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[Illustration: Engraved by C. Burt, from a Miniature by H.C. Shionway.
Yours truly
A. G. Whittelsey]
MRS. WHITTELSEY'S
MAGAZINE FOR MOTHERS
AND DAUGHTERS.
EDITED BY
MRS. A. G. WHITTELSEY.
That our sons may be as plants grown up in their youth; that
our daughters may be as corner stones polished after the
similitude of a palace.--BIBLE.
VOL. III.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HENRY M. WHITTELSEY,
128 NASSAU STREET.
1852.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
HENRY M. WHITTELSEY,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
Transcriber's note: Minor typos corrected and footnotes moved to
end of text.
INDEX.
PAGE
A Child's Prayer. 369
A Child's Reading. 129
A Lesson for Husbands and Wives. 257
An Appeal to Baptized Children.--By Rev. William. Bannard. 141
A Temptation and its Consequences. 21
A Word of Exhortation. 5
Brotherly Love.--By Rev. M. S. Hutton, D.D. 89, 105, 137
Children and their Training. 375
Children of the Parsonage.--By Mrs. G. M. Sykes. 246
Children's Apprehension of the Power of Prayer. 305
Chinese Daughter.--Letter of Mrs. Bridgeman. 18
Cousin Mary Rose, or a Child's First Visit. 69
Despondency and Hope; an Allegory.--By Mrs. J. Norton. 187
Every Prayer should be offered in the Name of Jesus. 356
Excerpta. 100
Excessive Legislation. 167
Extravagance. 354
Family Government. 320
Fault Finding; its Effects.--By Ellen Ellison. 13
" " The Antidote.--By Ellen Ellison. 156, 180
Filial Reverence of the Turks. 292
First Prayer in Congress. 308
Female Education.--By Rev. S. W. Fisher. 271
" " Physical Training. 297
" " Intellectual Training. 330
" " 363
Frost. 384
General Instructions for the Physical Education of Children. 336
Gleanings by the Wayside. 217, 249, 277
God's Bible a Book for all. 220
Habit. 140
Infants taught to Pray. 192
Inordinate Grief the effect of an Unsubdued Will. 301
Instruction of the Young in the Doctrines and Precepts of
the Gospel. 31
Intellectual Power of Woman.--By Rev. S.W. Fisher. 255
Know Thyself. 93
Letter from a Father to his Son. 241
Light Reading. 316
Lux in Tenebras; or a Chapter of Heart History.--By
Mrs. G. M. Sykes. 286
Magnetism. 170
Memoir of Mrs. Van Lennep. 24
Ministering Spirits. 20
Mothers need the Baptism of the Holy Ghost. 353
My Baby. 309
My Little Niece Mary Jane. 55, 76
Music in Christian Families. 342
Never Faint in Prayer. 259
Never tempt another. 184
Notices of Books. 36, 131, 164
Old Juda. 96
One-Sided Christians. 283
Opening the Gate. 267
Parental Solicitude. 165
Prayer for Children sometimes unavailing. 213
Promises. 223
Recollections Illustrative of Maternal Influence. 37
Reminiscences of the late Rev. T.H. Gallaudet.--By
Mrs. G. M. Sykes. 42
Report of Maternal Associations.--Putnam, O. 64
" " " 2d Presb. Church,
Detroit, Mich. 84
" " " Salem, Mich. 86
Sabbath Meditations. 81
The Benefits of Baptism.--By Rev. W. Bannard. 120
The Bonnie Bairns. 53
The Boy the Father of the Man. 339
The Boy who never forgot his Mother. 202
The Death-bed Scene. 34
The Editor's Table. 67
The Family Promise.--By Rev. J. McCarroll, D.D. 109
The Importance of Family Religion.--By Rev. H. T. Cheever. 48
The Mission Money, or the Pride of Charity. 205, 234
The Mothers of the Bible.--Zipporah. 101
" " " The Mothers of Israel
at Horeb. 133, 188
" " " The Mother of Samson. 197
" " " Naomi and Ruth. 229
" " " Hannah. 261
" " " Ichabod's Mother. 203
" " " Rizpah. 325
" " " Bathsheba. 357
The Mother's Portrait. 310
The Orphan Son and Praying Mother. 378
The Promise Fulfilled. 112, 145
The Riddle Solved. 211
The Stupid, Dull Child. 175
The Treasury of Thoughts. 162
The Wasted Gift, or Just a Minute. 125, 150
The Youngling of the Flock. 196
The Young Men's Christian Association.--By Mrs.
L. H. Sigourney. 228
To Fathers.--By Amicus. 7
To my Father. 318
Trials. 227
Why are we not Christians? 346
Woman.--By Rev. M. S. Hutton, D.D. 370
MRS. WHITTELSEY'S
MAGAZINE FOR MOTHERS
AND DAUGHTERS.
* * * * *
Editorial.
A WORD OF EXHORTATION.
Sensible of our accountability to God, of our entire dependence upon his
blessing for success in all our undertakings, knowing that of ourselves
we can do nothing, but believing that through Christ strengthening us we
may accomplish something in his service, we enter upon the duties of
another year--the twentieth year of our editorial labors.
