STORIES
FROM
SWITZERLAND.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE AUTHOR “OF THE TWO OLD
MEN,” &c.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY;
_Instituted 1799_.
SOLD AT THE DEPOSITORY, 56, PATERNOSTER ROW;
AND BY THE BOOKSELLERS.
1837.
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CONTENTS.
Page.
The pleasure of being able to read 3
Are you happy when you are cross? 9
Maurice; or, the way of the slothful is a hedge of thorns 14
The real friend 20
Idle Dick 29
The lady-bird 56
The lost child 61
Real charity 67
Providence; or, the mother and child 75
Lucy; or, “I will not be naughty again, Papa.” 90
A lesson of mercy 102
Mountain John and the bear 111
Hymns for children 125
One blow of the chisel does not make a statue 134
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STORIES FROM SWITZERLAND
FOR
JUVENILE READERS.
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THE PLEASURE OF BEING ABLE TO READ.
Boys and girls who have learned to read, are able to examine the Holy
Bible, which is the book that tells us about God, and from which we
learn about our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.
They can also read this blessed book to aged persons who were not taught
when they were young, and to blind people, or those who are sick.
I am about to relate a little story upon this subject.
Mr. Williams was one day walking in the fields; as he passed through a
meadow in which some sheep were feeding, he saw a little boy about eight
years old sitting under a tree. He was quite idle, and gaped and
stretched his arms about as if he felt very uncomfortable.
[Illustration]
Mr. Williams stopped and said, “My boy, are you well?”
“O, Yes,” answered the boy, “I am very well; but I am quite tired, and I
do not know what to do.”
_Mr. W._ Have not you to look after these sheep?
_Boy._ Yes, and I have been here ever since six o’clock this morning.
_Mr. W._ How have you employed yourself during that time?
_Boy._ Why, what could I do? I had nothing to do, and I feel quite
tired.
_Mr. W._ Why did not you bring your Testament with you, and read a few
chapters, or learn some verses by heart while looking after your sheep?
you would not have felt so tired, and would have gained some useful
knowledge.
The boy did not reply, but held down his head and looked quite ashamed.
_Mr. W._ I suppose you forgot to bring your Testament; I am going
further, and will lend you mine till I return; here it is.
The boy looked still more ashamed, but did not say a word.
_Mr. W._ Why do not you take it? I am afraid you do not know how to
read; is that the case?
_Boy._ Nobody ever taught me, Sir; and I cannot teach myself.
_Mr. W._ Poor boy; then you never read the holy word of God. I am very
sorry for you: it is the best of books, and by attending to what it
tells us, even a child may learn how to become wise and happy.
_Boy._ Indeed, Sir, I wish I could read, for I am quite tired of having
nothing to do while I mind the sheep.
_Mr. W._ I do not wonder at this; you would not only pass your time more
pleasantly if you read the Bible, but you would also learn about our
Lord Jesus Christ, and how he died for sinners; the Bible teaches us to
love him, and to seek to do his will.
Mr. Williams then advised the boy to ask his master’s leave that he
might go to the Sunday School; and said, that when the long winter
evenings came, he might get one of his companions to help him, and he
would very soon learn to read.
This kind gentleman then walked on till he came to a cottage where a
weaver lived, to whom he wished to speak respecting some work.
Mr. Williams found the weaver very busy at his loom, and while they were
conversing he heard the voice of some young person who was reading in
the next room. It was the Parable of the Sower, which I dare say you
recollect is in the 4th chapter of St. Mark’s gospel. It was read in a
very distinct and proper manner, as if the reader understood it.
[Illustration]
When Mr. Williams had given his orders, he asked who was reading in the
next room.
_The Weaver._ It is my neighbour’s daughter; she is a very good girl,
and comes every day to read the Bible to my aged mother, who has been
blind for the last three months, so that she cannot read for herself;
and I like to hear her as I sit in my loom.
_Mr. W._ How old is she?
_The Weaver._ She is not much above eight years old; but she is more
steady than many of ten or eleven.
Mr. Williams then went to the room door, and saw the little girl
standing by the old woman’s chair, reading a large Bible which lay on
the window seat.
She read very distinctly, as I mentioned just now; she minded her stops,
and took pains to pronounce every word properly, so that it was very
easy to understand what she read. She did not gabble it over like some
little folks I am acquainted with, as if she were trying to get the
words out of her mouth as fast as possible.
[Illustration]
The weaver’s aged mother listened very attentively, and appeared very
thankful to hear the blessed word of God; when the little girl had
finished the parable, she stopped, and the old woman explained what was
meant by the good seed. She said that it was the word of God which
taught us about the Saviour, and that when this good seed was sown in
our hearts by him, and we were enabled to understand it by the teaching
of the Holy Spirit, then we loved him for all he had done and suffered
for us; and, being cleansed from our sins by his precious blood, we
desired to do his will.
The little girl listened very attentively, and after asking some
questions, began to read again.
Mr. Williams then went into the room, and after asking the old woman how
she was; he then turned to the little girl, and said, “My dear, I dare
say you are very happy to be able to read; as you can read not only for
yourself, but also you are able to make this good old woman very happy
too.”
The little girl replied, “Yes, Sir, I am very glad to read to our kind
neighbour; do you know, Sir, that she taught me to read three years
ago.”
_Mr. W._ Did you find it very difficult?
_Little Girl._ It was rather hard, Sir; but she taught me a little every
day. She was very particular that I never missed coming to her, and I
soon found that it became easier.
