40 Sermon Illustrations on Peace

Oilcloth and linoleum may both look bright and shiny, but under the stress of daily wear the cheap oilcloth soon wears out, while the inlaid linoleum gives good service for many years. The stresses of life soon show up the shoddy material of which human peace is made, but stress only brings out more brilliantly the divine peace that Christ brings to the heart.

Two painters were asked to paint a picture illustrating peace. The first painted a beautiful evening scene in the foreground of which was a lake, its surface absolutely calm and unruffled. Trees surrounded it, meadows stretched away to the distant cattle gently browsing; a little cottage, the setting sun-all spoke of perfect rest. The second painter drew a wild, stormy scene. Heavy black clouds hung overhead; in the center of the picture an immense waterfall poured forth huge volumes of water covered with foam. One could almost hear its unceasing roar, yet perhaps the first thing to strike the eye was a small bird, perched in a cleft of a huge rock, absolutely sheltered from all danger, pouring forth its sweet notes of joy. It is the second painter who could describe the peace that passeth all understanding which is the Lord Jesus Christ, the wisdom of God in the heart of the redeemed. One can only have peace with himself if he has peace with God.

I have been reminded in the South Seas of the olive-branches, which, ever since the days of Noah, have been emblematical of peace. One day in 1848, when Capt. Morgan, Mr. Nisbet, and I were backing out into deep water to get clear of some shallow coral-patches, and to look for a better passage for our boat, the natives on the shore, thinking we were afraid of them, ran and broke off branches from the trees, and waved, or held them erect in their raised hands. I afterwards learned that our conjecture at the time was right: it was a sign of peace and friendship. A party, for instance, who had been fighting, and wished to sue for peace, would approach the enemy with green boughs, as the signal of their pacific and friendly intentions. Turner.

The child frightened in his play runs to seek his mother. She takes him upon her lap, and presses his head to her bosom; and, with tenderest words of love, she looks down upon him, and smooths his hair, and kisses his cheek, and wipes away his tears. And then, in a low and gentle voice, she sings some sweet descant, some lullaby of love; and the fear fades out from his face, and a smile of satisfaction plays over it, and at length his eyes close, and he sleeps in the deep depths and delights of peace. God Almighty is the mother, and the soul is the tired child; and he folds it in his arms, and dispels its fear, and lulls it to repose, saying, "Sleep, my darling, sleep! It is I who watch thee." "He giveth his beloved sleep." The mother's arms encircle but one; but God clasps every yearning soul to his bosom, and gives to it the peace which passeth understanding, beyond the reach of care or storm. Beecher.

Aristippus and Æschines having quarrelled, Aristippus came to his opponent, and said, "Æschines, shall we be friends?"—"Yes," he replied: "with all my heart."—"But remember," said Aristippus, "that I, being older than you, do make the first motion."—"Yes," replied Æschines: "and therefore I conclude that you are the worthiest man; for I began the strife, and you began the peace."

"I thank God," said Dr. Watts in his old age, "that I can lie down with comfort at night, not being solicitous whether I wake in this world or in another." "I am as happy as I can be out of paradise," said a poor Methodist soldier whose limbs had been shot off on the battle-field of Fontenoy.

Gotthold said to one who had left another rather than avenge an insult, "Tell me, my friend, were you climbing a hill and were a great stone or block to be rolled down towards you, would you consider it disgraceful to step aside, and allow it to rush past? If not, what disgrace can there be in avoiding and giving way to a man instigated by drink or anger, until he has had time for reflection, and his agitated mind finds rest in repentance? He who breaks his will and yields is ascending; he who gives the reins to his passions is falling."

Mr. Johnston of West Africa says, that in visiting a sick communicant, his wife being present, he asked them several questions, one of which was, if they lived in peace together. The man answered, "Sometimes I say a word my wife no like, or my wife talk or do what I no like; but, when we want to quarrel, we shake hands together, shut the door, and go to prayer: and so we get peace again."

