Class __ Book . 5 b § n p * ro H a w . Hi/ I hold it true, whate'er befall ; I feel it, when I sorrow most ; ' Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. INDIANAPOLIS : JOURNAL COMPANY, PRINTERS. My Dear Elgiva, Viola, and Eliza : I dedicate to you this little memorial of your dear brother Joseph. His love once filled our home and our hearts with the light of happiness ; and his death has left us in dark- ness and sorrow. His life was an act of devotion to duty, which he warmed and brightened by the light of a love, as gentle and gener- ous as ever gladdened the earth. He met his death in the sir- cere endeavor of a true soul, " to act in a better manner the part assigned " him, " in the great tragedy of life." He is gone; but you will remember him — remember how he loved you, and labored for your happiness ; and so love each other. Learn from his beautiful life always to prefer duty to pleasure. Learn, from his noble death, that it is better to die in the path of duty, than to live out of it. " Little children, love one another." Your Father, J. W. GORDON. J± l/ FUNERAL SERMON, ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH E. T. GORDON, WHO WAS KILLED IN THE BATTLE OF BUFFALO MOUNTAIN, DECEMBER 13, 1861. DELIVERED BY REV. A. L. BROOKS, '•I PASTOR OF THE / FOURTH PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, INDIANAPOLIS, IND., JANUARY 5, 1802. EI SOU "A plow is coming from the far end of a long field, and a daisy stands nodding and full of dew-dimples. That furrow is sure to strike the daisy. It casts its shadow as gaily, and exhales its gentle breath as freely, and stands as simple, and radiant, and expectant as ever ; and yet that crushing furrow, which is tearing and turn- ing others in its course, is drawing near, and, in a moment, it whirls the heedless flower with sudden reversal under the sod." — Selected by Joseph R T. Gordon, from H. W. Beecher, as the first gem of a " Collec- tion of things Useful and Beautiful, commenced July 18th, A. D. 1860." SERMON. DO THAT WHICH IS GOOD, AND THOU SHALT HAVE PRAISE OF THE SAME. * * * * RENDER, THEREFORE, TO ALL THEIR DUES ; TRIBUTE TO WHOM TRIBUTE IS DUE ; CUSTOM TO WHOM CUSTOM ; FEAR TO WHOM FEAR J HONOR TO WHOM HONOR. [Romans xiii., 3d, 7th. The principal subject in these passages is unquestionably the reverence and obedience of the Christian citizen for the justly constituted civil Government. The Christian religion imposes no duty more certainly than that of obedience to the rightful authority of the State. It imposes that duty by the solemn declarations of condemnation and wrath upon the dis- obedient. But while these texts enforce the duty of a loyal citizenship, they also assure us of the praise and honor that are due, and shall be given to all those who do their duty. There are circumstances, also, which will secure to the sub- ject, who, with a pure and unaspiring loyalty, devotes his powers to the preservation of the authority and prosperity of the State, the special praise and honor of all good citi- zens. These simple truths premised, I now proceed to pay a trib- ute of praise and honor to one of the youthful and beloved citizens of this great and good Government, who has, in sin- cere and disinterested patriotism, given his life, in the fearful sacrifice of war, for the preservation of the Government against a rebellion, in its irrational atrocities, unparalleled in the history of the race. Joseph R. T. Gordon was but a youth, not yet eighteen years of age. He was no titled chieftain, on whose bronzed features and stalwart form the scars and stars of war had become a fixed habit. He had but little taste and limited discipline to inspire him with martial zeal and courage. He was no titled statesman, or famous civilian whom a heartless w T orld is so proud to honor and follow. He was no marvellous genius of the sacred or the sinning arts, to be embalmed in the songs, or immortalized in the monuments of time. He was known to but few; and by those but to be loved for his simple and unostentatious virtues; — for his manly integrity and filial de- votion; — clear and comprehensive intellect, and moral worth. His hatred of wrong and oppression, and his patriotism were no sinister and hollow-hearted boast of the aspirant for place and power; but the diamond flashes of a soul fixed in the golden settings of imperishable truth and right. He knew no guide in his youthful zeal for the respect and love of his kind, but conscience and truth. The tribute which we offer to his memory at this time, is not the common and expected service of an undiscriminating precedent, nor a yielding to the clamor of party zeal in behalf of a votoprif^ leader; but the heartfelt admiration and gratitude of a great people for the manly virtues and noble patriotism of an unpretending youth from the ranks of the people. Its sincerity and earn- estness are the more to be appreciated, as it is so spontaneous and irrepressible. Joseph Reeder Troxell Gordon was born January 3d, A. D. 1844. He was a very slender child in his infancy, and brought up to boyhood with great care and many fears lest the forces of his natural constitution would never rally to strength and maturity. He early indicated more than com- mon powers of mind, especially in the particularity of his observations of whatever came under his notice. It w T as this fact, in his future development, which made him of such essen- tial service in his connection with our army. At two years of age, lie discovered — what many artists have failed to no- tice — that the step of the elephant is differeut from that of any other dumb brute, and precisely like a man's. His child- ish descriptions of passiug events were always reliable in the general and in the particular. He was, early in his childhood, accustomed to systematic employment of his time. His aid in, the domestic economy was most remarkable, at a very early period of his childhood; and, as early as in his eighth year, he was charged with the sole expenditure for the table of the family; and has preserved in his own hand the monthly ac- count of current expenses of his father's family, until the family was broken up — an instance most remarkable of his thorough discipline, filial love and precocious character. During his thirteenth year, he became very much interested in the labors of his father upon the great political issues of the day, especially the questions arising upon the repeal of the "Missouri Compromise;" and, with unwearying assiduity, devoted himself to reading, and copying, and carefully arrang- ing the public documents of the Government for his father's aid in his work. He has preserved many hundreds of pages of this work, carefully arranged, filed and classified- — a mon- ument to his industry and discipline, more valuable than the triumphs of political ambition, or of the strife for wealth. From the commencement of the great political battle of 1856, he became a steady and an interested reader of the po- litical news of the day; and was earnest to fully understand the real issues involved in the battle. He acquired a knowl- edge, greatly in advance of his years, upon the political econ- omics of the contending parties of the time. This familiarity with current political history he maintained to the last. In the last political struggle, he fully comprehended the dangers in which the country was involved; and, though a minor, gave his mind and his heart to the success of Mr. Lincoln, with a zeal that has found its highest manifestation in the cheerful- ness with which he has sealed his faith with his blood. His habits of reading were not exclusive. He was rather choice than miscellaneous in his reading. He was fond of the older poets; of History; and read, with peculiar pleasure, Virgil, Horace, and the Illiad. During the time he was con- nected with the University, his standing in the classical de- partment, was always with the first; and in deportment with- out a blemish. In Mathematics he stood fair, and in the natural sciences, especially in Geology,* high. In composition and debate he had but few superiors. His talents and character won for him, the esteem and affections of the whole faeulty, and of his fellow-students. His filial love and devotion, I have no power to exagerate, if I can adequately portray them to you. His love for his pa- rents was so marked and unwavering as to have won universal admiration. The circumstances of his home early made him a companion of his mother, to whom she was accustomed to express her joys and griefs with the greatest freedom, and with the most lively appreciation by him. His father's con-, nection with public life, necessarily took him much from home, and Joseph became his mother's affectionate, dutiful, consid- siderate and devoted friend. At the period of life when the sports of boyhood, the sights and excitements of a city, the love and favoritism of his associates, and especially the in- fluence of their unrestrained liberty and freedom from all care, would naturally have made him impatient of any restraint, such was his love for his parents, and especially for his mother when alone, that he never sought his own pleasure when it was in his power to contribute to the immediate comfort of home. He readily took on the habit and character which a fond and faithful parent would impress. He most cheerfully and uncomplainingly encountered all the vicissitudes of the family, at whatever cost to his plans or his pleasures. He was tender, gentle, and delicate in all his manner and address to his mother; reverent and admiring of his father. He took deeply to his heart every word of disrespect and violence thrown at his father, in the heat of political strife; and gave himself heart and hand to the vindication of the principles by * He studied Geology at home, of his own choice. It was not one of bis University studies. — J. W. Gordon. •which he felt his father was controlled. He made the most zealous and untiring efforts to minister to the happiness and comfort of the family, that his father might feel at liberty to devote himself to the labors of the sphere he had chosen. And when sickness, pale and remorseless, began to prey upon the strength and beauty of his mother's form, he became more and more a staff and a comfort to her. He performed his studies at her side, learned to discover and anticipate her wants, to minister to them with a fidelity and satisfaction to her most grateful and affecting. As the fearful disease showed itself more insatiable and relentless, he multiplied his devotions; and, as month after month wore away, he became more and more gentle, affectionate and hope ful . No weari- ness of watching disturbed the equanimity of his temper. No self-denial was required, that he felt, save as a new intense on the altar of his holiest devotion. He read to her from the records of current events, as she was able to bear it ; read to her from the Sacred Scriptures, in whose light she had walketf so confidently for many years; and from the weekly issues of the religious press. He helped her in her great feebleness, to bear the sacrifice of his father from his home, for the de- fence of his Government in its imminent peril. He com- manded every impulse to follow the fortunes of his father in the battles of his