Part 13

Domestic animals, are sensible of kindness, and improved by it. They are made happier and more gentle, by being caressed and spoken to with a pleasant voice. Food, shelter, needful rest, and good treatment, are surely due to them, for their many services to man.

The Arab treats his horse like his child, and the noble animal loves him, and strains every nerve to do his bidding. I have seen a horse, when wearied with heat and travel, erect his head, and show evident signs of pleasure, and renew his labours with fresh zeal, if his master patted his neck, and whispered with a kind voice into his ear.

It is delightful to see the young show a protecting kindness to such harmless creatures as are often harshly treated. It seems difficult to say why the toad is so generally singled out for strong dislike. Is it only because Nature has not given it beauty? Surely its habits are innocent, and its temper gentle.

The scientific gardeners of Europe encourage toads to live in their gardens, and about their green-houses. They find them useful assistants in guarding their precious plants from insects. So, they wisely make them allies, instead of torturing and destroying them.

A benevolent English gentleman, once took pains to reclaim a toad from its timid habits. It improved by his attentions. It grew to a very large size, and at his approach, came regularly from its hole, to meet him, and receive its food.

Ladies, who visited the garden, sometimes desired to see this singular favourite. It was even brought to the table, and permitted to have a dessert of insects, which it partook, without being embarrassed by the presence of company.

It lived to be forty years old. What age it might have attained, had it met with no accident, it would be difficult to say. For it was in perfect health when wounded by a fierce raven, as it one day was coming from its house, under the steps of the door, which fronted the garden.

The poor creature languished a while, and then died; and the benevolent man who had so long protected it, took pleasure in relating its history, and in remembering that he had made its life happy.

Cruelty to animals is disgraceful and sinful. If I see even a young child pull off the wings of an insect, or take pains to set his foot upon a worm, I know that he has not been well instructed, or else that there is something wrong and wicked in his heart.

The Emperor Domitian loved to kill flies, and at last became a monster of cruelty. Benedict Arnold, the traitor, when he was a boy, liked to give pain to every thing, over which he could get power.

He destroyed birds' nests, and cut the little unfledged ones in pieces, before the eyes of their agonised parents. Cats and dogs, the quiet cow, and the faithful horse, he delighted to hurt and distress.

I do not like to repeat his cruel deeds. He was told that they were wrong. An excellent lady with whom he lived, use to warn and reprove him. But he did not reform. For his heart was hard, and he did not heed the commands of God.

He grew up without good principles. He became a soldier, and had command in the army. But he laid a plan to betray his country, and sell it into the hands of the enemy.

His wickedness was discovered, and he fled. He never dared to return to his native land, but lived despised, and died in misery. We know not how much of the sin which disgraced his character, sprang out of his hardness of heart, and cruelty to animals.

Many of the inferior creation display virtues which are deserving of respect. How many remarkable instances have we heard of the sagacity of the elephant, and the grateful attachment and fidelity of the dog.

A shepherd, who lived at the foot of the Grampian mountains, one day, in going to look after his flock, took with him his little boy of four years old. Some of his sheep had strayed. In pursuing them, he was obliged to climb rocks, so steep, that the child could not follow.

The shepherd charged the child to remain where he left him, until he should return. But while he was gone, one of those thick fogs arose, which in that part of Scotland are not uncommon. With difficulty he groped his way back again. But the child was gone.

All his search was vain. There was sorrow that night in the lowly cottage of his parents. The next day, the neighbours joined, and continued their pursuit for several days and nights. But in vain.

"Is my dog lost too?" said the father, as he one day entered his dwelling, and sat down in weariness and despair. "He has come here daily," said his little daughter, "while you and mother, have been searching for poor Donald. I have given him a piece of cake, which he has taken, and ran hastily away."

The household bread of the poor, in Scotland, is made of oatmeal, and being not baked in loaves, but rolled out thin, is often called cake. While they were speaking, the dog rushed in, and leaped upon his master, whining earnestly.

An oatmeal cake was given him. He appeared hungry but ate only a small portion of it. The remainder he took in his mouth, and ran away. The shepherd followed him. It was with difficulty, that he kept his track, fording a swift streamlet, and descending into a terrible ravine.

Then he entered a cave. And what was his joy to see there his little, lost son. He was eating heartily the bread which the dog had brought him, while he, standing by, and wagging his tail, looked up in his face with delight, as he took the food, which he nobly denied himself.

It seems that the dog was with the child, when, in the dimness of the mist, he wandered away. He must have aided him to pass the deep waters that crossed his path. And when he found shelter in that rude cavern, and mourned for his parents, the faithful dog guarded him like a father, and fed him with a mother's tenderness.

