affections.
A peculiarly striking instance of this kind occurred in
the case of an adopted niece of the Rev. John Newton,
of London, England. Suddenly bereaved of her parents
and an only brother, she found the arms of sympathizing
relatives open to receive her, as a trust and a
treasure. She had just entered her twelfth year when
she came to them, and was possessed of an agreeable
person, a lively disposition, with a quick and inventive
genius. Her judgment and sense of propriety were
advanced beyond her years, but her most endearing
qualities were sweetness of temper and a heart formed
for the exercise of gratitude and friendship. No cloud
was seen upon her countenance, and when it was
necessary to overrule her wishes, she acquiesced with
a smile.</p>
<p>To her uncle and aunt, her returns of affection were
ardent and touching. She was watchful not to offend,
or interfere with their convenience in the slightest degree,
and often said, with her peculiarly sweet tones,
"I should be very ungrateful if I thought any pleasure
equal to that of pleasing you."</p>
<p>Her health, which had been for some time frail,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>
began, in a year or two, sensibly to decline, with
marked hectic symptoms. Whenever she was able, she
patiently employed herself with her needle or book,
her guitar or harpsichord. Though she knew no hour
of perfect ease, she was remarkably placid and cheerful,
and attentive to the wishes and comfort of others. If
at any time the severity of pain caused a silent tear to
steal down her cheek, and she saw that her uncle or
aunt observed it, she would instantly turn to them with
a smile or kiss, and say,</p>
<p>"Do not be uneasy. I am not so very ill. I can
bear it. I shall be better presently."</p>
<p>Her religious education had been early attended to
by her parents; and the excellent relatives who supplied
their place, saw with the deepest gratitude the strengthening
of her faith, for support in the season of trial.
She said to her aunt,</p>
<p>"I have long and earnestly sought the Lord, with
reference to the change that is now approaching. I
trust He will fit me for himself, and then, whether
sooner or later, it signifies but little."</p>
<p>Sufferings the most acute were appointed her, which
medical skill was unwearied in its attempts to mitigate.
To her attentive physician who expressed his regret one
morning, at finding her more feeble than on the previous
day, she replied,</p>
<p>"I trust all will be well soon."</p>
<p>Her spirit was uniformly peaceful, and her chief attention
of an earthly nature seemed directed to the
consolation of those who were distressed at her sufferings.
The servants, who waited on her from love, both night
and day, she repeatedly thanked in the most fervent
manner, adding her prayer that God would reward
them. To her most constant attendant, she said,</p>
<p>"Be sure to call upon the Lord. If you think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>
He does not hear you now, He will at last. So it
has been with me."</p>
<p>As the last hours of life drew nigh, she had many
paroxysms of agony. But her heart rested on the
Redeemer. To one who inquired how she was, she
sweetly answered,</p>
<p>"Truly happy. And if this is dying, it is a pleasant
thing to die."</p>
<p>In the course of her illness, to the question of her
friends if she desired to be restored and to live long,
she would reply, "Not for the world," and sometimes,
"Not for a thousand worlds." But as she approached
the verge of heaven, her own will seemed wholly
absorbed in the Divine Will, and to this inquiry she
meekly answered,</p>
<p>"I desire to have no choice."</p>
<p>For the text of her funeral sermon, she chose,
"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord," and also
selected an appropriate hymn to be sung on that occasion.
"Do not weep for me, dear aunt," she tenderly
said, "but rather rejoice, and give praise on my
account."</p>
<p>As the close of her last day on earth approached, she
desired to hear once more the voice of prayer. Her
affectionate uncle, who cherished for her the love of a
father, poured out his soul fervently at the Throne of
Grace. Her lips, already white in death, clearly pronounced
"Amen," and soon after added, "Why are his
chariot-wheels so long in coming? Yet I hope he will
enable me to wait His hour with patience."</p>
<p>Fixing her eyes on her mourning aunt, it seemed as
if the last trace of earthly anxiety that she was destined
to feel, was on her account. To one near her
pillow, she said in a gentle whisper.</p>
<p>"Try to persuade my aunt to leave the room. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
think I shall soon sleep. I shall not remain with you
until the morning."</p>
<p>No. Her morning was to be where there is no sunset.
All pain was for her ended. So quiet was the
transition, that those whose eyes were fixed earnestly
upon her, could not tell when she drew her last breath.
She lay as if in childlike slumber, her cheek reclining
upon her hand, and on her brow a smile.</p>
<p>She died on the 6th of October, 1785, at the age
of fourteen years. During her short span, she communicated
a great amount of happiness to those who
adopted her as a child into their hearts and homes.
The sweet intercourse and interchange of love more
than repaid their cares.</p>
<p>They were permitted to aid in her growth of true
religion, and to see its calm and glorious triumph over
the last great enemy. That a child, under fifteen,
should have been enabled thus to rejoice amid the
wasting agony of sickness, and thus willingly leave those
whom she loved, and whose love for her moved them
to do all in their power to make life pleasant to her
young heart, proves the power of a Christian's faith.</p>
<p>She desired to be absent from the body, that she
might be present with the Lord. Now, before his
Throne, whom not having seen, she loved, and raised
above the clouds that break in tears, and all shafts of
pain and sorrow, she drinks of the rivers of pleasure
that flow at his right hand, and shall thirst no more.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Orphan" id="The_Orphan"></a>The Orphan.</h1>
<p>I love 'mid those green mounds to stray<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where purple violets creep,</span><br />
For there the village children say<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That both my parents sleep.</span><br />
<br />
Bright garlands there I often make<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of thyme and daisies fair,</span><br />
And when my throbbing temples ache,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I go and rest me there.</span><br />
<br />
If angry voices harshly chide,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or threatening words are said,</span><br />
I love to lay me by their side<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Close in that silent bed.</span><br />
<br />
I wish'd a sportive lamb to bide<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My coming o'er the lea.</span><br />
It broke away and bleating cried,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"My mother waits for me."</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span><br />
"Stay, stay, sweet bird!" On pinion strong<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It fled with dazzling breast,</span><br />
And soon I heard its matron song<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amid its chirping nest.</span><br />
<br />
"Why dost thou fade, young bud of morn,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hide thy drooping gem?"</span><br />
And the bud answered, "They have torn<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Me from my parent stem."</span><br />
<br />
Go happy warbler to thy bower,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">White lambkin, gambol free,</span><br />
I'll save this lone and wither'd flower,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It seems to pity me.</span><br />
<br />
"Come mother, come! and soothe thy child!"<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Methinks I hear her sigh,</span><br />
"Cold clods are on my bosom pil'd,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And darkness seals my eye."</span><br />
<br />
She cannot burst the chain of fate<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By which her limbs are pressed.</span><br />
"Dear father rise! and lift the weight<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That loads my mother's breast."</span><br />
<br />
In vain I speak, in vain the tear<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bedews the mouldering clay,</span><br />
My deep complaint they do not hear,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I may not longer stay.</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span><br />
Yet ere I go, I'll kneel and say<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The humble prayer they taught,</span><br />
When by their side at closing day<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I breath'd my infant thought.</span><br />
<br />
God will not leave my heart to break,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Orphan He'll defend,</span><br />
Father and mother may forsake,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But He's the Unchanging Friend.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Only_Son" id="The_Only_Son"></a>The Only Son.</h1>
<p>How deep and full of anxiety is the love that centres
upon an only child, none but parents who have watched
over such an one can realise. "We trusted our all to
<i>one</i> frail bark," says a touching epitaph, "and the wreck
was total."</p>
<p>Those who have neither brother nor sister, and feel
the whole tenderness of parental affection centring in
themselves, should strive to render in proportion to what
they receive. The care and solicitude that might have
been divided among other claimants is reserved for
them alone. No common measure of obedience and
gratitude, and love, seems to be required of them. Any
failure in filial duty is, in them, an aggravated offence.
It should be the study of their whole life to appreciate,
if they cannot repay, the wealth of love of which they
are the sole heirs.</p>
<p>Perhaps there has never been an instance, where
this sweet indebtedness of the heart was more beautifully
and perfectly reciprocated, than in the life of
Joshua Rowley Gilpin. He was the only son of the
Rev. J. Gilpin, of Wrockwardine, in the county of
Salop, England, and born January 30th, 1788. During
infancy, when the texture of character slowly, yet
surely discovers itself, he displayed a mild, loving disposition,
with no propensity to anger when what he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
desired was withheld. The sole care of his education
was assumed by his parents, who found it a source of
perpetually increasing delight.</p>
<p>His first infantine taste was for drawing. To imitate
the forms of animals, and other objects with which
he was daily conversant, gave him much pleasure. His
friends discovered in these rude attempts, accuracy of
execution, and progressive improvement. A dissected
alphabet was among his toys, and a desire to furnish his
little drawings with appropriate letters induced him to
make himself master of it. Now a new field of pleasure
opened to his mind, and from the amusements of the
pencil he turned to the powers and combination of the
letters; and at the age when many children are unacquainted
with their names, he was forming them into
phrases and short sentences. These were sometimes
playful, and sometimes of such a devotional cast, that his
watchful and affectionate parents cheered themselves
with the hope that his tender spirit was even then
forming an acquaintance with things divine. So docile,
so industrious, so gentle was the young pupil, that they
had never occasion to resort to punishment, or even to
address to him an expression of displeasure.</p>
<p>As the higher branches of knowledge unfolded themselves,
he devoted to them a studious and willing
attention. He was ever cheerfully ready for any
necessary exercise, and inclined rather to exceed than
to fall short of his allotted task. He complained of no
difficulty, he solicited no aid: the stated labours of each
day he considered a reasonable service, and constantly
and sweetly submitted his own will to that of his parents.</p>
<p>In the prosecution of the different sciences, his lovely
and placid disposition was continually displaying itself.
The rudiments of the Latin tongue, with which he very
early became familiar, he wished to teach to the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
servant woman who attended him from his infancy. By
many fair words he persuaded her to become his scholar.
He told her of the great pleasure there was in knowledge,
and left no method untried to gain and fix her
attention. If he thought her not sufficiently engaged
in the pursuit, he would set before her the honourable
distinction of surpassing in intellectual attainments, all
the other young women of her acquaintance. He made
for her use an abridgment of his Latin grammar, to
which he added a brief vocabulary, and was never
without a few slips of paper in his pocket, on which
was some noun regularly declined, or some verb conjugated,
for his humble friend and pupil. If the services
of the day had failed to afford her sufficient time
for his lessons, he redoubled his assiduity when she
conducted him to his chamber at night, and was never
contented without hearing her repeat the Lord's
Prayer in Greek. This perseverance showed not only
the kindness of his heart, but his love for those parts of
learning which childish students are prone to think
tedious, or are desirous to curtail and escape.</p>
<p>While busily pursuing classic studies, he saw one day
a treatise on arithmetic, and immediately went to work
on that untried ground. Such satisfaction did he find
in it, that he begged to be allowed the same exercise
whenever he should be at a loss for amusement. For
three weeks it formed a part of his evening employment,
or as he expressed it, his "entertainment," and
during that brief period, he proceeded to the extraction
of the square and cube root, with ease and pleasure.
His father thought it best to withdraw him at that
time from the science of numbers, lest it should interfere
with his progress in the languages. Still, he
would occasionally surprise him with abstruse numerical
calculation, and, when permitted regularly to pursue<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
mathematics, found in the difficult problems of Euclid
an intense delight. He would willingly have devoted
days and nights to them, and no youth was ever more
intent on the perusal of a fairy tale or romance, than
he to solve and demonstrate those propositions in their
regular order.</p>
<p>Under the tuition of his father, he went through the
text-books and authors used in the established seminaries,
and probably with a less interrupted attention
than if he had been a member of their classes. His
memory was durably retentive, and whatever passage
he could not perfectly repeat, he could readily turn to,
whether in the writings of the poets, the historians, or
the divines. His accuracy was admirable; he would
never pass over a sentence till he had obtained a satisfactory
view of its meaning, or lay aside a book without
forming a critical acquaintance with its style and
scope of sentiment. Earnest and untiring industry
was one of the essential elements of his great proficiency;
employment was to him the life of life, and
whatsoever his hand found to do, was done with a
whole-souled energy. His love of order was equal to
his diligence. From early childhood, he discovered in
all his little undertakings an attention to method, and
a desire to finish what he began. These dispositions
gathered strength as he became more fully acquainted
with the importance of time. To each employment
or recreation he assigned its proper place and season,
filling each day with an agreeable and salutary
variety, so as to be free on one side from listlessness
and apathy, and on the other, from perplexity and
haste. Highly gratifying was his improvement to his
faithful parental teachers, and this species of intercourse
heightened and gave a peculiar feature to their mutual
love. Still, their attention was not confined to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>
intellectual attainments. It was their constant prayer
and endeavour, that he might be enabled to blend with
these the "wisdom that cometh from above." Anxious
that he should not be unprepared for the honourable
discharge of duty in the present life, they were far
more solicitous to train him up as a candidate for
glory in that which is to come.</p>
<p>Avoiding the danger of over-pressing or satiating
him with theological doctrines which transcend the
comprehension of childhood, they commenced their religious
instructions with the greatest simplicity and
caution. They put on no appearance of formality or
austerity.</p>
<p>"We will show you, my dear son," said the father,
with a smiling countenance, "a way that will lead you
from earth to heaven."</p>
<p>The gentle pupil listened with an earnest attention.
His tender mind was solemnized, yet filled with joyful
and grateful hope. At his first introduction to the
house of God, he was filled with reverential awe, and
ever afterwards, when attending its sacred services, his
deportment evinced the most unaffected decorum,
humility, and piety. The greatest care was taken that
the observance of the Sabbath at home, as well as
in church, should be accounted a sweet and holy
privilege.</p>
<p>"On that day," says his father, "we gave a more
unlimited indulgence to our affectionate and devotional
feelings. We conversed together as parts of the same
Christian family, we rejoiced over each other as heirs
of the same glorious promises. Some interesting passage
of Scripture, or some choice piece of divinity,
generally furnished the matter of our discourse, and
while we endeavoured to obtain a clear, comprehensive
view of the subject before us, it seemed as if a blessed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
light sometimes broke in upon us, removing our doubts,
exalting our conceptions, and cheering our hearts.
Then, with one consent, we have laid aside the book,
that we might uninterruptedly admire the beauties of
the opening prospect. Thus solacing ourselves with a
view of our future enjoyments, and the place of our
final destination, we have solemnly renewed our vows,
resolving for the joy that was set before us, to endure
the Cross, despising the shame, in humble imitation of
our adorable Master. In such a frame of mind we
found it possible to speak of probable sufferings, or
painful separations, with the utmost composure. With
such a termination of our course in sight, we could
cheerfully leave all the casualties of that course to
the Divine disposal; fully persuaded that whatever
evil might befall us on the way, an abundant compensation
for all awaited us on our arrival at home."</p>
<p>As he advanced in boyhood, his love of study and
sedentary habits became so strong that it was feared
he might not take sufficient exercise for the preservation
of health. The friends of the family, therefore,
urgently advised that he might be placed in a public
school, hoping that the influence of companions of his
own age would allure him to athletic sports.</p>
<p>In this counsel his parents acquiesced, but finding
the idea of separation insupportably painful, they removed,
and took a temporary residence near the
Seminary of which he became a member. Here,
every thing was novel, and his enthusiastic mental
picture of what a school must be, was considerably
darkened by discovering so much indolence and irregularity,
where he supposed all would be order, intelligence,
and progress. His academic exercises were
performed with entire ease, so thorough and extensive
had been his home culture; and though there were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>
many in the different classes who were his seniors in
age, he rapidly rose to the first and highest place. Of
this post he had not been ambitious, and he occupied
it with such modesty and affability, so as to conciliate
his school-fellows, between whom and himself there
was still such diversity of habit and feeling, as to repress
all familiarity of intercourse. But with his
instructors, a true and reciprocal friendship was established.