country, while this altar of sacrifice remained to consume his filial love. By night and by day, mid hope and fear, with anxieties without and watchings within, he brought every resource of his being to the accomplishment of the sacred trust he so cheerfully assumed, of the minister- ing spirit in her lingering decline. He smoothed the path for her down the declivities of the grave, removing every stum- bling-stone, and cheering her in every dark, distressful hour. Gentle, as the touch of angels, was his hand as he lifted her wasted form, or wiped her pallid brow of death's chilling dews. Sweet, as the breath of June, was all his air and mien in that chamber where she so long held her timid intercourse with the spirit world. He was the light of love in her eye, when she had cheerfully yielded the husband of her youth to 6 the call of her country— bleeding from the stab of treason. He was the joy of her heart, when the air was filled with shouts and sighs of war, to which he that was her strength and pride was gone. Watchful, as a guardian angel, he sat by her pillow through the still nights, that creep so slowly through their tedious hours, to all save him that burns the in- cense of love. We would challenge every power of thought, and every emotion of soul, to praise and honor the filial love, that turns from every path of youthful pleasure, from every hour of idle leisure, with a devotion, pure and sacred as earth ever shows, to take the cares, allay the griefs, and bless the love of a mother's dying days. Faithful as the shadow to the substance, and beautiful as an angePs ministry, was his love to the sainted mother, who now rehearses his numberless deeds of affection, before the great and admiring hosts of heaven. His patriotism was not an impulse — a giving way before the excitements of military display. He had never been fa- miliarized with the excitements of noisy and reckless scenes. He was calm and thoughtful by nature ; but from early boy- hood had learned to comprehend and enjoy his home, under the blessings and protection of this benificent Government. He was faithfully taught to revere the personal and religious liberty of the Government, to compare his own with monar- chical liberties. He felt keenly the shame which our nation has suffered for its enormous system of fraud and oppression upon the colored people of the land. W T hen but thirteen years of age, he refused utterly to obey the demands of the ''deputy marshal" of this State, to aid him in the arrest of a fugitive slave. To him it was a moral wrong — a violation of the spirit of the Gospel; and no fear of the possible consequences could humble him to a violation of his conscience. He was edu- cated deeply and earnestly to deplore the encroachments of the institution of slavery upon the liberties of the Govern- ment, and to revere and love the men who would resist these encroachments. In the excitements of 1856, he received the impression that civil war was imminent, especially if the South should be un- successful in the election; and from that to his death, had most heartily sympathized with the Government in its peril. His enlistment was under circumstances to prove to the world his devotion to his country; for he was fond of study, and desirous of an education. The Hon. Cassius M. Clay, of Kentucky, with whom he was somewhat familiar, and who had discovered and admired the many traits of worth and real greatness in him, had made ample provision for his educa- tion, at his own expense. The door was wide open for him to realize his highest ambition in this respect. But, in con- versation with an intimate friend of his, and of his family, he said that "he firmly believed that he carried, in his constitu- tion, the seeds of the disease that had laid his mother in the grave; and that, if he succeeded in acquiring an education, the chances were against his living to use it with any good to his country ; and he preferred to serve his country with what powers he now possessed, in the time of her emergency, rather than to trust to the future with such a contingency." His enlistment was duly considered; and all its possible contin- gencies cheerfully accepted. When he received his father's consent, conditioned, as it was, upon the irresistible convic- tion to Joseph's mind, that under the circumstances — his youth — his prospect for an education — the hopes of his father that he might live to represent and vindicate his labors with the coming generation, it was his duty : He received it as the grateful assurance of heaven's blessings on his solemn purpose. His motives for joining the army are most satisfac- torily expressed in his own words, in an unfinished letter, ad- dressed to his father, and found on his person, after he was carried off the field of battle. In this letter he says : " You seem to be at a loss, my dear father, to understand my motive for volunteering ; but, I think, if you will remem- ber the lessons, which for years you have endeavored to im- press upon my mind, that all will be explained. When you have endeavored, ever since I was old enough to understand you, to instruct me, not only by precept but by example, that 8 I should prefer freedom to everything else in this world; and that I should not hesitate to sacrifice anything, even life itself, upon the altar of my country when required, you surely should not be surprised, that I should, in this hour of extreme peril to my country, offer her my feeble aid." 0, noble utterance of a loyal heart ! Worthy of our high- est praise and honor ! He felt his youth and inexperience ; but inspired with the holy cause, he felt competent to follow and execute the commands of the officers over him. He en- dured the hardships of the camp, of the tedious march, of personal privation, with the equanimity of experience and age. In his actual service, he was early found to possess those qualifications of mind and heart, which fitted him for the most important and dangerous duties of the battle field. His bravery was, when we consider his age and his habits of life, incomprehensible, but for the light of the motives that led him to the field. He felt his cause was just; and every power he possessed, even life itself, must be laid upon its altar. It will be rarely recorded of any who survive or fall, in all this terrible war, that he equalled the courage of that beard- less boy. See him start out at night on those bleak moun- tains, and dark ravines, sometimes alone, sometimes with comrades, with the assurance that in almost every thicket, and behind every log, the remorseless enemy was wait- ing to shed his blood. See him lead out the scouting party oftentimes of men double his years; and, with most fearless heart, put himself into the very midst of the en- emy. His commanding officer, General Milroy, in his letter to Joseph's father, conveying the intelligence of his death, and transmitting his remains, pays him the following tribute of praise, which I am here permitted to make public. He " He died as only a brave soldier can meet death, in the front rank of the battle ; and ' in the imminent deadly breach.' He had charged up with the foremost of his Regiment, to the enemy's works ; and with his deadly Minnie had coolly dropped a rebel soldier on the inside; and re-loaded, and again pulled trigger with equally deadly effect upon a second traitor, at the instant a traitor ball pierced him through the brain, as you will see. I deeply mourn with you the death of this truly noble boy. Brave almost to a fault, generous as the sun, dif- fusing joy and animation in every circle in which he moved. His amiability, afiibility and bravery had endeared him to the whole of his Regiment; and dearly will the Ninth remember, and make treason atone for his death, before the war closes. Having been a member of my military family since the com- mencement of the present campaign, his many amiable qual- ities had endeared him to me as a son ; and his death has created a vacuum in that family which cannot be filled. " I soon discovered, after my last arrival in Virginia, that his intelligence, activity and bravery better fitted him as a scout than an orderly, and accordingly detailed another to perform the more immediate and onerous duties of orderly; and permitted him to accompany and to lead scouting parties almost daily; and he became familiar with every mountain, valley and path around the enemy's camp ; and had met them in and upon nearly all of them to their cost. But few soldiers have met death and danger so often as he has, for the time he has been in the service." His General says further : " The day before he was killed, he was with a scouting party of fourteen, who were ambus- caded, and fired upon, by a large body of rebels ; and seven of his companions fell at the first fire — three of them within three feet of him. The rebel leader sprang out, and demand- ed of Joseph to surrender, but received for reply the contents of his Minnie rifle." From other sources we learn that the evening before the engagement in which he lost his life, he expressed to the Adjutant of his Regiment, the strong conviction that he should be killed; and made all desired disposition of his little effects, and requested, in case of his death, that his body should be sent to his father. But his brave young heart did not quail as the muster-roll challenged him to the field of battle and 10 death. There was no palor on his blooming cheek — no trem- bling in his limbs — no tears in his eyes ;. but, brave and noble, as a heart of flesh can be, he faced and fought the foe. A companion in arms in that terrible charge says, he "was lit- erally as brave as a lion, and as gentle as a lamb. He fell early in the action, and close to the enemy's works. He was the pet of the Regiment, and no death could have occurred that would have caused more heartfelt sorrow among officers and men than did his." But the beloved, the noble youth has fallen. And, while we deplore the loss of one so brave, so gifted, so worthy of his patriot ancestors, with whom he now sleeps in the grave, on which the " dews of heaven weep," and the stars have set their loving watch till the resurrection morn, with a martial poet of the Greeks, in his praise of their fallen youthful braves, we will say of the loved and lost one : " How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, In front of battle for their native land." His clear mind, his filial love, his patriotic heart, his deeds of noble daring for his country's life, will live as long as the heart can hold the memory of Virtue and Truth. The poet says: " But strew his ashes to the wind, Whose sword or voice has served mankind. And is he dead whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high ? To live in hearts we leave behind Is not to die. Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light, And murder sullies, in heaven's sight, The sword he draws. What can alone enoble fight? — A noble cause." My friends, I commend to you the character and the deeds of the valiant youth whom we delight to honor. He boldly gave himself to the battle and the death, which we fear awaits 11 many thousands more ere our land shall welcome the return of peace. The war cloud gathers blackness and tempest still. Our noble patriots are falling by scores, and hundreds under the fatal infections of the camp ; and by the fearful shots of war. The peril to our benificent and glorious Government to very many minds is as imminent as ever. From a new and unexpected quarter, the threat of battle is sending fear through the land. It is possible that necessity will require the doub- ling of our army in the field, and on the sea. Shall our Gov- ernment be forced to the hateful work of drafting, while we have a million of r.oble youth in the land? Will the men of this Innd — youthful and middle aged — withhold their service from the most beneficent and Christian Government on earth, when challenged to save it from the grasp of the most wicked and remorseless tyranny that ever forged a chain for human limbs, or plied the faggot to human conscience ? The battle that is waged against this Christian Government is to break the power of the condemning conscience of the people, against the most inhuman, blasphemous, wicked and God-defying vil- lainy that ever dared to lift its horrid front among the children of men. Its success would be a greater calamity, a more ap- palling curse to this fair land and the Christian world than to extinguish all constitutional liberty, and ask the vanquished king of Naples to the reconstruction of his throne among us. Let your minds conceive the thought of an empire on the American continent, whose fundamental principle should be the divine right of the stronger to imbrute the iveaker portion of the race. Conceive the immaculate Jehovah who gave his eternal Son a ransom to deliver the race from the power and dominion of sin, and to establish a kingdom of purity, liberty, and grace among men, attempting to push forward the con- quests of his kingdom, by the establishment of an empire in which his own subjects; nay, children, regenerated by his spirit, and sanctified by his truth, and made heirs of his eter- nal fullness and glory, are denied their immortality, offered in sacrifice to the most beastial impurities, and employed to propagate the guilt of a damning traffic in the bodies and souls 12 of men. It was to aid this Christian Government in resisting just such an empire as this, in its attempt to overwhelm us in ruin, that the youthful hero, whose memory and virtues we honor at this hour, laid aside his ease and earthly hopes, and went out to the field of battle and of death — " a sacrifice of nobler name, and richer blood" than ever lay on treason's hated altar. And as the battle rages, we ask who of all his youthful companions will make his place good? Who will take up that death-dealing weapon, which has fallen from his hands, and bear it with like bravery in this most holy and glo- rious cause. Let not the thought of your youth make you weak and irresolute in the hour of peril. To the noble youth of the State, I commend the virtues and example of the la- mented dead. In the words of the poet, I take the liberty to say : " Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might; Nor lagging backward let the younger breast, Permit the man of age, (a sight unblest,) To welter in the combats foremost thrust, His hoary head dishevelled in the dust, And venerable bosom bleeding bare ; But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair; And beautiful in death the boy appears— The hero boy who dies in blooming years: In man's regret he lives, in woman's tears, More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, For having perished in the front of war." JOSEPH E. T. GOKDON, DECEMBER 13th, 1861. BY MAEY B. NEALY. Wail, wail, wail, Ye winds, in the leafless trees ! For the dear young soul, we loved so well, Floats up on your mystic breeze. Clash, clash, clash, war ! with your iron hail ; For, since his brave young heart is cold, What man of ye all would quail ? Weep, weep, weep, Father, and Sisters now ; For never again shall a noble flush Sweep over that pale, pale brow ! Strike, strike, strike ! Ye men with iron nerve : When ye think of the deeds of this brave young boy, How could ye ever swerve ? 3 14 For that young life of his Five foemen's spirits fled ; But, alas ! alas ! when the day was won, He lay in the trenches — dead ! > 0, brother to our son, And friend of our riper years, It almost seemeth that ye were one, And these — a Mother's tears ! "Weep, weep, weep, Father, and Sisters now ; For never again shall a noble flush Sweep over that ravished brow ! And weep, my own brave boy, This friend of thy bright young years ; For never the death of a dearer joy Shall drown thy heart in tears. Toll, toll, toll, With muffled throats, bells ! For the passing away of as bright a soul As any on earth that dwells. So young, so true, so brave — Earth, unfold your breast ! And give him a sunny and flowery grave ; And, Heaven, give his soul thy rest. December 20th, 1861. A TIME TO ALL THINGS. Home, 1} o'clock A. M., \ December 9th, 1856. J Dear Joseph: The wise man says, "there is a time to all things." Learn not from this that there is a time for evil deeds, or words, or even thoughts. It is not so. There is no time for doing wrong. Here, the wise man is teaching a moral, not an immoral lesson ; and must be understood as saying, "there is a time to all just things — to what are right : — and to nothing else." Do not forget this. You know by experience, that there is something for all times. No moment goes by, that has not some duty, peculiarly its own, to be done. A perfect life, therefore, requires that everything be done at, and in its own time : and for this reason : If you put off the duty of the present hour till the next, it cannot then be done ; for that hour's duty will then be present, claiming to be done, and it will have the best right to be done in its own hour. What right has any hour to put off its own load, and expect another hour to take it up and carry it ? It is so, too, with different periods of life. Little children have to grow, and be thought- less, and innocent, and happy in their innocence. If they are not happy in their innocence, then they never will be happy and innocent again. If they are not thoughtless, then they never will be thoughtless again. Childhood is to each of us our Eden before the fall. The naming sword will never per- mit us to return to it again, when our innocence is once lost, and we are turned out. Life has no other hour after we have passed from the flowery walks of childhood, that can carry us back to them again, and enable us to re-live them. Next comes Youth — life's seed time. It has its duties; and its trials. The boy's life is the beginning of the man's. If the It) boy fails to do his duties, and store his mind with the germs of knowledge, and virtue, the man must naturally fail to do his duties, and the whole burthen of duties, left undone in youth, and manhood, will fall with a crushing w T eight upon decrepit old age. You know, if the farmer does not sow his wheat in the fall, he will reap no wheat the next harvest ; and have no bread for winter. So it is with the youth of our years, my son. If you sow not the good wheat of knowledge and virtue now, your manhood will be crowned with no harvest of plenty and honor ; and your grey hairs will go down in want, and poverty, and wretchedness to an unmarked, and, it may be, a dishonored grave. Now, first of all, Joseph, learn that there is not in youth, or manhood, or old age, a single moment that has not its duty — some act that is right and good — to be done. Hence, you see, if, instead of doing what is thus right and good, you do what is wrong and bad — tell some false story, or make a lie — you first cheat the right and good deed out of itis time ; and lose all that you would have gained in doing it. But that is not all. The wicked deed — the false word or story — does more ; it not only steals the time from the right, but it pre- pares the boy or girl to do other wrongs and tell other false stories, until life becomes altogether false, and all duties re- main undone. This makes the extreme bad man, whose end is always infamous — often terrible. Dear Joseph, that you may do everything in its own time, and have no hours, nor days, nor period of life loaded with the duties of others, left undone, I have written this long let- ter from my heart of hearts. I ask you to think of the les- son I have thus given you ; and if you approve it, try and follow the line of conduct it points out. I have written only for your good. In my next I will try and point out your duties, in connec- tion with their appropriate times. I shall be glad to have a letter from you ; but more so, to see you do your duties, in their own times, and well. Yours truly, J. W. GORDON. OF PURPOSES Home, October 10th, 1857. Dear Joseph: My time has been so much employed, *in matters of business, for a long time past, that I may seem to have neglected — it may be — to have forgotten you. It is not so. In every condition, and under every circumstance in life, no one object has been more upon my mind, or close to my heart than yourself — your education — your well-being and happi- ness, both now and hereafter. The truth is, you are always present to my thoughts — sometimes as a source of fear and sorrow — at others, of hope and delight. You will, therefore, not think me over solicitous for your development, and the adornment of your soul with every useful study and habit. I have already written you a letter in reference to your appropriation of time to useful and virtuous purposes. I de- sire now, to fix in your mind the idea of the necessity of ac- quiring the habit of directing your mind to a purpose. Of course the purpose must first be formed, and then the pursuit maintained, until it becomes the habit, both of your mind and body ; for all practical businesses require both mind and body. Of course, also, the purpose ought to be such as becomes a man to entertain and pursue ; or the habit will fall short of developing virtue — manhood, the only end to be sought as ultimate or final by a true man. In the first place, then, of purposes, or designs : There must necessarily be many, in the life of a man, each of which will in its turn, claim your attention, tax your energies, mould your habits, tinge your character, in a word, make you more or less virtuous — more or less manly. What is to be done ? 