Several days passed away, and little Effie was watching every opportunity for making applications of the truth her mother had taught her, but yet, (such is the deceitfulness of the human heart,) she still considered herself out of danger. If any little boys or girls who may perchance read this story, are as confident as Effie, we only ask them to watch over their thoughts and actions for as long a time as she did, and see if they do not discovertheir mistake. One day Mrs Maurice went to make a call on a lady of her acquaintance, and as Harry was engaged with his father, she allowed Effie to accompany her. It was a beautiful parlour into which they were ushered, and Mrs Town received them with due politeness. They were scarce seated when the servant announced another visitor, and a lady with whom Mrs Maurice was very well acquainted entered, and immediately stated the object of her call—to obtain subscriptions for a charitable society.
'I am tired of these societies,' said Mrs Town, 'do not you think, Mrs Maurice, that individual charity is preferable?'
'Undoubtedly, in many instances, but societies have done much good, and I am therefore disposed to countenance them.'
'But don't you think,' said Mrs Town, 'that a person is very apt to think by being a member of a society she is freed from individual responsibility?'
'There may be such people,' was the reply, 'and undoubtedly are, but they are those who give merely because they are expected to do so, and this is the easiest mode of cheating the world and themselves that could be devised.'
'Well,' replied Mrs Town, 'I have always made it a point never to place my name on a subscription list, so I shall be obliged to decline. I hope,' she said to the disappointed lady, who had been advised to call upon her because she was rich, 'I hope you will meet with better success elsewhere.'
'I hope I shall,' the lady could scarce forbear saying, as Mrs Town curtsied gracefully in answer to her embarrassed nod, but she soon calmed her excited feelings and passed on.
'Poor Mrs D.!' said Mrs Town. 'This must be very unpleasant business. I can't see what could induce a lady of her respectability to engage in it.'
'I know of no one who could perform the task better,' said Mrs Maurice.
'Certainly not, but—' Mrs Town paused, and then added, hesitatingly, 'it seems a little too much like begging.'
'It surely is begging,' said Mrs Maurice, with much animation, 'begging for the poor, the weak, the desolate, the unfriended—these have claims upon those who to-morrow may be in their places—and more, Mrs Town, it is begging for our brethren, our sisters—these have claims upon us that cannot be waived—but above all, it is begging for the King of kings, Him who hesitated not to give His own Son for us, and His claims cover all others. Not only our gold and silver are His, but ourselves.'
'Oh, my dear Mrs Maurice, I would not have you to suppose that I object togiving—by no means—it is only from an ostentatious display of charity that I shrink—this is a duty that should be exercised in private, a—' Mrs Town was interrupted in the midst of her vindication by a servant who entered and placed a note in her hand, which she folded closer and was about putting in her pocket—'Please, ma'am,' said the servant, 'she wishes you to read it now, and say if you can see her.'
Mrs Town glanced at the note and coloured slightly, but she had been too long accustomed to concealing her feelings for a stronger manifestation. 'Tell her to come to-morrow,' said she.
The servant was gone a moment and again returned, 'Please, ma'am,' said he, 'the woman won't go away, she says shewillsee you, for her husband is sick, and her children starving, and she must have herpay.' Mrs Town started from her seat: this was a strangecomment upon her beautiful theory of individual charity. Mrs Maurice retired as soon as possible, and as she passed through the hall she saw a miserably-clad woman with a face extremely haggard and care-worn, whom she supposed to be the person claiming—notcharity, butjustice, of Mrs Town. Effie saw that her mother's face was unusually clouded, and she did not venture to comment upon the past scene, but she said to her brother as soon as they were alone, 'I am glad we are not rich like Mrs Town, Harry, lest we should make agodof our money.'
Mrs Maurice did not, however, neglect at a suitable time to fix upon Effie's mind the impression she had received from the scene at Mrs Town's. 'Remember, my child,' she said, 'if you should ever live to become a woman, thatjusticeshould be preferred togenerosity, and never talk ofgivingwhile some poor person may be suffering for that which is her just due.'
'Mother,' said Harry, 'Elisha Otis told me to-day that his father thinks people who talk so much of giving, are all hypocrites.'