The old woman then said, “I trust that God has blessed this little girl;
she was very attentive and soon learned to read the Testament, and I
hope He will be pleased, by his Holy Spirit, to enable her to understand
the truths it contains, for she becomes more and more attentive every
day.”
_Mr. W._ Then I am sure that she is happier every day: because nothing
can make us happy, but loving the Saviour and doing his will.
Mr. Williams then gave his Testament to the little girl, who had long
wished to have one of her own. He advised her to read a chapter every
day, and to pray to God for a blessing, and then bade them all good bye.
As he returned home he could not help thinking what a great difference
there was between the shepherd boy who was tired of doing nothing,
because he did not know how to read; and the little girl who was so
happy at being able to read the Testament to her kind neighbour.
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[Illustration]
ARE YOU HAPPY WHEN YOU ARE CROSS?
Lucy was just six years old. One day she was sitting on a little stool,
by the side of her mother’s chair, and reading the last chapter of St.
John’s gospel. “Mamma,” said Lucy, “what did Christ mean when he told
St. Peter to feed his lambs?”
_Mamma._ My dear, do you not recollect reading some time ago, that
Christ said he was the good shepherd, and that his people were the
sheep?
_Lucy._ Oh yes, mamma, I recollect reading that; but I forget where it
is.
_M._ It is in the 10th chapter of St. John.
_L._ Stop, mamma, please let me find it; O, here it is, the 14th verse,
“I am the good shepherd.” I suppose Jesus said so?
_M._ Yes; have not you sometimes seen a shepherd taking care of his
flock?
_L._ O yes, mamma; we saw a shepherd that day you and papa took me a
walk by the side of the wood.
_M._ Do you recollect how pleased you were to see the little lambs
skipping about?
_L._ Yes; you told me to repeat the verse,
“Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs,
“Run sporting about by the side of their dams,
“With fleeces so clean and so white.”
But, mamma, some of the little lambs have black faces; and, mamma, don’t
you recollect, as we returned home, we met the shepherd, and he had got
a little lamb in his arms, which had fallen into a pit and hurt itself.
How kind the shepherd was in taking care of this little lamb!
_M._ The prophet Isaiah spoke of the Saviour many hundred years before
he came from heaven, and compared him to a shepherd. In the 40th
chapter, the prophet says, “He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he
shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.”
[Illustration]
_L._ But, mamma, I do not quite understand this; Christ is not now upon
earth, and when he was here he did not keep sheep.
_M._ No, my dear; but it is to make us understand that our Lord takes
care of his people, as the shepherd takes care of his sheep; and he does
not forget children, as you saw the shepherd did not forget his lambs.
_L._ But who are _his_ lambs?
_M._ You, my dear Lucy, are one; if you love him, and believe in him as
your Saviour, and seek to do his will in all things, and are willing to
follow his word.
_L._ O, mamma, I should like to be one; how quiet and happy the lamb
seemed to be when the shepherd was carrying it.
_M._ Well, then, my dear love, pray to the Saviour; he said, “Suffer
little children to come to me and forbid them not;” pray to him, that he
may give you a new heart, which will be happy in loving him and obeying
his word, through the power of the Holy Spirit, which he has promised to
give to all that ask it; and earnestly try to be a good girl, and to
subdue all naughty and unkind tempers.
Lucy again thanked her mamma; and as she had finished her lesson, she
went and put her book away in its place. I hope my readers will remember
this, for it is very untidy to leave books littering about upon chairs
or the floor. She then took her work, and went and sat down by the
window, and began to sew very busily.
Just as she had begun, her little brother Samuel came into the room; he
went up to her, and said, “Lucy, dear, if you please, will you cut out
this paper stag for me? I have drawn its legs very nicely, as you see,
but I am afraid I shall not be able to cut them out properly, they are
so very slender, and I want to put it on papa’s table before he comes
home, to surprise him.”
I am sorry to say, that instead of doing this directly, and in a kind
manner, Lucy frowned, and said, in a short sharp tone, “How troublesome
you are, you are always teazing me; I have just sat down to work and I
am too busy, go and do it yourself.”
Little Samuel was a good boy, and instead of returning a sharp answer to
her cross speech, he said, “Lucy, please to cut it out, you will do it
so much better than I can, and it will not take you a minute.” Lucy put
down her work, and took up her scissors; but when people set about a
thing in an ill humour they never do it properly, and this was the case
with Lucy. Her brother had taken a great deal of pains to draw the stag
very nicely, but she cut it out very carelessly, and presently poor
Samuel saw that one of its legs was cut quite off.
“There,” said he: “there, my poor stag; it is quite spoiled, you have
cut its leg off.”
“Finish it yourself,” said Lucy, throwing the stag one way and the
scissors another. “It’s all your fault, you ought to have let me go on
quietly with my work, and not come to interrupt me, as you always do.”
Poor Samuel looked quite surprised; he was sorry to see his nice stag
spoiled, but he was still more sorry to see Lucy so out of humour, and
he could not think that it was his fault. Indeed, I have generally found
that when people are very ready to blame others, the fault has commonly
been their own, after all.
“Lucy,” said her mother, “is this like one of the little lambs we were
talking about? Remember, my child, God sees you, and do you think he is
pleased that you should speak in such a manner to your brother? Is that
following the example of Christ?”
