THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
MOTHER.
THE
MOTHER'S RULE;
OE,
|itgj)i Wim rnib % Mrong Man.
EDITED BT
T. S. ARTHUR.
NEW YORK
JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY
150 WORTH STREET, CORNER MISSION
Copyrighted by
HUBBARD BROTHERS.
1883.
PREFACB.
As the mother's rule at home is, so, in a large
measure, will be the characters of her children.
By the mother is determined the future of her
offspring. She may bend their natural impulses
to good, or permit young life, in its first eager
activities, to take on evil forms that will forever
after mar the beautiful aspects of humanity. How
vastly important is it, then, for mothers to have
a higher regard for their duties to feel deeply
the immense responsibilities that rest upon them !
It is through their ministrations that the world
grows worse or better.
True words, fitly spoken, have often a wonder-
ful power for good. Many doubting, desponding,
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1117284
VT PREFACE.
or listless ones have been suddenly awakened to
vigorous activity in the right direction, by a single
vivid illustration of truth, and the good fruit,
springing up in due time, has been seen of all
men. True words for mothers, under various
forms of narrative, poetry, and earnest teaching,
have we gathered together in this volume, which
is now sent forth to do its work. The good seed
we are sure will nnd good ground, and ripe fruit
appear in after time.
CONTENTS.
BB PATIENT 'WITH CHILDREN ...... PITO 7
GOVERNING CHILDRKM ........ 18-
DISCIPLINE 20
MY STEP-MOTHER ......... 23
A. MOTHER'S EYES 34
WHERE is HEAVEN? 35
A CHAPTER ON TEASING . . . ' 40
CHILDHOOD 45
MAY BE so . 47
ARE YOU A PARENT? 53
CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATIHB . . . .55
MANAGING CHILDREN . 73
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE . 76
BE CAREFUL HOW YOU TREAT CHILDREN .... 98
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY .100
I DREAMED OF MY MOTHER 123
MOTHERS, DO YOU SYMPATHIZE WITH YOUR CHILDREN? . .126
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE 132
FITS OP OBSTINACY 158
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER 161
THE MOTHER'S PRAYER - 179
MRS. HALE'S Two VISITS 180
MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN 187
THE BRIGHT SIDE 193
A WORD TO PARENTS 198
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VI CONTENTS.
HOUSEHOLD Music ....... ,201
LOVE'S YEARNING . . 204
DEAL GESTLI WITH THB TIMID CHILD 212
Two IN HEAVEN 214
THE MOTHER AND THE Son 215
MOTHEE 218
THE KEY TO THE HEAET 221
'LITTLE THINGS" 222
THB CHILDREN AND THE Novw, 226
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD . . . . . . 234
DISCRIMINATION WITH EESPKCT TO CHILDEBN .... 248
HOME ECONOMY 255
YOUNG MOTHEE 263
How TO HAKE BOYS LOVE HOMB 2G5
HAPPY AT HOMB .268
OUE OLD GRANDMOTHEE . . . ... . . . 269
GOVERNMENT OF CHILDREN ....... 275
SPECIAL EDUCATION 277
FAULT-FINDING 280
THE PECUNIARY INDEPENDENCE OF CHILDREN ... 286
EXCITING IMAGINABY FEARS 287
CHILD-TALK 290
JSACH YOUE CHILDREN FROM THE BIBLB . . . .293
PUNISHMENT .......... 296
THOUGHTS FOE MOTHERS . . . . . . . 298
HEALTH OF CHILDREN ........ 299
THE MOTHER'S RULE.
BE PATIENT WITH CHILDREN.
'* YE HAVE NEED OF PATIENCE !" Nothing can be more
true than this, and nothing is more applicable to those
who have to do with boys and girls. There are so many
provocations which demand endurance, so many faulta
which require correction, so much carelessness which
provokes rebuke, and so much perverseness which calls
for firmness and control, that " teachers of babes," if
not of a temper absolutely angelic, need to have " line
upon line line upon line, precept upon precept pre-
cept upon precept," to aid in the work which has fallen
to their lot.
There are so many temptations and accessories to
impatience, too. It is so easy and so natural for the
strong to tyrannize over the weak ! Absolute power ia
too frequently abused ; and the power which a parent or
a teacher exercises over the child, is so far absolute that
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8 BE PATIENT WITH CHILDREN.
immediate resistance can be rendered unavailing. True,
the parent has parental tenderness and love to restrain
the impetuosity of impatience, but the teacher has not ;
and if parents are often, in spite of natural barriers,
impetuous, what wonder that teachers are so too.
It is less trouble, so far as the present time is con-
cerned, to blame and scold, and punish a child for negli-
gence, stupidity, or misconduct, than to explain, i eason,
and instruct. It takes less time to box a boy's ears for
being mischievous, or to push a girl into a bedroom
" all by herself," for being idle, or talkative, or trouble-
some, than it does to investigate intentions and motives,
or to inquire into causes ; and we do not wonder that
the patience of the most patient sometimes gives way.
But it is not the less to be deplored when it does give
way. In one hour in less time than this in one
minute, evil may be wrought which will undo the work
of months, or which years of judicious treatment will
not obliterate.
Do we say, then, that children should be indulged and
pampered, and their faults overlooked ? No ;. this again
seems easier to the indulgent and self-indulgent teacher
than the wearying work of constant watchfulness and
wise circumspection. But patience is as much required
in the avoidance of false indulgence, as in the banish-
ment of undue or injudicious severity. It is easier, for
the moment, to yield to the wishes and dispositiors of
children, than to oppose or regulate them. But not-
withstanding this, "Patience" should "have her perfect
work." ye teachers of the young, "ye have need of
patience."
BE PATIENT WITH CHILDREN. 9
And not patience only. In the proper exercise of
discipline, discrimination and keen perception must be
united with it, or even patience will fail. Perhaps no
two children in any given number are precisely alike in
formation of mind, disposition, and general capacity.
One will be timid, another bold ; one sensitive, another
obtuse ; one quick, another slow. In different things,
and at different times, the same boy or girl may exhibit
almost contradictory qualities, and yet there shall be
nothing in all this that ought to be construed into a
fault, or that should call for even a rebuke. Patience
here will be lost in a maze, to which discrimination alone
can furnish the clue. And that not always, for we have
the word of inspiration to assure us that " the heart is
deceitful above all things;" but in general, perhaps, the
heart of a child may be pretty correctly read by those
who do not, idly or contemptuously, neglect its study.
At all events, it is better to be credulous than incredu-
lous better that a child should ten times escape the
just, punishment of a fault through an excess of patience,
than be once unjustly punished through want of discrimi-
nation. The memory of the injustice will rankle in the
soul, and produce worse fruits there, tenfold, in after
yoars, than will spring from the consciousness of having
committed faults innumerable with impunity.
Teachers or parents never will or can deal wisely with
a child, unless they dispense with impulse, and scruti-
nise, in every possible way, what appears worthy of
condemnation ; and the best way to follow out this scru-
tiny is mentally to change places with the offender t(
be a child again to divest one's self of all but a childial
'
Ilf BE PATIENT WITH CHILDREN.
judgment and capacity to throw back one's self upon
childish views and feelings and to submit to be guided
by childish reasonings ; and then, after all, if there be a
doubt, to give the child the benefit of that doubt.
But, 0, what a deal of trouble is all this !
Very well, , we are not thinking about your
trouble, but about the child's good. Though, as to trouble,
the best way of doing anything is the least troublesome
way in the end. But by trouble you mean pains-taking,
time, and attention, and regard to the ultimate object.
Now, can anything in the world, worth doing, be well
and properly accomplished without these ? Can a pud-
ding be made, or a pig be fed, or a beard be shaven
without these ?
Trouble ! Shame upon those who, under the selfish,
but vain plea of saving themselves trouble present
trouble make trouble for others in after years ! Let
them do anything, be anything, rather than teachers of
the young.
This is an inexhaustible subject the right training
of children ; we have written about it before, and we
may have occasion to revert to it again and again.
Meanwhile, as illustrative of the foregoing remarks, we
quote an instructive passage from a work on " Private
Education."
" How can you be so stupid ?" said a governess to her
pupil ; "why do you not do your sum properly? It is
very easy, and you don't try to do it well."
" My sum was right at first, and now I have done it
ever so many times, I really cannot understand it,"
replied the child.
BE PATIENT WITH CHILDREN. 11
" I shall make you finish it," said the governess ;
"and not allow you to have any recreation till it is
correct."
The child burst into tears, saying she did not know
how it was, but she felt so stupid. She, however, sat
down, and once more began the sum ; but, this time,
every figure was wrong.
The governess grew very angry, and said the naughty
girl should not only begin it again, but do two more as
a punishment for such obstinacy.
The child made another attempt, and was desired to
do it aloud.
"Four farthings make a shilling," said the child.
"What!" exclaimed the governess; "four farthings
make a shilling ! How dare you be so stupid ? You do
it on purpose. I shall certainly complain to your
mamma.
"Indeed, indeed," sobbed the child, "I will try to do
it properly ; I see I am wrong, very wrong ; I mean to
say, twelve farthings make a penny."
The governess could bear it no longer ; she rose, and
was about to threaten some severe punishment, when the
mother entered the room, and, seeing the child in tears,
Raid,
"What is the matter with my little Emma? Seven
o'clock, and lessons not finished ! I am going to dinner,
and you will not be ready for dessert."
" I am not to go down stairs this evening," replied
the weeping child ; " I cannot do my sum."
The governess, till then silent, confirmed this " I
cannot allow Miss Emma any recreation." she said; and
12 BE PATIENT WITH CHILDREN.
drawing out her watch, added, "it is now seven o'clock,
the has been five hours with a slate in her hand, and has
not yet done her sum. I am sorry to say she is very
obstinate, and persists in asserting that four farthings
make a shilling, and that twelve farthings make a
penny !"
The child stared vacantly, and did not contradict her
governess, but looked as if not conscious of the mistake
she had made. The mother, evidently suffering at see-
ing her child's swollen eyes, and convinced of the mis-
management, merely said,
" I am sorry to find Emma has given cause for dis
pleasure, and beg she may be sent to bed immediately ;
to-morrow, I trust, she will endeavour to be more atten-
tive."
The child obeyed, sobbing, " Good-night, mamma."
As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Y., an excellent and
judicious parent, pointed out, in gentle language, the
error committed :
" You will probably think, Miss H., that a mother's
feelings mislead me ; but I must candidly say, I do not
think Emma has been so much to blame. You have
shown ill-judged severity in keeping her so long at the
same lesson. I give you credit for your good intentions,
but believe me you are mistaken. The attention, fixed
for such a length of time, loses its power ; and I am
persuaded that Emma will do her sum right to-morrow
morning, provided no threats are made ; but if her
thoughts be occupied with the punishment she has to
dread, it is not probable she can give undivided atten-
tion to any study, much less to arithmetic, which admits
GOVERNING CHILDREN. 13
of no error. I do not think Emma deserved to be pun-
ished ; she had no power of doing better. It is evident,
from her saying that four farthings make a shilling, and
twelve farthings make a penny, that she was much puz-
zled ; and I beg that another time, under similar circum-
stances, she may be made to leave off her lesson. When
I sent her to bed, and appeared displeased, it was to
uphold your authority ; I should not have had the cour-
age to inflict any other punishment ; but the child was
so fatigued I thought it could do her no harm, and hope
she is already asleep, as I fear she has been over-ex-
erted."
The governess made no reply ; she felt the truth of
the observations, and was grateful for the manner in
which they had been conveyed.
The following morning the little girl, refreshed by
sleep, and recovering the use of her faculties, did her
sum without a single mistake, and begged, as a reward,
that she might be allowed to go and show it to her
mamrna.
GOVERNING CHILDREN.
" I'LL not live in this way !" exclaimed Mrs. Lyon,
passionately. " Such disorder, wrangling, and irregu-
larity, rob me of all peace ; and make the house a bed-
lam, instead of a quiet home. Tom !" she spoke
eharplv to a bright little fellow, who was pounding away
with a wooden hammer on a chair, and making a most
14 GOVERNING CHILDREN.
intolerable Jin; "stop that noise, this instant?! And
you. Em', not a word more from your lips. If you
can't live in peace with your sister, I'll separate you.
D'ye hear ! Hush, this instant !"
" Then make Jule give me my pincushion. She's got
it in her pocket."
" It's no such thing ; I haven't," retorted Julia.
" You have, I say."
"I tell you I haven't!"
" Will you hush ?" The face of Mrs. Lyon was fiery
red ; and she stamped upon the floor, as she spoke.
" I want my pincushion. Make Jule give me my
pincushion."
Irritated, beyond control, Mrs. Lyon caught Julia by
the arm ; and thrusting her hand into her pocket, drew
out a, thimble, a piece of lace, and a penknife.
" I told you it wasn't there ! Couldn't you believe
me?"
This impertinence was more than the mother could
endure; and, acting from her indignant impulses, she
boxed the ears of Julia, soundly. Conscious, at the
same time, that Emily was chiefly to blame for all this
trouble, by a wrong accusation of her sister ; she turned
upon her, also, administering an equal punishment.
Frightened by all this, the younger children, whose
incessant noise, for the last hour, had contributed to the
overthrow of their mother's temper, became suddenly
quiet, and skulked away into corners and the baby,
that was seated on the floor, between two pillows, curved
her quivering lips, and glanced fearfully up at the dis-
GOVERNING CHILDREN. 15
torted face in which she had been used to see the love-
light that made her heaven.
A deep quiet followed this burst of passion ; like the
hush which succeeds the storm. Alas, for the evil traces
that were left behind ! Alas, for the repulsive image
of that mother, daguerreotyed in an instant, on the
memory of her children, and never to be effaced ! How
many, many times, in after years, will not a sigh heave
their bosoms, as that painful reflection looks out upon
them from amid the dear remembrances of childhood.
A woman of good impulses, but with scarcely any
self-control, was Mrs. Lyon. She loved her children,
and desired their good. That they showed so little for-
bearance one with the other, manifested so little frater-
nal affection, grieved her deeply.
" My whole life is made unhappy by it !" she would
often say. " What is to be done ? It is dreadful to
think of a family growing up in discord and disunion.
Sister at variance with sister; and brother lifting his
hand against brother."
As was usual after an ebullition of passion, Mrs.
Lyon, deeply depressed in spirits, as well as discouraged,
retired from her family to grieve and weep. Lifting the
frightened baby from the floor, she drew its head ten-
derly against her bosom ; and, leaving the nursery,
sought the quiet of her own room. There, in repent-
ance and humiliation, she recalled the stormy scene
t'nrough which she had just passed ; and blamed herself
for yielding blindly to passion, instead of meeting tho
trouble among her children with a quiet discrimination.
To weeping, calmness succeeded. Still she was per-
16 GOVERNING CHILDREN.
plcxcd in mind, as well as grieved at her own want of
sell-control What was to be done with her children ?
How were they to be governed aright ? Painfully did
she feel her own unfitness for the task. By this time
the baby was asleep, and the mother felt something of
that tranquil peace that every true mother knows, when
a young babe is slumbering on her bosom. A book lny
on a shelf, near where she was sitting, and Mrs. Lyon,
scarcely conscious of the act, reached out her hand foi
the volume. She opened, without feeling any interest
in its contents ; but she had read only a few sentences,
when this remark arrested her attention.
" All right government of children begins with self-
government."
The words seemed written for her ; and the truth
expressed, was elevated instantly into perception. She
saw it in the clearest light ; and closed the book, and
bowed her head in sad acknowledgment of her own
errors. Thus, for some time, she had been sitting, when
the murmur of voices from below grew more and more
distinct, and she was soon aroused to the painful fact,
that, as usual, when left alone, the children were wrang-
ling among themselves. Various noises, as of pounding
on, and throwing about chairs, and other pieces of fur-
niture, were heard ; and, at length, a loud scream, min-
gled with angry vociferations, smote upon her ears.
Indignation swelled instantly in the heart of Mrs.
Lyon ; hurriedly placing the sleeping babe in its crib, she
started for the scene of disorder, moved by an impulse
to punish severely the young rebels against all authority :
and was half-way down the stairs, when her feet were
GOVERNING CHILDREN. 17
checked by a remembrance of the sentiment ' All right
government of children begins with self-government."
" Will anger subdue anger ? "When storm im ets
Ptorm, is the tempest stilled ?" These were the questions
asked of herself, almost involuntarily. " This is no
spirit in which to meet my children. It never has, never
will enforce order anl obedience," she added, as she
stood upon the stairs, struggling with herself, and striving
for the victory. From the nursery came louder sounds
of disorder. How weak the mother felt ! Yet, in this
very weakness was strength.
