I was for hastening on, but my father restrained me. "Let us sit down again," he said; "here is a grassy bank; and we shall be none the worse for staying a few minutes to recover from the fatigue of the hill, shall we?" "Oh, I do not feel tired now," I replied; but yielding to the suggestion, and following the example, I placed myself by my father's side on the bank. 66 George," said he, presently, "you remember the words, or some of them, of that hymn which we sometimes sing, beginning with "As when the weary traveller.'" "Yes, father." "They come very forcibly to my mind just now," continued he; "and I have a mind to repeat them." he did: "As when the weary traveller gains The height of some o'erlooking hill, Because his journey's end is seen. And wings his speed to reach the prize." Which My dear father repeated the whole hymn with much feeling, for it was a favourite with him, as well as with my mother. After he had finished, he sat resting his head on his hand, and elbow on knee, as in deep thought for a little while, and I did not presume to interrupt him, for I felt sure he was praying. Presently he lifted his head, and looked at me, so cheerfully. "You like that hymn, George," said he. "Yes, father, very much; I always have thought it beautiful, ever since I first knew it." "Ah," he went on; some things that we hear or see seem beautiful, though they are not true; some things may be true, but not beautiful; but this hymn of ours is beautiful because it is true. It is true," he continued, "to our poor human experience, even at this moment. The sight of our earthly home, though at a distance yet, has cheered our spirits, and revived our strength, and so made us almost forget the toils of that terrible hill we have been climbing." This he said smilingly; then he added : "The reason why this and other similar compositions take so firm a grasp upon the mind is that they contain the honest expressions of the deep feelings of men of like passions with ourselves. There is no sham about them. It is all true metal, and we feel it to be so, even without having the means of absolutely knowing it. We do know, however, of the writer of that hymn, how true his pen was to his life's experience. Very few men could have spoken more feelingly than John Newton of past fatigues, and toils and dangers of the road. But he was within sight of the heavenly home; and these were already, if not forgotten, remembered only with grateful adoration and praise.' "Who was John Newton, father?" I asked. "I will tell you about him another day," he said; "but I have something else to say to you before we quit our pleasant resting-place here. Suppose, instead of that happy home which is before us"—and he pointed towards it with his walking-stick-"suppose it were a prison in which we were to be confined for life; and that every step taken, under compulsion, were bringing us nearer and nearer to the fulfilment of our inevitable doom." "That would make all the difference, I think." And all "Of course it would. I remember once, when I was a youth like you, that I had to travel on a stage coach several miles a day's journey, in fact-to get to what was then my home; and a happy home it was. the way I was anticipating with delight the loving welcome that awaited me, and the cheerful smiles with which I felt sure I should be greeted. But at one stage of our journey three other passengers mounted to the back seat of the coach. Two of them were soldiers in full uniform, with their muskets in hand and bayonets fixed. The other was a soldier too; but instead of being armed, he was handcuffed; and I did not need to be told that the poor fellow was a deserter, and a prisoner, whom his captors were taking to the barracks from which he had escaped. And a person sitting by me made my heart ache by telling me of the dreadful punishment which certainly awaited the wretched prisoner. For those were the days of flogging in the army; sometimes, even, under certain circumstances, deserters were shot. So, mingled with my delightful aspirations towards home, were thoughts of what that poor fellow's sad forebodings must be-hastening, as he was, towards a prison first, then a trial, and then a punishment too fearful to be dwelt upon. What a dif ference! I thought. "There is the same sort of difference," continued my father, "only extended to an immeasurable distance, between the anticipations of a Christian as he contemplates the heavenly home towards which he is hastening, as he journeys on through this world, and the presages of an unpardoned wretch whose conscience, if not altogether hardened, must picture to him some of the horrors of the wrath to come-the prison of the future world, the last great trumpet's sound, the great white throne, and Him who will sit thereon, and the final doom of the impenitent and unbelieving." My dear father followed up this reference by a strong and urgent appeal to me to give my young heart and life to the Lord Jesus Christ, who casts out none who come to him by faith, and who is gone to heaven to prepare a glorious and happy home for all who love him. And then he proceeded to draw other lessons from some of the experiences of our day's excursion. "And then," said he, after he had spoken for some little time, "we came to that long and toilsome hill which, as we approached it, but before we reached it, looked so formidable