feelings which had shaken him. "Mother, you are the dearest and best
mother that ever lived. I wish I could be a good boy, for your sake; but
when father speaks so harsh, I am angry all the time, and I cannot help
being cross and ugly too. I know I am more and more so; I feel it, and
the boys tell me so sometimes. John Gray said, yesterday, I was not half
as pleasant in school as I used to be. I feel unhappy, and I am sure if
I grow wicked, I grow wretched too." And again he burst into a passion
of tears.
"Does not sin always bring misery, my dear boy?" asked his mother, after
a little pause, "and will you not daily meet with circumstances to make
you angry and unhappy, if you give way to your first impulse of
impatience,--and is it not our first duty to resist every temptation to
feel or act wrong? God has not promised us happiness here, but He _has_
promised that if we resist evil it will flee from us. He has promised
that if we strive to conquer our wicked feelings and do right when we
are tempted to do wrong He will aid us, and give us sweet peace in so
doing. To-day you have given way to anger, and you are wretched. You are
blaming your father and think he is the cause of your trouble; but think
a moment. If you had borne the punishment he gave you meekly and
patiently, would not a feeling of peace be in your bosom, to which you
are now a stranger? You know that when we suffer patiently for doing
well, God is well pleased; and would not the consciousness that you had
struggled against and overcome a wicked feeling, and that God looked
upon you with approbation, make you more really happy than anything else
can? My dear, dear boy, your happiness does not consist in what others
say or do to you, but in the feelings you cherish in your own heart.
There you must look for happiness, and there, if you do right, you will
find it."
"I know you always say right, mother, and I will try, I will try, if I
can, to bear patiently; but oh, if father only was like you"--and again
tears stopped his utterance.
"My dear child," said his mother, "your father has many troubles. It is
a great care to provide for his family, and you know he suffers us to
want for nothing. He often has most perplexing cases, and his poor
brains are almost distracted. You are a happy boy, with no care but to
get your lessons, and obey your parents, and try to help them. You know
nothing yet of the anxieties which will crowd upon you when you are a
man. Try now to learn to bear manfully and patiently all
vexations--looking for help to that blessed One, who, when he was
reviled, reviled not again. How much happier and better man you will
be, how you will comfort your mother, and still more, you will please
that blessed Savior, who has left such an example of meekness--suffering
for sinners, and even dying for his cruel enemies. Oh, my son, my son,
ask that blessed Savior to make you like himself, and you will be happy,
and His own Spirit will make you holy. Let us ask Him to do it," and she
knelt by her bedside, and her son placed himself beside her. It was no
new thing for him to pray with this devoted mother. Often had she been
with him to the throne of grace, when his youthful troubles or faults
had made him feel the need of an Almighty helper and friend, but never
had he come before with such an earnest desire to obtain the gift of
that blessed Spirit, to subdue and change his heart and make him like
his Savior. When they rose from prayer he sought his own room. He felt
unable to go to school, and his mother hoped the impression would be
more lasting, if he thought it over in the solitude of his own chamber,
and she had much reason afterward to hope that this solemn afternoon was
the beginning of good days to the soul of her child. As she looked
anxiously at the expression of his countenance when the family assembled
at the tea-table, she was pleased to notice, though an air of sadness
hung around him, he was subdued, gentle, and affectionate, and she hoped
much from this severe contest with his besetting sin. His father said
little, and soon hurried away to a business engagement for the evening.
Mr. Arnold was a lawyer, a gentleman and a professing Christian, and
though never very strongly beloved, yet few of his neighbors could tell
why, or say aught against his respectability and general excellence of
character. He was immersed in the cares of an extensive business, and
spent little time at home, and when there he seemed to have no room in
his busy heart for the prattle of his children, no time to delight and
improve them, with the stores of knowledge he might have brought forth
from his treasury. If company were present, he was polite and agreeable.