'People who make a great noise about any good act which they perform appear somewhatpharisaical, but we have no right to condemn them upon that scorealone, for it often proceeds from a great desire to do good. You know we are very apt to talk of that which most occupies our thoughts, Harry. But where did Elisha Otis's father get such notions of charitable people?'
'That is what I was going to tell you about, mother. You know how much Deacon Brown, gives—he heads all the subscription papers, and I heard father say the other day that he was a great help to the church; but Mr Otis says that he is never willing to pay people that work for him their full price, and then they have to wait, and dun, and dun, before they can get anything.'
'I am sorry to hear this, my son, very sorry.'
'Isn't it true mother?'
'It is true that Deacon Brown in some instances has seemed more generous than just, and this case is very good to illustrate what I before said; but Mr Otis makes it appear much worse than it is.'
'Then he don't cheat his workmen, mother?'
'No; but, by procrastination, thoughtlessness, or even perhaps the desire which businessmen may have to make a good bargain, he may do wrong, and so lay himself open to all these remarks. Bad qualities, you know, shew much plainer in a good man than a bad one, and are almost always made to appear worse than they really are. But let this be a warning to you, my boy—remember thatgood(notgreat) actions seldom cover faults, but faults obscure the lustre of many good actions, and destroy the usefulness of thousands of really good and pious people.'
'A present for you, Effie,' said Mr Maurice, a few days after the foregoing conversation, 'a present from your uncle William! it is in this nice little packet, now guess what it is.'
'O father—'
'No, but you must guess.'
'Why it's a book—say a book, Effie,' interposedHarry, 'with sights of pictures, I dare say, and may be pretty gilt letters on the back, too.'
'Is it a book?' inquired Effie, her little eyes dancing with pleasure, 'and from uncle William, too? Oh how good he is to remember a little girl like me!'
By this time Mr Maurice had unwound the cord and unfolded the paper, and displayed a neat little book—what think you it was? 'Peter Parley's Stories,' says one, 'The Love Token,' says another. No, you are both wrong. Effie Maurice was almost a woman before these books were written. Mrs Sherwood was then the children's friend, and some beautiful stories she told them, too. The book had neither pictures, nor gilt letters, but this did not spoil it for Effie, and she was soon so busily engaged in reading that she forgot that there was anything in the world but herself and the delightful book—more still, she forgot even her own existence, and thought only of the people about whom she was reading. A half-hour passed away and then Mrs Maurice reminded Effie of her room, and told her it had better be put in order.
'Yes, mother, in a few minutes.' The fewminutes passed away, and Mrs Maurice spoke again.
'I will, mother.' Mrs Maurice saw that Effie forgot these words almost as soon as spoken, but instead of telling her at once to put up the book, and do as she was bidden, she allowed her to pursue her own course for this once, hoping by this means to cure her of a very bad habit.
Soon after, Mrs Maurice descended to the kitchen to give some directions, and Effie was left alone. Once the thought entered her mind that she had promised to visit Mrs Gilman that day, but she immediately concluded another time would do as well, and so continued her reading. After a while Harry, who had been out with his father, entered in great haste, with a packet of medicine in his hand.
'Effie,' he said, 'father wants you to take this to Mrs Gilman's when you go, it is for her little James, and I—'
'I am not going to-day, Harry.'
'Can't you go? Oh do! don't mind the book! you can read it another time.'
'So I can go to Mrs Gilman's another time.'
'Oh, but the medicine, Effie.'
'Can't you take it as well as I? It is too bad for me to have to be running there all the time.' It was very unusual for Effie to speak so peevishly, but Harry was in a very happy mood, so he merely exclaimed, 'Why, Effie!' and glanced at the book as much as to say, 'did you learn it there!' Effie saw the glance, and ashamed of her ill nature said, 'Oh it is such a good story, Harry! but if you can't go to Mrs Gilman's, why not send a servant?'
'Father said some ofusought to go; so do, Effie, just put up your book for this once. The medicine is to prevent the convulsions that frightened us so yesterday, but father is going out into the country (it is delightful sleighing!) and he says I may go. You know it isn't every day I can get a sleigh-ride, Effie.' And the delighted boy gave his sister such a very hearty kiss that she could not forbear answering good humouredly, especially as she had some suspicion that she had not spoken pleasantly at first, 'Well, I will go, Harry, but don't hinder me now, I shall get through the chapter in a few minutes.' 'Well, don't forget, and when I come back I will tell you about all I see.'