Lucy felt that she was wrong, and burst into tears. Her mother took her
upon her knee, and said, “Lucy, now you feel that it is necessary to
pray to the Saviour, to give you a new heart, and to enable you to
subdue all naughty and unkind tempers, and that you should try to do
so. Do you feel happy because you were so cross and out of humour?”
Lucy was now convinced that she had done wrong; and that if she had
behaved to Samuel as a sister should act to a brother, she would neither
have spoiled his stag nor have done what was a great deal worse. I mean,
she would not have given way to a naughty temper, quite contrary to what
the Bible tells us: “Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly
love.” “O mama,” said she, “I do feel very sorry, and I will pray to the
Saviour--”
“That you may be one of his lambs,” said her mother. “Do this really
from your heart, then you will feel more happy. For God is very kind to
us, and we ought to try to be the same to others. Remember, Christ said,
‘All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do you even
so to them, for this is the law and the prophets.’”
Lucy kissed her mother, and went to her little desk. She took out a very
pretty drawing of a basket of fruit, and gave it to Samuel, saying,
“Here, Sammy, pray take this instead of your stag which I spoiled, and
this besides;” she then gave him a kiss, he gave her another, and then
ran away quite consoled for his loss.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
MAURICE;
_Or, the Way of the Slothful is a Hedge of Thorns._
People say that idle folks are good-for-nothing folks: but they might
say much more upon the subject. Idleness is a sin against God, and
_therefore_ idlers never can be happy; for how can any persons be happy
when they are committing sin?
Maurice knew this very well, at least his parents had often told him so;
but Maurice still continued his sinful habits of idleness, carelessness,
and self-indulgence; he very often neglected his duties, and I need not
add, that he was very often unhappy. My dear children, you might as
easily count the sparks which fly up the chimney, as reckon up the sins
and troubles which come from idleness.
Maurice had passed several unhappy idle weeks. He did not like to write
a copy; he said his lessons were all so hard that he could not learn
them; he laid in bed of a morning till obliged to get up; and when his
brothers and sisters asked him to do any thing for them, he spoke cross
and pushed them away. He was dull, peevish, and discontented; just as
idle boys and girls always are. There he is in the picture; he sat for
two hours together playing with his keys, rather than learn his lesson,
though he wished for a game of play, and knew that he could not be
allowed to play till he had repeated it.
[Illustration]
People generally go on from bad to worse, and the last week was the
worst of all. It began badly. On Sunday morning Maurice gave way to a
naughty temper, and spoke to his mother in a very improper manner.
Instead of praying to God to send away this evil temper, he thought
about something else while he repeated his prayer, and ate his breakfast
without asking a blessing, just as a little dog would have done.
After breakfast he teazed his sisters, and did all he could to hinder
them from learning the chapter they were to repeat to their father in
the afternoon. He went to church it is true, but he did not attend to
any thing that he heard; part of the time he looked about him, and the
remainder he sat yawning, and he asked three times when the sermon would
be over.
I have told my little readers enough about his naughty behaviour; the
rest of the day passed much in the same manner, and the rest of the week
like the Sunday. I have always found that unless there is “Happy
Sunday,” there will not be “a Happy Week.” Thus there was nothing but
idleness, quarrelling, disobedience, ill-tempers, and ill-manners; and
poor Maurice during this week fully shewed the sinfulness of his heart.
His behaviour clearly proved the truth of the text, “His servants ye are
whom ye obey;” (Romans vi. 16.) and my readers will recollect that when
this text was written the servants were _slaves_. He had obeyed Satan by
his wicked conduct on the Sabbath, and he continued to serve that _hard
master_ all the week, with a constant attention to _his_ will that was
very dreadful. How much better it would have been to have served the
Saviour, “whose yoke is easy and whose burden is light.” His father was
very kind, and warned him several times of the consequences of such
conduct. On the following Sunday he spoke again to Maurice for a
considerable time, telling him how displeasing such conduct was to the
Lord.
“For God looks down from heav’n on high,
“Our actions to behold;
“And he is pleas’d when children try
“To do as they are told.”
and,
“His own most holy book declares,
“He loves good children still;
“And that he answers all their pray’rs,
“Just as a tender father will.”
His kind father also reminded Maurice of the example of our Saviour, who
employed himself in doing his Father’s will: and he asked Maurice
whether he was happy when he did not try to please God, but did the very
things from which Christ is ready to deliver his children, when they
really pray to him for the forgiveness of their sins.
I am sorry to say Maurice did not attend to this kind advice, and his
father determined to let him experience more of the unhappiness which
follows from such conduct, so he let him go on his own way till
Saturday.
He then took Maurice for a walk, and they came to a pleasant meadow,
which was separated from the road by a very high and strong thorn hedge.
Perceiving that Maurice was walking with his eyes fixed on the ground,
and making faces, his father suddenly turned into the meadow, by the
gate which they were just passing, and walked along a path on the other
side of the hedge.
Maurice had gone some distance before he found that he was alone, he
then looked about for his father, and at length saw him in the field.
“Father, father,” cried he, “why have you left me? Wait for me, pray
wait for me.”
_Father._ Come to me; this path is very pleasant, and the meadow is full
of beautiful flowers.
_Maurice._ But the hedge is so thick, I cannot get to you. Oh! it has
pricked my hands so badly. Papa, how did you get there?
_F._ Try again; see if you cannot push the branches aside, and put your
foot firm upon the bank.
Maurice tried again, but he only pricked his hands, and scratched his
legs; at last he began to cry.