" I must not stand idly here," she said, as a sharper
cry of anger smote her ears ; and so she moved on
quickly, and opening the nursery door, stood revealed
to her children. Julia had just raised her hand to strike
Emily, who stood confronting her with a fiery face.
Both were a little startled at their mother's sudden
appearance ; and both, expecting the storm that usually
came at such times, began to assume the defiant, stuL-
born air with which her intemperate reproofs were
always met.
A few moments did Mrs. Lyon stand looking at her
children grief, not anger upon her pale countenance.
How still all became ! What a look of wonder came
gradually into the children's faces, as they glanced one
at the other ! Something of shame was next visible.
And now, the mother was conscious of a new power ove?
the ycung rebels of her household.
"Emily," said she, speaking mildly, yet with a touch
of sorrow in her voice that she could not subdue ; " I
2
18 GOVERNING CHILDREN.
wish you would go up into my room, and sit with Mary
while she sleeps."
Without a sign of opposition, or even reluctance, Emily
went quietly from the nursery, in obedience to her mo-
ther's desire.
" This room is very much in disorder, Julia."
Many times had Mrs. Lyon said, under like circum-
stances, "Why don't you put things to rights?" or "I
never saw such girls ! If all in the room was topsy
turvey, and the floor an inch thick with dirt, you'd never
turn over a hand to put things in order ;" or, " Go and
get the broom, this minute, and sweep up the room.
You're the laziest girl that ever lived." Many, many
times, as we have said, had such language been addressed
by Mrs. Lyon, under like circumstances, to Julia and
her sisters, without producing anything better than a
grumbling, partial execution of her wishes. But now,
the mild intimation that the room was in disorder, pro-
duced all the effects desired. Julia went quickly about
the work of restoring things to their right places ; and,
in a little while, order was apparent where confusion
reigned before. Little Tommy, whose love of hammering
was an incessant annoyance to his mother, had ceased
his din on her sudden appearance, and, for a few mo-
ments, stood in expectation of a boxed ear ; for a time
he was puzzled to understand the new aspect of affairs.
Finding that he was not under the ban, as usual, he
commenced slapping a stick over the top of an old table,
making a most ear-piercing noise. Instantly Julia said,
in a low voice, to him,
GOVERNING CHILDREN. 19
" Don't, Tommy, don't do that. You know it makes
irother's head ache."
" Does it make your head ache, mother ?" asked the
child, curiously, and with a pitying tone in his voice, as
he came creeping up to his mother's side, and looking at
her as if in doubt whether he would be repulsed or not.
" Sometimes it does, my son," replied Mrs. Lyon,
kindly ; " and it is always unpleasant. Won't you try
to play without making so much noise ?"
"Yes, mother, I'll try," answered the little fellow,
cheerfully. "But I'll forget sometimes."
He looked earnestly at his mother, as if something
more was in his thoughts.
"Well, dear, what else?" said she encouragingly.
" When I forget, you'll tell me ; won't you?"
"Yes, love."
"And then I'll stop. But don't scoll me, mother;
for then I can't stop."
Mrs. Lyon's heart was touched. She caught her
breath, and bent he/ face down, to com eal its expres-
sion, until it rested on the silken hair of the child.
" Be a good boy, Tommy, and mother ,vill never scold
you any more;" she murmured gently, ij his ears.
His arms stole upwards, and as tht.y were twined
closely about her neck, he pressed his lip^ tightly against
her chek thus sealing his part of the contract with a
kiss.
How sweet to the mother's taste were these first fruit?
of self-control ! In the effort to govern herself, what a
power had she acquired ! In stilling the tempest of
DISCIPLINE.
passion in her own bosom, she had poured the cil of
peace over the storm-fretted hearts of her children.
Only first fruits were these. In all her after days did
that mother strive with herself, ere she entered into a
contest with the inherited evils of her children ; and
just so far as she was able to overcome evil in herself,
was she able to overcome evil in them. Often, very
often, did she fall back into old states ; and often, very
often, was self-resistance only a light effort ; but the
feeble influence for good that flowed from her words or
actions, whenever this was so, warned her of error, and
prompted a more vigorous self-control. Need it be said,
that she had an abundant reward ?
DISCIPLINE.
No parent, who reads the following, can fail to be
impressed with the benefits of that "Discipline," the
foundation of which is mildness, gentleness, and love.
Those of us who have " little Marys" and " little bro-
thers," to rear up for usefulness, may take a hint from
this finely-constructed sketch, and go and do likewise.
Little Mary once struck her brother during my ab-
sence from the house. The stick in her hand had a
sharp knot, which went clear through his cheek, making
an ugly gash. The blood flowed in a stream, the boy
screamed piteously, and Mary was exceedingly alarmed.
She had no animosity against her little playmate ; on
the contrary, she loved him dearly, und when her mo-
DISCIPLINE. 21
ther, who was called to the room by his screams, came
in, her little daughter had thrown her arms around his
neck, and was joining her cries to his, while the red
blood poured full in her face. When mother had made
inquiries, she took the boy away to dress the wound,
and the girl went up stairs without a word, and crept
under the bed. There she sat and sobbed for several
hours. Her mother, discovering where she had gone,
said not a word to her, believing that it was best to
leave her for the present alone. Her own heart was
much pained to hear her dear child's grief, but she was
willing to let her suffer for a while, in hopes that it might
be made a lasting lesson to her.
I came in a little while before night, and learned how
matters stood. It was a season to me of great interest
and responsibility. Upon my own action here might
depend the future conduct of this child. Her violent
temper had been often checked by punishment, and she
had been frequently enough told of its evil consequences.
Now it had led her to a great crime, and if not at once
restrained, my little daughter might grow up wicked and
miserable.
I considered awhile how I should act, and having
humbly asked guidance of the Father of all, I took my
seat in the room where the affair had happened, and
took the knotty stick in my hand. Then I called out
in a kind voice, " Sister, come here to pa." She was
always an obedient girl, and she instantly crept out and
came down to me. Never shall I forget the expression
of her countenance as she looked in my face. She had
wept until her eyes were greatly inflamed, but they were
22 DISCIPLINE.
dry, and in her face was a look of the most profound
humility and grief that I ever saw. She walked slowly
to my side and bowed her head on my knees. I said,
" My daughter, some naughty person has hurt your little
brother very much. His cheek is cut open, and I think
there will always be a scar there as long as he lives.
Will my daughter tell me who did it ?" I heard a little
sob, and then she whispered, " It was me." I continued,
" If the stick had struck his eye, he would have been
made blind." She commenced weeping. I said, "If
it had struck his temple, it might have killed him."
She gave a low scream, and said, " 0, pa !" I continued,
" Yes : the blow you struck would have killed your bro-
ther if some one had not turned it aside. There was
some one in the room who saw how angry my daughter
was, and when she struck the sharp knotty stick into
her brother's face, he turned it aside, and saved his life.
Do you know who it was ?" She looked up into my
face with a look of almost happiness, and said, " It was
God, pa." "Yes," I continued, "no one but God could
have done it. He has saved my boy's life, but how
sorry He must be that any little girl can have so bad
a heart as you have ! God never can love the bad girl
in this world or in the next."
She wept now more bitterly than before. I took her
hani, and led her into the room where her brother lay
asleep. His face was bound up, and it was very pale.
I asked her softly, " Is little brother alive yet ?" She
started as if smitten with a horrible thought, and uttered
an ejaculation of grief. This awoke the boy, who, cast-
ing his eyes about, and seeing Mary bathed in tears,
MY STEP-MOTHER. 23
reached out his arras and called her. It was electric,
and hardened must have been the heart which could be-
hold this sweet reconciliation without tears.
That night, as we bowed around the sacred altar of
family service, tender hearts were ours, and the angels
who watched to carry our offerings upward, saw the
tear-drops glittering in the fire-light, and heard low sobs
as we united to ask the seal of God's approbation upon
this reconciliation on earth.
MY STEP-MOTHER.
" WHY, Annie ! child, you have been a long time
away who have you with you ? I was becoming alarm-
ed at your long stay."
" It is Jane Benson, mother," was the reply, as Annie
hurried across the room, still holding Jane's hand. " Oh,
mother, Mr. Benson is going to be married, and Jane's
heart is almost broken. To have a hateful step-mother !
Oh, mother, is it not a pity ?"
Mrs. Carleton raised herself from the sofa, and draw-
ing Jane, who was sobbing, to her, she made her sit
down beside her, and then said,
" Is this really true, Jane ? Perhaps you nwy be
mistaken."
" No, ma'am ! Father told us yesterday, himselt. I
do wish I was dead I am sure I shall never like her,"
added she, sobbing bitterly. Mrs. Carleton soothed her.
24 MY STEP-MOTHER.
and then asked if she knew the name of the lady ? June
told it, but Mrs. Carleton had never heard it before.
" But, mother, don't you pity Jane? Ought not Mr.
Benson to ba ashamed to marry again?" demanded
Annie.
" Why, no !" said Mrs. Carleton. " Mr. Benson has
undoubtedly a right to marry again, and perhaps Jane
may, some of these days, be very thankful that he has
done so. It all depends on the person whom he marries.
If she is kind and good, I shall congratulate Jane with
my whole heart, instead of being grieved for her."
" Kind and good !" echoed Annie ; " why I thought all
step-mothers were cross and hateful."
*' Did you, Annie ? I suspect you did not think much
about it ; but I am sorry to hear my daughter speak so
harshly ; especially as I owe to my step-mother what-
ever is amiable in my character."
" Yours, dear mother ? Had you a step-mother ? Is
not grandma your own mother ?"
" I could not possibly have loved my own mother
more ; and yet she certainly is one of the race you
choose to call cross and hateful. Could I have supposed,
for an instant, that you indulged in such violent preju-
dices, I would have tried to remove them before, but I
will now tell you how mine were overcome, for I must
begin by confessing that I had them to as great an ex-
tent as yourself. It may be of service to Jane, too."
" Please stop, mother, until I bring a cushion to sit
on ;" which being done, Annie seated herself on the
floor at her mother's feet, and Jane sliding down beside
her, they watched Mrs. Carleton's face with extreme
MY STEP-MOTHER. 25
interest. After a slight pause, as if to consider, she
began :
" My mother died when my brother Frank was thir-
teen years old. I was eleven; and then came the little
Ellen, everybody's pet, who was about three years old.
We were all that was left of a large family. My mo-
ther, some years before her death, secured the services
of a distant connexion, who acted as a sort of house-
keeper, and who went by the name of ' Cousin Sally.'
As a housekeeper, she was invaluable ; nothing was
wasted ; the house was in perfect order ; our clothes
were attended to, and my mother seemed to think she
was highly favoured in securing, at any price, such a
pattern of housekeepers.
" It was more than two years after the death of my
mother, that our household was thrown in a great conster-
nation by the arrival of two letters from my father to
Cousin Sally and Frank, stating that he would be mar-
ried in a week, and in a few more bring home his bride.
Frank's letter was kindness itself, and it begged him to
reconcile me to what was now inevitable, and to endea-
vour to remove prejudices from my mind that could only
last until we were mutually acquainted. The one to
Cousin Sally contained a wish that she should retain the
game situation, but if it was disagreeable to her, an offer
of a year's salary in consideration of her kindness to
us. To have heard Cousin Sally, a stranger would have
thought that she had intended filling my mother's place
herself, but such was not the case. In her opinion we
wore getting along very quietly, and now a stranger was
26 MY STEP-MOTHER.
coming tc make us all uncomfortable She would break
out with
" * She (the bride) could not be any great things, to
come in that way into a man's house and turn all things
upside down, she only wondered where some people
got their assurance ; she knew that she must be a bold
iind forward piece, for Mr. Ross would never have
thought of marrying, if some one had not put it in his
head. Now, she would come and spoil all the comfort
we had ; but as Mr. Ross had said she (Cousin Sally)
should do as she pleased, she meant to stay, and not let
the children be cowed down by any step-mother.'
" It was in vain Frank urged that his father had
spoken of his future wife's good temper. Cousin Sally
Baid a woman would be a fool to show temper before mar-
riage ; she only hoped she would not live to see Frank
change his mind which wish did not seem to be exactly
sincere.
" I listened to all that was said, as though it had been
uttered by an oracle, though I did not know much about
oracles in those days, and made up my mind never to
like my step-mother.
" When we were alone, and Frank besought me to
wait and see, I was only the more determined to dislike
her, and we were a wretched set during the week that
passed ere their arrival.
" How distinctly," continued Mrs. Carleton, " I re-
member the whole scene ! It seems but the other day
that we were seated in the parlour, awaiting their arrival.
The lamps were lighted, and Frank sat reading, or pre-
tending to read. Nelly sat on the floor with her doll
MY STEP-MOTHER. 27
and seemed afraid of coming in the door, by the glaneea
she gave. I (with a face swelled from continual crying),
having tried each seat in the room, had worked myself
in a passion at Frank's hardness of heart. He had done
all he could to soothe me, and had left me from sheer
inability to propose any other plan.
" At last the door opened, and my father entered,
leading in a lady. She was about middle size, plainly,
but richly dressed. Frank went forward, but, though I
rose, I remained standing in the same place. The lady
held out her hand, and said,
" ' I have the advantage, Frank ! I have heard so
much about you, I feel as if I had known you a long
time.' It was not the words she spoke, but the manner
that won Frank's heart. It said, ' I have heard nothing
but what does you credit.' She appeared to be quite
content with the expression of his crimsoned face, as he
kissed the hand he held.
" ' Annie !' said my father, but I did not move.
" ' Annie's head has been so bad, all day,' said Frank,
kindly.
" ' My poor child,' said she ; ' and you have been sit-
ting up so late for us,' and she bent down and kissed
my forehead. ' You seem quite feverish ;' but, turning
away, I threw myself into my father's arms and cried
bitterly.
" Again and again he pressed me to him, and expressed
his sorrow for my headache, while Frank was assisting
his new mother to make friends with Nelly, who, after
one of those scrutinizing looks that children can give,
28 MY STEP-MOTHER.
allowed herself to be taken up on her lap, and smilingly
answered all questions.
*' Cousin Sally was asked for, and presented ; but, al-
though she could find no fault with her reception, yet
she declared it was all make believe, as she undressed
me on going to bed.
" The next day my step-mother made many attempts
to conciliate me, and at last proposed my showing her
the house. I obeyed, of course, and when we were in
my room, she seated herself, and putting her arm around
me, said,
" ' I am sorry, dear Annie, that you seem so un-
friendly towards me. I do not wonder at your reluc-
tance to see any one fill your mother's place, nor do I
expect you to love me at once. Try, dear Annie, to
look on me as a friend, who will do all in her power to
make you happy. Do not give way to dislike without
jause. If not for my sake, try and love me for your
father's ; will you not ?"
" I have often wondered since, how I could have re-
sisted her pleadings. My feelings were rapidly thawing,
when Cousin Sally's speeches about the deceitfulness of
step-mothers flashed across my brain, and to her evi-
dent sorrow and surprise, I turned coldly away.
" How often, since, I have wondered at her patience,
and thought how much she must have loved my father,
to have endured all that I made her suffei, and yet never
to complain to him ! Was it to be wondered at that her
neart turned to Frank and Nelly, who almost adored her ?
Sometimes, when obliged by a strong sense of duty to
curb and restrain me, I always had ample revenge in her
MY STEP-MOTHER. 2S
look of regret, is I turned away, saying, ' If you were
iny own mother you would not d) so.'
" Do not imagine, my dear children," said Mrs.
Carleton, " that I really thought so for, in general,
children have a keen sense of justice ; but Cousin
Sally always took my part, and inwardly made use of
the words ' It is easy to see you are not one of her
children.' As to Frank and Nelly's going over to the
enemy, as she termed it, she regarded it as a personal
insult.
" Time passed on spring had come, when Frank re-
turned home one day, complaining of sickness and pain
in his head ; he threw himself on the sofa, refusing to
go to bed, as he said he would be sure to imagine him-
self very ill. My step-mother brought pillows, and
gave order that no visiters should be admitted. Frank
was restless, and complained he could not find an easy
position.
" ' Let me sit in the corner, Frank,' said she. Putting
a pillow on her lap, she gently laid his head on it, and
commenced smoothing his curls with her cornb.
