Be kindly affectioned one to another, with brotherly love, in honor preferring one another.(Concluded from page108.)
Be kindly affectioned one to another, with brotherly love, in honor preferring one another.
(Concluded from page108.)
To aid you in making the effort to comply with the injunction we have been considering, I add the following considerations:
1st. It is right, this you will all acknowledge, no matter how unkindly a brother or sister may treat you, you will acknowledge that it is never right for you, never pleasing to God, that you should treat them unkindly in return. Yes, you will all (except when you are angry) acknowledge that the injunction Be kindly affectioned one to another in brotherly love, is right, proper, beautiful; could there be a better reason for trying to obey the injunction?
2d. You have already often disobeyed this injunction. You cannot remember many of the instances, but you can some where you acted unbrotherly or unsisterly. Alas, such are the pride and selfishness of our hearts that we begin very early to sin against our dearest friends. Little boy, did you not get angry the other day, when your little brother or sister took one of your playthings which you wantedyourself, and if you did not speak unkindly or snatch it away roughly, did you not go and complain to mother, and was that very kind and loving? Would it not have been kinder and more brotherly to try to make little brother and sister happy, and not to have troubled mother? Little children, I say this especially for you, I want you all to make it a rule to love everybody, and to try and make everybody around you happy. That is the way to be happy yourselves. But, my young friends, you, who are older, are in equal danger of sinning, and I am afraid that your consciences can also condemn you. Indeed I know not but the danger of violating this law is greater with those more advanced in life. There is a transition period when the childhood is about losing itself in the youth, which is often very trying to brotherly and sisterly affection. The sister is not quite a woman, the brother not quite a young man, and each is sometimes disposed to demand an attention which the other is not quite willing to yield on demand—each would yield, perhaps, if it were asked as a favor—but the spirit of an independent existence is beginning to rise, and that spirit spurns any claim. This spirit is generally the stronger in the brother than in the sister, and he therefore sins most frequently against the law of love, and he will treat his sister as he will allow no other young man to do, and will treat every other young lady with more politeness and courtesy than he does his own noble-hearted and loving sister. Oh, there is many a brother, who, if any young man were to say and do what he says and does to his sister, he would consider him to be no gentleman and a scoundrel. Now, I would ask, does the fact of your being a brother alter the nature of your conduct? You are her brother, and therefore may act ungentlemanly and like a scoundrel! Why, oh, shame, cowardly shame! because there is no one to resent your ill-treatment—there is no one to defend a sister from the unkindness of a brother, or to defend the brother, I may add, from the sister's unkindness; for though I speak to the brother, let each sister who reads this, ask her conscience whether her own sister's heart condemn her not.
Time will not allow me to enter into any great detail, in illustrating the frequency of these violations of the law of family affection, nor indeed is it needed. I can give you a general rule, which your own minds will approve, and which will meet all cases. Let the sister treat no man with more courtesy and politeness than she treats her father and her brothers—treat no woman more kindly and politely than she does her mother and her sisters. Let her not confine all her graces and fascinations to strangers, and make her family to endure all her petulance and unamiability. So let the brother treat his mother and sisters. So let the father and mother treat each other and their children, and you will, my readers, obtain a noble reward in the increasing happiness and comfort of your family circles—in the manliness which will belong to the sons—in the mental and moral graces which will adorn the daughters. The family will thus become the school of virtue and the bulwark of society—the reciprocal influence of brothers and sisters thus trained will be of untold power on each other's character.
One word further, and I close. I have been describing the legitimate influence of religion in a family. True religion will make just such fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers. It is in this way that religion develops itself; that religion which is beautiful abroad and has no beauty at home, is of little worth. If, then, you would make your families what I have described, you must yourself come under the power of religion, must give your heart to God, and then you will find the duties of the family becoming comparatively easy. Unless you do so, you will find yourselves constantly failing in your most strenuous efforts, and will be far from reaching the point which I have sought to describe. Natural affection may indeed be much cultivated by this course, and drawn forth in its native simplicity or regulated by the forms of refined education, it will throw an inestimable beauty and charm around the fireside. But it will be, after all, but merely natural affection. It cannot rise so high nor exert such heavenly influence over the family circle as will the power of religion. It sanctifies and exalts natural affections. It not only restrainsbut actually softens the natural asperities of the temper, harmonizes discordant feelings and interests, and secures that happy co-operation which makes a Christian circle an emblem of heaven. In one word, religion will make you a happy family forever, happy here and happy in yonder world of bliss. Without religion also, allow me to add, the very beauty and enjoyment, arising from the exercise of these domestic virtues, will prove injurious to your eternal interests. They will serve to strew with comforts your path leading away from God to heaven. The powerful influence of a much loved brother is exerted to keep the sister in the path of worldliness; while, in return, the sister's boundless influence, for in such a family the sister's influence may be said to be boundless, will all be added to the snares of an ungodly world, to drive the brother onward in his neglect of God and his own soul. My young friends, seek not only to make those around you happy in this world, but happy forever. Give thine own heart to Jesus, and thou mayest save thy brother and thy sister, and thou shalt meet them on high. Refuse to do so, and thou mayest drag these loved ones down with thee to that cold dark region, where affection is unknown and nothing is heard but blasphemies and curses. Oh, thou kind and loving brother and sister, can ye endure the thought of spending an eternity in cursing each other as the instruments of each other's destruction? Christ alone can deliver you from such a woe.
Habit.—"I trust everything, under God," said Lord Brougham, "to habit, upon which, in all ages, the lawgiver, as well as the schoolmaster, has mainly placed his reliance; habit, which makes everything easy, and casts all difficulties upon the deviation from a wonted course. Make sobriety a habit, and intemperance will be hateful; make prudence a habit, and reckless profligacy will be as contrary to the nature of the child, grown or adult, as the most atrocious crimes are to any of your lordships."
It is presumed, young friends, that you have reached an age when you are capable of appreciating your obligations, but have hitherto neglected them. It is proposed, therefore, in what follows, briefly to call your attention to your position and responsibilities. If you have considered your privileges as the children of pious parents who have dedicated you to God in baptism, you are now prepared to examine your duties. You have then a name and a place in Christ's visible church; you sustain covenant relations to God, and these, fraught as they are with manifold benefits, cannot be without corresponding responsibilities.
