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

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut. 


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 

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. 



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 


" 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 

" 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 


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 

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- 


" 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 


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

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 

The evening meal was a pleasant one. 


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

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

"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 

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


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. 


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- 

Mrs. Ludlow. " I am truly sorry, 


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 

Mrs. Ludlow. " How did he die ?" 


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 


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 


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

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 


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 

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


which produce the greatest good. That 
fame is the highest, which best agrees 
with our duty to God and man. Do not 
be dazzled by the false glory that 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 


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 

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- 


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 


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 


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- 

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~ 




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- 


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 


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, 


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 

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 


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- 

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


young wife felt it the more deeply, 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 


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 


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 


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- 

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 


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 


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 

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 w r ife 


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 


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 

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 


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 

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 


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 


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 


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- 


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. 


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 


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 


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 die r 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 


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 


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. 


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 


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." 



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 : 


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 ? 


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 ?" 


" 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 


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 


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 

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 


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- 


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 


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 



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* 


" 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 


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

" 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 


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 


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- 


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 


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- 


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 


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 

" 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 


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- 

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." 


" 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 


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 


among our most worthy and respectable 

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 

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

8. What did they do ? 


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 


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 


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 

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- 


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 


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 

" 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 


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, 


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

" 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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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, 


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 


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- 


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 


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 


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 

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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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 


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- 


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 


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 


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 


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- 


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, 


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- 


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*" 



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. 


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. 


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- 


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, 


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. 


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 


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. 


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 


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 

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 


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- 


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." 


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." 


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. 


"From whence come wars and fightings?" JAMES iv. 1. 

You will perhaps say, they have been 
from the beginning. The history of 
every nation, tells of the shedding of 
blood. In the bible and other ancient 
records of man, we read of " wars and 
fightings," ever since he was placed upon 
the earth. 

Yet there have been always some to 
lament that the creatures whom God has 
made, should thus destroy each other. 
They have felt that human life was short 
enough, without its being made still 
shorter by violence. Among the most 


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

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 


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. 


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- 


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 


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- 


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 

Perhaps you will say that all wars have 


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 


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 


the heart, where these evils have their 

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 


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." 


The hero hath his fame, 

'Tis blazoned on his tomb r 
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. 


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. 


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, 


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*