" ' Thank you ! how cool your hands feel ! please
comb on, it feels so soothing,' said he, as he at last lay
quiet and finally dropped to sleep. Nelly and I went
out of the room, and, about an hour after, father came
home. He seemed much surprised, and sent for the
doctor, who said it might be the measles, and that a few
hour? would decide. My father asked if he would re-
commend Nelly and me to leave the house. The doctor
would not hear of it. The best thing for us was to have
them uow as the season was favourable, and he approved
80 MY STEP-MOTHER.
of children's having them, if possible, when young.
Frank was delirious all night. The doctor came early,
and seemed very anxious.
" But it is useless to dwell on the details. He was
dangerously ill, and my step-mother nursed him night
and day. At length the doctor pronounced him out of
danger, and said he only required her care. After he
had gone, Frank complained that his pillows were not
comfortable : my step-mother raised his head, but, not
pleasing him, said,
" ' Support yourself by clasping your arms round my
neck. I can then have both hands free, dear Frank.'
" He did so, and, after making the desired change,
instead of loosening his hold, he drew her face to his.
<aying,
" ' You could not do more for me, if I was your own
xm.'
" * I certainly think I could not love you more,
Frank !'
" Frank was too weak to do more than kiss the cheek
he still held pressed against his own, and murmured,
softly,
"'My dea- mother!'
" Her eyes filled with tears, as she turned away ; but
catching a glimpse of me, as I sat crouching in the easy-
chair, she said,
" * Frank ! here is Annie, come to congratulate you.'
"Frank looked at me; and my step-mother, reaching
her hand out to mine, drew me towards them. Frank
kissed me, and holding a hand of each, he fell asleep.
Softly disengaging my hand, she said gently to me,
MY STEP-MOTHER. 3"
<; ' Run away, dear Annie ! it is too close in this room
for you.'
" I suppose I must have looked more gentle than
usual, for she kissed me, saying,
" ' Go ! my dear child.'
" For the first time in my life, I returned the kiss ;
and then, ashamed of having done so, looked more re-
pelling than ever, and left the room.
" Nelly next took the measles, but she had them very
lightly ; my turn came next, and 1 was sick, indeed !
" Cousin Sally would have constituted herself my solo
nurse ; but my step-mother would not allow it, nursing
me with the same unwearying kindness with which she
had nursed Frank.
" One evening I had been asleep, and, on opening my
eyes, ^und my father in the room, and in deep conver
versation with my step-mother. He was urging her to
take exercise in the open air ; he could see that she was
suffering for the want of it, and that Cousin Sally would
take all proper care of me. It was her answer that
made the great impression on me that I have never for-
gotten, as I watched her face by the changeful light of
the fire.
" My dear husband ! when I married you I made a
vow, as far as it was in my power, to endeavour to be a
mother to your children. Now, do you think if thev
were mine in reality, I would intrust them, when ill, to
any one, if I were able to nurse them myself? More
than that, I think Annie is beginning to love me. Do
you not think that is worth something more than an
ineonvor/'ence ? She would feel hurt if I left her now
32 MY STEP-MOTHER.
to the care of any one. We will soon have her loving
us as we love her."
" "Not till you have sent Cousin Sally away,' said
Frank, starting from my old hiding-place, the easy-chair,
* Father, come down in the study with me, I want to talk
with you;' so saying, he drew his astonished auditor out
of the room, whilst my step-mother followed them with
locks of great amazement then advancing to the bed,
she bent down to see if I were awake. As I made no
movement, and remained silent, she concluded I was
sleeping, and resumed her seat beside the fire.
" It seemed as if a veil had been removed from my
mind. For the first time I thought of her, free from
prejudice, and I prayed that God would spare me, that
I might love her as she deserved. Still, I gave no token
of what was passing in my mind, and a false shame pre-
vented me from saying ' Mother, I love you.'
" What passed between my father and Frank, of
course, at the time, I did not know. All that was told
me was, the doctor had ordered change of air, and, as
my step-mother came from a Southern city, it was pro-
posed to pay her relations a visit. We were all to go.
My father would escort us there, and bring us back. It
seemed to surprise them that I consented so willingly to
go, as no one had any idea of the change in my feel-
ings, and I could not venture to make any demonstra-
tion.
" My step-mother seemed radiant with happiness.
She was going to her mother, and she could show her
the new objects of her love. Frank and Nelly she was
io fond and so proud of. My faults would be hidden
MY STEP-MOTHER. 33
vtith the plea of illness. Her mother, who had objected
io the match on account of the children, would now see
vhat treasures they were.
" I bore the journey very well, and behaved so well
to the strangers, that when Nelly and I went to bed,
oiy step-mother praised and thanked me. As she sat
talking to us, before we all knelt down in prayer, with
her arm around me, I took courage and sakl,
" ' Mother, you pray to-night, and pray that I may
be a comfort to you, as well as Frank and Nelly.' Anc?
she did pray aloud for me, and thanked her Heavenly
Father that at last He had touched my heart, and that
I would always continue, in all times, in joy and in
trouble, to seek for such blessings as He alone could
give. It was a very simple prayer, adapted to the
wants of those for whom she prayed ; but, I can safely
nay, that, never since, has any prayer I ever heard, made
a greater impression on me. From that time, I felt free
to love her, and when we returned home and found that
Cousin Sally had gone to see her son in another state,
and that my father had, during our absence, removed
all the old servants, so that there was no one to uttei
the remarks again, I do not think there was a more
united fairly in the city. After the death of my
father, the greatest trial I ever had, was when my once
hated step-mother decided on living with Nelly, who
was a widow, and to whom the board of our mother was
an object.
" And now, Annie, do you pity Jane as much as you
did ? I advise you to wait and see the future Mrs. Ben
Bon ; and you, my dear Jane, I earnestly entreat, who
8
34 A MOTHER'S EYES.
angry thoughts rise, and they do in every bosom, think
how much pain I might have spared my mother and KJ-
eif, by not giving way to prejudice."
A MOTHER'S EYES.
A MOTHER'S eyes are magnets of the child,
To draw him up to boyhood ; then, like stars,
They are put out by meteoric youth
Dimming the pure calm of their holy ray.
A mother's eyes the grown-up man forgets,
As they had never been : with knitted brow,
The goddess pilot of Ambition's sea,
Steering his bark to islands all unknown
He never reaches. Lo ! in dismal wreck
Those isles are covered with the ghosts of ships
That only drift there through Oblivion's night,
Touching the shore in silence.
In old age,
Kemembrance from her portrait lifts the veil,
And then a mother's eyes look forth again,
And through the soul's dark windows gaze, liko <JATI
New lighted from the eky, and fill it thus
With thoughts of innocence and dreams of lav*,.
WHERE IS HEAVEN?
DURING on 3 of those still evenings in the very heart
of summer, when the twilight, deepening apace, seems
to withdraw the earth from us, and to bring the heavens
near, a mother and her little girl sat together by an
open window, and both looked up to the sky. The lady
was lost in thought ; but her child counted the stars to
a low, merry tone, singing " Two, six, ten, twenty, a
hundred, a hundred bright stars ! Oh, how many,
many, many! and how bright!" until, turning to her
mother, and grasping her dress to secure attention, she
exclaimed, with sudden energy, "Tell me, mother, is
Heaven in the stars?"
"Gently, Alice," said her mother. "In the stars?
No, certainly not."
" Where is it, then ? in the sky, between the stars ?
Do tell me where it is. Once you said you would tell
me when I was old enough to understand, and I think I
can understand now."
" Come here, then;" her mother replied, holding out
her arms to the little girl ; " sit quietly on my lap, and
I will tell you something about it ; but you must be very
attentive, because it is not easy for a little child to com-
prehend such great truths. You asked, just now, whe-
ther Heaven were in the stars. What did your father
tell you, yesterday, about the stars ?"
" He told me that some of them, but only just a very
few, were worlds something like our world, and that
36 WHERE IS HEAVEN?
they \tent round and round the sun, and had day and
oight and summer and winter. The rest, he said, vrere
great big suns, ever so far off, oh, so far off! nobody
knew how far some of them were ; and he had no doubt
there were worlds going round and round those suns too,
and people in the worlds, vho were put there to learn
what is good and true ; and he supposed they were
tempted to do wrong, and were sometimes unhappy, as
we are."
" Then, do you suppose Heaven is there?"
*' Oh no ! of course it is not. I did not think of
that!"
" No, my darling child, Heaven is not in any place
which we can see with our bodily eyes. We cannot
point with hands of flesh to the road that leads to that
country, nor walk along it with these feet. If you went
up into the depths of the sky, and searched it through,
from north to south, and from east to west, you would
not find Heaven there, nor meet one angel on your
way."
" Then, mother, are you sure there is a Heaven, if it
is not anywhere ?"
" Sure ? Yes, as sure as that I love you, and that
you love me. Do you love me ?"
" Why, mother, you know I do !"
" Are you sure ? Can you see your love ?"
"No."
" Can you lay hold of it with your hands ?"
" No."
" What shape is it, round or square ?"
WHEHE IS HEAVES ? 37
" I don't know," said Alice, laughing. " It is not any
ahape."
" Where is it ? can you tell me that ?"
"No, I am sure I cannot. It is all inside of me;
all inside my soul."
" Then you see there can be a real thing which you
cannot look at with your bodily eyes, nor touch with
these little hands, and which does not occupy any
earthly space, but which is still a real, true, living thing.
Just such a real, true thing is Heaven ; only it is a dif-
ferent kind of a thing, different kind of world from this
earth, and, like your love, does not fill natural space.
You say your love is inside your soul ; there, then, and
not on the earth, or among the stars, which lie all out-
side of it, you must look for the path that leads to
Heaven. If you pray to God, and try to do what you
know is pleasing in His sight, He will show it to you,
and lead you safely along it."
" Will He really show it to me ? and will it be beau-
tiful, all covered with flowers?"
"You know I told you we cannot see those things
with our bodily eyes ; but if you try to be a good girl,
God will put true thoughts, and gentle, loving feelings
into your heart, and they will guide you to Heaven,
where the pure and happy angels live."
' Could I see the angels with my eyes ?"
"Not with those eyes."
" But I have not got any other eyes."
" Yes, you have. Your spirit has eyes."
" I don't think it has, mother, for, when I shut these
two UD so," said Alice, pressing her lids so tightly to-
38 WHERE IS HEAVEN?
gether, that scarcely more than the tips of hei long
lashes were visible, " I cannot see one bit ; it is all
dark."
" That is because your spiritual eyes are closed."
" But why can I not open them ?"
" God has not given us the power to open them while
we are in this world ; and, if they were open, we could
no more see earthly things with them, than we can see
heavenly things with our bodily eyes."
" What should I see with them ?"
" Any spiritual thing that was near to you. Very
painful and ugly things, if you were naughty ; beautiful
things, and angels, if you were good. Do you not re-
member, how often, in the Bible, we are told of good
men who had their eyes opened, and saw, and talked
with angels ?"
"Yes," replied the little girl, and added, in a low
and reverent voice, " They saw the Lord, too, after He
had risen ; and He blessed them. He said ' Peace be
with you.' "
"Yes, love. All those holy things men saw with
their spiritual eyes, when it pleased God to open them."
" Why will He not open ours now, and let us see
angels ?"
" God loves us, my child, with an infinite love, and
if it were good for us He would ; but He does not, and
therefore we may know that it would do us harm. Do
you think, if you saw angels and other spiritual things
about you all the time, you could attend properly to
your lessons, und the other duties you have to perform
nere ?"
WHERE IS HEAVEN ? 39
"No," said Alice, "I do not think I could, for even
the little birds flying past make me look up from my
book."
After a long pause, during which her mother kept
silence, that the little one might have time to garner in
Her golden harvest of new thoughts, she looked up again,
end said with great earnestness, " Mother, I should like
to die."
Kissing tenderly the little upraised face, her mother
replied, " I hope, dear one, that you will like to die,
when it is God's will to take you ; but, remember, merely
dying does not take us to Heaven. You must be glad
and grateful to live ; you must make the very best use
you possibly can of the time God gives you, for it is
only so that we can become good and happy in this
world, or any world. And now, my darling, it is late,
and you must go to bed. Give me one more kiss ; and
do not forget to say your prayers before you go to sleep.
If you are a good girl, I will tell you more about Heaven
some other day. Good-night."
Little Alice went to bed full of thought ; but no
sooner had her innocent head touched the pillow, than
sbe was in a sound, sweet sleep.
A CHAPTER ON TEASING.
" MOTHER." said George Manson, " may I go \viin
the boys and skate on the great pond this evening r"
** No, George ; I do not like to have you go this
evening."
" Now, mother, do let me go ; it will be such a fine
evening, and the boys all want me to come."
" I do not think it best for you to go, George."
" Why not, mother ; why can't I go ?"
" You have a hard cold, and perhaps if you go, it will
make you so sick you will be unable to attend school for
several days."
" Oh, no, it won't make me sick, mother ; I am sure
it will not. My cold is not bad now, and it will be such
a beautiful evening ; do let me go, mother, do ; won't
you ?"
u I am afraid, my son, that the pond is not frozen
over hard enough."
"Yes, mother, it is. Only think what cola nijrbts
we have had ; besides, James Edwards is going, and his
father never lets him go when the ice is thin. Won't
you let me go, mother?"
" You had better wait till to-morrow night."
" But the boys are all going this evening, and perhaps
they will not go to-morrow night. Now, mother, only
say yes, to-night, and I will not ask you again this week."
" Was there ever such a teaser ! Do go ; for I am
A CHAPTER ON TEASING. 41
nure you will tease my life away if you stay at home ,
but do not complain if it makes you sick."
The next noon, Mrs. Hanson's eldest daughter camo
to ask her mother's permission to visit one of her young
friends. " Susan asked me to come this afternoon," said
Mary; "may I go?"
"No, you cannot go," said Mrs. Manson, as she sent
her away with a frown.
Now Mary was a girl of delicate feelings. She wag
by no means so fond of teasing as her mother supposed.
On the present occasion, as often before, she had quite
a struggle with herself, as to the course she should pur-
sue. On the one hand, she shrank from the task of
obtaining a reluctant consent from her mother by teasing ;
on the other hand, she very much wished to visit her
friend, and had reason to think, from past experience,
that she might obtain consent by means which had so
often proved successful. In the present instance, her
mother, who had half repented of refusing a request
which, on reflection, did not appear unreasonable, was
easily persuaded to withdraw her refusal, and give the
desired permission.
A few days after this, Mrs. Manson paid a visit to her
friend, Mrs. Day. "Mother," said Henry Day, when
he returned from school at night, " Edward Smith asked
me to come and see him next Saturday; may I go?"
" No, my son, you have been there very recently ; I
do not think it best for you to go again so soon."
" May I go out and slide with the boys till tea time ?'
"Yes, my dear, you may go."
"Mother," said Emma, "Cousin Sarah wishes me to
42 A CHAPTER ON TEASING.
spend the afternoon with her next Saturday; may I
go ?"
" Next Saturday, ray daughter, is some days ahead.
I cannot decide now ; hut come to me Saturday noon,
and I will let you know. I shall he happy to gratify
you if it is hest for you to go ; but if anything shou)d
occur to prevent, I hope my daughter will bear the dis-
appointment cheerfully."
When the children had left the room, Mrs. Manson
exclaimed, " I wish my children were like yours, Mrs.
Day. Do tell me if your children never tease. My
children wear me out teasing, from morning till night.
If my George had been in your Henry's place, he would
have given me no rest from now till Saturday noon, if I
had refused to let him go."
"My children," said Mrs. Day, "never tease; and
pardon me, my dear friend, if I say that when I see
teasing children, I always attribute the habit entirely to
the parents, regarding it as the natural effect of causes
which they have set in operation."
" I cannot agree with you. I think there is a great
difference in children. Some are the natural teasers. I
believe my children love to tease."
" Again I must differ from you. I do not believe
there is a child in the world who loves to tease. I think
teasing, itself, is naturally disagreeable to every child."
" Well, I certainly know that if teasing was disagree-
able to my children, they would not follow it so Inces-
santly as they do."
" I am by no means sure of that. We all often con-
Bent to do disagreeable things, if by that means we can
secure some favourite object. My own experience has
A CHAPTER ON TEASIMO. 43
convinced me that teasing is nearly or quite as disagree-
able to the teaser as to the teased. When I was a child,
J had the reputation of being a great teaser ; but I can
well recollect the reluctance with which I set about the
task of procuring my mother's consent to some favourite
scheme by this means. Like all children, I greatly de-
sired the indulgence which I sought to obtain, and I had
found by trial that my point was often obtained in this
way, and seldom in any other. Depend upon it, no child
will ever tease who has not been in the habit of gaining
something by it. Children will not work so hard for
nothing."