_F._ Go a little further and try again.
Maurice went backwards and forwards, and tried here and there, but all
in vain; the gate was round a corner and he could not see it.
_M._ Dear papa, I cannot get to you; pray come and fetch me.
_F._ Why cannot you come of yourself?
_M._ Oh, papa, look at these thorns, the hedge is full of them, and it
is so thick I cannot put my hand through. How can I pass it, I shall be
torn to pieces; do look at my hands, see they are all bloody.
His father then ran back, and came out of the field through the gate,
and called Maurice. He sat down, and taking out his little Bible told
him to turn to Prov. xv. 19.
Maurice read “The way of the slothful man is as an hedge of thorns.”
_F._ Tell me, my boy, do you understand what this text means? You have
pricked your fingers and scratched your hands; but tell me the truth,
are not these troubles as nothing when compared with the discontent, and
self-reproaches, and shame, in which you have passed all this week? Is
not the word of God true? And we cannot be happy while doing those
things which are contrary to his word. My dear Maurice, listen to me,
and remember what I say. The Lord tells us in his word, as you see, that
the way of the slothful, that is to say his conduct or his life, is like
a thorn hedge. The word of God is always true. You have been unhappy
lately because you have done what God declares is contrary to his will.
You will be just as uncomfortable to-morrow, the next day, and as long
as you continue this conduct. There always will be a _thorn hedge_
before you, whenever you give way to carelessness, idleness, or other
naughty ways; and though you see others good and happy, and wish to be
like them, you will think that you cannot do as they do. Your idleness
will bring its own punishment, for the slothful man punishes himself by
his idleness, and God is angry with him.
Maurice felt this, for the Lord was pleased to touch his heart, and
cause him to feel the truth of what his father said. He put his hands
round his father’s neck, and exclaimed, “I am very sorry I have been so
naughty and so foolish; I am very sorry indeed that I have sinned
against God, and I hope not to do so again.”
_F._ My dear Maurice, you have promised this more than once already, but
the _thorn hedge_ has always been in your way, and you could not pass
it. You know what I mean. Now can you tell me why you could not leave
off being naughty?
_M._ Yes, papa; I know why it was. I did not ask the Saviour to give me
a new heart; but I will do so now, indeed I will; I will not leave off
praying to him to cure me of my evil ways till he has taught me to do
His will.
Maurice’s father then kissed him, and said, “Whatever you ask from our
heavenly Father, in the name of his son our Lord Jesus Christ, He has
promised that he will bestow; then, my dear child, seek for his grace at
once, pray for it to day, pray for it _now_.”
* * * * *
Perhaps some other time, I may tell you if Maurice did pray to God to
deliver him from his idleness, and whether this hedge of thorns was
taken out of his way. Meanwhile my readers may hope that it was removed;
and let them see whether there is not a hedge of thorns in _their own_
way. If there is, I hope they will not rest till they have found out how
to pass it.
[Illustration]
THE REAL FRIEND.
“Mamma,” said Henry, “may I go and play with William, this afternoon?”
_Mamma._ Why do you wish to go to play with William rather than with
Thomas, who lives so much nearer?
_Henry._ I like very well to play with Thomas; but if you please I had
rather go to see William.
_M._ I wonder at that, for Thomas has a great many more playthings than
William; I know he has a very nice paint box, and you are very fond of
painting pictures.
_H._ Yes; poor William has hardly any playthings, except a few old ones
that I have given him.
_M._ Then how do you amuse yourselves?
_H._ Oh! he is so very clever, he is always making me laugh and trying
to please me; and then he can keep a secret; he never tells any body
what I say.
_M._ Pray what good is there in that? Do you say things that are wrong,
and such as you would be ashamed of, if other persons knew them?
_H._ No, I don’t mean that; but it is so nice to have a secret.
_M._ Then, I suppose, if you say any thing that is silly or foolish,
William never tells you it is wrong?
_H._ Oh, he can say foolish things as well as I; and then he tells me so
many funny stories; there’s Puss in Boots, and I don’t know how many
more, and there’s his story about Old Uncle Natty.
_M._ What! do you mean his Uncle Nathaniel?
_H._ Yes, mamma; William one day asked him for three-pence to buy a
pound of cherries, but he would only give him a penny, and William
always calls him--
_M._ Stop, Henry; I am afraid William is a naughty boy, and I do not
wish to hear such a story as that.
_H._ But, mamma, may we not laugh sometimes?
_M._ Certainly but not at such silly or wicked things:--in what other
manner do you and William amuse yourselves?
_H._ In a great many ways; sometimes we draw, or we play in the garden.
_M._ Pray which of you draws the best?
_H._ William draws houses better than I do, but I can draw horses and
trees the best, and I often draw landscapes and men on horseback for
him.
_M._ And which of you can run fastest?
_H._ I can.
_M._ Is not William sometimes out of humour because you do these things
better than he can?
_H._ O no; the other day he told me I drew so prettily, that he had
rather see me draw for a quarter of an hour than draw for a whole day by
himself.
_M._ What becomes of these pretty drawings?
_H._ He pins them against the wall in his bed-room.
_M._ Why do you not ask William to come home, sometimes? As you are such
great friends I should think he would be glad to come to see you.
_H._ Why, mamma, William says he does not feel so comfortable here; he
is always afraid of you.
_M._ How so?
_H._ Why, mamma, you are so wise, that he is afraid to say just whatever
comes into his head.