If only his wife and children, he said little, and that little was
chiefly confined to matters of domestic interest--what they should have
for dinner--what schools the children should attend--or the casual
mention of the most common news of the day. He provided liberally for
his family, what they should eat and drink, and wherewithal they should
be clothed and instructed--but he took no pains to gain their affections
or their confidence, to enlarge their ideas and awaken within them the
thirst for knowledge, and plant within them the deathless principles of
right and wrong--or even to inspire their young minds with love and
reverence for their Divine Creator and Preserver. All this most
important duty of a father was left to his wife, and blessed is the man
who has _such_ a wife and mother, to whom to intrust the precious charge
he neglects. Most amiable and affectionate, intelligent and judicious,
and of ardent and cheerful piety, this excellent woman devoted herself
with untiring zeal to the training of her cherished flock, and as she
saw and felt with poignant grief that she would have no help in this
greatest and first earthly duty, from him who had solemnly promised to
sustain and comfort, and assist, and cherish her, to bear and share with
her the trials and cares of life (and what care is greater than the
right training of our offspring), she again and again strove with
earnest faith and humble prayer, to cast all her care upon Him, who she
was assured cared for her, and go forward in every duty with the
determination to fulfill it to the utmost of her power. Many times did
the cold and stern manner of her husband, his anger at trifles, and his
thoughtless punishment for accidental offenses, cause her heart to bleed
for the effects of such government, or want of government, upon her
children's hearts and minds. But she uttered no word of blame in their
presence, she ever showed them that any want of love or respect for
their father grieved her, and was, moreover, a heinous sin, and by
patient continuance in well doing, she yet hoped to reap the full
reward. Her eldest, Charles, felt most keenly his father's utter want of
sympathy, and to him she gave her most constant tender care.
Affectionate, but hasty, he was illy constituted to bear the harsh
command, or the frequent fault finding of his father, and often she
trembled lest he should throw off all parental control, and goaded by
his irritated feelings, rush into sin without restraint. And so,
probably, he would have done but for the unbounded love and reverence
with which he regarded his "blessed mother." Her gentle influence he
could not withstand, and it grew more and more powerful with him for
good, till the glance of her loving eye would check his wayward spirit,
and calm him often, when passion struggled for the mastery. Often did
she venture to hope he had indeed given himself to his Savior, and her
conversations with him from time to time, showed so much desire to
conquer every evil passion, and to shun every false way with so much
affectionate reverence for his God and Redeemer, that the mother's heart
was sweetly comforted in her first-born.
* * * * *
Original.
THE TREASURY OF THOUGHTS.
The days of primer, and catechism, and tasks for the memory are gone.
The schoolmaster is no longer to us as he was to our mothers, associated
with all that is puzzling and disagreeable in hard unmeaning rules, with
all that is dull and uninteresting in grave thoughts beyond the reach of
the young idea. He is to us now rather the interpreter of mysteries, the
pleasant companion who shows us the way to science, and beguiles its
tediousness. If there is now no "royal road," certainly its opening
defiles are made easier for the ascent of the little feet of the
youthful scholar. The memory is not the chief faculty which receives a
discipline in the present system of things. The "how," the "why," are
the subjects of interest and attention. This is well; but it may be that
in our anxiety to reach the height of the hill, and to keep up with the
progress of the age, we are neglecting too much the training of the
memory, which should be to us a treasury of beautiful thoughts, to cheer
us in the prose of every-day life, to refine and elevate taste and
feeling. We do not think it was a waste of time to learn, as our
mothers did, long extracts from Milton, the sweet lyrics of Watts, the
Psalms of David. Have we not often been soothed by their recitation of
them in the time of sickness, at the hour of twilight, when even the
mind of the child seems to reach out after the spiritual, and to need
the aliment of high and holy thought? The low, sweet voice, the harmony
of the verse, were conveyancers of ideas which entered the soul to
become a part of it forever.
If we would be rich in thought, we must gather up the treasures of the
past, and make them our own. It is not enough, certainly, for ordinary
minds, simply to read the English classics; they must be studied,
learned, to get from them their worth. And the mother who would
cultivate the taste, the imagination of the child, must give him, with
the exercise of his own inventive powers, the rich food of the past.