" I do not believe it would be possible to keep my
children from teasing. The other evening George was
bent upon going with the boys to skate upon the pond.
I did not like to have him go, as he had a bad cold, but
he teased every moment, till he obtained my consent."
" And can you think it strange if the next time he
wishes to gain your consent to his plans, he remembers
the circumstances, and is encouraged to try again ?
Henry would like very much to visit his friend next
Saturday ; but he is perfectly aware that, with his pa-
rents, no means NO ; and that no importunity changes
NO to YES ; and he does not think of making the at-
tempt."
" But sometimes I refuse my children, when after-
wards I am sorry I did so. What can one do, in such
a case?"
" I think, my friend, we should be very o.arcful never
inconsistently to refuse our children's requests. We
should remember that our decision, when once expressed,
44 A CHAPTER ON TEASING
ought to be, like the laws of the Medes and Persians,
unchangeable, and therefore we should not allow our
selves 'to be hasty in making known a decision which
cannot be repealed without serious injury to the child.
If it is evident that the request is reasonable, we should
always grant it with cheerful promptness. This will
gain the confidence of our children. They will come
openly and frankly with their requests, assured that we
shall not refuse them from mere caprice, and afterwards
yield to their importunity."
" But if you have inconsistently refused them a rea-
sonable request, may you never change your decision?"
" I think not. It will be better for them to abide by
it, while you learn the lesson to be more careful in
future."
"But suppose you cannot make up your mind, at
once?"
" Then name some future time when you will let them
know your decision, and let it be understood that no-
thing further is to be said to you on the subject till the
time arrives. Pursue this course with decision and per-
severance, and you may be assured that your children
will quit a habit which they find not only disagreeable,
but unprofitable. It greatly promotes the happiness of
our children to meet their requests in this prompt and
decided manner. You never saw a child in the act of
teasing, whose countenance did not express more or less
of a restless anxiety. He may gain his point by impor-
tunity, and he may not ; and in this way the mind is
often kept on the rack of suspense for hours, to the scri
ous injury of the temper and disposition of the child."
CHILDHOOD.
BE kind to the little .child. You cannot tell how ore
harsh word or unkind look will chill his heart, and fill
his eyes with tears. You may forget that the word has
been spoken, and endeavour by kind acts to win the child's
affections, but you may never be able to remove the impres-
sion which that look and word have made. Many people
suppose that children are less observing than older persons,
and they use language before them which they would con-
sider too "impolite" to be used before their friends and
acquaintances. This is a sad and fatal mistake. A child's
impressions are sometimes so lasting, that a whole life-
time's after experience is not able to remove them. Each
one may recall some of the feelings of childhood, which
have continued to the present time, and which a sober \
judgment has not been able to remove. Let the words
spoken to young children be gentle, loving words, which
we should not regret to have them remember in after
years. Let the child be treated with sincerity, and let
only the words of truth be addressed to him, for in this
way alone can he be taught to practise the truth in word
and action. If a slight deception is detected by a child,
he will not again trust you. No effort of yours can re-
etore that perfect confidence, which is one of the most
attractive attributes of childhood. Unkindness is indeed
an injury to the child, for it chills his warm affections,
and teaches him to feel misery, when God meant he should
be happy. But harshness is far better than deception,
46 CHILDHOOD.
for this robs the soul of its trust, and may i ob it of its
most precious jewel, the diamond truth.
We have read of a father who once promised his son
that he should be present at the blasting of a stone wall,
which was to take place at a certain time. The boy was
absent at the time, and the father, forgetting that he
had made the promise, allowed the blasting to take place
in his son's absence. The boy returned, and found that
his father had broken his plighted word. For the first
time in his life, his father had deceived him, and full of
injured feeling, his breast swelling with disappointed
hopes, he sought his father, and eagerly reminded him
of his promise.
For a moment the parent's brow was overcast. He
had forgotten his promise ; the heavy stone wall, with
great labour and expense, had been destroyed, and his
son had not witnessed its destruction. But what was
labour and expense compared to a father's truth ? Turn-
ing to the boy, he said, " I did promise you that you
should see the blasting, my son ; and you shall see it.
The wall shall be rebuilt, and my promise shall be per-
formed." Accordingly the wall was rebuilt, and the boy
learned that his father valued his word above all price,
and would spare no expense to keep a promise which he
had made his son. There are no lectures or essays
which this father could have spoken which would havt
impressed the value of truth upon his son's mind as
powerfully as did this single action.
The sorrows of childhood are o*ten called fleeting.
They are so. In most children the smile may be easily
called up in the midst of tears, and the sunshine and
KIND TO THE CHILD.
MAY BE SO. 47
clouds succeed each other very rapidly upon the face of
childhood. Yet, though transient, the chill's sorrows
are real sorrows ; and his little heart aches as truly as
if years had taught him more patience. He has less
philosophy, and has not yet learned to reason about his
grief, nor does he realize that the darkest night is often
just before day. For this very reason, he feels his sor-
row more keenly than if he were older and more philo-
sophical ; and sympathy in his griefs will be as sweet to
him as to one in the prime of life.
Then let the child receive sympathy in his sorrows,
and let us do all in our power to lighten his grief, and
soothe his pain, remembering that " Of such is the king-
dom of Heaven."
MAY BE SO.
' NEXT time you go out, you'll buy me a wagon, won't
you, mother?" said my little boy to me one day.
I didn't want to say "No," and destroy his happy
feelings, and I was not prepared to say " yes ;" and so
I gave the evasive reply so often used under such cir-
cumstances, "May be so," and which was meant rather
as a negative than an affirmative. The child was satis-
fied ; for he gave my words the meaning he wished them
to have. In a little Avhile after, I had forgotten all
aboat it. Not so my boy. To him the " may be so"
was "yes ;" and he set his heart confidently on receiving
the wagon the next time I should go out. This happened
48 MAY BE SO.
to le on the afternoon of that very day. It was towards
evening when I returned. The moment I rung the bell
at my own door, I heard his pattering feet and gleeful
voice in the entry.
" Where's my wagon ?" said he, as I entered, a shade
of disappointment falling suddenly upon his excited,
happy face.
" What wagon, dear?" I asked.
" My wagon. The wagon you promised to buy me."
"I didn't promise to buy a wagon, my son."
" Oh, yes, you did, mother ! You promised me this
morning."
Tears were already in his eye, and his face wore a
.ook of distressing disappointment.
" I promised to buy you a wagon ? I am sure I re-
member nothing about it," I replied confidently. " What
ia the world put that into your head?"
" Didn't I ask you ?" said the child, the tears now
overflowing his cheeks.
" Yes, I believe you did ask me something about a
vagon ; but I didn't promise to buy you one."
" Oh, yes you did, mother. You said May be so."
*' But 'may be so' doesn't mean yes."
At this the little fellow uttered a distressing cry.
His heart was almost broken by disappointment. He
had interpreted my words according to his own wishes,
aod not according to their real meaning.
Unprepared for an occurrence of this kind, I was not
in the cnood to sympathize with my child fully. To be met
tli as, at the moment of my return home, disturbed me.
"I (Tj-in't promise to buy you a wagon ; and you must
MAY BE SO 49
stop crying about it," said I, seeing that he had given
way to his feelings anl was crying in a loud voice.
But he cried on. I went up stairs to lay off my
things, and he followed, still crying.
"You must hush now," said I more positively. "I
cannot permit this. I never promised to buy you a
\vagon."
"You said may be so," sobbed the child.
" May be so, and yes, are two different things. If I
had said that I would buy you a wagon, then there would
have been some reason in your disappointment ; but I
said no such thing."
He had paused to listen ; but, as I ceased speaking,
his crying was renewed.
" You must stop this now. There is no use in it, and
I will not have it," said I resolutely.
My boy choked down for a few moments at this, and
half stifled his grief; but overmastering him, it flowed
on again as wildly as ever. I felt impatient.
" Stop this moment, I say !" And I took hold of his
arm firmly. My will is strong, and when a little excited
it often leads me beyond where I would go in moments
of reflection. My boy knew this by experience. By
my manner of speaking he saw that I was in earnest,
and that, if he did not obey me, punishment would fol-
low. So, with what must have been a powerful effort
for one so young, he stifled the utterance of his grief.
But the storm within raged none the less violently, and
I could see his little frame quiver as he strove to repress
the rising sobs.
Turning away from me, he went and sat down on a
4
60 MAT BE SO.
low seat in a corner of the room. I saw his form in tbfl
glass as I stood before it to arrange my hair, after laying
aside my bonnet ; and for the first time my feelings were
touched. There was an abandonment in his whole atti-
tude ; an air of grief about him that affected me with
pity and tenderness.
" Poor child !" I sighed. " His heart is almost
broken. I ought to have said yes or no ; and then all
would have been settled."
" Come," said I, after a few moments, reaching my
hand towards the child ; " let us go down and look out
for father. He will be home soon."
I spoke kindly and cheerfully. But he neither moved,
looked up, nor gave the smallest sign that he heard me.
" Oh, well," said I with some impatience in my voice,
" it doesn't matter at all. If you'd rather sit there than
come down into the parlour and look out for dear father,
you can please yourself."
And turning away as I spoke, I left the chamber, and
went down stairs. Seating myself at a window, I looked
forth, and endeavoured to feel unconcerned and cheerful.
But this was beyond my power. I saw nothing but the
form of my grieving child, and could think of nothing
but his sorrow and disappointment.
"Nancy," said I to one of my domestics, who hap-
pened to come into the parlour to ask me some question,
*' I wish you would run down to the tcy ;tore in tho
next block, and buy Neddy a wagon. His heart is
a'most broken about one."
The girl, always willing when kindly spoken to, ran
MAY BE 80. 51
off to obey my wishes, and in a little while came back
with the article wanted.
"Now," said I, "go up into my room, and tell Neddy
that I've got something for him. Don't mention the
wagon ; I want to take him by surprise."
Nancy went bounding up the stairs, and I placed the
wagon in the centre of the room, where it would meet
the child's eyes on the moment of his entrance ; and
then sat down to await his coming and enjoy his surprise
and delight.
After the lapse of about a minute, I heard Nancy
coming down slowly.
" Neddy's asleep," said she, looking in at the door.
"Asleep !" I felt greatly disappointed.
" Yes, ma'am. He was on the floor asleep. I took
him up and laid him in your bed."
" Then he's over his troubles," said I, attempting to
find a relief for my feelings in this utterance. But no
such relief came.
Taking the wagon in my hand, I went up to the
chamber where he lay, and bent over him. The signs
of grief were still upon his innocent face, and every
now and then a faint sigh or sob gave evidence that even
sleep had not yet hushed, entirely, the storm which had
swept over him.
"Neddy !" I spoke to him in a voice of tenderness,
hoping that my words might reach his ear. " Neddy,
dear, I've bought you a wagon."
But his senses were locked. Taking him up, I un-
dressed him, an(J then, after kissing his lips, brow, and
b"l MAY BE SO.
cheeks, laid him in his little bed, and placed the \ragon
on the pillow beside him.
Even until the late hour at which I retired on that even-
ing, were my feelings oppressed by the incident I have
described. My " May be so," uttered in order to avoid
giving the direct answer my child wanted, had occasioned
him far more pain than a positive refusal of his request
could have done.
" I will be more careful in future," said I, as I lay
thinking about the occurrence, "how I create false
hopes. My yea shall be yea, and my nay, nay. Of
these, cometh not evil."
In the morning when I awoke, I found Neddy in pos-
session of his wagon. He was running with it around
the room, as happy as if a tear had never been upon his
cheek. I looked at him for many minutes without speak-
ing. At last, seeing that I was awake, he bounded up
to the bedside, and, kissing me, said,
" Thank you, dear mother, for buying me this wagon !
You are a good mother !"
I must own to having felt some doubts on the subject
of Neddy's compliment, at the time. Since this little
experience, I have been more careful how I answer the
petitions of my children; and avoid the "May be so,"
" I'll see about it," and other such evasive ansAvers that
come so readily to the lips. The good result I have
jxperien^ed in mar y instances.
LA-
ARE YOU A PARENT?
AND if so, what lessons are you teaching that child
who is so fondly looking to you for guidance, who is
listening to catch the first syllable that falls from your
lips, and who is ready to copy the first example you may
unconsciously present? Perhaps in the arms of the
mother there reposes the first and only one. It is yet
innocent; within its little bosom a heart beats "gently,
but it is a heart uncontaminated by sin, and undisturbed
by care. It knows nothing of the conflicting elements
of this wicked world, and as the mother gazes upon its
sinless form, she firmly resolves, and the father assents,
that the lessons of temperance, morality, and truth,
shall early and faithfully be instilled into its young
heart, and that no effort shall be wanting to rear it for
usefulness to society and the world.
A few years pass away, but during this time the mind
of that child has not been inactive. It has been allowed
to mingle with others of its age ; its range of observa-
tion has been growing wider and still wider since it left
the arms of its mother ; its busy feet have been active
to over-step a little the limits which have been carefully
assigned it. A second and third child have since been
given, and the cares and anxieties of the parents conse-
quently increased. There are three, now, instead of
one, over which parental guardianship is to be exercised,
and perhaps the business and cares of life have increased
54 ARE YOU A PARENT ?
three f>ld in other respects. Now neglect begins to
show itself, and the sad effect of this neglect is too soon
apparent in the oldest child ; and his influence upon the
younger children is of a depressing, rather than an ele-
vating character. Parental neglect opens the way for
evil influence from another source. The child seeks
companionship, and too frequently finds, in grown up
persons, of vicious inclinations and habits, teachers,
whose instruction is of the most fatal character. To
all parents let us say : Beware lest others corrupt the
trusting hearts of your children, and lead them away
from the paths of rectitude ; lest others sow tares among
the wheat of innocence and virtue. The unoccupied
minds of your children are fields in which duty calls
you to labour ; and if you omit to teach them the great
lessons of self-denial, if you fail to impress upon their
minds and hearts a supreme regard for truth and virtue,
you commit them to the boisterous ocean of life without
a rudder, liable to be wrecked at every gale. We urge
it as a duty incumbent on parents to give their children
" line upon line, precept upon precept ;" not continuing
for a month nor a year only, but until mature age re-
moves them from parental guardianship. Thus you will
discharge a duty which, if faithfully attended to, will
insure you the lasting gratitude and respect of your off
spring, who will " rise up and call you blessed."
CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
A LITTLE cottage stood in a dark pine wood. It Maa
a wild December evening, and the snow fell in large
flakes on the low roof, and on the forest around. Light,
however, shone from its little window, and lighted up
the pine-trees which stretched forth their snow-laden
branches towards the casement, and lit up the dismal
wood outside, where the wolf sat and cried, hu, hu, hu !
The fire blazed merrily within the little one-roomed
cottage, and merrily curled the blue smoke as it rose
from the chimney, and fire sparks danced about with
the snow-flakes which giddily tumbled down the chimney
into the pan of meal porridge which stood and muttered
over the fire, and thus they first tasted of the Christmas
entertainment. For it was Christmas porridge which
now stood and boiled on the hearth ; and this was no
other than Christmas eve, and at this very time, food
was preparing for the whole of the holidays. It was
not food for the rich man's table, of that you may bo
sure ; it was only for a peasant woman, and she a widow,
who, with her children, lived here. Nevertheless, she
was about to celebrate Christmas in the best way she
could, and that was not to be despised, either. She had
bought for herself three pounds of meat, and this was
now boiling famously with parsley and celery, and pro-
mising to make the most savory soup, together with
delicious cabbage for Christmas day. A piece of
66 CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
Btock-fish also was lying in its pan, and was all in an
agitation, as if from delight of its own excellence.
On the table in the cottage there already stood the
Christmas cake, and the Christmas goblin,* that won-
derful beast which seems to say, " If you come here I
will gore you with my long, long horn !"
And thus would the Christmas goblin stand through
the whole of the Christmas holidays, and make a great
show among the Christmas meats, and then, when this
festival time was over, it would be laid, together with
the Christmas cake, in a chest where it would repose
until spring came, and the ploughing began, and then
they would take it and chop it to pieces, because the
Christmas goblin is a hard piece of clay, and give it to
the beasts of burden, to the oxen and horses, which have
to work in the fields, and which, it was believed, would
derive from this Christmas cake and goblin, such strength,
and such an inclination for labour, as nobody can believe.
