Olive buds

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CHILDREN S BOOK
COLLECTION

LIBRARY OF THE

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

OLIVE BUDS,

BV

MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

HARTFORD:
PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM WATSON.

1836.

Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1836, by

Mrs. L. H. SIGOURNEY,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut.

PREFACE.

THE Olive tree, my dear children, is
very useful and valuable, for its fruit, and
for the oil that it produces. It grows in
warm climates, and is much prized by
their inhabitants.

A leaf of olive, was the first gift of
the earth after the flood, to the righteous
family who were saved in the ark. It
was borne by the Dove, as she spread
her timid wing over the wide waters,
that drowned a sinful world. What re-

joiciug was there in that lonely ark,
when this token came that God was
about to permit those weary voyagers
to come forth, and dwell once more on
the green and beautiful earth. " For
then Noah knew, that the waters had
abated."

The Olive has also been considered
an emblem of peace. To send the
olive branch denotes a spirit of peace, or
that the anger of war is over. Then
good men rejoice, because the waters of
strife are abated.

I think you will now readily under-
stand, dear children, the title that I have
chosen. Perhaps you thought at first,

that " Olive-Buds" could have little or
no meaning. But the meaning is, that
this little book contains things on the
subject of Peace. They are short, and
so I have compared them to buds, which
are small in comparison with the flowers
that spring from them. Fragrant flow-
ers, and rich fruit, sometimes proceed
from the humblest buds ; so may you
gather instruction and goodness, from
this little book.

You are yourselves buds, my dear
children, buds of hope, not yet unfolded,
but beautiful to the eye of those who
love you. May time so expand your
loveliness like flowers, and ripen your

virtues as fruit, that you may delight the
hearts of your parents and friends, and
be acceptable in the sight of your Father
in Heaven.

L. H. S.

INDEX.

Page

Frank Ludlow, . . . . .10

Victory, 51

The Farmer and Soldier, ... . 53

France, in Old Times 70

War, 108

Walks in Childhood, . . . .111
Christmas Hymn, . * . .121

A Short Sermon, 122

Agriculture, 133

Peace, 135

FRANK LUDLOW.

" It is time Frank and Edward, were
at home," said Mrs. Ludlow. So she
stirred and replenished the fire, for it was
a cold winter's evening.

" Mother, you gave them liberty to
stay and play after school," said little
Eliza.

" Yes, my daughter, but the time is
expired. I wish my children to come
home at the appointed time, as well as
to obey me in all other things. The
stars are already shining, and they are
not allowed to stay out so late."

" Dear mother, I think I hear their
2

10 OLIVE BUDS.

voices now." Little Eliza climbed into
a chair and drawing aside the window
curtain, said joyfully, " O yes, they are
just coming into the piazza."

Mrs. Ludlow told her to go to the
kitchen, and see that the bread was
toasted nice and warm, for their bowls
of milk which had been some time
ready.

Frank and Edward Ludlow were fine
boys, of eleven and nine years old.
They returned in high spirits, from their
sport on the frozen pond. They hung up
their skates in the proper place, and
then hastened to kiss their mother.

" We have staid longer at play than
we ought, my dear mother," said Ed-
ward.

FRANK LUDLOW. 11

" You are nearly an hour beyond the
time," said Mrs. Ludlow.

" Edward reminded me twice, said
Frank, that we ought to go home. But
O, it was such excellent skating, that I
could not help going round the pond a
few times more. We left all the boys
there when we came away. The next
time, we will try to be as true as the
town-clock. And it is not Edward's
fault, now mother."

" My sons, I always expect you, to
leave your sports, at the time that I ap-
point. I know that you do not intend to
disobey, or to give me anxiety. But
you must take pains to be punctual.
When you become men, it will be of
great importance that you observe your

12 OLIVE BUDS.

engagements. Unless you perform what
is expected of you, at the proper time,
people will cease to have confidence, in
you."

The boys promised to be punctual
and obedient, and their mother assured
them, that they were not often forgetful
of these important duties.

Eliza came in with the bread nicely
toasted, for their supper.

" What a good little one, to be think-
ing of her brothers, when they are away.
Come, sweet sister, sit between us."

Eliza felt very happy, when her broth-
ers each gave her a kiss, and she look-
ed up in their faces, with a sweet
smile.

The evening meal was a pleasant one.

FRANK LUDLOW. 13

The mother and her children talked
cheerfully together. Each had some
little agreeable circumstance to relate,
and they felt how happy it is for a family
to live in love.

After supper, books and maps were
laid on the table, and Mrs. Ludlow
said,

"Come boys you go to school every
day, and your sister does not. It is but
fair that you should teach her something.
First examine her in the lessons she has
learned with me, and then you may add
some gift of knowledge from your own
store."

So Frank overlooked her geography
and asked her a few questions on the
map ; and Edward explained to her a

14 OLIVE BUDS.

little arithmetic, and told her a story
from the history of England, with which
she was much pleased. Soon, she grew
sleepy, and kissing her brothers, wished
them an affectionate good night. Her
mother went with her, to sec her laid
comfortably in bed, and to hear her re-
peat her evening hymns, and thank her
Father in heaven, for his care of her
through the day.

When Mrs. Ludlow returned to the
parlour, she found her sons busily em-
ployed in studying their lessons for the
following day. She sat down beside
them with her work, and when they now
and then looked up from their books,
they saw that their diligence was reward-
ed by her approving eye.

FRAXK LUDLOW. 15

When they had completed their stu-
dies, they replace d the books which they
had used, in the book-case, and drew their
chairs nearer to the fire. The kind
mother joined them, with a basket of
fruit, and while they partook of it, they
had the following conversation.

Mrs. Ludlow. " I should like to hear
my dear boys, more of what you have
learned to day."

Frank. " I have been much pleased
with a book that I borrowed of one of
the boys. Indeed, I have hardly thought
of any thing else. I must confess that I
put it inside of my geography, and read
it while the master thought I was study-
ing.

Mrs. Ludlow. " I am truly sorry,

16 OLIVE BUDS.

Frank, that you should be willing to de-
ceive. What are called boy's tricks, too
often lead to falsehood, and end in dis-
grace. On this occasion you cheated
yourself also. You lost the knowledge
which you might have gained, for the
sake of what I suppose, was only some
book of amusement."

Frank. "Mother, it was the life of
Charles the XII, of Sweden. You know
that he was the bravest soldier of his
times. He beat the king of Denmark,
when he was only eighteen years old.
Then he defeated the Russians, at the
battle of Narva, though they had 80,000
soldiers, and he not a quarter of that
number."

Mrs. Ludlow. " How did he die ?"

FRANK LUDLOW. 17

Frank. " He went to make war in
Norway. It was a terribly severe win-
ter, but he feared no hardship. The
cold was so great, that his sentinels were
often found frozen to death at their
posts. He was besieging a town called
Frederickshall. It was about the middle
of December. He gave orders that they
should continue to work on the trenches,
though the feet of the soldiers were be-
numbed, and their hands froze to the
tools. He got up very early one morn-
ing, to see if they were at their work.
The stars shone clear, and bright on the
snow that covered every thing. Some-
times a firing was heard from the enemy.
But he was too courageous to mind
that. Suddenly, a cannon shot struck

18 OLIVE BUDS.

him, and he fell. When they took him
up, his forehead was beat in, but his
right hand still, strongly grasped the
sword. Mother, was not that dying like
a brave man ?"

Mrs. Ludloiv. " I should think there
was more of rashness than bravery in
thus exposing himself, for no better rea-
son. Do you not feel that it was cruel
to force his soldiers to such labours in
that dreadful climate ? and to make war
when it was not necessary ? The histo-
rians say that he undertook it, only to fill
up an interval of time, until he could be
prepared for his great campaign in Po-
land. So, to amuse his restless mind, he
was willing to destroy his own soldiers,
willing to see even his most faithful

FRANK LUDLOW. 19

friends, frozen every morning into
statues. Edward, tell me what you re-
member.

Edward. " My lesson in the history
of Rome, was the character of Antoni-
nus Pius. He was one of the best of
the Roman Emperors. While he was
young, he paid great respect to the
aged, and when he grew rich he gave
liberally to the poor. He greatly dis-
liked war. He said he had ' rather save
the life of one subject, than destroy a
thousand enemies.' Rome was pros-
perous and happy, under his government.
He reigned 22 years, and died with ma-
ny friends surrounding his bed, at the
age of 74."

Mrs. Ludlow. " Was he not beloved

20 OLIVE BUDS

by the people whom he ruled ? I have
read that they all mourned at his death,
as if they had lost a father. Was it not
better to be thus lamented, than to be
remembered only by the numbers he had
slain, and the miseries he had caused ?"

Frank. " But mother, the glory of
Charles the XII, of Sweden, was certain-
ly greater than that of a quiet old man,
who, I dare say, was afraid to fight.
Antoninus Pius, was clever enough, but
you cannot deny that Alexander, and Ce-
sar, and Buonaparte, had far greater
talents. They will be called heroes
and praised, as long as the world
stands."

Mrs. Ludlow. " My dear children,
those talents should be most admired,

FRANK LUDLOW. 21

which produce the greatest good. That
fame is the highest, which best agrees
with our duty to God and man. Do not
be dazzled by the false glory that sur-
rounds the hero. Consider it your glo-
ry to live in peace, and to make others
happy. Believe me, when you come to
your death-beds, and oh, how soon will
that be, for the longest life is short, it
will give you more comfort to reflect
that you have healed one broken heart,
given one poor child the means of edu-
cation, or sent to one heathen the book
of salvation, than that you lifted your
hand to destroy vour fellow creatures,
and wrung forth the tears of widows and
of orphans."

