Kitobni o'qish: «The Deaf Shoemaker», sahifa 4

THE SAVIOUR

 
One there is, above all others,
Who deserves the name of Friend.
His is love beyond a brother’s,
Costly, free, and knows no end.
 

Newton.

A mother with three children was once returning home, at a late hour of the night, through one of those dark and lonely passes which abound in the Alps mountains.

The night was so very cold that she drew two of her children close to her side, and clasped the youngest to her breast, in order to keep them from freezing.

They thus journeyed on, drawn rapidly over the smoothly beaten road by their faithful horse, dreaming only of the warm fire and affectionate welcome which awaited them at their mountain home, little thinking of the danger which lurked so short a distance behind them.

Presently she heard in the far-off distance the faint howl of a wolf.

In a few seconds that of another, and another, fell upon her ear.

The sound grew louder and louder, and the number seemed to increase every moment.

The thought at once flashed across her mind, that a pack of half-starved wolves was in hot pursuit of herself and darling little ones.

The noble horse knew too well the danger that awaited himself and his precious burden, and with renewed speed hastened rapidly onward.

But his strength was not sufficient to rescue his mistress and her little ones from the jaws of twenty hungry wolves; for their fearful yell rang louder and louder on the midnight air, till, on looking behind her, the affrighted mother beheld them within a hundred yards of the precious laden sleigh.

Their blood-shot eyes glared fiercely, and their tongues hung far out of their mouths.

There was no escape – destruction was certain. Yes, there was one means of escape, and only one; that was, to throw one of her children to the wolves, and while they were satisfying their hunger on its body, she and the other two might safely reach their home. Awful thought! She looked into their cherub faces, kissed by the soft rays of the silver moon, with that tenderness which a mother only can feel, and her loving heart shrank back with horror from such a fiendish deed.

Not a moment was to be lost. The yelling wolves were within a few steps of the sleigh – she felt their heated breath warming her cheek. One minute more, and herself and children would be devoured by the bloodthirsty beasts. Love for her children prevails, she throws herself a sacrifice to the hungry pack, and soon breathes her last, surrounded by the growls of devouring wolves, and the mournful dirge of the mountain winds.

Children, was not that loving mother the Saviour of her tender offspring?

And now I ask you, – Will you, can you, reject that dear Saviour who suffered, and bled, and died on Calvary, to save you from a never-ending destruction?

 
“Oh! that all might believe,
And salvation receive,
And their song and their joy be the same.”
 

THE STRAYED LAMB

Matt. xviii. 12, 13

 
“A giddy lamb, one afternoon,
Had from the fold departed;
The tender shepherd missed it soon,
And sought it, broken-hearted;
Not all the flock, that shared his love,
Could from the search delay him:
Nor clouds of midnight darkness move,
Nor fear of suffering stay him.
 
 
“But, night and day, he went his way
In sorrow, till he found it;
And when he saw it fainting lie,
He clasp’d his arms around it;
And, closely shelter’d in his breast,
From every ill to save it,
He brought it to his home of rest,
And pitied, and forgave it.
 
 
“And so the Saviour will receive
The little ones that fear Him;
Their pains remove, their sins forgive,
And draw them gently near Him;
Bless, while they live – and when they die,
When soul and body sever,
Conduct them to His home on high,
To dwell with Him forever.”
 

AUTUMN

 
See the leaves around us falling,
Dry and wither’d to the ground;
Thus to thoughtless mortals calling,
In a sad and solemn sound.
 
 
On the tree of life eternal,
O let all our hopes be laid;
This alone, for ever vernal,
Bears a leaf that shall not fade.
 

Horne.

To me, no season of the year brings with it so many solemn and instructive reflections as Autumn. When I look around me and see everything looking so barren and desolate, I cannot help feeling sad. The fields which a few months since looked so gay and beautiful, with their flower-dressed meadows and waving grain, are now parched and dead. The busy scythe of the reaper has laid many a proud stalk level with the ground, and the frugal husbandman has gathered his abundant harvest into his garner, or left it carefully stacked in the field to breast the storms of the approaching Winter. The variegated blossoms of the apple-tree have matured, ripened, and fallen to the ground. The garden which, a short time since, sent forth such delightful fragrance, now lies barren and bare. The leaves have fallen one by one from the sturdy oak, and left it in its lonely barrenness to battle with the piercing winds and howling tempests of the winter king. I have sat by my window and seen the green leaf of Summer first fade into a pale amber color, grow darker and darker by degrees, till it finally turned to a beautiful russet, and then flutter to the ground. When I first noticed the tree, it was covered with a heavy foliage. In a few days it became thinner and thinner; in a few more days a few leaves lingered on its topmost boughs, and at last they, too, fell to the ground, and left it perfectly solitary.

