Chapter I: Have Seen an End of All Perfection, 252 (4)

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 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."

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.

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.

The command over his passions, which was so conspicuous in Marcus Aurelius, he derived from long study 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.

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.

"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?

"Wert thou born only to enjoy pleasure? Was it 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?"

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.

"Thou hast taken ship. Thou hast sailed. Thou hast come to land. Get out of the ship into another life. The Gods are there."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

"By this hand, which hath taken no life away, I desire to appease Thee. Giver of life! I pray unto Thee."

Poor and empty, indeed, was this form of heathen devotion, contrasted with the triumphant trust of the king of Judah, who, when the mighty host of the Ethiopians stood ready to swallow him up, exclaimed,

"It is nothing for God to help, whether by many or by them that have no power."

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.

"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."

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."

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.

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.

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 hollow of their shields. The blessed draught gave them new strength and courage.

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.

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.

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 right dispositions and habits he could have little confidence.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Bonaparte at St. Helena.

The drama sinks, the tragic scene is o'er,
And he who rul'd their springs, returns no more;
He, who with mystery cloth'd, pale wonder chain'd,
And all mankind his auditors detain'd,
Whose plot unfolding agoniz'd the world,
Resigns his mask, and from the stage is hurl'd.
When from the wilds of Corsica he broke,
To snatch the sceptre and to bind the yoke,
He rais'd the curtain with his dagger's blade,
And pour'd red carnage o'er the slumbering shade.
His fearful plan, terrific, strange, and new,
Nor Fancy prompted, nor Experience drew,
It sprang inventive from a daring mind
Where dauntless nerve and intellect combined;
Thence bursting wildly, like the lightning's flame,
Gave birth to deeds that language fails to name.
With battle-clouds the shrinking sun he veil'd,
With flashing fires astonish'd Night assail'd,
By ravag'd fields, and streams with carnage red,
Trac'd o'er the earth his desolating tread:

Without a signal to the conflict rush'd
O'er friends enslav'd, foes wounded, allies crush'd;
High from the Alps, amid eternal snow,
Pour'd his fierce legions on the vale below,
With tramp of hurrying steed and armour's clang
War followed war; from conquest, conquest sprang.
In Scythian caves he fought; on Afric's sands,
Chas'd the wild Arab and his roving bands;
Perch'd on the pyramids in dizzy height.
Look'd scornful down on Alexander's might;
O'er Europe's realm like Attila he rush'd,
Snatch'd, rent, divided, subjugated, crush'd;
_Here_, planted minions in his smile to reign,
_There_, loaded monarchs with his vassal chain.
Rome's haughty pontiff trembled at the nod
That dar'd to threat the altar of his God;
While Albion's ships, whose bristled lightnings glow,
Were seen like Argus watching for their foe,
And her white cliffs in close array were lin'd
With sleepless soldiers, on their arms reclin'd.

Far distant realms beheld his glories tower,
And France forgot her wrongs, to boast his power;
The pale-brow'd conscript left, without a sigh,
Home, love, and liberty, for him to die.
Even heaven-taught Genius proffer'd venal lays,
The servile arts enlisted in his praise,
And the rich spoils of old Italia's shore
As trophies proud, his pirate legions bore.
In that gay city where his lofty throne
On run rear'd, in sudden brilliance shone,
The Old World met the New, and sons of fame
Who fill'd with awe, in long procession came,
Rais'd the imploring eye, to ask sublime
A milder sentence on the tyrant's crime.
But how can Europe grant their warm appeal,
Reft of her sons, and mangled by his steel?
Hath she a couch so dark, a cell so deep,
That burning Moscow's memory there may sleep?
What can the scenes of purple Jaffa blot?
And when shall Lodi's slaughter be forgot?
Who from a race unborn shall hide the view
Of Jena, Austerlitz, and Waterloo?
Earth, clad in sable, never can forego
The deep-grav'd trace, nor man forget the woe.