Especially did the head master distinguish the
talents of the young student with the strongest marks
of esteem, designating him as the "pride of his school,
and the pride of his heart."</p>
<p>The return of this excellent family to their beloved
village, formed a delightful scene. An affectionate
flock thronged to welcome their Pastor, while the
youth on whose account they had for a time left their
endeared habitation, gazed with unutterable joy on the
trees, the cottages, the cliffs that varied the spot of
his nativity, on every room in the parsonage, every
plant in the garden, every vine that clasped the walls,
and on the far blue hills, behind which he had watched
from infancy the glories of the setting sun. To the
congratulations of his friends, some of which alluded to
the brilliancy of his prospects as a distinguished scholar,
he replied with ineffable sweetness,</p>
<p>"No possible change in my situation can make any
addition to my present happiness."</p>
<p>The love of home was one of the strongest features
in his character. The vanities and gayeties of London
had no power to diminish or modify it. After passing
two months there, at the age of sixteen, he came to his
retired abode with the same delight, the same unassuming
manners and simplicity of taste. On entering
the secluded vale where their humble rural habitation
was situated, he expressed his feelings in a few<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
extempore Latin verses, which at the request of his
mother, were thus translated,</p>
<blockquote>
<p>"Lives there a youth, who far from home,<br />
Through novel scenes exults to roam?<br />
Then let the restless vagrant go,<br />
And idly pass from show to show;<br />
While in my native village bless'd,<br />
Delighted still, and still at rest,<br />
Without disturbance or alloy,<br />
Life's purest pleasures I enjoy."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>While thus bearing in his bosom the elements of
happiness, true piety, active goodness, and love to all
creatures, and while diligently preparing for the sacred
profession to which he was destined, a sudden attack of
pulmonary disease, attended with hemorrhage, alarmed
those to whom he was dear. But the consequent debility
readily yielded to medical treatment, and a
journey and residence of several weeks amid the pure
atmosphere and rural scenery of Wales, combining
with uncommon salubrity of weather, seemed to restore
the gentle invalid to his usual state of health.</p>
<p>He was able again to resume his course of academic
studies, and after the midsummer vacation, which he
spent in a pleasant journey with his beloved parents,
was summoned to sustain an examination as a candidate
for two vacant exhibitions. When he took his
seat before the collegiate tutors, clergy, magistrates,
and a concourse of assembled visitors, a degree of that
diffidence was observable, which is so often the concomitant
of genius. But in every exercise and test of
knowledge, he was so self-possessed, so prompt, so
perfect, that there was an unanimous burst of approbation
and applause. His parents were loaded with
congratulations for possessing the treasure of such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>
son, and a paper signed by all present was addressed to
the manager of the Funds, requesting that the sum
allotted to a successful candidate might be doubled on
account of his extraordinary attainments. With entire
meekness he bore this full tide of honour, manifesting
no satisfaction in hearing his own praises, and after his
return home, never made the most distant allusion to
this flattering event in the life of a young student. He
was now entered a fellow-commoner at Christ Church
College, Oxford, with the intention of not taking his
residence there till the commencement of the ensuing
term.</p>
<p>He most assiduously devoted himself to his studies,
rising early and finding the day too short for his active
mind. Knowledge was dear to him for its own sake,
and not for the flattering distinctions accorded to it
among men: for while advancing in scholastic acquirements,
he was evidently an humble peaceful student in
the school of Christ. His parents were comforted amid
the painful prospect of separation, with the hope that
from his early and growing piety, his temperance and
modesty, his untiring diligence, and a certain firmness
of mind, of which he had given indisputable evidence,
he would in time of temptation choose the good, and
refuse the evil.</p>
<p>In the meantime, his birth-day arrived, the last that
he was to spend on earth. It had ever been their
household custom to mark it, not by sumptuous entertainments
or the invitation of guests, but by expressions
of affection among themselves, and the most fervent
ascriptions of praise to God, for the gift he had accorded
and preserved. But it seems that their sacred anniversary
had been discovered and was cherished by
others. While interchanging their sweet and secluded
memorials of love, a letter arrived addressed to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
young student, containing a large number of banknotes,
"as a joint token of the affection of a few friends,
who desired permission to repeat the same expression of
their regard on each return of his natal day, until he
should have taken his first degree at the University."</p>
<p>This unexpected mark of the high esteem in which
he was held, was received by him with strong indications
of astonishment and gratitude. As the time drew
near for his departure to Oxford, his parents could
scarcely be restrained from uttering the impassioned
words, "Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return
from following after thee, for where thou goest I will
go, where thou lodgest I will lodge;" not knowing that
it was the appointment of God, that only the cold hand
of death should divide them.</p>
<p>Spring approached, and the wound in his lungs,
which it had been hoped was permanently healed,
burst forth afresh. Aggravated by the influenza, then
an epidemic, it soon took the form of an incurable
malady. With entire submission he met this sudden
change in his state and prospects. No murmuring
word was uttered, no trace of anxiety visible on his
countenance. Neither loss of appetite nor decay of
strength could impair his settled composure of mind.
So admirable was the mixture of meekness and manliness
in his deportment, that it was difficult to say
whether patience or fortitude most predominated.</p>
<p>Constantly advancing in the knowledge of divine
things, he withdrew himself from every pursuit that
might divert his thoughts from the great end of his
being, the entrance to a higher state of existence. The
poets and orators of Greece and Rome, in which his
proficiency had been so great, were meekly exchanged
for works of experimental religion; and he sat
daily at the feet of some master in Israel, from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
whose teachings he hoped to gain heavenly wisdom.
By the advice of physicians, the scene was changed
for a short time; but wherever they journeyed he was
still making his solitary passage through the valley of
the shadow of death. As the last hope of success, the
waters of Bristol were proposed; and though he at first
mildly resisted it, from an inward conviction that the
trouble would be in vain, yet unwilling to crush the
expectations of his beloved parents, he yielded to their
wishes. On all similar occasions he had required quite
a package of books; now he requested only an English
Bible and a Greek Testament.</p>
<p>Notwithstanding every precaution of medical skill
and care, consumption was accomplishing its fatal work.
The parents and their only child, though convinced of
what the result must be, still shrank back from harrowing
up each other's feelings, by full conversation on the
subject that most occupied their thoughts.</p>
<p>"As it was with Elijah and his attached successor,"
writes the sorrowing father, "at their approaching
separation, so it was with us. They maintained towards
each other a delicate reserve, as they proceeded from
Bethel to Jericho, and from Jericho to Jordan; the one
not daring to glory in his expected ascension, nor the
other to express his mournful forebodings, lest they
might mutually agitate the other, or disturb the order
of the holy solemnity. But as the awful moment drew
near and he was about to be gone, Elijah rose above
the weakness of humanity, and openly asserted the
purpose of Heaven. Thus the dear invalid, when made
certain by some invisible token that his hour was at
hand, thought it unsuitable to our common character
to leave this world without giving glory to God."</p>
<p>With entire tranquillity and the utmost tenderness,
he introduced the subject of his departure, spoke of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>
trust in his Redeemer, his gratitude for the goodness
and mercy that had followed him throughout the whole
of his earthly pilgrimage, and the joy he felt in having
his own will perfectly bowed to the will of God.
Even then, the last messenger was waiting for him.
He accepted the anxious attentions of his agonized
parents with ineffable sweetness, regarding them with
a thoughtful benignity, not wholly restraining his
feelings, nor yet allowing them a free indulgence.</p>
<p>It was in the autumn of 1806, at the age of
eighteen, that his last day on earth closed. He lay as
in calm and beautiful repose, seeming to have opened
a communication with the celestial world, and fully
resigned himself to intercourse with its unseen inhabitants.
Kneeling around his couch in trembling expectation,
were those whose sole earthly hopes had been
bound up in him. There was a short and solemn
pause, a few soft moans, and then, without the slightest
change of posture, he peacefully breathed out his soul
into the bosom of his Father and his God.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Life" id="Life"></a>Life.</h1>
<p>Life is beautiful! its duties<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cluster round each passing day,</span><br />
While their sweet and solemn voices spot<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Warn to work, to watch, to pray;</span><br />
They alone its blessings forfeit<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who by sin their spirits cheat,</span><br />
Or to slothful stupor yielding,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let the rust their armour eat.</span><br />
<br />
Life is beautiful! affections<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Round its roots with ardour cling,</span><br />
'Mid its opening blossoms nestle,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bird-like, in its branches sing,</span><br />
Smiling lull its cradle slumbers,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Guard with pride its youthful bloom,</span><br />
Fondly kiss its snow-white temples,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dew the turf-mound o'er its tomb.</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span><br />
Life is beautiful with promise<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of a joy that cannot fade,</span><br />
Life is fearful, with the threatening<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of an everlasting shade.</span><br />
May no thoughtless wanderer scorn it,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blindly lost in folly's maze,</span><br />
Duty, love, and hope adorn it:<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let its latest breath be praise.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></div>
<h1><a name="A_Remarkable_Child" id="A_Remarkable_Child"></a>A Remarkable Child.</h1>
<p>The child of whose virtues and attainments the
following pages give but an imperfect sketch, was the
son of the late Dr. J. Smyth Rogers, and born in the
city of New York, on the 28th of January, 1825.
The beauty of his infancy struck every observer, and
this continued to increase as added intelligence lighted
up his noble features. As his brilliant mind expanded,
amiable and generous dispositions were revealed,
clothed with peculiarly winning manners. It would
seem also that these graces and virtues, like wreaths
of bright buds, and clusters of rich fruit, sprang from
the best of all roots: a truthful and pious heart.</p>
<p>At the early age of three years, his excellent mother
was suddenly taken away. That mournful event made
a deep impression upon his unfolding character. For
three years she had been permitted to watch over this
fair opening flower; in three more it was to be laid on
her bosom in heaven.</p>
<p>The night after the death of this beloved parent, his
deportment was remarked as evincing a degree of reflection
and sensibility to the magnitude of his loss,
surpassing what is usually seen in infancy. It was
Sabbath evening, the period in which she had been
accustomed to gather her little ones around her, and
impart religious instruction. Now, at the fireside, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
happy circle was broken: the blessed mother's seat
vacant. He yearned for her sweet smile, the sound of
her tuneful voice. Turning from the other children,
he walked long by himself with a slow and noiseless
step; often fixing his eyes on his bereaved father with
an expression of the deepest commiseration. No attitude
of grief escaped his mournful notice, and it seemed
as if he restrained his own sorrow that he might offer
consolation to his afflicted parent. That mingling of
perfect sympathy with the exceeding beauty of his
infant countenance, neither pen nor pencil could adequately
describe.</p>
<p>But the early maturity of his heart was fully
equalled by the development of his intellect. Before
acquiring the elements of reading, he listened so attentively
to the recitations of an elder brother and sister,
as to become master of much correct information.
His desire for knowledge was insatiable. He was sensible
of no fatigue while employed in attaining it.
Though fond of amusements, he was always happy to
quit them when the allotted hours for study arrived.
The rudiments of science he acquired with astonishing
rapidity. Before the completion of his fourth year he
could read any English book with ease, and also with
a propriety and understanding of the varieties of style,
not often discovered by students at twice his age. At
this period he was expert in the simple rules of arithmetical
calculation. With the geography of his own
country, and with the outlines of that of the world,
he was intimately acquainted. At five years old he
was well versed both in ancient and modern geography.
In mental arithmetic, many problems requiring thought
even in mature and long disciplined minds, he solved
readily, and as if with intuitive perception. Of the
history of his own country, his knowledge was well<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
digested and chronologically arranged. At the age of
six years, he could with the greatest fluency give a
judicious abstract of it, placing in due order the events
connected with its discovery and settlement, the period
of its several wars, their causes, results, and the circumstances
by which they were modified. From the
characters who were conspicuous in its annals, he
evinced discrimination in selecting those most worthy
of admiration. The biography of the celebrated John
Smith he related with animation, often mentioning
their similarity of name. In repeating his feats of
heroism and endurance, he seemed to identify himself
with the actor and to partake of his spirit. But he
regarded with still higher enthusiasm the illustrious
Pitt. When rehearsing his speech in favour of
America, he would involuntarily add the most bold and
graceful gestures. These lofty and noble sentiments
seemed to awaken a warm response in his bosom, and
to rule, as if with congenial force, the associations of
thought and feeling.</p>
<p>In the science of geometry he displayed a vigorous
and highly disciplined mind, by the ready demonstration
of some of its most difficult propositions. But in
no attainment was the superiority of his intellect more
clearly defined than in his acquisition of the Hebrew
language. He commenced this pursuit when four years
of age, at the suggestion of a cousin older than himself,
to whose recitations he had attentively listened.
Having been restrained by modesty for several days
from mentioning his wishes, he at length ventured to
ask his preceptor if he might be permitted to study
Hebrew. Happy to gratify such a desire, he called
him to his side, intending to teach him two or three
letters, when he discovered, to his surprise, that he
already knew the whole alphabet. From that time he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
continued to study the language with perseverance,
and constantly increasing fondness. Soon, without aid,
except from the grammar and lexicon, he could read,
translate, and parse the Hebrew, with an elegance
that might have done honour to an adept in that
sacred language. Before his death he had read more
than fifty chapters; and so great was his ardour and
delight in prosecuting this study, that after having received
two exercises daily, throughout the week, he
would often be found on Sabbath with his Hebrew
Bible, earnestly engaged in reviewing passages by himself.
On one occasion, when his tutor was to be
absent for a few days, he inquired, "How will you
spend your time?" The prompt reply was, "In studying
Hebrew." In Greek, also, he made such proficiency
as to read the original of the New Testament
with accuracy and ease. On every attainment,
however difficult or abstruse, his genius seized, and
almost without effort rendered it his own; so that this
infant student seemed to adopt the sentiment of the
great Bacon, and to "take all knowledge to be his
province."</p>
<p>Yet with these astonishing acquisitions there mingled
no vanity, no consciousness of superior talent, nor distaste
for the simplest pleasures of childhood. He had
all the docility and playfulness that belong to the first
years of life. In the delightful country residence
where the family were accustomed to pass the summer
months, those who saw him only at the period allotted
to sport and exercise, would have remarked him as
an exceedingly beautiful, vigorous, light-hearted boy,
without imagining him possessed of accomplishments
that might have put manhood to the blush. Amid a
flow of animal spirits that were sometimes deemed
excessive, he was never regardless of the feelings of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
others. During the active sports of childhood, if he
received unintentional injury from his companions, he
was anxious to assure them, by an affectionate kiss, of
his recovery and reconciliation. He possessed the most
lively and amiable sensibility. This was fully depicted
upon his countenance, so that the most careless observer
could scarcely have mistaken its lineaments. He
ardently participated in the joys and sorrows of those
around him. His love for his friends was testified by
the most tender care for their accommodation and comfort.