18 Shall you take up the affair, the purpose, of to-day, and of every day of your life, merely on its own account ; and pur- sue it simply because it is the thing of the time ? Or shall you not rather form some ulterior purpose, that shall em- brace, shape and absorb all the occasional purposes of your life? In reference to moral questions, and all questions are so, shall you not say first, and labor to the last to make it good : " My first purpose, — the great, all embracing purpose of my life — shall be to do everything which is right for me to do." Within this rule, all other purposes, proper to be thought of by you, will be found to lie ; under it, to be modified and con- trolled. In determining this general rule, you determine no less in favor of others than yourself; for whatever it is right for you to do, will conduce most to promote the well being of others — the world at large, and will most develope and exalt your own manhood. Nay, further, it will most honor your Creator ; for His will is the Right which you purpose, under this rule, to do. Thus, it is the best selfishness ; the best socialism ; and the best religion, in the world, to do right. It meets both extremes — the one and the all — the individual and the universal, and embraces, and fitly unites the middle. " But what is right for me ? " you will ask. It is not a little difficult — if at all possible — to answer your question. It merits a trial, however, and I will take care that if my an- swer is not final and absolute — it shall at least, tend to lead you toward the final and absolute, and not away from it. All morality is born of knowledge ; and knowledge is truth in the mind. It implies a knower. And wherever there is a truth and a knower brought together, until the knower's con- sciousness recognizes the truth, there, knowledge is born. Truth is its father, the conscious soul, its mother. The wise mind, is fruitful of knowledges — the foolish, barren. The children of the former rise up to bless it— the latter is cursed with everlasting sterility and nothingness. The whole universe is, to the mind of a being who knows it, only a great truth. It is so to the mind of the Creator. 19 We become more and more like Him, as we more and more know the truth which makes His consciousness. The Eight for you, implies knowledge co-extensive with your abilities and opportunities ; and, then, that you should be industrious to the extent of your capacity; just to the ex- tent of your relations ; religious to the extent of your faith ; and truthful in all things.* I will write soon on the subject of the right. Yours truly, J. W. GORDON. * While in Western Virginia, I wrote to Joseph a letter which, I think, con- tains a better definition— more practical — of the relatively right which each human being ought to observe in his conduct and life, than this ; and, there- fore, place it here : "Grafton, Virginia, June 28th, 1861. ******** And now, my dear boy, do right. Have a purpose in life ; and pursue it with a will. Let no other man deter you from doing what you know or be- lieve to be right. Pleasure, pastime, everything will end in disappointment and pain, if sought at the expense of your own self-approbation. In a word, labor to know what is right always; and remember that what you believe to be so, at the time you are required to act on any subject, is right for you, at that time, whatever it may be absolutely, or in the opinions of others, or even of yourself at another time. I am, as always, yours truly, J. W. GORDON.' NEW YEARS-1861. Indianapolis, Indiana, ^ 25 min. before 12 o'clock midnight, V December 31, 1860. J Joseph R. T. Gordon — My Dear Son: I begin this letter in the year 1860; not, probably, to finish it before the beginning of the year 1861. If I do not, it will become the bridge, over whose arch, I shall walk, in conscious thought, from the year that " is passing and will pass full soon " to the next, which is now as rapidly advancing toward us. I shall pass this bridge with joy; for my heart is full of the light of my love for you — a love which anticipated your birth, and gave you to my hopes and arms, in the rapture of dreams, in the bright beauty of innocent childhood ; and which has ever since remained to me amid the rough bufFetings of the world, the surest talisman against despair. The bells tell me the old year is dead ; and the new one born. It is now 1861. You have been carried a-past the mile-stone that marks the beginning of a new mile in the journey of life, in one of the cozy sleeping-cars on Time's railroad. I have been watching our progress ; and thinking of the past, the present, and the future of you, my fellow- voyager. It is a good time to think of such things, but al- ways better one should do it for himself than for another. 1st. What of your past ? What have you done — ill or well — good or bad ? What have you failed to do of good, that you have had time and opportunity to do ? How much have you grown — ill or well — in the right or wrong direction? What good purpose have you followed, making its practice easy by confirming custom into habit ? Or what bad habit has 21 neglect, or evil intent, or easy consenting goodness of heart strengthened and confirmed, until it has become more and more your lord and master ; and capable of more and more easily thwarting your resolutions in favor of a nobler and higher life? If you find yourself still little advanced in knowledge, and virtue, and little built up and strengthened and confirmed in manly and virtuous habits, whose control over your life becomes more easy and complete every day ; and if, further, you find that the neglect of duties, and the following after idle pursuits, and the vain dissipation of your time and powers upon idle books and vain company, have al- together made the steady pursuit of those studies which you once designed to pursue, more difficult than ever before, and when you do attempt still to pursue them, their acquisition a matter of less facility and satisfaction, than at some time in the past, then, I think, you will agree with me, that it is high time to break off such courses as have thus far led only to evil — present and prospective ; and to direct your powers to such studies and labors as you design shall form the business of your life. I invite you, therefore, to search out the ene- mies of your progress in the past ; classify them according to the degree of their power to work you evil, which you have learned, if you have reflected upon their and your past ; and, then make war — a war of extermination — upon each and all of them, dealing your exterminating blows to each in a degree of severity corresponding to its power of evil to you. This I know, is a difficult task ; but it is as necessary as difficult. Its difficulty arises from the fact that any habit of the mind or body which has great power over us, destroys our capacity to master and control it, just in the ratio of its own increase of strength ; and this it effects in two ways : 1. By the aug- mentation of its own power, which makes it a stronger power to contend with. 2. By the diminution of your powers of the mind, or body, or both, which you must bring against it, and which leaves them, therefore, less capable for the conflict. Nevertheless, all habits, whether of mind or body, must be destroyed sooner or later, if their tendency be to evil ; or 4 22 they will ultimately destroy both mind and body, and them- selves therewith ; for, in this respect, vices are like parasitic growths upon the body of any living being. They destroy themselves in working out, as they do, the destruction of the life which feeds their life. Every moment lost, therefore, in assailing an evil habit or passion, renders its extirpation more difficult, until at last all effort ends in idle resolves. An evil habit, which if attacked with manly resolution to-day, would succumb and disappear with ease, will, perhaps, be able to laugh at a stronger resolution to-morrow; and the day after will carry its miserable thrall to the grave ; or — which is still more to be dreaded — to infamy. 2d. The present, then, is the time to abandon bad habits ; and begin to form good ones. It is the only moment in which such efforts have any promise of success. If it be painful and difficult to succeed to-day, it will be still more so, if not quite impossible, to-morrow. Every hour of neglect, and worse, of indulgence, carries you toward the coast of the Impossible, where all the sons of men whose motto has been, or shall hereafter be, " I can't," have been, and will continue to be, stranded and lost. There sleep the fools who have idly played with the white sea foam of passion or appetite to-day, to be whelmed beneath its more than stygian blackness to-morrow ; and an echo — half in sorrow, half in scorn — ever comes out from the rocks of that fatal shore, as if to warn the shoal of coming victims to their own follies and crimes, still repeating the fool's motto, " I can't." You must, then, direct your powers backwards at the foes which tend to drag you backwards and downwards until you become the bondman of the flesh — the slave of passion and appetite ; and forwardt toward the friends that beckon you upwards toward the True, the Beautiful, and the Good — those grand Idealisms which have been the pilot stars set out in Heaven to conduct mankind to its eternal glories and beati- tudes. These friends and foes are alike near and within your own nature. All other friends, all other foes, are as nothing for help or hurt to your life and soul, in comparison with 23 with those which contend "upon the arena of your own heart," for its direction, and empire. The battle of the Universe is fought in the heart of every man and woman, wherein all the powers of Hell and Heaven contend for the possession of the field. The human will in each sits arbiter, "to judge the strife," and sways the contest as it lists. And herein lies the dread power of the will— the origin of Right and Wrong— of praise and blame — of responsibility. 3d. In the future, I ask you not to dissipate the strength you have on unworthy objects. Limit your efforts to the preparation of yourself for that business in life you intend to follow. Bring your powers to a single point. By means of the fire-glass, which concentrates the sun's rays, fire is kin- dled therewith. If you would kindle the world, and make it blaze with new ideas of use, beauty or goodness, or even with admiration for yourself— a worthless object— you must con- centrate your faculties upon some point serviceable to men, and honorable in their opinion. In the selection of a business, I would recommend only that it be some pursuit in which the exercise of your faculties as an instrument, a means — which professional service always is— should, if possible, conduce to the development of yourself as the end ; and, indeed, the highest and only true end of all intellectual effort and train- ing worthy of the name of education. And now, my dear son, I invite you to run with me another stadium in the race of improvement and life. I am, in the course of time and nature, seemingly much nearer to the goal than you ; but we know not which of us shall reach it first. Nor, if we make it a race of improvement and virtue, a gen- erous strife and emulation as to which shall best run and most excel therein, need we care ; for he, whose life has been so employed, must be secure against evil, not only in this state of being, but in all others beyond, to which death may con- duct him. I wish you a happy New Year ! and many happy new years, when this new year and other unborn years shall have become old ones ; and that you may so live that each new year's dawn 24 may meet you a wiser, better, happier man than its predeces- sor, and, with new firmness of heart, making new resolves to strive more earnestly than ever before for something in life more excellent still, than you may have known. So shall the first dream of my heart for you become reality, and, in life or in death, I shall be content. I am yours truly, J. W. GORDON. PORTRAITS. Fort Independence, Boston Harbor. Mass., \ August 25th, 1861. J Dear Children : This is the second Sunday I have spent here. I have taken my quarters at the Fort, and live wholly here. I have all your pictures with me ; and