You are not the children of the world but the children of the covenant. Solemn vows have been assumed for you, and these vows are bindingupon your consciences. They were taken with the hope and intention that you should assume them for yourselves when you arrived at years of discretion. You were given to God with the expectation that you would grow up to serve him. And this it is your duty to do. You are his property. You are his by sacred engagement, and you cannot violate this engagement; you cannot renounce His service, and devote yourselves to the service of Satan or of the world, without dishonoring your parents, doing injustice to God, and periling your own salvation. You may say this contract was formed without my consent, and when too young to understand its requirements. No matter; this does not release you from obligation to perform it. Ability and responsibility are not always co-extensive. We are bound perfectly to keep God's holy law, and yet no man of himself is able to do it. His inability, however, does not diminish it's binding force. God cannotabate one jot or tittle of the law's demands, for that would be a confession of its imperfection or of his variableness. Or, should he diminish his demands because our wickedness has made us incapable of keeping them, then the more wicked we become, the less binding would be his authority, and if we only grew depraved enough we might escape from all obligation to obedience. Such an idea, cannot, of course, be tolerated. The truth is, that under the government of God, as well as under human government, children are held responsible for the conduct of their parents. Parents have a right to act for them, and children must abide by their decisions, and endure the consequences of their acts. They cannot escape from it, for this is a natural as well as moral law which is continually operating. The character and destiny of the child are determined mainly by the parent. He may educate him to be refined, intelligent and useful, or to be vicious, debased and dangerous. This process is going on continually. The parent may make positive engagements in behalf of his children, which they are bound to perform, and which the law recognizes as valid. A father dying, for example, while his children are in infancy or in their minority, may require them to appropriate a portion of his estate for certain ends, as a condition on which they shall receive it. Another may require of his children a given service, on condition of receiving his blessing; and if the requirement be not morally wrong, who would not feel themselves bound to observe it? But there are examples, perhaps more in point, in Scripture, in which parents have entered into formal covenants that have had direct reference to their children. Adam covenanted for himself and posterity. They had no personal agency in it, in any sense, and yet all are held accountable for its transgression; all suffer a portion of its penalty, as they might, if he had kept it, been made possessors of its blessings. So Abraham covenanted with God for himself and his seed; and his descendants felt themselves bound to fulfill its requirements. They knew, in fact, that unless they did, its benefits could not be enjoyed. The same principle holds good in reference to the baptized. Youare bound by the covenant engagements of your parents. You cannot be released from them on the ground that you had no agency in assuming them. They were assumed for you by those who had the right to do it—a right recognized by both God and man—and you cannot therefore throw them off; you cannot willfully disregard or live contrary to them, without guilt and dishonor. The apostle urges this principle when he testifies "to every man that is circumcised that he is a debtor to do the whole law." His consecration to God in this rite bound him to keep his whole law; and yet this obligation was imposed on him when an infant only eight days old; but after arriving at maturity, he could not shake it off. He was a debtor still, for he was placed in that position in accordance with the divine command and by those who had the authority over him. With equal propriety may we now testify unto you who are baptized, that you are debtors unto Christ. You are bound to keep the laws of his kingdom, bound to serve him to whose service you have been set apart. You are not your own; you are not, therefore, to live unto yourselves. The vows of God are uponyou. You have been sealed with his seal. And since you have attained an age at which you can understand your position, you are bound to perform those vows; to seek to be sealed with the Holy Spirit unto the day of redemption. There is no escape from this obligation; and when, therefore, you live utterly regardless of it, as many do, your conduct is doubly criminal. You may have flattered yourselves that you enjoyed superior advantages, and that you were more highly favored than others; and this is true. But you must take into the account your corresponding responsibilities. There is a broad distinction between your position, and that of mere worldlings, and there ought to be a like difference in your practice. You cannot give yourselves to the sins of youth, or the gayeties of life. You cannot set your hearts on fashion, dress, amusements, business or any mere worldly ends, with as much consistency, or with as little guilt, as your unbaptized associates.Youcannot harden yourselves against the truth, grieve the Holy Spirit, turn away in coldnessor disdain from the claims of Christ, without exposing yourselves to an aggravated condemnation. Shall you who are pledged servants of Christ, who are bound to him by solemn covenant, be regardless of these vows, or be recreant to Him as his avowed enemies? Ah, this is approaching fearfully near the appalling sin of "treading under foot the Son of God, of counting the blood of his covenant an unholy thing, and doing despite unto the Spirit of grace." You cannot, surely, have considered your relations to Christ and to his church. You cannot have pondered the nature of your baptismal vows which were taken for you, but which are now binding upon your own souls. You cannot realize against what gracious promises, what high, privileges you sin, in living contrary to your obligations, and in remaining at heart, and by your conduct, "strangers to God and aliens from the commonwealth of Israel." Review your position, and remember you are placed where you cannot recede. Duties press upon you which you cannot disregard; vows are upon you which you cannot break with safety or with honor. It is not enough that you lead a moral life, or that you continue in your present position. You are required to advance. You have been pledged to God; and to fulfill this pledge you must be His in heart. Youmust chooseHis service. You must take Christ's yoke upon you and dedicate yourselves to Him. Nothing short of this will fulfill your covenant vows or insure your enjoyment of its blessings. As to receding, that is utterly inadmissible. You have been put in this relation by those who loved you and had the right, nay, were commanded of God, to dispose of you in this manner. You cannot then evade it. You may say you never gave it your consent, and that it is hard to be thus bound to act contrary to your natural inclinations; but it is right, and you cannot help it. You are in this position, and you cannot break away but at the peril of your salvation; nay, without the certainty of perdition. But it is not hard, or cruel, to require you to love and obey God. You were created for this, and your nature will never attain to its perfection until you fulfill this its noblest destiny. Ahard thing to do right! A grievous thing to be saved from the pollution of sin and the very gulf of perdition! A hard thing to be taken under divine protection; to be enriched with God's blessing; to be numbered among his people on earth and ultimately admitted to his kingdom in heaven! Impossible! You did not think it; you did not mean to urge this as an objection to your most obvious duty. You would not object to your parents' securing for you a costly estate while in your minority, and why then discard the heavenly inheritance they would provide for you? Fulfill your vows. Choose His service, and be blessed now and forever.
"Leave thy fatherless children with me, and I will preserve them alive."
"Leave thy fatherless children with me, and I will preserve them alive."
(Concluded from page119.)