He was found one evening in a flood of tears,
because he feared his teacher had gone out in the rain
without great-coat or umbrella. So great was his
generosity, that whatever was given him he desired to
share with another. He seemed incapable of selfish
gratification. When from delicacy of health his appetite
had been long subjected to restraint, if a small
portion of cake or fruit was allowed him, he was never
satisfied until he had imparted it. He would even urge
the domestics to participate in his gifts. On one occasion,
after a period of abstinence from fruit, four grapes
were given him. Two of these he ate, and saved the
remaining two to give to his nurse. The merit of this
self-denial was enhanced by the circumstance often remarked
by the servants, that the nurse was far less fond
of him than of his elder brother, who, from being more
immediately under her care, was the object of her partiality.
But there was nothing of vindictiveness in his
nature. His generosity was as disinterested as it was
unbounded.</p>
<p>One morning his father testified approbation of his
conduct by saying, "You may go into the garden and
gather twelve strawberries." "And may I divide them
equally?" he inquired with great animation. Amid a
profusion of the finest fruits, for which he had an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span>
extreme fondness, and which he was accustomed to see
hospitably dispensed to numerous guests, he would
never transgress a prohibition to partake, or a limitation
with regard to quantity. Obedience had been
taught him from the beginning, and his fidelity in
keeping the law of those who directed him, whether they
were present or absent, was one of his prominent virtues.
In the indispositions to which he was occasionally
subject, he would cheerfully take the most unpleasant
medicines, and submit to the most irksome regulations,
if simply told that his father had desired it.</p>
<p>Openness and integrity of character were conspicuous
in him. He seemed to have nothing to conceal.
He had no disposition to practise mischief, or to devise
means that any thing which he had done should be kept
secret from those who had the charge of his education.
As his course of instruction was pursued entirely at
home, he was preserved from the contagion of bad
example, and from many temptations to deceit. The
little faults which he committed he confessed with the
utmost ingenuousness, and complied with the precept
which had been early impressed upon him by parental
care, to solicit the forgiveness of his Father in heaven,
if he hoped to obtain that of his best friends on earth.
When he received any punishment, he made immediate
returns of penitence and affection. He considered it
as the appointed way in which he was to be made
better, and so far from indulging in complaint or sullenness,
was inclined to think it lighter than he
deserved.</p>
<p>A tender and true piety pervaded his heart, and
breathed its fragrance over a life as beautiful and
transient as the flower of the grass. Accustomed from
infancy never to neglect his prayers, morning or
evening, and to keep the day of God sacred, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
delighted in these exercises. To lay aside all implements
of light amusement, and to read or hear only
books adapted to that consecrated day, had been required
of him from his earliest recollection. He was
grieved if he saw any violate these injunctions. There
seemed to have been laid in his heart a firm basis of
Christian principle, on which he was beginning to rear
a noble superstructure. He never discovered more ardent
delight than while listening to the inspired pages, or
greater brilliancy of intellect than when conversing on
their doctrines and practical illustrations. The life and
sufferings of the Redeemer, and the hopes held out to
sinners through his mercy, were his treasured and
favourite subjects. He often with great earnestness
solicited instruction respecting them, and his absorbed
and delighted attention would survive the endurance
of his physical strength. Of religious books he was
particularly fond. He conceived the strongest attachment
for 'Doddridge's Family Expositor.' He would
voluntarily resort to its perusal with the greatest apparent
satisfaction. Observing that his cousin and
sister received weekly lessons from that excellent
volume, in the explanation of difficult passages, he said
to his instructor with a mournful air, "You give the
elder children a lesson in Doddridge, but you don't let
me recite with them." He was told that it was probably
too difficult an exercise for him, and that therefore
he had not been permitted to join them. On
being asked what he understood as the meaning of the
expression, where John is said to come in the "spirit
and power of Elias," and to "turn the hearts of the
fathers to the children," he gave without mistake the
two interpretations to which he had listened some
time before. Thus, while this infant disciple was pursuing
religious knowledge as a delightful and congenial<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
study, he was also cherishing a lively sense of the
obligations that it imposed. He received the truth
in its love and in its power. It began to be within him
a prompting and regulating principle. Whenever the
full flow of childish spirits became excessive or ill-timed,
they were restrained by suggesting a precept
drawn from the Scriptures.</p>
<p>Among his modes of recreation, riding on horseback
in the freshness of the morning was highly enjoyed and
prized. One morning, when the usual period for this
exercise had been somewhat delayed, his tutor asked,
"Would you like to take your ride?" and he replied,
"I am afraid we shall not be back in time for prayers.
So I would rather not go."</p>
<p>Of his departed mother his recollections were tender
and vivid. He delighted to speak of her as the habitant
of a world of joy. His affectionate spirit seemed
content to resign her that she might be with Christ.
To a beloved relative, whose efforts for his religious
instruction were unceasing, he said, soon after the
death of his mother, "Aunt, do you not wish that the
judgment day was come?" "Why, my son?" she
enquired. "Because then I should see my <i>dear
mamma</i> and my blessed Saviour."</p>
<p>The religious exercises of Sabbath evening were to
him a season of high enjoyment. After the catechism
and other appropriate duties, some book of piety was
read, and the children indulged in such discourse as its
contents naturally elicited. Piety, disrobed of gloom,
was presented to them as an object of love, and by his
heart was most fondly welcomed.</p>
<p>On Sabbath evening preceding the Christmas of
1831, he was observed to enter with extreme ardour
into the conversation that flowed from the perusal of
'Parlour Lectures,' an analysis of Sacred History<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>
adapted to juvenile minds. His father, whose labours
in the pious nurture of his children had been as untiring
as successful, being absent from the city, he drew
his chair as near as possible to his aunt, listened
eagerly to every remark, poured forth the rapturous
pleasure that filled his breast, and desired to protract
the enjoyment beyond its usual period. It was to be
his last Sabbath on earth. In the course of the ensuing
week he became a victim to the scarlet fever, and
on Friday, December 24th, 1831, went to his Father in
heaven.</p>
<p>Thus passed away, at the age of nearly seven years,
a being formed to excel in all that was beautiful, intellectual,
and heavenly. Precocity in him was divested
of the evils that are wont to attend it. All his associations
of thought were healthful and happy. There
was no undue predominance of one power at the expense
of the rest. No one department of character
eclipsed the other. The mind and the heart pressed
on together with equal steps, in a vigorous and holy
brotherhood. The soul, like a lily, fed with dews of
Hermon, breathed its first freshest incense in piety to
God.</p>
<p>That he was highly gifted by nature none can doubt.
That he owed much to education is equally certain.
It would be difficult to define the precise point where
the influence of the one ceased and that of the other
began; so finely did their hues and pencillings blend in
the flower thus early offered to its Maker.</p>
<p>Strict obedience to his superiors, and the duty of
stated prayer, were so early impressed as to be incorporated
with the elements of his character. Simple
habits, rural tastes, control of the animal appetites,
and correct deportment to all around him, were carefully
inculcated, while a thorough course of classical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>
instruction under his father's roof protected him from
the dangers of promiscuous association and sinful example.
The most favourable results might reasonably
be anticipated from a system of culture so vigilant that
temptation could not assail from without, nor spring up
within, without being detected; so judicious that wealth
had no power to enervate either the body or the mind;
so affectionate that the tendrils of the heart were free
to expand in innocent happiness; so faithful in its ministrations
to the soul, that the Divine blessing seemed
visibly to descend upon it. This wise discipline combining
with the Creator's exceeding bounty, rendered him
what he was: a being to be loved by all who looked
upon him, and to be held in lasting remembrance by
all who knew him.</p>
<p>To borrow the expressive language of one who had
long superintended his education, and was intimately
acquainted with his mental and moral structure, "So
insensible was he to all those passions which prompt
to self-defence and self-protection, and so entirely
under the influence of that forgiving spirit which being
smitten on the one cheek would turn the other also,
and that overflowing generosity, which, after the cloak
is taken, would give the coat likewise, as utterly to
unfit him for the society of selfish, avaricious, overbearing
men, whence I have fondly thought, that he
was thus early invited to a mansion where he might
enjoy the communion of more congenial spirits."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Dying_Sunday_School_Boy" id="The_Dying_Sunday_School_Boy"></a>The Dying Sunday School Boy.</h1>
<p>
His hands were clasp'd, his eyelids clos'd,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As on his couch he lay,</span><br />
While slumber seem'd to wrap the form<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That pain had worn away:</span><br />
<br />
But still the watching mother marked<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His pallid lips to part,</span><br />
As if some all-absorbing thought<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lay on his dreaming heart;</span><br />
<br />
For yet he slept not. Silent prayer<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Commun'd with God alone,</span><br />
And then his glazing eyes he rais'd,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And spoke with tender tone:</span><br />
<br />
"Oh mother! often in my class,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I've heard the teacher say,</span><br />
That those who to the Saviour turn<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He would not cast away;</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span><br />
And so, beside my bed I knelt<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While early morn was dim,</span><br />
Imploring Heaven to teach my soul<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The way to turn to Him;</span><br />
<br />
And now, behold! through golden clouds,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A pierced hand I see,</span><br />
And listen to a glorious Voice,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Arise! and come to Me."</span><br />
<br />
His breath grew faint, but soft and low<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The parting whisper sigh'd,</span><br />
"I come, dear Lord, I come!" and so,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Without a pang he died.</span><br />
<br />
Oh blessed child! with whom the strife<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of fear and care are o'er,</span><br />
Methinks thine angel smile we see<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From yon celestial shore,</span><br />
<br />
And hear thee singing to His praise<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose boundless mercy gave</span><br />
Unto thy meek and trusting soul,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The victory o'er the Grave.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Precocious_Infant" id="The_Precocious_Infant"></a>The Precocious Infant.</h1>
<p>The infant of whom the following traits will be remembered
by many, was the son of the Rev. Dr. H.
N. Brinsmade, and born in Hartford, Connecticut,
February 28th, 1827. At an age when babes are
considered little more than attractive objects to the
loving eye, or toys to amuse a leisure hour, he was
acquiring new ideas, and a subject of discipline; for his
parents became convinced, through his example, that
the mind in its earliest developments is susceptible of
culture.</p>
<p>From the age of four months, he was observed to
regard surrounding objects with a fixed attention.
During those periods of inspection, the name of the
article thus regarded was slowly repeated to him, until
he associated it with the sound, and afterwards, would
earnestly turn his eyes to any prominent piece of furniture,
or particular portions of his own dress, or parts
of his body, when designated by their respective names.
At ten months he commenced learning the alphabet,
from small wooden cubes, on which each letter was
separately painted. This process was soon completed:
not that he was able to utter the corresponding sounds,
but would point out any letter that was inquired for,
without mistake; and if he saw one in an inverted position,
was never easy until he had restored it to its true
attitude.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p>
<p>By the aid of prints pasted on cards, he readily acquired
the names of animals and birds, arranged
according to a judicious system of Natural History.
He was encouraged to become thoroughly familiar with
one print ere he was permitted to take another. Thus
a basis was laid for habits of application, and the idle
curiosity restrained, with which children are wont to
wander from picture to picture. His parents in showing
him a landscape or historical painting, accustomed
him to regard every object, however minute, with an
accurate eye, and so retentive was his memory, that
what had been thoroughly impressed he seldom forgot.
There were few toys from which he derived
satisfaction, but seemed to find in pictures and books,
with the explanations which they elicited, his principal
delight. His careful treatment of books was
remarkable, and this was undoubtedly in a measure
produced by a little circumstance which occurred when
he was quite young. He had torn the paper cover of
a small volume. His mother remarked upon it with a
serious countenance, and as the members of the family
entered, mentioned what had been done, in a tone of
sadness.</p>
<p>Presently his lip quivered, and a tear glistened in his
eye. The lesson had been sufficiently strong, and it
was necessary to comfort him. Afterwards, expensive
volumes were fearlessly submitted to him, and the
most splendid English annuals sustained no injury from
his repeated examinations.</p>
<p>Geography, as exhibited on maps, became a favourite
study, and ere he had numbered his second birthday, I
saw him with surprise and admiration point out upon
an atlas, seas, rivers, lakes, and countries, without hesitation
or error.</p>
<p>A short time after, I found that he had made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>
acquaintance with the rudiments of geometry, and was
continually increasing his knowledge of printed words,
which, with their definitions and combinations in simple
phrases, were rapidly initiating him into his native
language. It may possibly be imagined that he was
made a mere book-worm, or might have been naturally
deficient in animal spirits. On the contrary, nothing
was taught him by compulsion, and no child could be
more full of happiness. His sports, his rambles in the
garden, and the demonstrations of infantine pleasure,
were sweet to him. His mother was his companion,
his playmate, and his instructress. Deeming her
child's mind of more value than any other feminine
pursuit or enjoyment, she devoted her time to its cultivation;
and to her perseverance and the entire concurrence
of his father in the intellectual system devised
for him, his uncommon attainments may be imputed,
more than to any peculiar gift of nature. Still, I am not
prepared to say, that there was not something originally
extraordinary in his capacity; at least I have
never seen his docility, application, and retentive
power, equalled in the early stages of existence. Portions
of every day, suited in their length to his infancy,
were regularly devoted to the business of instruction.
But these were often unconsciously extended in their
limits, by his eager desire to learn something more;
and the winning and repeated entreaty of "Pray, <i>dear
mother</i>, teach me," was wont to secure him an additional
indulgence of "line upon line, and precept upon
precept." His love of knowledge was becoming a
passion, still there seemed no undue prominence of one
department of intellect to the injury of another.
Perception, understanding, and memory, advanced
together, and seemed equally healthful.</p>
<p>He was destined for a learned education; a great part<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>
of which it was deemed preferable that he should receive
under the parental roof; and his mother was
preparing herself to become an assistant to his father
in teaching him different languages. So indefatigable
were her attentions to him, that she never left him
to the care of a servant; and thus correct habits
and purity of feeling, were preserved from contamination.</p>
<p>Among the pleasing traits of character which revealed
themselves in him, his love of home was conspicuous.
Though fond of seeing new objects, yet home was the
spot most desirable to him. During a journey to New
York, after the completion of his second year, where
museums, and every alluring curiosity were inspected
by him with delighted attention, the prospect of returning
to his own flowers, shells, and books, gave him
inexpressible joy.</p>
<p>He also manifested great ardour of affection for his
parents. He could form no idea of happiness independent
of their presence and participation. Though
exceedingly fond of seeing collections of animals, which
his knowledge of Natural History led him to regard
with peculiar interest, he insisted that his father should
take him from the first exhibition of the kind which
he had ever witnessed, and when he was highly entertained
by an elephant, ostrich, and some monkeys,
because he discovered that his mother had withdrawn.
The attachment usually felt by children for the tender
guides of their infant hours, seemed in his case heightened
by the consciousness that they were the dispensers
of that knowledge with whose love he was smitten.
When heaven was represented to him as a delightful
abode, and rendered still more alluring by the image of
a beloved and departed relative, whom he was taught
to consider as among its inhabitants, he would express<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>
his unwillingness to be removed there unless "dear
father and mother would go too."</p>
<p>A grateful spirit seemed to mingle with his filial
affection, and moved him to an expression of thanks
for every little favour. When given only a piece of
bread, if a few moments happened to intervene between
its reception and the customary acknowledgment, he
would inquire as if troubled at the omission, "Did I
forget to thank mother?" He was often told that to
his Father in heaven, he was indebted for what he
most loved, and with an affecting earnestness and graceful
gesture of his little head, would say, "<i>Thank
God</i>." At the period of family devotion he was early
taught a quiet and reverent deportment, and after
books became so interesting to him, preferred to look
over when his father read the Scriptures, and to have
it spread before him when he knelt during the prayer.</p>
<p>It might possibly have been feared that the mind, by
starting into such sudden expansion, would have left
the heart at a distance, but the germs of gentleness
and virtue kept pace with the growth of intellect.