keep them setting up before me, on the table where I work. So, my dear chil- dren, I think of you all the time. I am sure you will think often of me. I want you to think, also, af what I am going to tell you; and, if I never see you again, you will thank me for it. I have been brought to think of what I shall tell you, by your own dear pictures, as they stand before me — all in- nocence and sweetness. It seems to me like the little girls who made these beautiful shadows upon the glass for me to look at, when I cannot see themselves, must be innocent and good. There is not the mark of any mean word or wicked deed upon the face of any one of your pictures. You look to me like you had always been good and loving to each other, and to every one else. Let me tell you what your dear, innocent pictures make me think of. It is this : It is said that, a long time ago, there lived a great painter, who spent his whole life in paint- ing portraits. He could paint portraits accurately, and de- lighted to do it. Once he desired to paint the prettiest, sweetest, happiest face in the world. So he went about look- iug after it. At last he found a bright-eyed, happy, innocent child, and painted its face, as the prettiest, sweetest, happiest face he had ever seen. He was then a young man himself, when he painted that picture ; and every one thought it the 26 most beautiful picture in the world. It was so innocent — so pure — so happy — God's image, without a stain or a shadow. Now, after a long time, when the painter had grown to be very old, he still kept on painting portraits ; and one day- concluded that as he had painted the prettiest, sweetest, hap- piest face in all the world, when he was himself young and happy, he would before he died seek out, and paint the ugli- est and most miserable face he could find. He would, in this way, leave the prettiest, most innocent and happy face, and the ugliest, most wicked and unhappy face, in all the world, side by side, in strong contrast with each other. He accord- ingly sought out and found the ugliest, most wicked and un- happy face he had ever seen, and painted it, and set it up be- side the portrait of the beautiful, innocent, happy child, whom he had painted when he himself was young and happy. Every one felt startled and pained by the contrast. It was like placing an angel just from Paradise, on whose path no shadow had ever fallen, by the side of a fiend from the infer- nal pit, whose life had been passed amid the darkness, and crimes, and sorrows of that unhappy world. The one was, indeed, the picture of a good angel — the other of a wicked one. But people would continually ask whose pictures these were. Every one desired to know that. And whose do you think they were ? My own dear children, will you believe me when I tell you, that both these portraits were drawn for one and the same person ; that the pretty, innocent, happy child, whose face was so much like an angel's that people almost mistook it for one, grew to be that ugly, wicked, unhappy man, whose face was so horrid, that people thought it the face of an infernal fiend ? It was really so. The change, from the beautiful and innocent child, to the horrid and wretched man, all took place in a few years. A short lifetime was long enough to change the sweetest crea- ture in the world to the foulest — the happiest to the most wretched. Would you believe such a change possible ? If any one of you could only be convinced that you would change so, and become so ugly and wicked, would you not rather die 27 now, than live to see yourself become so hateful? I am sure you would. You could not endure the thought of so horrible a change from what you are, without a wish to die sooner than undergo it. I could not, much as I love you. Now, what produced the change ? What made the pretty child grow up into the ugly man ? There must have been some cause for so sad a change ; and you ought to know what it was. I will tell you what it was. It was a course of wick- ed words and deeds, that did it all. It may have begun to take place very early in life. The first shade cast upon the bright, sunny face of the beautiful child, may have been the shadow of some false story, or some naughty act of disobedi- ence, or expression of ill temper, that seemed so trifling as to leave no stain at all. But, although unseen by human eyes, it did leave a stain which the eye of God saw, and which the child's conscience both saw and felt. The next falsehood, or evil deed, darkened the first shadow, and the next made it darker still. Another, and another followed, until the beau- tiful soul became overcast with the blotches and ugliness of a thousand crimes ; the light of innocence and happiness passed away forever, to make room for the darkness, and guilt and wretchedness that supplanted them. It is in this way that all ugly, wicked, wretched people are made. Little children are never very ugly ; and they are almost always so innocent and good, that we love to see them, and love them, because they really are lovely. God is good to all children; and, having made them innocent and happy, has given them bright eyes, and dimpled features, that all who see them may feel and know that they are happy and sinless — happy because they are sinless. But the child's features are all soft and pliable to the influence of the soul, which acts constantly upon them and changes them, so that they constantly express its charac- teristics more or less distinctly. If the child grows up in in- nocence, it will have a face that will tell it to all the world, in plainer language than words, and as true as the soul of inno- cence itself. Be good, therefore, and your faces will ever bear witness to your goodness before men, as your consciences 28 will before yourselves and God. On the other hand, be wick- ed, false, vile, and your light will become darkness ; your faces, the indexes of the characters you form, will become ugly ; and all the world will at length learn and know how wicked you have been. I hope I shall never shudder to look on the picture of one of you, when I shall place it by the side of the beautiful ones now before me. Be good children, and then you will grow brighter and happier always ; and, even when you become old, the light of childhood's innocent beauty will still adorn your features ; for the beauty of happy childhood will only have ripened into that of thoughtful old age. Remember, whenever you are tempted to do wrong, that wrong is the ugliest of the soul ; and that, sooner or later, the soul impresses its own features on the body. If the soul is hateful — loathsome, it is not in human power to pre- vent the body from becoming so. Remember, my dear chil- dren, the story of the painter, and his two portraits. Do not live so that you may become ugly in crime and guilt, and their attendants shame and sorrow, as you now are beautiful in innocence and goodness, and their attendants honor and promotion. I wish you to keep all my letters ; and read them often. I am sure' they are written for your good ; and, I think, will tend to produce right habits of thougnt and action, if you will only remember them. jjc^c % %. %. %$:*%. I ask you to write me a pretty letter ; and that you love one another. I am yours truly, J. W. GORDON. IMMORTAL LIFE. Fort Independence, Boston Harbor, Mass., \ September 8th, 1861. / My Dear Children : It is Sunday evening again ; and I again sit down to talk to you for a short time. I wish you were here to talk to me, that I might see your happy faces, and we could both and all be happy again together. But although I cannot be with you in person, yet you know that I am in heart and soul. You do not see me, yet you know that I am still living, and that, although absent from you, I still love you, and labor to make you happy ; and prepare you for usefulness, by securing to you the advantages of a good education. Now, dear children, why do you believe that I am still alive, that I love you, that I am thinking of you, and working for you? Is it because you once saw me, and know that I did labor for your happiness, and wished you to become wise and good ? If that is the reason, then, you can believe that your dear Mother is still living, still thinking of you, still watching over you, and caring and praying for your welfare and happiness ; for you know how good she was, in all the offices of kindness and love while she staid with you. She has not changed in her heart more than I. She is only absent, like I am from you — perhaps not so far off as myself. She is still your Mother, ever loving, and watching over your goings and comings, and caring for your welfare and happiness as if she was present with you. Now, if you can believe that I am doing all I can for you, you can just as easily believe that your Mother, who was always kinder than I, is still alive, and doing all her loving heart can prompt for your safety and happiness. But you may say : " We could believe all this if Mother 5 30 could only write to us and tell us so, as you do ; or, if Mother had not died." But, my dear children, if I had lost both my hands, and could not write, you would still think I was living to love you ; and, even if my tongue was cut out, so that I could not talk to you. All this would make no difference. It is not, then, because I can still write and talk to you, that you think I still live and love you. You would believe it just as much if I could do neither — if my hands and tongue were both dead. So you see, that hands and tongue are no part of your father ; for you would think me none the less your liv- ing, loving father, if I had neither. It is not, then, my writ- ing a letter to you, that makes you believe that I am still alive ; nor even my having hands to write with, and a tongue to talk with. If my tongue and hands were dead, you would still think of me as your loving father. So that you see, af- ter all, that my hands and tongue are no part of me ; but only my instruments, given me by the Great and Good Being, who created us all, in order that therewith I might write and speak to you. My hands, indeed, are no more a part of me — of my soul — my very self — whom you love and call father, and think of as father, than my pen is. Both are my mere instruments ; and I may lose both at any time, and still live to love you. Now, there is no difference in this respect between my tongue *and hands, and my ears and eyes. Tongue, hands, ears, eyes, in a word, all the organs of this body of mine, are only instru- ments given me by my kind Creator, any one or all of which, I may lose, and still remain the same living, loving soul you love, and call Father. True, I could not communicate with you after such a loss, as now before it ; because you have no means to receive communications, except such as can only be addressed by these organs of mine. But when you shall have lost your bodily organs, then you and I will have become alike again — both spirits — and then we shall be able again to communicate to each other, our loves and our hopes, our joys and our sorrows, far more easily, and plainly, I trust, and 31 pleasingly also, than we can now do, by means of words either spoken or written. Now, if you can only remember what I have said — that my hands, tongue, eyes, ears, and all my senses may