The elder brother,De Witt, from childhood, was of a thoughtful cast of mind, regular in his habits, careful in forming his associations, kind and dutiful as a son and brother. He ever proved a help and solace to his mother in the family circle, where he was the oldest child. In pursuing his course of studies he evinced industry of application, and sustained an excellent standing in his classes. His regular and interested attendance on the exercises of the Sabbath-school, as well as the services of the sanctuary; his conduct in the family circle, and the developments of the closing scenes of his life, all tend to form the conviction that divine truth had obtained a lodgment in his mind by the sanctifying influence of the Holy Spirit. At the interesting period of nineteen years, full of hope and promise, the seeds of pulmonary disease sprang forth within him. In the fall of 1850, he began to cough, and since then, with variations as toits severity, it continued with him, and his friends marked that it became deeply seated, and apprehended its probable termination. He, however, retained his active habits and course of study till last fall. His earnest attention to sermons, his occasional remarks on their evangelical and practical character as profitable, and his prayerful reading of the Bible, showed the influence divine truth was exerting upon him. The sickness and rapid decline of his brother Joseph was to him most affecting, as they had grown up from childhood together in uninterrupted intercourse and love. In his feeble state of health, he saw his beloved brother hastening to death and the grave, while their dear mother was yearning over both in view of their spiritual welfare. While everything indicated a deep interest in the matter of the soul's salvation, doubts and difficulties prevented him from finding joy and peace in believing. About ten days before his death, and just before the death of Joseph, he received the remarkable letter from his Uncle Scudder which wrought powerfully on his mind, and followed by Joseph's death, was doubtless instrumental, under the divine blessing, in leading him to the decision of giving himself to the Savior by the profession of his faith. The Sabbath, January 11, on the morning of which Joseph died, was indeed a memorable and impressive one in many of its associations. De Witt had just made profession of his faith, and was admitted into the communion of the Presbyterian Church in Canal street, of which the Rev. Mr. Carpenter is pastor, and was carried into the church to unite with God's people in celebrating the Lord's supper, and it was just at the expiration of the two months of special prayer by his uncle in India. When his mother, this morning, announced to him the death of his brother, he just exclaimed, with much emotion, "Is Joseph dead? Then I have no brother." He left the room for a moment and returned, saying, "Mother, we have no cause to mourn. Joseph is only gone to the new Jerusalem, where dear father was waiting to receive him," and then calmly prepared himself for the sacramental service in the church before him. The writer of this had an interview with himthe following morning (Monday). Everything conspired to render the scene impressive. As I saw the remains of Joseph, I observed in the appearance of De Witt the indications of approaching death, and heard the account of his attendance at the Lord's table on the preceding day. After conversation, he asked me to pray that it would please God to spare his life that he might be a support and comfort to his mother, and be permitted to labor for Christ. I replied that such desires were in themselves worthy, but that I strongly felt it would be with him as with David in whose heart was the desire to build the house of God. God accepted the desire, but denied him the work, and assigned it to another. I told him that I must affectionately tell him that every indication denoted that the Savior was preparing him shortly to enter upon his service in heaven, and that he would soon join his brother, whose mortal remains were then waiting for the tomb. He received this without agitation, and calmly replied that he then wished me to pray that it would please God to impart and preserve to him the light of his countenance, and his divine peace, and enable him to glorify Him during the little portion of time which might still be allotted to him on earth. His mother states she does not remember after this to have heard him say much about living, and that only as connected with the service of his Savior. His mind, which had been opening to the light and peace of the Gospel, became more and more established in the faith of Christ, and enriched with the comforts of the Spirit. While his body was fast wasting, his soul as rapidly grew strong. There has rarely been a more striking growth in grace, calm and substantial, free from all vain excitements and feverish heats. Many interesting incidents connected with the spirit he displayed, and the words he uttered during the week following my interview with him just alluded to, are treasured up in the heart's memory. But there is no room for details until we reach the closing scene, from Friday to Monday, January 19. I shall copy from some memoranda furnished by the mother. She had before urged that he should pray in view of continued life only for strength tospeak of the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living, and thus live a long life in the little time spared to him. This seemed to be verified. Mrs. Hunt writes: "On Friday morning he arose as usual, and reclined on the sofa. He was weak, and his throat sore, so that he could only swallow liquids. When the physician visiting him left, I told him that he thought him very low, but I requested him to remember what his beloved minister had told him, to look away from death to Jesus and Heaven; he exclaimed, 'O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law; but thanks to God, who giveth me the victory, through my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.' He expressed the delightful thought that he would be where 'the Lamb would feed him, lead him to living waters, and wipe away all tears from his eyes.' Sometimes he would say, 'Precious Savior. Mother, what would I do without such a Savior? Precious hope, what would I do without such a hope?' And then he would speak of the mansions in Heaven. The 27th and 40th Psalms, which his dear father had selected for us a short time before his death, that we might read them for our comfort after he was gone, were given. When the 27th was commenced he took it up and repeated the whole. On Saturday he had severe pain in the lungs, and thought his end near. Several of his friends called, and he noticed them all distinctly. He addressed two of his fellow-students in the University in an affectionate appeal to what he supposed their spiritual condition. In a conversation with Rev. Mr. C., he said that if God had been pleased to spare his life, he should have felt himself consecrated to the ministry and missionary service; and expressed the calm assurance of his faith. Prayer was offered that he might spend one more precious Sabbath on earth. The night passed, and the Sabbath came. My child exclaimed, soon after waking, 'Precious Sabbath,' and his eyes beamed with hallowed feeling. I said, 'Dear son, can you truly say this morning that you feel the peace of God which passeth understanding?' He raised his eyes and replied, most impressively, 'Oh, yes.' He saidwith delight, 'Mother, O think that Joseph is now by the river of the water of life.' He said also to me, 'Mother, you will not weep for me?' I replied, 'If I do joy will mingle with my tears.' He continued, 'I shall be nearer to you in Heaven than in India' (alluding to his purpose, if his life should be spared, to be a missionary in India). I asked him what message I should send to his Uncle Scudder. He said, 'Tell him I think my heart was in the right place when his letter reached me, or I know not what I should have done.' Two friends came in. De Witt said, 'I thought I should have spent part of this day around the throne in heaven.' And one (a pious young college companion) said to the other, 'If this be dying, I envy him.' After service in the afternoon, Rev. Mr. Carpenter came in with two of his elders, and three other Christian friends were present. Singing was proposed; De Witt was delighted with the thought of it, and selected the hymns. 'Come, thou fount of every blessing,' was sung first. My child could not join with his voice, but stretched out his arm, and with his arm, having the forefinger extended, beat the time. It was a touching, solemn scene; the singing filled the room, and seemed to go up to Heaven. After we had ended the second hymn, 'Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,' he exclaimed, 'I thought I was almost in heaven.' On Sabbath night, about ten o'clock, he inquired of a friend, 'whether she did not think he would soon die?' I went to him and asked him if he felt any change that induced him to ask the question. He replied, 'Everything seems to fail.' I then talked to him about the Savior being with him when he passed through the dark valley, and added, 'Dear son, I will give you up to the Lord.' Directly he said, 'I am now ready any moment to say, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.' He afterward repeated 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit. The Lord is my light and my salvation. Of whom shall I be afraid? It is better to die than live.' A little before six o'clock he looked intensely upon me. I asked what he wished to give me?—his farewell kiss, which he repeated several times. He then again gave me an intense look. I said, 'My son, God will take care.' He replied, 'Iknow he will.' He shook hands with two of his youthful companions, and sent a message to the brother of one of them, expressive of his solicitude for his spiritual welfare. I said to him, 'I have taken care of you these nineteen years, for the Lord.' He said, 'Yes, these nineteen years,' but did not proceed. He asked one of his friends to pray, which he did. After this he ceased to speak, and sank, continuing to breathe hard, without a struggle, until the precious spirit took its everlasting flight a little before eight o'clock, January 19."
