Vermont Telegraph

MISCELLANY.

From Zion's Banner.

THE QUAKER.

In a voyage around the world, a work recently written by an officer on board the Columbia U. S. Frigate, occurs the following anecdote:

"One of our lieutenants told me a story of a sailor attached to a ship, that interested me much. He was an excellent seaman, and so religious and peaceful, that he was called par excellence, the quaker. He was religious in all his doings, and, with few companions, seemed to stand apart from the majority of his shipmates, as one who had little sympathy; but every officer and sailor respected him, for he was intelligent and faithful—as brave as he was religious, as generous as he was reserved. He devoted his leisure to mental improvement and the Bible: but if a daring work of duty was to be done—a deed of danger and of skill—there was none so prompt and firm as the Quaker to undertake it. Once a storm arose suddenly at night, and (though I have forgotten the peculiar nautical circumstances,) it carried away a mast, the ship broached to, and a heavy sea broke over the quarter: when as she heeled and the decks filled, it was discovered that all the lee ports had been closed, and the scuppers were not enough to release the accumulating flood. The flapping of the loose sails against the rigging—the moaning of the winds and waters, quite drowned the voice of the trumpet, and there was great danger of the ship's going suddenly down in the trough of the billows. Then, as the lurid lightnings for a moment illumed the deck, confusion and consternation were revealed in every direction—the men were rushing for the boats, the binnacle lights were out, and the weather helmsman had deserted his post,—when, at that critical moment, the voice of one, touching his hat at the time, said firmly to the officer of the deck:

"Sir, shall I take the helm? no one is there."

"Who spoke?" said the officer.

"It is the Quaker, sir."

"Yes, take the helm, my good lad, and be quick—but first knock out a lee port, while I hold the helm, and let out the water. The ship lays like a log, while these fools are crazy."

The Quaker sprang, with prompt alacrity, down the half sunken deck, up to his waist in water—a vent was soon made, and the whirling current, hurrying to escape, almost took the dauntless mariner with it—but in a moment he was at the helm. Silence and obedience were restored among the crew, and the broken mast was cut away. The Quaker fixed his steady eye upon the breaking sea, headed the faltering prow to the wave, and the ship, once more being relieved, soon righted—the sails secured were closely reefed, and safety re-assured.

But had not the Quaker been there, where might have been the ship and its trembling spirits? And what was it that armed this man with such fearless self-possession in the midst of peril? it was surely more than natural courage—yes, it was a firm reliance on the providence of God, a submission to the decrees of duty, wherever and whatever they might be: it was the courage of religious faith—a faith that "casteth out all fear."