It need not be feared that there will not be originality in the mind of
one thus stored with the wealth which others have left. Where there is a
native vigor, and invention, it will remould truth into new forms, and
add a value of its own, having received an inspiration from the great
masters of thought.
If, then, you would bless your child, persuade him to make Milton and
Cowper, and other authors of immortal verse, his familiar friends. They
shall be companions in solitude, ministers of joy in hours of sadness.
And let the "songs of Zion" mould the young affections, and be
associated with a mother's love, and the dear delights of home. Perhaps
in a strange land, and in a dying hour, when far from counselor and
friend, they may lead even the prodigal to think upon his ways, and be
his guide to Heaven.
* * * * *
NOTICES OF BOOKS.
"THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."--This is a charming book, written by
one of our own countrywomen, which we think may be safely and
appropriately given to a pure-minded and simple-hearted daughter. If it
is fictitious, it is only so as the ideal landscape of an artist, which,
though unreal, compels us to exclaim, How true to nature! If the
delineation of true religious character is not its main object, that of
piety and benevolence is as truly a part of it, as is its fragrance a
part of the rose. We should love to give it to some of our friends whose
Christianity may be vital, but which does not make them lovely--who may
show some of its fruits, but who hardly cultivate what may be called the
leaves and flowers of a holy character. If the sternness and want of
sympathy of Aunt Fortune does not rebuke them, perhaps the loveliness
and patience of Ellen, and her friends, may win them to an imitation.
* * * * *
"LIFE IN THE WEST; OR, THE MORETON FAMILY."--This tasteful
little work, coming out under the sanction of the American Sunday-School
Union, hardly needs from us an item of praise; but we cannot consent to
pass it by unnoticed. A more faithful and interesting picture of the
trials of a Christian family in removing westward, and of their
surmounting such trials, we have never seen. Religion, the religion of
home, they take with them; and by the wayside, and in the log cottage,
they worship their father's God. We needed such a delineation, in the
form of an attractive narrative, to show us that in passing through the
trials of a strange country, we are yet to be _on the Lord's side_. But
beside this, there is in the work the loveliness of a well-ordered home;
the picture of a faithful, thoughtful _mother_, and of children and
husband appreciating such a mother. To give one little extract--"The
_mother's room_! What family knows not that sociable spot--that _heart_
of the house? To it go the weary, the sick, the sad and the happy, all
sure of sympathy and of aid; all secure in their expectation of meeting
there the cheering word, the comforting smile, and the loving friend."
In thorough ignorance of what a _new home_ should mean, little Willie
inquires, "_Home_ is not a _house_, is it?" Most sensible question _for
a child_. To such as desire an answer to the inquiry, we recommend the
work, as one which will be of value to them and their children.
* * * * *
Original.
PARENTAL SOLICITUDE.
In my intercourse with Christian parents, and it has not been limited, I
have often found a deep anxiety pervading their hearts in relation to
the spiritual state of their children. And why should not such anxiety
exist? If a parent has evidence that his child is in an impenitent
state--especially if that child is growing up in habits of vicious
indulgence--he ought to feel, and deeply feel. That child is in danger,
and the danger is the greater by how much the more his heart has become
callous, under the hardening influence of a wicked life; and every day
that danger increases. God's patience may be exhausted. The brittle
thread of life may be sundered at any moment, and the impenitent and
unprepared soul be summoned to the bar of God. With great propriety,
therefore, may the parent feel anxious in regard to his unconverted
children.
But to some parents it seems mysterious that such deep, constant,
corroding anxiety should be their allotment. They sometimes attempt to
cast it off. They would feel justified in doing so, were they able. But
that is impossible. Now, to such parents allow me to address a few
thoughts which, may the Divine Spirit, by his gracious influence, bless
to their comfort and direction.