_M._ But Thomas always seems very happy when he is here.
_H._ Oh, he is so wise, we call him the Judge: we have always called him
so since the day we went to see farmer Martin.
_M._ But why do you call him so?
_H._ You know, mamma, that we must cross the long meadow to go to farmer
Martin’s. To save the trouble of going all the way round to the gate,
William said we had better scramble through the hedge and make a short
cut across the grass. Thomas looked as grave as a judge, and told us
that the hedge was made on purpose that people should not scramble
through it, and that it was not right to trample down the grass.
William said, that we should not do much harm, and that many others had
often done so before us. Thomas asked him if we were to do wrong because
others did the same? William directly jumped over the hedge and ran
across the meadow crying out, “Who cares for cowards; not I, for one.”
_M._ Did you follow William?
_H._ No; Thomas would not let me; he made me go round by the gate, and
along the path with him.
_M._ And what did William say, when you arrived at the farm?
_H._ Why, he had tumbled into a ditch which the long grass had prevented
him from seeing; the cow-boy pulled him out and was washing him at the
pump.
[Illustration]
_M._ Did Thomas tell William he had done wrong?
_H._ Not at first; but when the cow-boy was gone, he said, “William you
had better have gone along the path as we did.”
_M._ Is this the reason why you call him the Judge?
_H._ Yes, mamma, but you ought to have heard with what a grave tone he
spoke--just like a judge on the bench.
_M._ Ought not serious things to be said in a grave manner?
_H._ Yes; but he makes such grave speeches.
_M._ Do you recollect one of these grave speeches?
_H._ Oh, yes, I can easily do that. The other day I was going to tell
him something his sister had said; it was nothing very particular, but
somehow I hoped it would have made him angry with her. All at once
Thomas stopped me, and said, “A whisperer separateth chief friends;” and
if you had but seen how grave he looked.
_M._ Open the Bible and you will find this grave speech as you call it,
in the 17th chapter of Proverbs. My dear Henry, it was not Thomas but
the word of God that stopped you.
_H._ Indeed, mamma, I did not know it was in the Bible. But Thomas is
always so grave; he looks as if he meant to tell you every thing I say
or do. As we came home from farmer Martin’s I got up behind a carriage,
and the coachman did not find me out for a long while; but when Thomas
overtook me, he said such a deal about its being wrong to get up behind
a carriage without leave.
_M._ What did he say?
_H._ Oh, I hardly recollect all: he said it was unjust, for I did it
without asking leave. I am sure you will say that it is nonsense to call
such a trifle as that unjust.
_M._ I am quite of Thomas’s opinion; what would you have thought, if a
person had put two or three sacks of corn behind the carriage?
_H._ That would have tired the horses and made them go slower, and the
people would not have arrived so soon at their journey’s end.
_M._ Then to do so would have been unjust, would it not?
_H._ I understand what you mean, mamma; though I am not so heavy as a
sack of corn, yet I see I was wrong.
_M._ Well, then, you also see that Thomas was right; but what said
William?
_H._ He whispered to me, “Never mind him; you had a nice ride.”
_M._ Was that right?
_H._ No, I see it was wrong.
_M._ Well, my dear boy, as you understand what I mean, I will tell you
something more. Do not forget what I am going to say, for it is in the
Bible. “A man that flattereth his neighbour spreadeth a net for his
feet,” (Prov. xxix. 5.); and “Every man is a friend to him that giveth
gifts.” (Prov. xix. 6.) Now, tell me the truth: should you be so fond of
William if he contradicted you, or would not do just as you wished him?
_H._ Perhaps not. Yesterday I was angry with him because he would not
take a walk with me.
_M._ Has he ever told you that you are too fond of play, that you like
to be idle, that you are greedy for every thing nice, and that you
sometimes fly into a passion? I rather think that he never told you so.
_H._ But, mamma, am I so naughty?
_M._ What do you think? Remember, _God_ sees and hears you.
_H._ Why, I am not always quite so good as I should be; but one cannot
help being naughty sometimes.
_M._ And is it right to be naughty?
_H._ Oh, no, quite wrong; it is much better to be good.
_M._ Then are those right or wrong who see your naughty tricks, I mean
your faults; or, as they really are, _your sins_; and do not tell you of
them?
_H._ Certainly it is right to tell me of them; but then, mamma, it is so
unpleasant to have Thomas always finding fault with me. He never is with
me for a quarter of an hour without blaming me for something.
_M._ Do you recollect the day we went to Sir Edward Walton’s? When the
carriage came to fetch us, and it was time to get ready, you ran and
asked me for your best clothes.
_H._ Yes; for I should have been quite ashamed if I had gone to play
with Sir Edward’s children in my old jacket and trowsers.
_M._ Suppose, just as you were getting into the carriage, Thomas had
pulled you back, and told you there was a great spot of dirt upon your
frill, should you have been angry with him?
_H._ Certainly not; I should have thanked him, and should have gone
directly and put on a clean shirt.
_M._ Then your wish to be neat would have made you willing to listen to
his advice! Ah, my Henry, tell me, is not there one who is much greater
than Sir Edward, and before whom we must one day appear?
_H._ You mean, mamma, that we must appear before God.
_M._ Yes, that is what I mean, and I speak seriously. But are not we
_always_ in his presence? Whenever we pray to him, whether at home, or
in the House of God, we present ourselves before him. And above all,
when our life in this world is ended, shall we not have to appear
before the judgment seat of Christ?
