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THE
CHILD AT HOME;
OR
THE PRINCIPLES OF FILIAL DUTY
FAMILIARLY ILLUSTRATED.
BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT,
Author Of "The Mother At Home."
Published By The
American Tract Society
150 Nassau-Street New-York.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1833, by CROCKER and
BREWSTER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of
Massachusetts.
Right of publishing transferred to American Tract Society.
PREFACE.
This book is intended for the children of those families to which The
Mother at Home has gone. It is prepared with the hope that it may
exert an influence upon the minds of the children, in exciting
gratitude for their parents' love, and in forming characters which
shall ensure future usefulness and happiness.
The book is intended, not for entertainment, but for solid
instruction. I have endeavored, however, to present instruction in an
attractive form, but with what success, the result alone can tell. The
object of the book will not be accomplished by a careless perusal. It
should be read by the child, in the presence of the parent, that the
parent may seize upon the incidents and remarks introduced, and thus
deepen the impression.
Though the book is particularly intended for children, or rather for
young persons, it is hoped that it will aid parents in their efforts
for moral and religious instruction.
It goes from the author with the most earnest prayer, that it may
save some parents from blighted hopes, and that it may allure many
children to gratitude, and obedience, and heaven.
JOHN S. C. ABBOTT
Worcester December, 1833.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Chapter I.
RESPONSIBILITY.--The Police Court. The widow and her daughter.
Effect of a child's conduct upon the happiness of its parents. The
young sailor. The condemned pirate visited by his parents.
Consequences of disobedience. A mother's grave. The sick child. . .7
Chapter II.
DECEPTION.--George Washington and his hatchet.--Consequences of
deception. Temptations to deceive. Story of the child sent on an
errand. Detection. Anecdote. The dying child. Peace of a dying hour
disturbed by falsehood previously uttered. Various ways of
deceiving. Thoughts on death. Disclosures of the judgment day. . .28
Chapter III.
OBEDIENCE.--Firmness requisite in doing duty. The irresolute boy. The
girl and the green apples. Temptations. Evening party. Important
consequences resulting from slight disobedience. The state prison.
History of a young convict. Ingratitude of disobedience. The soldier's
widow and her son. Story of Casabianca. Cheerful obedience.
Illustration. Parental kindness. . .46
Chapter IV.
OBEDIENCE, continued.--The moonlight game. Reasons why good parents
will not allow their children to play in the streets in the evening.
The evening walk. The terrified girl, Instance of filial affection.
Anecdote. Strength of a mother's love. The child's entire dependence.
A child rescued from danger. Child lost in the prairie.. .71
Chapter V.
RELIGIOUS TRUTH.--Human character. The Northern Voyagers. Imaginary
scene in a court of justice. Love of God. Scene from Shakspeare.
Efforts to save us. The protection of angels. The evening party. The
dissolute son. A child lost in the woods. The sufferings of the
Savior. The Holy Spirit. . .94
Chapter VI.
PIETY.--Penitence. Charles Bullard. His good character in school. In
college. The pious boy. The orchard. The fishing-rod. The forgiving
spirit. How children may do good. The English clergyman and the child
who gave himself to the Savior. The happy sick boy. The Christian
child in heaven. Uncertainty of life. The loaded gun. The boy in the
stage-coach. . .119
Chapter VII.
TRAITS OF CHARACTER.--We cannot be happy without friends. Why scholars
are unpopular in school. The way to gain friends. The warm fire.
Playing ball. Recipe for children who would be loved. A bad temper.
Amiable disposition to be cultivated. The angry man. Humility. The
vain young lady. Vanity always ridiculous. The affected school girl.
The unaffected schoolgirl. Story of the proud girl. Moral courage.
The duellist. The three school-boys. George persuaded to throw the
snow-ball. What would have been real moral courage. The boy leaving
home, His mother's provisions for his comfort. The parting. His
father's counsel. His reflections in the stage-coach. He consecrates
himself to his Maker. . .347
THE CHILD AT HOME
CHAPTER I.
RESPONSIBILITY.
In large cities there are so many persons guilty of crimes, that it
is necessary to have a court sit every day to try those who are
accused of breaking the laws. This court is called the Police Court.
If you should go into the room where it is held, you would see the
constables bringing in one after another of miserable and wicked
creatures, and, after stating and proving their crimes, the judge
would command them to be led away to prison. They would look so
wretched that you would be shocked in seeing them.
