TRAITS OF CHARACTER.
Every child must observe how much more happy and beloved some
children appear to be than others. There are some children you always
love to be with. They are happy themselves, and they make you happy.
There are others whose society you always avoid. The very expression
of their countenances produces unpleasant feelings. They seem to have
no friends.
No person can be happy without friends. The heart is formed for love,
and cannot be happy without the opportunity of giving and receiving
affection.
"It's not in titles, nor in rank,
It's not in wealth like London bank,
To make us truly blest.
If happiness have not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest."
But you cannot receive affection, unless you will also give. You
cannot find others to love you, unless you will also love them. Love
is only to be obtained by giving love in return. Hence the importance
of cultivating a cheerful and obliging disposition. You cannot be
happy without it. I have sometimes heard a girl say,
"I know that I am very unpopular at school."
Now, this is simply saying that she is very disobliging and
unamiable in her disposition. If your companions do not love you, it
is your own fault. They cannot help loving you if you will be kind
and friendly. If you are not loved, it is good evidence that you do
not deserve to be loved. It is true that a sense of duty may at times
render it necessary for you to do that which is displeasing to your
companions. But if it is seen that you have a noble spirit; that you
are above selfishness; that you are willing to make sacrifices of
your own personal convenience to promote the happiness of your
associates, you will never be in want of friends. You must not regard
it as your misfortune that others do not love you, but your fault. It
is not beauty, it is not wealth, that will give you friends. Your
heart must glow with kindness if you would attract to yourself the
esteem and affection of those by whom you are surrounded.
You are little aware how much the happiness of your whole life depends
upon your cultivating an affectionate and obliging disposition. If you
will adopt the resolution that you will confer favors whenever you
have an opportunity, you will certainly be surrounded by ardent
friends. Begin upon this principle in childhood, and act upon it
through life, and you will make yourself happy, and promote the
happiness of all within your influence.
You go to school in a cold winter morning. A bright fire is blazing
upon the hearth, surrounded with boys struggling to get near it to
warm themselves. After you get slightly warmed, another schoolmate
comes in suffering with the cold.
"Here, James," you pleasantly call out to him, "I am 'most warm; you
may have my place."
As you slip one side to allow him to take your place at the fire,
will he not feel that you are kind? The worst dispositioned boy in
the world cannot help admiring such generosity. And even though he be
so ungrateful as to be unwilling to return the favor, you may depend
upon it that he will be your friend, as far as he is capable of
friendship. If you will habitually act upon this principle, you will
never want for friends.
Suppose some day you are out with your companions playing ball. After
you have been playing for some time, another boy comes along. He
cannot be chosen upon either side; for there is no one to match him.
"Henry," you say, "you may take my place a little while, and I will
rest."
You throw yourself down upon the grass, while Henry, fresh and
vigorous, takes your bat, and engages in the game. He knows that you
gave up to accommodate him. And how can he help liking you for it? The
fact is, that neither man nor child can cultivate such a spirit of
generosity and kindness, without attracting affection and esteem.
Look and see who of your companions have the most friends, and you
will find that they are those who have this noble spirit; who are
willing to deny themselves, that they may make their associates
happy. This is not peculiar to childhood, but is the same in all
periods of life. There is but one way to make friends, and that is by
being friendly to others.
Perhaps some child who reads this, feels conscious of being
disliked, and yet desires to have the affection of companions. You
ask me what you shall do. I will tell you what. I will give you an
infallible recipe. Do all in your power to make others happy. Be
willing to make sacrifices of your own convenience that you may
promote the happiness of others. This is the way to make friends, and
the only way. When you are playing with your brothers and sisters at
home, be always ready to give them more than their share of
privileges. Manifest an obliging disposition, and they cannot but
regard you with affection. In all your intercourse with others, at
home or abroad, let these feelings influence you, and you will
receive the rich reward of devoted friends.
The very exercise of these feelings brings enjoyment. The benevolent
man is a cheerful man. His family is happy. His home is the abode of
the purest earthly joy. These feelings are worth cultivating, for they
bring with them their own reward. Benevolence is the spirit of heaven.