With language similar to that which the mother of Moses is supposed to
have employed when she laid her tender offspring by the margin of the
Nile:--
"Know this ark is charmed
With incantations Pharaoh ne'er employed,
With spells that impious Egypt never knew;
With invocations to the living God,
I twisted every slender reed together,
And with a prayer did every ozier weave"--
we launched our frail bark upon the tide of public opinion. Since then,
with varied success, have we pursued our course--often amid darkness,
through difficulties and dangers, and to the present time have we been
wafted in safety on our voyage, because, as he did Moses in the ark,
"the Lord hath shut us in."
Referring whatever of success has attended our efforts to His blessing,
and believing that He has given us length of days, and strengthened our
weakness, and poured consolation into our hearts when ready to sink in
despair, in answer to persevering and importunate prayer, we come to
direct our readers to this source of wisdom and aid,--to urge upon them
to engage often in this first duty and highest privilege. Let us go
forth, dear friends, to the work we have to do in the education of our
families, having invoked the Divine blessing upon our efforts, holding
on to the promises of the covenant, and pleading for their fulfillment
in reference to ourselves and our households.
As Mrs. H. More has beautifully said: "Prayer draws all the Christian
graces into her focus. It draws Charity, followed by her lovely
train--her forbearance with faults--her forgiveness of injuries--her
pity for errors--her compassion for want. It draws Repentance, with her
holy sorrows--her pious resolutions--her self-distrust. It attracts
Truth, with her elevated eyes; Hope, with her gospel anchor;
Beneficence, with her open hand; Zeal, looking far and wide; Humility,
with introverted eye, looking at home."
And who need these graces more than parents, in the government and
training of those committed to their charge? Could our Savior rise a
great while before day,--forego the pleasures of social intercourse with
his beloved disciples, and retiring to the mountains, offer up prayers
with strong crying and tears, unto Him who was able to save from death
in that he feared, and shall we, intrusted with the immortal destinies
of our beloved offspring, refuse to follow his example, and pleading
want of time and opportunity for this service, be guilty of unbelief, of
indolence, and worldly-mindedness?
You labor in vain, dear readers, unless the arm of the Almighty shall be
extended in your behalf, and you cannot receive the blessing except you
ask it. Let then your supplications be addressed to your Father in
heaven;--pray humbly, believingly, perseveringly, for wisdom and aid,
then may you expect to be blessed. So important is this duty, and so
much is it neglected, that we could not forbear to urge your attention
thereto, ere we entered upon another year.
And will not our Christian friends remember us in their prayers, asking
that we may be directed in what we shall say and do this present year,
in the work in which we are engaged? And if God shall answer our united
petitions, we shall not labor in vain.
* * * * *
Original.
TO FATHERS.
BY AMICUS.
How gladly would the writer gain (were it possible) the ear of every
father in the land, if it were but for the short space of one quarter of
an hour,--nay, some ten minutes, at a _propitious time_,--such a time
as, perhaps, occasionally occurs, when business cases are not pressing,
when the mind is at ease, and the heart has ceased its worldly
throbbings. He wants such a quarter of an hour, if it ever exists.
"And for what?" That he may have an opportunity to propose some worldly
scheme,--some plan which has reference to the probable accumulation of
hundreds of thousands? Nothing of the kind. Fathers at the present day
generally need no suggestions of this sort--no impulses from me in that
direction. They are already so absorbed, that it is difficult to gain
their attention to any matters which do not concern the line of business
in which they are engaged.
Look for a moment at that busy, bustling man; you see him walking down
Broadway this morning; it is early, quite early. May be he is calling a
physician, or is on some visit to a sick friend. He walks so fast; and
though early, there is something on his brow which indicates care and
anxiety. And yet I think no one of his family is sick, nor do I know of
any of his friends who are sick. I have seen that man out thus early so
often, and hurrying at just that pace, that I suspect, after all, he is
on his way to his place of business. That, doubtless, is the whole
secret. He is engaged in a large mercantile concern. It seems to
require--at least it takes--all his attention. He is absorbed in it.
And, if you repair to his store or office at any hour of the day, you
can scarcely see him,--not at all,--unless it be on some errand
connected with his business, or with the business of some office he
holds, and which _must_ be attended to; and even in these matters you
will find him restless. He attends to you so far as to hear your errand;
and what then? Why, if it will require any length of time, he says: "I
am very busy at this moment, I can't _possibly_ attend to it to-day;
will you call to-morrow? I may then have more leisure." Well, you agree
for to-morrow. "Please name the hour," you say. He replies--"I can't
_name any hour_; but call, say after twelve o'clock, and I will catch a
moment, _if I can_, to talk over the business."
Now, that merchant is not to blame for putting you off. His business
calls are so many and so complex, that he scarcely knows which way to
turn, nor what calculations to make. The real difficulty is, he has
undertaken too much; his plans are too vast; his "irons," as they say,
are too many.