I have thus given, from the notes furnished by the bereaved and mourning, but grateful and comforted mother, a sketch of the closing hours and dying scene of this youth, which, in connection with the similar scene in the younger brother, beautifully and strongly illustrates the precious trust committed to mothers, the importance and value of maternal influence, and the encouragement to its faithful and wisely-directed exercise.
T.D.W.
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might."—Ecclesiastes9:10.(Continued from page128.)
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might."—Ecclesiastes9:10.
(Continued from page128.)
That evening a little schoolmate came to visit her; they played several amusing games, and Emily staid up much past her usual hour. The next morning when her mother called her, she felt very sleepy, and unwilling to rise, so instead of jumping up at once, she turned her head on the pillow thinking "I will get up in a minute." But in less than that minute she was fast asleep again, and did not awake until aroused by Mary the nurse, whose voice sounded close in her ear, exclaiming,
"Why, Miss Emily, are you in bed yet! Here have I been looking all through the house and garden for you. Jump up quick, breakfast is just over."
You may be sure Emily did not wait a second bidding, but hurrying on her clothes, hastened down stairs without even thinking about saying her prayers, which no little child should ever forget to do, because it is the kind and merciful God who keeps us safely through the night, and our first thoughts when we awaken should be gratitude to him for protecting us, and we should pray to Him to keep us all day out of sin and danger, and teach us how to improve the time which He has intrusted to our care.
Emily thought of none of these things, but ran down to the breakfast-room, feeling rather ashamed of being so late. Her papa had finished his breakfast, and gone out, and when her mother looked up to the clock as she entered, she saw that it wanted twenty minutes to nine.
"How very late it is!" thought the little girl, as she hurried off to school, "mamma always calls me at seven. I did not think I had slept so long."
Despite all Emily's haste she was too late; school had commenced when she entered, and worse than all, she did not know her lessons, and was kept in an hour after the rest were dismissed. She could not study the evening before, and had depended upon an hour's study before breakfast, but her unlucky morning nap left her no time to think about lessons before school, and her consequent disgrace was the punishment. The little girl returned home that day very unhappy.
Emily had not forgotten the conversation about the wasted gift, and had determined to give no opportunity for her mother to complain. She thought she was very careful that week, but never imagined how much of the precious gift she wasted each day in idleness.
The day after her unfortunate disgrace in school, she brought down several articles of dress that needed repairing, and seated herself at the window to work. Her mother had promised to take her out with her, and Emily had to finish her mending first. She plied the needle very steadily for a while, but presently her attention was attracted by the opposite neighbors.
"Look, mamma," she exclaimed, "there is Mrs. Dodsonand Lucy; they are just going out, and Lucy has on a new hat."
"Well, my dear," returned her mother quietly, "it is not unusual for people to get new bonnets at this season."
Emily felt a little abashed at this reply, but could not refrain from casting furtive glances across the way. The afternoon was fine, and the street filled with well-dressed people. The little girl watched the passers-by, holding her needle listlessly in her fingers, and presently cried out,
"Did you see that lady, mamma? How oddly she was dressed."
"No," answered Mrs. Manvers, "I am attending to my work now, but I hope soon to join the promenaders myself."
Emily stole a glance at her mother to see whether her countenance implied reproof, but Mrs. Manvers's eyes were fixed upon her work and the little girl again endeavored to fix her attention upon her sewing. At length Mrs. Manvers rose and put aside her work-basket. "I am going to dress, Emily," she said.
"Very well, mother, I will be ready in a minute," replied her daughter, and she followed her mother up stairs.
Emily tossed over her bureau in vain to find a clean pair of pantalets, and then she remembered of having taken several pairs down stairs to mend. She ran hastily down and selected the best pair. Some of the button-holes were torn out, but she could not wait to mend them now, so hastily pinning on the pantalets, she dressed and joined her mother.
As they pursued their walk, Emily felt something about her feet, and looking down discovered her pantalets; she hastily stooped to pull them off and the pin scratched her foot severely. Mrs. Manvers saw all this, but said nothing; she knew that her daughter had wasted time enough to have mended all her pantalets, and she added another hour to the already long account of wasted minutes in her memorandum.
The following day was Friday, and it was part of Emily's duties on this day to arrange her bureau-drawers and put her closet in order. She went up stairs after dinner withthis intention, but there were so many little gifts and keep-sakes in her drawers, to be successively admired and thought over, so many sashes to unfold, and odd gloves to be paired, that the whole afternoon was consumed, and the tea-bell rang before she had quite finished the second drawer, and consequently the duty of that day remained to be finished on the next.
"Well, my little girl," said her father the next morning, "I hope you will have my handkerchief nicely hemmed by this afternoon; you have had it several days now, and I suppose it is nearly finished. I shall want it, as I am going away after dinner."
"You shall have it, papa," replied Emily. She did not like to tell him the handkerchief was not yet commenced, as she felt quite sure she could finish it in time, and determined to begin immediately after breakfast.
When she went up stairs to get the handkerchief out of her drawer she saw her bureau was yet in disorder. "Mamma will be displeased to see this," she thought, "and I shall have time enough to put it in order and hem papa's handkerchief beside." She went eagerly to work, but the bureau took her longer than she anticipated, and when her father came home to dinner she had not finished his handkerchief.
Now she made her needle fly, but her industry came too late; her father could not wait, and Emily had the mortification of hearing him say:
"I hope my handkerchief will not be like my gloves, that you kept so long to mend, and mamma had to finish after all."
She cried bitterly after he was gone, but managed through her tears to finish the handkerchief at last, and carried it to her mother, asking her to beg her papa's forgiveness.
After tea was over, Mrs. Manvers called Emily to her, and folding her arm fondly around the little girl's waist, pointed to a small book lying open upon the table, saying as she did so:
"Do you remember, my love, our conversation last Saturday night upon the subject of your gifts?"