Selfishness is the spirit of the fiend.
The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.
But persons of ardent dispositions often find it exceedingly
difficult to deny themselves. Some little occurrence irritates them,
and they speak hastily and angrily. Offended with a companion, they
will do things to give pain, instead of pleasure. You must have your
temper under control if you would exercise a friendly disposition, A
bad temper is an infirmity, which, if not restrained, will be
continually growing worse and worse. There was a man, a few years
since, tried for murder. When a boy, he gave loose to his passions.
The least opposition would rouse his anger, and he made no efforts to
subdue himself. He had no one who could love him. If he was playing
with others, he would every moment be getting irritated. As he grew
older, his passions increased, and he became so ill-natured that
every one avoided him. One day, as he was talking with another man,
he became so enraged at some little provocation, that he seized a
club, and with one blow laid the man lifeless at his feet. He was
seized and imprisoned. But, while in prison, the fury of a malignant
and ungoverned spirit increased to such a degree that he became a
maniac. The very fires of the world of wo were burning in his heart.
Loaded with chains, and immured in a dark dungeon, he was doomed to
pass the miserable remnant of his guilty life, the victim of his
ungovernable passion.
This is a very unusual case. But nothing is more common than for a
child to destroy his own peace, and to make his brothers and sisters
continually unhappy by indulging in a peevish and irritable spirit.
Nothing is more common than for a child to cherish this disposition
until he becomes a man, and then, by his peevishness and fault-
finding, he destroys the happiness of all who are near him. His home
is the scene of discord. His family are made wretched.
An amiable disposition makes its possessor happy. And if you would
have such a disposition, you must learn to control yourself. If others
injure you, they the gospel rule, and do them good in return, If they
revile you, speak kindly to them. It is far better to suffer injury
than to inflict injury. If you will endeavor in childhood in this way
to control your passions, to be always mild, and forbearing, and
forgiving, you will disarm opposition, and, in many cases, convert
enemies to friends. You will be beloved by those around you, and when
you have a home of your own, your cheerful and obliging spirit will
make it a happy home.
One thing you may be sure of. There can be no real happiness when
there is not an amiable disposition. You cannot more surely make
yourself wretched, than by indulging in an irritable spirit. Love is
the feeling which fills every angel's bosom; and it is the feeling
which should fill every human heart. It is love which will raise us to
the angel's throne. It is malice which will sink us to the demon's
dungeon. I hope that every child who reads this, will be persuaded,
by these remarks, immediately to commence the government of his
temper, Resolve that you never will be angry. If your brother or your
sister does any thing which has a tendency to provoke you, restrain
your feelings, and speak mildly and softly. Let no provocation draw
from you an angry or an unkind word. If you will commence in this
way, and persevere, you will soon get that control over yourself that
will contribute greatly to your happiness. Your friends will
increase, and you will be prepared for far more extensive usefulness
in the world.
And is there not something noble in being able to be always calm and
pleasant? I once saw two men conversing in the streets. One became
very unreasonably enraged with the other. In the fury of his anger, he
appeared like a madman. He addressed the other in language the most
abusive and insulting. The gentleman whom he thus abused, with a
pleasant countenance and a calm voice, said to him, "Now, my friend,
you will be sorry for all this when your passion is over. This
language does me no harm, and can do you no good."
Now is it not really magnanimous to have such a spirit? Every person
who witnessed this interview despised the angry man, and respected the
one who was so calm and self-possessed.