How can we fail to treat with kindness, a race of animals, that are capable of such virtues. Others, that are less celebrated, often show traits of character, which are worthy of imitation. Let us hear the opinion of the poet Cowper, on this interesting subject.

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

Birds give us an example of tender affection. There is no warfare in their nests. The little brothers and sisters dwell together in harmony, till they are able to stretch out the newly-plumed wing, and quit the care of the parent. Say they not to us, as they sing among the branches, "_Live in love!_"

The innocent dove, is cited as a model in the Book of God. "Be ye harmless as doves," said our Saviour, to his disciples. The stork spreads out its broad pinions, and bears its aged parents, on their journey through the air. It feeds and cherishes them with the same care, that it received in its own helpless infancy. Shall we not learn from it a lesson of filial piety?

Once, a robin, in returning to her nest, was shot dead. The mate mourned bitterly for her loss, but took her place upon the nest. There he brooded, until the young came forth from the egg, and then he sought food, and fed them like a mother, until they were able to fly away.

Often while he was performing her duties, and always at the close of day, his plaintive note was heard, lamenting his lost love. Ah! who could be so wicked as to destroy the nest, or the eggs, or the young, of those affectionate creatures. Our Father in Heaven, "taketh care of sparrows, and feedeth the young ravens that cry."

The Trembling Eyelid.

It was the day before Christmas, in the year 1778, during our war of revolution, that an armed vessel sailed out of Boston. She was strongly built, and carried twenty guns, and a crew of one hundred and five persons; with provisions for a cruise of six months.

She made a fine appearance, as she spread her broad sails, and steered out of the harbour. Many hearts wished her success. And she bore as goodly a company of bold and skilful seamen, as ever braved the perils of the deep.

Soon the north wind blew, and brought a heavy sea into the bay. The night proved dark, and they came to anchor with difficulty, near the harbour of Plymouth. The strong gale that buffeted them became a storm, and the storm a hurricane.

Snow fell, and the cold was terribly severe. The vessel was driven from her moorings, and struck on a reef of rocks. She began to fill with water, and they were obliged to cut away her masts. The sea rose above her main deck, sweeping over it with its dark surges.

They made every exertion that courage could prompt, or hardihood endure. But so fearful were the wind and cold, that the stoutest man was not able to strike more than two or three blows, in cutting away the masts, without being relieved by another.

The wretched people thronged together upon the quarter-deck, which was crowded almost to suffocation. They were exhausted with toil and suffering, but could obtain neither provisions, nor fresh water. These were all covered by the deep sea, when the vessel became a wreck.

But, unfortunately, the crew got access to ardent spirits, and many of them drank, and became intoxicated. Insubordination, mutiny, and madness ensued. The officers, remained clear-minded, but lost all authority over the crew, who raved around them.

A more frightful scene, can scarcely be imagined: the dark sky, the raging storm, the waves breaking wildly over the rocks, and threatening every moment to swallow up the broken vessel; and the half-frozen beings who maintained their icy hold on life, lost to reason, and to duty, or fighting fiercely with each other.

Some lay in disgusting stupidity; others, with fiery faces, blasphemed God. Some, in temporary delirium, fancied themselves in palaces, surrounded by luxury, and brutally abused the servants, who, they supposed, refused to do their bidding.

Others there were, who, amid the beating of that pitiless tempest, believed themselves in the homes that they never more must see, and with hollow, reproachful voices, besought bread, and wondered why water was withheld from them by the hands that were most dear.

A few, whose worst passions were quickened by alcohol to a fiend-like fury, assaulted or wounded those who came in their way, making their shrieks of defiance, and their curses heard above the roar of the storm. Intemperance never displayed itself in more distressing attitudes.

At length, Death began to do his work. The miserable creatures fell every hour upon the deck, frozen, stiff, and hard. Each corpse, as it became breathless, was laid upon a heap of dead, that more space might be left for the survivors. Those who drank most freely, were the first to perish.

On the third day of these horrors, the inhabitants of Plymouth, after making many ineffectual attempts, reached the wreck, not without danger. What a melancholy spectacle! Lifeless bodies, hardened into every form that suffering could devise.

Many lay in a vast pile. Others sat, with their heads reclining on their knees; others, grasping the ice-covered ropes; some in a posture of defence like the dying gladiator: and others, with hands held up to heaven, as if deprecating their awful fate.

Orders were given to search earnestly for every mark or sign of life. One boy was distinguished amid a mass of dead, only by the trembling of one of his eyelids. The poor survivors were kindly received into the houses of the people of Plymouth, and every effort used for their restoration.

The captain and lieutenant, and a few others, who had abstained from the use of ardent spirits, survived. The remainder were buried, some in separate graves, and others in a large pit, whose hollow is still to be seen, on the south-west side of the burial ground in Plymouth.