There was also preserved a fine and fortunate balance
between mind and body, for his physical education had
been considered an important department of parental
care and responsibility. His erect form, and expanded
chest, revealed the rudiments of a good constitution,
while his fair brow, bright black eye, and playful smile,
bespoke that union of health, beauty, and cheerfulness,
which never failed of attracting attention. There was
less of light and boisterous mirth about him than is
common to children of his age. His features expressed
rather a mild and rational happiness than any exuberance
of joy. This might have arisen partly from the
circumstance of his having no young companion to encourage
wild or extravagant sports; but principally,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
that the pleasures of thought were so continually resorted
to, as to modify and elevate the countenance.
His whole appearance was that of a healthful, happy,
and beautiful infant, in the possession of a degree of
learning and intelligence, to which infancy usually has
no pretensions.</p>
<p>But it was forbidden us to witness the result of this
interesting experiment upon mind; or to trace the full
development of a bud whose unfolding was so wonderful.
An acute dysentery which prevailed in the
neighbourhood, numbered him among its victims, and
after a fortnight's painful languishing, he died on the
11th of August, 1829, at the age of two years and five
months.</p>
<p>After the breath had forsaken him he was still
lovely, though emaciated. Fresh roses and orange
flowers were around his head and on his bosom, and a
bud clasped in his snowy hand. He seemed like one
who had suffered and fallen asleep, and there lingered
a peaceful and patient spirit around his silent wasted
lips. His mother was seated by her dead son, pale,
but resigned. She had never been separated from him
since his birth, and she wished to continue near him
till the grave should claim its own. The parents were
strengthened as true Christians, to yield their only one
to the will of his Father in heaven. And the anguish
of their affliction was undoubtedly mitigated by the
recollection, that nothing in their power had been
omitted to promote his improvement and heighten his
felicity, and that his dwelling was now to be where
knowledge is no longer gained by slow laborious efforts,
but where light is without cloud, and the soaring soul
freed from its encumbrances of clay.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Last_Rose-bud" id="The_Last_Rose-bud"></a>The Last Rose-bud.</h1>
<p>The child was radiant with delight,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As from the garden's shade,</span><br />
With golden ringlets clustering bright,<br />
She burst upon the mother's sight,<br />
And in her hand, like fairy sprite,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A blooming rose-bud laid.</span><br />
<br />
'Twas the last wreath by summer wove<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That thus the darling brought,</span><br />
For Autumn's breath had chill'd the grove;<br />
Oh mother! was that gift of love<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With aught of sadness fraught?</span><br />
<br />
Say, didst thou think how soon that head<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In silent earth would rest?</span><br />
A solemn curtain o'er it spread,<br />
And the green turf she joy'd to tread,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A covering for her breast?</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span><br />
But, for the buds that fade no more,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Look thou in faith above,</span><br />
Look, mother! where the seraphs soar,<br />
Where countless harps their music pour,<br />
And raptur'd cherubim adore<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The God of boundless love.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Cherubs_Welcome" id="The_Cherubs_Welcome"></a>The Cherub's Welcome.</h1>
<p>Among the bright-robed host of heaven, two cherubs
were filled with new rapture. Gladness that mortal
eye hath never seen beamed from their brows, as with
tuneful voices they exclaimed,</p>
<p>"Joy! joy! He cometh! Welcome, welcome, dear
brother!" And they clasped in their arms a new
immortal.</p>
<p>Then to their golden harps they chanted, "Thou
shalt weep no more, our brother, neither shall sickness
smite thee. For here is no death, neither sorrow, nor
sighing."</p>
<p>At the Saviour's feet they knelt together with their
warbled strain, "Praise be unto Thee, who didst say,
'Suffer little children to come unto Me.'</p>
<p>"Thou didst take them to Thy bosom upon earth,
and through Thy love they enter into the Kingdom of
Heaven. Endless praise and glory be Thine, Oh Lord
most High!"</p>
<p>They led the little one to amaranthine bowers, and
wreathed around his temples the flowers that never
fade. They gave him of the fruit of the Tree of Life,
and of the water that gusheth forth clear as crystal
from before the Throne of God and of the Lamb.</p>
<p>And they said, "Beautiful one! who wert too young
to lisp the dialect of earth, sweet to thee will be the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>
pure language of heaven. Bringest thou to us no
token from the world that was once our home?"</p>
<p>Then answered the babe-cherub, "Here is our
mother's last kiss with a tear upon it, and the prayer
with which our father gave me back to God."</p>
<p>And they said, "Their gifts are sweet to us. We
remember <i>her</i> smile who lulled us on her breast,
whose eye was open through the long night, when
sickness smote us; and <i>his</i> voice who taught us the
name of Jesus.</p>
<p>Oft-times do we hover about them. We are near
them though they see us not. While they mourn we
drop into their hearts a balm drop and a thought of
heaven, and fly back hither, swifter than the wing of
morning.</p>
<p>We keep watch at the shining gates for them, and
for the white-haired parents whom they honour, and
for our fair sister, that we may be the first to welcome
them. Lo! when all are here, our joy shall be full."</p>
<p>Long they talked together, folding their rainbow
wings. They talked long with their music tones, yet
the darkness came not. For there is no night there.</p>
<p>Then there burst forth a great song, choirs of angels
saying, "Holy, holy, holy Lord God Almighty: Just
and true are thy ways, thou King of Saints." And the
lyres of the cherub brothers joined the chorus, swelling
the melody of heaven.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Babe_and_the_Forget-Me-Not" id="The_Babe_and_the_Forget-Me-Not"></a>The Babe, and the Forget-Me-Not.</h1>
<p>A babe, who like the opening bud<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grew fairer day by day,</span><br />
Made friendship with the loving flowers<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amid his infant play;</span><br />
<br />
And though full many a gorgeous plant<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Display'd its colours bright,</span><br />
Yet with the meek Forget-me-not<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He took his chief delight.</span><br />
<br />
From mantel-vase, or rich bouquet,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He cull'd his favourite gem,</span><br />
Well pleas'd its lowly lips to kiss,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And gently clasp its stem.</span><br />
<br />
So, when to dreamless rest he sank,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For soon he was to fade,</span><br />
That darling friend, Forget-me-not,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was on his bosom laid;</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span><br />
And when, beside the mother's couch,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who weepeth for his sake,</span><br />
Some vision of his heavenly joy<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Doth midnight darkness break,</span><br />
<br />
He cometh with a cherub smile<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In garments of the bless'd,</span><br />
And weareth a Forget-me-not<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon his sinless breast.</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Treatment_of_Animals" id="Treatment_of_Animals"></a>Treatment of Animals.</h1>
<p>A grateful disposition, should teach us to be kind
to the domestic animals. They add much to our comfort.
How should we bear the winter's cold, were it
not for the coat of wool, which the sheep shares with
us? How would journeys be performed, or the mail
be carried, or the affairs of government be conducted,
without the aid of the horse?</p>
<p>Did you ever think how much the comfort of
families depends upon the cow? Make a list of
articles for the table, or for the sick, to which milk is
indispensable. Perhaps you will be surprised to find
how numerous they are.</p>
<p>When the first settlers of New England, came to
Plymouth, in the winter of 1620, four years elapsed,
before any cows were brought them. During all this
time, their bread was made of pounded corn, and they
had not a drop of milk for the weaned infant, or the
sickly child, or to make any little delicacy for the
invalid.</p>
<p>There was great rejoicing in the colony, when a
ship arrived, bringing a few small heifers. Remember
how patiently our good ancestors endured their many
hardships; and when you freely use the milk of which
they were so long deprived, be kind to the peaceable,
orderly quadruped, from whom it is obtained.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p>
<p>Domestic animals, are sensible of kindness, and
improved by it. They are made happier and more
gentle, by being caressed and spoken to with a
pleasant voice. Food, shelter, needful rest, and good
treatment, are surely due to them, for their many
services to man.</p>
<p>The Arab treats his horse like his child, and the
noble animal loves him, and strains every nerve to do
his bidding. I have seen a horse, when wearied with
heat and travel, erect his head, and show evident
signs of pleasure, and renew his labours with fresh
zeal, if his master patted his neck, and whispered with
a kind voice into his ear.</p>
<p>It is delightful to see the young show a protecting
kindness to such harmless creatures as are often
harshly treated. It seems difficult to say why the
toad is so generally singled out for strong dislike. Is
it only because Nature has not given it beauty?
Surely its habits are innocent, and its temper gentle.</p>
<p>The scientific gardeners of Europe encourage toads
to live in their gardens, and about their green-houses.
They find them useful assistants in guarding their
precious plants from insects. So, they wisely make
them allies, instead of torturing and destroying them.</p>
<p>A benevolent English gentleman, once took pains
to reclaim a toad from its timid habits. It improved
by his attentions. It grew to a very large size, and
at his approach, came regularly from its hole, to meet
him, and receive its food.</p>
<p>Ladies, who visited the garden, sometimes desired
to see this singular favourite. It was even brought to
the table, and permitted to have a dessert of insects,
which it partook, without being embarrassed by the
presence of company.</p>
<p>It lived to be forty years old. What age it might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span>
have attained, had it met with no accident, it would
be difficult to say. For it was in perfect health when
wounded by a fierce raven, as it one day was coming
from its house, under the steps of the door, which
fronted the garden.</p>
<p>The poor creature languished a while, and then died;
and the benevolent man who had so long protected it,
took pleasure in relating its history, and in remembering
that he had made its life happy.</p>
<p>Cruelty to animals is disgraceful and sinful. If I
see even a young child pull off the wings of an insect,
or take pains to set his foot upon a worm, I know that
he has not been well instructed, or else that there is
something wrong and wicked in his heart.</p>
<p>The Emperor Domitian loved to kill flies, and at
last became a monster of cruelty. Benedict Arnold,
the traitor, when he was a boy, liked to give pain to
every thing, over which he could get power.</p>
<p>He destroyed birds' nests, and cut the little unfledged
ones in pieces, before the eyes of their agonised
parents. Cats and dogs, the quiet cow, and the faithful
horse, he delighted to hurt and distress.</p>
<p>I do not like to repeat his cruel deeds. He was
told that they were wrong. An excellent lady with
whom he lived, use to warn and reprove him. But
he did not reform. For his heart was hard, and he
did not heed the commands of God.</p>
<p>He grew up without good principles. He became a
soldier, and had command in the army. But he laid
a plan to betray his country, and sell it into the
hands of the enemy.</p>
<p>His wickedness was discovered, and he fled. He
never dared to return to his native land, but lived
despised, and died in misery. We know not how
much of the sin which disgraced his character, sprang<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>
out of his hardness of heart, and cruelty to animals.</p>
<p>Many of the inferior creation display virtues which
are deserving of respect. How many remarkable instances
have we heard of the sagacity of the elephant,
and the grateful attachment and fidelity of the dog.</p>
<p>A shepherd, who lived at the foot of the Grampian
mountains, one day, in going to look after his flock,
took with him his little boy of four years old. Some
of his sheep had strayed. In pursuing them, he was
obliged to climb rocks, so steep, that the child could
not follow.</p>
<p>The shepherd charged the child to remain where he
left him, until he should return. But while he was
gone, one of those thick fogs arose, which in that part
of Scotland are not uncommon. With difficulty he
groped his way back again. But the child was gone.</p>
<p>All his search was vain. There was sorrow that
night in the lowly cottage of his parents. The next
day, the neighbours joined, and continued their pursuit
for several days and nights. But in vain.</p>
<p>"Is my dog lost too?" said the father, as he one
day entered his dwelling, and sat down in weariness
and despair. "He has come here daily," said his little
daughter, "while you and mother, have been searching
for poor Donald. I have given him a piece of cake,
which he has taken, and ran hastily away."</p>
<p>The household bread of the poor, in Scotland, is
made of oatmeal, and being not baked in loaves, but
rolled out thin, is often called cake. While they were
speaking, the dog rushed in, and leaped upon his master,
whining earnestly.</p>
<p>An oatmeal cake was given him. He appeared hungry
but ate only a small portion of it. The remainder
he took in his mouth, and ran away. The shepherd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>
followed him. It was with difficulty, that he kept
his track, fording a swift streamlet, and descending
into a terrible ravine.</p>
<p>Then he entered a cave. And what was his joy to
see there his little, lost son. He was eating heartily
the bread which the dog had brought him, while he,
standing by, and wagging his tail, looked up in his face
with delight, as he took the food, which he nobly
denied himself.</p>
<p>It seems that the dog was with the child, when, in
the dimness of the mist, he wandered away. He must
have aided him to pass the deep waters that crossed
his path. And when he found shelter in that rude
cavern, and mourned for his parents, the faithful dog
guarded him like a father, and fed him with a mother's
tenderness.</p>
<p>How can we fail to treat with kindness, a race of
animals, that are capable of such virtues. Others,
that are less celebrated, often show traits of character,
which are worthy of imitation. Let us hear the
opinion of the poet Cowper, on this interesting subject.</p>
<blockquote><p>"We too might learn, if not too proud to stoop<br />
To animal instructors, many a good<br />
And useful quality, and virtue too,<br />
Rarely exemplified among ourselves.<br />
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat<br />
Can move, or warp, and gratitude for small<br />
And trivial favours, lasting as the life,<br />
And glistening even from the dying eye."</p></blockquote>
<p>Birds give us an example of tender affection. There
is no warfare in their nests. The little brothers and
sisters dwell together in harmony, till they are able to
stretch out the newly-plumed wing, and quit the care
of the parent. Say they not to us, as they sing among
the branches, "<i>Live in love!</i>"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p>
<p>The innocent dove, is cited as a model in the Book
of God. "Be ye harmless as doves," said our Saviour,
to his disciples. The stork spreads out its broad pinions,
and bears its aged parents, on their journey
through the air. It feeds and cherishes them with the
same care, that it received in its own helpless infancy.
Shall we not learn from it a lesson of filial piety?</p>
<p>Once, a robin, in returning to her nest, was shot
dead. The mate mourned bitterly for her loss, but
took her place upon the nest. There he brooded, until
the young came forth from the egg, and then he
sought food, and fed them like a mother, until they
were able to fly away.</p>
<p>Often while he was performing her duties, and
always at the close of day, his plaintive note was heard,
lamenting his lost love. Ah! who could be so wicked
as to destroy the nest, or the eggs, or the young, of
those affectionate creatures. Our Father in Heaven,
"taketh care of sparrows, and feedeth the young
ravens that cry."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Trembling_Eyelid" id="The_Trembling_Eyelid"></a>The Trembling Eyelid.</h1>
<p>It was the day before Christmas, in the year 1778,
during our war of revolution, that an armed vessel
sailed out of Boston. She was strongly built, and
carried twenty guns, and a crew of one hundred and
five persons; with provisions for a cruise of six months.</p>
<p>She made a fine appearance, as she spread her
broad sails, and steered out of the harbour. Many
hearts wished her success. And she bore as goodly a
company of bold and skilful seamen, as ever braved
the perils of the deep.</p>
<p>Soon the north wind blew, and brought a heavy sea
into the bay. The night proved dark, and they came
to anchor with difficulty, near the harbour of Plymouth.
The strong gale that buffeted them became a storm,
and the storm a hurricane.</p>
<p>Snow fell, and the cold was terribly severe. The
vessel was driven from her moorings, and struck on a
reef of rocks. She began to fill with water, and they
were obliged to cut away her masts. The sea rose
above her main deck, sweeping over it with its dark
surges.</p>
<p>They made every exertion that courage could
prompt, or hardihood endure. But so fearful were
the wind and cold, that the stoutest man was not able<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>
to strike more than two or three blows, in cutting away
the masts, without being relieved by another.</p>
<p>The wretched people thronged together upon the
quarter-deck, which was crowded almost to suffocation.