One morning a poor woman came into the Police Court in Boston. Her
eyes were red with weeping, and she seemed to be borne down with
sorrow. Behind her followed two men, leading in her daughter.
"Here, sir," said a man to the judge, "is a girl who conducts so
badly that her mother cannot live with her, and she must be sent to
the House of Correction."
"My good woman," said the judge, "what is it that your daughter does
which renders it so uncomfortable to live with her?"
"Oh, sir," she replied, "it is hard for a mother to accuse her own
daughter, and to be the means of sending her to the prison. But she
conducts so as to destroy all the peace of my life. She has such a
temper, that she sometimes threatens to kill me, and does every thing
to make my life wretched."
The unhappy woman could say no more. Her heart seemed bursting with
grief, and she wept aloud. The heart of the judge was moved with pity,
and the bystanders could hardly refrain from weeping with this
afflicted mother. But there stood the hard-hearted girl, unmoved. She
looked upon the sorrows of her parent in sullen silence. She was so
hardened in sin, that she seemed perfectly insensible to pity or
affection. And yet she was miserable. Her countenance showed that
passion and malignity filled her heart, and that the fear of the
prison, to which she knew she must go, filled her with rage.
The judge turned from the afflicted mother, whose sobs filled the
room, and, asking a few questions of the witnesses, who testified to
the daughter's ingratitude and cruelty, ordered her to be led away to
the House of Correction. The officers of justice took her by the arm,
and carried her to her gloomy cell. Her lonely and sorrowing mother
went weeping home to her abode of penury and desolation. Her own
daughter was the viper which had stung her bosom. Her own child was
the wretch who was filling her heart with sorrow.
And while I now write, this guilty daughter is occupying the gloomy
cell of the prison, and this widowed mother is in her silent
dwelling, in loneliness and grief! Oh, could the child who reads
these pages, see that mother and that daughter now, you might form
some feeble idea of the consequences of disobedience; you might see
how unutterable the sorrow a wicked child may bring upon herself and
upon her parents. It is not easy, in this case, to judge which is the
most unhappy, the mother or the child. The mother is broken-hearted
at home. She is alone and friendless. All her hopes are most cruelly
destroyed. She loved her daughter, and hoped that she would live to
be her friend and comfort. But instead of that, she became her curse,
and is bringing her mother's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. And
then look at the daughter--guilty and abandoned--Oh, who can tell how
miserable she must be!
Such is the grief which children may bring upon themselves and their
parents. You probably have never thought of this very much I write
this book that you may think of it, and that you may, by obedience
and affection, make your parents happy, and be happy yourselves.
This wicked girl was once a playful child, innocent and happy. Her
mother looked upon her with most ardent love, and hoped that her dear
daughter would live to be her companion and friend. At first she
ventured to disobey in some trifling thing. She still loved her
mother, and would have been struck with horror at the thought of
being guilty of crimes which she afterwards committed. But she went
on from bad to worse, every day growing more disobedient, until she
made her poor mother so miserable that she almost wished to die, and
till she became so miserable herself, that life must have been a
burden. You think, perhaps, that you never shall be so unkind and
wicked as she finally became. But if you begin as she began, by
trifling disobedience, and little acts of unkindness, you may soon be
as wicked as she, and make your parents as unhappy as is her poor
broken-hearted mother.
Persons never become so very wicked all at once. They go on from step
to step, in disobedience and ingratitude, till they lose all feeling,
and can see their parents weep, and even die in their grief, without a
tear.
Perhaps, one pleasant day, this mother sent her little daughter to
school. She took her books, and walked along, admiring the beautiful
sunshine, and the green and pleasant fields. She stopped one moment
to pick a flower, again to chase a butterfly, and again to listen to
a little robin, pouring out its clear notes upon the bough of some
lofty tree. It seemed so pleasant to be playing in the fields, that
she was unwilling to go promptly to school. She thought it would not
be very wrong to play a little while. Thus she commenced. The next
day she ventured to chase the butterflies farther, and to rove more
extensively through the field in search of flowers. And as she played
by the pebbles in the clear brook of rippling water, she forgot how
fast the time was passing. And when she afterwards hastened to
school, and was asked why she was so late, to conceal her fault she
was guilty of falsehood, and said that her mother wanted her at home.