Humility is another very important trait of character, which should
be cultivated in early life. What can be more disgusting than the
ridiculous airs of a vain child? Sometimes you will see a foolish
girl tossing her head about, and walking with a mincing step, which
shows you at once that she is excessively vain. She thinks that
others are admiring her ridiculous airs, when the fact is, they are
laughing at her, and despising her. Every one speaks of her as a very
simple, vain girl. Vanity is a sure sign of weakness of mind; and if
you indulge in so contemptible a passion, you will surely be the
subject of ridicule and contempt. A young lady was once passing an
afternoon at the house of a friend. As she, with one or two gentlemen
and ladies, was walking in the garden, she began to make a display of
her fancied learning. She would look at a flower, and with great self-
sufficiency talk of its botanical characteristics. She thought that
the company were all wondering at the extent of her knowledge, when
they were all laughing at her, as a self-conceited girl who had not
sense enough to keep herself from appearing ridiculous. The gentlemen
were winking at one another, and slyly laughing as she uttered one
learned word after another, with an affected air of familiarity with
scientific terms. During the walk, she took occasion to lug in all
the little she knew, and at one time ventured to quote a little Latin
for their edification. Poor simpleton! She thought she had produced
quite an impression upon their minds. And, in truth, she had. She had
fixed indelibly the impression that she was an insufferably weak and
self-conceited girl. She made herself the laughing-stock of the whole
company. The moment she was gone, there was one general burst of
laughter. And not one of those gentlemen or ladies could ever think
of that vain girl afterwards, without emotions of contempt.
This is the invariable effect of vanity. You cannot so disguise it,
but that it will be detected, and cover you with disgrace. There is no
foible more common than this, and there is none more supremely
ridiculous.
One boy happens to have rich parents, and he acts as though he
supposed that there was some virtue in his father's money which
pertained to him. He goes to school and struts about, as though he
were lord of the play-ground. Now, every body who sees this, says, it
is a proof that the boy has not much mind. He is a simple boy. If he
had good sense he would perceive that others of his playmates, in
many qualities, surpassed him, and that it became him to be humble
and unostentatious, The mind that is truly great is humble.
We are all disgusted with vanity wherever it appears. Go into a
school-room, and look around upon the appearance of the various pupils
assembled there. You will perhaps see one girl, with head tossed upon
one shoulder, and with a simpering countenance, trying to look pretty.
You speak to her. Instead of receiving a plain, kind, honest answer,
she replies with voice and language and attitude full of affectation.
She thinks she is exciting your admiration. But, on the contrary,
she is exciting disgust and loathing.
You see another girl, whose frank and open countenance proclaims a
sincere and honest heart. All her movements are natural. She manifests
no desire to attract attention. The idea of her own superiority seems
not to enter her mind. As, in the recess, she walks about the
schoolroom, you can detect no airs of self-conceit. She is pleasant
to all her associates. You ask her some question. She answers you
with modesty and unostentation. Now, this girl, without any effort to
attract admiration, is beloved and admired. Every one sees at once
that she is a girl of good sense. She knows too much to be vain. She
will never want for friends. This is the kind of character which
insures usefulness and happiness.
A little girl who had rich parents, and was handsome in personal
appearance, was very vain of her beauty and of her father's wealth.
She disgusted all her school-mates by her conceit. And though she
seemed to think that every one ought to admire her, she was beloved
by none. She at last left school, a vain, disgusting girl. A young
man, who was so simple as to fall in love with this piece of pride
and affectation, at length married her. For a few years the property
which she received of her father supported them. But soon her father
died, and her husband grew dissipated, and before long their property
was all squandered. She had no friends to whom she could look for
assistance, and they were every month sinking deeper and deeper in
poverty. Her husband at last became a perfect sot, and staggered
through the streets in the lowest state of degradation. She was left
with one or two small children, and without any means of support. In
a most miserable hovel, this poor woman was compelled to take up her
residence. By this time, her pride had experienced a fall. She no
longer exhibited the airs of a vain girl, but was an afflicted and
helpless woman. The sorrow and disgrace into which she was plunged by
the intemperance of her husband, preyed so deeply upon her feelings
as to destroy her health, and in this condition she was carried to
the poor-house. There she lingered out the few last years of her sad
earthly existence. What a termination of life for a vain and haughty
girl! And what a lesson is this to all, to be humble and unassuming!
You may be in health to-day, and in sickness to-morrow. This year you
may be rich, and have need of nothing, and the next year you may be
in the most abject poverty, Your early home may be one of luxury and
elegance, and in your dying hour you may be in the poor-house,
without a friend to watch at your bedside. Is it not, then, the
height of folly to indulge in vanity?
