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veneration for Claude, and, humbly beseeching his forgiveness, implored to be taught a religion which could do such great things. Claude, raising the penitent, and embracing him with tears, showed him the necessity of an entire and thorough change. Nor were his instructions in vain ; they effected a complete alteration in the man, and he became pious, gentle and resigned, a tiger transformed into a lamb.

Take also the case of Archbishop Sharpe and the footpad. His lordship, when riding alone, was met by a well-looking young man, who presented a pistol to his breast, and demanded his money. The archbishop, with great composure, turned about, and, looking steadfastly at him, desired he would remove that dangerous weapon, and tell him fairly his condition. “Sir! Sir!” with great agitation, cried the youth,“ no words, tis not a time—your money instantly." —Hear me, young man,' said the archbishop; you see I am an old man, and my life is of very little consequence; yours seems far otherwise. I am named Sharpe, and am archbishop of York; my carriage and servants are behind. Tell me what money you want, and who you are; and I will not injure you, but prove a friend. Here, take this,' giving him his purse ; "and now ingenuously tell me how much you want to make you independent of so destructive a business as you are now engaged in.' “Oh, Sir," replied the man, “I detest the business as much as you. I am-but-but at home there are creditors who will not stay; fifty pounds, my lord, indeed would do what no tongue besides my own can tell." "Well, Sir, I take it on your word ; and, upon my honor, if you will, in a day or two, call on me, what Í have now given shall be made up that sum.' The highwayman went off, and at the time appointed, actually waited on the archbishop, and assured him his words had left impressions which nothing could ever destroy.

Nothing more transpired for nearly two years, when a person knocked at his grace's gate, and with a peculiar earnestness desired to see him. The archbishop ordered the stranger to be brought in. He entered the room where his lordship was, but had scarce advanced a few steps before his countenance changed, his knees tottered, and he sank almost breathless on the floor. On recovering, he requested an audience in private. The aparts. ment being cleared, "My Lord,” said he, "you cannot have forgotten the circumstances at such a time and place ; gratitude will never suffer them to be obliterated from my mind. In me, my lord, you behold that once most wretched of mankind, but now, by your inexpressible humanity, rendered equal, perhaps superior, in happiness to millions. Oh, my lord,” (tears for a while preventing his utterance,) " ?tis you, 'tis you, that have saved me, body and soul ; 'tis you that have saved a dear and much-loved wife, and a little brood of children, whom I loved dearer than my life. Here are the fifty pounds; but never shall I find language to testify what I feel. I was the younger son of a wealthy man ; your lordship knows him, his name was

My marriage alienated his affection, and my brother withdrew his love, and left

me to Sorrow and penury. A month since, my brother died a bachelor, and intestate. What was his, is become mine; and, by your astonishing goodness, I am at once the most penitent, most grateful, and happiest of my species."

Washington, far more a man of peace than of war, once gave a fine and impressive illustration of the peace principle. When stationed in early life at Alexandria, with a regiment under his command, he grew warm at an election, and said something offensive to a Mr. Payne who, with one blow of his cane, brought him to the ground.' On hearing of the insult, the regiment, burning for revenge, started for the city ; but Washington met them, and beg. ged them, by their regard for him, to return peaceably to their barracks. Finding himself in the wrong, he nobly resolved to make an honorable reparation, and next morning sent a polite note requesting Payne to meet him at the tavern. Payne took it for a challenge, and went in expectation of a duel; but what was his surprise to find instead of pistols, a decanter of wine on the table. Washington rose to meet him, and said with a smile, “ Mr. Payne, to err is human; but to correct our errors is always honorable. I' believe I was wrong yesterday; you have had, I think, some satisfaction; and if you deem that sufficient, here is my handlet us be friends.” Such an act few could resist; and Payne became from that moment through life, an enthusiastic friend and admirer of Washington.