They were exhausted with toil and suffering, but
could obtain neither provisions, nor fresh water.
These were all covered by the deep sea, when the
vessel became a wreck.</p>
<p>But, unfortunately, the crew got access to ardent
spirits, and many of them drank, and became intoxicated.
Insubordination, mutiny, and madness ensued.
The officers, remained clear-minded, but lost
all authority over the crew, who raved around
them.</p>
<p>A more frightful scene, can scarcely be imagined:
the dark sky, the raging storm, the waves breaking
wildly over the rocks, and threatening every moment
to swallow up the broken vessel; and the half-frozen
beings who maintained their icy hold on life, lost to
reason, and to duty, or fighting fiercely with each
other.</p>
<p>Some lay in disgusting stupidity; others, with fiery
faces, blasphemed God. Some, in temporary delirium,
fancied themselves in palaces, surrounded by luxury,
and brutally abused the servants, who, they supposed,
refused to do their bidding.</p>
<p>Others there were, who, amid the beating of that
pitiless tempest, believed themselves in the homes that
they never more must see, and with hollow, reproachful
voices, besought bread, and wondered why water
was withheld from them by the hands that were most
dear.</p>
<p>A few, whose worst passions were quickened by
alcohol to a fiend-like fury, assaulted or wounded
those who came in their way, making their shrieks of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>
defiance, and their curses heard above the roar of the
storm. Intemperance never displayed itself in more
distressing attitudes.</p>
<p>At length, Death began to do his work. The miserable
creatures fell every hour upon the deck, frozen,
stiff, and hard. Each corpse, as it became breathless,
was laid upon a heap of dead, that more space might
be left for the survivors. Those who drank most
freely, were the first to perish.</p>
<p>On the third day of these horrors, the inhabitants
of Plymouth, after making many ineffectual attempts,
reached the wreck, not without danger. What a
melancholy spectacle! Lifeless bodies, hardened into
every form that suffering could devise.</p>
<p>Many lay in a vast pile. Others sat, with their
heads reclining on their knees; others, grasping the
ice-covered ropes; some in a posture of defence like the
dying gladiator: and others, with hands held up to
heaven, as if deprecating their awful fate.</p>
<p>Orders were given to search earnestly for every
mark or sign of life. One boy was distinguished amid
a mass of dead, only by the trembling of one of his
eyelids. The poor survivors were kindly received into
the houses of the people of Plymouth, and every effort
used for their restoration.</p>
<p>The captain and lieutenant, and a few others, who
had abstained from the use of ardent spirits, survived.
The remainder were buried, some in separate graves,
and others in a large pit, whose hollow is still to be
seen, on the south-west side of the burial ground in
Plymouth.</p>
<p>The funeral obsequies were most solemn. When
the clergyman, who was to perform the last services,
first entered the church, and saw more than seventy
dead bodies; some fixing upon him their stony eyes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>
and others, with faces, stiffened into the horrible expression
of their last mortal agony, he was so affected
as to faint.</p>
<p>Some, were brought on shore alive, and received
every attention, but survived only a short time.
Others, were restored after long sickness, but with
limbs so injured by frost, as to become cripples for life.</p>
<p>In a village, at some distance from Plymouth, a
widowed mother, with her daughter, were seen constantly
attending a couch, on which lay a sufferer. It
was the boy, whose trembling eyelid attracted the
notice of pity, as he lay among the dead.</p>
<p>"Mother," he said in a feeble tone, "God bless you
for having taught me to avoid ardent spirits. It was
this that saved me. After those around me grew intoxicated,
I had enough to do to protect myself from
them.</p>
<p>"Some attacked, and dared me to fight; others
pressed the poisonous draught to my lips, and bade
me drink. My lips and throat were parched with
thirst. But I knew if I drank with them, I must lose
my reason as they did, and perhaps, blaspheme my
Maker.</p>
<p>"One by one they died, those poor infuriated wretches.
Their shrieks and groans, still seem to ring in my ears.
It was in vain that the captain and their officers, and
a few good men, warned them of what would ensue, if
they thus continued to drink, and tried every method
in their power, to restore them to order.</p>
<p>"They still fed upon the fiery liquor. They grew
delirious. They died in heaps. Dear mother, our
sufferings from hunger and cold, you cannot imagine.
After my feet were frozen, but before I lost the use of
my hands, I discovered a box, among fragments of the
wreck, far under water.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p>
<p>"I toiled with a rope to drag it up. But my strength
was not sufficient. A comrade, who was still able to
move a little, assisted me. At length, it came within
our reach. We hoped that it might contain bread,
and took courage.</p>
<p>"Uniting our strength we burst it open. It contained
only a few bottles of olive oil. Yet we gave
God thanks. For we found that by occasionally
moistening our lips with it, and swallowing a little, it
allayed the gnawing, burning pain in the stomach.</p>
<p>"Then my comrade died. And I lay beside him, like
a corpse, surrounded by corpses. Presently, the violence
of the tempest, that had so long raged, subsided, and
I heard quick footsteps, and strange voices amid the
wreck, where we lay.</p>
<p>"They were the blessed people of Plymouth, who had
dared every danger, to save us. They lifted in their
arms, and wrapped in blankets, all who could speak.
Then they earnestly sought all who could move. But
every drunkard, was among the dead.</p>
<p>"And I was so exhausted with toil, and suffering, and
cold, that I could not stretch a hand to my deliverers.
They passed me again and again. They carried the
living to the boat. I feared that I was left behind.</p>
<p>"Then I prayed earnestly, in my heart, 'Oh, Lord,
for the sake of my widowed mother, for the sake of
my dear sister, save me.' I believed that the last man
had gone, and besought the Redeemer to receive my
spirit.</p>
<p>"But I felt a warm breath on my face. I strained
every nerve. My whole soul strove and shuddered
within me. Still my body was immovable as marble.
Then a loud voice said, 'Come back and help me out
with this poor lad. One of his eyelids trembles. He
lives!'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p>
<p>"Oh, the music of that voice to me! The trembling
eyelid, and the prayer to God, and your lessons of
temperance, my mother, saved me." Then the loving
sister embraced him with tears, and the mother said,
"Praise be to Him who hath spared my son, to be the
comfort of my old age."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Peaceful_Dispositions" id="Peaceful_Dispositions"></a>Peaceful Dispositions.</h1>
<p>The history of every nation tells of the shedding of
blood. The most ancient annals record "wars and
fightings," ever since man was placed upon the earth.
Both savage and civilized nations have prized the
trappings of the warrior, and coveted the glory of
victory.</p>
<p>Yet have there always been some reflecting minds,
to lament that the beings whom God had so nobly
endowed, should delight to destroy each other. They
have felt that there was suffering enough in the world,
without man's inflicting it on his brother; and that life
was short enough, without being made still shorter by
violence.</p>
<p>Among the most warlike nations, there have been a
few calm and philanthropic spirits, to perceive that
war was an evil, or to deplore it as a judgment, even
before the Gospel breathed "good-will and peace," in
an angel's song. Though Rome grew up by bloodshed,
and gained her dominion by the sword, yet some of
her best emperors deplored the evils of war.</p>
<p>Adrian loved peace, and endeavoured to promote it.
He saw that war was a foe to those arts and sciences,
through which nations become prosperous and refined.
He felt that the cultivation of the earth, the pursuits
of commerce, and the progress of intellect, must alike<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>
be obstructed and languish, while the business of men
was in the field of battle.</p>
<p>Titus Antoninus Pius desired to live in peace with
every one. "I had rather save the life of one citizen,"
he nobly said, "than destroy a thousand enemies." His
successor, Marcus Aurelius, considered war both as a
disgrace and calamity. Though the necessity of the
times sometimes forced him into it, his heart revolted,
for he was inspired with the love of learning and
philosophy.</p>
<p>Yet these were heathen emperors. They had never
imbibed the spirit of the Gospel. They were not
followers of Him, whose last accents was a prayer for
his murderers. The maxim of the ancient Jews was,
"an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth." But
the precept of Jesus Christ is, "see that ye love one
another." The contentious spirit was not therefore
condemned by the law of Moses, nor by the mythology
of the heathen.</p>
<p>Have you ever thought much, my dear young
friends, of the miseries of war? of the waste of human
life which it causes? of the bitter mourning which it
makes in families? You pity a friend who suffers
pain, a poor cripple upon crutches, or even a child with
a cut finger.</p>
<p>But, after a battle, what gashes and gaping wounds
are seen, what multitudes of mangled carcases. How
red is the earth with flowing blood, how terrible are
the groans of the dying, trampled beneath the feet of
horses, or suffocated under heaps of dead. How fearful
to see strong men convulsed with agony, and
imploring help in vain.</p>
<p>Think too, of the sorrow in their distant homes.
Grey-headed parents, from whom the last prop is taken
away, lamenting their sons fallen in battle. Wives<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>
mourning for their husbands, little children weeping
because their fathers must return no more. Neighbourhoods,
once happy and prosperous, plunged into
poverty, by the loss of those who provided them with
bread.</p>
<p>All these evils, and many more, which we have
neither room nor time to mention, may come from a
single battle. Towns and cities are sometimes burned,
and the aged and helpless destroyed. Mothers, and
their innocent babes, perish in the ruins of their own
beloved abodes.</p>
<p>War produces cruelty, and bad passions. Men, who
have no cause to dislike each other, meet as deadly
foes. They raise weapons of destruction, and exult in
the misery they inflict. Rulers, should take a solemn
view of the sufferings and sins of war, ere they plunge
the people into it, for differences which might have
been amicably settled.</p>
<p>War is expensive. The political economist should
therefore oppose it. Great Britain, in her last war
with France, is said to have spent more than seven
hundred millions of pounds. But the immediate cost
of armies, is but a part of the expense of war.</p>
<p>Who can compute the amount of losses by the
obstruction of tillage and commerce, and the waste of
life; for every full-grown, able-bodied man, is of value
to the country that reared him. We may say with
the poet,</p>
<blockquote><p>"War is a game, that, were their subjects wise,<br />
Kings would not play at."</p></blockquote>
<p>Howard, who felt that it was more noble to save
life than to destroy it, visited the prisons of distant
lands, to relieve such as have no helper; and blessings,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>
in foreign languages, were poured upon his head.
Bonaparte caused multitudes to be slain and multitudes
to mourn, and died in exile, on a desolate island.
When death approached, to strip the pomp from titles,
whose bosom must have been the most peaceful, when
about to pass into the presence of God?</p>
<p>The religious sect, who are called Friends, never
engage in warfare. The State of Pennsylvania, was
settled by them. William Penn, its founder, purchased
it of the natives, and lived with them in amity. They
gathered around him, with their dark, red brows, and,
gazing earnestly in his face, said, "You are our father.
We love you."</p>
<p>When he purchased the land of them, he appeared
unarmed, under the spreading branches of a lofty oak,
and conferred with their chiefs. He paid them to
their satisfaction, gave them gifts, and entered into
articles of friendship with them and their descendants.
"This is the only treaty which was confirmed without
an oath," said an historian, "and the only one that
was never broken."</p>
<p>These men of peace, treated the sons of the forest
as brethren. But in other colonies, there were distressing
wars. The settlers carried their guns to the
corn-field, and laboured in fear, for the safety of their
households. The tomahawk and scalping-knife were
sometimes secretly raised, so that when they returned
home, there was no wife or children there, only dead
bodies. A savage foe had chosen this terrible form of
vengeance, for real or supposed wrongs.</p>
<p>If true glory belongs to those who do great good to
mankind, is not the glory of the warrior a false glory?
Does not History sometimes confer on her heroes, a
fame which religion condemns? But we ask how are
wars to be prevented? Might not one nation act as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>
mediator between others, as a good man makes peace
between contending neighbours?</p>
<p>Why should not one Christian ruler address another,
as the patriarch Abraham did his kinsman? "Let
there be no strife, betwixt us, I pray thee; <i>for we are
brethren</i>." If there have been always wars from the
beginning, is this any reason why there should be
unto the end? Do not the Scriptures of Truth foretell
a happy period on earth, when there shall be war
no more? How beautifully has a poet versified the
cheering prediction:</p>
<blockquote><p>"No more shall nation against nation rise,<br />
Nor ardent warriors meet, with hateful eyes,<br />
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,<br />
But brazen trumpet kindle rage no more,<br />
The useless lances into scythes shall bend,<br />
And the broad faulchion in a ploughshare end.<br />
For wars shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,<br />
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale.<br />
Peace o'er the earth her olive wand extend,<br />
And white-rob'd righteousness from Heaven descend."</p></blockquote>
<p>War proceeds from the unbridled passions, or restless
ambition of men. Unkind and quarrelsome dispositions
in children are the germs of such evil fruit.
Ought not then, the remedy to be early applied to the
heart, from whence they spring? For if the love of
peace, was planted, and cherished carefully in the
breast of every little child, would there not grow up a
generation, who would help to banish war from the
earth?</p>
<p>Avoid contention with your companions. Use no
offensive words, and when you see others disagree,
strive to reconcile them. Repress every revengeful
feeling. If any one has injured you, do not injure
them. Try to set them a better example. If any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
speak unfavourably of you, it is well to do them some
good office. Perhaps you can lend them an interesting,
instructive book, whose perusal would lead them
to kinder dispositions.</p>
<p>To render evil for evil, would make perpetual discord
in society. Try, therefore, to be gentle and
patient to those who seem to dislike you. Their cold
treatment may often proceed from some trifle, which
your pleasant manners may reconcile. And it is a
pity, to lose for any trifle, the benefits of friendly
intercourse.</p>
<p>When in company with your associates, do not
insist always on having your own way. If you are in
the habit of cheerfully consulting their wishes, they
will seek your society, and enjoy it. Thus you will
acquire influence over them, and this influence should
be exerted for their good.</p>
<p>You know that he who does good to another, uniformly,
and from a right principle, promotes his own
happiness. It is indeed, easy to love those who love
us, but to be kind to those who are unkind to us is
not so easy, though it is a nobler virtue.</p>
<p>"Do not suffer yourself to hate even your enemies,"
said Plutarch, "for in doing so, you contract a vicious
habit of mind, which will by degrees break out, even
upon your friends, or those who are indifferent to you."