Yet, _let him live_, if life can yet be borne,
Disrob'd of glory, and depress'd with scorn;
Yes, _let him live_, if he to life can bend,
Without a flatterer, and without a friend;
If from the hand he hated, he can bear
To take the gift, his stain'd existence spare.
But who from yon lone islet shall exclude
The fearful step of Conscience, foul with blood?
What diamond shield repel the impetuous force
Or break the shafts of pitiless remorse?
Oh! in his sea-girt cell of guilt and fear,
Stretch the red map that marks his dire career,
Light the funereal torch, in terror spread
His reeking hecatombs of slaughter'd dead,
And if to hearts like his, Contrition comes,
There let him seek her 'mid impending glooms;
_There_ let him live, and to mankind display
The mighty miseries of Ambition's sway;
There let him sink, to teach them by his fate,
The dread requital of the falsely great.
Great, in the stores of an ambitious mind;
Great, in the deeds that desolate mankind;
Great, like the pestilence in mystic shroud
That darts its arrow from the midnight cloud;
Great, like the whirlwind in its wrecking path,
To sow in evil, and to reap in wrath.

Polycarp.

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.

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,

"The will of the Lord be done."

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."

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 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 Caesar. Reproach Christ, and I will set thee at liberty."

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?"

"I have wild beasts," said the furious governor. "I will cast you unto them, unless you change your mind."

"Call for them," answered Polycarp.

"Nay, if you dread not the lions," said the Roman, "I will order you to be consumed by fire, except you repent."

"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?"

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."

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, "He who gives me strength to bear this fire, will enable me to stand unmoved without being fastened with nails." Then he thus prayed:

"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."

Scarcely had the hoary-headed saint uttered his last earnest _Amen_, 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.

Christmas Hymn.

"Peace on earth, and good-will to men."

Lift up the grateful heart to Him,
The Friend of want and pain,
Whose birth the joyous angels sang,
On green Judea's plain;

"Good-will and peace!" how sweet the sound
Upon the midnight air,
While sleep the fleecy flocks around,
Watched by their shepherd's care.

So we, within this Christian fold,
Lambs of our teacher's love,
Who hear that melody divine,
Still echoing from above,

Would fain, through all of life, obey
The spirit of the strain,
That so the bliss by angels sung
Might not to us be vain.

The Frivolous King.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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, 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.

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.

To a Pupil Leaving School.

Farewell! Farewell! Once more regain
Your happy home, your native plain;
Yet here, in Learning's classic fane,
None have discharg'd the allotted part
With firmer zeal or fonder heart.
And true affection still shall hold
Your image, set in Memory's gold.
Yet think, sweet friend, where'er you rove,
That He who strews your path with love,
Accords no boon of which to say,
"'Tis light, go trifle it away."
No. Every fleeting hour survives;
It seems to vanish, yet it lives;
Though buried, it shall burst the tomb,
And meet you at the bar of doom.
But _how_ it rises, _how_ appears,
With smiles or frowns, with joys or fears.
And ah! what verdict then it bears,
Rests on your labours, and your prayers.

Pious Princes.

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.

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.

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."

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.

Modern history, also, describes some young heirs of 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.

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?"

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.

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.

"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."

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,

"Ah! but I think there is. For I have most earnestly begged of God, in my prayers, this morning, to spare him."

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.

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.

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:

"My Lord God! if thou wilt deliver me from this miserable and wretched life, take me among thy chosen. Yet, not _my_ will, but _Thy_ 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.

"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."

Edward Sixth died at the age of sixteen, July 6th, 1553, beloved and lamented by all over whom he had reigned.

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 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.

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.

"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."

Yes, take them to the peasant's cot,
Where penury shrinks in pain and care,
Spread to their view the humblest lot,
And let them taste the coarsest fare,

And bid their tender limbs recline
Upon the hard and husky bed,
Where want and weary labour pine,
Diseased, unpitied, and unfed;

And let them weep; for if their eyes
With tender Pity ne'er o'erflow,
How will they heed their subjects' signs,
Or learn to feel a nation's woe?

Oh children! though your Maker's hand,
Hath mark'd for you a lofty sphere,
And though your welfare and command
Are now to partial Gallia dear;

Yet many a child from lowliest shed,
Whose peasant father turns the sod,
May in the righteous day of dread
Be counted _greater_ by his God.

Evils of War.