be destroyed; and I yet live, and be none the less your father than before I lost them ; then you will know of a truth that this body of mine is not me, but only my instrument ; for, if this body was me, then every time I might lose a finger, or a hand, an eye, or an ear, I should cease to be myself, and be only a frag- ment of myself. But you never think of a person who has lost his or her thumb or finger, as any less the person after the loss, than he or she was before it happened. You know, for instance, that your Grandfather has lost his thumb ; but you know that he is still your Grandfather, just as much as he was before he lost his thumb. So you think ; and so he both feels and knows ; and so, in fact, he is. If, then, the loss of a part of the body, leaves the soul still alive and per- fect, why should it suffer more from the loss of another part, than the first ? In truth it does not ; but as your Grandather could never write so well after, as before, he lost his thumb, so each new loss of the same kind destroys in a degree the soul's instruments for communicating its thoughts and feelings to other souls in bodies, until, at last, when the whole body dies, the medium of communication between the soul whose body is thus dead, and other souls whose bodies are not dead, is alto- gether destroyed. So it is with your Mother and you. She is still your living, loving Mother, as truly to-night as she ever was in her life before ; but her instruments for telling you so, are lost to her— dead. But you know that the instru- ment and its owner are never one and the same. The one owns the other ; and the owner is always greater and above the thing owned. For instance, the owner always has power to direct, control, and use the thing owned. I would be just as good a penman without my pen as with it ; but I could not write a word without it. So, when you shall have learned to play on the piano, the house may take fire and burn down, and destroy your piano ; but you will still 32 be none the less musicians than you were before you lost your instrument. Just so it is with your dear, absent Mother. She has only lost the instruments by means whereof she once filled your little souls with the music of a Mother's love and goodness. But you know that love and goodness are no part of the body, any more than sound and music are part of the piano. Love and goodness come from the soul, just as the tune comes from the soul of the musician. The piano, or other instrument, is but his means of giving it utterance — ex- pression. There are thought, passion, soul in the music ; but, when the sound has died away on the instrument, there is neither thought, passion nor soul in the instrument. The tune, with all its stirring and delightful combinations, is immortal ; but the instrument on which it was once sounded may at any moment become ashes. So is the soul which formed and gave life to the tune. It lives forever ; and none the less, after the body which was once the instrument, on which it sounded ill or well the anthem of life, has been resolved into dust, than before. I am sure you will think of these things; for, by doing so un- til they become plain and familiar to your minds, you will be able to learn and know of a truth, and hold as your best and noblest possession, the truth that each soul must 7ieeds be immortal ; and that the friends whom we now miss, as dead, are only absent. The medium of communication between them and us has been destroyed. Death has cut the tele- graphic wires — their poor human nerves — on which their loves, and hopes, and fears were once transmitted from them to us, as ours were from us to them. Let us, then, rest in the faith which, in me, is knowledge, that, when it shall be for our advantage, the great Creator will re-establish communica- tion between us, and the loved and lost, whom, not as dead, but absent only, we mourn ; and, again, the love which we now miss will return, and fill our hearts " with lightning and with music." Till then, let us rest in hope. * * * # ^ * * >jc * I have tried to get you to think of your Mother ; because 33 I know, if you will, you will be as good and loving to each other as she always desired you to be ; and that you will obey your Grandfather, and Grandmother, and your Uncle James, heartily. * * * ****** Write to me often ; and always think of me, as I am Yours truly, J. W. GORDON. WE MUST HAVE FAITH. Fort Independence, Boston Harbor, Mass., ) September 15th, 1861. / My Dear Children : I have been thinking of you all week. It has brought Sunday again, and now I will talk to you about what I have seen and thought of, so that you may have some ad- vantage from it as well as myself. I have no other thing to think of, or labor for, but your welfare and happiness ; and I hope that, although I cannot see you any more, you will still believe that I am thinking of you almost continually, and of what is best for you. It is on this account that I have writ- ten such long letters, in order to get you to thinking about yourselves, and how important it is to do right. I do not know that you can understand my long letters. I hope, however, you can. If you cannot, at first, you will when you get older. I ask you to keep these letters, and read them once every month, or so; and think of what I say in them; and you will soon understand them, and will be paid, I think, for your trouble. I am sure they will aid you to think of what most concerns you to understand ; and what is, unfortunately, least understood by most people. I hope you will remember what I wrote you last week, about your Mother's being still alive and watching over you, although you do not see her any more. I think you will both understand and believe what I told you on that subject. I am sure it is true ; and feel that it is necessary to our happiness to think so. Nor is this the only case in which we must hold as certain what we cannot see, or feel, or know anything about through our senses. You think that I am just as much alive, and just as much interested in your welfare, as if you saw me every time you go to breakfast, dinner, or supper, as you 35 used to do, when your Mother got our meals ready for us, and called us to them with such loving words and sweet wel- comes. I know you trust me, and think that I will find you a place to live, and books, and a teacher, so that you may learn to be wise, and good, and happy. Nor shall your trust in me be ill placed, if I live. Well, just as you trust me, so you trust others whom you do not see. You trust the people of China for tea ; and the people of the South for sugar and coffee ; and, when you get these articles, you feel perfectly confident that there is no poison in any of them. Now, you have never seen these peo- ple ; but you still believe that they exist, and that they will not put poison into your tea, sugar and coffee. You not only believe that they exist and act ; but, also, that their lives are subject to, and controlled, like yours, by a sense of right and wrong ; in other words, that they will naturally and habitually prefer to do you good rather than harm — to give you tea, su- gar and coffee, without poison, to nourish and strengthen you, rather than with poison, to injure and destroy you. And just so it is with other things that you do not see. When you go to bed at night, you do not feel afraid that any one will hurt you while you sleep. On the contrary you feel perfectly certain that all the people in the world, whether you know them or not, will suffer you to sleep safely until morning. You feel and almost know that there is some un- seen power that controls all people ; and makes them prefer to allow you to sleep securely, rather than to disturb and hurt you. Nor do you feel any less certain when you lie down, that you will wake up again, and find day-light and sunshine instead of darkness and night. You trust some Being whom you have never seen to bring back the sun in the morn- ing. You know, too, that you can trust that Being just as well as if you saw Him every day, moving the sun round the heavens, to give you day-light and darkness. So you have to trust some Being whom you have never seen, to enable you to wake up again in the morning, when you go to sleep at night ; for it is even more wonderful, if vou 36 will only think of it, that, when you lie down in sleep and forget everything — even that you yourselves exist — you should, without any difficulty or trouble, be able to rise up in the morning, and think again of what you were doing when you went to sleep ; and take it up again, where you left it at night, and finish it, just as though you had never been interrupted by night and sleep at all. The truth is, my dear children, we all have to believe a great deal more than we can see, or absolutely know by our senses — seeing, hearing, tast- ing, smelling and feeling — to exist. We must have faith in what is beyond us, and above us. We must believe in what is greater than we are ; for we have to rely on such a power continually, whether we will or not. We have to trust our- selves to the goodness and greatness of such a power all the time ; for without it we would not be able to " live, move, or have our being" for a single moment. He gives us air to breathe, or we would die at once. He gives us light, or we should be unable to enjoy any of the beautiful and glorious sights of the universe. In a word, He gives us all that we have, or can conceive of, as necessary to our happiness as rea- sonable beings. But you may, perhaps, say: "The air, and light, and all those other good gifts of this great Being, are mere matters of course — exist everywhere as matters of necessity." Not so, however, or they could not be taken away from anywhere. They would always be found wherever we may be called to go. But they are not. Bad men can shut off the light, and, there- by, all that is beautiful to sight, from their victims, whenever they have the power, as they frequently do. Wicked men have often done this ; and in some parts of the world are do- ing so to-day. So they can shut off the air, and kill the poor people over whom they have the power, out-right. The light and air, then, do not exist as necessary and absolute bless- ings, dependent upon themselves only for existence ; but they are dependent upon some power greater than, themselves, which gives and controls them — giving them in one place, and withholding them in another. We must, then, believe in, 37 and rely upon what we do not, and cannot see. We must trust ourselves wholly to the wisdom and goodness of some Being greater than we can comprehend, and better than we can con- ceive of ; and it is all the same whether we acknowledge our trust in Him or not. The wickedest man trusts Him as much as the best, and, indeed, more ; but he is too wicked and mean to acknowledge his trust in Him ; or even that He exists. Now, let me tell you how I was led, at this time, to think of our daily and hourly trust in the power, wisdom, and good- ness of some Being whom we do not, and cannot see, or know anything about by our senses. It was in this way : The other morning, as I was going up the harbor, in a little boat, I passed through among a great many large ships, that were all lying at anchor there. Seeing them all lying still, though the