This is the _morning_ aspect of affairs. Watch that merchant during the
day,--will you find things essentially different? The morning, which is
dark and cloudy and foggy, is sometimes followed by a clear, bright,
beautiful day. The mists at length clear off, the clouds roll away, and
a glorious sun shines out broadly to gladden the face of all nature. Not
so with the modern man of business. It is labor, whirl, toil, all the
day, from the hour of breakfast till night puts an end to the active,
hurrying concerns of all men. There is no bright, cheerful, peaceful
day to him. Scarcely has he time to eat--never to _enjoy_ his
dinner,--that must be finished in the shortest possible time: often at
some restaurant, rather than with his family. Not one member of that
does he see from the time he leaves the breakfast table till night, dark
night has stretched out her curtain over all things.
Let us go home with him, and see how the evening passes.
His residence, from his place of business, perchance, is a mile or two
distant--may be some fifteen or twenty, in which latter case he takes
the evening train of cars. In either case he arrives home only at the
setting in of the evening shades. How pleasant the release from the
noise and confusion of the city! or, if he resides within the city, how
pleasant in shutting his door, as he enters his dwelling, to shut out
the thoughts and cares of business! His tea is soon ready, and for a
little time he gives himself up to the comforts of home. His wife
welcomes him, his children may be hanging upon him, and he realizes
something of the joys of domestic life!
Scarcely, however, is supper ended, before it occurs to him that there
is a meeting of such a committee, or such an insurance company, to which
he belongs, and the hour is at hand, and he _must_ go. And he hies away,
and in some business on hand he becomes absorbed till the hours of nine,
ten, or eleven, possibly twelve o'clock. He returns again to his home,
wearied with the toils of the day,--his wife possibly, but certainly his
children, have retired,--and he lays his aching head upon his pillow to
catch some few hours of rest, and with the morning light to go through
essentially the same busy routine, the same absorbing care, the same
wearing, weary process.
This is an outline of the life which thousands of fathers are leading in
this country at this present time. We do not pretend that it is true of
all,--but is it not substantially true, as we have said, of thousands?
And not only of thousands in our crowded marts of commerce, but in our
principal towns--nay, even in our rural districts. It is an age of
impulse. Every thing is proceeding with railroad speed. Every branch of
business is urged forward with all practical earnestness. Every sail is
set--main-sail, top-sails, star-gazers, heaven-disturbers--all expanded
to catch the breeze, and urge the vessel to her destined port.
This thirst for gain! this panting after fortune! this competition in
the race for worldly wealth, or honor, where is it leading the present
generation--where?
To men who have families--to fathers, who see around them children just
emerging from childhood into youth, or verging toward manhood,--this is
and should be a subject of the deepest interest.
Fathers! am I wrong when I say you are neglecting your offspring?
Neglecting them? do I hear you respond with surprise;--"Am I not daily,
hourly stretching every nerve and tasking every power to provide for
them, to insure them the means of an honorable appearance in that rank
of society in which they were born, and in which they must move? In
these days of competition, who sees not that any relaxation involves and
necessarily secures bankruptcy and ruin?"
I hear you, and you urge strongly, powerfully your cause. You must,
indeed, provide for your household. You must be diligent in business.
You may--you ought in some good measure, to keep up with the spirit, the
progress of the age. But has it occurred to you that there is danger in
doing as you do; that you will neglect some other interests of your
children as important, to say the least, as those you have named? Are
not your children immortal? Have they not souls of priceless value? Have
they not tendencies to evil from the early dawn of their being? And must
not these souls be instructed--watched over? Do they not need
counsel--warning--restraint? "O yes!" I hear you say, "they must be
instructed--restrained--guided--all that, but this is the appropriate
business and duty of their _mother_. I leave all these to her. I have no
leisure for such cares myself; my business compels me to leave in charge
all these matters to her."
And where, my friend--if I may speak plainly--do you find any warrant in
the Word of God for such assumptions as these? Leave all the care of
your children's moral and religious instruction, guidance, restraint,
to their mother! It is indeed her duty, and in most cases she finds it
her pleasure, to watch over her beloved ones. And in the morning of
their being, and in the first years of their childhood, it is _hers_ to
watch over them, to cherish them, and to bring out and direct the first
dawnings of their moral and intellectual being.
But beyond this the duties of father and mother are coincident. At a
certain point your responsibilities touching the training of your
children blend. I find nothing in the Word of God which separates
fathers and mothers in relation to bringing up their children in the
ways of virtue and obedience to God.
I know what fathers plead. I see the difficulties which often lie in
their path. I am aware of the competition which marks every industrial
pursuit in the land. And many men who wish it were different, who would
love to be more with their families, who would delight to aid in
instructing their little ones, find it, they think, quite impossible so
to alter their business--so to cast off pressure and care, as to give
due attention to the moral and religious training of their children.
But, fathers, might you not do better than you do? Suppose you should
make the effort to have _an hour_ each day to aid your wife in giving a
right moral direction to your little ones? How you would encourage her!