Thus she advanced, rapidly in crime. Her lessons were neglected. She
loved the fields better than her book, and would often spend the
whole morning idle, under the shade of some tree, when her mother
thought her safe in school. Having thus become a truant and a
deceiver, she was prepared for any crimes. Good children would not
associate with her, and consequently she had to choose the worst for
her companions and her friends. She learned wicked language; she was
rude and vulgar in her manners; she indulged ungovernable passion;
and at last grew so bad, that when her family afterwards removed to
the city, the House of Correction became her ignominious home. And
there she is now, guilty and wretched. And her poor mother, in her
solitary dwelling, is weeping over her daughter's disgrace. Who can
comfort such a mother? Where is there any earthly joy to which she
can look?
Children generally do not think how much the happiness of their
parents depends upon their conduct. But you now see how very unhappy
you can make them. And is there a child who reads this book, who
would be willing to be the cause of sorrow to his father and his
mother? After all they have done for you, in taking care of you when
an infant, in watching over you when sick, in giving you clothes to
wear, and food to eat, can you be so ungrateful as to make them
unhappy? You have all read the story of the kind man, who found a
viper lying upon the ground almost dead with cold. He took it up and
placed it in his bosom to warm it, and to save its life. And what did
that viper do? He killed his benefactor! Vile, vile reptile! Yes! as
soon as he was warm and well, he stung the bosom of his kind
preserver, and killed him.
But that child, is a worse viper, who, by his ingratitude, will
sting the bosoms of his parents; who, by disobedience and unkindness,
will destroy their peace, and thus dreadfully repay them for all
their love and care. God will not forget the sins of such a child.
His eye will follow you to see your sin, and his arm will reach you
to punish. He has said, Honor your father and your mother. And the
child who does not do this, must meet with the displeasure of God,
and must be for ever shut out from heaven. Oh, how miserable must
this wicked girl now be, locked up in the gloomy prison! But how much
more miserable will she be when God calls her to account for all her
sins!--when, in the presence of all the angels, the whole of her
conduct is brought to light, and God says to her, "Depart from me, ye
cursed!" As she goes away from the presence of the Lord, to the
gloomy prisons of eternal despair, she will then feel a degree of
remorse which I cannot describe to you. It is painful to think of it.
Ah, wretched, wretched girl! Little are you aware of the woes you are
preparing for yourself. I hope that no child who reads these pages
will ever feel these woes.
You have just read that it is in your power to make your parents very
unhappy; and you have seen how unhappy one wicked girl made her poor
mother. I might tell you many such melancholy stories, all of which
would be true. A few years ago there was a boy who began to be
disobedient to his parents in little things. But every day he grew
worse, more disobedient and wilful, and troublesome. He would run away
from school, and thus grew up in ignorance. He associated with bad
boys, and learned to swear and to lie, and to steal. He became so bad
that his parents could do nothing with him. Every body who knew him,
said, "That boy is preparing for the gallows." He was the pest of the
neighborhood. At last he ran away from home, without letting his
parents know that he was going. He had heard of the sea, and thought
it would be a very pleasant thing to be a sailor. But nothing is
pleasant to the wicked. When he came to the sea-shore, where there
were a large number of ships, it was some time before any one would
hire him, because he knew nothing about a ship or the sea. There was
no one there who was his friend, or who pitied him, and he sat down
and cried bitterly, wishing he was at home again, but ashamed to go
back. At last a sea captain came along, and hired him to go on a
distant voyage; and as he knew nothing about the rigging of a vessel,
he was ordered to do the most servile work on board. He swept the
decks and the cabin, and helped the cook, and was the servant of all.
He had the poorest food to eat he ever ate in his life. And when
night came, and he was so tired that he could hardly stand, he had no
soft bed upon which to lie, but could only wrap a blanket around him,
and throw himself down any where to get a little sleep. This unhappy
boy had acquired so sour a disposition, and was so disobliging, that
all the sailors disliked him, and would do every thing they could to
teaze him. When there was a storm, and he was pale with fear, and the
vessel was rocking in the wind, and pitching over the waves, they
would make him climb the mast, and laugh to see how terrified he was,
as the mast reeled to and fro, and the wind almost blew him into the
raging ocean. Often did this poor boy get into some obscure part of
the ship, and weep as he thought of the home he had forsaken. He
thought of his father and mother, how kind they had been to him, and
how unkind and ungrateful he had been to them, and how unhappy he had
made them by his misconduct. But these feelings soon wore away.