"Oh, yes, mamma, and you told me you would keep an account of my ill-usage of one of them."
"I have done so, my dear, and now tell me can you not imagine what this gift is which you so much abuse?"
"Indeed, I cannot, mamma," replied the little girl with a sigh. Mrs. Manvers placed the memorandum book in her daughter's hand without saying a word.
There, written at the head of the page, were these words:
"Emily's Waste of Time."
and beneath was quite a long column of figures, and a list of duties unfulfilled.
"Oh, mamma," cried Emily, throwing herself upon her mother's breast, "it is time, precious time, that is the gift I waste; but surely I have not spent so many idle minutes in just one week."
"I am sorry to say that you have, my dear daughter, all these and even more. I have promised to keep an account, and I have done so; add them up and see how many there are."
Emily added up the figures with tearful eyes, and said, "there are four hundred and twenty, mamma."
"And how many hours does that make, Emily?"
The little girl thought a moment, and then answered,
"Seven hours."
"Very well; then you see you waste seven hours in a week, which would make three hundred and sixty-four in a year, and if you should live the allotted period of life, which would be sixty years from the present time, you will willfully waste twenty one thousand eight hundred and forty hours of the precious time God has given you in which to work out His will."
"Oh, dear mamma, it does not seem possible; I am sure I don't know how the time slips away," said Emily, sadly.
"I will tell you, my love," replied Mrs. Manvers. "It slips away in just a minute; as uncounted drops of water form the sea, so do millions of minutes make up the sum of life; but so small are they that they pass without our heedingthem, yet once gone they come back to us no more. Time is the one talent, the precious gift which God has bestowed upon all his creatures, and which we are bound to improve. Every hour brings its duty, and do you think it is right, Emily, to leave that duty unfulfilled?"
Emily hung her head, while tears slowly coursed down her cheek.
"Do you not see, my dear, that by idling away the precious moments you crowd the duty of one hour into the next, so your task can never be finished, or at best very imperfectly? If you reflect, the experience of the past week will tell you this. I have kept this memorandum on purpose to convince you of your sinful waste of that most precious of all gifts,—the time which our Master allows us here to work out our happiness hereafter. Remember, my love, that you are accountable to Him for your use of His gifts, and a proper improvement of time will not only save you many mortifications and produce much pleasure and comfort to yourself and all about you, but it is a duty you owe to the God who bestowed it. Do not think me unnecessarily earnest, my dear little girl; the subject is of fearful importance, and this habit of putting off till to-morrow what should be done to-day, is your greatest fault. Remember hereafter that 'Whatsoever thine hand findeth to do, do it now with all thy might,' and then I shall have no more occasion to remind you of the wasted gift."
Emily never forgot the lesson of that week, but gradually overcame the evil habits of idleness and procrastination which were becoming fixed before she was made fully aware of their danger, and a long life of usefulness attested the good impression left upon her mind by her mother's memorandum of "The Wasted Gift."
"Will you excuse me, mother," said a bright looking boy of twelve or thirteen to his mother, as soon as he had finished his meat and potato. "Yes, if you wish." "And may I be excused too, mother?" cried his little brother of some six or seven years. "Yes, dear, if there is any occasion for such haste, but why do you not wish for your pudding or fruit?" "Oh, Charley is going to show me something," replied the happy little boy, as he eagerly hastened from his seat, and followed his brother to the window, where they were both speedily intent upon a new bow and arrow, which had just been presented to Charley by a poor wandering Indian, to whom he had been in the habit of giving such little matters as his means would allow. Sometimes a little tobacco for his pipe, a pair of his father's cast-off boots or a half-worn pair of stockings, and sometimes he would beg of his mother a fourpence, which instead of purchasing candy for himself was slid into the hand of his aboriginal friend, and whenever he came, a good warm dinner was set before him, under Charley's special direction. He loved the poor Indian, and often told his mother he would always help an Indian while he had the power, for "Oh, how sorry I am that they are driven away from all these pleasant lands," he often used to say, "and are melting away, like the snows in April. Mother, I should think they would hate the sight of a white man." But the poor Indian is grateful for kindness from a white man, and this day as Charley came from school, poor Squantum was sitting at the corner of the house waiting for him, with a fine long smooth bow, and several arrows. "I give you this," he said, "for you always good to Squantum;" and without waiting for Charley's thanks, or accepting his earnest invitation to come in and get some dinner, he strode away. Charley was wild with delight. He flew to the house with his treasure, but the dinner-bell rang at that moment. Hecould not find in his heart to put it out of his hand, so he took it with him, and seated himself at the table, and as soon as his hunger was appeased, he nodded to his brother and hurried to show him his precious gift. The family were quietly conversing and finishing their dinner, when crash! and smash! went something! Poor Charley! In the eagerness of his delight, while showing the beautiful bow to his brother, he had brought the end of it within the handle of a large water-pitcher, which stood on the side table near him, and alas, the twirl was too sudden—the poor pitcher came to the floor with a mighty emphasis. "Boy! what are you about? What have you done? What do you mean by such carelessness? Will you break everything in the house, you heedless fellow? I'd rather you had broken all on the table than that pitcher, you young scapegrace. Take that, and learn to mind what you are about, or I'll take measures to make you." And with a thorough shaking, and a sound box on the ear, the father quitted the room, took his hat, and marched to his office, there to explain the law, and obtainjusticefor all offenders. But alas for Charley! How great was the change of feeling in his boyish heart. His mother looked for a moment with an expression of fear and sorrow upon her countenance, and telling a servant to wipe up the water he had spilled—she took his hand gently to lead him away. For a moment he repulsed her, and stood as if transfixed with astonishment and rage. But he could not withstand her pleading look, and she led him to her own room. As soon as the door closed upon them, his passion burst forth in words. "Father treats me like a dog. I never will bear it—never, never, another day. Mother, you know I did not not mean to do a wrong thing, and what right has my father to shake and cuff me as if I were a vile slave? Mother, I'll break the house down itself if he treats me so—to box my ears right before all the family! And last night he sent me out of the room, so stern, just because I slammed the door a little. I was glad he had to go to the office, and I wish he would stay there—"
"Hush, hush, my son, what are you saying? Stop, for a moment, and think what you are saying of your own kindfather! Charles, my son, you are adding sin to sin. Sit down, my dear child, and crush that wicked spirit in the bud." And she gently seated him in a chair, and laying her cool hand upon his burning brow, she smoothed his hair, and pressing her lips to his forehead, he felt her tears. "Mother, mother, you blessed good mother." His heart melted within him, and he wept as if it would burst. For a few moments, both wept without restraint, but feeling that the opportunity for making a lasting impression must not be lost, Mrs. Arnold struggled to command herself. "Charles, my son, you have displeased your father exceedingly, and you cannot wonder that he was greatly disturbed. That pitcher, you often heard him say, was used for many years in his father's family. It is an old relic which he valued highly. It was very strong, and has been used by us so long, that it seemed like a familiar friend. It is not strange that for a moment he was exceedingly angry to see it so carelessly broken, and oh, my son, what wicked feelings have been in your heart, what undutiful words upon your tongue!"