The funeral obsequies were most solemn. When the clergyman, who was to perform the last services, first entered the church, and saw more than seventy dead bodies; some fixing upon him their stony eyes, and others, with faces, stiffened into the horrible expression of their last mortal agony, he was so affected as to faint.

Some, were brought on shore alive, and received every attention, but survived only a short time. Others, were restored after long sickness, but with limbs so injured by frost, as to become cripples for life.

In a village, at some distance from Plymouth, a widowed mother, with her daughter, were seen constantly attending a couch, on which lay a sufferer. It was the boy, whose trembling eyelid attracted the notice of pity, as he lay among the dead.

"Mother," he said in a feeble tone, "God bless you for having taught me to avoid ardent spirits. It was this that saved me. After those around me grew intoxicated, I had enough to do to protect myself from them.

"Some attacked, and dared me to fight; others pressed the poisonous draught to my lips, and bade me drink. My lips and throat were parched with thirst. But I knew if I drank with them, I must lose my reason as they did, and perhaps, blaspheme my Maker.

"One by one they died, those poor infuriated wretches. Their shrieks and groans, still seem to ring in my ears. It was in vain that the captain and their officers, and a few good men, warned them of what would ensue, if they thus continued to drink, and tried every method in their power, to restore them to order.

"They still fed upon the fiery liquor. They grew delirious. They died in heaps. Dear mother, our sufferings from hunger and cold, you cannot imagine. After my feet were frozen, but before I lost the use of my hands, I discovered a box, among fragments of the wreck, far under water.

"I toiled with a rope to drag it up. But my strength was not sufficient. A comrade, who was still able to move a little, assisted me. At length, it came within our reach. We hoped that it might contain bread, and took courage.

"Uniting our strength we burst it open. It contained only a few bottles of olive oil. Yet we gave God thanks. For we found that by occasionally moistening our lips with it, and swallowing a little, it allayed the gnawing, burning pain in the stomach.

"Then my comrade died. And I lay beside him, like a corpse, surrounded by corpses. Presently, the violence of the tempest, that had so long raged, subsided, and I heard quick footsteps, and strange voices amid the wreck, where we lay.

"They were the blessed people of Plymouth, who had dared every danger, to save us. They lifted in their arms, and wrapped in blankets, all who could speak. Then they earnestly sought all who could move. But every drunkard, was among the dead.

"And I was so exhausted with toil, and suffering, and cold, that I could not stretch a hand to my deliverers. They passed me again and again. They carried the living to the boat. I feared that I was left behind.

"Then I prayed earnestly, in my heart, 'Oh, Lord, for the sake of my widowed mother, for the sake of my dear sister, save me.' I believed that the last man had gone, and besought the Redeemer to receive my spirit.

"But I felt a warm breath on my face. I strained every nerve. My whole soul strove and shuddered within me. Still my body was immovable as marble. Then a loud voice said, 'Come back and help me out with this poor lad. One of his eyelids trembles. He lives!'

"Oh, the music of that voice to me! The trembling eyelid, and the prayer to God, and your lessons of temperance, my mother, saved me." Then the loving sister embraced him with tears, and the mother said, "Praise be to Him who hath spared my son, to be the comfort of my old age."

Peaceful Dispositions.

The history of every nation tells of the shedding of blood. The most ancient annals record "wars and fightings," ever since man was placed upon the earth. Both savage and civilized nations have prized the trappings of the warrior, and coveted the glory of victory.

Yet have there always been some reflecting minds, to lament that the beings whom God had so nobly endowed, should delight to destroy each other. They have felt that there was suffering enough in the world, without man's inflicting it on his brother; and that life was short enough, without being made still shorter by violence.

Among the most warlike nations, there have been a few calm and philanthropic spirits, to perceive that war was an evil, or to deplore it as a judgment, even before the Gospel breathed "good-will and peace," in an angel's song. Though Rome grew up by bloodshed, and gained her dominion by the sword, yet some of her best emperors deplored the evils of war.

Adrian loved peace, and endeavoured to promote it. He saw that war was a foe to those arts and sciences, through which nations become prosperous and refined. He felt that the cultivation of the earth, the pursuits of commerce, and the progress of intellect, must alike be obstructed and languish, while the business of men was in the field of battle.

Titus Antoninus Pius desired to live in peace with every one. "I had rather save the life of one citizen," he nobly said, "than destroy a thousand enemies." His successor, Marcus Aurelius, considered war both as a disgrace and calamity. Though the necessity of the times sometimes forced him into it, his heart revolted, for he was inspired with the love of learning and philosophy.