_H._ Yes, mamma, the Bible tells us so.
_M._ And do you think that he who is so holy will be pleased to see
things which are so wrong in your conduct; for instance, anger,
idleness, disobedience, greediness, or other wicked ways?
_H._ No; for the bible tells us that God “is of purer eyes than to
behold iniquity.”
_M._ Well then if a person warns you of these faults is he your friend
or your enemy?
_H._ Oh, I understand you now, mamma; he is really my best friend.
_M._ But what is he who will hide these faults and prevent you from
seeing them, or even persuade you that they are beauties: what ought you
to think of him?
_H._ Why, he would be unkind, just as if he had let me go to Sir
Edward’s with a dirty frill or a hole in my coat.
_M._ Henry are you aware that every sin is rebellion against God,
against our Lord and Saviour; and therefore is very wrong?
_H._ Yes, I recollect it now; but I did not think of it before as I
ought to have done.
_M._ Well, then, be thankful to those who tell you of these things, and
love you so as to tell you of them, when they see that you have
forgotten them.
_H._ Then, mamma, do you think that William does not love me, because he
does not tell me when I do wrong?
_M._ My dear boy, I fear that William flatters you, and that he will do
you much harm; and I think that Thomas is a REAL FRIEND, because he
fears God, and faithfully warns you when you are wrong.
_H._ But ought I to like Thomas better than William?
_M._ The Bible tells us, “He that rebuketh a man afterwards shall find
more favour than he that flattereth with the tongue,” (Prov. xxviii.
23.); and I am sure, if you wish to obey God you will believe his word.
_H._ Yes, mamma, I do wish to obey God, because I know that is the only
way to be happy.
_M._ Well; now, Henry, I will let you choose; you may go where you like
best.
_H._ Then, mamma, I will go to Thomas, and ask him to come and see me.
_M._ I also wish you to see William and tell him how wrong he has been,
and how unkind he is to you. Do this openly and with truth, and shew him
that you do not wish him to be a _flatterer_ but a REAL FRIEND.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IDLE DICK.
Richard Watson was twelve years old; his father kept the village
public-house.
I am sorry to say that Richard’s father was not a good man; he drank and
swore, and his house was the resort of all the wicked fellows in the
neighbourhood.
There was no Bible in the house; he never prayed to God nor attended
public worship, but spent Sunday just like any other day. He bought and
sold, and drank, and swore, and quarrelled on that day, just as if there
was no Fourth Commandment and as if God had never said, “nor drunkards
nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.” (1
Cor. vi. 10.)
I need not say that such a wicked man did not bring up his family in the
fear of the Lord. He was a widower, and Richard was his only child. It
was even said that his mother’s death had been hastened by sorrow for
her husband’s evil conduct.
[Illustration]
While she lived, Richard was sent to school and had learned to read; but
after her death his father kept him at home, and said he would teach
Richard himself, but he never took any trouble about it.
[Illustration]
Richard grew up without learning any thing more, except to write just
enough to keep an account of what the customers called for. His time was
employed in waiting upon them, or in washing the pots and glasses, and
setting up ninepins for those who played. Poor boy! you may suppose he
heard nothing good. At last, by listening to oaths and wicked words, he
took pleasure in hearing them, and soon began to make use of them
himself.
What was the end of all this! Why before he was twelve years old,
Richard Watson was looked upon as the most good-for-nothing mischievous
fellow in the neighbourhood.
[Illustration]
He was idle, fond of play, and what was worse, a gambler, a thief, and a
complete scoundrel.
You might hear him speak saucily to his father, and even laugh at him
and disobey his orders.
He had frequently been punished, but at length he despised both blows
and reproofs, and used to run away from home whenever he expected to be
punished.
He was the disgrace of the village, and was known by the name of “Idle
Dick.”
Mr. Watson began to think that if his son went on in this manner he
would come to the gallows at last, and determined that he would try and
reform him.
How did he begin? at first he said, “Dick, if you do not mind your work
you shall have nothing to eat.” Dick laughed at this, and went to the
pantry and helped himself.
His father discovered it, so he shut Dick in the cellar for two days and
gave him nothing but bread and water.
This punishment had some effect. Dick behaved better for one week, but
the Thursday following he went to a fight in the neighbourhood, and
staid there all day among gamblers and pickpockets.
His father saw Dick on his way home, and gave him such a beating that he
laid down on the path-way unable to stir. Old Joseph, an honest
basket-maker, and another man who lived in the village, came by and
together they carried him home, where he was for some days confined to
his bed; and he was so much hurt by the severe beating, that for a whole
week he could not walk further than to the bench at the door.
[Illustration]
Poor Dick, as you will recollect, had lost his mother! Ah! it is a sad
loss for children when God takes away their mothers. Nobody in the house
cared about Dick, nobody tried to persuade his father to treat him
kindly, or advised Dick to behave better. If any body noticed him it
was only to laugh and say, “Ah! you idle fellow, you have got what you
deserve.”
A few doors off lived a poor woman named Maud. Her husband was a pedlar,
and was absent from the village a great part of the year; but she staid
at home and earned her living by making lace.
[Illustration]
This good woman had a daughter named Jenny, about the same age as
Richard, but she had been brought up in a very different manner; for as
soon as Jenny could understand what was said to her, her parents had
taught her to love and serve God, as the Bible directs us. She learned
to pray regularly, and attended divine service every Sunday.
