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."
Peaceful Dispositions.
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.
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.
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.
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 be obstructed and
languish, while the business of men was in the field of battle.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
"War is a game, that, were their subjects wise,
Kings would not play at."
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, 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?
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."
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."
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.
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 mediator between others, as a
good man makes peace between contending neighbours?
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; _for we are brethren_." 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:
"No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet, with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
But brazen trumpet kindle rage no more,
The useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad faulchion in a ploughshare end.
For wars shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale.
Peace o'er the earth her olive wand extend,
And white-rob'd righteousness from Heaven descend."
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?
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
"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."
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 we not read of a country, where there is no war? where peace and
love reign in the bosom of all its inhabitants?
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.
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."
John and James Williams.
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.
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.
"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."
"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."
"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?
"Brother, the minister said last Sunday, that the _end of life was the
test of its goodness_. Now, Alexander 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."
"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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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."
"Husband, did I hear a faint knock! or was it the 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.
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!"
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 _die_." They found him too much exhausted
to converse, and after giving him comfortable food, induced him to
retire to rest.
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.
"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.
"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.
"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 worthy to be called thy son,'
I awoke, and it was all a dream."
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."
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.
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.
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.
"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.
"I have been left wounded on the field, unable to move from among the
feet of trampling horses, my 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.
"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.
"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.
"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."
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."
"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.'"
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. He prayed, and wept, and studied the Scriptures, and listened to
the counsel of pious men.
"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.
"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.'"
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."
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."
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.
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 spoke of him as having passed where all tears are wiped from the
eyes for ever.
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."
The Indian King.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Occasionally, some lingering one might be seen near the cultivated
grounds, regarding the more skilful 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.