If any child will look around upon his own companions, he will see
that those are most beloved and respected, who have no disposition
to claim superiority over their associates. How pleasant is it to be
in company with those who are conciliating and unassuming! But how
much is every one disgusted with the presence of those who assume
airs of importance, and are continually saying, by their conduct,
that they think themselves deserving particular attention! No one
regrets to see such self-conceit humbled. When such persons meet with
misfortune, no one appears to regret it, no one sympathizes with them.
You must guard against this contemptible vice, you would be useful, or
respected, or happy. If you would avoid exciting disgust, avoid
vanity. If you do not wish to be the laughing-stock of all your
acquaintance, do not let them detect in you consequential airs. If
you would not be an object of hatred and disgust, beware how you
indulge feelings of fancied superiority. Be plain, and sincere, and
honest-hearted. Disgrace not yourself by affectation and pride. Let
all your words and all your actions show that you think no more
highly of yourself than you ought to think. Then will others love
you. They will rejoice at your prosperity. And they will be glad to
see you rising in the world, in usefulness and esteem.
Moral courage is a trait of character of the utmost importance to be
possessed. A man was once challenged to fight a duel. As he thought of
his own condition, if he should kill his adversary, and of his
widowed wife and orphan children, if he should be shot himself as he
thought of his appearance before the bar of God to answer for the
atrocious sin, he shrunk from accepting the challenge. But when he
thought of the ridicule to which he would be exposed if he declined;
that others would call him a coward, and point at him the finger of
scorn, he was afraid to refuse. He was such a coward that he did not
dare to meet the ridicule of contemptible men. He had so little moral
courage, that he had rather become a murderer, or expose himself to be
shot, than boldly to disregard the opinions and the sneers of the
unprincipled and base. It is this want of moral courage which very
frequently leads persons to the commission of crimes.
There is nothing so hard to be borne as ridicule. It requires a bold
heart to be ready to do one's duty, unmoved by the sneers of others.
How often does a child do that which he knows to be wrong, because he
is afraid that others will call him a coward if he does right! One
cold winter's day, three boys were passing by a school-house. The
oldest was a mischievous fellow, always in trouble himself, and
trying to get others into trouble. The youngest, whose name was
George, was a very amiable boy, who wished to do right, but was very
deficient in moral courage. We will call the oldest Henry, and the
other of the three James. The following dialogue passed between them.
Henry.--What fun it would be to throw a snowball against the
schoolroom door, and make the instructer and scholars all jump!
James.--You would jump if you should. If the instructer did not catch
you and whip you, he would tell your father, and you would get a
whipping then, that would make you jump higher than the scholars, I
think.
Henry.--Why, we could get so far off, before the instructer could come
to the door, that he could not tell who we are. Here is a snow-ball
just as hard as ice, and George had as lief throw it against that door
as not.
James.--Give it to him and see. He would not dare to throw it against
the door.
Henry.--Do you think George is a coward? You don't know him as well
as I do. Here, George, take this snow-ball, and show James that you
are not such a coward as he thinks you to be.
George.--I am not afraid to throw it. But I do not want to. I do not
see that it will do any good or that there will be any fun in it.
James.--There, I told you he would not dare to throw it.
Henry.--Why, George, are you turning coward? I thought you did not
fear any thing. We shall have to call you chicken-hearted. Come,
save your credit, and throw it. I know you are not afraid to.
George.--Well, I am not afraid to, said George. Give me the
snowball. I had as lief throw it as not.
Whack went the snow-ball against the door; and the boys took to their
heels. Henry was laughing as heartily as he could to think what a fool
he had made of George. George afterwards got a whipping for his folly,
as he richly deserved. He was such a coward that he was afraid of
being called a coward. He did not dare to refuse to do as Henry told
him do, for fear that he would be laughed at. If he had been really a
brave boy, he would have said,
"Henry, do you suppose that I am such a fool as to throw that
snowball just because you want to have me? You may throw your own
snowballs, if you please."