What an impulse would you give to her efforts! Now, how often has she a
burden imposed upon her, which she is unable to bear! What uneasiness
and worry--what care and trouble are caused her, by having, in this
matter of training the children, to go on single-handed! whereas, were
your parental authority added to her maternal tenderness, your children
would prove the joy of your hearts and the comfort of your declining
years. But as you manage--or rather as you neglect to manage them, a
hundred chances to one if they do not prove your sorrow, when in years
you are not able well to sustain it. Gather a lesson, my friend, from
the conduct of David in respect to Absolom. He neglected him--he
indulged him, and what was the consequence? The bright, beautiful,
gifted Absolom planted thorns in his father's crown,--he attempted to
dethrone him,--he was a fratricide,--he would have been a parricide: and
what an end! Oh, what an end! Listen to the sorrowful outpourings of a
fond, too fond, unfaithful parent: "My son, oh, my son Absolom,--would
to God I had died for thee, oh, Absolom, my son, my son!"
Take another example, and may it prove a warning to such indulgence and
such neglect! Eli had sons, and they grew up, and they walked in
forbidden ways, and he restrained them not; yet he was a good man: but
good men are sometimes most unfaithful fathers, and what can they
expect? Shall we sin because grace abounds? Shall we neglect our
children in expectation that the grace of God will intervene to rescue
them in times of peril? That expectation were vain while we neglect our
duty. That expectation is nearly or quite sure to be realized if duty be
performed.
But I must insist no longer; I will only add, then, in a word,--that it
were far, far better that your children should occupy a more humble
station in life--that they should be dressed in fewer of the "silks of
Ormus," and have less gold from the "mines of Ind," than to be neglected
by a father in regard to their moral and religious training. Better
leave them an interest in the Covenant than thousands of the treasures
of the world. Your example, fathers,--your counsel--your prayers, are a
better bequest than any you can leave them. Think of leaving them in a
cold, rude, selfish world, without the grace of God to secure them,
without his divine consolation to comfort. Think of the "voyage of awful
length," you and they must "sail so soon." Think of the meeting in
another world which lies before you and them, and say, Does the wide
world afford that which could make amends for a separation--an eternal
separation from these objects of your love?
* * * * *
Original.
FAULT-FINDING: ITS EFFECTS.
"What in creation have you done! Careless boy, how could you be so
heedless? You are forever cutting some such caper, on purpose to ruin me
I believe. Now go to work, and earn the money to pay for it, will you?
lazy fellow!"
Coarse and passionate exclamations these, and I am sorry to say they
were uttered by Mr. Colman, who would be exceedingly indignant if any
body should hint a suspicion that he was, or could be, other than a
gentleman, and a _Christian_. His son, a bright and well-meaning lad of
fourteen, had accidentally hit the end of a pretty new walking cane,
which his favorite cousin had given him a few hours before, against a
delicate china vase which stood upon the mantle-piece, and in a moment
it lay in fragments at his feet. He was sadly frightened, and would have
been very sorry too, but for the harsh and ill-timed reproof of his
father, which checked the humble plea for forgiveness just rising to his
lips, and as Mr. Colman left the room, put on his hat and coat in the
hall, and closed the street door with more than usual force, to go to
his store, the young lad's feelings were anything but dutiful. Just then
his mother entered.
"Why James Colman! Did you do that? I declare you are the most careless
boy I ever beheld! That beautiful pair of vases your father placed there
New Year's morning, to give me a pleasant surprise. I would not have had
it broken for twenty dollars."
"Mother, I just hit it accidentally with this little cane, and I'm sure
I'm as sorry as I can be."
"And what business has your cane in the parlor, I beg to know? I'll take
it, and you'll not see it again for the present, if this is the way you
expect to use it. You deserve punishment for such carelessness, and I
wish your father had chastised you severely." And taking the offending
cane from his hand, she, too, left him to meditations, somewhat like
the following:--
"'Tis too bad, I declare! If I had tried to do the very wickedest thing
I possibly could, father and mother would not have scolded me worse.
That dear little cane! I told Henry I would show it to him on my way to
school, and now what shall I say about it? It's abominable--it's right
down cruel to treat me so. When I had not intended to do the least thing
wrong, only just as I was looking at the bottom of my cane, by the
merest accident the head of it touched that little useless piece of
crockery. I hate the sight of you," he added, touching the many colored
and gilded fragments with the toe of his boot, as they lay before him,
"and I hate father and mother, and every body else--and I'm tired of
being scolded for nothing at all. Big boy as I am, they scold me for
every little thing, just as they did when I was a little shaver like
Eddy. What's the use? I won't bear it. I declare I won't much longer."
And then followed reveries like others often indulged before, of being
his own master, and doing as he pleased without father and mother always
at hand to dictate, and find fault, and scold him so bitterly if he
happened to make a little mistake. Other boys of his age had left home,
and taken care of themselves, and he would too. "I am as good a scholar
as any one in school, except Charles Harvey, and I am as strong as any
boy I play with, and pity if I can't take care of myself. Home! Yes, to
be sure it might be a dear good home, but father is so full of business,
and anxious, and thinking all the time, he never speaks to one of us,
unless it is to tell us to do something, or to find fault with what is
done. And mother--fret, fret, fret, tired to death with the care of the
children, and company, and servants, and societies, and every thing--it
really seems as if she had lost all affection for us--_me_, at any rate,
and I am sure I don't care for any body that scolds at me so, and the
sooner I am out of the way the better. I am sure if father is trying to
make money to leave me some of it, I'd a thousand times rather he'd give
me pleasant words as we go along, than all the dollars I shall ever
get--yes, indeed I had."