Effie finished her chapter and thought of the medicine, and wondered if it was really so important that it should go immediately; but she was now in the most interesting part of the story, and she continued to read a little farther. So the time stole away—I can't exactly tell how, but perhaps some of my little readers (especially if they have read the little book that delighted Effie so much) can imagine—till the dinner hour. By this time Effie had finished her book, and her father and Harry had returned from the sleigh-ride, the latter particularly in excellent spirits. Effie thought of the medicine as she sat down to the table, and in a moment all her enjoyment vanished; for she had been guilty of procrastination, she had broken her word, and what excuse had she to offer for her neglect? That she had scarcely known what she was about, was no excuse at all, for she knew she ought to have known. She could not, however, prevail upon herself to confess her fault, until after she had repaired it, and so decided to go to Mrs Gilman's immediately after dinner, and when she had set all right again, to tell the whole affair to her parents and brother.
Harry was full of stories about his ride, andshe heard as well as she could about the farmer's big dog that at first wouldn't let them come in, and afterwards shook hands with them, and the cat that could open doors, and the hens and rabbits, but she forgot all about them in a moment, and only wished she could slide away from the table and nobody see her. At last the meal was ended, and they were about rising from the table when they were startled by a message from Mrs Gilman's. Her little boy was in convulsions.
'I will go immediately,' said Mr Maurice, 'poor little fellow! nothing can save him now—that medicine was my last hope.'
'Oh, father!' exclaimed Effie.
'Nay, my child—' Mr Maurice began, but he saw that it was not mere pity that produced so much agitation, and inquired hastily 'what is the matter?' Poor Effie attempted to speak, but burst into tears.
'Oh, Effie!' exclaimed her brother, grasping her arm, 'you couldn't have forgotten the medicine.' The poor child only sobbed the harder, and Harry, turning to the table, pointed to the little packet, thus explaining the mystery!
'And so for a selfish gratification you haveendangered a fellow-creature's life,' said Mr Maurice, sternly.
'Oh, father!' exclaimed Harry, 'she's so sorry! Don't cry, Effie, don't cry!' he whispered, at the same time passing his arm around her neck, 'father didn't mean to be so severe, he is only frightened about little James—I am very sorry I didn't go, for it was too bad to make you leave the book.'
But all Harry's soothing words could not make Effie blind to her own neglect, and when she saw her father go out with an anxious, troubled face, and her mother looked so sorrowful without saying a single word to her, she could not help going back in her thoughts to Mrs Town, Rosa Lynmore, and even the miser, and thinking she was worse than any of them.
Her brother Harry still clung around her neck, and kept whispering she was not to blame, the fault was his, till Mrs Maurice called him away, and then very reluctantly he quitted her side. Poor Effie, thus left without sympathy, crept away to her own little room, and sat down, not merely to weep, but to enter into a regular self-examination. The truths she thus discovered were exceedingly humiliating,but the child began to feel that she needed humbling, and she did not shrink from the task. I do not know but Effie's self-condemnation was greater than the fault really called for, but it certainly was of great use to her, and made her humbler, and gentler, and more forgiving than she ever was before.
Effie did not see her father or Harry again that night, but when her mother came to see if she was warm in her little bed, she whispered in her ear, 'Oh, I have so many faults: and my heart is full of false gods. I am afraid I never really loved my Heavenly Father.'
'Yet, Effie, a great many children, and some grown people, would consider this neglect of yours to-day a very small thing.'
'Oh, mother! I know it is not small, though I never thought it was so very wicked before.'
'And what makes you think it is wicked now?'
'Because it has led me to do so many wicked things. In the first place, it was wrong to read immediately after breakfast, for then is the time that you desire me to work.'
'Well, do you see any bad effect that the neglect of this rule may have on your future life?'
'I suppose I should make a very useless woman, if I should grow up in ignorance of work.'