This principle has a peculiar charm for the young. 'One day,' says a city missionary in Boston, 'I visited one of the primary schools. Some fifty children, from four to eight years old, were present. A boy about seven years old, and his sister about five, sat near me, and while I was talking to the school, George doubled up his fist, and struck his sister on the head. She was angry in a moment, and raised her hand to strike him back. The teacher, happening to see her at the instant, promptly said, “ Mary, you had better kiss your brother.” The girl dropped her hand, and looked up at her teacher as if she did not understand her. She had never been taught to return good for evil, but thought, if her brother struck her, she must strike him back. The teacher, looking very kindly both at her and at George, said again, “ My dear Mary, you had better kiss your brother. See how angry and unhappy he looks!” Mary looked at her brother, who seemed very sullen and wretched; but soon forgetting her resentment, she threw both her arms round his neck, and kissed him. The poor boy, wholly unprepared for such a return, burst into a flood of tears. The gentle sister, taking the corner of her apron, and wiping away his tears, sought to comfort him by saying, “don't cry, George, you did n't hurt me much ;” but he only cried the harder.'

of the same tenor is the story of William Ladd and his neighbor. “I had,” said he, “a fine field of grain growing upon an out-farm at some distance from the homestead. Whenever I rode by, I saw my neighbor Pulsifer's sheep in the lot, destroying my hopes of a harvest. These sheep were of the gaunt, long-legged kind, active as spaniels; they could spring over the highest fence,

answer.

and no partition-wall could keep them out. I complained to neighbor Pulsifer about them, and sent frequent messages, but all without avail. Perhaps they would be kept out for a day or two; but the legs of his sheep were long, and my grain rather more tempting than the adjoining pasture. I became angry, and told my men to set the dogs on them; and if that would not do, I would pay them if they would shoot the sheep.

“ I rode away much agitated, for I was not so much of a peace man then as I am now, and I felt literally full of fight. All at once a light flashed in upon me. I asked myself, would it not be well for you to try in your own conduct the peace principle you are preaching to others? I thought it all over, and settled down my mind as to the best course to be pursued.

“ The next day I rode over to see neighbor Pulsifer. I found him chopping wood at his door. 'Good morning, neighbor. No

Good morning,'I repeated. He gave a kind of grunt like a hog, without looking up. 'I came,' continued I, “to see about the sheep.' At this he threw down his axe, and exclaimed, in a ost angry manner, now aren't you a pretty neighbor, to tell your men to kill my sheep? I heard of it-a rich man like you to shoot a poor man's sheep!'

“I was wrong, neighbor,' said I; but it wont do to let your sheep eat up all that grain; so I came over to say that I would take your sheep to my homestead pasture, and put them in with mine, and in the fall you may take them back, and if any one is missing, you may take your pick out of my whole flock.'

“ Pulsifer looked confounded-he did not know how to take me. At last he stammered out, "now, Squire, are you in earnest ?' Certainly I am, I answered; "it is better for me to feed your sheep in my pasture on grass, than to feed them here on grain ; and I see the fence can't keep them out.'

66 After a moment's silence the sheep shan't trouble you any more,' exclaimed Pulsifer. 'I will fetter them all. But I'll let you know that when any man talks of shooting, I can shoot too, and when they are kind and neighborly, I can be kind too. The sheep never again trespassed on my lot. And my friends," he would continue, addressing the audience, “ remember that when you talk of injuring your neighbors, they will talk of injuring you. When nations threaten to fight, other nations will be ready too. Love will beget love; a wish to be at peace, will keep you in peace. You can overcome evil only with good.”

Even savages-feel the charm of this principle. About the year 1812, Indiana was the scene of Indian hostilities; but the Shakers, though without forts or arms, lived in perfect safety while the work of blood and fire was going on all around them. Why,' said the whites afterwards to one of the Indian chiefs, “why did you not attack the Shakers as well as others?' “What!” exclaimed the savage, we warriors attack a peaceable people! We fight those who wont fight us! Never; it would be a disgrace to hurt such a people."

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A family of Quakers from Pennsylvania settled at the west in a remote place, then exposed to savage incursions. They had not been there long before a party of Indians, panting for blood, started on one of their terrible excursions against the whites, and passed in the direction of the Quaker's abode; but, though disposed at first to assail him and his family as enemies, they were received with such open-hearted confidence, and treated with such cordiality and kindness, as completely disarmed them of their purpose. They came forth, not against such persons, but against their enemies. They thirsted for the blood of those who had injured them; but these children of peace, unarmed and entirely defenceless, met them only with accents of love, and deeds of kindness. It was not in the heart even of a savage to harm them; and, on leaving the Quaker's house, the Indians took a white feather, and stuck it over the door, to designate the place as a sanctuary not to be harmed by their brethren in arms. Nor was it harmed. The war raged all around it; the forest echoed often to the Indian's yell, and many a white man's hearth was drenched in his own blood; but ver the Quaker's humble abode gently waved the white feather of peace, and beneath it his family slept without harm or fear.

