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THE SEEING EYE AND THE LOVING HEART.

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THE SEEING EYE AND THE LOVING

ᎻᎬᎪᎡᎢ.

"TH HE seeing eye"; but,' says some little reader, is not every eye, except & blind man's eye, a seeing eye? What is the use of it, if it does not see?' Quite true, and yet-but it is better to let a story tell you what I mean.

Two boys, Tom and Harry, took a walk together one day. Tom sauntered into the drawing room, on their return, saying he never had had such a dreary, wearisome walk; not a thing to be seen. Harry bounded in after him, eagerly showing what he had met with in his rambleswild flowers, some beautiful pebbles, a queer looking thing, he did not know whether it was a plant or an animal, but about that, he said, he would ask his tutor; and all this from the walk that Tom had thought so dull. Now, you have found out already which of those boys had the seeing eye-an eye which observed, as well as saw, and led its owner to think after having seen.

You have all listened to the shrill railway whistle, as the express train dashed up, and rushed past some little country station where you were standing, and you have held your breath at the mere thought of falling before its fearful power. Well,

that power was found out by James Watt's observing, and thinking upon what you have often enough seen--the steam coming out of a tea kettle, in which water was boiling on the fire. His eye saw to some purpose. He did not know to what grand uses his thoughts were to be turned; but he observed and thought, as God intended him to do, and told others what he thought, and from that, all the steam engines have come that you see in boats, and railways, and mills. I cannot tell you in how many different ways that seeing and thinking of James Watt's has made men better and happier than they were before.

God has so made us that we like to share our pleasure in any thing with others. Even a bad boy, who loves mischief, is not happy till he has got a companion in evil

doing. If, when at school, you have heard some wonderful piece of news, or, on your way back, have seen some strange sight, you are all eager to tell it when you reach home. I am afraid there is sometimes almost a dispute between brothers and sisters, as to who saw or heard first, and so has the best right to tell. I think even the little bird on the tree, when it warbles out its sweet song in the stillness of a summer evening, feels as if it must tell how happy it is; and if you listen, you will perhaps hear some companion that understands the bird language, as you and I never can do, answer from a bush not far off. It is saying, 'Oh! yes, I am happy too; what a sweet evening it is! what delightful weather we are having!' A loving heart has pleasure in telling in some way what has made it glad.

A little Quaker boy, seven years old, called Benjamin West, was, one afternoon, set to rock the cradle where the baby was lying. His mother was very busy about the house, and she had not a nurse maid to take charge. Perhaps Benjamin had intended to have a romp that afternoon with his companions, but he did not sulk or pout as he sat down to his task. I think he must have been a gentle boy; had he been rough and wild, I am not sure that his mother would have trusted him. Baby fell asleep, and Benjamin looked at the rosy little face and thought, 'How beautiful!' Then with the feeling I have told you of, that loves to tell a joy, he thought, I'll try to draw her picture.' He saw the beauty God's hand had made in that baby face, it filled his heart and mind too, and then he could not help giving expression to what had made him glad. The little portrait in red and black ink, for these were all the colours he had, was a wonderful performance; it was his first attempt, but he grew to be a great artist, and to make many people happy by showing them what he saw and felt of the beauty that was around him.

Benjamin West was an American, who lived long ago; but there have been many in our own time and country with this

A COPY LINE.

seeing eye and loving heart. It is not long since Sir George Harvey, one of these, passed away. You may have seen some of his landscapes in the Exhibition of Paintings, and almost felt, as you looked at them, that the mountain breezes were playing round you, or that the clouds were gathering on the hill tops for a storm. He read, as you have done, in history books, about the Covenanters; and he thought on their holy courage, how they suffered, and died, for truth dearer to them than life. Many have been made

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happier and purer, as they have looked at his grand pictures of these times, and have blessed God for men with such eyes, and hearts, and hands, as well.

Very few of you, my young readers, may be great artists like those of whom I have been speaking; but, if you look intelligently and lovingly at God's glorious works, and at the noble deeds which, by His Spirit, He enables men to do, you may, one day, by word, or pen, or pencil, be able to let others share your joy.

K.

Be not wise in thine own eyes.

LESSONS FROM AN OLD SCHOOL-BOOK.
A COPY LINE.

THIS HIS is a fine day for skating, papa; some of the boys in our school are going to the ice this afternoon, and Tommy and I would like to go with them. May we go, papa?'

'No, Willie, I cannot allow you to go. The frost has not continued long enough to make strong ice fit for skating on with safety. You must not venture to-day.'

'O, papa, I am sure there is no danger. If you only knew how thick the ice is; I was sliding this morning, and the ice was quite strong. You might let us go, papa.'

'No, my son; you must not go. Though the ice may be strong on shallow pools, it is not so on deep water. It might break, and what a sad thing that would be.'

'The other boys would not be going if it were dangerous, and why should not we go as well as they?'

'The other boys would be much better not to go either; but, whatever they do, you must not go.'

Willie said no more, as he saw that he could not persuade his father to allow him to go with the skaters that day. But he was not satisfied. He went away to school thinking himself a very ill-used boy, and,

on the road, he said to his brother that it really was too bad, when they were expecting such fun, to prevent them going.

Willie had just passed his thirteenth birthday, and thought that, having reached that age, he must know a great many things quite as well as his father did, and some things even better. Of course he knew a great deal better about the ice, and was quite sure that there could not be the very least danger. His younger brother was of the same opinion. They could not understand why they should be deprived of so much pleasure, and they made themselves as unhappy as they could about it. The black doggy got on their backs, and they would not send him off all the evening.