"I cannot help it, mother—I cannot help it," replied the excited boy, "he ought not to treat me so, and I will not—" "Charles, Charles, you are wrong, you are very wrong, and I pray you may be sorry for it," interrupted his mother, in a tone of the deepest sorrow. "Do not speak again till you can conquer such a spirit," and they were both silent for a few moments. The mother's heart went up in fervent prayer that this might be a salutary trial, and that she might be enabled to guide his young and hasty spirit aright.
At length he spoke slowly, and his voice trembled with the strong feelings which had shaken him. "Mother, you are the dearest and best mother that ever lived. I wish I could be a good boy, for your sake; but when father speaks so harsh, I am angry all the time, and I cannot help being cross and ugly too. I know I am more and more so; I feel it, and the boys tell me so sometimes. John Gray said, yesterday, I was not half as pleasant in school as I used to be. I feel unhappy, and I am sure if I grow wicked, Igrow wretched too." And again he burst into a passion of tears.
"Does not sin always bring misery, my dear boy?" asked his mother, after a little pause, "and will you not daily meet with circumstances to make you angry and unhappy, if you give way to your first impulse of impatience,—and is it not our first duty to resist every temptation to feel or act wrong? God has not promised us happiness here, but Hehaspromised that if we resist evil it will flee from us. He has promised that if we strive to conquer our wicked feelings and do right when we are tempted to do wrong He will aid us, and give us sweet peace in so doing. To-day you have given way to anger, and you are wretched. You are blaming your father and think he is the cause of your trouble; but think a moment. If you had borne the punishment he gave you meekly and patiently, would not a feeling of peace be in your bosom, to which you are now a stranger? You know that when we suffer patiently for doing well, God is well pleased; and would not the consciousness that you had struggled against and overcome a wicked feeling, and that God looked upon you with approbation, make you more really happy than anything else can? My dear, dear boy, your happiness does not consist in what others say or do to you, but in the feelings you cherish in your own heart. There you must look for happiness, and there, if you do right, you will find it."
"I know you always say right, mother, and I will try, I will try, if I can, to bear patiently; but oh, if father only was like you"—and again tears stopped his utterance.
"My dear child," said his mother, "your father has many troubles. It is a great care to provide for his family, and you know he suffers us to want for nothing. He often has most perplexing cases, and his poor brains are almost distracted. You are a happy boy, with no care but to get your lessons, and obey your parents, and try to help them. You know nothing yet of the anxieties which will crowd upon you when you are a man. Try now to learn to bear manfully and patiently all vexations—looking for help to that blessed One, who, when he was reviled, reviled not again. How much happier andbetter man you will be, how you will comfort your mother, and still more, you will please that blessed Savior, who has left such an example of meekness—suffering for sinners, and even dying for his cruel enemies. Oh, my son, my son, ask that blessed Savior to make you like himself, and you will be happy, and His own Spirit will make you holy. Let us ask Him to do it," and she knelt by her bedside, and her son placed himself beside her. It was no new thing for him to pray with this devoted mother. Often had she been with him to the throne of grace, when his youthful troubles or faults had made him feel the need of an Almighty helper and friend, but never had he come before with such an earnest desire to obtain the gift of that blessed Spirit, to subdue and change his heart and make him like his Savior. When they rose from prayer he sought his own room. He felt unable to go to school, and his mother hoped the impression would be more lasting, if he thought it over in the solitude of his own chamber, and she had much reason afterward to hope that this solemn afternoon was the beginning of good days to the soul of her child. As she looked anxiously at the expression of his countenance when the family assembled at the tea-table, she was pleased to notice, though an air of sadness hung around him, he was subdued, gentle, and affectionate, and she hoped much from this severe contest with his besetting sin. His father said little, and soon hurried away to a business engagement for the evening. Mr. Arnold was a lawyer, a gentleman and a professing Christian, and though never very strongly beloved, yet few of his neighbors could tell why, or say aught against his respectability and general excellence of character. He was immersed in the cares of an extensive business, and spent little time at home, and when there he seemed to have no room in his busy heart for the prattle of his children, no time to delight and improve them, with the stores of knowledge he might have brought forth from his treasury. If company were present, he was polite and agreeable. If only his wife and children, he said little, and that little was chiefly confined to matters of domestic interest—what they should have for dinner—what schools the childrenshould attend—or the casual mention of the most common news of the day. He provided liberally for his family, what they should eat and drink, and wherewithal they should be clothed and instructed—but he took no pains to gain their affections or their confidence, to enlarge their ideas and awaken within them the thirst for knowledge, and plant within them the deathless principles of right and wrong—or even to inspire their young minds with love and reverence for their Divine Creator and Preserver. All this most important duty of a father was left to his wife, and blessed is the man who hassucha wife and mother, to whom to intrust the precious charge he neglects. Most amiable and affectionate, intelligent and judicious, and of ardent and cheerful piety, this excellent woman devoted herself with untiring zeal to the training of her cherished flock, and as she saw and felt with poignant grief that she would have no help in this greatest and first earthly duty, from him who had solemnly promised to sustain and comfort, and assist, and cherish her, to bear and share with her the trials and cares of life (and what care is greater than the right training of our offspring), she again and again strove with earnest faith and humble prayer, to cast all her care upon Him, who she was assured cared for her, and go forward in every duty with the determination to fulfill it to the utmost of her power. Many times did the cold and stern manner of her husband, his anger at trifles, and his thoughtless punishment for accidental offenses, cause her heart to bleed for the effects of such government, or want of government, upon her children's hearts and minds. But she uttered no word of blame in their presence, she ever showed them that any want of love or respect for their father grieved her, and was, moreover, a heinous sin, and by patient continuance in well doing, she yet hoped to reap the full reward. Her eldest, Charles, felt most keenly his father's utter want of sympathy, and to him she gave her most constant tender care. Affectionate, but hasty, he was illy constituted to bear the harsh command, or the frequent fault finding of his father, and often she trembled lest he should throw off all parental control, and goaded byhis irritated feelings, rush into sin without restraint. And so, probably, he would have done but for the unbounded love and reverence with which he regarded his "blessed mother." Her gentle influence he could not withstand, and it grew more and more powerful with him for good, till the glance of her loving eye would check his wayward spirit, and calm him often, when passion struggled for the mastery. Often did she venture to hope he had indeed given himself to his Savior, and her conversations with him from time to time, showed so much desire to conquer every evil passion, and to shun every false way with so much affectionate reverence for his God and Redeemer, that the mother's heart was sweetly comforted in her first-born.