The early history of America is replete with such instances of personal preservation. Most horrible was the Indian's mode of wreaking vengeance on his foes. By day he lurked in ambush along their path, and shot them down without warning; at night he prowled around their pillow of repose, kindled the flames over their heads, and made their own dwelling their funeral pile. From such dangers most of the inhabitants sought safety by retiring to fortified places; and persons, when compelled to pass beyond the range of such protection, provided themselves with arms for their defence. Such was the general policy ; but the Quakers, true to their pacific principles, would neither arm themselves, nor retire to garrisons. While their neighbors were flying to forts for safety, they remained openly in the country, and pursued their ordinary occupations at home, or in the field, without a weapon for annoyance or defence. Were they butchered in cold blood ? No; they all escaped unhurt except three. And how came these to fall victims? They abandoned their pacific principles, and then were killed, not as men of peace, but solely as men of blood. Two were men who had been wont to pursue their labors in the open field without weapons, in simple reliance on God; but, being seized with fear, they took weapons for their defence, and the Indians who had hitherto spared them as peace-men, now regarded them as enemies, and shot them. The third victim was a widow who refused for a time the proffered shelter of a garrison, and continued with her children safe in her defenceless habitation; but, impelled at length by “a slavish fear,” she took refuge by night in a fort not far from her dwelling, and soon after the Indians waylaid and killed her.

The efficacy of peace principles, however, is not restricted to Quakers, but extends to all of like faith and practice. A multitude of proofs might be gathered from Indian history; but we will content ourselves with a single one from the banks of the Piscataqua. Several villages early began to rise there as far up as what is now Dover, N. H. Their intercourse with the tawny sons of the forest was not always that of enemies; the latter often came forth to visit their white brethren on terms of friendship; and, on one of those occasions, a squaw, with her infant suddenly taken ill, sought a place for shelter and repose. A widow, alone with her family on the outskirts of the settlement, kindly welcomed them to her humble abode, nursed the sick babe as her own, and, when it was restored to health, sent them on their way with her blessing. That deed of kindness was not lost. Years rolled on; but the Indian did not forget his humble benefactor. Strife arose between the two races; and the Indians prepared to empty upon the place the vials of their wrath. They surrounded it at dead of night; but, before striking a single blow, they sought the poor widow's house, and placed there a guard, lest some of their warriors should, in their ignorance or heedless rage, wreak upon their friend a vengeance aimed only at their foes. This done, they went to their work of fire and blood; nor did they stay their hand until the settlement was in flames, and most of its inhabitants, save the widow and her children, were butchered, or made captives.

Such is the power of peace over savages; can it be less influential over civilized men? To this we might quote many an answer from the ferocious and terrible rebellion of 1798 in Ireland. Seldom has there been warfare more savage, passions more fierce, or the spirit of revenge more blood-thirsty and remorseless. It was a fiendish conflict, the death-struggle of neighbor against neighbor, of brother against brother. The gangrene pervaded the whole community ; every body was required to take sides, and none allowed in safety to remain neutral. Yet the Quakers, firm in their faith, did continue neutral and pacific, friends to all, enemies to none. Anticipating the storm, they had prepared to meet it by girding themselves anew with their principles, by destroying whatever weapons they chanced to have in their possession, and by exhorting each other to stand fast in their peaceful faith. The storm came, and Ireland was drenched in fraternal blood. The Quakers, in going to their places of Worship, were sometimes obliged to pass over fields of dead bodies; and repeatedly did each party in turn threaten to burn their meeting-houses over their heads, or butcher them in their own homes. The bloody strife raged week after week all around them, and up to their very doors; their own domestics were instigated to destroy them; their houses were entered by exasperated soldiers on purpose to kill them; and often did it seem well nigh impossible for them to escape a general massacre. Still the Quakers trusted in God, and were safe. Persisting in their ordinary attendance on his worship, in their refusal to take any part in the contest, and in their habits of equal kindness to sufferers from both factions, they came ere long to be respected, trusted and loved by all, and their houses became places of refuge to fugatives from each party. Their faith made them at length the..

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