"From whence come wars and fightings?" James, iv. 1.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

"We will not fight with you," he said, "nor shed your blood. If a quarrel arise, six of our people and six of your own, shall meet together and judge what is right, and settle the matter accordingly."

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."

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?

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,

"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."

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. 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:

"Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, or between my herdsmen and thy herdsmen, for we be brethren."

The Liberated Fly.

A Fly was struggling in a vase of ink,
Which with my feathery quill-top I releas'd,
As the rope saves the drowning mariner.
I thought at first the luckless wight was dead,
But mark'd a quivering of the slender limbs,
And laid him on a paper in the sun,
To renovate himself.
With sudden spasm
Convulsion shook him sore, and on his back
Discomfited he lay. Then, by his side
I strew'd some sugar, and upon his breast
Arrang'd a particle, thinking, perchance,
The odour of his favourite aliment
Might stimulate the palate, and uncoil
The folded trunk.
But, straight, a troop of friends
Gather'd around him, and I deem'd it kind
To express their sympathy, in such dark hour
Of adverse fortune. Yet, behold! they came
To forage on his stores, and rudely turn'd
And toss'd him o'er and o'er, to help themselves
With more convenience. Quite incens'd to see
Their utter want of pitying courtesy,
I drove these venal people all away,
And shut a wine-glass o'er him, to exclude
Their coarse intrusion.
Forthwith, they return'd,
And through his palace peer'd, and, round and round
Gadding, admission sought: yet all in vain.
And so, a wondrous buzzing they set up,
As if with envy mov'd to see him there,
The untasted luxury at his very lips,
For which they long'd so much.
Then suddenly,
The prisoner mov'd his head, and rose with pain,
And dragg'd his palsied body slow along,
Marking out sinuous lines, as on a map,
Coast, islet, creek, and lithe promontory,
Blank as the Stygian ink-pool, where he plung'd
So foolishly. But a nice bath was made
In a small silver spoon, from which he rose
Most marvellously chang'd, stretching outright
All his six legs uncramp'd, and, opening wide
And shutting with delight his gauzy wings,
Seem'd to applaud the cleansing properties
Of pure cold water. Then with appetite,
He took the food that he had loath'd before;
And in this renovation of the life
Of a poor noteless insect, was a joy,
And sweet content, I never could have felt
From taking it away.
Still let us guard,
For every harmless creature, God's good gifts
Of breath and being; since each beating heart
Doth hide some secret sense of happiness
Which he who treadeth out can ne'er restore.

The Good Brother and Sister.

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.

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.

"This," said he, "gives me comfort in my distress."

Perceiving that he suffered pain, he was asked if he would like again to see the physician.

"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."

"Dear child," said his father, "this grieves us to the heart."

"Father," answered the meek sufferer, "let us pray. The Lord will be near for my helper."

After prayer, he spoke with a stronger and more joyful voice, his parting words,

"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 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."

"God will be near thee," said the father. "He shall uphold thee."

"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."

"Hast thou indeed, so strong a faith, my dear son?" asked the afflicted father.

"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.'"

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.

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.

Bending beneath the anguish of her disease, like a crushed and beautiful flower she sustained herself and comforted others with the words of that Blessed Book, in which was her hope.

"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."

Fixing her eyes tenderly upon her mourning parents, she said,

"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."

Her mother answered with tears,

"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."

"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."

Fatigued with speaking, she fell into a deep slumber, and on awaking, asked what day it was. She was told it was Sabbath morning.

"Father, have you commended me to be remembered in the prayers of the Church?"

"Yes, my daughter."

"This comforts me. For I have learned to believe that the effectual fervent prayer of the righteous availeth much."

She had a peculiarly warm and grateful love for her teachers and pastor, and a veneration for all ministers 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.

"I will not expose their valuable lives," she said. "I cast myself wholly upon the mercies of God. His word is my comforter."

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.

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,

"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?"

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,

"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."

Waking from a troubled sleep, she said in a faint voice,

"O dear father, dear mother, how very weak I am."

"God in his tender mercy," said the sorrowing parents, "strengthen your weakness."

"Yea, this is my confidence. A bruised reed will He not break, and the smoking flax will He not quench."

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.

"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 _His will, and not mine_, be done."