'Yes, certainly you would; when I insist upon your attending to your few duties at a particular time—can you imagine the reason of this? Why not read the book this morning, and make up the lost time this evening?' Effie could not tell, and Mrs Maurice went on to explain the necessity oforderin the distribution of time, and shewed her little daughter, that it was as necessary in the government of a house as in the government of a nation. 'But that is not the only bad effect,' she added, 'of your self-indulgence.'
'Oh no, mother, it made me disobedient to you, though I am sure I didn't think of being so at the time.'
'I dare say not, but you see when we once go wrong, we are like a traveller who has lost his path, and can be certain of nothing.'
'Then I forgot my duty to poor Mrs Gilman—I even made myself believe that there was no need of going to see her; and I was cross to Harry, and so selfish, that if I had not been ashamed to own it, I would have had him give up his ride and go with the medicine.'
'And he would rather have gone ten times than—'
'I know it, mother, rather a hundred times than have the baby die.'
'Or see you do so very wrong.'
'Oh, Harry has been crying about it, I know, though he can't feel half so badly as I do. But that was not all, mother—last of all, I broke my promise. I told Harry I would go as soon as I finished the chapter.'
'And all this,' said Mrs Maurice, 'is the result of what, under other circumstances, would be a mere innocent gratification, a pleasant pastime, and a useful exercise.'
'But, mother, when I once begun, I thought I could not stop.'
'Then that was the very moment when you should have stopped, and this one victory would have made others easier. Now I am not afraid, my dear, of your being led astray (at least at present) by things which you know to be wrong; your danger lies on the unguarded side, and yet it is as likely to prove fatal to your peace of mind, your piety, and your usefulness.'
'It never seemed to me before, that so much evil could come from such a small thing.'
'Then you have learned an all-important lesson, which I trust will not be soon forgotten.'
'But, mother, I shall always be afraid of doing wrong now—I don't even know what is right.'
'That shews me, Effie, that you begin to look upon yourself as you really are. If you are left to yourself, you will do wrong; but if you distrust self, and place all your confidence in God, and at the same time study to do right, you will not, for any long time, be left in darkness.'
The conversation of Mrs Maurice continued to a late hour; but as the remaining time was spent in encouraging poor Effie, who needed all that could be said to her, we will pass it over, and merely inform our readers that she awoke in the morning wiser, and even happier; for the joy that is felt in heaven over a repenting sinner, is reflected upon that sinner's own heart.
'Father,' said Harry, after the little family had gathered around the fire as usual, on the ensuing evening, 'it seems strange that people can love good books too well.'
'I believe they are not very apt to, Harry, especially boys who are so fond of snowballing and sliding, as a certain little fellow I met to-day.'
'Oh you mean me, now, father, but I thought you liked to have me play.'
'So I do; only look out that the books and play go together. One is for the mind, and the other is for the body, and both should be cared for.'
'Well, father, Mr Titus tells the boys, that the mind is the only thing worthy of attention, at least he talks as though he thought so; and so some of the larger boys think it is not scholarlike to play, and sit mewed up in the house from morning till night, like so many drones.'
'And so grow pale and sickly-looking, do they not?'
'Yes, sir; and what's more, I don't think they learn a bit faster than some of the rest of us.'
'Very likely, Harry—for whether they think proper attention to the body important or not, the state of the mind depends very much upon it. A healthy mind, that is, a perfectly sound, active, and energetic one, cannot dwell in a diseased body; and so your play, while it amuses you, and seems to others to be mere waste of time, invigorates the body, affords rest to the mind, and is in reality as essential to your well-being as the food you eat, or the clothing you wear in winter.'
'I wish Mr Titus could hear you say that, father.'
'Perhaps it would not be safe to talk so to all his boys, for I presume the most of them would at present be more benefited by what he says. Children seldom love study too well. Even our little book-worm, Effie, would never become too much engaged in anything but a story.'
'Father, Thomas Marvin says that he can't get to school for a while, and he can't spendthe time in exercise; as he says fun takes his mind off his books, and makes him lose a great deal. He is intending to teach a school when he goes away from here, but I don't believe he will, for he looks sickly now. But he thinks it is very foolish to spend time in jumping about, and all that, when there are things so much more important to be done.'