The hour of rest had come, and the

22 OLIVE BUDS.

mother opened the large family bible,
that they might together remember and
thank him, who had preserved him
through the day. When Frank and Ed-
ward took leave of her for the night, they
were grieved to see that there were tears
in her eyes. They lingered by her side,
hoping she would tell them if any thing
had troubled her. But she only said,
"my sons, my dear sons, before you
sleep, pray to God for a heart to love
peace."

After they had retired, Frank said to
his brother,

" I cannot feel that it is wrong to be a
soldier. Was not our father one ? I
shall never forget the fine stories he used
to tell me about battles, when I was al-

FRANK LUDLOW. 23

most a baby. I remember that I used to
climb up on his knee, and put my face
close to his. Then I used to dream of
prancing horses, and glittering swords,
and sounding trumpets, and wake up and
wish I was a soldier. Indeed, Edward
I wish so now. But I cannot tell dear
mother what is in my heart, for it would
grieve her."

" No, no, don't tell her so, dear Frank,
and pray, never be a soldier. I have
heard her say, that father's ill health, and
most of his troubles, came from the life
that he Jed in camps. He said on his
death-bed, that if he could live his youth
over again, he would be a meek follower
of the Saviour, and not a man of blood."

" Edward, our father was engaged in

24 OLIVE BUDS.

the war of the Revolution, without which
we should all have been slaves. Do
you pretend to say, that it was not a
holy war ?"

" I pretend to say nothing, brother,
only what the bible says, render to no
man evil for evil, but follow after the
things that make for peace."

The boys had frequent conversations
on the subject of war and peace. Their
opinions still continued to differ. Their
love for their mother, prevented their
holding these discourses, often in her
presence. For they perceived that
Frank's admiration of martial renown,
gave her increased pain. She devoted
her life to the education and happiness
of her children. She secured for them

FRANK LUDLOW. 25

every opportunity in her power, for the
acquisition of useful knowledge, and
both by precept and example urged them
to add to their " knowledge, temperance,
and to temperance, brotherly kindness,
and to brotherly kindness, charity."

This little family were models of
kindness and affection among them-
selves. Each strove to make the others
happy. Their fire-side was always
cheerful, and the summer evening walks
which the mother took with her children
were sources both of delight and im-
provement.

Thus years passed away. The young

saplings which they had cherished grew

up to be trees, and the boys became men.

The health of the kind and faithful motb~

3

26

OLIVE BUDS.

er, grew feeble. At length, she visibly
declined. But she wore on her brow the
same sweet smile, which had cheered
their childhood.

Eliza watched over her, night and
day, with the tenderest care. She was
not willing that any other hand should
give the medicine, or smooth the pillow of
the sufferer. She remembered the love
that had nurtured her own childhood, and
wished to perform every office that
grateful affection could dictate.

Edward had completed his collegiate
course, and was studying at a distant sem-
nary, to prepare himself for the minis-
try. He had sustained a high character
as a scholar, and had early chosen his
place among the followers of the Re-

FRANK LUDLOW. 27

deemer. As often as was in his power,
he visited his beloved parent, during her
long sickness, and his letters full of fond
regard, and pious confidence, continual-
ly cheered her.

Frank resided at home. He had cho-
sen to pursue the business of agricul-
ture, and superintended their small fami-
ly estate. He had an affectionate heart,
and his attentions to his declining
mother, were unceasing. In her last
moments he stood by her side. His
spirit was deeply smitten, as he support-
ed his weeping sister, at the bed of the
dying. Pain had departed, and the
meek Christian patiently awaited the
coming of her Lord. She had given
much counsel to her children and sent

28 OLIVE BUDS.

tender messages to the absent one. She
seemed to have done speaking. But
while they were uncertain whether she
yet breathed, she raised her eyes once
more to her first born, and said faintly,
" My son, follow peace with all men."

These were her last words. They lis-
tened attentively, but her voice was
heard no more.

Edward Ludlow, was summoned to
the funeral of his beloved mother. Af-
ter she was committed to the dust, he
remained a few days to, mingle his sym-
pathies with his brother and sister. He
knew how to comfort them, out of the
scriptures, for therein was his hope, in
all time of his tribulation.

Frank listened to all his admonitions,

FRANK LUDLOW. 29

with a serious countenance, and a sor-
rowful heart. He loved his brother,
with great ardour, and to the mother for
whom they mourned, he had always been
dutiful. Yet she had felt painfully anx-
ious for him to the last, because he had
not made choice of religion for his guide,
and secretly coveted the glory of the
warrior.

After he became the head of the house-
hold, he continued to take the kindest
care of his sister, who prudently man-
aged all his affairs, until his marriage.
The companion whom he chose, was a
most amiable young woman, whose so-
ciety and friendship, greatly cheered the
heart of Eliza. There seemed to be not

30 OLIVE BUDS.

a shadow over the happiness of that
small and loving family.

But in little more than a year after
Frank's marriage, the second war be-
tween this country and Great Britain
commenced. Eliza trembled as she saw
him possessing himself of all its details,
and neglecting his business to gather
and relate every rumour of war. Still
she relied on his affection for his wife,
to retain him at home. She could not
understand the depth and force of the
passion that prompted him to be a sol-
dier.

At length he rashly enlisted. It was
a sad night for that affectionate family,
when he informed them that he must
leave them and join the army. His

FRANK LUDLOW. 31

young wife felt it the more deeply, be-
cause she had but recently buried a new
born babe. He comforted her as well as
he could. He assured her that his regi-
ment would not probably be stationed at
any great distance, that he would come
home as often as possible, and that she
should constantly receive letters from
him. He told her that she could not
imagine how restless and miserable he
had been in his mind, ever since war was
declared. He could not bear to have his
country insulted, and take no part in her
defence. Now, he said, he should again
feel a quiet conscience, because he had
done his duty, that the war would un-
doubtedly soon be terminated, and then
he should return home and thcv would

OLIVE BUDS.

all be happy together. He hinted at the
promotion which courage might win, but
such ambition had no part in his wife's
gentler nature. He begged her not to
distress him by her lamentations, but to
let him go away with a strong heart, like
a hero,

When his wife and sister, found that
there was no alternative, they endeavour-
ed to comply with his request, and to
part with him as calmly as possible. So
Frank Ludlow went to be a soldier.
He was 25 years old, a tall, handsome
and healthful young man. At the regi-
mental trainings in his native town, he
had often been told how well he looked
in a military dress. This had flattered
his vanity. He loved martial music, and

FRANK LUDLOW. 33

thought he should never be tired of serv-
ing his country.

But a life in camps, has many evils, of
which those who dwell at home are en-
tirely ignorant. Frank Ludlow scorned
to complain of hardships, and bore fa-
tigue and privation, as well as the best.
He was undoubtedly a brave man, and
never seemed in higher spirits, than
when preparing for battle.

When a few months had past, the nov-
elty of his situation wore off. There
were many times, in which he thought
of his quiet home, and his dear wife and
sister, until his heart was heavy in his
bosom. He longed to see them, but
leave of absence could not be obtained.
He felt so unhappy, that he thought he

34 OLIVE BUDS.

could not endure it, and always moved
more by impulse than principle, ab-
sconded to visit them.

When he returned to the regiment, it
was to be disgraced for disobedience.
Thus humbled before his comrades, he
felt indignant and disgusted. He knew
it was according to the rules of war, but
he hoped that lie might have been excus-
ed.

Sometime after, a letter from home,
informed him of the birth of an infant.
His feelings as a father were strong, and
he yearned to see it. He attempted to
obtain a furlough, but in vain. He was
determined to go, and so departed with-
out leave. On the second day of his
journey, when at no great distance from

FRANK LUDLOW. 35

the house, he was taken, and brought
back as a deserter.

The punishment that followed, made
him loathe war, in all its forms. He had
seen it a distance, in its garb of glory,
and worshipped the splendour that en-
circles the hero. But he had not taken
into view the miseries of the private sol-
dier, nor believed that the cup of glory
was for others, and the dregs of bit-
terness for him. The patriotism of
which he had boasted, vanished like a
shadow, in the hour of trial ; for ambi-
tion, and not principle, had induced him
to become a soldier.

His state of mind rendered him an ob-
ject of compassion. The strains of mar-
tial music, which he once admired, were

OLIVE BUDS.

discordant to his ear. His daily duties
became irksome to him. He shunned
conversation, and thought continually
of his sweet, forsaken home, of the ad-
monitions of his departed mother, and
the disappointment of all his gilded
hopes.

The regiment to which he was attach-
ed, was ordered to a distant part of the
country. It was an additional affliction
to be so widely separated from the ob-
jects of his love. In utter desperation
he again deserted.

He was greatly fatigued, when he came
in sight of his home. Its green trees,
and the fair fields which he so oft had
tilled, smiled as an Eden upon him. But
he entered, as a lost spiiit. His wrife

FRANK LUDLOW. 37

and sister wept with joy, as they embrac-
ed him, and put his infant son into his
arms. Its smiles and caresses woke
him to agony, for he knew he must soon
take his leave of it, perhaps forever.

