"A ship ashore! A ship ashore!" was the cry which rang through the streets of St. Andrew's, Scotland, one fearful winter's day some years ago. This thrilling cry roused every inhabitant. Citizens, University students, and sailors, rushed with pale faces and rapid steps along the street towards a bay to the eastward of the town. Standing on the shore, the crowd was terror-stricken and paralyzed through beholding a vessel stranded on a sand-bank but a few rods from the beach. She was shrouded in surfy mist; the waves dashed furiously against her, and broke over her decks with irresistible fury. Yet, through the thick air and the driving sleet, the people on the shore could now and then catch glimpses of the doomed crew clinging, with the clutch of despair, to the rigging of the wreck. There were many bold, brave men in that sympathizing crowd of spectators, but none who dared to venture through the mighty surges to save those ill-fated sailors. It seemed, indeed, to the stoutest heart, too mighty a task for mortal man to attempt. All could sympathize with the wretched ones; none but God, they thought, could save them.
But there was one heroic soul in that eager, wistful crowd who thought that man, with God's help, might snatch those perishing men from the door of doom. He was a young man—a University student—strong in body, but still stronger in spirit. "Bring me a rope," he cried; "I will try to save them." A strong rope was brought, and fastened about his waist. Followed by the prayers of many and the good wishes of all, this chivalric youth struggled, with desperate courage, through the terrific surf into the deep water beyond. Then, with the strength of a young giant, guided by the skill of the experienced swimmer, he slowly worked his way towards the vessel's side. He had nearly reached it when his friends, alarmed by the length of time and slowness of his progress, began pulling him back. Then his courage rose to the sublimest height of self-sacrifice. He forgot himself. He would save the men clinging in desperation to yon vessel's shrouds, or perish in the attempt. Grasping the knife that he carried between his teeth, he cut the rope by which his kind-hearted friends were drawing him to shore and safety. He buffeted the rough waves successfully. He reached the breaker-swept deck of the stranded sloop. After a word of cheer to the crew, he took a fresh rope, plunged anew into the surging waters, and swam back to the beach. But four days of starvation, unrest, and exposure had robbed those poor creatures on board the wreck of both courage and strength. Not one of them dared attempt to escape by means of the rope. What! then must they perish? Nay, not yet. The brave student will risk his life again in their behalf. Many speak harshly of their lack of pluck. He pities their weakness; he rushes into the surf once more, struggles through the crested waves, boards the sloop, and brings off a man to the shore. Six times he makes the perilous trip, and saves a human life each time. The seventh time his charge is a boy, so weak and helpless that he loses his hold upon him twice, and twice he dives for him into the seething depths and brings him up. Finally, he reaches the beach with a limp, corpselike lad—the last of the rescued crew.
The crowd, which had hitherto watched the gallant young hero's movements with breathless stillness, now break forth into a loud, triumphal cheer, which neither the roar of the wind nor the thunder of the waves can drown—they recognize the presence of a genuine hero.
The name of this noble young scion of true chivalry was John Honey, one of the college friends of the celebrated Dr. Chalmers. His efforts on that memorable day cost him his life—not directly, however, for he lived a few years, but the seeds of a mortal malady were sown by his humane exertions on that grandest day of his life.—Great Thoughts.
DUTIES OF BROTHERS AND SISTERS.
It is the duty of brothers and sisters to take a delight in each others' society, and readily to share their comforts with each other. The kindness of the heart beams in a sister's smile, and speaks in a brother's praise. The heart must be sadly corrupted, if the remembrance of the scenes that passed under a father's roof ceases to interest. It is the duty of brothers and sisters to admonish one another for their faults. There are failings in the temper and defects in the manners which are concealed with care from the eyes of the world, but which are apparent amidst the freedom of domestic life. If follies are not checked at home, or by strangers, they will grow into habits. The indolence from which the young were never roused has kept them all their after days in poverty, and the pride which was never repressed has rendered them odious. Never let affection make you blind to the deformity of sin.
It is the duty of brothers and sisters to sympathize tenderly with each other. The heart is so framed that it requires the aid and comfort of sympathy. How soothing to a sufferer's heart are the attentions of a sister, and the word spoken by a brother in season! Let sisters consider how much the persuasive language of mildness and affection is adapted to transform the roughest and most impetuous temper into meekness and wisdom, and that their remarks may direct a brother's attention to sentiments full of beauty and feeling, which he has overlooked.
Brothers and sisters should vie with each other in promoting the comfort of their parents. Every one should cultivate respect for their parents' authority, compassion for their infirmities, attention to their wishes, and be solicitous to give them all necessary aid, and reverence, and love, undiminished as they witness the decline of their faculties. How delightful it is to hear parents say of their children, "I cannot tell which is the kindest to me." What peace such children are preparing for themselves when their parents shall have passed away!—Portia.