The above scene, I am sorry to say, is but a sample of what occurred
weekly, and I fear I might say daily, or even hourly, to some member of
the family of Mr. Colman, and yet Mr. and Mrs. Colman were very good
sort of people--made a very respectable appearance in the world, regular
at church with their children--ate symbolically of the body, and drank
of the blood, of that loving Savior, who ever spake gently to the
youthful and the erring--and meant to be, and really thought they were,
the very best of parents. Their children were well cared for, mentally
and physically. They were well fed, well clothed, attended the best
schools--but as they advanced beyond the years of infancy, there was in
each of them the sullen look, or the discouraged tone, the tart reply,
or the vexing remark, which made them any thing but beloved by their
companions, any thing but happy themselves. At home there was ever some
scene of dispute, or unkindness, to call forth the stern look, or the
harsh command of their parents--abroad, the mingled remains of vexation
and self-reproach, caused by their own conduct or that of others, made
them hard to be pleased--and so the cloud thickened about them, and with
all outward means for being happy, loving and beloved, they were a
wretched family. James, the eldest, was impetuous and self-willed, but
affectionate, generous, and very fond of reading and study, and with
gentle and judicious management, would have been the joy and pride of
his family, with the domestic and literary tastes so invaluable to every
youth, in our day, when temptations of every kind are so rife in our
cities and larger towns, that scarcely is the most moral of our young
men safe, except in the sanctuary of God, or the equally divinely
appointed sanctuary of home. But under the influences we have sketched,
he had already begun to spend all his leisure time at the stores, the
railroad dépôts, wharves, engine-houses, and other places of resort for
loiterers, where he saw much to encourage the reckless and disobedient
spirit, which characterized his soliloquy above quoted. Little did his
parents realize the effects of their own doings. Full of the busy cares
of this hurrying life, they fancied all was going on well, nor were
they aroused to his danger, until some time after the scene of the
broken vase, above alluded to, when his more frequent and prolonged
absence from home, at meal times, and until a late hour in the evening,
caused a severe reprimand from his father. With a heart swelling with
rage and vexation, James went to his room--but not to bed. The purpose
so long cherished in his mind, of leaving parental rule and restraint,
was at its height. He opened his closet and bureau, and deliberately
selected changes of clothing which would be most useful to him, took the
few dollars he had carefully gathered for some time past for this
purpose, and made all the preparation he could for a long absence from
the home, parents, and friends, where, but for ungoverned tempers and
tongues, he might have been so useful, respected and happy. When he
could think of no more to be done, he looked about him. How many proofs
of his mother's careful attention to his wishes and his comfort, did his
chamber afford! And his little brother, five years younger, so quietly
sleeping in his comfortable bed! Dearly he loved that brother, and yet
hardly a day passed, in which they did not vex, and irritate, and abuse
each other. He was half tempted to lie down by his side, and give up all
thoughts of leaving home. But no. How severe his father would look at
breakfast, and his mother would say something harsh. "No. I'll quit, I
declare I will--and then if their hearts ache, I shall be glad of it.
Mine has ached, till it's as hard as a stone. No, I've often tried, and
now I'll go. I won't be called to account, and scolded for staying out
of the house, when there is no comfort to be found in it." And again
rose before his mind many scenes of cold indifference or harshness from
his parents, which had, as he said, hardened his heart to stone. "I'll
bid good bye to the whole of it. Little Em,--darling little sister! I
wish I could kiss her soft sweet cheek once more. But she grows fretful
every day, and by the time she is three years old, she will snap and
snarl like the rest of us. I'll be out of hearing of it any way." And he
softly raised the window sash, and slipped upon the roof of a piazza,
from which he had often jumped in sport with his brothers, and in a few
moments was at the dépôt. Soon the night train arrived, and soon was
James in one of our large cities--and inquiring for the wharf of a
steamer about to sail for California; and when the next Sabbath sun rose
upon the home of his youth, he was tossing rapidly over the waves of the
wide, deep, trackless ocean, one moment longing to be again amid scenes
so long dear and familiar, and the next writhing, as he thought of the
anger of his father, the reproaches of his mother. On he went, often
vexed at the services he was called to perform, in working his passage
out, for which his previous habits had poorly prepared him. On went the
stanch vessel, and in due time landed safely her precious freight of
immortal beings at the desired haven--but some of them were to see
little of that distant land, where they had fondly hoped to find
treasure of precious gold, and with it happiness. The next arrival at
New York brought a list of recent deaths. Seven of that ship's company,
so full of health and buoyancy and earthly hopes, but a few short months
before, were hurried by fevers to an untimely, a little expected grave.
And on that fatal list, was read with agonized hearts in the home of his
childhood, the name of their first-born--James Colman, aged sixteen.
Boys! If your father and mother, in the midst of a thousand cares and
perplexities, of which you know nothing--cares, often increased
seven-fold, by their anxieties for you, are less tender and forgiving
than you think they should be, will you throw off all regard for them,
all gratitude for their constant proofs of real affection, and make
shipwreck of your own character and hopes, and break their hearts?