The days of primer, and catechism, and tasks for the memory are gone. The schoolmaster is no longer to us as he was to our mothers, associated with all that is puzzling and disagreeable in hard unmeaning rules, with all that is dull and uninteresting in grave thoughts beyond the reach of the young idea. He is to us now rather the interpreter of mysteries, the pleasant companion who shows us the way to science, and beguiles its tediousness. If there is now no "royal road," certainly its opening defiles are made easier for the ascent of the little feet of the youthful scholar. The memory is not the chief faculty which receives a discipline in the present system of things. The "how," the "why," are the subjects of interest and attention. This is well; but it may be that in our anxiety to reach the height of the hill, and to keep up with the progress of the age, we are neglecting too much the training of the memory, which should be to us a treasury of beautiful thoughts, to cheer us in the prose of every-day life, to refine and elevate taste and feeling.We do not think it was a waste of time to learn, as our mothers did, long extracts from Milton, the sweet lyrics of Watts, the Psalms of David. Have we not often been soothed by their recitation of them in the time of sickness, at the hour of twilight, when even the mind of the child seems to reach out after the spiritual, and to need the aliment of high and holy thought? The low, sweet voice, the harmony of the verse, were conveyancers of ideas which entered the soul to become a part of it forever.
If we would be rich in thought, we must gather up the treasures of the past, and make them our own. It is not enough, certainly, for ordinary minds, simply to read the English classics; they must be studied, learned, to get from them their worth. And the mother who would cultivate the taste, the imagination of the child, must give him, with the exercise of his own inventive powers, the rich food of the past.
It need not be feared that there will not be originality in the mind of one thus stored with the wealth which others have left. Where there is a native vigor, and invention, it will remould truth into new forms, and add a value of its own, having received an inspiration from the great masters of thought.
If, then, you would bless your child, persuade him to make Milton and Cowper, and other authors of immortal verse, his familiar friends. They shall be companions in solitude, ministers of joy in hours of sadness. And let the "songs of Zion" mould the young affections, and be associated with a mother's love, and the dear delights of home. Perhaps in a strange land, and in a dying hour, when far from counselor and friend, they may lead even the prodigal to think upon his ways, and be his guide to Heaven.
"The Wide, Wide World."—This is a charming book, written by one of our own countrywomen, which we think may be safely and appropriately given to a pure-minded and simple-hearted daughter. If it is fictitious, it is only so as the ideal landscape of an artist, which, though unreal, compels us to exclaim, How true to nature! If the delineation of true religious character is not its main object, that of piety and benevolence is as truly a part of it, as is its fragrance a part of the rose. We should love to give it to some of our friends whose Christianity may be vital, but which does not make them lovely—who may show some of its fruits, but who hardly cultivate what may be called the leaves and flowers of a holy character. If the sternness and want of sympathy of Aunt Fortune does not rebuke them, perhaps the loveliness and patience of Ellen, and her friends, may win them to an imitation.
"Life in the West; or, the Moreton Family."—This tasteful little work, coming out under the sanction of the American Sunday-School Union, hardly needs from us an item of praise; but we cannot consent to pass it by unnoticed. A more faithful and interesting picture of the trials of a Christian family in removing westward, and of their surmounting such trials, we have never seen. Religion, the religion of home, they take with them; and by the wayside, and in the log cottage, they worship their father's God. We needed such a delineation, in the form of an attractive narrative, to show us that in passing through the trials of a strange country, we are yet to beon the Lord's side. But beside this, there is in the work the loveliness of a well-ordered home; the picture of a faithful, thoughtfulmother, and of children and husband appreciating such a mother. To give one little extract—"Themother's room! What family knows not that sociable spot—thatheartof the house? To it go the weary, the sick, the sad and the happy, all sure of sympathy and of aid; all secure in their expectation of meeting there the cheering word, the comforting smile, and the loving friend." In thorough ignorance of what anew homeshould mean, little Willie inquires, "Homeis not ahouse, is it?" Most sensible questionfor a child. To such as desire an answer to the inquiry, we recommend the work, as one which will be of value to them and their children.
In my intercourse with Christian parents, and it has not been limited, I have often found a deep anxiety pervading their hearts in relation to the spiritual state of their children. And why should not such anxiety exist? If a parent has evidence that his child is in an impenitent state—especially if that child is growing up in habits of vicious indulgence—he ought to feel, and deeply feel. That child is in danger, and the danger is the greater by how much the more his heart has become callous, under the hardening influence of a wicked life; and every day that danger increases. God's patience may be exhausted. The brittle thread of life may be sundered at any moment, and the impenitent and unprepared soul be summoned to the bar of God. With great propriety, therefore, may the parent feel anxious in regard to his unconverted children.
But to some parents it seems mysterious that such deep, constant, corroding anxiety should be their allotment. They sometimes attempt to cast it off. They would feel justified in doing so, were they able. But that is impossible. Now, to such parents allow me to address a few thoughts which, may the Divine Spirit, by his gracious influence, bless to their comfort and direction.
And the first thing I have to say is, that the solicitude they feel for their children may be excessive. That it should be deep must be admitted, and it should continue as long as the danger lasts. It should even increase as that danger increases up to a given point; but there is a point beyond which even parental solicitude should never be suffered to proceed. It should not become excessive. It should never be suffered to weaken our confidence in the divine goodness, nor in the wisdom of the divine dispensations. It should never prompt the parent to desire that God should alter the established order of his providence, or change or modify theprinciples of his moral government. It would not be right for me to wish my children saved at all adventures. That anxiety which prompts to such a desire is both excessive and selfish. It can never be justified, nor can God ever favorably regard it.