Children, can you look upon such scenes as these, and not feel that they were intended by God to teach you many important truths? Does not the barren field remind you of that soul from which the light of God’s countenance has been withdrawn? The gathered harvest of that great harvest of mankind which shall take place at the judgment day? Does not the oak teach you, if you wish to encounter the trials and tempests of the world, that you must lay aside everything, however small it may seem, which will enable those trying tempests better to uproot your faith and cast you headlong into destruction? May you, like it, the more violent the storm, the deeper penetrate the roots of your trust into the soil Christ Jesus.

 
“The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose,
I will not—I will not desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never– no, never– no, never forsake.”
 

When we look upon the fading leaf and the withering flower, may we feel that “We all do fade as a leaf,” and that “All flesh is grass, and the goodness thereof is as the flower of the field: the grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever.” How frequently do we see it the case, that those whom we consider friends, when the sun of prosperity shines brightly upon us, cannot be drawn away; but, like the leaves of the forest, as soon as the pinching frosts of adversity begin to wither our hopes and blast our cherished expectations, they can nowhere be found, but have left us to struggle against difficulties, when we most needed their advice and counsel. Let us not, then, put too much trust in an arm of flesh, but always rely upon God, who will never desert us or leave us to the mercy of our enemies. As the leaf falleth to the ground, and moulders into dust, so does the body of man; but his spirit returneth to God who gave it, and shall spend an eternity amid the joys of Heaven or the woes of Hell.

THE VOICE OF AUTUMN

 
There comes, from yonder height,
A soft repining sound,
Where forest leaves are bright,
And fall like flakes of light
To the ground.
 
 
It is the autumn breeze,
That, lightly floating on,
Just skims the weedy leas,
Just stirs the glowing trees,
And is gone.
 
 
He moans by sedgy brook,
And visits with a sigh,
The last pale flowers that look
From out their sunny nook
At the sky.
 
 
O’er shouting children flies
That light October wind;
And, kissing cheeks and eyes,
He leaves their merry cries
Far behind,
 
 
And wanders on to make
That soft uneasy sound
By distant wood and lake,
Where distant fountains break
From the ground.
 
 
No bower where maidens dwell
Can win a moment’s stay;
Nor fair untrodden dell;
He sweeps the upland swell,
And away!
 
 
Mourn’st thou thy homeless state,
O soft, repining wind!
That early seek’st, and late,
The rest it is thy fate
Not to find?
 
 
Not on the mountain’s breast,
Not on the ocean’s shore,
In all the East and West;
The wind that stops to rest
Is no more.
 
 
By valleys, woods, and springs,
No wonder thou shouldst grieve
For all the glorious things
Thou touchest with thy wings
And must leave.
 

W. C. Bryant.

NERO; OR, CRUELTY TO ANIMALS

 
I would not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility,) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
 

Cowper’s Task.

About fifty years after the birth of Christ there lived a Roman Emperor whose name was Nero. He was one of the most cruel and unmerciful men whose lives are recorded in history. He put to death many of the noblest citizens of Rome upon the very slightest and most unfounded charges. The most bloody and brutal act of his life was the persecution of the Christians in and about the city of Rome. He set fire to the city in order that he might enjoy the pleasure of seeing a conflagration similar to that of a great city which had been destroyed many years before. To silence the report of his having set fire to the city, the base Nero laid the guilt of it upon the new sect of Christians, whose numbers were rapidly increasing in every part of the empire. The death of these poor harmless Christians was aggravated with sport; “for they were either covered with the skins of wild beasts, and torn to pieces by devouring dogs, or fastened to crosses, or wrapped up in combustible garments, that when the daylight failed they might serve, like torches, to illuminate the darkness of the night.”

He not only inflicted upon them every manner of torture and suffering which his wicked and depraved mind could invent, but he also took a great delight in seeing the poor innocent creatures suffer. Sometimes he drove a chariot among the sufferers, and at others he stood among them as a spectator of scenes which would make the coldest heart melt with sympathy, and the eye of the most unfeeling shed tears of sorrow.

Such was the character of one of the most cruel and merciless wretches that ever lived. And to what thing do you suppose, dear reader, his cruelty may be attributed? To the great delight which he took, when a child, in inflicting pain on the harmless and inoffensive little insect. It was his delight to extract from it cries of sorrow, and to tread upon the worm in order that he might witness its painful writhings. As he was in childhood, so was he when he became a man. As in childhood he caught the fly and pierced its body through with pointed instruments, so in manhood did he cause his fellow-man to suffer every pain which his corrupt heart could wish, or his sinful mind invent.