He mentioned that his furlough would
expire in a few days, and that he had
some hopes when winter came, of ob-
taining a substitute, and then they would
be parted no more. He strove to appear
cheerful, but his wife and sister saw that
there was a weight upon his spirit, and
a cloud on his brow, which they had never
perceived before. He started at every
sudden sound, for he feared that he
should be sought for in his own house,
and taken back to the army.

When he dared no longer remain, he

OLIVE BTJDS.

tore .himself away, but not, as his family
supposed, to return to his duty. Dis-
guising himself, he travelled rapidly in a
different direction, resolving to conceal
himself in the far west, or if necessary,
to fly his country, rather than rejoin the
army.

But in spite of every precaution, he
was recognized by a party of soldiers,
who carried him back to his regiment,
having been three times a deserter. He
was bound, and taken to the guard-house,
where a court-martial convened, to try
his offence.

It was now the summer of 1814. The
morning sun, shone forth brightly upon
rock and hill and stream. But the quiet
beauty of the rural landscape, was vexed

FRANK LUDLOW. 39

by the bustle and glare of a military en-
campment. Tent and barrack rose up
among the verdure, and the shrill, spirit-
stirring bugle echoed through the deep
valley.

On the day of which we speak, the
musick seemed strangely subdued and
solemn. Muffled drums, and wind in-
struments mournfully playing, announced
the slow march of a procession. A
pinioned prisoner came forth from his
confinement. A coffin of rough boards
was borne before him. By his side
walked the chaplain, who had laboured
to prepare his soul for its extremity, and
went with him as a pitying and sustain-
ing spirit, to the last verge of life.

The sentenced man wore a long white

40 OLIVE BUDS.

mantle, like a winding-sheet. On his
head, was a cap of the same colour, bor-
dered with black. Behind him, several
prisoners walked, two and two. They
had been confined for various offences,
and a part of their punishment was to
stand by, and witness the fate of their
comrade. A strong guard of soldiers,
marched in order, with loaded muskets,
and fixed bayonets.

Such was the sad spectacle on that
cloudless morning, a man in full strength
and beauty, clad in burial garments, and
walking onward to his grave. The pro-
cession halted at a broad open field. A
mound of earth freshly thrown up in its
centre, marked the yawning and untime-
ly grave. Beyond it, many hundred

FRANK LUDLOW. 41

men, drawn up in the form of a hollow
square, stood in solemn silence.

The voice of the officer of the day,
now and then heard, giving brief orders,
or marshalling the soldiers, was low, and
varied by feeling. In the line, but not
yet called forth, were eight men, drawn
by lot as executioners. They stood mo-
tionless, revolting from their office, but
not daring to disobey.

Between the coffin and the pit, he
whose moments were numbered, was
directed to stand. His noble forehead,
and quivering lips were alike pale. Yet
in his deportment there was a struggle
for fortitude, like one who had resolved
to meet death unmoved.

" May I speak to the soldiers ?" he

42 OLIVE BUDS.

said. It was the voice of Frank Lud-
low. Permission was given, and he
spoke something of warning against de-
sertion, and something, in deep bitter-
ness, against the spirit of war. But his
tones were so hurried and agitated, that
their import could scarcely be gathered.
The eye of the commanding officer,
was fixed on the watch which he held in
his hand. " The time has come," he
said. " Kneel upon your coffin."

The cap was drawn over the eyes of
the miserable man. He murmured, with
a stifled sob, " God, I thank thee,that my
dear ones cannot see this." Then from
the bottom of his soul, burst forth a cry,

" O mother ! mother ! had I but be-
lieved"—

PRANK LUDLOW. 43

Ere the sentence was finished, a sword
glittered in the sunbeam. It was the
death-signal. Eight soldiers advanced
from the ranks. There was a sharp re-
port of urms. A shriek of piercing an-
guish. One convulsive leap. And then
a dead man lay between his coffin, and
his grave.

There was a shuddering silence. Af-
terwards, the whole line was directed to
march by the lifeless body, 4;hat every
one might for himself see the punishment
of a deserter.

Suddenly, there was some confusion ;
and all eyes turned towards a horseman,
approaching at breathless speed. Alight-
ing, he attempted to raise the dead man,
who had fallen with his face downward.

44 OLIVE BUDS.

Gazing earnestly upon the rigid features,
he clasped the mangled and bleeding
bosom to his own. Even the sternest
veteran was moved, at the heart-rending
cry of " brother ! O my brother"

No one disturbed the bitter grief which
the living poured forth in broken senten-
ces over the dead.

" Gone to thine account ! Gone to
thine everlasting account ! Is it indeed
thy heart's blood, that trickles warmly
upon me? My brother, would that I
might have been with thee in thy dreary
prison. Would that we might have
breathed together one more prayer, that
I might have seen thee look unto Jesus
of Nazareth."

Rising up from the corpse, and turning

PRANK LUDLOW. 45

to the commanding officer, he spoke
through his tears, with a tremulous, yet
sweet-toned voice.

" And what was the crime, for which
my brother was condemned to this death ?
There beats no more loyal heart in the
bosom of any of these men, who do the
bidding of their country. His greatest
fault, the source of all his misery, was
the love of war. In the bright days of
his boyhood, he said he would be content
to die on the field of battle. See, you
have taken away his life, in cold blood,
among his own people, and no eye hath
pitied him."

The commandant stated briefly and
calmly, that desertion thrice repeated
was death, that the trial of his brother

46 OLIVE BUDS.

had been impartial, and the sentence
just. Something too, he added, about
the necessity of enforcing military disci-
pline, and the exceeding danger of re-
missness in a point like this.

" If he must dier why was it hidden
from those whose life was bound up in
his ? Why were they left to learn from
the idle voice of rumour, this death-blow
to their happiness ? If they might not
have gained his pardon from an earthly
tribunal, they would have been comfort-
ed by knowing that he sought that mercy
from above, which hath no limit. Fear-
ful power have ye, indeed, to kill the
body, but why need you put the never-
dying soul in jeopardy ? There are
those, to whom the moving of the lips

FRANK LUDLOW. 47

that you have silenced, would have been
most dear, though their only word had
been to say farewell. There are those,
to whom the glance of that eye, which
you have sealed in blood, was like the
clear shining of the sun after rain. The
wife of his bosom, would have thanked
you, might she but have sat with him on
the floor of his prison, and his infant
son would have played with his fettered
hands, and lighted up his dark soul with
one more smile of innocence. The sis-
ter, to whom he has been as a father,
would have soothed his despairing spirit,
with the hymn which in infancy, she sang
nightly with him, at their blessed moth-
er's knee. Nor would his only brother
thus have mourned, might he but have

48 OLIVE BUDS.

poured the consolations of the gospel,
once more upon that stricken wanderer,
and treasured up one tear of penitence."

A burst of grief overpowered him.
The officer with kindness assured him,
that it was no fault of theirs, that the
family of his brother was not apprized
of his situation. That he strenuously
desired no tidings might be conveyed to
them, saying that the sight of their sor-
row, would be more dreadful to him than
his doom. During the brief interval be-
tween his sentence and execution, he had
the devoted services of a holy man, to
prepare him for the final hour.

Edward Ludlow composed himself to
listen to every word. The shock of sur-
prise, with its tempest of tears had past.

FRANK LUDLOW. 49

As he stood with uncovered brow, the
bright locks clustering around his noble
forehead, it was seen how strongly he
resembled his fallen brother, ere care
and sorrow had clouded his manly beau-
ty. For a moment, his eyes were rais-
ed upward, and his lips moved. Pious
hearts felt that he was asking strength
from above, to rule his emotions, and to
attain that submission, which as a teach-
er of religion he enforced on others.

Turning meekly toward the command-
ing officer, he asked for the body of the
dead, that it might be borne once more
to the desolate home of his birth, and
buried by the side of his father and his
mother. The request was granted with
sympathy.

50 OLIVE BUDS.

He addressed himself to the services
connected with the removal of the body,
as one who bows himself down to bear
the will of the Almighty. And as he
raised the bleeding corpse of his belov-
ed brother in his arms, he said, " O
war ! war ! whose tender mercies are
cruel, what enmity is so fearful to the
soul, as friendship with thee."

51

VICTORY.

Waft not to me the blast of fame,
That swells the trump of victory,

For to my ear it gives the name
Of slaughter, and of misery.

Boast not so much of honour's sword,
Wave not so high the victor's plume ;

They point me to the bosom gor'd,

They point me to the blood-stained tomb.

The boastful shout, the revel loud,

That strive to drown the voice of pain,

What are they but the fickle crowd
Rejoicing o'er their brethren slain ?

And ah, through glory's fading blaze,

I see the cottage taper, pale,
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays,

Where unprotected orphans wail :

52 VICTORY.

Where the sad widow weeping stands,
As if her day of hope was done ;

Where the wild mother clasps her hands
And asks the victor for her son :

Where the lone maid in secret sighs
O'er the lost solace of her heart,

As prostrate in despair she lies,
And feels her tortur'd life depart ;

Where midst that desolated land,
The sire lamenting o'er his son,

Extends his pale and powerless hand,
And finds its only prop is gone.

See, how the bands of war and woe
Have rifled sweet domestic bliss ;

And tell me if your laurels grow,
And flourish in a soil like this ?

THE FARMER AND SOLDIER.

IT was a cold evening in winter. A
lamp cast its cheerful ray from the win-
dow of a small farm-house, in one of the
villages of New England. A fire was
burning brightly on the hearth, and two
brothers sat near it. Several school-
books lay by them on the table, — from
which they had been studying their les-
sons for the next day. Their parents
had retired to rest, and the boys were
conversing earnestly. The youngest?
who was about thirteen, — said, —

" John, — I mean to be a soldier."