"I had," the Apostle of Peace used to say, in relating the anecdote, "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 would spring over the highest fence, and no partition wall could keep them out. I complained to neighbor Pulsifer about them, sent him 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 more tempting than the adjoining pasture. I rode by again—the sheep were still there; 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 teaching to others?' I thought it all over, and settled down in 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 answer. 'Good morning!' I repeated. He gave a kind of grunt without looking up. 'I came,' continued I, 'to see about the sheep.' At this, he threw down his axe and exclaimed, in an 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 won't 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.'

"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 with good. There is no other way."

Mr. Philip Henry relates a remarkable story concerning a good old friend of his, who, when young, being an orphan, was greatly wronged by his uncle. His portion, which was £200, was put into the hands of that uncle; who, when he grew up, shuffled with him, and would give him but £40, instead of his £200, and he had no way of recovering his right but by law. But, before he would engage in that, he was willing to advise with his minister, who was the famous Dr. Twiss, of Newberry. The counsel he gave him, all things considered, was, for peace's sake, and for the preventing of sin, and snares, and troubles, to take the £40 rather than contend; "and Thomas," said the doctor, "if thou dost so, assure thyself that God will make it up to thee and thine some other way, and they that defraud will be the losers by it at last." He did so, and it pleased God so to bless that little which he began the world with, that when he died in a good old age, he left his son possessed of some hundreds a year, whilst he that had wronged him fell into poverty.

A little before the revolutionary war, there were a few families of Friends, who had removed from Dutchess county, and settled at Easton, then in Saratoga county, New-York. These requested the favor of holding a religious meeting, which was granted. The section of country proved to be one which was so much distressed by scouting parties from both the British and American armies, that the American government, unable to protect the inhabitants, issued a proclamation, directing them to leave their country; and they did generally go. Friends requested to be permitted to exercise their own judgment, (saying, "You are clear of us in that you have warned us.") remained at their homes, and kept up their meeting.

Robert Nisbet, who lived at that time at East Hoosack, about thirty miles distant, felt a desire to walk through the then wilderness country, and sit with Friends at their week-day meeting. As they were sitting in meeting, with their door open, they discovered an Indian peeping round the door post. When he saw Friends sitting without word or deed, he stepped forward and took a full view of what was in the house: then he and his company, placing their arms in a corner of the room, took seats with Friends, and so remained till the meeting closed.

Zebulon Hoxie, one of the Friends present, then invited them to his house, put a cheese and what bread he had on the table, and invited them to help themselves: they did so, and went quietly and harmlessly away.

Before their departure, however, Robert Nisbet, who could speak and understand the French language, had a conversation with their leaders in French. He told Robert, that they surrounded the house, intending to destroy all that were in it; "but," said he, "when we saw you sitting with your door open, and without weapons of defence, we had no disposition to hurt you—we would have fought for you." This party had human scalps with them.

(f). WHITE FEATHER OF PEACE.—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 over the Quaker's humble abode gently waved the white feather of peace, and beneath it his family slept without harm or fear.

These islands are in the neighborhood of the Chinese Sea. They have been visited by several navigators, and, among others, by Captain Basil Hall. He states that they have neither forts, men-of-war, garrisons, arms, nor soldiers, and appear to be quite ignorant of the art of war. They are kind, hospitable, courteous, and honest, and acquainted with some of the mechanical arts. Well, what has been their fate? Reasoning on the rash premises of the opponents of peace principles, we should predict their utter destruction. But have they been destroyed? Quite the contrary. They have been preserved in peace, safety, and happiness. "The olive branch" is planted on their shores, and they sit beneath it. "no man daring to make them afraid."