Hence there would be abundant crops in the barns, a deal
of grist for the mill, and plenty of bread in the cupboard ;
and all this would be caused by the Christmas goblin
that wonderful beast !
Two children, a girl and a boy, jumped about the
room, and could hardly contain their joy on account of
Christmas eve, and the Christmas goblin, and the Christ-
mas meats which were cooking on the hearth, which filled
the whole room with their delicious odour, and on account
* The Christmas kuse, which, for lack of a better -word, I
ciMiislate goblin, does not represent an evil spirit, but is merely
the rude figure of some domestic animal, covered with jlaited
or twisted straw.
CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS. 57
of the Christmas matins, at which they were to be p re
sent with their mother. Brother Peter was to drive
them in the sledge with Polle ; the children had never
yet been out to Christmas matins, and could not imagine
what they were like, but they had heard that they were
something very grand and beautiful, and they were quite
sure that they were so, and moreover, that they were
prodigiously amusing.
Peter, however, stood cutting firewood for baking,
and thought to himself that they were not at all amus-
ing. The mother stood just by the hearth, and busy.
Why did she stand so close to the hearth, and turn her
face from the happy children ? The flames on the hearth
saw why : they saw that her countenance was not happy,
and that there were tears upon her cheeks. Why did
she turn her face away from the children ? Because she
would not cast a shade on their happiness. She could
not help it, however; she could not help thinking of her
husband, who died two months before, and how happy
she was last Christmas, when he was alive, and how kind
he was, and how he comforted her in his last moments,
and said, that if it were necessary that either husband
or wife must be removed by death, how much better it
was that it should be the husband, because the wife
could look after the children so much better than he
could.
The wife, however, now felt her lot to be a very heavy
one, and had many an anxiety for the future, and most
of all on account of the eldest son, her step-son Peter,
who hitherto had been out at service, but who had now
come home, since the father's death, to help the mother
* CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
in performing the village service.* And now, precisely
this very evening, when the mother had resolved for the
sake of the sacred time, and for the sake of the children,
to put away all anxious thoughts, precisely now have
they all come thick upon her, as thick and unceasing as
the snow-flakes, and when she shook them off, behold !
there they were again the next .moment, and made her
heart so heavy so very heavy ! It was, as it were,
under an evil spell.
But the children, little Erik and Maja, they could
think about nothing that was gloomy.
" Nay, only look at the goblin, Maja ! See how he
glares at you with his big eyes ! Take care ! he will
gore you if you only touch him. He says, ' If you
come here I will run you through with my long, long
horn !' "
" Nay, do you believe that he will gore me ? Do you
really believe that he is alive ? Ah, how good that meat
smells ! Will it soon be ready, mother ? May we soon
go to Cowslip, and tell her that it is Christmas eve, and
look at the stars ?"f
Yes, the supper was now quite ready. The mother
lighted a candle in the lanthorn, and around the candle
she put a grand paper star, which the candle lit up, and
* The torpare, or cottager of Sweden, is bound to d > a certain
quantity of work for his landlord, in return for the small portion
of land which he holds from him.
t These are Swedish peasant customs : they tell the cows and
other animals, that Christmas is come, and passing a light before
their eyes, see, as thoy fancy, the star which indicated the h-.usa
In which the Saviour lay.
CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS. 59
which, in its turn, lit up the candle. The children then
took each their bread-cake, and the mother filled a jug
of new brewed Christmas ale, and with the lanthorn ia
her hand, went out to the stable-yard to let the creatures
know that it was Christmas.
The demure Mrs. Cowslip, the cow, was thinking
about nothing ; she was standing in her stall, chewing
her cud, as the door opened, and a light flashed into her
eyes. She turned towards that side, and made a low
moaning, in token that she recognised those who had
entered, and that they were welcome. But when the
children in their zeal sprang forward, and gave her
pieces of their bread, and screamed into both her ears,
" It is now Christinas, Cowslip !" she stepped hastily
backwards, shook her head violently, and stared as if
she would say, " Nay, but that is something out of the
common way!" and looked quite confounded.
But as Cowslip was a very rational and intelligent
cow, she soon collected her faculties, extended her nose,
smelt at her bread, took it into her mouth, and chewed
it with an excellent relish, supped up a good draught of
Christmas ale, and appeared quite satisfied with Christ-
mas. When the mother had strown her a bed of fresh
straw, and given her an armful of the very best and
finest hay from the rack, she said, " God keep thee now,
my darling ; thou now hast had Christmas eve !" At
these words, Cowslip seemed rightly to comprehend the
matter, and with a great fragrant lock of hay in her
mouth, she laid herself easily down again, that she
might the better reflect, upon which she stared at the
light, and had her own musings about the stars, which
60 CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
the children tried to make her observant of. But ths
only reply she made was by a gentle lowing. After
that they carried the light to the stable, that it might
ehine upon Polle, and that they might give him a taste
of Christmas bread, and announce to him that it was
now Christmas.
Polle pointed his ears, and lifted his head ; expanded
his nostrils, and neighed with animation, as if he wished
to make it known that he expected this intelligence, and
that it was welcome to him.
The sheep bleated, and licked the hands that gave
them their Christmas entertainment. It was so good,
so very good !
As for the two little pigs, they were quite out of
their senses when their turn came ; they leaped about,
screeched, and tumbled one over the other, so that no-
thing rational could be done with them. They were
regularly crazy with joy.
After this the mother and her children returned to
the cottage. The son, Peter, was also there. He was
a tall youth of sixteen, with a dark and strongly-marked
countenance. The mother cast an anxious glance upon
him. Since she had come into the family, she had had
a deal of trouble with his obstinate and discontented
temper, which appeared to have become worse since his
father's death.
And this evening, when the mother had desired him
to chop wood for Christmas, he had replied, " I must do
everything !" and, as he went out, he banged the door
with such violence, that the earthenware cups and dishes
upon the shelf jing"ed and shook a long time afterwards.
CHRISTMAS EV AND CHRISTMAS MATINS. 61
That answer grieved the mother, who well knew that
she never spared herself, and never required much from
him.
He now sat down with his arms propped on the table,
and never seemed to observe that the mother was setting
out the supper, and that she had done everything so
well.
But when they were all seated at the table, arid the
mother had poured out the Christmas ale, the little ones
glanced at each other, and then at their mother with a
roguish look that seemed to say, " Now it is coming !"
And with that the mother lifted her glass, and the
little ones their wooden mugs, and all three at once ex-
claimed,
" Your health, Peter !"
Peter looked up, and seemed almost as much astonish-
ed as Cowslip herself, when they told her that it war
Christmas.
" And all happiness to you on your birthday, for
upon this evening you were born," added the mother.
To which Peter replied, with a look of displeasure,
" That is nothing to drink one's health about, or to wish
one luck about, either ! It would have been better to
have been unborn !"
" That is a sinful word, my son," replied the mother,
severely. " When God gives health and strength to bear,
to strive, and to work "
"Nay, but why must one strive and work?" inter*
rupted Peter.
" My dear lad, what questions you ask !" said the
mother ; " must not pc 3ple live V"
62 CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
" And why must they live ?" asked Peter, again.
The mother could not instantly find an answer to this
question ; it distressed her ; but the lad often made use
of such expressions as left a great weight upon her
mind ; and as she was now silent, Peter continued :
" When one has neither father nor mother, nor any
in the world to live for, it would be just as well if one
were dead ; then one should be rid of all one's trouble."
"Am I not your mother, Peter?" said the mother,
and tears started to her eyes.
" You are only my step-mother !" said Peter, immov-
ably, and rose up from the table.
This wounded the mother more than anything else,
because she knew in her own mind that her heart had
always been full of tenderness and maternal affection
towards her step-son, and that she did not deserve this
unkindness from him.
But she could not say anything now, nor look vexed,
because it was Christmas eve.
The little ones did not understand what was amiss with
their brother. Their mouths were waiting for the good
soup, and they could not imagine that any one could be
better off than they were. When the mother saw that
their appetites were somewhat appeased, she proposed
that they should put aside a portion of their supper for
old Alle, in the poor-house, which delighted them, and
therefore the mother tied up a part of their meat, and
of their bread-cakes, in a clean blue handkerchief, and
set it on a shelf till the next morning, when they should
take it with them when they went out for Christmas
matins. Peter, however, contributed nothing ; his court-
CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS. 63
tenancy was sullen, and before long he rose from the
table, and went to bed without saying " good-night."
The little ones, also, soon lay side by side, on a large
sheaf of golden straw, which they had brought in for
Christmas, because, according to popular belief, people
must both sleep and dance upon straw at Christmas, if
they would do right.
The children did not undress themselves, that they
might be ready all the sooner next morning, when they
would be called for the Christmas matins. Each took a
white handkerchief, which they laid under their heads,
and thus fell asleep, side by side, while the firelight
flickered upon them, and kissed their very cheeks, which
shone out quite beautifully upon the golden-coloured
wheat straw.
Last of all, the mother also went to bed, but not until
she had set everything in order in the room, and washed
up the dishes.
But though she now lay in bed, she could not sleep,
because she had uneasy thoughts, and she heard how
Peter turned and seemed uneasy in his bed, as if he could
not sleep either. At one time she thought that he wept,
and she considered with herself, " should I now get up
and go to him, and give him a quiet kiss, he would then,
perhaps, understand that I love him, although I am not
his real mother ; and more particularly, as it is Christ-
mas e>e, and everybody ought to part friends. "
Presently, Peter seemed to be quite still, and then she
thought, "he is gone to sleep, and I should only disturb
him." She therefore lay quiet herself, and turned her
thoughts to God, and prayed him to change the unhappy
64 CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
temper of the youth. She prayed for a blessing on him,
and on the beloved little ones. With that, she turned
round to look at them, and to see how the firelight
flickered over, and kissed their rosy countenances, for
the fire burned in the hearth through the Christmas
night. And then she thought about all the animals,
how they had their Christmas provender, and how com-
fortable they were ; and the thoughts of them did her
good, and whilst she was thinking of them, and gazing
at her little ones by the firelight, she went to sleep her-
self.
When she again woke, it was pitch-dark in the room,
and quite cold ; and she felt a great weight on her heart,
and in her head also. It was as if a large, heavy tear
had collected, and could not find vent, but lay there as
heavy as lead. She thought upon the death of her hus-
band, upon the bitter temper of her son, and how soli-
tary she herself was in the world ; and then Peter's
words occurred to her, "why should people live?" and
she felt as if she would gladly not rise, but be quiet
for ever.
Spite of all this, however, she rose, and lighted the
fire as usual, and set on the coffee, for although she was
not one of those extravagant women who drink coifee
every day, yet now at Christmas time, everybody must
have coffee; the whole household must drink coffee;
that was a matter of course.
She then lighted the candle in the Christmas-tree by
the window, which she had made ready the evening
before, for the children, and that done, she woke them.
"Christmas matins, children! Christmas matins!"
CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS. 65
The little ones started up, quite bewildered ; rubbed
their eyes, opened them with an effort, saw the light
burning in the pine-tree, and then it came to their
remembrance that it was Christmas, and that they were
g'jing to morning service. And with that they leapt up,
nd were quite wakeful.
They all drank their coffee, Peter as well as the rest,
and then Peter, who, as usual, was silent and out of
humour, went to put Polle in the sledge.
When the mother came out of the cottage, dressed in
her holiday attire, with her hymn book in her hand, and
two little ones at her side, she saw the moon and the
morning star, standing brightly above the pine wood,
and shining beautifully in the frosty early morning, and
upon the new-fallen snow. The sight did her heart
good.
"How beautifully," thought she, "after all, has God
made every thing for mankind." She inhaled the fresh,
cold, but not very cold, winter air, and felt her spirits
enlivened by so doing.
Polle was in the most cheerful humour. He neighed,
and pointed his ears, and tossed his handsome head, and
pawed the sward with his foot, and was quite impatient
to be off.
Before long, the widow sat with her two little ones in
the sledge, and Peter stood between them and drove.
Polle' s bells jingled merrily as they sped along through
wood and meadow; the morning star shone upon the
white, snowy fields, and the grim wood. It was a
beautiful and a cheering sight.
The little ones were full of talk.
6
66 CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
"Nay, look! nay, look. There's a light burning at
Btorgal, a light in her opposite window! And l^ok!
old Britta on the hill has got a light too ! And look
there, a long, long way off in the wood, there shines a
light ! And look, look ! Nay, that is the very best of
all, those candles in the window at the gate-house.
See, it is lighted the whole way ! Nay, how grand it
is ! Is it ever grander than this at Christmas matins,
mother?"
"You are two little simpletons!" said the mother.
" Christmas matins are grander in another way."
By this time there were a great many other people
on the road, both driving and walking, on their way to
church. There was quite a procession of sledges, and
such a jingling of bells as was delightful to hear, and
the children had enough to do to listen and to ask
questions.
They had by this time arrived at an open tract of
country, and just before them, with its spire pointing
towards heaven, and the dark green wood behind it,
stood the church with lights streaming from every win-
dow, as if within were a sea of light. And at that very
moment the church-bells began to ring.
The children were hushed into silence. They felt a
solemnity come over them. They did not exactly know
how they felt.
They soon dismounted. The church-bells rung, and
light streamed out of the church, but all around it was
dark and night-like. Along the whole extent of the
church walls on every side, sledges were drawn up close
together, the horses in which were eating hay. Among
CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS 67
these a place was found for Polle ; a covering was thrown
over him, and between him and the church wall was laid
a good bundle of the very best hay real Christmas
provender. Of this he ate ; anybody might have heard
Low excellent he thought it.
The widow and the children walked across the church
yard.
"Do you remember, children," said she to them,
"what I told you about the Christmas matins, and
what they mean?"
"They mean," stammered Erik, "they mean that
that God who who" "Who," interrupted the mo-
ther, " since the beginning of the world sent teachers
and wise men to mankind, to to, now, Erik !"
" To teach them his will," said Erik.
" Yes, right," continued the mother; "and last of all,
he came himself down to them, and condescended to be
born on earth "
"Yes, as a little child!" exclaimed Maja.
"Yes," answered the mother, "that he might pass
through life with them as a brother, and might teach
them rightly to understand his disposition, and how kind
he meant by us all. And that is he whom we call the
Son of God, our Saviour, Jesus Christ."
"And it is his birth which we celebrate in the Christ-
mas matins," exclaimed Erik, now very certain of his
subject.
With these words they entered the church, and all the
congregation sang,
"Hail to the glorious morning hourl"
68 CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
The children, however, could not think about singing
They could do nothing but stare about them and wonder.
There was so much light ! They could scarcely see for
light. All the four grand chandeliers hung down from
the roof blazing with lights. Upon the altar lights were
burning in tall candlesticks. Upon the pulpit stood
lights, and gilded branches extended from the walls,
holding clusters of lights, and a light burned by every
branch, so that the great aisle was like an alley of flame.
Whichever way they looked, they saw light, light, light !
The benches were crammed full of people. Head
was close to head. The children had never seen so
many people together before, and they thought they
should never find seats. At last, however, they did, on
a bench where the people kindly made room for them.
A respectable old woman took Maja on her knee, and
the mother took Erik on hers. And thus they all were
seated.
The children looked about incessantly, and stared at
all the grandeur and splendour around them. But the
mother soon forgot every outward object, for just then
she opened her hymn-book, to join in singing the fol-
lowing verse of the hymn :
"His tears, like ours, will fall as rain,
A mourner, he will us sustain
With strength from heaven imparted;
He will make known his Father's will,
And mercy's holy balm instil
To soothe the broken-hearted."
With this the heavy leaden weight seemed to melt away
from her soul, and her tears began to flow more easily.
CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS. 69
She felt at once such a lightness and such a strength within
her, that it seemed as if from this time nothing would be
too heavy for her to bear.
The clergyman now ascended the pulpit, and what a
sermon he preached! The widow had never heard any
one speak in that way before. It seemed to her as if he
spoke to her out of the warmth of her own innermost
heart. And every single word seemed like a true word
of God, so full of beauty and grandeur was it. To her
it seemed as if the whole world, and the whole of life,
became bright through it. It was as if it were Christmas
matins within her soul.
And when she looked at Peter, she saw that he also
listened attentively, with his eyes riveted upon the
preacher ; and from this, she hoped for a good result,
more especially, as with the new year Peter was to begin
to read with this same clergyman, preparatory to his
confirmation.