Yet these were heathen emperors. They had never imbibed the spirit of the Gospel. They were not followers of Him, whose last accents was a prayer for his murderers. The maxim of the ancient Jews was, "an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth." But the precept of Jesus Christ is, "see that ye love one another." The contentious spirit was not therefore condemned by the law of Moses, nor by the mythology of the heathen.

Have you ever thought much, my dear young friends, of the miseries of war? of the waste of human life which it causes? of the bitter mourning which it makes in families? You pity a friend who suffers pain, a poor cripple upon crutches, or even a child with a cut finger.

But, after a battle, what gashes and gaping wounds are seen, what multitudes of mangled carcases. How red is the earth with flowing blood, how terrible are the groans of the dying, trampled beneath the feet of horses, or suffocated under heaps of dead. How fearful to see strong men convulsed with agony, and imploring help in vain.

Think too, of the sorrow in their distant homes. Grey-headed parents, from whom the last prop is taken away, lamenting their sons fallen in battle. Wives mourning for their husbands, little children weeping because their fathers must return no more. Neighbourhoods, once happy and prosperous, plunged into poverty, by the loss of those who provided them with bread.

All these evils, and many more, which we have neither room nor time to mention, may come from a single battle. Towns and cities are sometimes burned, and the aged and helpless destroyed. Mothers, and their innocent babes, perish in the ruins of their own beloved abodes.

War produces cruelty, and bad passions. Men, who have no cause to dislike each other, meet as deadly foes. They raise weapons of destruction, and exult in the misery they inflict. Rulers, should take a solemn view of the sufferings and sins of war, ere they plunge the people into it, for differences which might have been amicably settled.

War is expensive. The political economist should therefore oppose it. Great Britain, in her last war with France, is said to have spent more than seven hundred millions of pounds. But the immediate cost of armies, is but a part of the expense of war.

Who can compute the amount of losses by the obstruction of tillage and commerce, and the waste of life; for every full-grown, able-bodied man, is of value to the country that reared him. We may say with the poet,

"War is a game, that, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at."

Howard, who felt that it was more noble to save life than to destroy it, visited the prisons of distant lands, to relieve such as have no helper; and blessings, in foreign languages, were poured upon his head. Bonaparte caused multitudes to be slain and multitudes to mourn, and died in exile, on a desolate island. When death approached, to strip the pomp from titles, whose bosom must have been the most peaceful, when about to pass into the presence of God?

The religious sect, who are called Friends, never engage in warfare. The State of Pennsylvania, was settled by them. William Penn, its founder, purchased it of the natives, and lived with them in amity. They gathered around him, with their dark, red brows, and, gazing earnestly in his face, said, "You are our father. We love you."

When he purchased the land of them, he appeared unarmed, under the spreading branches of a lofty oak, and conferred with their chiefs. He paid them to their satisfaction, gave them gifts, and entered into articles of friendship with them and their descendants. "This is the only treaty which was confirmed without an oath," said an historian, "and the only one that was never broken."

These men of peace, treated the sons of the forest as brethren. But in other colonies, there were distressing wars. The settlers carried their guns to the corn-field, and laboured in fear, for the safety of their households. The tomahawk and scalping-knife were sometimes secretly raised, so that when they returned home, there was no wife or children there, only dead bodies. A savage foe had chosen this terrible form of vengeance, for real or supposed wrongs.

If true glory belongs to those who do great good to mankind, is not the glory of the warrior a false glory? Does not History sometimes confer on her heroes, a fame which religion condemns? But we ask how are wars to be prevented? Might not one nation act as mediator between others, as a good man makes peace between contending neighbours?

Why should not one Christian ruler address another, as the patriarch Abraham did his kinsman? "Let there be no strife, betwixt us, I pray thee; _for we are brethren_." If there have been always wars from the beginning, is this any reason why there should be unto the end? Do not the Scriptures of Truth foretell a happy period on earth, when there shall be war no more? How beautifully has a poet versified the cheering prediction:

"No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet, with hateful eyes, Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, But brazen trumpet kindle rage no more, The useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad faulchion in a ploughshare end. For wars shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail, Returning Justice lift aloft her scale. Peace o'er the earth her olive wand extend, And white-rob'd righteousness from Heaven descend."

War proceeds from the unbridled passions, or restless ambition of men. Unkind and quarrelsome dispositions in children are the germs of such evil fruit. Ought not then, the remedy to be early applied to the heart, from whence they spring? For if the love of peace, was planted, and cherished carefully in the breast of every little child, would there not grow up a generation, who would help to banish war from the earth?

Avoid contention with your companions. Use no offensive words, and when you see others disagree, strive to reconcile them. Repress every revengeful feeling. If any one has injured you, do not injure them. Try to set them a better example. If any speak unfavourably of you, it is well to do them some good office. Perhaps you can lend them an interesting, instructive book, whose perusal would lead them to kinder dispositions.