Stories from Switzerland

H. What! did you fight a bear when you were no bigger than I am?

J. No, my boy; but I was wonderfully preserved when I fell from the 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.

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.

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.”

HYMNS FOR CHILDREN.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Their father stopped as long as they wished, and was pleased with the attention they paid. When they returned home, he called Lewis into his study, and said to him, “You saw how the sculptor began and continued his work, and you have to-day seen the beautiful statue that he has at length formed. He is a very clever man; but this is not all, he is, besides, a very diligent and persevering man: he pursued his work, stroke by stroke, day after day, and month after month, till he had completed it. You learn very quickly; but take care, my dear boy, or this will prove a snare to you by making you idle and careless. You cannot be truly wise without being diligent, and the more talent you possess, the more you should improve it. One blow of the chisel does not make a statue, neither does a little cleverness and quickness make a truly wise man. Think of these two maxims, and then you will not be vain and idle: first, That God has given you every talent you possess, and he requires you to improve it to the utmost, and will call you to give an account of the way in which you have used it; and, secondly, That the most diligent of the people of God, when they look back on their lives, must consider themselves as ‘unprofitable servants.’ Never, then, my dear Lewis, let me hear you boast over others; but let me intreat you to remember the favourite proverb of the meek and lowly Jesus: ‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’”