Henry would perhaps have tried to laugh at him. He would have called
him a coward, hoping in this way to induce him to obey his wishes. But
George would have replied,
"Do you think that I care for your laughing? I do not think it is
right to throw a snow-ball against the school-room door. And I will
not do that which I think to be wrong, if the whole town join with
you in laughing."
This would have been real moral courage. Henry would have seen at
once, that it would do no good to laugh at a boy who had so bold a
heart. And you must have this fearlessness of spirit, or you will be
continually involved in trouble, and will deserve and receive
contempt.
I once knew a man who had so little independence, that he hardly dared
express an opinion different from that of those he was with. When he
was talking upon politics, he would agree with the persons with whom
he happened to be conversing, no matter what their views, or what
their party. He was equally fickle and undecided upon the subject of
religion, differing from none, and agreeing with all. The consequence
was, that he had the confidence of none, and the contempt of all. He
sunk into merited disgrace in the estimation of the whole community.
You must have an opinion of your own. And you must be ready, frankly
and modestly, to express it, when occasion requires, without being
intimidated by fear of censure. You can neither command respect nor be
useful without it.
In things which concern your own personal convenience merely, you
should be as yielding us the air. But where duty is concerned, you
should be as firm and as unyielding as the rock. Be ever ready to
sacrifice your own comfort to promote the comfort of others. Be
conciliating and obliging in all your feelings and actions. Show that
you are ready to do every thing in your power to make those around you
happy. Let no one have occasion to say that you are stubborn and
unaccommodating. But, on the other hand, where duty is involved, let
nothing tempt you to do wrong. Be bold enough to dare to do right,
whatever may be the consequences. If others laugh at your scruples,
let them laugh as long as they please. And let them see that you are
not to be frightened by their sneers. Your courage will often be
tried. There will be occasions in which it will require a severe
struggle to preserve your integrity. But ever remember that if you
would do any good in the world, you must possess this moral courage.
It is the want of this that leaves thousands to live in a way which
their consciences reprove, and to die in despair. Unless you possess
this trait of character, to some considerable degree, it can hardly
be expected that you will ever become a Christian. You must learn to
act for yourself, unintimidated by the censure, and unmoved by the
flattery of others.
I now bring this book to a close. If you will diligently endeavor to
be influenced by its directions your usefulness and happiness will
surely be promoted. Soon you will leave home, no more to return but
as a visitor. The character you have acquired and the habits you
have formed while at home, in all probability, will accompany you
through life. You are now surrounded by ah the joys of home.
Affectionate parents watch over you, supplying all your wants. You
have but few solicitudes and but few sorrows. Soon, however, you must
leave parents, brothers, and sisters, and enter upon the duties and
cares of life almost alone. How affecting will be the hour, when your
foot steps from your father's dwelling, from your mother's care, to
seek a new home among strangers! You now cannot conceive the feelings
which will press upon you as your father takes your hand to bid you
the parting farewell, and your mother endeavors to hide her tears, as
you depart from her watchful eye, to meet the temptations and sorrows
of life. Your heart will then be full. Tears will fill your eyes.
Emotion will choke your voice.
You will then reflect upon all the scenes of your childhood with
feelings you never had before. Every unkind word you have uttered to
your parents--every unkind look you have given them, will cause you
the sincerest sorrow. If you have one particle of generous feeling
remaining in your bosom, you will long to fall upon your knees and
ask your parents' forgiveness for every pang you may have caused
their hearts. The hour when you leave your home, and all its joys,
will be such an hour as you never have passed before. The feelings
which will then oppress your heart, will remain with you for weeks
and months. You will often, in the pensive hour of evening, sit down
and weep, as you think of parents and home far away. Oh, how cold
will seem the love of others, compared with a mother's love! How
often will your thoughts fondly return to joys which have for ever
fled! Again and again will you think over the years that are past.
Every recollection of affection and obedience will awaken joy in your
heart. Every remembrance of ingratitude will awaken repentance and
remorse.
