top of a very lofty precipice.
“How was it?” said both the children at once. “Do tell us all about it.”
_J._ In the country where I was born, which is many miles from this
place, there is a very high mountain. One side of it is quite a
precipice, and people go thither to hunt the Chamois and the Marmots,
which abound in that place. One day I went there with some of my
companions, and we saw a Marmot creep into a cleft in the side of the
rock.
I was one of the most courageous of the band and was foolhardy enough
to say, “I’ll go and pull him out of his hole.” “No, no, John,” they all
cried out, “it is not safe; his hole is on the edge of the precipice; if
your foot slips nothing can save you.” They tried all they could to
dissuade me, but in vain--I was rash enough to determine to have my own
way.
I let myself down over the edge of the rock. The Marmot was just within
his hole, behind a plant of wild geranium. I saw him plain enough, and
determined to try to reach him, though I was hanging over a precipice a
thousand feet deep.
I ought to have given up this foolish design, and to have remembered
that there is no real courage in exposing oneself to a useless danger.
But I was young and foolish. I then knew nothing of the Lord. I thought
my life was in my own power, and that I might do whatever I chose. Well,
I rested one foot upon a stone, I bent forward, and stretched out my arm
to lay hold of the Marmot. All at once I was gone! I recollected nothing
more till I found myself in the cottage of a charcoal burner, lying upon
his bed. I was in pain all over, and my mother was watching me.
[Illustration]
_H._ How did this happen? Did the charcoal burner live under the rock,
and catch you as you fell?
_J._ No, my boy; he lived a good way off, in the forest. But listen to
an account of what the Lord did for me, poor, miserable, and foolish
creature that I was. My head became giddy--I fell. My companions saw me
go headlong from the top of the precipice, and ran homewards, crying out
that I was killed. As soon as they arrived in our village, my mother and
all the people ran out. They concluded I was dashed to pieces, and she
went immediately, with two of the neighbours, to seek for my remains.
When she came near the fatal spot, weeping bitterly, and every moment
expecting to find the shattered body of her dear child, she saw a tall,
stout man, the charcoal burner, coming from behind a great mass of rock
with me in his arms. My mother has often told me about it. My dear
mother; she is now in heaven.--[Tears came into his eyes as he spoke,
and he added,] She was so kind to me, she taught me to love and fear
God. [After a few minutes’ silence he went on.] My dear mother has often
told me that when she saw me in the man’s arms, a thought darted into
her mind, as if a voice said, “I have preserved him, it is my doing!”
She ran forward, exclaiming, “O, my good man, where did you find him?”
“Don’t stop me,” said the man; “come along, he still breathes.” A
neighbour helped him; they hastened to his cottage, and, putting me upon
his bed, they did all they could to bring me to myself.
My mother watched over my body. I was then beginning to recover a
little. O how glad they were! The charcoal burner joined his hands, and
said, “O Lord, thou hast preserved his life, may it be for thy glory!”
“Amen,” said my mother. As for me, I seemed to be in a dream. They
undressed me, and put me to bed, and it was several days before I could
be moved. I could not even bear that any one should speak to me. I was
then carried home, and I suffered much pain for nearly two months. But
God is just, and I deserved all that I had undergone.
_M._ You have not told us how the charcoal burner found you.
_J._ This good man, who was a second father to me, and who, I trust, is
now in heaven, was in the forest, at the foot of the mountain, looking
for wood fit for charcoal, when he heard a noise in the air, like the
flying of a large bird, and, looking up, he saw something caught in a
branch of a large pine tree, about a hundred yards distant. Upon viewing
it more attentively he saw it was a boy hanging by the skirt of his
jacket, which had caught on the branch.
It was almost impossible to get to the place where this tree grew, among
the rocks, and still harder to reach the end of the branch; but this
good man thought the same arm of the Lord which supported Jonathan, when
he climbed up the sharp (or steep) rock upon his hands and feet, (1 Sam.
xiv. 13.) would support him. He climbed up the rock with much
difficulty, and at length reached the pine tree, and laying at full
length along the branch he could just reach the skirt of my jacket; and
then creeping backwards he put one arm round the trunk of the tree, and
held me in the other, and thus contrived to slip down.