My second remark is, that a deep solicitude of the parent for the spiritual good of his children is most desirable. I am aware that it is more or less painful, and in itself is neither pleasant nor desirable. But may it not, notwithstanding, be beneficial in its results, and even of incalculable importance? Where no danger is apprehended, no care will be exercised. Who knows not that the unsolicitous mariner is far more likely to suffer shipwreck than he who, apprehensive of rocks and reefs, exercises a wise precaution? The parent who never suffers himself to be disturbed—whose sleep is never interrupted while his children are abroad, exposed to temptation—may for that very reason neglect them at the critical juncture, and the head-waters may become too impulsive; the tendencies to vice and crime too powerful to be resisted. Oh! had the parent been a little more anxious—had he looked after his children with a higher sense of his obligations, how immeasurably different, probably, had been the result! The truth is, that where one parent feels too much in relation to his children, hundreds of parents are criminally indifferent. In regard to such parents, it is our duty to awaken their anxieties by every means in our power. But what shall we say to those who may be thought already over-solicitous? Such parents are seldom to be found. If any such there be, let them moderate what may possibly be excessive; but be sure to bless God, who has given you a deep anxiety for the salvation of your loved ones. Remember that it prompts you to greater watchfulness and care than you would otherwise exercise. You pray more, you instruct them more, you guard them more. And your children, therefore, are more likely to become the children of God. And remember, further, that your Heavenly Father knows just what solicitudes you feel, their weight, their painfulness; and just so long as you feel them, and in consequenceof them,actin the use of those legitimate means which God has instituted for the restraint and conversion of your children, you have reason to hope. The very end and object of those Christian anxieties are just what you desire, and for which you are daily praying—the conversion of your children; and if you pursue a proper course under them, you are probably more likely to see your hopes accomplished than if they did not exist.
I had contemplated adding other suggestions, but time and space will not allow. But I cannot dismiss this subject without saying, that instead of ever complaining that God has imparted to you such a deep anxiety for the spiritual good of your children, let that time thus spent be employed in fervent, importunate and agonizing prayer for them. That is the best way of washing off these accumulated and accumulating loads of anxiety. Plead in view of your deep solicitude—plead in Christ's name—plead by the worth of your children's souls—plead by every consideration you can think of, and then plead by every consideration which the All Omniscient mind of God can think of—especially plead the divine honor and glory, as involved in such a desired result, and when you have done all these, then act wisely, and efficiently as you can. Never give up—never falter—not even for a moment. But be steady to your purpose—yet in every step of your progress say, "O God, thy will be done."
A family is a community or government, of which the parents are the legislators, and the children are the subjects. The parents are required by the family constitution to superintend and direct the conduct of their children, and others under their care. And children, by the same authority, are required to obey their parents. "Children, obey your parentsin all things; for this is well pleasing unto the Lord." But parents are more than legislators; they possess the executive power. They are to see their rules carried out. And, still further, they are to judge of the penalty due to infraction and disobedience, and of the time and manner in which punishment is to be inflicted. The authority vested in parents is great, and most judiciously should it be exercised. God has given general directions in his word touching the exercise of their authority. To Him they are amenable. And by all the love they bear to their offspring, their desire for their welfare, and the hope of the future approbation of God, they should endeavor to bring up their children in the "nurture and admonition of the Lord."
But are not parents apt to legislate too much? This is often an error in all legislative assemblies. Perhaps there is not a State in the Union in which the laws are not too many, and too minute. Every legislator feels desirous of leaving his impress on the statute book. And so there is yearly an accumulation of laws and resolves, one-half of which might probably be dispensed with, with advantage to the people.
The same over legislation often obtains in the school-room, springing doubtless from a desire on the part of the teacher to preserve a more perfect order among his pupils. Hence the number and minuteness of his rules; and in his endeavor to reduce them to practice, and make clock-work of the internal machinery, he quite likely defeats the very object he has in view. A school-teacher who pretends to notice every aberration from order and propriety is quite likely to have his hands full, and just so with parents. Some children cannot keep still. Their nervous temperament does not admit of it. I once heard an elderly gentleman say, that when riding in a coach, he was so confined that he felt as if he should die because he could not change his position. Oh! if he could have stirred but an inch! Children often feel just so. And it is bad policy to require them to sit as so many little immoveable statues. "There, sit in just that spot, and don't you move an inch till I bid you." Who has not heard a parent give forth such a mandate? And aschool-master, too, to some little urchin, who tries to obey, but from that moment begins to squirm, and turn, and hitch, and chiefly because his nervous system is all deranged by the very duty imposed upon him. And, besides, what if Tommy, in the exuberance of his feelings, while sitting on the bench, does stick out his toe a little beyond the prescribed line. Or suppose Jimmy crowds up to him a little too closely, and feeling that he can't breathe as freely as he wishes, gives him a hunch; or suppose Betty, during a temporary fit of fretfulness, induced by long setting in one posture, or overcome with the heat of a midsummer afternoon, or the sweltering temperature of a room where an old-fashioned box stove has been converted into a furnace; suppose Betty gives her seat-mate a sly pinch to make her move to a more tolerable distance, shall the teacher utter his rebuke in tones which might possibly be appropriate if a murder was about being committed? I have known a schoolmaster "fire up" like a steam-engine, and puff and whiz at the occurrence of some such peccadilloes, and the consequence was that the whole school was soon at a stand-still as to study, and the askance looks and suppressed titter of the little flock told you that the teacher had made no capital that time. I have seen essentially the same thing in parents.
Now, I am not exactly justifying such conduct in children. But such offences will exist, despite of all the wisdom, authority, and sternness in the wide world. My position is, that these minor matters must sometimes be left. They had better not always be seen, or if seen, not be noticed. I think those who have the care of children may take a lesson from a slut and her pups, or a cat and her kittens. Who has not seen the puppy or the kitten taking some license with their dams?—biting as puppies and kittens bite at play? Well, and what sort of treatment do they sometimes get from the older folks? Now and then you hear a growl, or see a spat. But, generally, the "old ones" know better. The little frolicsome creatures are indulged. Nature seems to teach these canine and feline parents that their progeny must and will have sport. I have, indeed, as I have said,heard the ominous growl and the warning spat or spit, but what good has it done? Why, the growl seems only to inspirit the young dog. He plays so much the more; or, at least, if he plays shy for a brief space, the next you'll see, he jumps on to the old dog and plays the harder, and the kitten acts in like manner.
But I have said enough. The sum is, that it is wise not to take cognizance of all that might be considered amiss in children. Correct the faults which are the most prominent. Let the statute-book not be overburdened with small enactments. Nothing is small which is morally wrong; but little physical twitchings, and nervous peccadilloes are not worthy of grave legislation. The apostle's account of himself has some pertinence here. "When I was a child, I thought as a child, I spoke as a child"—Paul, doubtless acted as a child; "but when I became a man, I put away childish things." The experience and observation of years often make salutary corrections, which you would in vain attempt to effect in early childhood, by all the laws of a ponderous octavo, or by all the birch saplings to be found in a western forest.
A Grandfather.