Whenever I see a little boy or a little girl catching flies and pulling their legs and wings off, or piercing their bodies, I always think there will be a second Nero, if that disposition is not changed by God, or a check put upon it by some kind friend.

Children, be kind to every thing around you, particularly the dumb brute. Do not throw stones at the harmless little sparrow, or the pretty little snow-bird. Life is as precious to them as it is to you. Doubtless they have feelings of love and tenderness for each other, and why do you wish to destroy their happiness? Even if they had ever wronged you, it would be your duty to return good for evil; and how much more is it your duty not to injure them, since they have never harmed you in the least. It always pains me very much to see a little boy throwing stones at every cow, horse, or hog that passes along within striking distance of him. Oh how unkind! How unlike Him who went about doing good!

I once saw a boy throw a stone at a beautiful young horse. He did it thoughtlessly, and did not intend hurting the animal; but the stone struck it in the eye and destroyed its sight forever.

Dear reader, if you had seen the agony and heard the screams of suffering which that one stone caused that harmless horse, I am sure you would never throw another stone at a bird or beast as long as you live. The boy, when he saw the pain which he had caused the innocent colt, went off and wept most bitterly; and I am certain, learned a most instructive lesson. Children,

 
“Let love through all your actions run,
And all your deeds be kind.”
 
 
“Sweet it is to see a child
Tender, merciful, and mild;
Ever ready to perform
Acts of mercy to a worm;
Grieving that the world should be
Thus a scene of misery;
Scene in which the creatures groan
For transgressions not their own.
 
 
“If the creatures must be slain
Thankless sinners to sustain;
Such a child, methinks, will cry,
‘Treat them gently when they die;
Spare them while they yield their breath;
Double not the pains of death;
Strike them not at such a time,
God accounts the stroke a crime.’
 
 
“God is love, and never can
Love or bless a cruel man;
Mercy rules in every breast
Where His Spirit deigns to rest;
We ourselves to mercy owe
Our escape from endless woe;
And the merciless in mind
Shall themselves no mercy find.”
 

SPARE THE INSECT

 
“Oh, turn that little foot aside,
Nor crush beneath its tread
The smallest insect of the earth,
That looks to God for bread.
 
 
“If He who made the universe
Looks down in kindest love,
To shape an humble thing like this,
From His high throne above —
 
 
“Why shouldst thou, then, in wantonness,
That creature’s life destroy?
Or give a pang to any thing
That He has made for joy?
 
 
“My child, begin in little things
To act the gentle part;
For God will turn His love away
From every cruel heart.”
 

THE RAILROAD

“For we are sojourners, as were all our fathers.” – Bible

The cars were crowded. In one corner sat the grey-haired grandfather; by his side, the gay, thoughtless maiden; farther on, the youthful aspirant after the world’s honors; and at his elbow, the stern, thinking business man, intently engaged in reading the morning’s Prices Current, thinking only of Profit and Loss, and the rise and fall of articles for which he trafficked, forgetting, not the almighty dollar, but his immortal soul.

We started. On and on the fire-breathing iron horse drew us along: – now hurrying around the sweeping curves; now ascending some steep acclivity; now rattling through dark, dungeon-like tunnels; anon speeding with almost lightning rapidity over the smoothly laid track.

None seemed to fear. All was happiness and joy. One was thinking of the joyful welcome that awaited him at his happy home; another of the pleasure he expected to meet with from the friends of his childhood, from whom he had been separated many a long year; others were perfectly indifferent – no trouble to cloud their brows, no care to harass their hearts – gazing, with countenances of delight, on the fair fields of nature which stretched out before them, the mirror-like lake, or the cloud-capped mountain that lifted its proud head far above the bustle and confusion of the world.

None thought of danger. None thought that the next moment might find them a mass of bruised and mangled corpses, or struggling for life amid the waves of some roaring river. The engineer was at his post; the conductor would see that no harm should befall them.