wind blew strong against them, and the waves beat upon them, I asked myself: "What holds these vessels in their places ? " I said in answer : "Their anchors." Then I looked, and saw an anchor-chain going down from the bow of each ship into the sea ; but I could not see the anchor nor the bottom of the harbor in which it had taken hold of the firm earth, and there- by held the ship, so that neither the winds nor the waves could move it out of its place, nor drive it against the shore. Then I said to myself: " These ignorant sailors trust themselves to that which they do not, and cannot see, and of which they can know nothing at all, except by faith. They have, per- haps, never been down at the bottom of the sea ; but they believe, nevertheless, that the sea has a bottom, and that they may rely on it to hold their anchor, so that their ship may rest securely, notwithstanding the winds and the waves. It may be that no strong diver has ever told them that the sea's bottom was firm ground. They believe it, however; because they deem that some firm bottom is necessary to contain the water of the sea itself. Without something more than water, they could not believe that the sea could remain together. Now, just so it is," said I to myself, "with each man and each woman in the world. Every human soul is, like a vessel float- ing on the great sea of the universe. It must have an anchor 6 38 to hold it, and prevent its dashing against its fellows, or against the shores, and going to ruin. What is its anchor? What chain holds it? And what is the bottom of that sea in which its anchor fastens, and holds it securely from harm and ruin ? The anchor of every human soul is Hope; its anchor-chain Faith in the Unseen Container of all things — the Great Being who fills and sustains the whole visible and invisible universe. Every man, or woman, who is worth anything to himself, or herself, or the world — every one who is safe from going to ruin for a single moment, must be anchored by an undoubting trust in the Great and Good God, whose nature is the bottom of our sea — the bounds and shores of our universe. All our actions have relatio to Him; and none the less so even if we deny that He exists. We may never think of Him at all, yet thoughtlessly we must rely upon Him; or, thinking of Him, and denying Him, we must still rely upon Him; or, last and best, we must think of Him, reason about Him, and His wis- dom, goodness and power, and trust Him with a perfect knowl- edge of His nature, just as the man who has gone down to the bottom of the sea trusts it, when he throws his anchor into it, with a perfect knowledge of its nature. The Thinker is the diver who goes down, and up, and every way to God, through ' the visible and invisible things of creation.' Such would I have you, my dear little girls. Any human being who does not thus go to his or her Creator, falls short of his or her privileges — falls below the end for which he or she was cre- ated. Our true birth-right and happiness is thus to know God, and trust Him wisely and entirely." You owe this long letter to my seeing the ships at anchor. If you understand it, both you and I shall be happy in it — you in reading it, I in writing it. Read it over often, and think of it ; and you will understand it. Since Joseph has volunteered, I am more anxious for you to become well edu- cated than ever before; for poor Joseph will never become a scholar now. Write to me often. I am vours truly, J. W. GORDON. GOD-THE OBJECT OF FAITH. Fort Independence, Boston Harbor, Mass., } September 22d, > >. J My Dear Children : I desire to write you a letter every Sunday, while I am separated from you. It is almost as pleasing for me to talk to you thus on paper, as to speak to you face to face. True, I miss your happy faces, and your answers to me. But, then, I try to make up for these by thinking how you would answer me if you were here. I think, too, how happy we shall be when we do meet, and how you will then pay me up for all my talk to you, in these long letters, by your sweet smiles, and pretty questions to me, and answers to my questions. In the meantime, however, you must write to me often — once a week any how. I have written several letters to you from this place — three long ones. The first of these was upon your own sweet, in- nocent, pictured faces, as they smiled upon me when I wrote, and as they smile upon me now. I wish you always to re- member that letter, for it will help you shun every wrong word and action. It shows you that it is wicked conduct that spoils innocent and beautiful faces ; and how it spoils them. Nothing else can do it. The second long letter related to your Mother, and the cer- tainty of her still being alive; and of her living forever. I think this is the greatest and most ennobling thought in the whole reach of our minds ; for it gives every other valuable thing in the world, a new and higher value than it could oth- erwise possibly have. But for it, I would regard my life as worth something less than nothing at all. It makes the glo- rious thoughts of all the good and gifted people of all times. 40 sure of everlasting remembrance. Try, then, io think of it until you both feel and know that it is true — that you will liv and love, and think, and grow wiser, and stronger, and better, and happier forever. The third long letter I wrote you, had relation to the ne- cessity that every human being is placed under of believing and trusting in something or some being whom we cannot see, or know anything about by the senses. Without such a trust, all our actions would be as wild and foolish, as the discon- nected and broken talk of crazy people. A man or a woman who has no such trust, is either crazy or idiotic. I said before, that there may be people who deny that they have any such trust; but they deceive themselves, and con- tradict their denials in almost every act of their lives. It is only the fool who "has said in his heart there is no God;' ; and, then, his actions always prove that he is a fool — I mean an absolute fool. Many who say, " there is no God," with their lips, believe in their hearts that there is a God, and prove their faith in Him by their lives — by every action of their lives. If you will remember, whei speaking of immortality, I compared our stay in these bodies of ours, to that of the tele- grapher in his office. As long as his battery and machine will work, and the wires connect his machine with others in different parts of the world, he can both give and receive in- telligence to and from those others. But, if the wires be- tween him and them are once cut off or destroyed, he cannot communicate his thoughts and wishes to them any more, nor receive theirs from them. Two telegraphic offices, without any wire between, would be for each other just as though they did not exist at all. They could have no communication at all. The wires alone enable the two offices to give each other the news in their respective neighborhoods. So it would be if the machine at either end of the line was broken — the connection would be broken also. So it is with our nerves. They are the telegraphic wires which connect our minds with the minds- of others. The optic nerve — that is, the nerve of 41 the eye — puts our mind in connection with the color offices of the whole world. By means of it we are enabled to see, and distinguish all that is beautiful, or ugly in nature, or art, so far as color and form are concerned. But, if this optic nerve should get cut off, as sometimes happens, then we should be cut off from all the objects of sight. A green field, a beauti- ful flower, or a fine painting, would have no beauty for us. There would, then, be no connection between them and our minds. The same may be said, truly, of every other nerve and its objects. Thus, if you destroy the nerve of hearing, music would be as nothing to him who had undergone the loss. Music might, indeed, still exist; but not for him whose nerve of hearing had been destroyed. The connection be- tween him and the musician would be broken — the wire that connected them cut — their connection destroyed. So., too, of all the rest. But even if all the wires, which once connected one tele- graphic office with another, were destroyed, neither of the offices themselves would necessarily be destroyed thereby. Their utility, as telegraphic offices, would, indeed, be de- stroyed. But the telegrapher in each would not necessarily be affected thereby. He would remain just as able to read a dispatch, or send one off, if he had the means by which to send it, as he was before the wires were broken. Now, this is just what may happen with any one of us. We may lose all the nerves which connect us with the outward world — either in receiving intelligence from it, or imparting intelli- gence to it; and still, after we have been thus cut off from the world, and the world from us, we may live on in the body — the mind's telegraphic office ; and there is no reason, which I can now think of, why the mind should be impaired in its es- sential nature and faculties, by thus insulating it. By insu- lating the mind, I simply mean the separating it from all the objects of sense — as the things we see, hear, taste, feel, and smell. So, the telegrapher may go out of his office, and thus voluntarily cut himself off from all connection with the wires that come to, or go from the office. 42 So you see that there must be an office, machine, and wires connected with another office and machine at the other end of the wires, before any dispatch can be sent from one end of the line to the other. But there must be something more. There must be a telegrapher at one end of the line at least, before any dispatch can be sent ; and, before any good can result from the dispatch, there must also be a telegrapher at the other end of the line to receive and read it. The two offices, machines, and the wires between them might stand forever ; but without two intelligent beings to send and re- ceive messages — one at each office — no dispatch would ever travel along the line to any valuable purpose. Now, this is just what we find in relation to ourselves and the outward world, whether that outward world consist of people, or of things — of living beings, or of dead matter. There must be some intelligent being in us, and some other intelligent being out of, and beyond us, before dispatches can pass between us. Now, in this material world, there must be our bodies — the offices of these intelligent beings — where both are human — the brain, in each, with the nerves going out from it, serving as the machine and wires by means whereof they can send their wishes back and forwards to and from each other. You cannot even think of a telegraphic dispatch, con- taining some idea, some expression of intelligence, without thinking, at the same time, that some being, possessing intel- ligence like yourself, sent it. If any person should tell you, that a dispatch which you had just received, was sent by no- body; that it was framed by chance; or that it framed and sent itself, you would laugh at him for his folly. You know better. You know that, when you receive a dispatch in your own language, it must have come from some other person speaking that language. Nothing is plainer to your minds. It