Chapter I: Have Seen an End of All Perfection, 252 (6)

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.

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 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.

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."

The Dying Sunday School Boy.

His hands were clasp'd, his eyelids clos'd,
As on his couch he lay,
While slumber seem'd to wrap the form
That pain had worn away:

But still the watching mother marked
His pallid lips to part,
As if some all-absorbing thought
Lay on his dreaming heart;

For yet he slept not. Silent prayer
Commun'd with God alone,
And then his glazing eyes he rais'd,
And spoke with tender tone:

"Oh mother! often in my class,
I've heard the teacher say,
That those who to the Saviour turn
He would not cast away;

And so, beside my bed I knelt
While early morn was dim,
Imploring Heaven to teach my soul
The way to turn to Him;

And now, behold! through golden clouds,
A pierced hand I see,
And listen to a glorious Voice,
Arise! and come to Me."

His breath grew faint, but soft and low
The parting whisper sigh'd,
"I come, dear Lord, I come!" and so,
Without a pang he died.

Oh blessed child! with whom the strife
Of fear and care are o'er,
Methinks thine angel smile we see
From yon celestial shore,

And hear thee singing to His praise
Whose boundless mercy gave
Unto thy meek and trusting soul,
The victory o'er the Grave.

The Precocious Infant.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A short time after, I found that he had made 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, _dear mother_, 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.

He was destined for a learned education; a great part 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.

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.

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 his unwillingness to be removed there unless "dear father and mother would go too."

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, "_Thank God_." 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.

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, 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.

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.

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.

The Last Rose-bud.

The child was radiant with delight,
As from the garden's shade,
With golden ringlets clustering bright,
She burst upon the mother's sight,
And in her hand, like fairy sprite,
A blooming rose-bud laid.

'Twas the last wreath by summer wove
That thus the darling brought,
For Autumn's breath had chill'd the grove;
Oh mother! was that gift of love
With aught of sadness fraught?

Say, didst thou think how soon that head
In silent earth would rest?
A solemn curtain o'er it spread,
And the green turf she joy'd to tread,
A covering for her breast?

But, for the buds that fade no more,
Look thou in faith above,
Look, mother! where the seraphs soar,
Where countless harps their music pour,
And raptur'd cherubim adore
The God of boundless love.

The Cherub's Welcome.

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,

"Joy! joy! He cometh! Welcome, welcome, dear brother!" And they clasped in their arms a new immortal.

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."

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.'

"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!"

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.

And they said, "Beautiful one! who wert too young to lisp the dialect of earth, sweet to thee will be the pure language of heaven. Bringest thou to us no token from the world that was once our home?"

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."

And they said, "Their gifts are sweet to us. We remember _her_ smile who lulled us on her breast, whose eye was open through the long night, when sickness smote us; and _his_ voice who taught us the name of Jesus.

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.

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."

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.

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.

The Babe, and the Forget-Me-Not.

A babe, who like the opening bud
Grew fairer day by day,
Made friendship with the loving flowers
Amid his infant play;

And though full many a gorgeous plant
Display'd its colours bright,
Yet with the meek Forget-me-not
He took his chief delight.

From mantel-vase, or rich bouquet,
He cull'd his favourite gem,
Well pleas'd its lowly lips to kiss,
And gently clasp its stem.

So, when to dreamless rest he sank,
For soon he was to fade,
That darling friend, Forget-me-not,
Was on his bosom laid;

And when, beside the mother's couch,
Who weepeth for his sake,
Some vision of his heavenly joy
Doth midnight darkness break,

He cometh with a cherub smile
In garments of the bless'd,
And weareth a Forget-me-not
Upon his sinless breast.

Treatment of Animals.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It lived to be forty years old. What age it might 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 out of his hardness of heart, and cruelty to animals.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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 followed him. It was with difficulty, that he kept his track, fording a swift streamlet, and descending into a terrible ravine.

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.

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.

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.

"We too might learn, if not too proud to stoop
To animal instructors, many a good
And useful quality, and virtue too,
Rarely exemplified among ourselves.
Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat
Can move, or warp, and gratitude for small
And trivial favours, lasting as the life,
And glistening even from the dying eye."

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, "_Live in love!_"

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?

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.

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."

The Trembling Eyelid.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 to strike more than two or three blows, in cutting away the masts, without being relieved by another.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 defiance, and their curses heard above the roar of the storm. Intemperance never displayed itself in more distressing attitudes.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, and others, with faces, stiffened into the horrible expression of their last mortal agony, he was so affected as to faint.

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.

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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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!'

"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."

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.