The Deaf Shoemaker

My Dear Young Friends:

Encouraged by your kind reception of my former little volume, I have gathered together my scattered sketches with the earnest wish and heart-felt prayer that they may be instrumental in leading you to childhood’s best and truest friend – the blessed Saviour.

Rural Retirement, Va.

JOHN McDONOUGH

“John McDonough! who is he?” my young reader will doubtless exclaim.

It is true, his name is not written in golden letters on the pages of History, – no Senate chamber has resounded with his eloquence, – the conqueror’s wreath has never encircled his brow; but John McDonough has performed a deed which posterity, to the remotest generation, can never forget.

But a few weeks since, the steamer Northern Indiana was burned on one of the Northern lakes, and then and there it was, that this noble and gallant deed was performed.

You who have never seen a ship on fire can form no idea of the awful horror of such a scene. All was wild excitement and mad confusion. The flames spread like a whirlwind over the noble ship, and soon wrapt it in their withering embrace. Every heart was lifted to God in prayer; every voice was joined in supplication; mothers were clasping their infants to their bosoms; husbands endeavoring to save their wives; fathers encircling their sons in their strong and unfailing arms; the waters were a mass of living, immortal beings, struggling for life.

Amid the hissing of the flames, the pale glare of the atmosphere, and the wild shrieks of hopeless agony that arose from the sinking passengers, John McDonough might have been seen, calm and composed, struggling nobly with the swelling waves, and bearing in one hand life-preservers to the perishing souls scattered over the surface of the lake, which, to many, was destined soon to be the winding-sheet of Death.

How noble the action! How my heart swells within me when I think of the gallant and fearless conduct of such a man!

When despair clothed every brow, fear paled every cheek, and the wild cry – “Save, Lord, or I perish” – echoed in the ears of the drowning, his lofty brow showed no signs of fear, his eye beamed with hope. He still struggled on, and on, till many and many a soul was rescued from a watery grave.

I had rather be the brave, the dauntless, the self-sacrificing John McDonough – the humble laborer on the ill-fated Northern Indiana – than Alexander the Great weeping because there were no other worlds for him to conquer.

God bless thee, noble John McDonough!

Though no eulogy be pronounced at thy death, no booming cannon thunder over thy grave, no proud monument mark thy resting-place, yet there will be erected in the hearts of thy countrymen a monument more lasting than marble, more enduring than brass. May thy name live forever!

My young friends, do you not also see, concealed as it were by the terrible grandeur and painful horror of the scene, a beautiful and important truth displayed in the conduct of this noble-hearted man?

We are all embarked in a ship. The destination of that ship is Eternity. The voyage is tempestuous, and when we least expect it, the fires of hell may take hold upon us. But, thanks be to God, there is a Great Life-preserver always at hand. That Life-preserver I now extend to you: reject it if you dare; destruction is the consequence. Accept it; and you will soon be landed on the blissful shores of Heaven. That Life-preserver is

MARY AND HER DRAWER;

OR, NOTHING MADE BY GETTING ANGRY.

The church bells were sending forth their merry chimes, and hundreds of children were wending their way to the Sabbath-school. Mary was late that morning, and ran very quickly to her drawer, in which were kept her gloves, hymn-book, catechism, &c., and endeavored to jerk it open at once; but in so doing she got it crooked, and it would move neither way.

Being in a great hurry, she began at once to fret and blame the drawer for not coming out. She soon became quite angry; her check flushed, her eyes sparkled, and with a violent effort she pulled the drawer out, emptied its contents on the floor, tore her dress, disfigured her hymn-book, and almost ruined the drawer itself.

Her father was patiently waiting in the hall for his little daughter, when the accident occurred, and asked her what was the matter. Her instant reply was, “Nothing, Father; you go on – I will overtake you presently.”

Little Mary did not overtake her father, and he looked in vain for her at the Sabbath-school.

Her dress was so badly torn that she could not go to Sabbath-school, and with tears flowing down her cheeks, she sat down and thought soberly over her conduct.

She doubtless felt very sorry for her anger, and the unnecessary damage she had done.

No one, when the family returned from church, said a word to her, but left her to her own reflections. When her father had taken off his hat and seated himself, she modestly approached him, threw her arms around his neck, and said, —

“Father, do you know why your little Mary was absent from Sabbath-school this morning?”

“No, my child,” he replied.

“I was in a very great hurry, and attempted to pull my drawer out very quickly, and got it fastened so tightly that it would move neither one way nor the other. I tried and tried, but it would not move. I then got angry with the drawer, pulled it very hard, and not only scattered its contents over the floor, but hung the knob in my dress and tore it so badly that I could not come to the Sabbath-school.”

Her father told her he willingly forgave her, and that she must also ask God’s forgiveness, for she had committed a sin in giving way to her anger. He also told her to remember that nothing was ever made by getting angry. If she ever tried to do anything, and could not do it at once, she must not get angry, but be patient and calm.