" Why so, James ?"

54 THE FARMER AND SOLDIER.

" I have been reading the life of Alex-
ander of Macedon, — and also a good
deal about Napoleon Buonaparte. I
think they were the greatest men that
ever lived. There is nothing in this
world, like the glory of .the warrior."

" It does not seem to me glorious, to
do so much harm. To destroy multi-
tudes of innocent men, and to make
suqh mourning in families, and so much
poverty and misery in the world, — is
more cruel than glorious."

" O, but then, John, to be so honored,
and to have so many soldiers under your
command, — and the fame of such mighty
victories, — what glory is there, to be
compared with this ?"

" James, — our good minister told us

THE FARMER AND SOLDIER. 55

in his sermon last Sunday, that the end
of life was the test of its goodness. Now
Alexander, that you call the Great, got
intoxicated, and died like a madman, and
Napoleon was imprisoned on a desolate
island, like a chained wild-beast, for all
the world to gaze and wonder at. It
was as necessary that he should be con-
fined, as that a ferocious monster should
be put in a cage."

" John, — your ideas are very limited.
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, would
be glory enough for you."

The voice of their father was now

56 THE FARMER AND SOLDIER.

heard calling, " boys, — go to bed." So
ended their conversation for that night.

Fifteen years passed away, and the
same season again returned. From
the same window a bright lamp gleamed,
and on the same hearth was a cheerful
fire. The building seemed unaltered,
but among its inmates there were chan-
ges. The parents who had then retired
to rest, had now laid down in the deeper
sleep of the grave. They were pious,
and among the little circle of their native
village, their memory was held in sweet
remembrance.

In the same chairs which they used to
occupy, were seated the eldest son and
his wife. A babe lay in the cradle, and
two other little ones breathed sweetly

THE FARMER AND SOLDIER. 57

from their trundle-bed, in the quiet sleep
of childhood,

A blast with snow, came against the
casement. " I always think," said John,
" a great deal about my poor brother, at
this season of the year, and especially in
stormy nights. But it is now so many
years since we have heard from him,
and his way of life exposed him to so
much danger, that I fear we have strong
reason to believe him dead."

"What a pity," replied the wife,
•" that he would be a soldier."

A faint knocking was heard at the
door. It was opened, and a man enter-
ed wearily, and leaning upon crutches.
His clothes were thin and tattered, and
his countenance haggard. They reach-
5

58 OLITE BUDS.

ed him a chair, and he sank into it. He
gazed earnestly on each of their faces,
then on the sleeping children ; and then
on every article of furniture, as on
some recollected friend. Stretching out
his withered arms, he said, in a tone
scarcely audible, "brother, — brother."
The sound of that voice opened the ten-
der remembrances of many years.
They hastened to welcome the wander-
er, and to mingle their tears with his.

"> Brother, — Sister, I have come home
to you, to die."

He was too much exhausted to con-
verse, and they exerted themselves to
prepare him fitting nourishment, and to
make him comfortable for the night.
The next morning he was unable to

THE FARMER AND SOLDIER. 59

arise. They sat by his bed and soothed
his worn heart with kindness, and told
him the simple narrative of all that had
befallen them in their quiet abode.

" Among all my troubles," said he,
and I have had many, none has so bow-
ed me down, as my sin in leaving home
without the knowledge of my parents,
to become a soldier, when I knew it was
against their will. I have felt the pain
of wounds, but there is nothing like the
sting of conscience. When I have lain
perishing with hunger, and parching with
thirst, a prisoner in the enemy's hands,
the image of my home, and of my ingrat-
itude, would be with me, when I lay
down, and when I rose up. I would
think I saw my mother bending tenderly

60

OLIVE BUDS.

over me, as she used to do, when I had
only a headache, and my father with the
bible in his hand, out of which he read
to us in the evening, before his prayer,
but when I have stretched out my hands
to say, « Father, I am no more worthy to
be called thy son,' I would awake, and it
was all a dream. But there would still
be the memory of my disobedience, and
how bitterly have I wept to think that
the child of so many peaceful precepts
had become a man of blood."

His brother hastened to assure him of
the perfect forgiveness of his parents,
and that daily and nightly he was men-
tioned in their supplications at the family
altar, as their loved, and absent, and er-
ring one*

THE FARMER AND SOLDIER. 61

" Yes, and those prayers followed me.
But for them, I should have been a rep-
robate. They plucked me as a brand
from the burning, when I thought myself
•forsaken both of God and man."

As his strength permitted, he told
them the story of his wanderings and
sufferings. He had been in battles by
sea and by land. He had heard the deep
ocean echo with the thunders of war,
and seen the earth drink in the strange,
red shower from mangled and palpitating
bosoms. He had stood in the martial
lists of Europe, and jeoparded his life
for a foreign power, and had pursued in
his own land, the hunted Indian, flying at
midnight, from his flaming hut. He had
gone with the bravest, where dangers

62 OLIVE BUDS.

thickened, and had sought in every place
for the glory of war, but had found only
misery.

" That glory, which dazzled me in my
days of boyhood, and which I supposed
was always the reward of the brave, con-
tinually eluded me. It is reserved for
the successful leaders of armies. They
alone, are the heroes, while the poor
soldiers, by whose toil these victories
are won, endure the hardships, that oth-
ers may reap the fame. Yet how light
is all the boasted glory, which was ever
obtained by the greatest commander,
compared with the good that he forfeits
and the sorrow that he inflicts in order
to obtain it.

" Sometimes, when we were ready for

THE FARMER AND SOLDIER. 63

a battle, and just before we rushed into
it, I have felt a fearful shuddering, an
inexpressible horror at the thought of
butchering my fellow creatures. But in
the heat of contest, such feelings van-
ished, and the madness and desperation
of a demon possessed me. I cared nei-
ther for heaven nor hell.

" You, who dwell in the midst of the
influences of mercy, and shrink to give
pain even to an animal, can hardly ima-
gine what hardness of heart comes with
the life of a soldier, — deeds of cruelty
are always before him, and he heeds nei-
ther the sufferings of the starving infant,
nor the groans of its dying mother.

" Of my own varieties of pain I will
not speak. Yet when I have lain on the

64 OLIVE BUDS*

field of battle, unable to move from
among the feet of trampling horses ;
when my wounds stiffened in the chilly
night air, and no man cared for my soul,
I have thought it was no more than just,
since my own hand had dealt the same
violence to others, perhaps inflicted even
keener anguish than that which was ap-
pointed to me.

But the greatest evil of a soldier's life,
is not the hardship to which he is expo-
sed, or the wounds he may sustain, but
the sin with which he is surrounded, and
made familiar. Oaths, imprecations
and contempt for every thing sacred,
are the elements of his trade. All the
sweet and holy influences of the sabbath,
and the precepts of the gospel impress-

THE FARMER AND SOLDIER. 65

ed upon his childhood, are swept away.
But in this hardened career, though I
exerted myself to appear bold and coura-
geous, my heart constantly misgave me.
God grant that it may be purified by re-
pentance and by the atonement of a Re-
deemer, before I am summoned to the
dread bar of judgment."

His friends flattered themselves, that
by medical skill and nursing, he might
eventually be restored to health. But
he said,

" It can never be. My vital energies
are wasted. Even now, death standeth
at my right hand. When I entered this
peaceful valley, and my swollen limbs
tottered, and began to fail, I prayed to
my God, O give them strength but a little

66 OLIVE BUDS.

longer, and hold thou me up till I reach
the home where I was born, that I may
die there, and be buried by the side of
my father and my mother, and I will ask
no more."

The sick and penitent soldier, labored
hard for the hope of salvation. He felt
that there was much to be changed in
his soul, ere it could be fitted for the
holy enjoyments of a realm of purity and
peace. He prayed, and wept, and studi-
ed the scriptures, and conversed with
good men.

" Brother," he would say, " you have
been a man of peace. In the quiet oc-
cupations of husbandry, you have served
God, and loved your neighbour. You
have been merciful to the animal crea-

THE FARMER AND SOLDIER. 67

tioD. You have taken the fleece, and
saved the sheep alive. But I have wan-
tonly defaced the image of God, and
stopped that breath, which I never can
restore. You have taken the honey,
and preserved the laboring bee. But I
have destroyed man and his habitation,
— burned the hive, and spilled the honey
on the ground. You cannot imagine
how bitter is the warfare in my soul,
with the 'Prince of the power of the
air, the spirit /that ruleth in the children
of disobedience.'"

He declined rapidly. Death came on
with hasty strides. Laying his cold hand
upon the head of the eldest little boy,
who had been much around his bed in his
sickness, he said, " dear John, never be

68 OLIVE BUDS.

a soldier. Sister, — brother, you have
been as angels of mercy to me. The
blessings of the God of peace, abide
with you and upon your house."

The venerable minister, who had in-
structed his childhood and laid his pa-
rents in the grave, and had oft-times vis-
ited him in his affliction, stood by his
side, as he went down into the valley of
the shadow of death.

" My son, look unto the Lamb of
God."

" Yes, father, there is a fulness in him,
for me, the chief of sinners."

There was a short and solemn pause.
Then he added "yet, let no one sin
against light and against love."

The white-haired man of God lifted

THE FARMER AND SOLDIER. 69

up his fervent prayer for the departing
soul. He commended it to the boundless
riches of divine grace, and besought for
it an easy passage to that world where
there is no sin, neither sorrow, nor cry-
ing.