He has told me that at first he thought I was dead, and was going to
leave me among the branches till he went for ropes and a ladder; but,
while he was considering if he should do so, he thought he heard me
sigh, and putting his face close to mine he found that I still breathed.
He then took courage, having prayed to God to enable him to descend in
safety with his burden. The Lord heard his prayer,--and my days were
thus lengthened.
You now know why I am called _Mountain John_. I like the name, for it
always reminds me that God held me aloft in the midst of the abyss into
which I had fallen, and that the prayer of my preserver, and of my dear
mother, was, “May the Lord have preserved him for His glory!”
_A._ Let us also trust that it is for His glory that he has preserved us
this day. Let us take courage, from this instance of his care over us;
and I would believe that God has sent you to our cottage that we may
love each other for his sake, and that these children may learn and
perceive that those whom the Lord protects are well guarded, and that
all deliverance comes from Him alone.
[Illustration]
They then knelt down together in prayer--Mountain John passed the night
with Andrew, and in the morning they carried the bear to the next city,
where they sold it for a good price. At this John was much pleased; and
Andrew said, “If the bear was killed by my bill-hook, it was for your
preservation that God directed me to strike, and the remembrance of your
visit will, I trust, be better to us than the treasures of this world.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HYMNS FOR CHILDREN.
William and his sister Jane were returning home. They were singing as
they walked along. At a turning of the road they saw a gentleman sitting
upon the bank; he was writing in his pocket book.
“My dears,” said the gentleman, “you are singing very merrily.”
The children stopped and were silent.
_G._ Do not let me stop your singing: go on, I shall like to hear you.
“Oh, Sir,” said William, “the song is not worth your hearing.”
_G._ Why not, it pleases you, so perhaps it may please me. What was it
about?
_J._ It was a song which one of our cousins taught us yesterday.
_G._ How does it begin?
William then sang the first verse of a song. It was foolish though not
wicked.
_G._ I am sorry it is not about something better. God has given you a
good voice, and a good memory. Cannot you employ them better?
_W._ Why, Sir, there is no harm in the song. Surely we may sing
sometimes.
_G._ Yes, my boy, singing is as lawful to man as to the lark yonder: but
ought not the songs we sing to be different from those of a bird?
_J._ O, Sir, the birds sing because they are pleased. I do not know that
they mean any thing. They sing to amuse themselves.
_G._ Well, but we have sense and reason which birds have not. Should not
our songs be different from theirs?
_W._ Yes, Sir, our songs are about something.
_G._ Do you suppose the sweet song which you hear from the lark has no
meaning?
_W._ I do not know, Sir; it is not like our songs.
_G._ Certainly not; but do not the beautiful notes of the bird lead you
to think of him who made the bird, and who gave it that sweet voice?
_W._ Yes, Sir; we know that it was God who made the birds, and beasts,
and all things, and enabled them to sing.
_G._ And is it not God who gave you the ability to sing? Your powers, as
well as those of the birds, came from God, who created all things. You
know this, but the lark does not: this makes a great difference between
you and the bird.
_W._ But we do not sing as he does: what we sing has a meaning.
_G._ Where is the great difference? The bird sings for its pleasure; I
think you only sing to amuse yourselves.
_J._ But we need not sing for sorrow.
_G._ There are sorrowful songs; but we generally sing to express our
joy. Still there should be a difference between our joy and that of
birds. If we know God, and love him with our hearts, we shall remember
him in our joy, for we are his work and belong to him. We should do all
things for his glory; the Bible tells us so. The Apostle says: “You are
bought with a price, (meaning the sufferings which Christ endured for
his people,) therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit,
which are God’s.” (1 Cor. vi. 20. see also Eph. ii. 10. 2 Cor. v. 17.)
_W._ But, Sir, how can a song be to the glory of God? Do you mean
psalms? they are so long and so dull.
_G._ Let us suppose that the lark knew who made and who loved it. Would
it sing differently from its usual manner?
_W._ Is not that its proper way of singing, Sir?
_G._ Yes; but you spoke of its song as being merely to please itself.
Now, if the lark knew its Maker, would not it address its songs to him;
perhaps it may do so more than we are aware.