This is the advice of a heathen philosopher. But more
definite and sublime are the words of our Redeemer,
"Love your enemies, that ye may be the children of
your Father in Heaven, who doeth good unto the evil
and unthankful."</p>
<p>By preserving peaceful dispositions, and persuading
those who are at variance, to be reconciled, you will be
serene and happy. You will be pursuing an education
which will fit you for the society of angels. Have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span>
we not read of a country, where there is no war?
where peace and love reign in the bosom of all its
inhabitants?</p>
<p>That country is Heaven. We hope to dwell there
when we die. We would strive to cultivate its spirit
while on earth. How else can we be permitted to
remain there? The scorpion cannot abide in the nest
of the turtle-dove, nor the leopard slumber in the
lamb's fold. Neither can the haters of peace find a
home in those blissful regions.</p>
<p>That holy Book, which is the rule of our conduct,
the basis of our hope, has promised no reward to those
who delight in the shedding of blood. But our
Saviour, when his dwelling was in tents of clay, when
he taught the listening multitude what they must do,
to inherit eternal life, said, "Blessed are the peace
makers, for they shall be called the children of God."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></div>
<h1><a name="John_and_James_Williams" id="John_and_James_Williams"></a>John and James Williams.</h1>
<p>John and James Williams, were the sons of a New
England farmer. In summer, they took an active
part in his labours, and during the winter attended to
their school-education. Both were fond of books, but
their tastes and dispositions were different.</p>
<p>One cold evening in winter, they were sitting beside
a bright fire of wood. Their lamp cast a cheerful ray
over the snow-covered landscape. Several books lay
on the table, from which they had been studying their
lessons for the following day.</p>
<p>"John," said the youngest, who was about thirteen
years old, "John, I mean to be a soldier. I have
lately been reading the life of Alexander of Macedon,
and a good deal about Bonaparte. I think there is
nothing in this world like the glory of the warrior."</p>
<p>"It does not strike me so, James. To destroy life,
and to cause mourning in such a multitude of families,
and to bring so much poverty and misery into the
world, seems to me, more cruel than glorious."</p>
<p>"But John, to be so praised and honoured, to have
hosts of soldiers under your command, and to have the
pages of history filled with the fame of your victories,
how can you be blind to such glory as that?</p>
<p>"Brother, the minister said last Sunday, that the
<i>end of life was the test of its goodness</i>. Now, Alexander<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>
the Great got intoxicated, and died like a madman;
and Bonaparte was shut up to pine away on a desolate
island, as if he was a wild beast, chained in a cage."</p>
<p>"John, your ideas are very limited. I am sorry to
see that you are not capable of admiring heroes. You
are just fit to be a farmer. I dare say that to break
a pair of steers, is your highest ambition, and to spend
your days in ploughing and reaping, is all the glory
that you would covet."</p>
<p>Their father's voice was now heard, calling, "Boys,
go to bed." Thus ended their conversation for that
night. These brothers loved each other, and seldom
disagreed on any subject, except on trying to settle
the point, in what the true glory of the warrior consisted.</p>
<p>Fifteen years glided away, and the season of winter
again returned. From the same window, a bright
lamp gleamed, and on the same hearth glowed a cheerful
fire. The farm-house seemed unaltered, but among
its inmates, there had been changes.</p>
<p>The parents, who had then retired to rest, were now
mouldering in the grave. They were good and pious,
and among the little circle of their native village, their
memory was still held in sweet remembrance.</p>
<p>In the corner, which they used to occupy, their
eldest son, and his wife, were seated. A babe lay in
the cradle, and two other little ones, breathed quietly
from their trundle-bed, in the sweet sleep of childhood.
A strong blast, with snow, shook the casement.</p>
<p>"I always think," said John Williams, "about my
poor brother, in stormy nights, especially in winter.
So many years have past, since we have heard from
him, and his way of life is so full of danger, that I
fear he must be numbered with the dead."</p>
<p>"Husband, did I hear a faint knock! or was it the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>
wind among the trees?" said his wife. The farmer
opened the door, and a traveller entered, leaning heavily
on a crutch. His garments were old and thin, and his
countenance haggard.</p>
<p>He sank into a chair, and gazed earnestly around
on every article of furniture, as on some recollected
friend. Then, extending a withered hand, he uttered
in a tone scarcely audible, "Brother! brother!"</p>
<p>That word, opened the tender memories of other
years. They hastened to welcome the wanderer, and
to mingle their tears with his. "Sister, brother, I
have come home to <i>die</i>." They found him too much
exhausted to converse, and after giving him comfortable
food, induced him to retire to rest.</p>
<p>The next morning, he was unable to rise. They sat
by his bedside, and soothed his worn heart with kindness,
and told him the simple narrative of the changes
in the neighbourhood, and what had befallen them, in
their quiet abode.</p>
<p>"I have had many troubles," said he, "but none have
bowed me down, like the sin of leaving home to be a
soldier, without the knowledge of my parents, and
against their will. I have felt the pain of wounds,
but there is nothing like the sting of conscience.</p>
<p>"I have endured hunger, and thirst, and imprisonment,
and the misery of sickness in an enemy's land;
and then the image of my home, and my disobedience
and ingratitude, were with me when I lay down, and
when I rose up, and when I was sleepless and sick in
the neglected hospitals.</p>
<p>"In broken visions, I would see my dear mother
bending tenderly over me, as she used to do, when I
had only a headache; and my father with the great
Bible in his hand, reading as he used to do before
prayer; but when I cried out in agony. 'I am no more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>
worthy to be called thy son,' I awoke, and it was all a
dream."</p>
<p>His brother assured him of the perfect forgivenness
of his parents, and that duly, at morn and eve, he was
borne upon their supplications at the family altar, as
the son, erring, yet beloved. "Ah, yes, and those
prayers followed me. But for them I should have been
a reprobate, forsaken both of God and man."</p>
<p>As strength permitted, he told them the story of
his wanderings. He had been in battles, on land and
sea. He had heard the deep ocean echo to the cannon's
thunder, and seen earth drink the red shower
from the bosoms of her slaughtered sons.</p>
<p>He had stood in the martial lists of Europe, and
hazarded his life for a foreign power, and had pursued,
in his native land, the hunted Indian, flying at midnight
from the flames of his own hut. He had ventured
with the bravest, into the deepest danger, seeking
every where for the glory which had dazzled his boyhood,
but in vain.</p>
<p>He found that it was the lot of the soldier to endure
hardship, that others might reap the fame. He saw
what fractures and mutilations, what misery, and
mourning, and death, were necessary to purchase the
reward of victory. He felt how light was even the renown
of the conqueror, compared with the good that
he forfeits, and the sorrow that he inflicts to obtain it.</p>
<p>"Sometimes," he said, "just before rushing into
battle, I felt a shuddering, and inexpressible horror, at
the thought of butchering my fellow-creatures. But in
the heat of contest, all such sympathies vanished, and
madness and desperation possessed me, so that I cared
neither for this life nor the next.</p>
<p>"I have been left wounded on the field, unable to
move from among the feet of trampling horses, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>
open gashes stiffening in the chilly night air, and death
staring me in the face, while no man cared for my
soul. Yet I will not distress your kind hearts, by
describing my varieties of pain.</p>
<p>"You, who have always lived amid the influences of
mercy; who shrink to give unnecessary suffering, even
to an animal, cannot realize what hardness of heart,
comes with the life of a soldier, familiar as he must be
with groans, and violence, and cruelty.</p>
<p>"His moral and religious feelings, are in still greater
danger. Oaths, imprecations, and contempt of sacred
things, are mingled with the elements of his trade.
The sweet and holy influences of the Sabbath, and the
precepts of the Gospel, impressed upon his childhood,
are too often swept away.</p>
<p>"Yet though I exerted myself to appear bold and
courageous, and even hardened, my heart reproached
me. Oh, that it might be purified by repentance, and
at peace with God, before I am summoned to the
dread bar of judgment, to answer for my deeds of blood."</p>
<p>His friends flattered themselves, that, by medical
skill, and careful nursing, he might be restored to
health. But he answered, "No, it can never be. My
vital energies are wasted. Even now, is Death standing
at my right hand."</p>
<p>"When I entered this peaceful valley, my swollen
limbs tottered, and began to fail. Then I prayed to
the Almighty, whom I had so often forgotten, 'Oh,
give me strength but a little longer, that I may reach
the home where I was born, and die there, and be
buried by the side of my father and my mother.'"</p>
<p>The sick and penitent soldier, sought earnestly for
the hope of salvation. He felt that a great change
was needed in his soul, ere it could be fitted for the
holy employments of a realm of purity and peace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>
He prayed, and wept, and studied the Scriptures, and
listened to the counsel of pious men.</p>
<p>"Brother, dear brother," he would say, "you have
obeyed the precepts of our parents. You have chosen
the path of peace. You have been merciful even to
the inferior creatures. You have shorn the fleece, but
not wantonly destroyed the lamb. You have taken
the honey, and spared the labouring bee.</p>
<p>"But I have destroyed man, and his habitation; the
hive and the honey; the fleece and the flock. I have
defaced the image of God, and crushed out that breath,
which I can never restore. You know not how bitter
is the warfare of my soul with the 'Prince of the
power of the air, the spirit that ruleth in the children
of disobedience.'"</p>
<p>As the last hour approached, he laid his cold hand
on the head of his brother's eldest child, who had been
named for him, and said faintly, "Little James, obey
your parents, and never be a soldier. Sister, brother,
you have been angels of mercy to me. The blessing
of God be upon you, and your household."</p>
<p>The venerable minister who instructed his childhood,
and laid his parents in the grave, had daily visited him
in his sickness. He stood by his side, as he went down
into the valley of the shadow of death. "My son,
look unto the Lamb of God." "Yes, father, there is
a fullness in Him for the chief of sinners."</p>
<p>The aged man lifted up his fervent prayer for the
departing soul. He commended it to the boundless
compassions of Him who receiveth the penitent; and
besought for it, a gentle passage to that world, where
there is no more sin, neither sorrow, nor crying.</p>
<p>He ceased. The eyes of the dying were closed.
There was no more heaving of the breast, or gasping.
They thought the breath had quitted the clay. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>
spoke of him as having passed where all tears are
wiped from the eyes for ever.</p>
<p>But again there was a faint sigh. The white lips
slowly moved. His brother bending over him caught
the last, low whisper,—"Jesus! Saviour! take a repentant
sinner to the world of peace."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Indian_King" id="The_Indian_King"></a>The Indian King.</h1>
<p>Among the early settlers of these United States,
were some pious people, called Hugenots, who fled
from the persecutions in France, under Louis the
Fourteenth. It has been said, that wherever the elements
of their character mingled with the New
World, the infusion was salutary.</p>
<p>Industry, patience, sweet social affections, and piety,
firm, but not austere, were the distinctive features of
this interesting race. A considerable number of them,
chose their abode in a part of the State of Massachusetts,
about the year 1686, and commenced the
labours inseparable from the formation of a new colony.</p>
<p>In their vicinity, was a powerful tribe of Indians,
whom they strove to conciliate. They extended to
them the simple rites of hospitality, and their kind
and gentle manners, wrought happily upon the proud,
yet susceptible nature of the aborigines.</p>
<p>But their settlement had not long assumed the
marks of regularity and beauty, ere they observed in
their savage neighbours, a reserved deportment. This
increased, until the son of the forest, utterly avoided
the dwellings of the new comers, where he had been
pleased to accept a shelter for the night, or a covert
for the storm.</p>
<p>Occasionally, some lingering one might be seen near
the cultivated grounds, regarding the more skilful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>
agriculture of the white inhabitants with a dejected and
lowering brow. It was rumoured that these symptoms
of disaffection arose from the influence of an aged
chief, whom they considered a prophet, who denounced
the "pale intruders;" and they grieved that they should
not have been more successful in conciliating their red
brethren.</p>
<p>Three years had elapsed since the establishment of
their little colony. Autumn was now advancing towards
its close, and copse and forest exhibited those
varied and opposing hues, which clothe in beauty and
brilliance, the foliage of New England. The harvest
was gathered in, and every family made preparation
for the approach of winter.</p>
<p>Here and there groups of children might be seen,
bearing homeward baskets of nuts, which they had
gathered in the thicket, or forest. It was pleasant to
hear their joyous voices, and see their ruddy faces,
like bright flowers, amid wilds so lately tenanted by the
prowling wolf, the fierce panther, and the sable bear.</p>
<p>In one of these nut-gatherings, a little boy and girl,
of eight and four years old, the only children of a
settler, whose wife had died on the voyage hither,
accidentally separated from their companions. They
had discovered on their way home, profuse clusters of
the purple frost-grape, and entering a rocky recess to
gain the new treasure, did not perceive that the last
rays of the setting sun were fading away.</p>
<p>Suddenly they were seized by two Indians. The
boy struggled violently, and his little sister cried to
him for protection, but in vain. The long strides of
their captors, soon bore them far beyond the bounds
of the settlement. Night was far advanced, ere they
halted. Then they kindled a fire, and offered the
children some food.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p>
<p>The heart of the boy swelled high with grief and
anger, and he refused to partake. But the poor little
girl took some parched corn from the hand of the Indian,
who held her on his knee. He smiled as he saw her
eat the kernels, and look up in his face with a wondering,
yet reproachless eye. Then they lay down to sleep,
in the dark forest, each with an arm over his captive.</p>
<p>Great was the alarm in the colony, when those
children returned not. Every spot was searched,
where it was thought possible they might have lost
their way. But, when at length their little baskets
were found, overturned in a tangled thicket, one
terrible conclusion burst upon every mind, that they
must have been captured by Indians.</p>
<p>It was decided, that ere any warlike measures were
adopted, the father should go peacefully to the Indian
king, and demand his children. At the earliest dawn
of morning, he departed with his companions. They
met a friendly Indian, pursuing the chase, who had
occasionally shared their hospitality and consented to
be their guide.</p>
<p>They travelled through rude paths, until the day
drew near a close. Then, approaching a circle of
native dwellings, in the midst of which was a tent,
they saw a man of lofty form, with a cornet of feathers
upon his brow, and surrounded by warriors. The
guide saluted him as his monarch, and the bereaved
father, bowing down, addressed him:</p>
<p>"King of the red men, thou seest a father in pursuit
of his lost babes. He has heard that your people
will not harm the stranger in distress. So he trusts
himself fearlessly among you. The king of our own native
land, who should have protected us, became our foe.
We fled from our dear homes, from the graves of our
fathers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p>
<p>"The ocean-wave brought us to this New World.
We are a peaceful race, pure from the blood of all
men. We seek to take the hand of our red brethren.
Of my own kindred, none inhabit this wilderness save
two little buds from a broken, buried stem.</p>
<p>"Last night, sorrow entered into my soul, because
I found them not. Knowest thou, O king, if thy
people have taken my babes? Knowest thou where
they have concealed them? Cause them, I pray thee,
to be restored to my arms. So shall the Great Spirit
bless thine own tender plants, and lift up thy heart
when it weigheth heavily in thy bosom."</p>
<p>The Indian monarch, bending on him a piercing
glance, said, "Knowest thou me? Look in my eyes!
Look! Answer me! Are they those of a stranger?"
The Hugenot replied that he had no recollection of
having ever before seen his countenance.</p>
<p>"Thus it is with the white man. He is dim-eyed.
He looketh on the garments, more than on the soul.
Where your ploughs wound the earth, oft have I
stood, watching your toil. There was no coronet on
my brow. But I was a king. And you knew it not.</p>
<p>"I looked upon your people. I saw neither pride
nor violence. I went an enemy, but returned a friend.
I said to my warriors, do these men no harm. They
do not hate Indians. Then our white-haired Prophet
of the Great Spirit rebuked me. He bade me make
no league with the pale faces, lest angry words should
be spoken of me among the shades of our buried kings.</p>
<p>"Yet again I went where thy brethren have reared
their dwellings. Yes, I entered thy house. <i>And
thou knowest not this brow!</i> I could tell thine at midnight,
if but a single star trembled through the clouds.
My ear would know thy voice, though the storm were
abroad with all its thunders.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p>
<p>"I have said that I was a king. Yet I came to
thee an hungered. And thou gavest me bread. My
head was wet with the tempest. Thou badest me to
lie down on thy hearth, and thy son for whom thou
mournest, covered me.</p>
<p>"I was sad in spirit. And thy little daughter
whom thou seekest with tears, sat on my knee. She
smiled when I told her how the beaver buildeth his
house in the forest. My heart was comforted, for I
saw that she did not hate Indians.</p>
<p>"Turn not on me such a terrible eye. I am no
stealer of babes. I have reproved the people who
took the children. I have sheltered them for thee.