And the first thing I have to say is, that the solicitude they feel for
their children may be excessive. That it should be deep must be
admitted, and it should continue as long as the danger lasts. It should
even increase as that danger increases up to a given point; but there is
a point beyond which even parental solicitude should never be suffered
to proceed. It should not become excessive. It should never be suffered
to weaken our confidence in the divine goodness, nor in the wisdom of
the divine dispensations. It should never prompt the parent to desire
that God should alter the established order of his providence, or change
or modify the principles of his moral government. It would not be right
for me to wish my children saved at all adventures. That anxiety which
prompts to such a desire is both excessive and selfish. It can never be
justified, nor can God ever favorably regard it.
My second remark is, that a deep solicitude of the parent for the
spiritual good of his children is most desirable. I am aware that it is
more or less painful, and in itself is neither pleasant nor desirable.
But may it not, notwithstanding, be beneficial in its results, and even
of incalculable importance? Where no danger is apprehended, no care will
be exercised. Who knows not that the unsolicitous mariner is far more
likely to suffer shipwreck than he who, apprehensive of rocks and reefs,
exercises a wise precaution? The parent who never suffers himself to be
disturbed--whose sleep is never interrupted while his children are
abroad, exposed to temptation--may for that very reason neglect them at
the critical juncture, and the head-waters may become too impulsive; the
tendencies to vice and crime too powerful to be resisted. Oh! had the
parent been a little more anxious--had he looked after his children with
a higher sense of his obligations, how immeasurably different, probably,
had been the result! The truth is, that where one parent feels too much
in relation to his children, hundreds of parents are criminally
indifferent. In regard to such parents, it is our duty to awaken their
anxieties by every means in our power. But what shall we say to those
who may be thought already over-solicitous? Such parents are seldom to
be found. If any such there be, let them moderate what may possibly be
excessive; but be sure to bless God, who has given you a deep anxiety
for the salvation of your loved ones. Remember that it prompts you to
greater watchfulness and care than you would otherwise exercise. You
pray more, you instruct them more, you guard them more. And your
children, therefore, are more likely to become the children of God. And
remember, further, that your Heavenly Father knows just what solicitudes
you feel, their weight, their painfulness; and just so long as you feel
them, and in consequence of them, _act_ in the use of those legitimate
means which God has instituted for the restraint and conversion of your
children, you have reason to hope. The very end and object of those
Christian anxieties are just what you desire, and for which you are
daily praying--the conversion of your children; and if you pursue a
proper course under them, you are probably more likely to see your hopes
accomplished than if they did not exist.
I had contemplated adding other suggestions, but time and space will not
allow. But I cannot dismiss this subject without saying, that instead of
ever complaining that God has imparted to you such a deep anxiety for
the spiritual good of your children, let that time thus spent be
employed in fervent, importunate and agonizing prayer for them. That is
the best way of washing off these accumulated and accumulating loads of
anxiety. Plead in view of your deep solicitude--plead in Christ's
name--plead by the worth of your children's souls--plead by every
consideration you can think of, and then plead by every consideration
which the All Omniscient mind of God can think of--especially plead the
divine honor and glory, as involved in such a desired result, and when
you have done all these, then act wisely, and efficiently as you can.
Never give up--never falter--not even for a moment. But be steady to
your purpose--yet in every step of your progress say, "O God, thy will
be done."
* * * * *
Original.
EXCESSIVE LEGISLATION.
A family is a community or government, of which the parents are the
legislators, and the children are the subjects. The parents are required
by the family constitution to superintend and direct the conduct of
their children, and others under their care. And children, by the same
authority, are required to obey their parents. "Children, obey your
parents in all things; for this is well pleasing unto the Lord." But
parents are more than legislators; they possess the executive power.
They are to see their rules carried out. And, still further, they are to
judge of the penalty due to infraction and disobedience, and of the time
and manner in which punishment is to be inflicted. The authority vested
in parents is great, and most judiciously should it be exercised. God
has given general directions in his word touching the exercise of their
authority. To Him they are amenable. And by all the love they bear to
their offspring, their desire for their welfare, and the hope of the
future approbation of God, they should endeavor to bring up their
children in the "nurture and admonition of the Lord."
