crees, but would rely for this purpose solely on public opinion, or the good sense of the parties, and the influence of its own reputation for integrity and wisdom.

We cannot now dwell on the details of this scheme, nor attempt the slightest argument in its favor. Its object and its fundamental principles commend themselves to every candid, reflecting mind; and, if the subject were brought fully before all Christendom, there would doubtless be found a strong desire among the mass of the people to have the experiment tried with as little delay as possible.

Such a reform, however, will not come of itself, nor be the work of a day. Means must be used; and these will require, for a series of years, the union of multitudes in all parts of Christendom. Rulers alone can do the thing; but only those in popular governments can be expected to take hold of such a project in earnest. Nor will such rulers move except at the call of the people; and the people, before they will demand it in tones not to be disregarded, must be more enlightened on the subject. There must be, for this purpose, combined, vigorous, persevering efforts. The great engines of influence upon the popular mind must be set and kept at work. The pulpit must speak; the press must speak; instructors in our seminaries of learning, from the highest to the lowest, must speak; teachers in Sabbath schools, and pious parents around their firesides, must speak; every church, every Christian, every friend of God or man, high and low, old and young, male and female, must all coöperate to recast public opinion in the mould of peace, to fill the mass of minds through Christendom with deep, undying abhorrence of war, and rouse them to demand with one voice some substitute that shall ere long supersede its atrocities and horrors forever.

To this object the following pages are a noble and eloquent contribution from one of the first writers of the age. Parts of the original work, not essential to

the cause of peace, have been omitted, with the author's consent, in the hope of bringing it within the reach of a larger number of readers; but enough still remains to furnish, in a small compass, probably the best general view of the subject that can be found in the English or any other language.

BOSTON, 1842.

G. C. B.

16

CHAPTER FIRST.

SUFFERINGS OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

WE commence with an examination of some of the evils of war. In respect to this almost inexhaustible topic, we wish to premise to the reader, that we shall attempt to give only a mere glimpse of it. So numerous are the other topics on which we shall find it proper and important to touch in the course of this work, it will not be in our power, for this reason among others, to delay upon any single one at much length. Indeed, if it were otherwise, if we had time enough, and space enough, we should probably find, on making the experiment, that a full and perfect exhibition of the evils of war is, from their very intensity and the greatness of their number, wholly beyond our power. And yet we cannot but hope that the statements which will be made, although necessarily brief, will leave such impressions upon the mind of the reader, as will be favorable to the great object we have in view, — the promotion of universal peace.

In the first place, let us consider, for a moment, the objects which are presented to our notice on the field of battle; let us place ourselves on some conspicuous spot, in the neighborhood of the place of contest, where we may not only distinctly see what is going on, but may be at liberty to indulge those reflections which such a scene and situation are calculated to inspire. The first thing that arrests our attention is the sudden discovery of large masses of men rapidly assembling together; and, as we perceive that they bear the same image, and know that they

come from the hand of the same Creator, we naturally conclude, on every principle of reason and humanity, that they are assembling for no other than just and amicable purposes. But we soon discover, to our great surprise, that their meeting and salutations, so far from being of a consultative and friendly character, are violent and threatening, and take place with every demonstration of hostility, amid the clash of swords and the bristling of bayonets. But man, even when placed in this lamentable position of crime and cruelty, discovers traits of character which show that he was formed for better things, great sagacity, promptness in the moment of peril, activity, courage, indomitable perseverance. These traits of character might be applied for great good; but here they are applied, and too dreadfully applied, in accelerating the work of destruction, to smite down the opposing combatant, to tear open the fountains of life, to roll onward the dreadful wave of war. In a few moments after these vast masses are met together, we hear the clash of swords, the roar of cannon, the noise and the confusion, the shout of victory, the groans of the wounded and the dying; but nothing, except some shadowy outlines, is seen. After a while, the smoke rolls slowly away, and, in the light of the glaring and sickly sun, we behold the whole plain covered with human bodies, multitudes of them dead, and others in a state of intense suffering from their wounds; and, if we undertake to count them, the enumeration only increases that overwhelming sensation which the mere glance had tended to inspireon the field of Austerlitz, twenty thousand; on the field of Bautzen, twenty-five thousand; at Dresden, thirty thousand; at Waterloo, forty thousand; at Eylau, fifty thousand; at Borodino, eighty thousand.

We do not go back to the dreadful scenes of antiquity; to the days of the Alexanders, and the Han

nibals, and the Cæsars; to the battle-fields of Cannæ and Philippi. But look merely at what has taken place in our own days, and, as it were, under our own eyes, and, what renders it still more surprising, amid the light of civilization, and under the blaze of the gospel. As we cast our eyes over the field of battle, covered with such a multitude of dead and wounded persons, we cannot but be filled with astonishment and horror, especially when we remember that the combatants are all the dependent and favored children of that great Being who not only made them, but required them to love one another. Certain it is, that the spectator, as he looks upon the field of battle, has emotions of unmingled surprise and consternation; he feels that a dreadful crime has been committed, the guilt of which rests somewhere; he is stunned and amazed, and hardly knows what character to attach to man, who can permit himself to be engaged in such transactions; and yet it cannot be doubted that the effect of the scene which is before him is lessened by its own dimensions- is diminished by its very vastness. The man who is thinking of the sufferings of forty or fifty thousands can have no very distinct conceptions of the sufferings of a particular individual in that vast number. If he could take a full and distinct view of the sufferings of each one in that great multitude,—if he could see the tears and the agonies in each particular case, and, by some process of intellectual and sentient arithmetic, could bring them all into one sum, and place them all before the mind at once,- what a vast amount! what unparalleled wretchedness! with what torture would it fill the soul! But this cannot be : the structure of the human mind is such as not to admit of it. And it is for this reason that we will turn away a moment from the contemplation of the scene in its totality, in its mere general features, for the purpose of seeing it in its parts, its fragments, its particular instances.