The following anecdote is related of General ——. He was engaged on a tour to the northwest, some time after the war of 1812-15, for the purpose, among other objects, of selecting and obtaining from the Indians a site for a military post. He was attended by a small party, and they were unarmed. Before he had succeeded in his object, the Indians conceived a design for murdering him and his party; and they accordingly fixed the time for carrying their purpose into execution. A trader who resided on the spot, communicated the plot to the general, and proposed, as the only possible chance of escape, that he should take shelter in his house, supposing that he might perhaps have interest with them sufficient to keep them from breaking into his house to perpetrate the intended massacre. The general received the intelligence—his own observation of the countenances and movements of the Indians left him no room to doubt its correctness; but he was unwilling to accept the offer of the trader. He thought it would derogate from the character he had obtained, to leave his tent and take shelter in a private house. His situation was perilous.

The hour had almost arrived, and there was no possibility of escape or defence. In this extremity, he determined on a bold experiment. With the aid of the trader, though not without difficulty, he succeeded in collecting the chiefs in council; but their menacing countenances gave evidence of the determination they had formed. At that critical moment, the assembly exhibited a most interesting scene. The general, with his little handful of men, all unarmed, in the heart of the Indian country, was surrounded by many times their own number of Indians, determined on their work of death, equipped for the horrid purpose, and waiting for the signal of onset.

The general arose with composure. He told them the object of his visit— that their happiness was also contemplated—that he came among them as brothers. He had brought no forces, nor even arms, with which to defend himself. "You see," said he, "I have nothing but this," stretching out his hand with his cane. He reminded them that he was in the midst of their people, and he looked to them for protection.

They had listened with increasing attention to his discourse thus far. But here they would no longer remain in silent attention. They leaped from their seats, and rushing to him with all the ardor of friendship, they caught him in their arms, hugged him, gave him every assurance of protection, and during his hasty stay among them, fully realized their promises.

Rev. John Clark, of Frome (Eng.), was a man of peace. He was asked one day, by a friend, how he kept himself from being involved in quarrels. He answered, "By letting the angry person always have the quarrel to himself." This saving seems to have had some influence on some of the inhabitants of that town; for, when a quarrel has been likely to ensue, they have said, "Come, let us remember old Mr. Clark, and leave the angry man to quarrel by himself." If this maxim were followed, it would be a vast saving of expense, of comfort, and of honor to thousands of the human race.

A young lad says Mr. Wright, was once rowing me across the Merrimack river in a boat. Some boatmen, going down the river with lumber, had drawn up their boat and anchored it on the spot where the boy wished to land me.

"There!" he exclaimed, "those boatmen have left their boat right in my way."

"What did they do that for?" I asked. "On purpose to plague me," said he; "but I will cut it loose, and let it go down the river. I would have them know I can be as ugly as they can."

"But, my lad," said I, "you should not plague them because they plague you. Because they are ugly to you, it is no reason why you should be to them. Besides, how do you know they did it to vex and trouble you?"

"But they had no business to leave it there—it is against the rules," said he.

"True," I replied, "and you have no business to send their boat down the river. Would it not be better to ask them to remove it out of the way?"

"They will not comply, if I do," said the angry boy, "and they will do so again."

"Well, try it for once," said I. "Just run your boat a little above, or a little below theirs, and see if they will not favor you, when they see you disposed to give way to accommodate them."

The boy complied; and when the men in the boat saw the little fellow quietly and pleasantly pulling at his oars, to run his boat ashore above them, they took hold and helped him, and wheeled their boat around, and gave him all the chance he wished.

Thus, by submitting pleasantly to what he believed was done to vex him, the boy prevented a quarrel. Had he

# 362. REASON, IN:

Franklin was a staunch opposer of the war-system. "If statesmen," says he, "were more accustomed to calculation, wars would be much less frequent. Canada might have been purchased from France for a tenth part of the money England spent in the conquest of it; and if, instead of fighting us for the power to tax us, she had kept us in good humor by allowing us to dispose of our own money, and giving us now and then a little of her own by way of donation to colleges or hospitals, for cutting canals, or fortifying ports, she might easily have drawn from us much more by occasional voluntary grants and contributions, than ever she could by taxes. Sensible people will give a bucket or two of water to a dry pump, in order to get from it afterwards all they want."