Not a hair of their heads is hurt. Thinkest thou that
the red man can forget kindness? They are sleeping
in my tent. Had I but a single blanket, it should
have been their bed. Take them, and return unto
thy people."</p>
<p>He waved his hand to an attendant, and in a moment
the two children were in the arms of their
father. The white men were hospitably sheltered for
that night, and the twilight of the next day, bore upward
from the rejoicing colony, a prayer for the
heathen of the forest, and that pure praise which
mingles with the music around the throne.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_Doves" id="The_Doves"></a>The Doves.</h1>
<p>A Sea-king on the Danish shore,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the old time went by,</span><br />
Launch'd his rude ship for reckless deeds,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beneath a foreign sky.</span><br />
<br />
And oft on Albion's richer coast,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where Saxon Harold reign'd,</span><br />
With a fierce foe's marauding hate,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wild warfare he maintained.</span><br />
<br />
From hamlet-nook, and humble vale,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their wealth he reft away,</span><br />
And shamed not with his blood-red steel,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To wake the deadly fray.</span><br />
<br />
But once within an islet's bay,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While summer-twilight spread</span><br />
A curtain o'er the glorious sun,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who sank to ocean's bed,</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span><br />
He paus'd amid his savage trade,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And gaz'd on earth and sea,</span><br />
While o'er his head a nest of doves,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hung in a linden tree.</span><br />
<br />
They coo'd and murmur'd o'er their young,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A loving, mournful strain.</span><br />
And still the chirping brood essay'd,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The same soft tones again.</span><br />
<br />
The sea-king on the rocky beach;<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bow'd down his head to hear,</span><br />
Yet started on his iron brow,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To feel a trickling tear.</span><br />
<br />
He mus'd upon his lonely home,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beyond the foaming main;</span><br />
For nature kindled in his breast,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At that fond dovelet's strain.</span><br />
<br />
He listen'd till the lay declin'd,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As slumber o'er them stole:</span><br />
"<i>Home, home, sweet home!</i>" methought they sang;<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It enter'd to his soul.</span><br />
<br />
He linger'd till the moon came forth,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With radiance pure and pale,</span><br />
And then his hardy crew he rous'd,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Up! up! and spread the sail."</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span><br />
"Now, whither goest thou, master bold?"<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No word the sea-king spake,</span><br />
But at the helm all night he stood,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till ruddy morn did break.</span><br />
<br />
"See, captain, yon unguarded isle!<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Those cattle are our prey;"</span><br />
Dark grew their brows, and fierce their speech:<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No word he deign'd to say.</span><br />
<br />
Right onward, o'er the swelling wave,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With steady prow he bore,</span><br />
Nor stay'd until he anchor'd fast,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By Denmark's wave-wash'd shore.</span><br />
<br />
"Farewell, farewell, brave men and true,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Well have you serv'd my need;</span><br />
Divide the spoils as best ye may,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rich boon for daring deed."</span><br />
<br />
He shook them by the harden'd hand,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And on his journey sped,</span><br />
Nor linger'd till through shades he saw,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His long-forsaken shed.</span><br />
<br />
Forth came the babe, that when he left,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lay on its mother's knee;</span><br />
She rais'd a stranger's wondering cry:<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A fair-hair'd girl was she!</span><br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span><br />
His far-off voice that mother knew,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And shriek'd in speechless joy,</span><br />
While, proudly, toward his arms she drew<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His bashful, stripling boy.</span><br />
<br />
They bade the fire of pine burn bright,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The simple board they spread;</span><br />
And bless'd and welcom'd him, as one<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Returning from the dead.</span><br />
<br />
He cleans'd him of the pirate's sin,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He donn'd the peasant's stole,</span><br />
And nightly from his labours came,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With music in his soul.</span><br />
<br />
"Father! what mean those words you speak<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oft in your broken sleep?</span><br />
<i>The doves! the doves!</i> you murmuring cry,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And then in dreams you weep:</span><br />
<br />
"Father, you've told us many a tale,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of storm, and battle wild;</span><br />
Tell us the story of the doves,"<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The peasant-father smil'd:</span><br />
<br />
"Go, daughter, lure a dove to build<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her nest in yonder tree,</span><br />
And thou shalt hear the tender tone,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That lured me back to thee."</span></p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></div>
<h1><a name="The_War-Spirit" id="The_War-Spirit"></a>The War-Spirit.</h1>
<p>War-spirit! War-spirit! how gorgeous thy path<br />
Pale earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath,<br />
The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne,<br />
To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on,<br />
With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpets' wild cry,<br />
While the folds of their banners gleam bright o'er the sky.<br />
<br />
Thy glories are sought, till the life-throb is o'er,<br />
Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore,<br />
Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime,<br />
The arch of the hero doth grapple with time;<br />
The muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine,<br />
And history her annal emblazons with thine.<br />
<br />
War-spirit! War-spirit! thy secrets are known;<br />
I have look'd on the field when the battle was done,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>The mangled and slain in their misery lay,<br />
And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey,<br />
And the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore,<br />
In those homes that the lov'd ones revisit no more.<br />
<br />
I have trac'd out thy march, by its features of pain,<br />
While famine and pestilence stalk'd in thy train,<br />
And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell,<br />
And thy breath on the soul, was the plague-spot of hell;<br />
Death laudeth thy deeds, and in letters of flame,<br />
The realm of perdition engraveth thy name.<br />
<br />
War-spirit! War-spirit! go down to thy place,<br />
With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race;<br />
Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride,<br />
Bid the rivers of blood thou hast open'd be dried,<br />
Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease,<br />
And yield the torn world to the Angel of Peace.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Early_Recollections" id="Early_Recollections"></a>Early Recollections.</h1>
<p>The years of my childhood passed away in contentment
and peace. My lot was in humble and simple
industry; yet my heart was full of gladness, though I
scarcely knew why. I loved to sit under the shadow
of the rugged rocks, and to hear the murmured song
of the falling brook.</p>
<p>I made to myself a companionship among the things
of nature, and was happy all the day. But when
evening darkened the landscape, I sat down pensively;
for I was alone, and had neither brother nor sister.</p>
<p>I was ever wishing for a brother who should be older
than myself, into whose hand I might put my own,
and say, "Lead me forth to look at the solemn stars,
and tell me of their names." Sometimes, too, I wept
in my bed, because there was no sister to lay her head
upon the same pillow.</p>
<p>At twilight, before the lamps were lighted, there
came up out of my bosom, what seemed to be a friend.
I did not then understand that its name was Thought.
But I talked with it, and it comforted me. I waited
for its coming, and whatsoever it asked of me, I
answered.</p>
<p>When it questioned me of my knowledge, I said,
"I know where the first fresh violets of spring grow,
and where the lily of the vale hides in its broad green<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span>
sheath, and where the vine climbs to hang its purple
clusters, and where the forest nuts ripen, when autumn
comes with its sparkling frost.</p>
<p>"I have seen how the bee nourishes itself in winter
with the essence of flowers, which its own industry
embalmed; and I have learned to draw forth the kindness
of domestic animals, and to tell the names of the
birds which build dwellings in my father's trees."</p>
<p>Then Thought enquired, "What knowest thou of
those who reason, and to whom God has given dominion
over the beasts of the field, and over the fowls
of the air?" I confessed, that of my own race I
knew nothing, save of the parents who nurtured me,
and the few children with whom I had played on the
summer turf.</p>
<p>I was ashamed, for I felt that I was ignorant. So
I determined to turn away from the wild herbs of the
field, and the old trees where I had helped the gray
squirrel to gather acorns, and to look attentively upon
what passed among men.</p>
<p>I walked abroad when the morning dews were
lingering upon the grass, and the white lilies drooping
their beautiful heads to shed tears of joy, and the
young rose blushing, as if it listened to its own praise.
Nature smiled upon those sweet children, that were so
soon to fade.</p>
<p>But I turned toward those whose souls have the gift
of reason, and are not born to die. I said, "If there
is joy in the plant that flourishes for a day, and in the
bird bearing to its nest but a broken cherry, and in the
lamb that has no friend but its mother, how much
happier must they be, who are surrounded with good
things, as by a flowing river, and who know that,
though they seem to die, it is but to live for ever."</p>
<p>I looked upon a group of children. They were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>
untaught and unfed, and clamoured loudly with wayward
tongues. I asked them why they walked not in
the pleasant paths of knowledge. And they mocked
at me. I heard two who were called friends, speak
harsh words to each other, and was affrighted at the
blows they dealt.</p>
<p>I saw a man with a fiery and a bloated face. He
was built strongly, like the oak among trees; yet his
steps were weak and unsteady as those of the tottering
babe. He fell heavily, and lay as one dead. I
marvelled that no hand was stretched out to raise
him up.</p>
<p>I saw an open grave. A widow stood near it, with
her little ones. They looked downcast, and sad at
heart. Yet, methought it was famine and misery,
more than sorrow for the dead, which had set on them
such a yellow and shrivelled seal.</p>
<p>I said, "What can have made the parents not pity
their children when they hungered, nor call them
home when they were in wickedness? What made the
friends forget their early love, and the strong man fall
down senseless, and the young die before his time?"
I heard a voice say, "Intemperance. And there is
mourning in the land, because of this."</p>
<p>So I returned to my home, sorrowing; and had God
given me a brother or a sister, I would have thrown
my arms around their neck, and entreated, "Touch
not your lips to the poison cup, and let us drink the
pure water which God hath blessed, all the days of our
lives."</p>
<p>Again I went forth. I met a beautiful boy weeping,
and I asked him why he wept. He answered,
"Because my father went to the wars and is slain; he
will return no more." I saw a mournful woman. The
sun shone upon her dwelling. The honeysuckle climbed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>
to its windows, and sent in its sweet blossoms to do
their loving message. But she was a widow. Her
husband had fallen in battle. There was joy for her
no more.</p>
<p>I saw a hoary man, sitting by the wayside. Grief
had made furrows upon his forehead, and his garments
were thin and tattered. Yet he asked not for charity.
And when I besought him to tell me why his heart
was heavy, he replied faintly, "I had a son, an only
one. From his cradle, I toiled, that he might have
food and clothing, and be taught wisdom.</p>
<p>"He grew up to bless me. So all my labour and
weariness were forgotten. When he became a man, I
knew no want; for he cherished me, as I had cherished
him. Yet he left me to be a soldier. He was slaughtered
in the field of battle. Therefore mine eye
runneth down with water, because the comforter that
should relieve my soul returns no more."</p>
<p>I said, "Show me, I pray thee, a field of battle,
that I may know what war means." But he answered,
"Thou art not able to bear the sight." "Tell me,
then," I entreated, "what thou hast seen, when the
battle was done."</p>
<p>"I came," he said, "at the close of day, when the
cannon ceased their thunder, and the victor and vanquished
had withdrawn. The rising moon looked down
on the pale faces of the dead. Scattered over the
broad plain were many who still struggled with the
pangs of death.</p>
<p>"They stretched out the shattered limb, yet there
was no healing hand. They strove to raise their heads,
but sank deeper in the blood which flowed from their
own bosoms. They begged in God's name that we
would put them out of their misery, and their piercing
shrieks entered into my soul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span></p>
<p>"Here and there horses, mad with pain, rolled and
plunged, mangling with their hoofs the dying, or defacing
the dead. And I remember the mourning for
those who lay there; of the parents who had reared
them, or of the young children who used to sit at home
upon their knee."</p>
<p>Then I said, "Tell me no more of battle or of war,
for my heart is sad." The silver-haired man raised
his eyes upward, and I kneeled down by his side.</p>
<p>And he prayed, "Lord, keep this child from anger,
and hatred, and ambition, which are the seeds of war.
Grant to all that own the name of Jesus, hearts of
peace, that they may shun every deed of strife, and
dwell at last in the country of peace, even in heaven."</p>
<p>Hastening home, I besought my mother, "Shelter
me, as I have been sheltered, in solitude, and in love.
Bid me turn the wheel of industry, or bring water
from the fountain, or tend the plants of the garden,
or feed a young bird and listen to its song, but let me
go no more forth among the vices and miseries of
man."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></div>
<h1><a name="Huguenot_Fort" id="Huguenot_Fort"></a>Huguenot Fort,</h1>
<p class="center">AT OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS.</p>
<blockquote>
<p><span style="margin-left: 1em;">I stood upon a breezy height, and marked</span><br />
The rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn,<br />
And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scythe<br />
With a forgiving fragrance, even in death<br />
Blessing its enemies; and broad-armed trees<br />
Fruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streams<br />
That cheered their sedgy banks.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 16.5em;">But at my feet</span><br />
Were vestiges, that turned the thoughts away<br />
From all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stones<br />
That formed their fortress, who in earlier days,<br />
Sought refuge here, from their own troubled clime,<br />
And from the madness of a tyrant king,<br />
Were strewed around.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Methinks, yon wreck stands forth</span><br />
In rugged strength once more, and firmly guards<br />
From the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France,<br />
Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flush<br />
Of purple vintage, found but welcome cold<br />
From thee, my native land! the wintry moan<br />
Of wind-swept forests, and the appalling frown<br />
Of icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them free<br />
To strike the sweet harp of the secret soul,<br />
And this was all their wealth. For this they blest<br />
Thy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roof<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span>At morn and night, or with the murmuring swell<br />
Of stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise.<br />
Green Vine! that mantlest in thy fresh embrace<br />
Yon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with them<br />
Didst brave the ocean surge.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 15em;">Say, drank thy germ</span><br />
The dews of Languedoc? or slow uncoiled<br />
An infant fibre, mid the fruitful mould<br />
Of smiling Roussillon? or didst thou shrink<br />
From the fierce footsteps of a warlike train<br />
Brother with brother fighting unto death,<br />
At fair Rochelle?<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Hast thou no tale for me?</span><br />
Methought its broad leaves shivered in the gale,<br />
With whispered words.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11.5em;">There was a gentle form,</span><br />
A fair, young creature, who at twilight hour<br />
Oft brought me water, and would kindly raise<br />
My drooping head. Her eyes were dark and soft<br />
As the gazelle's, and well I knew her sigh<br />
Was tremulous with love. For she had left<br />
One in her own fair land, with whom her heart<br />
From childhood had been twined.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 16.5em;">Oft by her side,</span><br />
What time the youngling moon went up the sky,<br />
Chequering with silvery beam their woven bower;<br />
He strove to win her to the faith he held,<br />
Speaking of heresy with flashing eye,<br />
Yet with such blandishment of tenderness,<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span>As more than argument dissolveth doubt<br />
With a young pupil, in the school of love.<br />
Even then, sharp lightning quivered thro' the gloom<br />
Of persecution's cloud, and soon its storm<br />
Burst on the Huguenots.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;">Their churches fell,</span><br />
Their pastors fed the dungeon, or the rack;<br />
And mid each household-group, grim soldiers sat,<br />
In frowning espionage, troubling the sleep<br />
Of infant innocence.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Stern war burst forth,</span><br />
And civil conflict on the soil of France<br />
Wrought fearful things.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 12.5em;">The peasant's blood was ploughed</span><br />
In with the wheat he planted, while from cliffs<br />
That overhung the sea, from caves and dens,<br />
The hunted worshippers were madly driven<br />
Out 'neath the smiling sabbath skies, and slain,<br />
The anthem on their tongues.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 15em;">The coast was thronged</span><br />
With hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid,<br />
Leading her little sister, in the steps<br />
Of their afflicted parents, hasting left<br />
The meal uneaten, and the table spread<br />
In their sweet cottage, to return no more.<br />
The lover held her to his heart, and prayed<br />
That from her erring people she would turn<br />
To the true fold of Christ, for so he deemed<br />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span>That ancient Church, for which his breast was clad<br />
In soldier's panoply.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11.5em;">But she, with tears</span><br />
Like Niobe, a never-ceasing flood,<br />
Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep.<br />
And so, as years sped on with patient brow<br />
She bare the burdens of the wilderness,<br />
His image, and an everlasting prayer,<br />
Within her soul.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 9em;">And when she sank away,</span><br />
As fades the lily when its day is done,<br />
There was a deep-drawn sigh, and up-raised glance<br />
Of earnest supplication, that the hearts<br />
Severed so long, might join, where bigot zeal<br />
Should find no place.<br />
<br />
<span style="margin-left: 11.5em;">She hath a quiet bed</span><br />
Beneath yon turf, and an unwritten name<br />
On earth, which sister angels speak in heaven.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>When Louis Fourteenth, by the revocation of the
Edict of Nantz, scattered the rich treasure of the
hearts of more than half a million of subjects to foreign
climes, this Western World profited by his mad prodigality.
