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UNITED STATES MAGAZINE
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
I. THE LATE WILLIAM LADD, THE APOSTLE OF PEACE
II. THE ODES OF SAPPHO. 1. ODE TO VENUS.-2. TO A GIRL.
By Charles T. Congdon
III. THE STARS THAT HAVE SET IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.—
IV. THE STUDENT-LIFE OF GERMANY
XV. MONTHLY LITERARY RECORD
The Student-Life of Germany. By William Howitt, Author of
V. SKETCHES OF CHARACTERS OF THE MIDDLE AGES.No. V.--
VI. LINES TO A FAMOUS BELLE
VII. THE LAST OF THE SACRED ARMY.-By Walter Whitman.
IX. WORDSWORTH'S SONNETS ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH
XI. POLITICAL PORTRAITS WITH PEN AND PENCIL.-No. XXIX.-
THIS NUMBER CONTAINS SIX AND A HALF SHEETS.
(With a fine Engraving on Steel.)
XII. CHORUSES FROM THE GREEK TRAGEDIES.-By H. W. Herbert
1. Literary Intelligence. 2. American Literary Announcements.
In our last number, in an article upon "the Peace Movement," we gave some account of the history of that holy and beautiful cause; concluding by a promise, which we now proceed with pleasure to perform, to present to our readers some slight characteristic and biographical sketch of one of the most interesting men of the age, the American "Apostle of Peace," whose beloved and venerated name adorns the present page.
There is no want of respect, and confidence, and love on the part of the people for such men as William Ladd, who raise themselves above the common tone, and stand upon the high moral elevation of the principles of Jesus Christ. It may be believed that their notes are too sweet to blend with the harsh sounds which the collisions of selfishness cause to grate upon the that their theories are better fitted for heaven than for this lower earth. Still they love and reverence the kind-hearted advocate of peace. Whenever William Ladd spoke, the people crowded to listen to him. They hung upon his accents with delight, for his soul was in his work, and the people easily detect heart-work from head-work; they distinguish the disposition to lead men from the desire to govern them. During the last years of his life, when he had become known, he never failed to fill the largest churches and public rooms; and if he made not converts to his own faith, he left his audience, standing in the light of a friend to each and every one who had listened to him. He had confidence in the eternal principles of truth. He had faith in the moral nature of man. He uttered his convictions boldly, manfully. He would say, "The sword shall be beaten into the ploughshare, the spear into a pruning-hook; the day is coming when men shall learn war no more for ever. I believe it; for the mouth
of the Lord hath spoken it." And then he would draw so beautiful a picture of a world in peace, of the day when every nation should draw together the bonds of love, when man should knit himself close to his brother man, when in place of the sword men should approach each other with the olive-branch in their hands, and with words of kindness on their lips, with love glistening from their eyes! We wonder not that he drew all hearts to him, for it was holding out, as it were, to the starving, weatherbeaten, tempest-tossed mariner the picture of a happy home in the green valley, the fruits of the garden hanging ripe and ruddy for his parched lips, the calm of a summer evening for his stormworn frame, the embrace of his wife, the merry shout of his children, for his homesick heart. No wonder that he touched and moved his audience. If he made them not Peace-men to the full extent, he left on their minds a deep impression of the false nature of martial glory, of the hideous lie that is covered up by the splendor of military array. We remember his description of the field of Waterloo; he cleared off the smoke which covers up the slaughter-house aspect of the battle-field. He showed us what a fight was, stripped of the veil which "glory" has drawn over its enormities. He pointed to the heaps of carnage told us that it was fifteen days before all the wounded could be removed, and that many for this full time, in the heat of the sun by day, in the chills and dews at night their pillow the already dead, their couch a pool of blood-for more than two weeks, there they cursed and raved as if death mocked at them in their misery, holding them at arm's length, permitting them neither to live nor die and at this very time the city of London illuminated, and the bells ringing, and the cannon thundering out the joy of the nation that another laurel had been won, that the national glory was complete! " Go now, mother," we have heard him say, "go now, and educate your loved child to the profession of arms. Fill his young heart with aspirations for glory. Let him shout at the military array. Deck his baby form in the garb of the soldier; put a feather in his cap; place in his tiny hands the mock instruments of human butchery; determine that the infant which now draws from your bosom its nourishment, determine that he shall be the butcher of other men, or lay down himself with thousands of others in the pool of blood on some battle-field, to utter his dying groan amid the shouts for victory, while some camp follower strips his body for plunder almost before he is dead."
We do not quote his words, but have tried to give some idea of his manner, to show why the people so loved to hear him