It grieved their father deeply to see that his sons, whom he tenderly loved, and for whose good he was continually labouring, did not trust him.

Next morning the first thing their father observed in the newspaper was a paragraph headed, 'A boy drowned on the ice.' It told of a young lad, who, on the previous afternoon, had been merrily skating along, fearless of danger. In a moment the ice

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broke, and he sank to rise no Though every effort was made to save him, life was gone before the body could be recovered, when his remains were carried home to his broken-hearted parents.

When the boys heard this sad story, they were really ashamed of themselves; and when little Robbie said, 'If Willie and Tommy had gone, perhaps they would have been drowned too,' they felt very sad; and their father hoped the lesson would not be lost to them.

A day or two after, grandpapa came in, and, as he was a great favourite with the boys, Willie told him, when they were talking about the sad accident, how much he had wished to go to the ice that day, and how disappointed he had been because he was not allowed, adding, 'But I see now that papa was right.'

'Yes, Willie, you see it now; but you ought to have believed that your father knew best, and to have obeyed him cheerfully. When I was a boy, my teacher used to make us write, as a copy line, the precept: BE NOT WISE IN THINE OWN EYES; and he always took pains to explain what we wrote.

'One day he said to us, "I daresay you boys sometimes think your parents restrain you far too much, and that you would be far happier if you were allowed to do as you please. To think so is to be wise in your own eyes. It is not only to think yourselves wiser than your parents, but it is to think yourselves wiser than God; for it is He who commands your parents to restrain and guide you. If we would be truly wise, we must learn that we have no wisdom of our own." Read Pro. xxvi. 12.'

"Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? there is more hope of a fool than of him."

'You know, Willie, who wrote the precept, "Be not wise in thine own eyes"?" (Pro. iii. 7.)

'It was Solomon.'

'Yes; and if any one might have trusted to his own wisdom, surely it was Solomon. No one ever had such stores of wisdom as he; but when he became satisfied with

himself, and ceased to cry to God for more wisdom, did he keep himself in the right way?'

'No; he followed heathen gods, and God was angry with him.'

'Solomon learned, by his own bitter experience, that "He that trusteth in his own heart is a fool"; and to prevent others from wandering as he had done, he left us these precepts: "Cease from thine own wisdom." BE NOT WISE IN THINE OWN EYES: FEAR THE LORD, AND DEPART FROM EVIL.'

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Listen, Willie, to what Spurgeon says on this subject. I have heard of a young man who went to college: and, when he had been there one year, his parent said to him, "What do you know? Do you know more than when you went?"-"Oh, yes!" said he; "I do." Then he went the second year, and was asked the same question, "Do you know more than when you went?" "Oh, no!" said he; "I

PAUL RABANT.

know a great deal less."-" Well," said the father, "you are getting on." Then he went the third year, and was asked the same question, "What do you know now?"" Oh!" said he, "I don't think I know anything."-"That is right," said the father; "you have now learned to profit, since you say you know nothing." He that is convinced that he knows nothing of himself as he ought to know, gives up steering his ship, and lets God put His hand on the rudder. He lays aside his own wisdom, and cries, "O God! my little wisdom is cast at Thy feet; my little judgment is given to Thee.”

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Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight!'

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Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'

STORIES OF THE HUGUENOTS.

PAUL RABANT.

PAUL RABANT, the most conspicuous

of all the Huguenot preachers, was born in 1718. Knowing well the woods and wild places round his home, he was from his very childhood accustomed to be the guide of the pastors, and often he had talked with them of the things which were dear to their hearts.

He was but fifteen or sixteen years old when he resolved that he, too, should be a pastor. There was then no college to which he could readily go. He was only taught by the pastors who taught the people, by their words, by the scanty books they could lend him, and, most of all, by their example of self-denial and heroism.

When he was only twenty he was called to be Pastor at Nismes, and settled in the old town already so full of history. In the year following he married. His wife's

name was Madeline Gaydan. She was good as he was, and as full of courage and devotion.

After Rabant had been some years at Nismes, he began to feel the defects of his education. All he knew had been learned from the persecuted pastors in their wan

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derings. He thought of the Academy at beautiful Lausanne, where other young Protestants were now going to study. His wife urged him to go also. So for three years he studied at the Academy, returning to his ministry at Nismes in 1743.

Here for many years he preached, in the woods and waste places round the town, drawing around him sometimes a crowd of ten thousand people, whom his clear, powerful voice reached while he proclaimed the words of God. Often the tears of his audience showed how his words touched them.

Between his sermons in the fields, he would go among the lonely farms, teaching the little children, and all who would come to him.

Many narrow escapes he had; for, above all in the kingdom, the soldiers sought for Paul Rabant. Once he was taken along with another prisoner, but the soldiers, fearing they could not carry off both in safety, released Paul Rabant, not knowing who he was.

In the midst of their dreadful sufferings, the Protestants began to think that if the king could know how much they suffered, he would surely pity them. They resolved in a letter to tell him of them, and pray that he would protect them. For a new king had begun his reign since the early persecutions of the Protestants. And they hoped that Louis Fifteenth was more merciful than Louis Fourteenth.

A large sum of money was offered to whoever should take Rabant's life or make him prisoner. But braving all the dangers to which it exposed him, Paul Rabant offered himself to present the petition.

He could not gain access to the king. But the Minister of War, the Marquis de Paulmy d' Argenson, was making a progress through the country. To him Rabant resolved he should present the petition for the king.

So on one September day he came out of his lonely concealment, and, defenceless and alone, went forward on the road by which the Marquis was to come.

At length the brilliant procession came

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