_J._ Ah, Sir, I think I know what you mean. You mean that when we sing,
we should remember God sees us, and never sing any thing which may be
displeasing to him.
_G._ Yes, that is what I mean; for as we ought not to _say_ any thing
that is wrong, it is very plain we ought not to _sing_ any thing
improper. But it is not enough merely to abstain from what is wrong; we
ought also to do what is right.
_W._ Then we ought to sing about God?
_G._ Are you surprised at that, my boy? Should not those beings whom God
has made, live to his glory? Our Lord himself said, “Thou shalt love the
Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul, and with all thy
mind.” (Matt. xxii. 37. see also Deut. xiii. 3.) Then is it not right
that we should sing to the praise and glory of his grace?
_J._ But, Sir, we are not always at church? and when we are merry and
gay, it would be very strange to sing as we do at church.
[Illustration]
_G._ My dear children, when we are at church, it is to worship God, and
hear his word, and for that reason the psalms are solemn and grave. But
there are other songs, which we may sing to the praise of God.[C]
_W._ What are they, Sir? I never heard any such.
_G._ The Bible tells us: “Is any merry? let him sing psalms;” (James v.
13.) but it also says, “Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns, and
spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your hearts to the Lord.”
(Eph. v. 19.) There are hymns as well as psalms which you may sing.
_J._ Can you tell us one of them, Sir? Are they pretty?
_G._ I will read you one which I have just written.
_J._ Oh, Sir, pray do; what is it about?
_G._ Do you see the shepherd down in the meadow yonder, under the oaks?
[Illustration]
_J._ He lives at that farm-house under the hill.
_G._ When I saw him taking care of his sheep and lambs, I thought of
what the Scriptures tell us about our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,
whom the prophet Isaiah (ch. xl. 11.) thus describes: “He shall feed his
flock like a shepherd; he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry
them in his bosom.”
_J._ And did you write a song about it?
_G._ Something like it, my girl. I have said how happy the lambs
belonging to this good shepherd should be under his care; and I have
written it as if He were a shepherd speaking to his sheep.
_W._ Why, Sir, you said our song was silly because it was about a dog.
_G._ If your song had spoken of the faithfulness of the dog to his
master, as reminding us of our duty to God, I should have been better
pleased with it. You will find that what the shepherd in my song is
represented as saying, is to remind you of the loving-kindness of Christ
the good shepherd, and how attentive we should be to his word, if we
belong to his flock.
_J._ I should like to hear the song. Do read it to us if you please,
Sir.
_G._ Listen then to
THE SHEPHERD’S SONG.
Come, little lambs, and feed
Safe in the fertile mead,
Where gentle waters pass,
Amidst the flow’rs and grass:
Your Shepherd’s hand and crook are near:
Here rest in peace, exempt from fear.
Go not, my lambs, astray
In any devious way;
The savage wolves will leap
Upon the wand’ring sheep:
Here, in this pleasant pasture rest,
With plenty, peace, and safety blest.
Can that poor lamb rejoice,
Who will not hear my voice?
But though of danger told,
Resolves to leave the fold?--
The wolf has seized him--hear his cries,
The wand’rer groans--the wand’rer dies.
Oh, lovely lambs, beware
How you despise my care,
And quit the happy meads
To which your Shepherd leads;
I will protect you night and day,
Then never from your Shepherd stray.
My little lambs, like you,
I have a Shepherd too,
Who keeps me in his fold--
Whose love can ne’er be told--
Who guides me by his crook and rod--
My Shepherd is--my Saviour God.
[Illustration]
_W._ I think, Sir, I know what you mean. It is prettier than our song;
and what it tells us is of great consequence: it is very different from
what I expected.
_J._ Sir, it is prettier than any song I ever heard; I like the last
verse very much indeed.
_G._ Do you really like that verse the best?
_J._ Yes, Sir; it is about our blessed Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,
the Son of God: he is the best of shepherds.
_G._ Certainly he is: but if you really think so, you will like to sing
about him, instead of the common foolish songs. Those who love Christ
will delight to sing to his praise and glory.
_W._ Jane, I have made up my mind; we will not learn any more of cousin
Sally’s foolish songs; at least I will not.
_J._ Nor I.