But are not parents apt to legislate too much? This is often an error in
all legislative assemblies. Perhaps there is not a State in the Union in
which the laws are not too many, and too minute. Every legislator feels
desirous of leaving his impress on the statute book. And so there is
yearly an accumulation of laws and resolves, one-half of which might
probably be dispensed with, with advantage to the people.
The same over legislation often obtains in the school-room, springing
doubtless from a desire on the part of the teacher to preserve a more
perfect order among his pupils. Hence the number and minuteness of his
rules; and in his endeavor to reduce them to practice, and make
clock-work of the internal machinery, he quite likely defeats the very
object he has in view. A school-teacher who pretends to notice every
aberration from order and propriety is quite likely to have his hands
full, and just so with parents. Some children cannot keep still. Their
nervous temperament does not admit of it. I once heard an elderly
gentleman say, that when riding in a coach, he was so confined that he
felt as if he should die because he could not change his position. Oh!
if he could have stirred but an inch! Children often feel just so. And
it is bad policy to require them to sit as so many little immoveable
statues. "There, sit in just that spot, and don't you move an inch till
I bid you." Who has not heard a parent give forth such a mandate? And a
school-master, too, to some little urchin, who tries to obey, but from
that moment begins to squirm, and turn, and hitch, and chiefly because
his nervous system is all deranged by the very duty imposed upon him.
And, besides, what if Tommy, in the exuberance of his feelings, while
sitting on the bench, does stick out his toe a little beyond the
prescribed line. Or suppose Jimmy crowds up to him a little too closely,
and feeling that he can't breathe as freely as he wishes, gives him a
hunch; or suppose Betty, during a temporary fit of fretfulness, induced
by long setting in one posture, or overcome with the heat of a midsummer
afternoon, or the sweltering temperature of a room where an
old-fashioned box stove has been converted into a furnace; suppose Betty
gives her seat-mate a sly pinch to make her move to a more tolerable
distance, shall the teacher utter his rebuke in tones which might
possibly be appropriate if a murder was about being committed? I have
known a schoolmaster "fire up" like a steam-engine, and puff and whiz at
the occurrence of some such peccadilloes, and the consequence was that
the whole school was soon at a stand-still as to study, and the askance
looks and suppressed titter of the little flock told you that the
teacher had made no capital that time. I have seen essentially the same
thing in parents.
Now, I am not exactly justifying such conduct in children. But such
offences will exist, despite of all the wisdom, authority, and sternness
in the wide world. My position is, that these minor matters must
sometimes be left. They had better not always be seen, or if seen, not
be noticed. I think those who have the care of children may take a
lesson from a slut and her pups, or a cat and her kittens. Who has not
seen the puppy or the kitten taking some license with their
dams?--biting as puppies and kittens bite at play? Well, and what sort
of treatment do they sometimes get from the older folks? Now and then
you hear a growl, or see a spat. But, generally, the "old ones" know
better. The little frolicsome creatures are indulged. Nature seems to
teach these canine and feline parents that their progeny must and will
have sport. I have, indeed, as I have said, heard the ominous growl and
the warning spat or spit, but what good has it done? Why, the growl
seems only to inspirit the young dog. He plays so much the more; or, at
least, if he plays shy for a brief space, the next you'll see, he jumps
on to the old dog and plays the harder, and the kitten acts in like
manner.
But I have said enough. The sum is, that it is wise not to take
cognizance of all that might be considered amiss in children. Correct
the faults which are the most prominent. Let the statute-book not be
overburdened with small enactments. Nothing is small which is morally
wrong; but little physical twitchings, and nervous peccadilloes are not
worthy of grave legislation. The apostle's account of himself has some
pertinence here. "When I was a child, I thought as a child, I spoke as a
child"--Paul, doubtless acted as a child; "but when I became a man, I
put away childish things." The experience and observation of years often
make salutary corrections, which you would in vain attempt to effect in
early childhood, by all the laws of a ponderous octavo, or by all the
birch saplings to be found in a western forest.
A GRANDFATHER.
* * * * *
Original.
MAGNETISM.