Familiarity with sea life gave him courage, and he became inured to
its hardships. Constant intercourse with the most profligate and
abandoned, gave strength and inveteracy to his sinful habits; and
before the voyage had terminated, he was reckless of danger, and as
hardened and unfeeling as the most depraved on board the ship. This
boy commenced with disobedience in little things, and grew worse and
worse, till he forsook his father and his mother, and was prepared
for the abandonment of every virtue, and the commission of any crime.
But the eye of God was upon him, following him wherever he went, and
marking all his iniquities. An hour of retribution was approaching.
It is not necessary for me to trace out to you his continued steps of
progress in sin. When on shore, he passed his time in haunts of
dissipation. And several years rolled on in this way, he growing more
hardened, and his aged parents, in their loneliness, weeping over the
ruin of their guilty and wandering son.
One day an armed vessel sailed into one of the principal ports of the
United States, accompanied by another, which had been captured. When
they arrived at the wharf, it was found that the vessel taken was a
pirate. Multitudes flocked down upon the wharf to see the pirates as
they should be led off to the prison, there to await their trial. Soon
they were brought out of the ship, with their hands fastened with
chains, and led through the streets. Ashamed to meet the looks of
honest men, and terrified with the certainty of condemnation and
execution, they walked along with downcast eyes and trembling limbs.
Among the number was seen the unhappy and guilty boy, now grown to
be a young man, whose history we are relating. He was locked up in
the dismal dungeon of a prison. The day of trial came. Pale and
trembling; he was brought before the judge. He was clearly proved
guilty, and sentenced to be hung. Again he was carried back to his
prison, there to remain till the hour for his execution should
arrive. News was sent to his already broken-hearted parents, that
their son had been condemned as a pirate, and was soon to be hung.
The tidings was almost too much for them to endure. In an agony of
feeling which cannot be described, they wept together. They thought
of the hours of their child's infancy, when they watched over him in
sickness, and soothed him to sleep. They thought how happy they felt
when they saw the innocent smile play upon his childish cheek. They
thought of the joy they then anticipated in his opening years, and of
the comfort they hoped he would be to them in their declining days.
And now to think of him, a hardened criminal, in the murderer's
cell!-- Oh, it was too much, too much for them to bear. It seemed as
though their hearts would burst. Little did they think, when, with
so much affection they caressed their infant child, that he would be
the curse of their life, embittering all their days, and bringing
down their gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. Little did they
think, that his first trifling acts of disobedience would lead on to
such a career of misery and of crime, But the son was sentenced to
die, and the penalty of the law could not be avoided. His own remorse
and his parents' tears could be of no avail. Agonizing as it would be
to their feelings, they felt that they must go and see their son
before he should die.
One morning, a gray-headed man, and an aged and infirm woman, were
seen walking along, with faltering footsteps, through the street which
led to the prison. It was the heart-broken father and mother of this
unnatural child. When they came in sight of the gloomy granite walls
and iron-grated windows of this dreary abode, they could hardly
proceed, so overwhelming were the feelings which pressed upon their
minds. When arrived at the door of the prison, the aged father,
supporting upon his arm the weeping and almost fainting mother, told
the jailer who they were, and requested permission to see their son.
Even the jailer, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, could
not witness this exhibition of parental grief without being moved to
tears. He led the parents through the stone galleries of the prison,
till they came to the iron door of the cell in which their son was
confined. As he turned the key with all his strength, the heavy bolt
flew back, and he opened the door of the cell. Oh, what a sight for a
father and a mother to gaze upon! There was just enough light in this
gloomy abode to show them their son, sitting in the corner on the
stone floor, pale and emaciated, and loaded with chains. The moment
the father beheld the pallid features of his long-absent son, he
raised his hands in the agony of his feelings, and fell fainting at
his feet. The mother burst into loud exclamations of grief, as she
clasped her son, guilty and wretched as he was, to her maternal
bosom. Oh, who can describe this scene! Who can conceive the anguish
which wrung the hearts of these afflicted parents! And it was their
own boy, whom they had loved and cherished, who had brought all this
wo upon them. I cannot describe to you the scene which ensued. Even
the very jailer could not bear it, and he wept aloud. At last he was
compelled to tear the parents away; and it was agonizing indeed to
leave their son in such a situation, soon to be led to an ignominious
death. They would gladly have staid and died with their guilty child.