_G._ But you are able to sing, and you like to sing: what will you do?
_J._ Sir, if you will let us have that song about the shepherd, we will
learn it.
_G._ Yes, my dears, you shall have it, and here is a little book with a
great many pretty hymns or divine songs; but before you begin to learn
any, you must ask your parents’ leave.
_J._ Sir, I am quite sure our mother will like them, for she told us
yesterday, that she did not think the songs our cousin was teaching us
were pretty ones, and that she would rather we learned to sing psalms.
_G._ I am glad to hear this, and if you come to my house some day, I
shall be well pleased to find that you can sing some of the pretty hymns
in that book; and there is a lady at my house who will teach you the
tunes if you are at a loss.
_W._ Thank you, Sir; are all the songs in this book as pretty as that
one about the shepherd?
_G._ Some of them are more serious, my boy; and it is right to learn
hymns of various sorts, if they all tell us of the Saviour.
_J._ Are they all hymns?
_G._ Yes, my girl, they are all written to praise God; for all things
should glorify Him.
_W._ Sir, we thank you very much indeed, and we will ask leave to come
and see you next week, if you will let us, and we shall have learned
some of these hymns by that time.
* * * * *
Perhaps this dialogue may interest some of our readers, and they, like
William and Jane, may be inclined to learn hymns or divine songs, which,
by the blessing of God, may make them wise unto salvation. There are
many books suitable for them: we will particularly remind them of “_Dr.
Watts’s Divine Songs_,” and the “_Cottage Hymns_,” but particularly the
“_Family Hymn Book_;” a very beautiful little book published by the
“_Religious Tract Society_.” They will find hymns which tell them of the
love of Christ to poor sinners, and such as ought to be fixed in the
memory, and to be heard from the lips of all the children of God.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ONE BLOW OF THE CHISEL DOES NOT MAKE A STATUE.[D]
Stephen Brown was ten years old, and Lewis, his brother, but eight.
Stephen was of a dull capacity, and found it very hard to learn his
lessons; but what he did learn he generally understood. Lewis was very
quick, and could learn his lessons in half the time that Stephen took,
but he was always full of play and fun, and sometimes got into a good
deal of mischief. They went to a day school together, and were in the
same class. One afternoon they had a half holiday, and both of them were
set a Latin lesson to learn at home: I am sorry to say, they had some
cross words almost as soon as they were out of school. After dinner they
went into the garden with their books, and, taking a seat in the arbour,
they began their studies. When they had been thus engaged some time,
their father passed behind the arbour, and he heard Lewis cry out, “Ah,
master Stephen, I can say my lesson, and you are only half through
your’s; what a lazy fellow you are. I will run and fly my kite, and
leave you to mope by yourself.” I fear that Stephen was about to answer
Lewis’s foolish boasting speech in an angry spirit, but just then his
father stepped up, and taking the hands of his two boys, he said,
“Lewis, you are a vain and foolish little boy to talk in such a way to
your brother; and Stephen, your angry face shews that you are unwise
enough to be in a passion with your brother. God has given you, my
children, different capacities, and every talent we possess comes from
him. Stephen, though you are rather slow in learning, yet, by diligence
and perseverance, you will be sure to get on, and therefore do not be
discouraged. Lewis, you can learn quickly; but if you are thus tempted
to become an idle playful boy, you will not advance in your learning,
and you will prove an unprofitable servant to that God who has given you
the talent of a good memory.” Mr. Brown said a good deal more, and then
taking out his pocket Bible, he told Lewis to learn the 139th Psalm
while his brother was finishing his lesson.
A few days after, Mr. Brown took Lewis with him to a neighbouring town,
where they called upon a Sculptor, a very clever man. When Lewis and his
father entered the workshop, he was very busily employed upon a block of
marble.
_F._ Do not disturb yourself, Sir. I called to ask you to let us see you
at work, will you allow us to look on for a short time?
_The Sculptor._ Certainly, Sir; only just stand at a little distance
for a few minutes, while I knock off this corner of the stone.
Lewis and his father went to the other end of the shop, and the sculptor
took a great chisel and a heavy mallet, with which he knocked off
several large pieces from one side of the block.
_The S._ You see, Sir, I do not stand upon trifles, but get on as fast
as I can.