He ceased, and the eyes of the dying
man had closed. There was no gasping,
or heaving of the breast, and they
thought that the breath had quitted the
clay. They were about to speak of him
as having passed where all tears are
wiped away. But there was a faint sigh,
and the pale lips slowly moved. Bow-
ing down, they caught the whisper of his
last words, "Jesus, thou, whose last gift
e, take a sinner unto Thee."

PRANCE, IN OLD TIMES.

" PLEASE to tell me a story, about old
times, dear grandfather," said a boy of
twelve years old, as he laid aside the
book in which he had been studying.
" I have got my lesson, and wish you
would tell me about France, and about
my relations who lived there."

Now the venerable grandfather, to
whom he spoke, was a Huguenot. Do
you know what a Huguenot is ? It was
a name given to some religious people in
France, who were not satisfied with the
Roman Catholic faith, and wished to
worship God differently. They had

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 71

been often persecuted. When Henry
IVth was king, he passed a law, giving
them liberty to exercise their own reli-
gion. It was called the Edict of Nantz,
because it was made at the city of Nantz.
Then the Huguenots had peace, for be-
fore that, they had been distressed by
imprisonment, and death. But when
Louis XlVth became king of France, he
repealed or destroyed the Edict of
Nantz. This unkind act was done, in
the year 1685. Great sufferings then
came upon the Huguenots. Multitudes
fled from persecution, and took refuge
in distant lands. Many came and made
their abode in this country, which was
then newly settled. They were excel-
lent people, and their descendants are

72 OLIVE BUDS,

among our most worthy and respectable
inhabitants.

And now, dear children, before you
go on with the story, will you see if you
perfectly understand what you have been
reading. Will you answer the following
questions ?

1. What is the meaning of the word
Huguenot ?

2. What was the Edict of Nantz ?

3. Why was it so called ?

4. Who made it?

5. In what year was it made ?

6. What king repealed, or destroyed
it? •

7. What came upon the Huguenots,
in consequence of its being repealed ?

8. What did they do ?

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 73

9. Did any of them take refuge in our
country ?

10. What is the character of their
descendants ?

Please to get some friend to ask you
these ten questions, and when you have
replied to them correctly, lay up the
knowledge in your memory. For it is a
part of history, and therefore worthy to
be remembered.

The tale which I am now going to
write for you is historical. It was first
related, more than a hundred years ago.
The boy who asked it of his venerable
grandfather, took a low seat by his knee,
and gazed up affectionately in his face.

" Just so, my dear boy, said the kind
-old gentleman, did I solicit stories from
6

74 OLIVE BUDS.

my own grandmother, sitting down at
her feet, when the lamps were just light-
ed. Then, she would tell me of the
wars she had witnessed, and charge me
never to take part, in the sins and mise-
ries that they produce. How clearly
can I recollect that excellent woman.
Her hair was like silver, but her eyes
were black and brilliant. My brethren
and sisters treated her with the greatest
respect. We considered her as a being
of a superior order. Her instructions
to us, were always those of piety and
peace. Her stories were of the old
times that were before us, and her mem-
ory of her early years, continued strong
to extreme old age."

" Dear grandfather, it is of those very

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 75

old times, that I wish to hear. You
have told me of some of the persecu-
tions of our Huguenot ancestors. I
should like to know more of the history
of France."

« Shall I tell you of the dreadful
scenes, my grandfather witnessed on his
first visit to Paris ? He was then not
more than two years older than yourself.
He was taken there by his father, who
had a military command under lord Te-
ligny, son in law to the great Admiral
Coligny, whose name you have seen in
history.

They were summoned to attend and
take part in the public demonstrations of
joy which marked the nuptials of young
Henry of Navarre and the princess Mar-

76 OLIVE BUDS.

garet. This was in the spring of 1572*
The Queen of Navarre, with her son
and suite, had just arrived, and were re-
ceived with great pomp and festivity.
Charles IXth. was at that time king of
France. You will recollect that he was
cruel and treacherous, and ruled by his
mother, Catharine de Medicis, who was
still worse than himself. He was a
bigoted Catholic, yet on this occasion,
saw fit to treat the Protestant noblemen
with particular regard. He was heard
continually praising the wisdom of the
Count de la Rochefaucault, the manly
beauty of de Teligny, and the dignified
deportment of the Baron de Rosny,
He even addressed Coligny by the title
of " Mon Pere," My Father, and took

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 77

pains to be seen walking arm in arm
with him, in earnest conversation. " Do
I play my part well ?" he inquired of his
mother. " Yes my son, was the reply,
but hold out to the end." Those who
knew the character of the king, and his
hatred of Protestants, feared that under
this mask of friendship, some evil was
hidden.

" Was Jane, Queen of Navarre, a
Huguenot ?"

" She was, or a Protestant, for a Hu-
guenot, was only another name given to
the Protestants in France, by way of
derision. She was truly a pious woman.
Her death took place, very suddenly,
while in Paris. When she found that
her last hour was nigh, she called her

OLIVE BUDS.

son to her bed-side. You know, he was
afterwards, the great Henry IVth of
France, who gave the Edict of Nantz.
He came in deep sorrow, to see his be-
loved mother, about to die. With a
faint voice, she charged him solemnly to
maintain the true religion, to take a ten-
der care of the education of his sister,
to avoid the society of vicious persons,
and not to suffer his soul to be diverted
from duty, by the empty pleasures of the
world. With patience and even cheer-
ful serenity of countenance, she endured
the pains of her disease, and to her
mourning friends said, " I pray you not
to weep for me. God by this sickness
calleth me to the enjoyment of a better
life." It was on the 9th of June, 1572,

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 79

that she departed, with the prayer of
faith on her lips, and the benignity of an
angel."

" Was your grandfather in Paris at
the time of the marriage of Henry and
Margaret ?"

" He was, and attentively observed the
splendid scene. The 18th of August,
was appointed for the nuptial ceremony.
An ample pavilion was erected opposite
to the great church of Notre Dame. It
was magnificently covered with cloth of
gold. The concourse of spectators was
immense, and their shouts seemed to
rend the sky, when the youthful pair ap-
peared, in their royal garments. When
Henry, bowing almost to the feet of his
beautiful bride, took from his brow the

80 OLIVE BUDS.

coronet of Navarre, the ladies admired
his gracefulness, and the freshness of his
auburn hair, which inclining to red, curl-
ed richly around his noble forehead.
The princess had a highly brilliant com-
plexion, and was decorated with a pro-
fusion of splendid jewels.

The Cardinal of Bourbon, received
their vows. There seemed some degree
of displeasure to curl his haughty lip.
Probably, he was dissatisfied, that all
the ceremonies of the Romish church
were not observed. For as the prince
was a protestant, and the princess a cath-
olic, the solemnities were of a mixed na-
ture, accommodated to both. It had
been settled in the marriage contract,
that neither party should interfere with

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 81

the other, in the exercise of their differ-
ent religions. To give public proof of
this, as soon as the nuptial ceremony
was performed, the bride left the pavilion
to attend mass, and the bridegroom to
hear the sermon of a protestant divine.
Acclamation and music from countless
instruments, loudly resounded, when the
royal couple again appeared, and pro-
ceeded together to the magnificent bridal
banquet. Charles presented his sister,
with 100,000 crowns for her dower, and
in the festivities which succeeded the
marriage, who could have foreseen the
dreadful massacre of St. Bartholomew?"
" I have read in my history, of that
frightful scene. Dear grandfather, how

82 OLIVE BUDS.

soon did it follow the nuptials which
you have described ?"

"Only five days intervened. The
ringing of the bells for morning prayers
at 3 o'clock, on Sunday, August 24th,
was the signal for the Catholics to rush
forth and murder the protestants. The
holy Sabbath dawned in peace. The
matin-bell, calling the devout to worship
a God of mercy, was heard. Man came
forth to shed the blood of his unsuspect-
ing brother. The work of destruction
began in many parts of the city, at the
same moment. Tumult and shrieks and
uproar increased, until they deepened
into a terrible and universal groan. The
streets were filled with infuriated sol-
diers, and almost every habitation of the

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 83

Huguenots, became a slaughter-house.
Infants were transfixed on pikes, and
women precipitated themselves from
high windows, and battlements, that they
might die without outrage. Thirty
thousand fell victims in this horrible
massacre, which extending itself from
Paris to the provinces, was not satiated
until more than twice that number had
been sacrificed."

" What became of our ancestor, du-
ring this scene of horror ?"

" At the commencement of the tumult,
his father hastily armed himself, and sup-
posing it some temporary disturbance,
went forth to aid in quelling it, command-
ing him to remain in the house. He
obeyed until he was no longer able to

84 OLIVE BUDS.

endure the tortures of suspense, and then
rushed out in search of a father whom he
was never more to behold. Hasting to
the quarters of Lord Teligny, his friend
and benefactor, he found him mortally
wounded, and faintly repeating the names
of his wife and children. He then flew
to the Hotel de St. Pierre, where Admi-
ral Coligny lodged. But his headless
trunk was precipitated from the window,
and dragged onward by blood-smeared
men, with faces scarcely human. By
the exulting vengeance on the brow of
the Duke of Guise, who directed them,
it might have been known that this vic-
tim was the man, whom the Catholics
most dreaded. While our ancestor
was hurrying bewildered from place to

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 85

place, amid death in its most dreadful
forms, his attention was arrested by a
boy about his own age, whose placid
countenance and unmoved deportment
strongly contrasted with the surrounding
horrors. Two soldiers apparently had
him in charge, shouting " to mass ! to
mass!" while, he neither in compliance or
opposition, calmly continued his course,
until they found some more conspicuous
object of barbarity, and released him
from their grasp. This proved to be
Maximilian Bethune, afterwards the
great Duke of Sully, prime minister of
Henry IVth, who by a wonderful mixture
of prudence and firmness, preserved a
life, which was to be of such value to the
realm. He was at this time, making

86 OLIVE BUDS.

his way through the infuriated mob, to
the college of Burgundy, where in the
friendship of its principal, La Faye, he
found protection and safety."