I hope this little thing taught Mary an important lesson – and may it teach you the same, dear little reader. Nothing was ever made by getting angry, but something always lost.

“IT IS I!”

There was once a great storm on the Sea of Galilee.

The wild winds howled, and the furious waves rose almost mountain high.

There was a small vessel in the midst of this storm, and in this vessel were some of Christ’s disciples.

When the storm had reached its utmost fury, and certain destruction seemed to await those who were in it, a man was seen walking on the water towards the vessel.

The disciples were at once struck with wonder and amazement. They were doubtless somewhat superstitious, and supposed it to be a spirit; for they were well aware that nothing having flesh and blood like themselves could walk on the surface of the water without sinking.

But whose familiar voice is that, heard even above the roar of the sea, and the noise of the winds? Who is He that dares approach their vessel on such a night?

The voice is the voice of their Saviour; and He who dreads not the rage of the billows, is He whom “the winds and the sea obey.” What are His words? They are few and well chosen – such as were best suited to the occasion: “It is I; be not afraid!” Oh, how welcome the visitor! How delightful that familiar voice! How the downcast hearts of the disciples throb with joy when they welcome their Saviour to their bosoms! How their hearts gush forth in thanks when they see the raging billows become, at His command, as gentle as a lamb, and the furious winds as innocent as a little child.

Children, do not we gather some important truths from this Scripture narrative? In the storms of adversity and sadness, affliction and bereavement, ought we not hear Christ saying to us, “It is I; be not afraid?”

THE ORPHAN

“Cold is the world without a father’s arm to shield, and a mother’s heart to love. The sun shines but dimly on the head of the orphan, for sorrow claims such as its own, and no earthly power can release from its embrace. When a father dies, and she who ‘loves with a deep, strong, fervent love,’ is laid in the grave, then is the brightness of earthly existence extinguished.”

Children, how accurately do the above lines describe the lonely and forsaken condition of the orphan!

Have you never felt your little hearts throb with sorrow when you saw the children of the Orphan Asylum walk quietly down the aisle of the church and seat themselves in regular order in the front pews? Did not their plain dress speak to you in language which you were obliged to hear? Did not the prayer arise from your breasts, that God would be a Father to the fatherless, that He would watch over, guide and protect, throughout the journey of life, that helpless little band of fatherless and motherless children?

How lonely must their condition be. No father to counsel, no mother to love, no home beneath whose shelter they may rest, but dependent upon the cold charities of a colder world.He who would treat unkindly, or wound the feelings of an orphan, is worse than the brute of the field.My young orphan friends, there is but one source to which I can direct you; there is but one friend who will never desert you; there is but one house whose door will never be closed against you.That source is God; that friend is Christ; that house is one not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. God will counsel you; upon the bosom of Christ you may “lean for repose;” and the angels of heaven will ever welcome you to their blest abode.The kind father and the loving mother, from whom you have been separated by death, you shall meet again, if you are Christians.And to you, dear little readers, who know not the length and breadth and depth of a Saviour’s love, let me say one word: There is no orphanage like that of the soul which leans not upon Christ as its Saviour and Redeemer.

He who would treat unkindly, or wound the feelings of an orphan, is worse than the brute of the field.

My young orphan friends, there is but one source to which I can direct you; there is but one friend who will never desert you; there is but one house whose door will never be closed against you.

That source is God; that friend is Christ; that house is one not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. God will counsel you; upon the bosom of Christ you may “lean for repose;” and the angels of heaven will ever welcome you to their blest abode.

The kind father and the loving mother, from whom you have been separated by death, you shall meet again, if you are Christians.

And to you, dear little readers, who know not the length and breadth and depth of a Saviour’s love, let me say one word: There is no orphanage like that of the soul which leans not upon Christ as its Saviour and Redeemer.

THE RECORDING ANGEL

We are told, that during the trial of Bishop Cranmer, in England, he heard, as he was making his defence before the judges, the scratching of a pen behind a screen. The thought at once arose in his mind that they were taking down every word he uttered. “I should be very careful,” thought he to himself, “what I say; for the whole of this will be handed down to posterity, and exert an untold influence for good or for evil.”

Do you know, my young friends, that there is a Recording Angel in heaven that takes down not only every wicked word you utter, but the very thoughts of your minds and desires of your hearts?

Remember, that though your actions are not all seen by men, nor your thoughts known to your companions, yet every action, thought and word is carefully recorded in the Book of God’s Remembrance.

How chaste, then, should be your conversation, how guarded your conduct, how pure your every wish!

At the day of judgment, how full will the pages of that book be of your unkind treatment of some poor, forsaken little wanderer; of your revengeful feelings towards your schoolmate for his little acts of childish thoughtlessness!