would not be so plain if you received a dispatch in the Latin language ; for, not understanding that language, you could not understand it. But the letters being the same as your own, you would still believe that some person familiar with those letters, had been at the other end of the wires, and 43 sent you the message. If, however, a dispatch should come to you in the Greek language, you would still have less reason to believe that it was sent to you by some intelligent being than in the case of the Latin dispatch; for the letters would, in that case, be unfamiliar to you. But if some scholar whom you knew well to be so honest that you could believe him, should translate for you, these messages, from the Greek and Latin, into your own language; and you should find them to contain some message to you, you would then have just as little doubt that it was sent to you by some intelligent being at the other end of the wire, as you had in case of the mes- sage that came to you, in the first instance, in English. And the same would be true of all the dispatches you might re- ceive in a whole life-time. You would always believe that each dispatch came from some person, and would never think it came to you by its own mere motion, or by chance ; for you know that there never was a thought without a thinker, nor an act without an actor. All this is so plain and familiar in regard to telegraphic offices, and their operations, that you never think of the contrary as possibly true. It is still plainer when applied to two persons engaged in writing; and plainer still when applied to the same persons in conversation. Yet the principle is precisely the same in all three instances. But, if you will only think a moment of all the ideas you have received through your senses, and which have, there- fore, been sent to you from some other being, you will find that by far the greatest of them all are ideas arising from facts and systems of facts which no man has created; and, indeed, which no man could possibly create. All that you have seen of the great universe ; the rising and setting of the sun, moon and stars ; the blowing of the winds, and the flow- ing of the waters ; the singing of the birds ; and the results of the still higher and nobler desires, and powers of your own natures, you know were not made by man. But you still feel and know that there is, in each of these things, an idea — a system of ideas — proceeding from an intelligent purpose and design. If this were not so, then you would not have a new 44 thought — a new idea — every time you saw a new star, a new flower, or heard the song of a new bird in the woods. I am sure, however, you do have a new idea every time you see, hear, taste, smell, or feel anything new in nature. Now, this new idea does not owe its existence to your seeing the thing from which you derived it. The type of the idea would have existed in nature, just as much if you had never seen it ; or, if you had never had eyes with which to see it ; or, indeed, had never been born. So it would have existed, if no other human being had ever seen it, or been born to see it; for you know well that no human being has any power to create such facts as those which you see everywhere in nature ; and from seeing which you get a large part of your ideas — thoughts. Thus, you are led both to feel and know that there must have been some Being, intelligent and powerful, who made these great facts of nature which you see and hear every time you open your eyes and ears. When you exam- ine these facts still more closely, and find that they all have relation to your senses and mind, and tend to your education, development and perfection ; and, at the same time to your own pleasure and happiness, you conclude that this wise and powerful Being is also as good as He is manifestly wise and powerful. He has made all nature, as it were, one great dis- patch to you, long before you were born — designed for your education and happiness. The regular round of the seasons — Spring, with its merry streams and blushing flowers — its bright blue skies and soft fleecy clouds, floating between you and the blue heaven, while their racing shadows sweep over the fields for you to chase in joy and gladness, as I once chased them when a happy child ; Summer, with its golden harvests, its great yellow moon, and merry corn-reaper's song ; Autumn, with its rich fruits, and sombre skies, and dull, ray- less sun ; and Winter, with its bleak fields, shrouded in snow, and its fierce winds, now piping like the shrill fife, and now like the deep solemn organ, speaking to us in a thousand im- pressive voices of the end of life, the grave and its sleepers, is all but one system of ideas which some greater Being than 45 man has telegraphed to each of us. The wisest men and women read these grand dispatches most and best. They have written out many of them for us, so that we can read and understand them also. They have printed them in great books, to which some new ideas are added every year, by those who read these dispatches more thoroughly, than those by whom they were first-written out. These books are the books of the sciences, which every scholar keeps upon his shelves. Chemistry, Botany, Astronomy, Geology, Anatomy, Physiol- ogy; in a word, all the sciences we know anything about, are but translated dispatches sent to us in an elementary form by some powerful, wise and good Being, whose thoughts they are. If there be intellegence in these books of the sciences, as written out by the profoundest and most faithful students of nature, it all comes from that great Being, and exists in na- ture as He created it, in a more perfect form than in any book. When you get older, and study these books, and learn what wonderful wisdom they contain, you will find new reason to admire and adore the Author of systems so wise and complex, yet so complete and harmonious. The Great Being who made Heaven and Earth, and all things that are in them, you know, is not man. He is the same Being that we all trust, in all our actions, without seeing. He is above, below, and around us all. He is God. Think of Him, and honor him always ; for he is your Creator, Pre- server, and Redeemer. Yours truly, J. VV. GORDON. APPENDIX KILLED. Major J. W. Gordon, of the 11th Regulars, learned yester- day that his son, Joseph, a gifted and noble boy, was killed in the battle in Western Virginia last Friday. The dispatch conveying the sad intelligence came from Col. Moody, so there is no consolation left in any doubt of its correctness. Joseph enlisted in the 9th regiment as Col. Milroy's Orderly, and we believe retained that position under Col. Moody when Colonel Milroy took the command of the brigade. He participated in the battle at Greenbriar, where his coolness and courage were conspicuously displayed, and in all the service of the camp and field he showed himself a soldier, and a man, in spite of his youth and inexperience. The loss of this brave and noble boy falls with double weight on Major Gordon, following as it does so closely on the death of his wife. He will receive the sympathy of the whole community in his great grief. — Indi- anapolis Journal, [prom an Indianapolis journal correspondent.] Young Joseph Gordon, son of Major J. W. Gordon, was literally as brave as a lion and as gentle as a lamb. He fell early in the action, and close up to the enemy's works. He was the pet of the regiment, and no death could have occurred that would have caused more heartfelt sorrow among officers and men than did his. He had a very narrow escape the day before. Two companies were sent out to repair a bridge over Greenbriar River, so that the army could more readily cross over. He was one of fourteen men sent in advance of these two companies, as an advance guard. Soon after they had crossed the first branch of the river, they were fired into by about one hundred of the enemy, who were concealed in the bushes about fifty yards from them. Seven of the fourteen 47 fell, killed and wounded. A rebel officer immediately came out from his hiding place, waved his sword, and called on them to surrender. Young Gordon, in answer to the summons, at once raised his gun and fired at him. The rebels, knowing there were one hundred and fifty men but a short distance be- hind, did not stop for farther parley, but quickly made way with themselves. Our young friend came out of this little skirmish unharmed. He was reserved to die on a broader field in defence of his country, and after, as his comrades say, he had made at least one of its enemies bite the dust. IN MEMORIAM I am pained to have to record the death of my friend Joseph R. T. Gordon. He fell at Buffalo Mountain, Va., gloriously fighting the battles of his country. He was but seventeen, and though so young, fought with the bravery and coolness of a veteran. He spent his last night in Indianapolis with us. A few weeks since he sent us from his camp as me- mentoes of his regard, an evergreen and laurel. These, with mournful pleasure, we will plant above his grave, as fitting emblems of his career. True patriot, brave flfoung soldier, ~* dear friend, farewell, farewell. — Hayderts 31iscellany, Janu- ary 4, 1862. OBSEQUIES. The remains of Joseph R. T. Gordon, son of Major Jona- than W. Gordon of the Eleventh United States Infantry, were interred yesterday. The deceased, as has been before an- nounced, was killed at the recent battle of Buffalo Mountain, in Western Virginia. His remains were brought to this city by Captain Patten of the 9th Indiana Regiment, arriving here early yesterday morning. The body was conveyed to the residence of Alexander Graydon, Esq., 180 East Ohio street, from which place the funeral procession, after services by Rev. A. L. Brooks, of the Fourth Presbyterian Church, moved yesterday afternoon to the cemetery. The remains of young Gordon were placed in a vault with military honors by Capt. Wilson's company of the Nineteenth United States Infantry, who made a splendid appearance as they marched with re- versed arms through the streets. The band made solemn and 48 impressive music, and the entire cortege was one of the most imposing we have ever seen. The coffin was wrapped in the American Flag, and the hearse containing it was followed by a long procession of military officers and privates on foot, and relatives, friends and acquaintances in carriages. At the place of interment the ceremonies were impressive. The military performed their solemn rites with a precision that did them great credit. The platoon firing of Capt. Wil- son's company was very accurate, which, after their long march with reversed arms through the cold, was scarcely to be expected. After the military ceremonies were concluded, Rev. Mr. Brooks thanked the officers and men of the Nineteenth Regi- ment for the esteem for their fellow soldier they had mani- fested, and for their kind service on the solemn occasion. He then pronounced a benediction and the assemblage dispersed, the military to their quarters and the civilians to their several places of abode. The corpse of young Gordon will remain in the vault where it was placed yesterday for some days, when it will be removed and buried. — Indianapolis Journal. THE END. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 013 211 261 7