_L._ Do you always get on as fast, Sir?
_The S._ No; you must not think statues are altogether made in this
manner.
_L._ Are you going to make a statue out of that great clumsy piece of
stone?
_The S._ Yes.
_L._ How can you contrive to make it, Sir?
_The S._ You see me just beginning, if you will call sometimes, you will
see how I get on, and if God is pleased to allow me to complete my work,
you may see it finished.
Lewis thanked the kind artist, and when they had seen him knock off
another corner of the stone, they wished him good morning, and said they
would call again.
_L._ Father, it is very strange that the sculptor should be able to make
a statue out of that clumsy shapeless mass of stone.
_F._ Do you think he did wrong to knock off those large pieces?
_L._ I dare say he knows what is proper to be done, and that it is right
to begin in this manner.
_F._ What should you think of a person, ignorant of sculpture, who
should go to him and say, “I am afraid you know nothing about what you
have undertaken to do, because what you are doing does not shew the
shape you say it is to represent.”
_L._ He would shew his ignorance and folly; for my part, I hope I should
not speak so foolishly.
_F._ Well, then, if you ought not to speak so hastily in this respect,
remember not to speak so rashly as you did to your brother the other
day.
They then pursued their walk and returned home.
Lewis told Stephen about their visit to the sculptor; Stephen was sorry
he had not gone, and he asked his father to take him the next time.
Several days past, and at length they went.--The sculptor was seated on
a low stool, with a small chisel and a light mallet; he struck very
gently, and only took off a sort of dust, which could be blown away with
the breath.
The stone had been cut, and brought into some degree of shape, and the
boys could see that it was intended for a lion. The artist was then at
work upon one of its paws, which was nearly finished: the rest of the
body was as yet only roughly cut out.
“Oh, how very different the stone looks,” said Lewis, as soon as he had
satisfied himself it was the same stone as he had seen before; “what a
difference! O father, it is to be a lion, see what a long tail and what
a shaggy mane it will have!”
_St._ And look at that foot, how should you like him to give you a claw
with it?
_The Sculptor._ Well, gentlemen, you see the stone is quite altered
since your first visit.
_L._ Yes, Sir, you have given it this shape, and I think you must have
had a great deal of trouble with it.
_The S._ It is God who gave me the skill to do what I have done, and if
I have succeeded it has been by the help of him who taught man to
cultivate the ground. As you may read Is. xxviii. 29. “This also cometh
forth from the Lord of Hosts, who is wonderful in counsel and excellent
in working.”
_St._ But I suppose, Sir, it took you some time to learn how to make a
statue: it did not come into your head all at once?
_The S._ O no; it took me a long time. But God gave me patience to
learn, as well as ability to understand, what I was taught; and he gives
me skill and power to direct the chisel so as to produce the work I
intend.
The sculptor, who was a good natured man, talked with them for some time
longer, and shewed them how he worked, and began one of the eyes of the
lion.
The children were much gratified, and would have stayed all day, if
their father had not reminded them that it was time to go home. They
then took leave of the sculptor, and as they walked homewards, they
noticed particularly that the sculptor had expressed his thankfulness to
God, for the abilities he possessed.
_F._ My children, when a man prospers and obtains useful knowledge, he
should ascribe his understanding and his industry to the Lord. But
Lewis, tell me what do you now think of the manner in which you saw the
sculptor working some days ago.
_L._ I see that it was necessary to bring the stone into its present
shape.
_F._ And do you not think that, when finished, it will be still more
beautiful than it now is?--Which sort of work appeared the slowest; when
the sculptor knocked off great pieces of stone, or when he finished so
carefully?
_L._ O, the last is much the slowest.
_St._ Certainly, for sometimes he touched the marble so very gently
that the chisel hardly made an impression.
_F._ But which produced the best effect? You, my boys, should recollect
the careful and exact manner in which the sculptor worked, when you are
engaged in learning your lessons, and often think of his patience and
perseverance.
When the statue was finished their father again took his two sons to see
it. It was a beautiful work and highly finished. Several persons were
standing near and praising it very much. Stephen and Lewis recollected
that it was the same work they had seen, and expressed their
astonishment to find it so beautiful.