But is there not some way to blot out these dark sins from the Book of God’s Remembrance? Yes, there is. Christ has died, that you might live. He assures you that though your sins are “as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

THOMAS WARD; OR, THE BOY WHO WAS ASHAMED TO PRAY

Early one morning, in the month of September, 184–, Mr. Ward’s family were assembled around the family altar for prayer, to implore the blessing and protection of our Heavenly Father in behalf of their only boy, who was about leaving his home for a distant school.

Thomas, a boy of about twelve summers, was deeply affected by the solemn services, and as he arose from his knees his eyes were filled with tears, thinking, perhaps, that he might never be permitted to enjoy that delightful privilege again. His father prayed particularly that God would take care of his boy during his absence from his parents; that He would preserve him from all dangers; that He would be near him in all his temptations; and, if they should not meet again on earth, that they might all – father, mother and son – meet where the “wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” He endeavored to impress upon his mind the necessity of prayer, and that he should never neglect it, under any circumstances. Don’t be ashamed to pray, my son, said his father.

The ringing of the car-bell announced that in a short time he must be off. The most trying point had now come, – he must bid his parents farewell. Clasping his arms around his mother’s neck, he said: “Oh, my Mother, my Mother, shall I ever see you again?” and with a kiss to each, bade his affectionate parents adieu, and, valise in hand, walked hastily to the dépôt.

Having procured his ticket, he seated himself in the cars, and in a few moments left the home of his childhood for the P – H – school, at B – . His heart was sad, as he thought of the many happy hours he had spent “at home” with his kind parents, and a tear stole silently down his cheek. These sad and melancholy thoughts, however, were soon banished from his mind by the magnificent scenery of the country through which he was passing.He thought “the country,” as it was called in town, was the loveliest place he had ever seen. Thomas’ mind became so much engaged with the picturesque scenery – mountains, lakes and valleys – that he reached his place of destination ere he supposed he had travelled half-way.

He thought “the country,” as it was called in town, was the loveliest place he had ever seen. Thomas’ mind became so much engaged with the picturesque scenery – mountains, lakes and valleys – that he reached his place of destination ere he supposed he had travelled half-way.

He met the principal at the dépôt, awaiting his arrival, and in a few moments they were on their way to the school. Nothing of interest occurred during the remainder of the day, with the exception of the boys’ laughing at Thomas, calling him “town boy,” etc.; “initiating” him, as they termed it. When the time for retiring to rest drew near, and one after another of the boys fell asleep, Thomas was surprised that not one of them offered a petition to God, asking Him to take care of them during the silent watches of the night. He knelt beside his bed, and attempted to offer a short prayer; but his companions were laughing and singing, and he arose from his knees, wishing that he was at home, where he could, in his quiet little chamber, offer up his evening devotions. Some of the boys were actually so rude as to call him “Parson Ward,” and ask him if he intended holding forth next Sabbath?

The next night Thomas felt so ashamed, that he determined not to pray, and laid his head on a prayerless pillow, – a thing he had not done since he was able to say, “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.” The last words of his father, “Don’t be ashamed to pray” came to his mind; but thinking about them as little as possible, he soon fell asleep.

In a short time Thomas became the ringleader of the gang in all that was bad, and soon learned to curse and swear worse than any of his companions.

On a beautiful Sabbath morning, instead of going to church, he wandered off, and finding nothing to engage his thoughts, determined to take a bath. He had scarcely been in the water five minutes, when he was seized with cramp, and sunk to rise no more. The last words that lingered on the lips of the drowning boy were, “Oh, my mother!”

The awful death of Thomas speaks for itself. May it serve as a warning to those who violate God’s holy commandment, and are ashamed to pray. May it also teach us how quickly one sin leads to another. His first sin was neglecting to pray; his second, profanity; his third, Sabbath-breaking, which terminated in his death.

THE ROSE

There are few lovelier things than the rose to be met with along the pathway of life.

There is something about it so meek and modest, that I love to look at it; and what is sweeter than the mellow fragrance of a beautiful rose? It always reminds me of that beautiful country where, we are told, never-fading flowers continue to bloom forever.

The Church of Christ is compared, in the Bible, to the Rose of Sharon; and it seems to me that the inspired penman could not have found, throughout the length and breadth of the world, anything better suited to convey the idea of gentle lowliness and meek humility, than the rose.

Its fragrance can be enjoyed by all. It is not sweeter to the king than to the peasant. So with religion. It is a fountain from which all can drink.

There is another thing about the rose which should teach us a lesson. As there is no rose without a thorn, so there is no enjoyment without some pain connected with it. There are many children who are always discontented; they are never pleased with any thing, but are always looking out for what is disagreeable, and not for what is pleasant. What is this, but forgetting the delightful fragrance of the rose, and piercing our fingers with the few thorns which are about it. Our blessings are much more numerous than our cares and troubles. Why not, then, clip off the thorns, and keep merely the fully opened rose?

As the leaves of the rose wither and die, so must we.

Let us always remember this, and also live in such a way, by shedding a sweet fragrance about our pathway, that all who know us will love us, and forget the few thorns of evil which may be found in our characters.