But it was necessary that they should depart; and, the jailer having
closed the door and turned the massive bolt, they left the unhappy
criminal in his cell. Oh, what would he have given, again to be
innocent and free! The parents returned to their home, to weep by day
and by night, and to have the image of their guilty son disturbing
every moment of peace, and preventing the possibility of joy. The day
of execution soon arrived, and their son was led to the gallows, and
launched into eternity. And, crimsoned with guilt, he went to the
bar of God, there to answer for all the crimes of which he had been
guilty, and for all the woes he had caused.
You see, then, how great are your responsibilities as a child. You
have thought, perhaps, that you have no power over your parents, and
that you are not accountable for the sorrow which your conduct may
cause them. Think you that God will hold this child guiltless for all
the sorrow he caused his father and his mother? And think you God will
hold any child guiltless, who shall, by his misconduct, make his
parents unhappy? No. You must answer to God for every thing you do,
which gives your parents pain. And there is no sin greater in the
sight of God than that of an ungrateful child, I have shown you, in
the two illustrations which you have just read, how much the
happiness of your parents depends upon your conduct. Every day you
are promoting their joy or their sorrow. And every act of
disobedience, or of ingratitude, however trifling it may appear to
you, is, in the eyes of your Maker, a sin which cannot pass
unnoticed. Do you ask, Why does God consider the ingratitude of
children as a sin of peculiar aggravation? I reply, Because you are
under peculiar obligation to love and obey your parents. They have
loved you when you could not love them. They have taken care of you
when you could not reward them. They have passed sleepless nights in
listening to your cries, and weary days in watching over you, when
you could neither express thanks nor feel grateful. And after they
have done all this, is it a small sin for you to disobey them and
make them unhappy?
And indeed you can do nothing to make yourself so unhappy as to
indulge in disobedience, and to cherish a spirit of ingratitude. You
never see such a child happy. Look at him at home, and, instead of
being light-hearted and cheerful, he is sullen and morose. He sits
down by the fireside in a winter evening, but the evening fireside
affords no joy to him. He knows that his parents are grieved at his
conduct. He loves nobody, and feels that nobody loves him. There he
sits silent and sad, making himself miserable by his own misconduct.
The disobedient boy or girl is always unhappy. You know how different
the dispositions of children are. Some are always pleasant and
obliging, and you love their company. They seem happy when they are
with you, and they make you happy. Now you will almost always find,
that such children are obedient to their parents. They are happy at
home, as well as abroad. God has in almost every case connected
enjoyment with duty, and sorrow with sin. But in no case is this
connection more intimate, than in the duty which children owe their
parents. And to every child who reads this book, I would say, If you
wish to be happy, you must be good. Do remember this. Let no
temptation induce you for a moment to disobey. The more ardently you
love your parents, the more ardently will they love you. But if you
are ungrateful and disobedient, childhood will pass away in sorrow;
all the virtuous will dislike you, and you will have no friends worth
possessing. When you arrive at mature age, and enter upon the active
duty of life, you will have acquired those feelings which will
deprive you of the affection of your fellow beings, and you will
probably go through the world unbeloved and unrespected. Can you be
willing so to live?
The following account, written by one who, many years after her
mother's death, visited her grave, forcibly describes the feelings
which the remembrance of the most trifling act of ingratitude will,
under such circumstances, awaken.
"It was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a long
absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound,
beneath which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period, a
great change had come over me. My childish years had passed away, and
with them my youthful character. The world was altered too; and as I
stood at my mother's grave, I could hardly realize, that I was the
same thoughtless, happy creature, whose cheeks she so often kissed in
an excess of tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen years had
not effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I
had seen her but yesterday--as the blessed sound of her well-
remembered voice was in my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and
childhood were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that, had it
not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed would have
been gentle and refreshing. The circumstance may seem a trifling one,
but the thought of it now pains my heart, and I relate it, that those
children who have parents to love them may learn to value them as
they ought.
"My mother had been ill a long time, and I became so accustomed to her
pale face and weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, as
children usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed violently; but
when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same, I
began to believe she would always be spared to me. But they told me
she would die.
"One day, when I had lost my place in the class, and had done my work
wrong side outward, I came home discouraged and fretful. I went to my
mother's chamber. She was paler than usual, but she met me with the
same affectionate smile that always welcomed my return. Alas, when I
look back through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my heart must
have been stone not to have melted by it. She requested me to go down
stairs and bring her a glass of water. I pettishly asked why she did
not call a domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach, which I
shall never forget, if I live to be a hundred years old, she said,
'And will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick
mother?'