'The body, which God has so wonderfully made, and which He watches over with such tender care, is very far from being beneath our notice, Harry; and while we should give the greater care to the immortal part, we should not neglect the other. I have been visiting a scholar to-day, who I doubt not was once of young Marvin's opinion in these things, and, poor fellow! he does not even see his folly now.'
'Please tell us about him, father,' said Effie, with interest, 'did he study so much to make him selfish and wicked?'
'I will tell you the story, and then you must be the judge,' returned Mr Maurice. 'I believe, however, that in this case selfishness was more out of the question than usual; he had too much zeal, "a zeal not according to knowledge." Lewis Varden was the son ofa poor widow, who contrived to support a large family in comfort and to give them a good education. He was the youngest son, and perhaps from the circumstance of being too tenderly nurtured, and perhaps from some constitutional defect, was never so strong and muscular as his brothers, and so his mother determined that he should study a profession.
'Lewis was particularly pleased with the arrangement, as he had a natural fondness for sedentary employments, and at sixteen had become so extensive a reader, as to be a kind of family encyclopedia. The question, however, remained to be decided whether he should study law or medicine, the only professions which among us are at all lucrative.
'While he was yet wavering between the two, he lost his mother, and suddenly the whole object of his life, even his own character, became changed. Mrs Varden was what is usually called a good woman, that is, with a sharp eye upon her worldly interests, she maintained her standing in the church, and bore a fair reputation; but she was a worldly-minded Christian, and as such had not sufficiently encouraged in her children anypeculiar love for holiness. She was, however, a devoted, self-sacrificing mother, as far as their worldly interests were concerned: and never was a lost parent more sincerely mourned.
'From that time forth, Lewis seemed to lose all connection with the business part of the world, and he devoted himself more closely than ever to his books.
'Yet among these books, the Bible now found a place, and occupied a large share of his attention. From reading it, because it suited his now serious thoughts, he began to love its contents, and finally he made them the guide of his life. He became a member of the church in the little village where he resided, and was soon regarded as a very promising young man.
'His new friends were exceedingly anxious that he should study for the ministry, and he entered with alacrity upon his new duties. But not content with what he considered the circuitous way to usefulness usually taken, he determined by industry to cut it short, and so the noonday sun and midnight lamp found him at the same task. When worn out by his incessant mental labours, he would throwhimself down and sleep for a little time; but his dreams were only a continuation of his waking thoughts, so that even in sleep he was studying still.
'When his fellow-students expostulated, he laughed at the idea of his health being injured by incessant application, and seemed to be afraid that variety of employment would distract his attention. So he went on from week to week, and month to month, preparing his mind for usefulness, but his body for the grave. His pale brow grew yet paler, his cheek hollow, and his hand thin and colourless, but still he declared himself to be in perfect health, and no one knew his danger.
'Finally, he was attacked by a cold, a very slight one, he at first thought, but it clung to him, and could not be shaken off. The poor fellow is now wasting away by consumption, but I cannot convince him of his danger, and to-day when I called on him at the house of his brother, I found him surrounded by books and papers, his large dark eye absolutely glowing with enthusiasm, and a deep red spot burning on either cheek.'
'Oh, father, what did you say to him?' inquired Harry, earnestly.
'A short time ago I recommended quiet and relaxation, telling him plainly that his disease was beyond the reach of medicine, so he understood my look of painful surprise at once.
'He only shook his head, laughingly, and said, "Ah, Doctor, this life is too short to throw away, and so I have gone to work. But you must not blame me," he said, observing that I was about to speak, "I am only planning a few sermons I intend to preach next summer."
'And then he went on to talk about his intentions, and inquired my opinion of some particular sentiments that he had been writing down, until he became so much excited that I was obliged to order the removal of all his papers. Poor fellow! he will never preach a sermon. In his impatience to become useful, he has destroyed his power to do good.'
'I don't think,' said Effie, 'that poor Mr Varden makes knowledge hisgodexactly, because he does it all for good; but it would be very wicked for Harry or me to do so, because we know how wrong it is. I wish everybody that praised people for studying too hard could know it is wicked.'