When the service was ended, it was full daylight,
and the congregation streamed hastily out. Before
long, people might be seen on all sides, walking briskly
along, driving on the road, or ascending the hill, striving
who should first reach home ; for, according to popular
belief, they who arrive first at home on Christmas morn-
ing, will have their harvest first housed in the autumn
Though what connexions there are between these things,
I know not.
The widow and her children went into the poor-hodse,
and the children themselves gave old Alle the meat and
the bread which they had saved for him. For this
70 CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
received the old man's blessing, and they felt, therefore,
greatly pleased at what they had done.
In the mean time, Peter had been getting Polle and
the sledge ready. Thus they drove home, thinking by
the way of the delicious warm cabbage which they should
have for dinner, for they all felt hungry and cold.
And how excellent were the meat and the cabbage
which they had for dinner, it is not in my power to
describe ; this only is certain, that the king's cabbage
could not have tasted better to him than theirs did to
them.
In the afternoon they had also a cup of coffee, with
cabbage, in honour of Christmas day, and that, too,
tasted most excellently ; and everybody was very cheer-
ful, the widow as well as the rest ; for she saw that the
countenance of her elder son had undergone a change.
In the twilight, when they all sat together, warm and
comfortable, and when the fire blazed merrily on the
hearth, and lighted up the whole cottage, the mother
said,
" Now, I wonder whether either of my little ones can
remember anything of what the clergyman said in the
morning about the Saviour, and what he taught to man-
kind?"
But, ah me ! The poor little ones remembered nothing,
oot a word ; had understood not a word nay, had not
even heard a syllable !
" There was such a deal of light !" they said.
"But you, Peter," said the mother, and looked at
him with confidence, " I am certain that you can help
CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS. 71
me to recollect something of what the pastor said you
can remember it certainly."
"0, yes," said Peter, and his eyes brightened, and
added he, after a moment, "I now know how people
should live."
" Yes, and why ?" said the mother looking kindly at
her son, and wishing to try him.
" That they may follow after the Saviour, and labour
for the world's redemption," said Peter, and raised his
head ; " and high and low, and rich and poor, can alike
labour in this good work on earth."
"And how must that be done?" inquired the mother
as before.
"By becoming better, more God-fearing, more right-
eous men."
"Yes, my son," exclaimed the mother, joyfully, "so
did I also understand the words of the clergyman. By
becoming so, by living in Christ, we help not only to
extend God's kingdom on earth, but become also hia
labourers in the creation of a new heaven and a new
earth, where bliss shall abide for ever. This is a great
saying, my son, and can make the heart beat high and
free even in a mean hut. And this have I known and
believed from my youth upwards. But I have never
heard it put rightly into words until to-day."
Peter was affected to tears ; he extended his hand to
his mother, and said with deep feeling, " Mother, forgive
me that I have caused you sorrow ! From this time it
shall be otherwise !"
And from that time it did become otherwise with
Peter; not that he ever became very communicative,
72 CHRISTMAS EVE AND CHRISTMAS MATINS.
or of a very cheerful temper, but he became very indus-
trious, and very desirous of doing right, and everybody
grew fond of him.
It was evident now that Peter began to take pleasure
in life ; at least, he never looked sour or sullen. His
whole appearance was changed; nay, it often looked as
if something shone within him, and so said his little
brother and sister.
"Now it is Christmas matins with Peter," they would
say.
Many Christmas matins have since kindled their
lights; many a hard Christmas goblin has looked savage
upon the Christmas board ; has since then been shut up
in a chest thence brought out again to give strength to
the beasts at plough. Yes, many a Christmas has, since
that Christmas morning, come and gone ; but the light
that then was kindled for the mother, has never been
extinguished.
Peter now lives as a peasant in Storgal, and his mother
lives with him, and he likes to tell his friends Avhat a
sluggish and hard-tempered lad he was, and about the
Christmas matins which produced such a change on him ;
and how, sindfc then, he has had light, and strength, and
pleasure in all his work, and how everything prospers in
his hands.
Thus Peter celebrates every Christmas eve as his
mother taught him. At Christmas matins he may be
seen before any one else ; and as for the Christmas
goblin, he never forgets that !
MANAGING CHILDREN.
u My soul, look well around thee ere thou give thy timid infant
onto sorrows."
ONE of the hot days of the last few weeks, it was my
lot to be riding in the cars a long day's journey. When
we started in the early morning the travelling was de-
lightful. The country looked green and bright with the
night's dew, and the soft, cool morning breeze refreshed
us as it blew through the cars. But as we went on, the
sun grew hotter and hotter, the dust blew into the cars
mingled with cinders, and we all felt that for the rest
of the way we wera doomed to discomfort. I tried, with
a book, to lose my sense of the present trials, but my
attention was diverted from reading by a group which
occupied the seat nearest me. It consisted of a mother,
a father, and a little bright-looking boy of three or four
years old. I noticed them when the cars first started
sitting at a distance from me, but they had now changed
their seats, and were so near to me that I could not
avoid both seeing and hearing all that was going on.
"Be quiet, will you?" were the first words from the
mother, said in an excited and impatient mai.iier. But
the little one could not be quiet. He had been travel-
ling for many hours, he had exhausted all his means of
amusement, and eaten cake and candy till he could eat
no more. He had examined the cars over and over
again, until the novelty was all at an end, and tit waa
74 MANAGING CHILDREN.
evidently hot and uncomfortable. As well might you
tell the wind to stop blowing, as to tell him to be quiet.
So he looked at his mother, and then began to tease
and whine, and to say that he was tired and wanted
some water. I thought she would sympathize with the
little one, and try to amuse and comfort him. But the
noise evidently irritated her. "If you are not still in
a minute, George Henry, I'll throw you out of the
window; I will do it." The child looked frightened
for a minute, and seemed to think it would be a terrible
fare. But his reason, and experience too, we may sup-
pose, told him that this threat would never be carried
into execution. He tried however for a little while to
amuse himself with his mother's gloves, but they were
snatched away from him, and then he was evidently com-
pelled to begin again. " Mamma, mamma, I'm tired,"
and then came a louder demonstration. By this time
the father had waked from his nap, in no very pleasant
mood it seemed, for hearing the child's voice, he imme-
diately made a dive at him, shook him, and boxed his
ears violently. " There now, stop crying and be quiet."
But that was evidently out of the question. He could
not do it at once, and the mother joined her voice to
say in the same impatient, angry way, " Hush, hush, I
tell you, or you'll get it again !" As soon as possible
the child stopped the loud voice, and cowed down in his
seat with a sulky look, and a disturbed expression on
his face. The next time I looked he had fallen asleep,
much to my satisfaction, and his sleep lasted till we
were near our journey's end.
Very much of this kind of treatment of children is
MANAGING CHILDREN. 75
there in the world, and if there were not a kind Provi-
dence watching over these little ones to overrule the
bad influences of early training, still smaller than it is
would be the proportion of good men and women. How
many parents there are who seem to forget the tremen-
dous responsibility that rests upon them, the great work
that God gave them to do when he put little children in
their arms, and who act, instead, as if they sought only
how to rear and educate them with the least trouble to
themselves. They seem to begrudge the time it takes,
as if their whole time were too much to give to the
training of immortal souls. Oh, the impatience that
seizes a little child and inflicts a punishment in the heat
of an angry moment, how much has it to answer for ?
Do not be surprised to see the temper of your child
uncontrolled as he grows older. You have been teach-
ing him day by day, from his infancy, by your own
impatience, and hasty yielding to passion, when way-
wardness and carelessness have irritated you. Calmly,
and quietly, and lovingly, must a child be governed.
If severe punishment must be inflicted, if in no other
way can obedience be gained, wait until every spark of
angry feeling has left you, and let him see that you go
about it solemnly and sadly.
This teaching children falsehood, too, by unmeaning
threats ; what a store of trouble is a parent laying up
for himself who does it ! Not in the smallest degree,
not in the youngest child, ought it to be practised.
The child will remember it; he will look back a few
years hem e ; he will feel that it was false ; and he may
f6 THE MOTHER'S RESOLYE.
say, If falsehood is justifiable in one case it is in
another ; if in my mother, in me.
Love and tenderness go very far in the management
of children ; not a foolish indulgence that pampers the
appetite and yields weakly to every foolish desire, hut
the quiet love that wraps the arms about the child, and
lays cheek to cheek, and speaks so softly that the little
one feels in his inmost heart that he is blessed by it ;
feels that he cannot slight it or disobey it. The rough
boy on whom threats would be lost, who feels too proud
to be afraid of punishment, will be melted, and be ready
to give up darling plans, by such a love as this.
To educate children as God would have us, to feel a
hope that we are fitting them for heaven, requires a life
of watchfulness and prayer. Of watchfulness ; lest we,
by our example, by yielding to impatience or selfishness,
may implant in the souls of our children, seeds that in
coming years will bring forth bitter fruits. Of prayer ;
that we may be aided and strengthened by an Almighty
hand.
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE.
IT was late tea-time at Mr. Merwyn's pleasant back
parlour, in his commodious and comfortable house, in
Boston. Mrs. Merwyn was sitting by the fire awaiting
the return of her husband from his store. William and
Anne, the children, were rudely racing round the room,
overturning chairs and stools, and threatening every
moment to upset the tea-table. " Stop, children, '-hia
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. 77
moment," said Mrs. Merwyn, "Anne, open the door
for your father; Willie, ring the bell for Bridget."
" Father has a night-key, and he can open the door
for himself," said Anne ; upon which she commenced a
desperate struggle with Willie, to recover a toy he had
snatched from her.
Mr. Merwyn entered the room with a jaded, tired
look, and sat down by the fire. Soon after, Bridget
came in with a plate of toast in one hand and a cream-
pitcher in the other. The children, quite beside them-
selves in the eagerness of their quarrel, ran against
her, knocked the dish of toast from her hand, and its
contents were spread on the carpet. Mrs. Merwyn ran
to them, and seizing them each in turn, boxed their
ears soundly, accompanying her castigation with severe
reproaches. " I never saw anything like it ! You are
the worst-behaved children I ever beheld ! You are the
plagues of my life ! I wish you were, both of you, a
hundred miles off! I am sure I cannot imagine how 1
came to have such bad children. Go to the table this
minute, and see if you can behave yourselves. You
make it very pleasant for your father, who has been
working for you all day, to come home and find the
house in such an uproar, and the carpet spoiled, and
the toast gone." With such expressions, she drove the
children to the table.
They were really pretty children, though pale and
delicate ; but now, with their unnaturally flushed faces,
dishevelled hair, and angry looks, their appearance was
anything but agreeable. They began to eat in moody
silence. The parents were silent also. At length Mrs.
78 THE MOTHER S HESOLVE.
Merwyn said, " Willie, don't eat so much of that rich
cake ; take some bread and butter ; and, Anne, stop
helping yourself to sweetmeats; you have eaten two
saucers full already."
"I don't like bread and butter," said William, in a
surly tone, " and I can't eat what I don't like."
Anne, with a look of contempt at her mother, coolly
helped herself to the last of the preserves, and ate them.
The evening passed as uncomfortably as it had begun.
When the tea-things were cleared away, the study table
was set out, for the children had lessons to recite on the
morrow which must be learned in the evening. But
they were cross and ill-natured to each other, and their
father, after trying for half an hour to read a pamphlet
which he had brought home with him, threw it aside,
and seated himself with a heavy sigh by the fire.
"I say, mother," said Willie, "where's Turin?"
" I don't know exactly ; look it out on the map."
" I can't, there's such a crowd of little names here ;
and, what's more, I won't. I don't care if I do miss in
my lesson. I have got so low in my class now, I would
as lief be at the foot as anywhere else."
" Mother, is good a noun or an adjective ?' inquired
Anne. '
"How should I know?" replied the mother. "Can
you not tell from the way in which it is used ?"
"No, I can't," said Anne.
tl Study your rules, then, and do not tease me about
it," said the mother.
The books were put away. Nine o'clock came, and
the children left the room for bed: Anne complaining
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE 79
of a headache, and upbraiding Willie for breaking her
glass bird.
After sitting silent for half an hour, looking steadily
into the fire, Mr. Merwyn turned round to his wife, who
was seated near the table with her head upon her hand :
the needlework had fallen upon the floor. " Helen,"
said he, " why do our children behave in the way they
do? I want a cheerful, pleasant, orderly home. I
have built this house, and furnished it handsomely, and
I am sure I supply you liberally with every means of
comfort, and yet how uncomfortable we are. And it
all comes of those unruly children."
Mrs. Merwyn looked up half angrily. "If the child-
ren are bad, is it not partly your fault, James? Do
you govern them as you ought ?"
"How can I?" replied the husband. "Am I not at
my work all day ? And must I spend the time in which
I need a little relaxation, in reducing a couple of rebel
lious children to order ? They love me little enougl
now. It is seldom that I get the slightest caress, or
even a respectful word from either of them*, and ho^
would it be if I spent my evenings in checking and
scolding them ? I took tea at our old friends, the
Westons, last evening. Weston is as busy as I am, and
the whole charge of their five children falls upon his
wife ; but, oh ! Helen, it made my heart ache to see
them ; such happy cheerful faces, such intelligent looks,
such pleasant, winning ways; so quiet and obedient,
and yet so loving and affectionate to their parents and
to each other ! I used to hope my children would grow
uj> so ; but I have no such hope now they grow worse
80 THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE.
as they grow older. I desire you will let them have
another room to pass their evenings in, for I want to
have them out of my sight." Having thus spoken, witli
a heavy sigh, the father left the room for his chamber.
When he was gone, Mrs. Merwyn burst into a passion
of tears. The fountains of feeling seem stirred to their
inmost depths. At first she pitied herself; she was
angry with her husband and her children. She called
to mind the fact that she was married at seventeen to a
husband considerably older than herself. " And how
could it be expected," thought she, "that I should know
anything about bringing up children ? I was a petted,
indulged, half-educated girl, myself; where was I to get
,che strength, and the self-denial, and the perseverance
nee jssary for this most difficult task ? Was it to be
expected that I should give up every pleasure of youth,
and think and work entirely for others V" As these
thoughts passed through her mind, she wept the more.
Mrs. Merwyn, it is true, was married too early ; she
Tiad begun wrong. But she was a woman of deep feel-
ings, and. earnest, though unformed and undeveloped
purposes. Having exhausted her self-commiseration,
'her thoughts took another turn. " But I love my child-
ren, and I love my husband. I am their mother. I
am his wife ; and do not nature and God and my own
heart urge me to a higher and better discharge of duty
than I have ever yet practised ? Oh ! how happy I should
be if I could reclaim my children, reform them, and
establish a mother's influence over them ; if I could
make my husband happy and his home delightful '
What would I not sacrifice for this!" Her face beamed
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. 81
as she indulged in these bright visions, but reflection
brought discouragement. " I am thirty years old,"
murmured she ; "Anne is twelve and Willie ten. Even
if I could change myself, how can I alter them ? AL !
F fear it is a hopeless case."
Mrs. Merwyn had never made a profession of re-
ligion, though she had for some time entertained a kind
of doubtful hope of her spiritual state, and had practised
an earnest but irregular habit of secret prayer. She
now sunk upon her knees, and laid all her sorrows,
wishes, hopes, and half-formed resolutions, before the
great Helper and Comforter ; praying for wisdom and
strength, as Solomon prayed when intrusted with the
kingdom ; for she felt, more deeply than ever before,
that she, too, had a high and holy mission to fulfil, and
that strength and guidance from above were absolutely
necessary to enable her to perform her duty. She rose
with a feeling new to herself: a calmness, a resolution,
a determination, which inspired her with hope and con-
fidence.
The next morning she went to her old friend, Mi 9.
Weston, and made her the confidant of her new feelings
and plans. Mrs. Weston was a large-hearted, strong-
minded, pious woman. She listened with generous
interest, she encouraged, she advised : and, after a con-
ference of three hours, Mrs. Merwyn returned home.
That evening, after her husband and children had re-
tired, she took her writing-desk and wrote the following
schedule of res.p.lutio,ns :
'* Resolved,, That the first duty of the day performed
b,y we s,haU be a, prayer to Almighty God, and especially
82 THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE.
for strength and wisdom, properly to instruct, guide aii<3
govern my children.
" Resolved, That I will never permit either of my
children, with impunity, wilfully to disobey me, or treat
me with disrespect.
" Resolved, That I will earnestly strive never to act
from an impulse of passion or resentment ; but will
endeavour to preserve my judgment cool, and my feelings
calm, that I may clearly see, and truly perform my duty
to my children.