My young friends, as I sat in that crowded car, many were the thoughts that rose in my mind. I thought this life was but a railroad; we the passengers. Some of us are thoughtful and considerate; many gay and inconsiderate. The railroad of life has many curves, to avoid the current of sin, or the pit of destruction; many a high acclivity of difficulty; many a dark, lonely tunnel of doubt and uncertainty; many a deep cut of affliction, from which the light of God’s countenance seems entirely withdrawn. The route lies along the flower-dressed meadows of happiness, and through the dark, dismal morasses of poverty and want. At one moment all is beauty, loveliness and grandeur; at another, the clouds of God’s wrath gather thick and heavy around us. Some of us are journeying to our heavenly home; others, far from that home, in search of what the world calls enjoyment, but, like the apples of Sodom, bitterness and remorse.

My young friends, if Christ be our engineer and God our conductor, we need fear no evil. All will be well; our journey safe and pleasant: and we shall safely reach a glorious home in Heaven, and there spend an eternity of blissful happiness in the company of the loved and lost who have traveled this road, and reached, without any collision or accident, its termination.

THE SPIRITUAL RAILWAY

 
“The line to heaven by Christ was made;
With heavenly truths the rails are laid;
From earth to heaven the line extends;
To life eternal – there it ends.
 
 
“Repentance is the station then,
Where passengers are taken in;
No fees for them are there to pay,
For Jesus is Himself the way.
 
 
“The Bible is the engineer,
It points the way to heaven so clear;
Through tunnels dark and dreary here,
It does the way to glory steer.
 
 
“God’s love – the fire, His truth the steam
Which drives the engine and the train;
All you who would to glory ride,
Must come to Christ – in Him abide.
 
 
“In the first, second, and third class,
Repentance, faith, and holiness,
You must the way to glory gain,
Or you with Christ can never reign.
 
 
“Come, then, poor sinners, now’s the time,
At any place along the line;
If you repent and turn from sin,
The train will stop and take you in.”
 

A TRUE SKETCH

 
“Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.”
 

Longfellow.

A venerable minister of Christ left his home one bright, beautiful Sabbath morning, for the house of God. He was riding a restless, fiery mountain colt, but had no fears of his ability to manage him, as he had been raised from early childhood, as it were, on a horse’s back, and feared the wildest animal as little as he did a playful kitten.

He had gone but a short distance on his way, when the horse, becoming frightened, made a sudden leap, and threw his rider headlong against the projecting points of a large rock lying near the roadside. The rock entered his skull, and in a few moments that aged father in Israel breathed his last, with no kind friend near to whisper words of consolation in his dying ear, or wipe the sweat of death from his patriarchal brow.

The anxious congregation waited long and impatiently for the appearance of their much-loved pastor, but he came not. His spirit had winged its way to that bright, happy land,

 
“Where congregations ne’er break up,
And Sabbaths have no end.”
 

A portion of the congregation determined to find out the cause of his long, unusual delay, and accordingly set out along his accustomed road. After travelling several miles, what was their surprise and sorrow to find their grey-haired shepherd, who had so long and so cheerfully led them “beside the still waters, and through the green pastures,” who had taken the lambs of the flock in his bosom, and protected their tender little feet from the thorns which strew the pathway of childhood, lying stretched on the cold ground, a lifeless corpse. Many were the tears that moistened the noble brow of this man of God; bitter were the throbbings of stricken hearts that stood around the body of him who, Sabbath after Sabbath, had broken to them the Bread of Life.

There anxiously kneels at the side of her sainted father a little girl, whom they have failed to notice. What is she doing there? Come, gather closely around this scene, children, and look at one of your number. She heard the clattering of the horse’s feet as he hurried wildly from the spot where lay his lifeless corpse; she hastened quickly towards the church and reached her father only in time to hear the death-rattle in his throat, and see his brains all scattered over the ground. What does she do? She gathers them up, places them once more in his skull, and with her little hands endeavors to hold the shattered fragments together. But it is too late now. Dear, loving little Mary can’t recall the spirit of her departed parent back to earth; and the sorrowing members of that shepherdless flock bear her away to a home, around whose bright fireside and at whose morning and evening altar shall never again be heard the voice of one whom none knew but to love.

My young friends, I have witnessed and heard of many touching scenes, but for child-like innocence, and tender, loving affection, this surpasses them all.

I now leave you to learn the many lessons of affection and love this hasty sketch teaches, and hope you will not throw the book carelessly aside, and forget all about it; but think if you love your parents as fatherless little Mary loved hers.

THE SPIRIT OF THE DEPARTED

 
I know thou art gone to thy home of rest;
Then why should my soul be sad?
I know thou art gone where the weary are blest,
And the mourner looks up and is glad;
 
 
Where Love has put off, in the land of its birth,
The stain it had gathered in this,
And Hope, the sweet singer that gladdened the earth,
Lies asleep on the bosom of bliss.
 

Hervey.