"But grandfather, in praising your
favourite, the Duke of Sully, you almost
forget the story of our relative."

" It was in vain that he attempted to
imitate this example of self-command.
Distracted with fear for his father, he
searched for him in scenes of the utmost
danger, wildly repeating his name. A
soldier raised over his head a sword
dripping with blood. Ere it fell, a man
in a black habit, took his arm through
his, and with some exertion of strength
led him onward. They entered less
populous streets, where the carnage

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 87

seemed not to have extended, before he
perfectly recovered his recollection.
Then he would have disengaged himself,
but his arm was detained, as strongly as
if it were pinioned. " Let me seek my
father," he exclaimed. " Be silent !"
said his conductor, with a voice of pow-
er, that made him tremble. At length
he knocked at the massy gate of a mo-
nastery. The porter admitted them,
and they passed to an inner cell. Af-
fected by his passioned bursts of grief,
and exclamations of " father, dear fa-
ther !" his protector said, " thank God,
my son, that thy own life is saved. I
ventured forth amid scenes of horror,
hoping to bring to this refuge a brother,
whom I loved as my own soul. I found

88 OLIVE BUDS.

him lifeless and mangled. Thou wert
near, and methought thou didst resemble
him. Thy voice had his very tone, as it
cried " father, father !" My heart yearn-
ed to be as a father to thee. And I have
led thee hither through blood and death.
Poor child be comforted, and lift up thy
soul to God."

"Was it not very strange, that a
Catholic should be so good ?"

" There are good men among every
sect of Christians, my child. We should
never condemn those who differ from us
in opinion, if their lives are according to
the gospel. This ecclesiastic was a man
of true benevolence. Nothing could
exceed his kindness to him whose life he
had saved. It was ascertained that he

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 89

was not only fatherless but an orphan,
for the work of destruction, extending it-
self into many parts of the kingdom, in-
volved his family in its wreck. The
greatest attention was paid to his educa-
tion, while he remained in the monaste-
ry. His patron instructed him in the sci-
ences, and particularly from the study of
history, he taught him the emptiness of
glory without virtue, and the changeful
nature of earthly good. He made him the
companion of his walks, and by the in-
nocent and beautiful things of nature,
sought to win him from that melan-
choly, which is so corrosive to intellect,
and so fatal to peace. He permitted
him to take part in his works of charity,
and to stand with him by the beds of the
7

90 OLIVE BUDS.

sick and dying, that he might witness
the power of that piety which upholds
when flesh and heart fainteth. During
his residence here, the death of Charles
IX. took place. He was a king in whom
his people and even his nearest friends
had no confidence. After the savage
massacre of St. Bartholomew, which
was conducted under his auspices, he
had neither satisfaction nor repose. He
had always a flush and fierceness upon
his countenance, which he had never be-
fore worn. Conscience haunted him
with a sense of guilt, and he could ob-
tain no quiet sleep. In his last sickness
he endured frightful agonies, and died
miserably at the age of 24. His brother
Henry III. succeeded him, against whom,

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 91

and Catharine, the Queen mother, three
powerful armies were opposed, one led
by the King of Navarre, one by the
Prince of Conde, and the other by the
duke of Anjou. The tidings of these
civil wars, penetrated into the seclusion
of the rdigious house, where my grand-
father had already passed three years in
quiet study. They kept alive the martial
spirit which he inherited, and quick-
ened his desire to partake in their tumult-
uous scenes. At length he communi-
cated to his patron, his discontentment
with a life of inaction, and his irrepress-
ible wish to mingle again with the world.
Unusual paleness settled on the brow of
the venerable man, as he replied,

" I have long seen that thy heart

92 OLIVE BUDS.

was not in these quiet shades, — I have
lamented it. Yet thus it is with the
young, they will not be wise from the ex-
perience of others. They must feel with
their own feet, the thorns in the path of
pleasure. They must grasp with their ^
own hand the sharp briers that cling
around the objects of their ambition.
They must come trusting to the world's
broken cistern. They must find the
dregs from her cup cleaving in bitterness
to their lip. They must feel her spear
in their bosom, ere they will believe."

The youth enlarged with emotion on
his gratitude to his benefactor. He
mentioned the efforts he had made to
comply with his desires, and lead a life
of contemplative piety, but that these ef-

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 93

forts were overpowered by the impulse
to mingle in more active pursuits, and to
visit the home of his ancestors.

" Go, then my son, and still the wild
throbbings of thy heart over the silent
beds of those who wake no more till the
resurrection morn ; yet think not that I
have read thy nature slightly, or with a
careless glance. The spirit of a warrior
slumbers there. Thou dost long to mix
in the battle. I have marked, in thy
musing, the lightning of thine eye shoot
forth, as if thou hadst forgotten him who
said : ' Vengeance is mine.' Would
that thou hadst loved peace. Go ; yet
remember, that ' he who taketh the sword
shall perish by the sword.' As for me,
my path on earth is short, or I should

94 OLIVE BUDS.

more deeply mourn thy departure.
Thou hast been too dear to me ; and
when thou art gone, my spirit will cast
from its wings the last cumbrance of
earthly love."

He gave him his benediction with great
tenderness and solemnity, and the part-
ing was tearful and affectionate. But
the young traveller soon dismissed his
sorrow, for the cheering influence of
the charms of nature, and the gladness
of liberty.

The genial season of spring diffused
universal beauty. The vales spread out
their green mantles 'to catch the show-
ers of blossoms, with which every
breeze covered them. Luxuriant vines
lifted up their fragrant coronets. Young

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 95

lambs playfully cropped the tender
leaves. Quiet kids stood ruminating by
the clear streams. Music was in all the
branches. The father-bird cheered his
companion, who, patient on her nest,
brooded their future hopes.

" Surely," thought he, " the peasant
is the most happy of men, — dwelling in
the midst of the innocence and beauty of
creation."

Then, with the inconsistency natural
to youth, he would extol the life of a
soldier, — his energy, hardihood, and
contempt of danger ; forgetting that, in
this preference of War, he was applaud-
ing the science of all others most hos-
tile to nature and to man.

In the midst of such reflections he

96 OLIVE BUDS.

reached the spot of his nativity. The
home of his ancestors was in the posses-
sion of others, a new and lordly race.
Strange eyes looked upon him, where
the voice of his parents was wont to
welcome his returning sleps with de-
light. He could not endure the grief in
which none participated, and this solitude
among scenes which his childhood loved.
He sought to shake off at once his sor-
rojv and his loneliness, and enlisted as a
volunteer in the Protestant army. He
flattered himself that religion dictated
the measure : yet sometimes, in a sleep-
less hour, the monition of his distant
benefactor would come mournfully, " He
that taketh the sword shall perish by the
sword." His first exploit in arms was at

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 97

the siege of Ville-Franche, in Perigord,
in the year 1576. He continued to fol-
low the fortunes of the King of Navarre,
and to endure without shrinking the
dangers and privations of a soldier, with
scarcely any intervals of peaceful life,
until the battle of Coutras, which was
fought on the morning of October 20th,
1587. There he fell covered with
wounds, not being thirty years old, and
leaving a young widow, with an infant
son, to bemoan one more victim of war."

" And was that widow, your grand-
mother, who used to tell you these sad
and true stories ?"

" Yes, and she often related the sor-
rows of her early widowhood. Deeply
did she impress on the mind of my father

98 OLIVE BUDS.

and his offspring the evils of war, and
the blessings of peaceful Christianity.
Under his roof she dwelt, cherished and
venerated, till the children of the third
generation rose up to call her blessed.
Never shall I forget with what emotions
of grief and reverence, he laid his hand
upon her dying eyes, and wept at her
tomb. The piety and love of peace,
which she had early instilled into his
heart, rendered his own home the abode
of tranquillity, and domestic happiness.
His industry, and correct judgment re-
stored competence to a family, which
the desolations of war had impoverished,
and almost annihilated. Our paternal
residence, even now, seems to rise up
before me, visible and distinct, as in a

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 99

picture. Uniting simplicity with com-
fort, it stood on a gentle slope of ground.
In front, a row of chesnuts reared a
canopy of lofty shade. Here the trav-
eller sometimes rested, refreshing him-
self with the water of a little fountain,
which clear as crystal, oozed into a rus-
tic, limestone reservoir. In the rear of
our residence, rose a hill, where our
goats found herbage. There they might
sometimes be seen, maintaining so slight
a footing on projecting cliffs, as if they
hung suspended by the mouth, from the
slight branch they were cropping. The
tall poplars, which were interspersed
among the foliage, conveyed to us the
pensive murmur of approaching storms,
and around their trunks, mossy seats

