You have heard of Switzerland, my dear young readers. You have heard of its high mountains—its lovely streams—its pretty flowers—and bright sunshine in summer. You have heard, too, of its deep snows in winter—its frozen waters—and its fearful storms;—its beautiful lakes—one moment calm, soft and bright—the next changed into furious commotion, throwing its angry waters high into the air. There, many a little boat, that had gone out upon its smooth waters, confident that there could be no danger, has been lost, after struggling long and fearlessly with the waves, and sunk to rise no more.

One night I stood alone upon a high rock, which projected over the Lake of Lucerne, and saw what I have imperfectly described to you.

I had been on the mountains all day—a bright, beautiful day. I had climbed the hills, where nothing was to be seen but grey stone; I had passed on to others, and found them covered with lovely flowers—growing in every spot where they could find any soil—and some large trees, that, spreading wide their branches, allowed me often to sit down in the cool shade to watch the gay butterflies around me, and to contemplate that glorious and almighty Parent—the Creator of all that is beautiful and good, and the Author of all good feelings and affections, and who enables us to enjoy all which He has made.

The sun was setting, and there was a bright red glow over the lake, that lay like a large sheet of glass, smooth and bright; and that was only stirred when the trout leaped high in the air—as if to look once more upon the sun before it went to rest; and then sinking down, they left a bright round ring on the lake, that soon passed away, leaving all smooth again.

In a little time the waters began to move, and there was a low sound of wind, that soon rose into a storm; and then the waves dashed furiously against the cliffs, as I have before described; when a boat, with a man and a child, which I had been watching for some time before, sailing gently on the water, was now high on the crested wave—now cast suddenly down; and each time I feared it was lost. All I could do was, to pray to Him, who could say to the wind, and the storm, “Be still!” But their time had come, and God saw it best to take this father and child to Himself. I watched the boat till it came very near,—so near that I could see every stroke of the oar—every look of the poor man, who seemed to use all his force—but in vain.

The little child, who was seated in the bottom of the boat, looked up into his father’s face, as if to learn there, what hope was left; but he neither moved, nor uttered one cry of fear. At last, when every chance of saving their lives was past—when each moment brought them nearer and nearer the fatal rock, on which it must be dashed to pieces, the oars dropped from the father’s hand; and throwing his arms around his child, in one moment they were gone below the wave—and I saw them no more. They went down into the deep waters together—and together they will rise, I doubt not, to live in heaven with their Saviour, and our Saviour for ever; for the man had lived, as I afterwards learned, the life of a true Christian, and was now removed, with his child, to a state of existence where the “wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”

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