No--rather with noble disregard of your own feelings, strive still more
to please them, to soothe the weary spirit you have disturbed, and so in
due time you shall reap the reward of well-doing, and the blessing of
Him, who hath given you the fifth commandment, and with it a promise.
Fathers! Provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged,
for the tempter is ever at hand to lead them astray. The harsh
reproof--the undeserved blame--cold silence, where should be the kind
inquiry, or the affectionate welcome--oh, how do these things chill the
young heart, and plant reserve where should be the fullest confidence,
if you would save your child.
Mothers! Where shall the youthful spirit look for the saving influence
of love, if not to you? The young heart craves sympathy. It must have
it--it will have it. If not found at home, it will be found in the
streets, and oh, what danger lurks there! Fathers and mothers--see to
it, that if your child's heart cease to beat, your own break not with
the remembrance of words and looks, that bite like a serpent and sting
like an adder!
ELLEN ELLISON.
* * * * *
Original.
CHINESE DAUGHTERS.
_Chánghái, Aug. 15th, 1851._
MY DEAR MRS. WHITTELSEY:
In order to keep before my own mind a deep interest for this people, and
to awaken corresponding sympathies in my native land, I make short
monthly memorandums of my observations among the Chinese. They are
indeed a singular people, with manners and customs peculiar to
themselves; and it would seem that, in domestic life, every practice was
the opposite of our own; but in the kindly feelings of our nature, those
whom I have seen brought under the influence of Christian cultivation,
are as susceptible as those of any nation on earth. At first they are
exceedingly suspicious of you,--they do not, they _cannot_ understand
your motives in your efforts to do them good; and it is not until by
making one's actions consistent with our words, and by close observation
on their part, that you enjoy their confidence.
Since I last wrote I have been quite indisposed. During my husband's
absence in committee my nurses were Chinese girls, one eleven, the other
thirteen years of age. No mother who had bestowed the greatest care and
cultivation upon her daughters, could have had more affectionate
attention than I had from these late heathen girls,--they were indeed
unto me as daughters,--every want was anticipated, and every thing that
young, affectionate hearts could suggest, was done to alleviate my pain.
One has been four years, the other a year and a-half, under instruction.
Christianity softens, subdues, and renders docile the human mind, before
the dark folds of heathenism have deepened and thickened with increasing
years.
One of these pupils, after reading in the New Testament the narrative of
Christ's sufferings, one day asks--"Why did Jesus come and suffer and be
crucified?" I then explained to her as well as I could in her own
tongue. She always seems thoughtful when she reads the Scriptures. Will
some maternal association remember in prayer these Chinese girls?
During the current month a vile placard has been published against
foreigners, and some of the pupils have been railed at by their
acquaintances for being under our instruction. One, on returning from a
visit to her friends, told me the bitter and wicked things that were
said and written; I asked her if she had found them true? she said "No."
I asked her if foreigners, such as she had seen, spoke true or false?
She said "always true." Did they wish to kill and destroy the Chinese as
the placard stated? She replied, "No; but they helped the poor Chinese
when their own people would not." The mothers were somewhat alarmed lest
we were all to be destroyed. We told them there was nothing to fear, and
their confidence remained unshaken.
The school has enjoyed a recess of a week from study, but they do not go
to their own homes, except to return the same day. Our house is just
like a bee-hive, with their activity at their several employments; and
usually some _deprivation_ is a sufficient punishment for a dereliction
from any duty.
Who will pray for these daughters? Who will sympathize with the
low-estate of the female sex in China? I appeal to the happy mothers and
daughters of America, our dear native land. Though severed from thee
voluntarily, willingly, cheerfully, yet do we love thee still; thy
Sabbaths hallowed by the voice of prayer and praise; thy Christian
ordinances blessed with the Spirit's power. Oh, when will China, the
home of our adoption, be thus enlightened, and her idol temples turned
into sanctuaries for the living God?
Affectionately,
ELIZA J. BRIDGMAN.
* * * * *
Original.
MINISTERING SPIRITS.
LINES WRITTEN FOR A LITTLE GIRL BY AN EPISCOPAL CLERGYMAN.
Do ANGELS minister to me--
Can such a wonder ever be?
Oh, sure they are too great;
Too glorious with their raiment white,
And wings so beautiful and bright,
Upon a child to wait.
Yet so it is in truth, I know,
For Jesus Christ has told us so,
And that to them is given
The loving task to guard with care
And keep from every evil snare
The chosen ones of heaven.
And so if I am good and mild,
And try to be a holy child,
My angel will rejoice;
And sound his golden harp to Him
Who dwells among the cherubim,
And praise Him with his voice.
But if I sin against the Lord,
By evil thought or evil word,
Or do a wicked thing;
Ah! then what will my angel say?
Oh, he will turn his face away,
And vail it with his wing.
Then let us pray to Him who sends
His angels down to be our friends,
That, strengthened by his grace,
I may not prove a wandering sheep,
Nor ever make my angel weep,
Nor hide his glorious face.
* * * * *
Original.
A TEMPTATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Not long since, in one of the cities on the Atlantic seaboard, there was
a lad employed in a large jewelry establishment. A part of his duty was
to carry letters to the post-office, or to the mail-bag on the boat,
when too late to be mailed in the regular way. On one occasion, after
depositing his letters, he observed a part of a letter, put in by some
other person, projecting above the opening in the bag. Seizing the
opportunity he extracted this letter without being seen, and took it
home. On examination he found it contained a draft for one thousand
dollars. Forging the name of the person on whom it was drawn, he
presented the draft at a bank and drew the money, and very soon
afterwards proceeded to a distant western city.
After a little while, the draft was missed and inquiries made. It was
found that this lad had been near the mailbag on the day when the
missing letter had been put in it, that he was unusually well provided
with money, and that he had suddenly disappeared. Officers of justice
were commissioned to find him. They soon traced him to his new
residence, charged him with his crime, which he at once confessed, and
brought him back to meet the consequences of a judicial investigation.
After a short imprisonment he was released on bail, but still held to
answer, and thus the case stands at present. He must of course be
convicted, but whether the penalty of the law will be inflicted in whole
or in part, it will be for the Executive to say.
Meanwhile the circumstances suggest some thoughts which may be worth the
reader's attention. This lad was a member of a Sunday school, but
irregular in his attendance, and this latter fact may in some degree
explain his wandering from the right path. He might, indeed, have been a
punctual attendant on his class, and still have fallen into this gross
sin, but it is not at all probable. And it is curious and instructive,
that wherever any inmates of prisons, houses of refuge, or other places
of the kind, are found to have been connected with Sunday-schools, it is
nearly always stated in accompaniment that they attended only
occasionally and rarely.
Again, how much weight is there in Job's remarkable expression (ch.
31:5), _I have made a covenant with my eyes_! The eye, the most active
of our senses, is the chiefest inlet of temptation, and hence the
apostle John specifies "the lust of the eyes" as a leading form or type
of ordinary sins. The lad in the case before us allowed his eye to dwell
on the letter, until the covetous desire to appropriate it had grown
into a fixed purpose. Had he made the same covenant as Job, and turned
his eye resolutely away as soon as he felt the first wrongful emotion in
his heart, the result had been widely different. But he rather imitated
the unhappy Achan, who, in recounting his sin, says, "_When I saw_ among
the spoils a Babylonish garment and two hundred shekels of silver, and a
wedge of gold, _then_ I coveted them." A fool's eyes soon lead his hands
astray.
Here also we see the deceitfulness of the heart. A mere boy of fifteen
years, of good ordinary training, at least in part connected with a
Sunday-school, and not prompted by any urgent bodily necessity, commits
a crime punishable by fine and imprisonment. Had any one foretold to him
a week before even the possibility of this occurrence, how indignantly
would he have spurned the very thought! That he should become, and
deservedly so, the inmate of a felon's cell--how monstrous the
supposition! Yet so it came to pass. The heart is deceitful above all
things, and he who trusts in it is "cursed." Multitudes find their own
case the renewal of Hazael's experience. When Elijah told him the
enormities he, when on the throne of Syria, would practice, he
exclaimed--"Is thy servant a dog that he should do these things?" He was
not then, but he afterwards became just such a dog.
But if the heart be deceitful, sin is scarcely less so. When the poor
boy first clutched his prize, as he esteemed it, he promised himself
nothing but pleasure and profit, but how miserably was he deceived!
After he had converted the draft into money, and thus rendered its
return impossible without detection, he saw his guilt in its true
character, and for many nights tossed in torment on a sleepless bed,
while at last he was made to take his place along with hardened convicts
in a city prison. Thus it always is with sin. Like the book the apostle
ate in vision, it is sweet as honey in the mouth, but bitter in the
belly. Like the wine Solomon describes, it may sparkle in the cup and
shoot up its bright beads on the surface, but at the last it biteth like
a serpent and stingeth like an adder. The experiment has been tried
times without number, from the beginning in Eden down to our own day, by
communities and by individuals, but invariably with the same result. The
way of transgressors is hard, however it may seem to them who are
entering upon it a path of primrose dalliance. And surely "whosoever is
deceived thereby is not wise."
Finally, how needful is it to pray--"Lead us not into temptation."
Snares lie all around us, whether old or young, and it is vain to seek
an entire escape from their intrusion. The lad we are considering, had
not gone out of his way to meet the temptation by which he fell. On the
contrary, he was doing his duty, he was just where he ought to have
been. Yet there the adversary found him, and there he finds every man.
The very fact that one is in a lawful place and condition is apt to
throw him off his guard. There is but one safeguard under grace, and
that is habitual watchfulness. Without this the strongest may fall--with
it, the feeblest may stand firm. O for such a deep and abiding
conviction of the keenness of temptation and the dreadful evil of sin as
to lead all to cry mightily unto God, and at the same time be strenuous
in effort themselves--to pray and also to watch.
* * * * *
Original.
MEMOIR OF MRS. VAN LENNEP.
The following review, written by Mrs. D.E. Sykes, of the Memoir of Mrs.
M.E. Van Lennep, we deem among the finest specimens of that class of
writings. The remarks it contains on the religious education of
daughters are so much in point, and fall in so aptly with the design of
our work, that we have obtained permission to publish it. We presume it
will be new to most of our readers, as it originally appeared in the
_New Englander_, a periodical which is seldom seen, except in a
Theological Library.