"Resolved, That I will devote a certain portion of my
leisure to daily self-instruction, in order to be able pro-
perly to instruct my children.
"Resolved, That I will watch over my own temper at
all times, cultivate a habit of cheerfulness, and interest
myself in the little matters of my children, that I may
thereby gain their love.
" Resolved, That I will break off the habit of lounging;
that I will give up the reading of novels, and that I will
attend fewer large parties, and devote the time which I
shall thus gain, especially to pursuits which will increase
the comfort and happiness of my husband, and forward
the best interests of my children.
" Resolved, That I will especially study the health of
my children, reading on the subject, and asking advice
of those who are more experienced than myself.
"Resolved, That I will not yield to discouragement
from failure in my first attempts at reform; but will per-
severe, putting faith in the promises of God to all those
who earnestly and faithfully endeavour to do their duty."
These resolutions looked very cold and formal to the
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. 83
mother when she had done writing them. The writing
was nothing; they were in her heart; but she folded the
paper and locked it in her desk, as a memento, if she
should ever feel herself falling into old habits of indo-
lence and self-indulgence.
The next morning the family took their breakfast as
usual, Anne and Willie coming in just as their father
was about leaving the table. He was going to leave
home this morning, to be absent four weeks ; but there
was no respectful salutation, no pleasant parting kiss,
from these ill-behaved children, for the father who had
spent his days in toiling for their welfare. "Bring me
something handsome !" and "Bring me something nice !"
they exclaimed, as they took their seats at the table.
"Where's my cup of coffee ?" said Willie. "This
white stuff isn't coffee."
" No," said his mother, " it is milk and water. I prefer
that you should drink it for your breakfast."
" And I prefer the coffee," said Willie, in a very deter-
mined tone, "and I am determined to have it." And
he stretched his hand toward the coffee-pot to help him-
self.
" Take the coffee away, Bridget," said Mrs. Merwyn.
It disappeared.
"Where's my buttered toast and sausages?" said Anne.
" You will have neither this morning. There is good
bread and butter, and you can have a mutton chop or a
boiled egg, just which you prefer."
" I don't prefer either ; I want sausages. If I can't
have what I want, I won't eat anything."
" As you please," replied the mother, coolly.
84 THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE.
The children looked at their mother and at each other.
They did not know what to make of this resolute resist
ance to their wishes. They begged, teased and fretted ;
but it was of no use. They finally, with sullen looks,
condescended to eat what was before them. " But I
know one thing," said Willie, "if I can't have what 1
want for my dinner, I'll starve. And I have not washed
myself all over for a week, and I don't intend to any
more. And I shan't go to school this afternoon ; father's
gone, and I mean to stay at home and play ; and won't
you, Anne ?"
Anne declared her readiness to join in this plan, and
with this bravado they left the room.
The dinner was still more stormy and uncomfortable
than the breakfast had been. The children went to
school in the afternoon, but with red eyes and angry
tempers. Nor was it much better at tea. They were
moody and discontented, and as indulgence had hitherto
been the mother's only means of management, she could
not alter the state of things. A cheerful word or a kind
smile was met with sullenness or indifference ; it had no
value.
After a wild, romping game, which the mother did not
attempt to check, the study table was drawn out ; but,
before the books were taken, she placed her children in
two chairs, and seated herself opposite to them. Her
eye was moist and her voice trembled a little as she
began to speak to them ; but, as she proceeded, the
strength of an earnest purpose soon dried the one and
gave firmness to the other.
'* My children," said she, " I love you dearly. I love
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. 8 B
you, and your father loves you, because you are our chil-
dren. We "wish to make you good, that we may love you
better. We wish you to be happy, which you cannot be
unless you are good. God has given you to us, arid hag
commanded us to train you up in the way in which you
should go. He has commanded children to love and obey
their parents. You are old enough to feel and under
stand how right this is. I was a very young mother, my
dear children, when you were given to me. I was not
twenty years old when the youngest of you was born,
I was ignorant, indolent and careless. I am older now.
I have seen the evils of carelessness and over-indulgence.
I have observed, have read, and I have thought. I am
now resolved to strive to train you in the right way, and
as the first step and foundation, I am determined that
you shall obey me. I do not think you love me or your
father, as children generally love their parents ; perhaps
you never will ; but you must obey us and treat us with
respect."
The children had often seen their mother in a passion
from their provoking ways, and had often felt the weight
of her hand upon their ears ; but they now felt that a
new principle was at work. They were silent as she
proceeded.
" I am not going to give you a long lecture, or to re-
proach you with the past. Our business is with the
present and with the future. Many things, which you
have till now indulged in, will, from this time, be entirely
changed. I shall be changed. I shall not be the same
mother I was a week ago ; I hope I ?hall be a better
one. Anne and William, I speak seriously to you ; you
86 THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE.
are both old enough to understand me. If you fall into
the right way at once, it will save trouble and make me
very happy."
Mother," said Willie, looking at her half in wonder,
** I'm almost glad at what you've been saying. I love
you better than you think for, and I am not half so bad
as you suppose I am ; but somehow the naughty feelings
always seemed to come because you let them. I've told
Anne fifty times that I wished you would make us mind."
Anne said nothing for some time, but seemed to be in
deep thought. At last she said, " I've often wished that
I could be like Alice Weston ; but I don't know how I
am ever going to learn to be good. I know I shall be
cross and angry fifty times a day ; I can't help it."
" There is One who can help us all, if we truly seek
His help, my children. Let us ask it now."
They knelt, and the mother, with streaming eyes,
prayed for that assistance which the great Father of all
has kindly promised to those who sincerely seek his aid.
The children were unusually thoughtful, and learned their
lessons in silence. At bed-time, Mrs. Merwyn had usually
asked her children for a kiss. Sometimes it was care-
lessly given, sometimes not ; always considered rather as
a favour from the children. This evening she did not
ask them for a kiss, but kindly bade them good-night.
The very next morning, this awakened mother began
upon her new plan. She rose early, and went to her
children's room, to see that they were bathed and rubbed,
and to teach them how best to do it for themselves ; and
she required them to be ready for breakfast punctually
at the hour. She ex eluded from the table everything
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. 87
which she considered unwholesome. Some rich, high-
seasoned dishes, which had been favourites, were banished
for ever, and food plainer, yet excellent in its kind, was
substituted. Mrs. Merwyn sent her children out to run
and play half an hour before going to school, and the
same on their return ; and she fitted up a large spare
room with every convenience for exercise when the
weather should be stormy. She examined into her child-
ren's studies, and reduced their number. She procured
the same books, and spent two hours a day in making
herself thorough mistress of their contents, keeping con-
stantly a little ahead of them in their lessons. She pro-
cured various books of reference, and learned, not only
the text, but whatever she could find relating to it in
uompends, dictionaries, and encyclopedias; and it was
Burpri-mg to see how the respect of her children in-
creased, when they found that their mother knew, not
only more than they did themselves, but, in many in-
stances, more than their teachers.
All this was easy. It was a plain path, requiring
nothing but ordinary judgment, and a little extraordi-
nary energy. Not so with the moral self-culture and
training of her children, which this mother had now in
earnest undertaken. It was not so easy to supply proper
motives to children who had always looked to some out-
ward, sensual indulgence, as the reward, not only of men-
tal exertion, but for being good. It was not easy for one
who had lavished caresses indiscriminately, merely to
gratify her own feelings, or to coax them to her purpose,
to give a value in her children's eyes to a smile, a caress,
a word of praise, to make them motives and rewards for
88 THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE.
good conduct. It was not easy to curb the stubborn ani
long-indulged will, to check the impatient temper, to
change rude manners into respectful politeness. And
yet it was wonderful to behold the progress, even here ;
so much is there in a resolute determination, in sustained
ind unflagging effort.
The early rising and the evening prayer had not been
discontinued ; and though the mother devoted so much
more time than formerly to her children, she found she
had more leisure for household occupation, general read-
ing, and social enjoyment, than ever before. The energy
called up for a particular purpose, extended itself into
every department, and gave firmness and confidence to
one who had hitherto been thought rather a weak woman.
Her friends remarked a depth and earnestness about
her, which they had never observed before ; and she was
gratified to perceive an increase of respect and conside-
ration in all around her. These things, however, came
later. Our business is with the first steps of this change ;
to show that it is possible to stem an erring course, to
retrace a mistaken path in the outset of life. Notwith-
standing the involuntary admission of Anne and Willie,
that it would be better for them to be well-governed, they
had, both from nature and habit, become too fond of hav-
ing their own way, readily to give it up. During the first
week of her trial, especially, if this young mother had
not brought to her support every power of her nature,
and every motive suggested by conscience, love, and
hope, if she had not been sustained by constant prayer
and a daily increasing sense of duty, she would many
times have yielded, and the old state of things would
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. 89
have been established more firmly than ever. Many were
the struggles with her children, but still more frequent
were her self-wrestlings. To be firm without severity ;
to inflict a necessary pain when her heart was overflowing
with love ; to teach an impulsive disposition to examine,
wait, and weigh ; and finally, to require the penalty of
strict justice ; to inflict the exact degree of punishment
which the case required ; all this demanded painful
effort. And still more painful was it to withhold the
caresses which she had been in the habit of bestowing
upon her children whenever they would condescend to
receive them. Mrs. Merwyn had the good sense, in
forming her new system of discipline, to strive to avoid
a habit of petty fault-finding. Many trifles were passed
without reproof, many disagreeable habits unnoticed, in
the hope and belief that when the great principle of filial
obedience was established, its healthy stimulus would
naturally produce a better growth.
One evening the children had been impolite to each
other while at supper. The mother took no notice. At
the study table Anne had her slate and pencil, which
Willie wanted. "I will have it," said Willie; "I want
it for my sums. I am not going away up to my room
for my slate and pencil, while yours is lying here doing
nothing."
They both seized the slate and struggled. Anne, beino;
the stronger, gained possession, whereupon Willie struck
her. She struck back again. Their mother had observed
it all.
" Children," said she, " put down the slate, and come
to me."
90 THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE.
Her voice was deep and sad, but calm and resolved.
They, did not dare to disobey. Each, however, accord-
ing to custom, began to accuse the other in very strong
t(:rms.
" Be silent," said the mother. Her voice was lower
and slower than usual, yet it was obeyed. " Anne, look
me in the face, and tell me every circumstance of this
quarrel; see that you tell it exactly." Anne felt that
fihe must tell the exact truth, and she did so.
" Willie, now let me hear your account." Willie
stated the facts exactly.
"My children," said the mother, "you are both to
blame. You both deserve punishment ; but I long for
the time to come when we need not resort to punishment.
Yesterday, for one fault, you forfeited a pleasant ride,
which your uncle had offered to give you. Last evening,
I was obliged to put you in separate rooms, and sit here
alone by myself. This morning you each received five
severe strokes upon the hand. It is painful for me to
punish you; but this fault must be atoned for. Sit
down at opposite sides of the table, and think. See if
you cannot devise some way of getting along this time
without punishment."
" Mother," said Willie, " I know what you mean ;
but it is the very worst punishment I could have. Must
I aek sister's pardon ?"
He looked at Anne, and she at him. He was naturally
ftf a generous disposition, and there was something in his
sister's countenance which touched a chord long unused
to vibrate.
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. 91
" Anne," he stammered out, " I do beg your pardon.
Will you forgive me ? I was most in the wrong."
"I did wrong, too," said Anne.
"Mother, will you forgive us?" said they both, with
one impulse.
" I will," said she. "Now go to your lessons."
She was obliged to go to another room to conceal her
emotion at this first conquest of her children over them-
selves; this first-fruits of her new system of training.
" Help me, 0, help me to persevere !"
And in the prayer with her children, before retiring
to rest, she thanked Him for putting good, kind, and
gentle thoughts into their young hearts ; and prayed
that this spirit might grow more and more, until Love
ehould
" Through all their actions run."
That night, the children looked and lingered, before
retiring to rest, as if in want of something ; but no kiss,
no caress, was offered by their mother, though her heart
was yearning for it.
The next day was passed without the -call for pun-
ishment. The evening was cheerful and happy. When
Willie had looked ten minutes in vain to find a certain
place in the south of Europe, on the map, his mother
oame and pointed it out to him, giving him at the same
Lime some interesting particulars of its history and
principal manufactures. " Thank you, mother," said
\Yillie : "how much you do know !"
Anne had a piece of poetry to commit to memory,
in which Circe and the Cyclops, and the Syrens were
mentioned.
32 THE MOTHERS RESOLVE.
" How many thousand such make-believe beings OUT
books are full of!" exclaimed she. "Where did the
stuff all come from ? Don't you think it all nonsense
to study about them, mother?"
Mrs. Merwyn took the opportunity briefly to explain
the ancient mythology. She gave a short account of
Homer, repeating Byron's beautiful lines, and aftenvard
a little sketch of Ulysses, as detailed in the Odyssey.
" How interesting !" said Anne. " How I should
like to read the Odyssey ! After all, though I don't
believe a word of these old stories, it must be very
pleasant to know all about them ; for we are meeting
with something or other about them in almost every
book we see."
That evening, the children seemed more closely drawn
to their mother than ever before. Her steady govern-
ment, and her newly-discovered stores of information,
had raised her wonderfully in the opinion of her child-
ren, and their love seemed to keep pace with their
respect. And this evening her manner had been so
kind, her voice so gentle ; she had given up her own
occupations to attend to them ; she had refused a
pleasant invitation in order to pass the evening with
them. A good and gentle influence had seemed to
settle upon them, tuning their minds to love and
harmony. But bed-time came. The children looked
wistfully at their mother. At last, Willie said,
"Mother, you never kiss us, now. Won't you kiss us
to-night ?"
" Yes, my children. This has been a happy day to
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. 03
me, because you both have been good children." Upon
this, she kissed them fondly.
" Won't you always kiss us, when you think we have
been good enough?" said Willie; "and then we shall
know what you think about it."
"Yes, I will, Willie."
" Mother," said Anne, "when is father coming home ?"
" In a week."
"I thought," said Anne, hesitating, "that fathers
always governed the children. Father never governs
us."
Mrs. Merwyn took that opportunity to explain to her
children how dearly their father loved them, how con-
stantly he exerted himself for their welfare, how worthy
he was of their highest respect and love, and how much
he would be gratified if they should strive in every way
to improve themselves.
The week passed happily away. The children, finding
they could gain no end by opposing their own will to the
determination of their mother, ceased attempting it, while
her judicious praise, whenever they really deserved it,
gave them a pleasure so new and sweet as greatly to
stimulate their efforts and increase their love.
On the expected evening, just at tea-time, the father
came. The room was bright and clean. The fire was
blazing. Extra lights burned on the mantel. A littlo
feast was spread upon the table. The lessons had been
learned beforehand, and the books put away. The
mother had on a handsome new cap, and the children
had asked permission to put on their holiday clothes.
>lr Merwyn entered as he had left, with a pale and
94 THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE
rather sad countenance. " My dear husband !'' said
the wife with a beaming face.
" My dear, dear father !" cried both the children,
kissing him.
Willie drew his arm-chair to the fire. Anne took
his overcoat and gloves, and carried them to the table.
Then she smoothed his hair and brushed the dust from
his coat, after which they both stood and waited till he
should be warm and ready to go to the table. While at
the table they were quiet and polite.'
In the evening, the children amused themselves to
gether with joining maps and puzzles, while Mr. Merwyn
gave his wife the particulars of his journey. At bed-
time, they came to their mother for a kiss, which she
gave them. They then somewhat timidly approached
their father. " Won't you kiss us, father?" said Anne:
"mother says we have been good to-day." The father
kissed them with glistening eyes.
When they were gone, he said to his wife, " Helen,
now you are changed ! How much brighter and happier
you look than you did a month ago ! and not only that,
but you have grown suddenly taller, higher in mind and
body. And the children what has come over them ?
They are not the children I left; they are good, gentle,
well-behaved. How is this ?"
Then the wife, amid tears and smiles, poured into the
ear of her listening husband the history of a month;
her new-born resolutions, her trials, and now her b?gin-
nings of success.
"And have you accomplished so much ii a month,
Helen ? It seems impossible."
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. J>5
"I have, to be sure, exerted every power of my
nature. I resolved to make a change before your
return, if it was in the power of human effort to do it.