Whenever Jenny was naughty, her mother used to remind her that God saw
her, and that she had disobeyed his word, which tells us, that children
are to honor their parents, to be gentle and industrious, and always to
speak the truth.
Sometimes it was necessary to punish Jenny, but her parents did not
chastise her in wrath, but with kindness, as we read in the book of
Proverbs; “Withhold not correction from the child for if thou beatest
him with the rod he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and
shalt deliver his soul from hell.” (Prov. xxiii. 13, 14.)
This kind correction had been blessed by Him who directed it in His
word; and as Jenny grew up she was the most dutiful, the most
industrious, and the most pious of the young people in the village.
She never was seen flaunting about with those idle giddy girls who are
so fond of laughing and giggling at every thing they see, and forget
that a modest quiet spirit is, in the sight of God, an ornament of great
price. 1 Pet. iii. 4.
Jenny lived quietly at home, and tried to be as serviceable as possible
to her mother; and very useful she was, as all little boys and girls may
be who try to make themselves so.
It was Jenny who swept out the cottage every morning and dusted the
furniture; it was Jenny who fetched water and went to the shop for every
thing that was wanted, and her mother often trusted her to carry work
home to her employers.
[Illustration]
Every thing she did, Jenny tried to do well, and it was always done
quickly and properly.
Now can my little readers tell me, how so young a person could be so
useful and behave so well? It was by the blessing of God; for, like
Joseph of old, God was with her, and that which she did, the Lord made
it to prosper.
You will suppose that her time passed very differently from that of
_Idle Dick_, who was, as we read in Isaiah lvii. 20, 21: “Like the
troubled sea when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt,”
for “there is no peace saith my God to the wicked.”
My readers will observe, from this history, how great a difference there
is between the righteous and the wicked, between those who serve God and
those who serve him not. Compare Jane and Richard, and say which of
these two was the happiest? The boy who knew nothing about Jesus, or the
girl who had taken the yoke of Christ upon her?
But to return to my story. Maud was at home the first day that Dick was
able to come out after the beating of which I told you. Poor fellow! he
was sitting at the door in the sun, and looked very pale and ill. Maud
saw him, and asked him how he did.
Dick did not answer, though she spoke very kindly; he only made a face
at her, and looked another way.
Maud did not mind this, and at last got him to say that he was unwell,
owing to the beating which his father gave him.
This kind neighbour then tried to make him understand that it was very
wrong to go from home without leave, and that a child committed a great
sin when he rebelled against his father.
“My father hates me,” said Dick in a revengeful tone, “he always has
hated me, and he would be glad to see me dead; but--but I’ll run away
from him some day or other.”
Maud tried to calm him, and to convince him that he was wrong in
thinking that his father hated him, but her kindness seemed to be of no
use; Dick got up and went into the house without even saying, “I thank
you.”
In a few days Dick got well again, and I am sorry to say the first thing
he did was to go with some other good-for-nothing fellows to rob an
orchard, when one of whom fell and brake his arm.
[Illustration]
This was done one Friday night, Dick got out at his bed-room window,
which was over the roof of the stable. They were the greater part of the
night about this wicked robbery, and when it was done Dick returned to
his room in the same way, after hiding his share of the plunder among
some faggots in the yard.
It so happened that his father wanted to move this wood to make room for
something else, and he and the ostler set about it the next morning.
They soon found the bag full of apples and pears which Dick had put
there.
“What is this?” exclaimed the father with an oath, “this is another
trick of that good-for-nothing fellow master Dick; I’ll give it him
properly for this.”
Dick was still in bed; hearing this he jumped up and ran to the window,
where he saw that his father had snatched up a horsewhip and was coming
in doors. “O father, father!” cried he, “forgive me this once, pray put
down the whip.”
Maud was in her garden and heard what was passing. She came to the hedge
and said, “My good neighbour, pray do not treat your son so severely, it
will only harden him,”--“My good woman,” replied he, “mind your own
daughter; I know how to teach dogs good manners, and my good-for-nothing
son must be treated like Boxer yonder.”
[Illustration]
Maud continued to intercede, and at length Mr. Watson consented that
Dick should not be flogged, but only shut up in the cellar. “The
Publican, saying Well neighbour, I will do so, if it is only to shew you
how kind and gentle I am. Go, Peter, and put the good-for-nothing fellow
into the cellar: you nay give him a crust and a mug of water. But Dick,
mind me, I promise you that the next nonsense you are after I’ll give
you a thorough flogging.”
Perhaps you will say, now Dick will be more careful, or he must be a
very foolish fellow. The Bible tells us, that “the sow that was washed
is turned again to her wallowing in the mire,” (2 Peter ii. 22.) and
Dick returned to his wicked ways, as I am going to tell you.
One Saturdays afternoon, as he was setting up the ninepins in the
skittle ground, he saw some of his companions passing by, and they
beckoned him. Dick made a false excuse to join them, and promised to go
with them the next day to a wake in a neighbouring village, where there
would be rope-dancing, wild beasts, and a puppet-show.
[Illustration]
He thought of the horsewhip: but such is the power of sin over the heart
that is led captive by Satan at his will, that neither punishment nor
suffering can keep back those who are not restrained by the grace of
God.
The next morning at day-break Dick and his companions set of to the
village.
“But,” my readers will say, “how could this be--the next day was
Sunday.”
What I am telling you about happened in a country where the people did
not keep holy the Sabbath-day, not even in an outward manner, and where
God’s holy day is despised, there can be but little of true religion.