An additional reason for our publishing it is, our personal interest
both in the reviewer, who we are happy to say has become a contributor
to our pages, and the reviewed--having been associated with the mothers
of each, for a number of years, in that most interesting of all
associations, "The Mother's Meeting."
For eleven years, Mary E. Hawes, afterwards Mrs. Van Lennep, was an
attentive and interested listener to the instructions given to the
children at our quarterly meetings--and it is interesting to know that
her mother regards the influence of those meetings as powerfully aiding
in the formation of her symmetrical Christian character.
An eminent painter once said to us, that he always disliked to attempt
the portrait of a woman; it was so difficult to give to such a picture
the requisite boldness of feature and distinctness of individual
expression, without impairing its feminine character. If this be true in
the delineation of the outer and material form, how much more true is it
of all attempts to portray the female mind and heart! If the words and
ways, the style of thinking and the modes of acting, all that goes to
make up a biography, have a character sufficiently marked to
individualize the subject, there is a danger that, in the relating, she
may seem to have overstepped the decorum of her sex, and so forfeit the
interest with which only true delicacy can invest the woman.
It is strange that biography should ever succeed. To reproduce any thing
that was transient and is gone, not by repetition as in a strain of
music, but by delineating the emotions it caused, is an achievement of
high art. An added shade of coloring shows you an enthusiast, and loses
you the confidence and sympathy of your cooler listener. A shade
subtracted leaves so faint a hue that you have lost your interest in
your own faded picture, and of course, cannot command that of another.
Even an exact delineation, while it may convey accurately a part of the
idea of a character, is not capable of transmitting the more volatile
and subtle shades. You may mix your colors never so cunningly, and copy
never so minutely every fold of every petal of the rose, and hang it so
gracefully on its stem, as to present its very port and bearing, but
where is its fragrance, its exquisite texture, and the dewy freshness
which was its crowning grace?
So in biography, you may make an accurate and ample statement of
facts,--you may even join together in a brightly colored mosaic the
fairest impressions that can be given of the mind of another--his own
recorded thoughts and feelings--and yet they may fail to present the
individual. They are stiff and glaring, wanting the softening transition
of the intermediate parts and of attending circumstances.
And yet biography does sometimes succeed, not merely in raising a
monumental pile of historical statistics, and maintaining for the
friends of the departed the outlines of a character bright in their
remembrance; but in shaping forth to others a life-like semblance of
something good and fair, and distinct enough to live with us
thenceforward and be loved like a friend, though it be but a shadow.
Such has been the feeling with which we have read and re-read the volume
before us. We knew but slightly her who is the subject of it, and are
indebted to the memoir for any thing like a conception of the character;
consequently we can better judge of its probable effect upon other
minds. We pronounce it a portrait successfully taken--a piece of
uncommonly skillful biography. There is no gaudy exaggeration in it,--no
stiffness, no incompleteness. We see the individual character we are
invited to see, and in contemplating it, we have all along a feeling of
personal acquisition. We have found rare treasure; a true woman to be
admired, a daughter whose worth surpasses estimation, a friend to be
clasped with fervor to the heart, a lovely young Christian to be admired
and rejoiced over, and a self-sacrificing missionary to be held in
reverential remembrance. Unlike most that is written to commemorate the
dead, or that unvails the recesses of the human heart, this is a
cheerful book. It breathes throughout the air of a spring morning. As we
read it we inhale something as pure and fragrant as the wafted odor of
"----old cherry-trees,
Scented with blossoms."
We stand beneath a serene unclouded sky, and all around us is floating
music as enlivening as the song of birds, yet solemn as the strains of
the sanctuary. It is that of a life in unison from its childhood to its
close; rising indeed like "an unbroken hymn of praise to God." There is
no austerity in its piety, no levity in its gladness. It shows that
"virtue in herself is lovely," but if "goodness" is ever "awful," it is
not here in the company of this young happy Christian heart.
We have heard, sometimes, that a strictly religious education has a
tendency to restrict the intellectual growth of the young, and to mar
its grace and freedom. We have been told that it was not well that our
sons and daughters should commit to memory texts and catechisms, lest
the free play of the fancy should be checked and they be rendered
mechanical and constrained in their demeanor, and dwarfish in their
intellectual stature. We see nothing of this exemplified in this memoir.
One may look long to find an instance of more lady-like and graceful
accomplishments, of more true refinement, of more liberal and varied
cultivation, of more thorough mental discipline, of more pliable and
available information, of a more winning and wise adaptation to persons
and times and places, than the one presented in these pages. And yet
this fair flower grew in a cleft of rugged Calvinism; the gales which
fanned it were of that "wind of doctrine" called rigid orthodoxy. We
know the soil in which it had its root. We know the spirit of the
teachings which distilled upon it like the dew. The tones of that pulpit
still linger in our ears, familiar as those of "_that good old bell_,"
and we are sure that there is no pulpit in all New England more
uncompromising in its demands, more strictly and severely searching in
its doctrines.
But let us look more closely at the events of this history of a life,
and note their effect in passing upon the character of its subject.