But there are they-b、 the hidden log

Who came that nigh
All dead! the man and

And his beautiful Mo
He sits in his sleigh—hi.
With his cap on his head

from the town-
is faithful dog,
an brown!
face is bland—

and the reins in his hand,

The dog with his head on I is master's feet,
And the horse half seen though the crusted sleet,
Where she lay when she loundered down.

C. E. EASTMAN.

CLXI. THE MISERIES OF WAR.

THOUGH the whole race of man is doomed to dissolution, and we are all hastening to our long home; yet, at each successive moment, life and death seem to divide between them the dominion of mankind, and life to have the larger share. It is otherwise in war: death reigns there without a rival and without control. War is the work, the element, or rather the sport and triumph of death, who glories not only in the extent of his conquest, but in the richness of his spoil. In the other methods of attack, in the other forms which death assumes, the feeble and the agèd, who at the best can live but a short time, are usually the victims; here they are the vigorous and the strong.

It is remarked by the most ancient of poets, that in peace children bury their parents, in war parents bury their children: nor is the difference small. Children lament their parents, sincerely, indeed,' but with that moderate and tranquil sorrow, which it is natural for those to feel who are conscious of retaining many tender ties, many animating prospects. Parents mourn for their children with the bitterness of despair; the aged parent, the widowed mother, loses, when she is deprived of her children, everything but the capacity of suffering; her heart, withered and desolate, admits no other object, cherishes no other hope. It is Rachel weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted, because they are not. But, to confine our attention to the number of the slain, would give us a very inadequate idea of the ravages of the sword. The lot of those who perish instantaneously may be considered, apart from the religious prospects, as comparatively happy, since they are exempt from those lingering diseases and slow torments to which others are liable. We cannot see an individual expire, though a stranger, or an enemy, without being sensibly moved, and prompted by compassion to lend him every

assistance in our power. Every trace of resentment vanishes in a moment: every other emotion gives way to pity and terror. In these last extremities we remember nothing but the respect and tenderness due to our common nature.

What a scene then must a field of battle present, where thousands are left without assistance, and without pity, with their wounds exposed to the piercing air, while the blood, freezing as it flows, binds them to the earth, amidst the trampling of horses, and the insults of an enraged foe! If they are spared by the humanity of the enemy, and carried from the field, it is but a prolongation of torment. Conveyed in uneasy vehicles, often to a remote distance, through roads almost impassable, they are lodged in ill-prepared receptacles for the wounded and the sick, where the variety of distress baffles all the efforts of humanity and skill, and renders it impossible to give to each the attention he demands. Far from their native home, no tender assiduities of friendship, no well-known voice, no wife, or mother, or sister, is near to soothe their sorrows, relieve their thirst, or close their eyes in death! Unhappy man! and must you be swept into the grave unnoticed and unnumbered, and no friendly tear be shed for your sufferings, or mingled with your dust? We must remember, however, that as a very small proportion of a military life is spent in actual combat, so it is a very small part of its miseries which must be ascribed to this source. More are consumed by the rust of inactivity than by the edge of the sword; confined to a scanty or unwholesome diet, exposed in sickly climates, harʼassed with tiresome marches and perpetual alarms, their life is a continual scene of hardships and dangers. They grow familiar with hunger, cold, and watchfulness. Crowded into hospitals and prisons, contagion spreads amongst their ranks, till the ravages of disease exceed those of the enemy. We have hitherto adverted only to the sufferings of those who are engaged in the profession of arms, without taking into our account the situa tion of the countries which are the scene of hostilities. How dreadful to hold everything at the mercy of an enemy, and to receive life itself as a boon dependent on the sword! How boundless the fears which such a situation must inspire, where the issues of life and death are determined by no known laws, principles, or customs, and no conjecture can be formed of our destiny, except as far as it is dimly deciphered in characters of blood, in the dictates of revenge, and the caprices of power!

Conceive but for a moment the consternation which the approach of an invading army would impress on the peaceful villages in our own neighborhood. When you have placed yourself for an instant in that situation, you will learn to sympathize with those unhappy countries which have sustained the ravages of arms. But how is it possible to give you an idea of these horrors? Here you behold rich

harvests, the bounty of Heaven, and the reward of in'dustry, consumed in a moment, or trampled under foot, while famine and pestilence follow the steps of desolation. There the cottages of peasants given up to the flames, mothers expiring through fear, not for themselves but their infants; the inhabitants flying with their helpless babes in all directions, miserable fugitives on their native soil! In another part you witness opulent cities taken by storm; the streets, where no sounds were heard but those of peaceful industry, filled on a sudden with slaughter and blood, resounding with the cries of the pursuing and the pursued; the palaces of nobles demolished, the houses of the rich pillaged, and every age, sex, and rank, mingled in promiscuous massacre and ruin.

Then the master,

With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand;

And at the word,

Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,

The sound of hammers, blow on blow,

Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs !

She starts, she moves,-she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,

And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!

And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,-
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray,
Take her to thy protecting arms,

With all her youth and all her charms!”

Sail forth into the sea, O ship!

Through wind and wave, right onward steer! The moistened eye, the trembling lip,

Are not the signs of doubt or fear.

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity, with all its fears,

With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
We know what master laid thy keel,
What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
In what a forge and what a heat
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
'Tis of the wave, and not the rock;

'Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale!
In spite of rock and tempest roar,
In spite of false lights on the shore,
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee;
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,

Are all with thee,-are all with thee!

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

CLXIII. PRECEPTS AND EXAMPLES.

THE great Milton-a name no less sacred to virtue than to geniusdeclares that he was formed to the early love of what is amiable and good, by reading of persons who were eminent for self-denial, generosity, and devotion. "The Honorable Mr. Boyle," says Bishop Burnett, in his account of that learnèd and pious person, "had the most profound veneration for the great God of heaven and earth, that I ever observed in any man. The name of God was never mentioned by him without a pause and stop in his discourse." Lady Jane Gray, the very night before she suffered death, addressed the following exhortation to her sister, in a letter written at the end of a Greek Testament:-"I here send you, good sister Catharine, a book which, though it be not outwardly trimmed with gold, yet inwardly is of more worth than precious stones. It is the book, my dear sister, of the law of the Lord, and it will lead you into the path of eternal life."

Mungo Park, the enlightened traveler, who undertook to explore the interior of Africa, relates that being, one day, in the midst of a vast desert, and in circumstances of such overwhelming distress that he was ready to lie down and perish, a beautiful little moss accidentally caught his eye. The reflection occurred:-"Surely that Being who planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this obscure part of the world, so minute and apparently insignificant a flower, cannot look with unconcern upon the situations and sufferings of creatures formed after His own image!" This thought gave him the relief and fortitude he needed. Sir Philip Sidney, in the battle near Zutphen, was wounded by a musket-ball, which broke the bone of his thigh. He returned about a mile and a half on horseback to the camp, and being faint with the loss of blood, and probably parched with thirst, through the heat of the weather, he called for drink. It was immediately brought to him; but as he was putting the vessel to his