"I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead
of smiling and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I set the glass down
very quickly, and left the room. After playing about a short time, I
went to bed without bidding my mother good night. But when alone in
my room, in darkness and in silence, I remembered how pale she
looked, and how her voice trembled when she said, 'Will not my
daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?' I could
not, sleep. I stole into her chamber to ask forgiveness. She had sunk
into an easy slumber, and they told me I must not waken her. I did
not tell any one what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, resolved
to rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry I was for my
conduct.
"The sun was shining brightly when I awoke: and, hurrying on my
clothes, I hastened to my mother's chamber. She was dead! She never
spoke more--never smiled upon me again and when I touched the hand
that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold that it
made me start. I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness
of my heart. I thought then I might wish to die, and be buried with
her, and, old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to
give, could my mother but have lived to tell me that she forgave my
childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when I stand by
her grave, and whenever I think of her manifold kindness, the memory
of that reproachful look she gave me will bite like a serpent and
sting like an adder."
And when your mother dies, do you not think that you will feel remorse
for every unkind word you have uttered, and for every act of
ingratitude? Your beloved parents must soon die. You will probably be
led into their darkened chamber, to see them pale and helpless on
their dying bed. Oh, how will you feel in that solemn hour! All your
past life will come to your mind, and you will think that you would
give worlds, if you could blot out the remembrance of past
ingratitude. You will think that, if your father or mother should
only get well, you would never do any thing to grieve them again. But
the hour for them to die must come. You may weep as though your heart
would break, but it will not recall the past, and it will not delay
their death. They must die; and you will probably gaze upon their
cold and lifeless countenances in the coffin. You will follow them to
the grave, and see them buried for ever from your sight. Oh, how
unhappy you will feel, if you then have to reflect upon your
misconduct! The tears you will shed over their graves will be the
more bitter, because you will feel that, perhaps, your own misconduct
hastened their death.
But perhaps you will die before your parents do. If you go into the
grave-yard, you will see the graves of many children. You know that
the young are liable to die, as well as the old. And what must be
the feelings of the dying child, who knows that he is going to appear
before God in judgment, and yet feels conscious that he has been
unkind to his parents! Oh, such a child must fear to go into the
presence of his Maker. He must know that God will never receive into
heaven children who have been so wicked. I have seen many children
die. And I have seen some, who had been very amiable and pleasant all
their lives, when they came to die, feel grieved that they had not
been more careful to make their parents happy. I knew one
affectionate little girl, who was loved by all who knew her. She
hardly ever did any thing which was displeasing to her parents. But
one day she was taken sick. The doctor was called: but she grew worse
and worse. Her parents watched over her with anxiety and tears, but
still her fever raged, and death drew nearer. At last all hopes of
her recovery were over, and it was known that she must die. Then did
this little girl, when she felt that she must leave her parents for
ever, mourn that she had ever done any thing to give them pain. The
most trifling act of disobedience, and the least unkindness of which
she had ever been guilty, then came fresh into her mind, and she
could not die in peace, till she had called her father and her mother
to her bedside, and implored their forgiveness. If so obliging and
affectionate a little girl as this felt so deeply in view of the
past, when called upon to die, how agonizing must be the feelings
which will crowd upon the heart of the wicked and disobedient child
who has filled her parents' heart with sorrow!
But you must also remember, that there is a day of judgment to come.
You must appear before God to answer for every thing you have done or
thought while in this world. Oh, how will the ungrateful child then
feel! Heaven will be before him, in all its beauty and bliss, but he
cannot enter.
"Those holy gates for ever bar
Pollution, sin and shame."
He has, by his ingratitude, made a home on earth unhappy, and God will
not permit him to destroy the happiness of the homes in heaven.
He will see all the angels in their holiness and their joy, but he
cannot be permitted to join that blessed throng. With his ungrateful
heart he would but destroy their enjoyment. The frown of God must be
upon him, and he must depart to that wretched world where all the
wicked are assembled. There he must live in sorrows which have no end.
Oh, children, how great are your responsibilities! The happiness of
your parents depends upon your conduct. And your ingratitude may fill
your lives with sorrow, and your eternity with wo. Will you not, then,
read this book with care, and pray that God will aid you to obey its
directions, that your homes on earth may be joyful, and that you may
be prepared for happier homes beyond the stars?