O, then, think of the time when you must bid father and mother,
brothers and sisters, farewell. Think of the time when you must leave
the fireside around which you have spent so many pleasant evenings,
and go out into the wide world, with no other dependence than the
character you have formed at home. If this character be good, if you
possess amiable and obliging and generous feelings, you may soon
possess a home of your own, when the joys of your childhood will in
some degree be renewed. And if you will pass your days in the service
of God, imitating the character of the Savior, and cherishing the
feelings of penitence and love, which the Bible requires, you will
soon be in that happy home which is never to be forsaken. There, are
joys from which you never will be separated, There, are friends,
angels in dignity and spotless in purity, in whose loved society you
will find joys such as you never experienced while on earth.
When a son was leaving the roof of a pious father, to go out into the
wide world to meet its temptations, and to battle with its storms, his
heart was oppressed with the many emotions which were struggling
there. The day had come in which he was to leave the fireside of so
many enjoyments; the friends endeared to him by so many associations--
so many acts of kindness. He was to bid adieu to his mother, that
loved, loved benefactor, who had protected him in sickness, and
rejoiced with him in health. He was to leave a father's protection,
to go forth and act without an adviser, and rely upon his own unaided
judgment. He was to bid farewell to brothers and sisters, no more to
see them but as an occasional visitor at his paternal home. Oh, how
cold and desolate did the wide world appear! How did he hesitate from
launching forth to meet its tempests and its storms! But the hour had
come for him to go; and he must suppress his emotions, and triumph
over his reluctance. He went from room to room, looking, as for the
last time, upon those scenes, to which imagination would so often
recur, and where it would love to linger. The well-packed trunk was
in the entry, waiting the arrival of the stage. Brothers and sisters
were moving about, hardly knowing whether to smile or to cry. The
father sat at the window, humming a mournful air, as he was watching
the approach of the stage which was to bear his son away to take his
place far from home, in the busy crowd of a bustling world. The
mother, with all the indescribable emotions of a mother's heart, was
placing in a small bundle a few little comforts such as none but a
mother could think of, and, with most generous resolution,
endeavoring to preserve a cheerful countenance, that, as far as
possible, she might preserve her son from unnecessary pain in the
hour of departure.
"Here, my son," said she, "is a nice pair of stockings, which will
be soft and warm for your feet. I have run the heels for you, for I am
afraid you will not find any one who will quite fill a mother's
place."
The poor boy was overflowing with emotion, and did not dare to trust
his voice with an attempt to reply.
"I have put a little piece of cake here, for you may be hungry on the
road, and I will put it in the top of the bundle, so that you can get
it without any difficulty. And in this needle-book I have put up a few
needles and some thread, for you may at times want some little stitch
taken, and you will have no mother or sister to go to."
The departing son could make no reply. He could retain his emotion
only by silence. At last the rumbling of the wheels of the stage was
heard, and the four horses were reined up at the door. The boy
endeavored, by activity, in seeing his trunk and other baggage
properly placed, to gain sufficient fortitude to enable him to
articulate his farewell. He, however, strove in vain. He took his
mother's hand. The tear glistened for a moment in her eye, and then
silently rolled down her cheek. He struggled with all his energy to
say good by, but he could not. In unbroken silence he shook her hand,
and then in silence received the adieus of brothers and sisters, as
one after another took the hand of their departing companion. He then
took the warm hand of his warm-hearted father. His father tried to
smile, but it was the struggling smile of feelings which would rather
have vented themselves in tears. For a moment he said not a word, but
retained the hand of his son, as he accompanied him out of the door
to the stage. After a moment's silence, pressing his hand, he said,
"My son, you are now leaving us; you may forget your father and your
mother, your brothers and your sisters, but, oh, do not forget your
God!"
The stage door closed upon the boy, The crack of the driver's whip was
heard, and the rumbling wheels bore him rapidly away from all the
privileges and all the happiness of his early home. His feelings, so
long restrained, now burst out, and, sinking back upon his seat, he
enveloped himself in his cloak, and burst into tears.