and almost insurmountable. It is just so in life, which, looked at in one light, is a succession of hills from its commencement to its close. Before we reach them, and in their contemplation, it seems as though we never could reach the top. Even childhood and boyhood have their terrible hills. I remember, as a boy at school, how, almost weekly, the Latin lesson which I had to prepare for every Monday morning, in especial, used to terrify me. There it lay before me, line upon line, and one page after another, of rugged, uncouth, and (as I should then have said) barbarous syllables, words, and sentences. I should never get to the top of that hill-never. But somehow I did get to the top, and was none the worse for the toil. Nay, I was the better for it, for the very exercise prepared me for future hills, yet more formidable. In the days of my youth, and when I had learned to smile at the remembrance of my boyhood's 'stony mountains,' other hills presented themselves to my shrinking gaze. The profession I had been set to learn was one in which (so I was told) it was difficult to attain proficiency; and I was pointed to numbers of young men who had abandoned it in disgust, while those who remained in it had to struggle on, panting and well-nigh breathless, sure of only one thing, namely, that they would never win a prize in the race of life. It was very disheartening; and, had I listened to these croakings, no doubt I should have added one more to the list of failures. And as it was, the hill seemed dreadful. But God enabled me to persevere; and when the hill was reached it did not seem so very steep and rugged—at least there was foothold, and, after all, it was but one step at a time, George-one step at a time; and so I reached the top of the hill at last, and began to wonder where the hill had been, after all. "Another and yet more difficult hill to climb with safety and honour is that which has been made up of the treachery, ingratitude, and concealed enmity of open enemies or professed friends, and of the misconstruction of real but mistaken friends. I have had to surmount this hill, and by God's grace I did surmount it; but it almost drove me to desperation as I first saw it looming in the distance. But there was no help for it; ascend the hill I must; and so, seeking help where help can best and alone be found, I girded myself and went on. If I were disposed to be more figurative, I might say that the very stones on the road rose up against me to make me stumble and fall, while adders hissed at me from every brake and thorn-bush by the roadside. Leaving this, however, I will only say that I have known experimentally what David's feelings were when he went up that hill of sadness, 'the ascent of mount Olivet, and wept as he went up,' and afterwards gave speech to his lacerated heart in words such as these; 'It was not an enemy that reproached me, then I could have borne it; neither was it he that hated me that did magnify himself against me, then I would have hid myself from him. But it was thou- -a man mine equal, my guide, and mine acquaintance. We took sweet counsel together, and walked unto the house of God in company.' It was a terrible hill that, George," said my father, "but, by God's grace, I surmounted that also; and when I reached the top I saw what I had never so fully seen before, in the prospect around and before me, how that God makes the wrath of man to praise him, and that the remainder of it he restrains. "There is the hill of bereavement," my father went on, "and this is a sorrowful hill to tread, and it is one all must tread who travel long on earth. The approach to it is gloomy, and the spirit faints, as with slow, funereal steps we begin to climb. Nevertheless, when we can say concerning those whom we mourn, that' we sorrow not as others which have no hope; for if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him;' then we can say also, 'Where is the hill now? O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?' And on reaching the summit we see with the eye of faith so grand a prospect spread before us of the everlasting home, as sometimes incites us to say— "Ah, now my spirit faints' To reach the land I love, The bright inheritance of saints, "There is the hill of worldly losses," continued my father, "of hopes disappointed, and well-laid plans defeated. 'I can never climb that hill,' says one who has been long sojourning on the plains of ease and comfort. Yet, if it must be so, the hill, after all, is not always found to be so steep and rugged; not so bad but that the traveller can say, as he gets nearer and nearer to the top of it, 'Where's the hill now?' or repeat the words of the poet 66 6 As much I have of worldly good As e'er my Master had; I diet on as dainty food, And am as richly clad, Though plain my garb, though scant my board, Why should I court my Master's foe? Why should I fear its frown? Why should I seek for rest below, Or sigh for brief renown? A pilgrim to a better land, An heir of joys at God's right hand.' Believe me, George," said my father here, "that the hill of worldly disappointment and poverty is often the most blessed hill to climb in our life's journey; and that the view from the top is like that granted to Moses from the top of Pisgah. To the Christian, at any rate, it brings the heavenly home more clearly and vividly to view, and |