Among the wheat with which its newly
broken surface was sown, none was more purely sifted
than that which France thus cast away. Industry,
integrity, moderated desires, piety without austerity,
and the sweetest domestic charities, were among the
prominent characteristics of the exiled people.</p>
<p>Among the various settlements made by the Huguenots,
at different periods upon our shores, that at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span>
Oxford, in Massachusetts, has the priority in point of
time. In 1686, thirty families with their clergyman,
landed at Fort Hill, in Boston. There they found
kind reception and entertainment, until ready to proceed
to their destined abode. This was at Oxford, in Worcester
county, where an area of 12,000 acres was secured
by them, from the township of eight miles square which
had been laid out by Governor Dudley. The appearance
of the country, though uncleared, was pleasant
to those who counted as their chief wealth, "freedom
to worship God." They gave the name of French
River to a stream, which, after diffusing fertility
around their new home, becomes a tributary of the
Quinabaug, in Connecticut, and finally merged in the
Thames, passes on to Long Island Sound.</p>
<p>Being surrounded by the territory of the Nipmug
Indians, their first care was to build a fort, as a refuge
from savage aggression. Gardens were laid out in its
vicinity, and stocked with the seeds of vegetables and
fruits, brought from their own native soil. Mills were
also erected, and ten or twelve years of persevering industry,
secured many comforts to the colonists, who
were much respected in the neighbouring settlements,
and acquired the right of representation in the provincial
legislature.</p>
<p>But the tribe of Indians by whom they were encompassed,
had, from the beginning, met with a morose
and intractable spirit, their proffered kindness. A sudden,
and wholly unexpected incursion, with the
massacre of one of the emigrants and his children,
caused the breaking up of the little peaceful settlement,
and the return of its inmates to Boston. Friendships
formed there on their first arrival, and the hospitality
that has ever distinguished that beautiful city, turned
the hearts of the Huguenots towards it as a refuge, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>
this, their second exile. Their reception, and the continuance
of their names among the most honoured of
its inhabitants, proved that the spot was neither ill-chosen,
nor uncongenial. Here, their excellent pastor,
Pierre Daille, died, in 1715. His epitaph, and that
of his wife, are still legible in the "Granary Burying
Ground." He was succeeded by Mr. Andrew Le
Mercier, author of a History of Geneva. Their place
of worship was in School Street, and known by the
name of the French Protestant Church.</p>
<p>About the year 1713, Oxford was resettled by a
stronger body of colonists, able to command more
military aid; and thither, in process of time, a few of
the Huguenot families resorted, and made their abode
in those lovely and retired vales.</p>
<p>A visit to this fair scenery many years since, was
rendered doubly interesting, by the conversation of an
ancient lady of Huguenot extraction. Though she
had numbered more than fourscore winters, her
memory was particularly retentive, while her clear,
black eye, dark complexion, and serenely expressive
countenance, displayed some of the striking characteristics
of her ancestral clime, mingled with that beauty
of the soul which is confined to no nation, and which
age cannot destroy. This was the same Mrs. Butler,
formerly Mary Sigourney, whose reminiscences, the
late Rev. Dr. Holmes, the learned and persevering
annalist, has quoted in his "Memoir of the French
Protestants."</p>
<p>With her family, and some other relatives, she had
removed from Boston to Oxford, after the revolutionary
war, and supposed that her brother, Mr. Andrew
Sigourney, then occupied very nearly, if not the same
precise locality, which had been purchased by their
ancestor, nearly 150 years before. During the voyage<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
to this foreign clime, her grandmother was deprived by
death of an affectionate mother, while an infant only
six months old. From this grandmother, who lived
to be more than eighty, and from a sister six years
older, who attained the unusual age of ninety-six,
Mrs. Butler had derived many legends which she
treasured with fidelity, and related with simple eloquence.
Truly, the voice of buried ages, spake through
her venerated lips. The building of the fort; the
naturalization of French vines and fruit-trees in a
stranger soil; the consecrated spot where their dead
were buried, now without the remaining vestige of a
stone; the hopes of the rising settlement; the massacre
that dispersed it; the hearth-stone, empurpled with the
blood of the beautiful babes of Jeanson; the frantic
wife and mother snatched from the scene of slaughter
by her brother, and borne through the waters of French
River, to the garrison at Woodstock; all these traces
seemed as vivid in her mind, as if her eye had witnessed
them. The traditions connected with the
massacre, were doubtless more strongly deepened in
her memory, from the circumstance that the champion
who rescued his desolated sister from the merciless
barbarians, was her own ancestor, Mr. Andrew Sigourney,
and the original settler of Oxford.</p>
<p>Other narrations she had also preserved, of the
troubles that preceded the flight of the exiles from
France, and of the obstacles to be surmounted, ere that
flight could be accomplished. The interruptions from
the soldiery to which they were subject, after having
been shut out from their own churches, induced them
to meet for Divine worship in the most remote places,
and to use books of psalms and devotion, printed in so
minute a form, that they might be concealed in their
bosoms, or in their head-dresses. One of these antique<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span>
volumes, is still in the possession of the descendants of
Gabriel Bernon, a most excellent and influential man,
who made his permanent residence at Providence,
though he was originally in the settlement at Oxford.</p>
<p>Mrs. Butler mentioned the haste and discomfort in
which the flight of their own family was made. Her
grandfather told them imperatively, that they must go,
and without delay. The whole family gathered together,
and with such preparation as might be made in
a few moments, took their departure from the house
of their birth, "leaving the pot boiling over the fire!"
This last simple item reminds of one, with which the
poet Southey deepens the description of the flight of a
household, and a village, at the approach of the foe.</p>
<p>
"The chestnut loaf lay broken on the shelf."<br />
</p>
<p>Another Huguenot, Henry Francisco, who lived to
the age of more than one hundred, relates a somewhat
similar trait of his own departure from his native land.
He was a boy of five years old, and his father led him
by the hand from their pleasant door. It was winter,
and the snow fell, with a bleak, cold wind. They descended
the hill in silence. With the intuition of
childhood, he knew there was trouble, without being
able to comprehend the full cause. At length, fixing
his eyes on his father, he begged, in a tremulous voice,
to be permitted "just to go back, and get his little
sled," his favourite, and most valued possession.</p>
<p>A letter from the young wife of Gabriel Manigault,
one of the many refugees who settled in the Carolinas,
is singularly graphic. "During eight months we had
suffered from the quartering of the soldiers among us,
with many other inconveniences. We therefore resolved
on quitting France by Night. We left the
soldiers in their beds, and abandoned our house with its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>
furniture. We contrived to hide ourselves in Dauphiny
for ten days, search being continually made for us; but
our hostess, though much questioned, was faithful and
did not betray us."</p>
<p>These simple delineations, more forcibly than the
dignified style of the historian, seem to bring to our
ears the haughty voice of Ludovico Magno, in his instrument
revoking the edict of Henry IV.: "We do
most strictly repeat our prohibition, unto all our subjects
of the pretended reformed religion, that neither
they, nor their wives, nor children, do depart our kingdom,
countries, or lands of our dominion, nor transport
their goods and effects, on pain, for men so
offending, of their being sent to the gallies, and of
confiscation of bodies and goods, for the women."</p>
<p>The information derived from this ancient lady, who,
in all the virtues of domestic life, was a worthy descendant
of the Huguenots, added new interest to their
relics, still visible, among the rural scenery of Oxford.
On the summit of a high hill, commanding an extensive
prospect, are the ruins of the Fort. It was
regularly constructed with bastions, though most of
the stones have been removed for the purposes of
agriculture. Within its enclosure are the vestiges of
a well. There the grape vine still lifts its purple clusters,
the currant its crimson berries, the rose its rich
blossoms, the asparagus its bulbous head and feathery
banner.</p>
<p>To these simple tokens which Nature has preserved,
it might be fitting and well, were some more enduring
memorial added of that pious, patient, and high-hearted
race, from whom some of the most illustrious names
in different sections of our country, trace their descent
with pleasure and with pride.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></div>
<h1><a name="I_have_seen_an_end_of_all_Perfection" id="I_have_seen_an_end_of_all_Perfection"></a>"I have seen an end of all Perfection."</h1>
<p>I have seen a man in the glory of his days, in the
pride of his strength. He was built like the strong
oak, that strikes its root deep in the earth; like the tall
cedar, that lifts its head above the trees of the forest.</p>
<p>He feared no danger, he felt no sickness; he wondered
why any should groan or sigh at pain. His mind was
vigorous like his body. He was perplexed at no intricacy,
he was daunted at no obstacle. Into hidden
things he searched, and what was crooked he made
plain.</p>
<p>He went forth boldly upon the face of the mighty
deep. He surveyed the nations of the earth. He
measured the distances of the stars, and called them
by their names. He gloried in the extent of his knowledge,
in the vigour of his understanding, and strove
to search even into what the Almighty had concealed.</p>
<p>And when I looked upon him, I said with the poet,
"What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express
and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in
apprehension, how like a god!"</p>
<p>I returned, but his look was no more lofty, nor his
step proud. His broken frame was like some ruined<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span>
tower. His hairs were white and scattered, and his
eye gazed vacantly upon the passers by. The vigour
of his intellect was wasted, and of all that he had
gained by study, nothing remained.</p>
<p>He feared when there was no danger, and when there
was no sorrow, he wept. His decaying memory had
become treacherous. It showed him only broken images
of the glory that was departed.</p>
<p>His house was to him like a strange land, and his
friends were counted as enemies. He thought himself
strong and healthful, while his feet tottered on the
verge of the grave.</p>
<p>He said of his son, "he is my brother;" of his daughter,
"I know her not." He even inquired what was
his own name. And as I gazed mournfully upon him,
one who supported his feeble frame and ministered to
his many wants, said to me, "Let thine heart receive
instruction, for thou hast seen an end of all perfection."</p>
<p>I have seen a beautiful female, treading the first
stages of youth, and entering joyfully into the pleasures
of life. The glance of her eye was variable and sweet,
and on her cheek trembled something like the first
blush of morning; her lips moved, and there was
melody; and when she floated in the dance, her light
form, like the aspen, seemed to move with every
breeze.</p>
<p>I returned; she was not in the dance. I sought her
among her gay companions, but I found her not. Her
eye sparkled not there, the music of her voice was
silent. She rejoiced on earth no more.</p>
<p>I saw a train, sable, and slow paced. Sadly they
bore toward an open grave what once was animated
and beautiful. As they drew near, they paused, and
a voice broke the solemn silence.</p>
<p>"Man, that is born of a woman, is of few days, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>
full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is
cut down; he fleeth also as a shadow, and never continueth
in one stay."</p>
<p>Then they let down into the deep, dark pit, that
maiden whose lips, but a few days since, were like the
half-blown rosebud. I shuddered at the sound of clods
falling upon the hollow coffin.</p>
<p>Then I heard a voice saying, "earth to earth, ashes
to ashes, dust to dust." They covered her with the
damp soil, and the uprooted turf of the valley, and
turned again to their own homes.</p>
<p>But one mourner lingered to cast himself upon the
tomb. And as he wept, he said, "There is no beauty,
nor grace, nor loveliness, but what vanisheth like the
morning dew. I have seen an end of all perfection."</p>
<p>I saw a fair white dwelling, behind shady trees.
Flowers were cultivated around it. The clustering
vine wreathed above its door, and the woodbine looked
in at its windows. A mother was there fondling her
young babe. Another, who had just learned to lisp
its first wishes, sat on the father's knee. He looked
on them all with a loving smile, and a heart full of
happiness.</p>
<p>I returned, the flowers had perished, the vine
was dead at the root. Weeds towered where the woodbine
blossomed, and tangled grass sprung up by the
threshold where many feet used to tread. There was
no sound of sporting children, or of the mother singing
to her babe.</p>
<p>I turned my steps to the church-yard. Three new
mounds were added there. That mother slept between
her sons. A lonely man was bowing down there, whose
face I did not see. But I knew his voice, when he
said in his low prayer of sorrow, "Thou hast made
desolate all my company." The tall grass rustled and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>
sighed in the cold east wind. Methought it said, "See,
an end of all perfection."</p>
<p>I saw an infant with a ruddy brow, and a form like
polished ivory. Its motions were graceful, and its
merry laughter made other hearts glad. Sometimes
it wept, and again it rejoiced, when none knew why.
But whether its cheeks dimpled with smiles, or its blue
eye shone more brilliant through tears, it was beautiful.</p>
<p>It was beautiful, because it was innocent. And careworn
and sinful men admired, when they beheld it.
It was like the first blossom which some cherished
plant has put forth, whose cup sparkles with a dew-drop,
and whose head reclines upon the parent stem.</p>
<p>Again I looked. It had become a child. The lamp
of reason had beamed into his mind. It was simple,
and single-hearted, and a follower of the truth. It
loved every little bird that sang in the trees, and every
fresh blossom. Its heart danced with joy, as it
looked around on this good and pleasant world.</p>
<p>It stood like a lamb before its teachers, it bowed its
ear to instruction, it walked in the way of knowledge.
It was not proud, or stubborn, or envious; and it had
never heard of the vices and vanities of the world.
And when I looked upon it, I remembered our Saviour's
words, "Except ye become as little children, ye cannot
enter into the kingdom of heaven."</p>
<p>I saw a man whom the world calls honourable.
Many waited for his smile. They pointed to the fields
that were his, and talked of the silver and gold which
he had gathered. They praised the stateliness of his
domes, and extolled the honour of his family.</p>
<p>But the secret language of his heart was, "By my
wisdom have I gotten all this." So he returned no
thanks to God, neither did he fear or serve him. As
I passed along, I heard the complaints of the labourers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span>
who had reaped his fields, and the cries of the poor,
whose covering he had taken away.</p>
<p>The sound of feasting and revelry was in his mansion,
and the unfed beggar came tottering from his door.
But he considered not that the cries of the oppressed
were continually entering into the ears of the Most
High.</p>
<p>And when I knew that this man was the docile child
whom I had loved, the beautiful infant on whom I had
gazed with delight, I said in my bitterness, "<i>I have
seen an end of all perfection</i>." So I laid my mouth in
the dust.</p>
<p class="smcap center" style="margin-top:8em">THE END.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></div>
<div class="center" id="image_logo">
<img src="images/ill-258.png"
alt="Gall & Inglis logo"
title="Gall & Inglis logo" />
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