100 OLIVE BUDS.

were constructed, where we sometimes
sat, watching the chequered rays of the
moon, and singing our simple provincial
melodies. Stretching at the foot of this
hill, was the small domain whence we
drew our subsistence. Diligence and
economy made it fully equal to our
wants, and to the claims of charity.
Over the roots of the filbert, fig and
mulberry, crept the prolific melon ; the
gourd, supporting itself by their trunks,
lifted its yellow globes into the air like
orbs of gold, while still higher rose the
aspiring vine, filling its glowing clusters
for the wine-press. Our fields of wheat,
gave us bread, and the bearded oat re-
warded the faithful animal that gathered
in our harvest. Bees, hastening with

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 101

busy hum to their sheltered cells, provi-
ded the luxury of our evening repast.
The olive yielded us its treasures, and
furnished an emblem of the peace that
pervaded our abode. A genial soil made
our labours light, and correct principles
converted those labours into happiness.
Our parents early taught their large
family of twelve children, that indolence
was but another name for vice and dis-
grace, that he, who for his subsistence
rendered no return of usefulness, was
unjust to society, and disobedient to
God. So our industry commenced in
infancy. In our hive there were no
drones. We early began to look with
pity on those whose parents neglected
to teach them, that well directed indus-

102 OLIVE BUDS.

try was bliss. Among us there were no
servants. With the first beams of morn-
ing, the band of brothers were seen
cheerfully entering on their allotted em-
ployments. Some broke the surface of
the earth, others strewed seeds or ker-
nels of fruits, others removed the weeds
which threatened to impede the harvest.
By the same hands was our vintage tend-
ed, and our grain gathered into the gar-
ner. Our sisters wrought the flax which

o

we cultivated, and changed the fleece of
our flocks into a wardrobe for winter.
They refreshed us after our toil, with
cakes flavoured with honey, and with
cheeses, rivalling in delicacy those of
Parma. They arranged in tasteful bask-
ets of their own construction, fresh fruits

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 103

or aromatic herbs, or rich flowers for the
market. They delighted sometimes to
mingle in our severer labours, and when
we saw the unwonted exertion, heighten-
ing the bloom of their cheeks, or placed
in their hair, the half-blown wild rose, to
us, who had seen nothing more fair, they
seemed perfect in grace and beauty.
Sometimes at twilight, or beneath the
soft evening air of summer, we mingled
in the dance, to the music of our flute
and viol. Our parents and our grand-
mother seated near, enjoyed our pastime,
and spoke of their own youth, and of
the goodness of the Almighty Sire.
Often, assembled in our pleasant parlour,
each read in turn to the listening audi-
tory, histories of what man has been, or

104 OLIVE BUDS.

fictitious representations of what he
might be, from the pages of the moral
painter or the poet. The younger ones
received regular lessons in the rudiments
of education, and the elder ones in suc-
cession, devoted a stated portion of each
day, to the pursuit of higher studies,
under the direction of their parents.
When the family circle convened in the
evening, he was the happiest who could
bring the greatest amount of useful and
interesting information to the general
stock. The acquisition of knowledge,
which to indolent minds is so irksome,
was to us a delightful recreation from
severer labours. The exercise which
gave us physical vigour, seemed also to
impart intellectual energy. The appli-

FRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 105

cation to which we were inured, gave us
the more entire controul of our mental
powers, while the almost unvaried health
that we enjoyed, preserved elasticity of
spirits, and made all our pleasures more
sweet. Such was our mode of life, that
we were almost insensible to incon-
venience from the slight changes of the
seasons. In any temporary indisposition
or casualty, our mother was our minister-
ing angel. Her acquaintance with the
powers of the medicinal plants, that filled
her favourite part of the garden, and
still more, her intimate knowledge of the
little diversities of our constitutions,
usually produced a favourable result.
She also perfectly understood the slight
shades in our disposition and character,
8

106 OLIVE BUDS.

and by thus tracing the springs of action
to their minuter sources, advanced with
more certainty to the good ends of edu-
cation. Mingled with her love, was a
dignity, a decision that commanded our
respect. Without this, the parental re-
lation loses its influence, and sacrifices
that attribute of authority with which it
was invested by the Eternal.

Piety was taught us, by the example of
our parents. We were early led to con-
sider the morning and evening orison
and the Sabbath, as periods in which we
were invited to mingle our thoughts with
angels ; and that he who was negligent
or indifferent to them, forfeited one of
the highest privileges of his nature.

Thus happy was our domestic govern-

PRANCE, IN OLD TIMES. 107

ment. It mingled the pastoral and pa-
triarchal features. I have never seen
any system more favourable to individu-
al improvement, and the order, harmony
and prosperity of the whole.

But my dear boy, it is time for you to
go to bed. How patiently you have lis-
tened to my long tale. Good night, and
I say to you, as my grandmother did to
me, be sure, that you have nothing to do
with war, and that you live peaceably all
the days of your life*"

T08 OLIVE BUDS.

WAR.

War is a wicked thing,

It strews the earth with dead,
And leaves the trampled battle-field

With blood and carnage red,
While thousand mangled forms

In hopeless suffering bleed,
And vultures and hyenas throng

Upon their flesh to feed.

See with what bitter grief

Those widowed ones deplore ;
And children for their father mourn,

Who must return no more.
And aged parents sink

In penury and despair,
And sorrow dwells in many a home,-

War makes the weeping there.

109

It comes with sins and woes,

A dark and endless train,
It fills the breast with murderous hate,

Where Christian love should reign ;
It desolates the land

With famine, death and flame,
And those are in a sad mistake

Who seek the warrior's fame.

Oh, may I guard my heart

From every evil thing,
From thoughts of anger and revenge,

Whence wars and fighting spring :
And may the plants of peace

Grow up serene and fair,
And mark me for a child of heaven,

That I may enter there.

WALKS IN CHILDHOOD.

THE years of my childhood past away,
in humble and peaceful simplicity. I
loved the shadow of high rocks, and the
free musick of the brooks in summer.
My heart was full of gladness, though it
scarcely knew why. I made to myself a
companionship among the beautiful and
tuneful things of Nature, — and was hap-
py all the day. But when evening dark-
ened the landscape, I sat down mourn-
fully. There was no brother, into
whose hand I might put my own, and
say, " Lead me forth to look at the sol-

WALKS IN CHILDHOOD. Ill

emn stars, — and tell me of their names."
Sometimes, too, I wept in my bed, — be-
cause I had no sister, to lay her gentle
head upon the same pillow.

Sometimes, at twilight, before the
lamp was lighted, — there came up, out
of my brotherless and sisterless bosom,
what seemed to be a companion. I talk-
ed with it, and was comforted. I did not
know that its name was Thought, — but
I waited for it, and whatsoever it asked
me, — I answered.

It questioned me of my knowledge.
And I said, — I know where the first
fresh violets of spring grow, — and how
the sweet lilly of the vale comes forth
from its broad, green sheath — and where
the vine climbs to hide its purple grapes,

112 OLIVE BUDS.

— and when the nut ripens in the forest,
after autumn comes with its sparkling
frost. I know how the Bee is nourish-
ed in Winter, by that essence of the
flowers, which her industry embalms, —
and I have learned to draw forth the
kindness of the domestick animals, — and
to know the names of the birds that build
their houses in my father's trees."

Then Thought inquired, "What know-
ledge hast thou of those who reason, —
and have dominion over the things that
God has created ?" And I confessed, —
" of my own race, save those who have
nurtured me, — I know nothing." I was
troubled at my ignorance. So I went
forth more widely, — and earnestly re-
garded what passed among men.

WALKS IN CHILDHOOD. 113

Once, I walked abroad, when the dews
of the morning still lingered upon the
grass, and the white lillies drooped their
beautiful bells, as if shedding tears of joy.
Nature breathed a perpetual song, into
the hearts of her most silent children.
But 1 looked towards those whose souls
have the gift of reason, and are not born
to die. I said if the spirit of joy is in
the frail flower that flourishes but for a
day, — and in the bird that bears to its nest
a single crumb of bread, — and in the
lamb that knows no friend but its moth-
er,— how much purer must be their hap-
piness, who are surrounded with good
things as with a flowing river, — and
whose knowledge need have no limit but

114 OLIVE BUDS.

life, — and who know that though they
seem to die, — it is to live forever.

Then I looked upon a group of child-
ren. They were unfed and untaught, —
and clamored loudly with wayward
tongues. I asked them why they went
not to school with their companions, and
they mocked at me.

I heard two who were once friends,
speak harsh and violent words to each
other, and turned away affrighted, at the
blows they dealt. I saw a man with a
bloated and fiery countenance. He seem-
ed strong as the Oak among trees, — yet
his steps were more unsteady, than those
of the tottering babe. He fell heavily, —
and I wondered that no hand was stretch-
ed out to raise him up.

WALKS IN CHILDHOOD. 115

I saw an open grave. A poor widow
stood near it, with her little ones. Yet
methought their own sufferings had set
a deeper seal upon them, than sorrow
for the dead.

Then I marvelled what it was, that
made the father and mother not pity
their children when they hungered, nor
call them home, when they were in wick-
edness,— and the friends forget their
early love, — and the strong man fall
down senseless, — and the young die be-
fore his time. And a voice answered, —
"Intemperance hath done these evils, —
and there is mourning throughout the
land because of this."

So I returned sorrowing. And if God
had given me a brother or a sister, — I

116 OLIVE BUDS.

would have thrown my arms around their
neck, and said, — " Touch not your lips,
I pray you, to the poison-cup, — but let
us drink the pure water which God has
blessed, — all the days of our lives."

