Year: 1865




The flag of our Union to save.





THE PATRIOT AND THE TRAITOR


Fifty years ago terrible storm shook the
CITY of London at the dead of the night
when the storm was at its highest, an aged
minister living in the suburbs Of the city,
was aroused by an earnest cry for help.
Looking from his window he beheld a rude
man clad in the coarse attire OF the sweeper
Of the public streets. In few moments,
while the rain came down IN torrents, and
the storm howled above, the preacher, lean
ing on the arm OF the scavenger, threaded his
way through the dark suburbs.
That veryd day strange old man had fallen,
speechless, in front OF the scavenger rude
home. The good hearted street sweeper
had taken him in, laid him on his own bed
he had not spoken once-and now he was
dying.


This was the story of the rough man.


And now, through dark alleys, among
miserable tenants, that seem to topple down
upon their heads, into the loneliest and
dreariest suburbs they pa5s-that white hair
ed minister and his guide. At last, in a mar
row court, and up flight Of stairs that
crcaked beneath their tread, and then into
the death room.


1t was, in truth, miserable place.


A glimmering light stood on a broken
chair There were the rough walls, there the
solitary garret windows, with the rain beat
ing through the rags and straw, which stuff
fed the broken panes-apd there, amid a
heap of cold ashes, the small yailse which it
seems the stranger lad with him.


In one corner, on the coarse straw OF the
ragged bed, lay the dying man. He was but
half dressed-his legs were concealed by
military boots.


The aged preacher drew near and looked
upon him And as he looked d-throb-throb
you might hear the death watch ticking
in the shattered wall.


1t was the form OF strong man, grown
old with care more than age.


There was lace you might look upon
once, and yet wear in your memory forever.
Let us bend over that bed, and look On that
face.


a bold forehead, scanned by enc deep
wrinkle between the browS; long locks of
dark hair, sprinkled over with gray-Eps
firmly set, yet quiyering as though they had
life separate from the life Of che man
and then, two large eeys, vivid, burning,
unnatural iii their glare.


All, there was something so terrible IN
that face-something 50 full OF unutterable
loneliness, unspeakabe despair, that the
aged minister started back IL horror.


But look, those strong arms are clutching
at the vacant air-the death sweat starts III
drops upon the cold brow-the man is dying


Throb! throb throb! beat the death
watch in the battered, shattered wall.


Would you die IN the faith of Chris
tian?" faltered the preacher, as he knelt
there on the dark floor.


The white lips of the death stricken man
trembled, but made no sound.


Then, with the agony OF death upon him,
he rose to sitting posture. For the first
time he spoke:


Christian he echoed in a deep tone
which thrilled the preacher TO the heart,
will faith give me back my honor? Come
with me-with me, far over the water
Ha. we are there This is my native
home. Yonder is the church in which |
knelt in hildhood-yonder, the green on
which [ sported when boy. But another
fagthan that waved when was child And
listen, old man, were | to pass the street as
| passed when child, the babes in their
era les would raise their tiny hands and
curse ue. The graves IN yondef church,
yard would shrink from my footsteps, and
yonder fag would rain a baptism Of blood
upon nay heart


That was an awful death bed, The min
lSter had watched the last night with
hundred convicts in their cells, and yet new
er beheld u scene so terrible as this.


Suddenly the dying man arose. He tot
tered along the floor. With those white
fingers, whose nails are blue with the death
chill, he threw open the vaiise. lie showed
military coat, trimmed with silver, an old
parchment, and piece OF cloth, thai looked
ike the wreck OF battle flag.


Look ye priest. this faded coat is spot
ted with my blood = he cried as old mem
ories seemed stirring at his heart This is
the last coat that | wore when | planted the
stars on Ticonderoga That bullet hole was
pierced in the fight at Quebec, now am
a-let me y iisper III your ear.


Nov, help me, priest, he said, in
voice growing suddenly treEalous, help me
to put on this coat OF blue and silver. For
YOU see, " and ghastIy smile came over his
face, there is no one to wipe the cold drops
from my brow; no wife, no child-l must
meet death alone but | viii meet him, as |
met him in the battle, without fear.


VIII lie he stood arraying himself in that
worm eaten coat of blue and silver, the good
spoke to him of faith in Jesus.
Yes, OF that great faith which pierces the
clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back
from the face of God.


Faith - echoed the strange man, who