'But remember,' said Mr Maurice, 'that where one person's cheek is paled by hard study, fifty make themselves utterly useless by neglecting the bodily exercise whichmoderatemental effort demands. It is aversion to active employment, and not the love of knowledge, that has slain its hundreds and crippled its thousands.'
It was a bright and sunshiny day, and so warm as to make the snow moist and yielding beneath the foot—such a day as children love and choose for their happiest sports; but to at least two children it was anything but a day of pleasure. Poor Mrs Gilman's little James had lingered on beyond all expectation, and finally died, calmly and quietly, as if he had been composing himself for sleep. And so it was—a long sleep.
This was the day on which the little one was to be buried, and Harry and Effie were sincere mourners. Not like the poor mother—oh no, no one could feel like her—but they wept as one child of adversity weeps for another, all through life, from the cradle to the grave.
Children are sad when they see those of their own age falling like the spring flowers around them; and when the little infant grows cold and lifeless in its cradle, beneath a loving mother's eye, and is borne away to the silent, lonely graveyard, they insensibly grow thoughtful, and if they have been deprived of previous instructions, death becomes their teacher, and for a little time they grow wise beneath the influence of his lessons.
But Harry and Effie had not been thus deprived, and as hand in hand they followed the little coffin to the grave, through their tears of sadness and sympathy there gleamed out a bright and elevated expression, almost a happy one, which shewed that they looked beyond these sorrow-claiming objects, and saw the suffering child they had loved and pitied a redeemed spirit of light. They could see that the little flower, which had drooped and faded in the atmosphere of this world, grew bright and beautiful in the sunshine of immortal love. They knew that the kingdomof God was made up of just such little children—those who had died before they knew anything of the sin and wickedness of this world; or having known it, having grown old and gray beneath its heavy burden, had laid all at the feet of Jesus, and in spirit gone back to helpless, guileless infancy again.
They knew that their little friend now dwelt with that dear Saviour, who, when on earth, blessed little children, who gathers the lambs in His arms, and carries them in His bosom. Yet it was a sad day for them, for they mourned the dead, as mortals always mourn when mortals die, although they did not wish him back, and they pitied the living. More tears were indeed shed for Mrs Gilman, than for the child.
The contents of Rosa Lynmore's purse had been reserved by Mr Maurice for this sad occasion, he having supplied all previous wants; and it had been sufficient to give a decent burial to the little boy, who slept quietly at his father's side—to be awakened only when you and I, my dear reader, shall be aroused from the same slumber.
Mr Maurice was right when he said if Mrs Gilman was stricken, it would be in mercy;for her heart being weaned from the world, at last found a refuge from its loneliness in the consolations of religion, and left the broken reed of earthly love, on which it had leaned too confidently, for the Rock, Christ Jesus, the friend that never fails.
She entered Mr Maurice's family as a domestic, and has grown gray in its service.
Harry Maurice, it was for a long time thought, would become a preacher of the Gospel; but when he became old enough to judge, he decided in favour of his father's profession, declaring that he who fails to do good in one situation in life, would most decidedly fail in another.
Sweet little Effie! Her struggle with her heart on the occasion of the book was not the last; it was difficult for her to learn its deceitfulness, and she required repeated lessons.
As she grew older, however, she was always complaining of her own sinfulness, while every one else thought her the meekest, the gentlest, and most self-sacrificing being that ever lived. She had, indeed, become remarkably sharp-sighted to her own faults, and, in proportion, forgiving to those of others.
But at last a trial came. She was calledon to leave all she loved on earth, and carry the Gospel to a far off benighted land.
She wept at parting with her parents, but even then she whispered in her mother's ear thanks for the early lessons she had received, and added, 'But for these I might never have learned true self-denial, and might have preferred my dear home to the service of my Master.'
Effie loved her home sincerely, but she loved her Saviour who gave it to her better, and she will have her reward.
And now, my little readers, I have not told you this story simply to amuse you, although I should like to see you interested in its perusal, but I had a better object.
It is not enough that you should see your own faults, and try to mend them yourself; neither is it enough that you should pray, 'lead us not into temptation;' but you must 'watch and pray' also, always remembering that however pleasant and beautiful this world is, there is a brighter and a better, where little children and old men may equally sit down together in happiness, having one God and one Father.