But although most of the people in that country profaned the Lord’s day
and did not love the Saviour, still there were some few among them who
were his children, and who both loved and served him.
You may suppose that neither Maud, nor her daughter Jenny, nor old
Joseph the basket-maker, wished to go to this wake. On the contrary; in
the morning when they saw their neighbours preparing to go, they felt
more strongly than ever, that the pleasures which a Christian enjoys,
are more pure and more lasting, than the foolish empty enjoyments of
those who despise God and his holy word.
Dick spent the day in all sorts of tricks; he pilfered gingerbread and
cakes from the stalls that he might have something to eat, and I am
sorry to say he stole half-a-crown from a little girl who wanted to get
it changed, and set some dogs to fight; in a word, he committed all
sorts of roguery.
[Illustration]
When night came, most of the people had left the fair. One of Dick’s
companions said to him, “It is late, let us go home.” “Presently,”
answered Dick; “I have been playing at pitch and toss for more than an
hour and have lost almost all my money, I must go on a little longer and
win some of it back again.”
A quarter of an hour first, and then half an hour passed away. Dick
still continued the game, and lost more and more, and swore, and used a
great many bad words, till at last his companion was tired of waiting,
and returned home by himself.
The clock struck nine, when all at once Dick recollected the horsewhip
and his father’s threat; away he ran as fast as he could, but it was
near ten before he got to the village. All was quiet, not a light was to
be seen, except at the parsonage, and the public-house.
[Illustration]
You can hardly suppose how much afraid this unhappy wicked boy felt as
he came to his father’s house. He stopped at the door and listened. His
father was speaking in a very angry tone, and swore he would break his
horsewhip over the back of his good-for-nothing son directly he
appeared.
Dick was afraid to enter; he put his hand upon the latch, but dared not
lift it up. How sad it is when a child dares not enter his father’s
house!--After walking all round the house he got upon the dunghill, and
so climbed on the roof of the stable, from whence he could just reach
the window of his room. He got in and sat down, not daring to stir, nor
hardly venturing to breathe.
His father continued to threaten louder and louder; Dick trembled from
head to foot, and did not know what would become of him, for he knew
that his father would find him at last, and that he might depend on
having a severe flogging.
“The fear of the wicked shall come upon him,” (Prov. x. 23,); the Bible
tells us this. Dick had hardly been ten minutes in his room, when he
heard his father open the door at the foot of the stairs, saying,
“Perhaps this good-for-nothing fellow has got in at the window, I’ll go
and see.”
In a moment Dick was out of the window, over the roof of the stable,
down upon the dunghill, and along the garden, and had jumped over the
hedge before his father got up stairs.
When he was in Maud’s little field, he saw a light in her lower
window;--not knowing what to do, he determined to knock at the window,
and ask this good woman to help him.
[Illustration]
Maud had family prayer regularly every evening with her daughter and
Joseph’s old servant ---- The Bible laid upon the table, and just as
Dick came to the window, she was saying something about what she had
read; he could not hear what she said, but he was impressed with
reverence and did not knock for fear of disturbing them. After they had
knelt down and prayed, they bid each other good night and left the room.
Dick was struck with this, but was obliged to consider what he should do
next.
The night was very dark, all was quiet--not a light was to be
seen.--Dick once more climbed to his window, but the shutter was
fastened. He could not get in, and at last was obliged to lie down upon
a heap of dry leaves under a shed along with the dog Boxer.
His sleep was not very sound, and the stars were still shining when he
awoke. The first thing that he did was to get out of the village as soon
as possible, for he was more afraid of meeting his father than the
evening before.
It was market-day at the next town, and Dick knew that his father meant
to take a pig there to sell; so he waited under the hedge, peeping out
like a fox in his hole, watching till his father should pass by.
[Illustration]
Just as the sun rose, he heard a waggon coming, and looked through the
hedge, hoping it was his father: he saw the well-known team, and it was
going towards the town--but it was driven by Peter the ostler?
The waggon went by; Dick remained in his lurking place without knowing
what to do. He began to be hungry, but had nothing to eat, not even a
crust of dry bread, and was well aware that if he went home the whip
would be laid across his back.
While thus full of doubt and fear, he went to the gate which led to the
common, and leant over the stile thinking what he should do.
In a few minutes Jenny passed by. This good industrious girl had a rake
over her shoulder, and was going to rake up the hay which had fallen
from the carts on the Saturday evening as they went across the common.
Jenny was a good deal surprised, and even a little frightened, to see
Dick at that place so early in the morning, lest he should play her some
trick. However, she mustered up courage, and said--
“Why, Mr. Richard, who would have thought of seeing you here so early?”
_Dick._ Yes: here I am, but what is that to you?
[Illustration]
_Jenny._ I meant no harm, Mr. Richard, only I did not expect you would
have been here.
_D._ And pray Jenny, where are you going with your rake? What are you
after at this time of the morning?
_J._ I am going to gather up the hay which has been dropped. You know
Farmer Norris carted his hay on Saturday, and my mother has sent me to
gather up what has fallen from the carts.
_D._ What right have you to it?
_J._ My mother says that the hay which is left by the way-side is like
the ears of corn left by the reaper which poor people are allowed to
glean.
[Illustration]
Dick was silent for a minute; he then said in a milder tone, “So, Jenny,
you read the Bible?”
_J._ Yes, sure enough, I read it every day, but particularly on Sundays.
_D._ What is that great book about?