"After much occasion to consider the folly and mischiefs of a state of warfare, and the little or no advantage obtained even by those nations which have conducted it with the most success, I have been apt to think there has never been, nor ever will be, any such thing as a good war, or a bad peace. All wars are follies, very expensive and very mischievous ones. When will mankind be convinced of this, and agree to settle their difficulties by arbitration? Were they to do it even by the cast of a die, it would be better than by fighting and destroying each other. We daily make great improvements in natural philosophy; there is one I wish to see in moral—the discovery of a plan that would induce and oblige nations to settle their disputes without first cutting one another's throats."

"I have been as enthusiastic and joyful as any one after victory; yet I confess that even then the sight of a field of battle not only struck me with horror, but even turned me sick. And now that I am advanced in life, I cannot understand any more than I could at fifteen years of age, how beings who call themselves reasonable, and who have so much foresight, can employ this short existence, not in loving and aiding each other, as passing through it as quietly as possible, out in striving, on the contrary, to destroy each other, as though time itself did not do this with sufficient rapidity. What I thought at fifteen years of age, I still think, that war, and the pain of death which society draws upon itself, are but organized barbarisms, an inheritance of the savage state."

"My principles—I know not whether they agree with yours: they may be derided, they may be unfashionable; but I hope they are spreading far and wide—my principles are contained in the words which that great man, Lord Faulkland, used to express in secret, and which I now express in public—Peace, PEACE, PEACE. I abominate war as unchristian. I hold it the greatest of human crimes. I deem it to include all others—violence, blood, rapine, fraud, every thing which can deform the character, alter the nature, and debase the name of man."

"A distinguished instructor of youth," says the late William Ladd, "told me his sons were so taken up with military notions, that he could not reason with them; and he asked me to talk to them. I took the oldest boy, aged about seven years, between my knees, and something like the following conversation ensued:— 'Do you love to see the soldiers?' 'Yes, I love to see the rub-a-dubs.' 'Would you like to be one yourself?' 'O, yes!' 'Well, but do you know what these soldiers are for?' 'No.' 'Why, they are learning to kill people. Those bright guns are made to kill people with, and those bright bayonets to stab them with.' The boy turned pale; such a thought never before entered his head. 'Do you know who killed the little babes in Bethlehem, because a wicked man told them to?' 'No.' 'They were soldiers. Do you know who crucified our Lord, and drove the spikes through his hands and feet?' The boy was silent. 'They were soldiers, and soldiers would burn your house, and cut down your fruit-trees, and kill your pa, if they were told to.' Both the boys were astonished; tears stood in their eyes. 'Do you want to be a soldier?' 'No.' 'Do you want to see the rub-a-dubs?' 'No.' How easy for a mother or teacher to impress such artless, susceptible minds with the horrors of war, and cast their views and feelings in the mould of peace!

The New-York Journal of Commerce has the following article, depicting the happiness which the news of peace spread in New-York:—

Years ago, the office of the old Gazette was in Hanover Square, near the corner of Pearl-street. It was a place of resort for news and conversation, especially in the evening. The evening of February 15th, 1815, was cold, and at a late hour only Alderman Cebra and another gentleman were left with father Lang, the genius of the place. The office was about being closed, when a pilot rushed in and stood for a moment so entirely exhausted as to be unable to speak. "He has great news!" exclaimed Mr. Lang. Presently the pilot, gasping for breath, whispered intelligibly, "Peace! peace!" The gentlemen lost their breath as fast as the pilot gained his. Directly the pilot was able to say, "An English sloop-of-war is below with the news of a treaty of peace." They say that Mr. Lang exclaimed in greater words than he ever used before or after. All hands rushed into Hanover Square, crying, "Peace! peace! peace!" The windows flew up, for families lived there then. No sooner were the inmates sure of the sweet sound of peace, than the windows began to glow with brilliant illuminations. The cry of "Peace! peace! peace!" spread through the city at the top of all voices. No one stopped to inquire about "free trade and sailor's rights."

### 439. WORSHIP