Hour after hour the stage rolled on. Passengers entered and left; but
the boy (perhaps I ought rather to call him the young man) was almost
insensible to every thing that passed. He sat, in sadness and in
silence, in the corner of the stage, thinking of the loved home he had
left. Memory ran back through all the years of his childhood,
lingering here and there, with pain, upon an act of disobedience, and
recalling an occasional word of unkindness. All his life seemed to be
passing in review before him, from the first years of his conscious
existence, to the hour of his departure from his home. Then would the
parting words of his father ring in his ears. He had always heard the
morning and evening prayer. He had always witnessed the power of
religion exemplified in all the duties of life. And the undoubted
sincerity of a father's language, confirmed as it had been by years
of corresponding practice, produced an impression upon his mind too
powerful ever to be effaced--"My son, you may forget father and
mother, you may forget brothers and sisters, but, oh, do not forget
your God." The words rung in his ears. They entered his heart. Again
and again his thoughts ran back through the years he had already
passed, and the reviving recollections brought fresh floods of tears.
But still his thoughts ran on to his father's parting words, "forget
not your God."
It was midnight before the stage stopped, to give him a little rest.
He was then more than a hundred miles from home. But still his
father's words were ringing in his ears. He was conducted up several
flights of stairs to a chamber in a crowded hotel. After a short
prayer, he threw himself upon the bed, and endeavored to obtain a
little sleep. But his excited imagination ran back to the home he had
left. Again he was seated by the fireside. Again he heard the
soothing tones of his kind mother's voice, and sat by his father's
side. In the vagaries of his dream, he again went through the scene
of parting, and wept in his sleep as he bade adieu to brothers and
sisters, and heard a father's parting advice, "Oh, my son, forget not
your God."
But little refreshment could be derived from such sleep. And indeed he
had been less than an hour upon his bed, before some one knocked at
the door, and placed a lamp in his room, saying, "It is time to get
up, sir: the stage is almost ready to go." He hastily rose from his
bed, and after imploring a blessing upon himself, and fervently
commending to God his far-distant friends, now quietly sleeping in
that happy home which he had left for ever, he hastened down stairs,
and soon again was rapidly borne away by the fleet horses of the
mailcoach.
It was a clear autumnal morning. The stars shone brightly in the sky,
and the thoughts of the lonely wanderer were irresistibly carried to
that home beyond the stars, and to that God whom his father had so
affectingly entreated him not to forget. He succeeded, however, in
getting a few moments of troubled sleep, as the stage rolled on; but
his thoughts were still reverting, whether asleep or awake, to the
home left far behind. Just as the sun was going down the western
hills, at the close of the day, he alighted from the stage, in the
village of strangers, in which he was to find his new home. Not an
individual there had he ever seen before. Many a pensive evening did
he pass, thinking of absent friends. Many a lonely walk did he take,
while his thoughts were far away among the scenes of his childhood.
And when the winter evenings came, with the cheerful blaze of the
fireside, often did he think, with a sigh, of the loved and happy
group encircling his father's fireside, and sharing those joys he had
left for ever. But a father's parting words did not leave his mind.
There they remained. And they, in connection with other events,
rendered effectual by the Spirit of God, induced him to endeavor to
consecrate his life to his Maker's service. In the hopes of again
meeting beloved parents and friends in that home, which gilds the
paradise above, he found that solace which could no where else be
obtained, and was enabled to go on in the discharge of the duties of
life, with serenity and peace. Reader, you must soon leave your home,
and leave it for ever. The privileges and the joys you are now
partaking, will soon pass away. And when you have gone forth into the
wide world, and feel the want of a father's care, and of a mother's
love, then will all the scenes you have passed through, return
freshly to your mind, and the remembrance of every unkind word, or
look, or thought, will give you pain. Try, then, to be an
affectionate and obedient child. Cultivate those virtues which will
prepare you for usefulness and happiness in your maturer years, and
above all, make it your object to prepare for that happy home above,
where sickness can never enter, and sorrow can never come.
THE END.
PUBLICATIONS OF AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
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