Again I went forth, and looked atten-
tively on what was passing around. I
met a beautiful boy weeping. I said,
why dost thou mourn ?" And he replied,
" My father went to the wars, — and is
dead. He will come back to me no
more."

I saw a woman, pale and weak with
sorrow. The Sun shone upon her dwel-
ling, and the woodbine climbed to its
window, and blossomed sweetly. But
she beheld not their brightness. For
she was a widow. Her husband had

WALKS IN CHILDHOOD. 117

been slain in battle, — and there was joy
for her no more.

I saw a hoary man. He sat by the
wayside. His head rested upon his bo-
som. His garments were old, — and his
flesh wasted away. Yet he asked not
for charity. I said, " Why is thy heart
heavy?" And he answered, "I had a
son, — an only one. I toiled from his
cradle, that he might be fed, and cloth-
ed, and taught wisdom. He grew up to
bless me, and all my labor, weariness,
and care were forgotten. I knew no
want for he cherished me. But he left
me, to be a soldier. He fell on the field
of battle. Therefore mine eye runneth
down with water, — because the comfort-

118 . OLIVE BUDS.

er who should relieve my soul " must re-
turn no more."

I said, — " show me a field of battle, —
that I may know what war means."

And he said, — " Thou art not able to
bear the sight. But I will tell thee what
I have seen, when the battle was done.
A broad plain, covered with dead bodies,
— and those who struggled in the pains
of death. The trampled earth red with
blood. Mangled bosoms sending forth
dreadful groans, — and broken limbs
vainly reaching for some supporting
hand. Wounded horses in their agony
rolling upon their riders, — and tearing
with their hoofs the faces of the dying.
And for every man that lay there slaugh-
tered,— how bitter must be the mourn-

WALKS IN CHILDHOOD. 119

ing of the parents who reared him, — and
of the young children who sat upon his
knee. Yet this is but a part of the mis-
ery that War maketh among mankind."

Then I said " Tell me no more, I be-
seech thee, of battle or of war, — for my
heart is sick."

But when I saw that the silver haired
man raised his eyes and his hands up-
wards,— I kneeled down at his side. And
he prayed, " Lord, keep this child from
anger, and hatred, and ambition, which
are the seeds of war, — and grant to all
who take the name of Jesus Christ,
peaceable and meek hearts, that shun-
ning all deeds of strife, they may dwell
at last in the country of unchanging
peace, — even in heaven."

120 OLIVE BUDS.

Hastening to my home, I said earnest-
ly to my mother, — " Oh, shelter me, as I
have been sheltered, — in solitude and in
love. Bid me turn the wheel of indus-
try,— or bring water from the fountain,
— or tend the plants in the garden, — or
feed a young bird and listen to its song,
— but let me go forth no more, — to look
upon the vices and miseries of man."

CHRISTMAS HYMN.

PEACE was the song that angels sung,
When Jesus sought this vale of tears,

And sweet their heavenly prelude rung
To calm the watchful shepherd's fears,

WAR is the word that man hath spoke,
Convuls'd by passions dark and dread,

And pride enforced a lawless yoke

Even where the Gospel's banner spread.

Peace was the prayer the Saviour breath'd,
When from our world his steps withdrew.

The gift he to his friends bequeath'd,
With Calvary and the cross in view.

Dear Saviour ! — with adoring love
Our spirits take thy rich bequest, —

The watchword of the host above,
The passport to a realm of rest.
9

A SHORT SERMON.

"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

A SHORT SERMON. 123

warlike nations, there have been wise
and reflecting minds, who felt that war
was an evil, and deplored it as a judg-
ment.

Rome was one of the most warlike na-
tions of the ancient world. Yet three
of her best Emperors gave their testi-
mony against war, — and were most re-
luctant to engage in it. Adrian truly lov-
ed 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 cit-
izen, than destroy a thousand enemies."
Marcus Aurelius considered war both

124 OLIVE BUDS.

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 for-
bid 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 ex-
ample. 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 con-
trary to the spirit of the gospel.

A SHORT SERMON. 125

Have you ever thought much, dear
children, about the evil 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 provi-
ded them with bread, upon the mourning
of grey-headed parents from whose fee-

126 OLIVE BUDS.

ble limbs the prop is taken away ; upon
the sorrow of wives for their slaughter-
ed husbands, and the weeping of chil-
dren, because their dear fathers must re-
turn 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 some-
times burned, and the aged and helpless
destroyed. The mother and her inno-
cent 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

A SHORT SERMON. 127

hear the groans of death. Rulers, who
make war, should remember the suffer-
ing and sin which it occasions, and how
much more noble it is to save life than to
destroy it.

Howard visited the prisons of Eu-
rope, and relieved the miseries of those
who had no helper, and died with their
blessings on his head. Buonaparte
caused multitudes to be slain, and multi-
tudes to mourn, and died like a chained
lion upon a desolate island. Is not the
fame of Howard better than that of Buo-
naparte ?

The Friends, or Quakers as they are
sometimes called, never go to war. The
State of Pennsylvania was settled by
them. William Penn its founder, pur-

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chased it of the natives, and lived peacea-
bly with them. In other colonies, there
were wars with the Indians. But
those men of peace, treated the sons
of the forest, like brethren. They
gathered around William Penn, and
looking gratefully in his face, said " you
are our father, we love you." Was not
this more pleasing in the sight of heav-
en than the strife of the warrior ?

If true glory belongs to those who do
great good to mankind, then the glory
of the warrior is a false glory. We
should be careful how we admire it. I
trust that none of you, my dear children,
would willingly do harm to your fellow
creatures.

Perhaps you will say that all wars have

A SHORT SERMON. 129

not been sinful. All have not been
equally so. But we will not employ our
time with condemning those who have
engaged in war. Our present inquiry
is, how it may be prevented in future.
Might not nations settle their differences
without an appeal to arms ? Might not
their variances be healed, by the media-
tion of another nation, as a good man
makes peace among his neighbours ?
Might not one Christian ruler address
those who were ready to contend, as the
patriarch Abraham, did his angry kins-
man, " Let there be no strife, I pray thee,
for ye are brethren."

If there have been always wars from
the beginning, there is no proof that
there need be unto the end. The Bible

130 OLIVE BUDS.

tells us of a happy period when there
shall be war no more.

" From whence come wars and fight-
ings among you ?" The same inspired
apostle, suggests a reply. " Come they
not hence, even from your lusts, that
war in your members ?"

Unkind and quarrelsome dispositions
seem to be the seeds of war. Beware
then of contention among your compan-
ions, and of cruelty to animals. Use no
offensive words, and when others disa-
gree, strive to reconcile them. Repress
in your hearts, every revengeful feeling.
If any one has injured you, do not return
the injury. For if war proceeds from
unbridled passions, and restless ambi-
tion, the remedy should be applied to

A SHORT SERMON. 131

the heart, where these evils have their
birth.

Let the love of peace be planted and
cherished in the heart of every little
child. Then, will there not grow up a
generation, to discourage war, and help
to banish it from the earth ?

We read of a country where there is
no war. Peace and love are in the bo-
soms of all its inhabitants. That coun-
try is heaven, and we hope to dwell
there. Let us cultivate its spirit while
on earth, or we shall not be fitted to go
there when we die. The scorpion can-
not abide in the nest of the turtle-dove.
Neither can the haters of peace find a
home in that blissful region,

And now, my dear children, take pains

132 OLIVE BUDS,

to preserve good and gentle dispositions.
Heal, as far as you can, every source of
discord among your companions. To
live peaceably with all, and persuade
those who are unfriendly to be at peace,
will make you serene and happy. You
will be better prepared for the society of
angels. You will have pursued an edu-
cation for the kingdom of heaven.

No reward is promised in the Bible
for those who have delighted in war ;
but our Saviour when on earth, said
" Blessed are the peace-makers, for they
shall be called the children of God."

AGRICULTURE,

The hero hath his fame,

'Tis blazoned on his tombr
But earth withholds her glad acclaim,

And frowns in silent gloom : —
His footsteps o'er her breast,

Were like the Simoom's blast,
And death's wild ravages attest

Where'er his chariot past.

By him her harvests sank,

Her famish'd flocks were slain,
And from the fount where thousands drank

Came gushing blood like rain,
For him no mournful sigh

From vale or grave shall swell,
But flowers, exulting left their eye,

Where the proud spoiler fell.

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Behold yon peaceful bands,

Who guide the glittering share,
The quiet labour of whose hands

Doth make Earth's bosom fair,
From them the rich perfume

From ripen'd fields doth flow
They bid the desert-rose to bloom,

The waste with plenty glow.

Ah, happier thus to prize

The humble rural shade,
And like our Father in the skies,

Blest nature's work to aid,
Than famine and despair

Among mankind to spread,
And earth, our mothers' curse to bear,

Down to the silent dead.

PEACE.

Check at their fountain head,
Oh Lord, the streams of strife,

Nor let misguided man rejoice
To take his brother's life.

Strike off the pomp and pride
That deck the deeds of war,

And in their gorgeous mantle hide
The blood-stained conqueror.

To history's blazoned page,
Touch the pure wand of truth,

And bid its heroes stand unveiled
Before the eye of youth.''

By every fire-side press

The gospel's peaceful claims,

136 OLIVE BUDS.

Nor let a Christian nation bless,
What its meek Master blames.

So shall the seeds of hate,
Be strangled in their birth,

And Peace the angel of thy love,
Rule o'er the enfranchised earth*