I trust I have made a beginning. I have discovered
affections and capabilities m our children, which I never
suspected. My dear husband, let us join together, let
us persevere ; and who knows but we may yet deserve
and enjoy the blessing promised to faithful parents ?"
" My Helen, I thought of little else during my long
journey. I came home with my mind full of it. I
had determined to alter many things in my business
and domestic habits, entirely with reference to the best
interests of my children, though, I confess, I was not
sanguine in the hope of any thorough and radical im-
provement."
Hours passed, while the husband and wife communed
Df the future, making resolutions and forming plans to
carry out, in the best manner, the reformation in their
children, so happily begun.
It would be interesting to trace the steps by which
these parents, now thoroughly awakened to a sense of
rluty, and the importance of the trust committed to
their care, gained an influence over their children,
which resulted in beautiful developments of character,
and, finally, by the blessing of God, in a well-founded
hope of happiness in a future life. It would be inte-
resting to trace the progress of self-culture and self-in>
provement, by which they were enabled to do this ; we
can only record a brief conversation which took place
about a year after the events we have been detailing
occurred. Mrs. Weston, the good friend mentioned iu
96 THE MOTHER 8 RESOLVE.
the beginning of this story, had for several montha
been confined to the house by the protracted illness
of one of her daughters. Her husband, coming in
rather late, one evening, told her that he had been to
take tea with the Menvyns.
" And how did you find them ?" asked Mrs. AVeston.
" It is long since I have been able to see them."
"And I," rejoined Mr. Weston, "have kept away
from them on purpose. They used to be always in
trouble with their children. Their house was a very
uncomfortable place."
"Is it better now?"
" Better ! you would not know the children ; you
would scarcely know the parents. In the first place,
the children have lost the pale, puny look they used to
have ; they were blooming with health and overflowing
with spirits, yet they were not rude. I watched them.
They were kind to each other, polite to me, and obedient
to a word or a look from their parents. When I went
in, they were studying their lessons, which they were
anxious to finish before tea. When they were in diffi-
culty they called upon their mother, and she gave them
just that degree of help and encouragement which would
make them think for and exert themselves. They
had as good manners at the table as I ever saw in
children. At eight o'clock, a company of young people
came in, and I found it was a kind of regular Thursday
evening soiree. Charades were acted, games were in-
troduced ; Merwyn and his wife occasionally joining, at
the request of Annie or Willie, who seemed delighted
when father and mother would take a part; mother,
THE MOTHER'S RESOLVE. 97
especially, was often called upon, and I could see the
children's eyes sparkle with pleasure when she guessed
right. The children evidently think there is nobody in
the world like their mother.
" At ten o'clock, the young people went away. The
children came for the good-night kiss, and I heard Willie
whisper, as he put his arms round his mother's neck,
'Have I been good, dear mother? Do you love me?'
I could not help asking about it. It seems that, about
a year ago, they came to a determination to do their
duty as parents. Helen says you helped her at the
outset. Since that time Merwyn has never once omitted
daily prayer. Never once have the children been per-
mitted to disobey with impunity. The modes by which
they have induced habits of veracity, of kindness, of
self-denial, of politeness, of mental exertion, would be a
pattern to most parents. Merwyn does not go to his
counting-room after tea; he devotes himself to his
family. And once a week, the children's holiday, they
all go off to some country place, pic-nicking, flower-
gathering, nutting, landscape-hunting, something to im-
prove mind and body. Mrs. Merwyn has almost given
up large parties; but she cultivates a circle of pleasant
friends, and encourages social visits. Pray, go to see her,
Day dear, now Alice is better, and take the children."
" I will, my dear."
" Helen and you will agree exactly. Your notions
are alike; but Merwyn is far, far ahead of me. My
children love me, but they do not cling to me a?
Merwyn's do. I have cared for their outward and
temporal welfare, but how little have I done for their
7
P8 BE CAREFUL HOW YOU TREAT CHILDREN.
higher and better interests ! The burden has all been
thrown upon you. I have not done ray part. I am
ashamed of myself. I am provoked "
" Provoked to good works, I hope," said Mrs. Woston,
with a kind smile. " That is the way friends should
provoke each other. I am delighted with what you tell
me, and I also will become a learner. It is never too
late to improve. If parents generally would follow the
example of these Merwyns, if they would with prayer
and resolution act to reform their children, instead of
repining and wrongfully accusing Providence, a blessing
would fall upon their homes and their hearts. There
would be light in their dwellings. Instead of the spirit
of heaviness there would be joy and peace ; and, at the
last, they would hear the joyful words, ' Well done,
good and faithful servant !"'
BE CAREFUL HOW YOU TREAT CHILDREN.
SISTER and I have been sitting to-night talking over'
our childhood's days. How many a word, act, and even'
look we remember, which the speakers or actors deemed
we would forget with the passing hour ! How we have
been away in secret, and wept over lightly-uttered words,
or even gentle reproof! Alas, some of them have car
ried their effects upon our whole after years ! Children
are quick to feel quick to comprehend ; much quicker
than their elders usually deem. I remember now of the
B8 CAREFUL HOW YOU TREAT CHILDREN. 99
punishment a teacher inflicted upon me when quite a
child. How unkind and unjust I thought her, then, and
how void of the better feelings which I possessed ! Be-
fore that I had loved her dearly ; but I could never so
love her again. The punishment came because I would
not tell what had made me laugh outright during study
hours. I would not tell, because it would have thrown
the blame upon another. Child as I was, I well remem-
ber how my heart swelled within me to think I could
bear and suffer for another ; and even my teacher's in-
sisting upon the wrong could not make me act it. She
is dead, now ; and can never know how long or how
vividly I remembered her unjust punishment.
One can never be too watchful over himself in his
dealings with children. Their perceptions are usually
very quick, their hearts truthful and sincere. If they
were ever and steadily thus dealt with by others, more
would grow up truthful and earnest men and women.
And, oh, how much we need such persons among us !
It seems to me children are taught deception from their
very cradles. No wonder they become such adepts in
it in their after years.
Few parents have the patience to always do rightly
and deal honestly with their children. And if parents
have it not, how can it be expected that servants will ?
They work for hire ; and many of them have no interest
in their labours, save for the time being. Yet many
mothers give up their children almost entirely to such
care. They are young, and gay, and fashionable, per-
haps, and cannot devote their precious time to the
nursery. Society has claims upon them which must be
100 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
answered. They strive to procure good servants, it may
be, and then they have done their duty.
Oh, mothers, is this all your duty ? When God gave
those precious souls to your keeping, went there no
"still, small voice" to your heart, saying, He would
again claim them at your hands ? Do not their eloquent
pleadings pleadings which every mother understands
woo you to a sense of the sweet, yet heavy responsibility
resting upon you ? Can you turn coldly away, and day
after day, night after night, and week after week, leave
them at Pleasure's or Fashion's fitful call ? Could you
do this, and yet hope for happiness here or hereafter ?
Ah ! no, it cannot be ! Nature's voice cannot be so
silenced. It will speak out within the heart, if not to the
world at large. I envy not the mother who is a devotee
at Fashion's shrine. Rather give me laborious hours
and weary vigils by the loved ones at home ; so that, at
last, I may " give up mine own with usury," feeling a
certainty that I " have done what I could."
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
"All about,
The broad sweet sunshine lay without,
Filling the summer air." LONGFELLOW.
IT was a calm, shady summer afternoon. Such an after-
noon as seems to me always a poem, rich, mellow, com-
olete ; with nothing of a turgid, stirring, Ossian swell
About it ; but a calm, soothing Bryant-poem, one of tt ose
afternoons that are Nature's "lullaby " to the soul.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 101
1 was at Valley Falls, at grandmother's. Somehow
I am happier there than I am in the city, though my
sisters would think it was very ungrateful of me, to say
so when they buy me four new silk dresses every year,
and I can ride down Broadway in their own carriage,
every pleasant afternoon.
They are very fashionable ladies, my sisters. They
live in great stone houses on Fifth Avenue, and when
they sweep up and down their magnificent parlours, the
blaze of their diamonds puts to shame the light of the
chandeliers.
They are called very elegant and exclusive, my sisters,
and dear me ! what a strife there is among the ladies
down town, to have their names on their visiting list
then their parties are said to be the most recherch of
the season, and the dressmaker and milliner who can
say they made Mrs. Devoe's last ball dress, or Mrs. St.
Clair's beauty of a spring hat, think their fortunes are
made. I am very unlike my sisters, and they say it is a
source of constant anxiety to them. They tell me it
betrays such a painful want of musical taste to prefer
our old church organ to the opera, and the wind in the
great maple branches at Valley Falls, to Jenny Lind's
bird song.
Then too I love the green meadows, and the mountain
daisies, and the cool sweet breath of the country clovers,
and the broad, clear, sunshine, so much better than the
drawing-rooms, with their dim, pink-rose light, their
carved arches, and their Parisian carpets.
But as I was saying, I was at grandmother's, and my
sisters were at Newport and Nahant ; and I should have
i02 GRANDMOTHER'S STJRY.
been with them, if mamma, before she died, had not
exacted a promise that I should pass every summer at
Valley Falls ; and, so every June I say " good-bye " to
the city, and with a heart glad as bees in May clover, or
a bird among apple boughs, I come up here to the old
gray "farm-house" where my mother lived, and where
my grandmother once said, "would God she had died."
I was sitting by the window, where the plum boughs
leaned up against the side of the house, and the green
leaves brushed my forehead as they went to and fro to
the low rhythm of the summer wind, when I heard the
gate-latch unclose, and peeping between the branches, I
saw a female coming up the walk. The sunshine fell
full on her face and figure, so I could see her distinctly.
She was an old lady ; there was no relief to the thick
white hair that was neatly parted, and gathered under
her lace cap, for she wore no bonnet. There was a kind
of solemn dignity in the old lady's manner, as she came
up the walk, her black silk dress brushing the gravel
stones.
There was an expression too in her face, that attracted
while it repelled me. It was a proud face ; time had
gathered the once smooth forehead into thick wrinkles,
and hollowed the cheeks, and sharpened the mouth, but
no work of time could erase the expression of those
features. Even in death you felt it would be still a proud
face.
But it was a mournful one ; not the mournfulness alone
of old age, and a heart weary, and almost done with life,
but that of a migkty grief, an ever-present, ever-living
sonow.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 103
There was a strange expression too in the eyes. I
did not observe this at first; not until she passed in
front of the house, and they wandered eagerly all over
it, as though she were searching for some person at all
the windows.
There was an indescribable somewhat in those eyes
that terrified me, as at last they alighted on my face.
The old lady drew under the tree. " Good afternoon,
miss," she said with a stately dignity that was strangely
impressive.
" Have you seen Maurise this afternoon ?"
" No, madam, I have not," I answered, divining at
once that my questioner was labouring under mental
aberration, " I an not acquainted with the person of
whom you speak/'
"Mrs. Hillywd !" called out a voice before the old
lady had time to reply, and then I saw a plainly dressed,
middle-aged voman, hastily coming towards her.
" My dear madam," she said, "we have been searching
for you everywhere. How could you walk so far without
either bonnet or shawl, in this warm sun ? I have
brought yours with me, and we had better return now."
" But I thought Maurise might have passed this way,"
said the old lady doubtingly, as she received the bonnet.
"No, I am quite certain she has not;" answered her
companion in a soothing tone. " Nobody has seen her."
The old lady sighed so mournfully, that it brought the
tears into my eyes. She took the arm of her attendant,
between whom and myself a quick signal of intelligence
had passed, and they went out.
Of course my curiosity was greatly excited. " Grand'
104 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
tna knows everybody in these parts ;" I murmured to
myself, " and as soon as her afternoon nap is over, I'll
go down and ask her who in the world Mrs. Hillyard is.'*
" Grandma, oh ! I am so glad to find you are up, for
the oddest circumstance happened about half an hour
ago ;" and I related the singular occurrence to which I
had been a witness.
" Poor Mrs. Hillyard !" said my grandmother, shaking
her head and sighing, " how true it is that God con
temneth the 'high look, and the proud heart.'"
" Tell me all about it ; won't you, grandma ? I am
just in the mood for hearing a story now, and I know
this will be so interesting;" and I drew a stool to my
grandmother's feet, as I always do to anybody's, if I
dare, when they tell me a story.
It was just the time and place for telling one. I want
you to mind this, and to feel that you are there too,
while I relate it in my grandmother's own words.
It was a bedroom at the corner of the house, the
cosiest, most comfortable little nook in creation. A
thick vine grew over the low window and filled the room
with a cool fresh dimness, like that of wood shadows,
and the wind came up to us with a low pleasant rustle,
which always fills the heart with sweet thoughts. Oh !
there is no place for telling stories like a bedroom in the
country.
My grandma gave two or three preliminary motions
to her rocking-chair, and commenced.
"You remember, Luella, the large old house we passed
yesterday, when we rode down to the Falls ?"
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 105
4 What," I said, "the one with the gray front, and the
brier clambering over the steps, and such a mournful,
grave-j&rd. atmosphere about it, that I couldn't help
shuddering as we passed it?"
"Yes, but once, Luella," and grandma's hand was
laid fondly on my head, " a being, young and fair, and
light-hearted as you are, sprang gracefully down those
old ptone steps, and her sweet laugh woke up the echoes
that have long slumbered round the old house.
Mrs. Hillyard was a proud woman, and her pride has
been her ruin, and, alas ! not hers alone.
Her husband was a young man, when he brought hia
fair but haughty-looking bride to Valley Falls.
He was a kind, genial-hearted man, too, and the
neighbours often wondered what induced him to wed a
woman so cold and inaccessible as Mrs. Hillyard proved
herself in all her intercourse with the people.
They said she came from an old but decayed English
family, and it may be that education had developed and
matured this inherent pride. I cannot tell; but it is
best to deal gently as we can with those whom God has
smitten.
Mrs. Hillyard loved her husband. I had no doubt
of that, from the hour that I first saw them together;
for a sudden light would kindle up the eold proud face
whenever he addressed her, and sometimes, I have heard
the soft tones grow eager, and full of womanly affection
as they answered him.
We were never intimate, Mrs. Hillyard and I, still we
always interchanged formal visits ; so my opinion of hei
character was founded rather on personal observation,
106 GRANDMOTHERS STORY.
than on the remarks which her coldness and exclusive-
ness induced from envious and gossiping neighbours.
Years rolled on, Mr. Hillyard was slowly amassing a
fortune in his profession, and one fair child had opened
a new fountain of love in the heart of his wife, when
one day, on returning from some neighbouring village,
his horse took fright.
Mr. Hillyard, if I remember right, had purchased him
only the day before, and probably did not understand
managing the terrified animal.
At all events, after dashing over the main road for
some two miles, he threw his rider; Mr. Hillyard was
discovered and carried home to a bed from which he
never arose. He lived only two days.
I remember how my heart ached for the almost dis-
tracted wife. I always believed it was nothing but the
little Maurise who saved her mother from following her
father.
The grief of the poor woman was terrible to behold.
They were obliged at last to carry her by force from the
body of her dead husband; and yet, I have sometimea
looked out on the marble urn that rises among the thick
hemlock trees, and thought it would have been better if
two hearts were lying beneath it.
But Mrs. Hillyard lived, and Maurise grew into woman-
hood. I can see her now, (and my grandmother dropped
her voice a? ihough she were talking quite to herself.)
She had the pure, oval features of her mather, with
the dark eyes, and bright smile of her father. Her hair
was that golden colour that seems always fading off into
3 -' v \ bronze shade, and her eyes always reminded me
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 107
of the violets that grew when I was a girl deep In the
shadows of the mountains."
" And was she as good as she was beautiful, grandma?"
t whispered.
The old lady started as though she had quite lost sight
of her hearer. " Yes, Luella, Maurise's nature was as
pure, and gentle, and vine-like, as her mother's was
cold, stern, and self-reliant.
Mrs. Hilly ard loved her child with all the strength of
her proud, exclusive nature, and so Maurise's feet came
up through green paths to her early womanhood.
Then, for the first time at a fair in the old church,
Austin Enfield met Maurise Hillyard. He was a young
physician, who had received his diploma the previous
winter. He was poor, his mother was a widow residing
in an adjoining village, and it was reported that she had
bound shoes, and so defrayed a portion of her son's ex-
penses through college. But, physically and intellectu-
ally, Dr. Enfield was a noble specimen of young man-
hood, and I do not wonder when the deep, rich tones of
his voice first greeted the ear of Maurise Hillyard, that
her graceful head was turned quickly, and her blue eyes
looked eagerly in his face.
They were mutually fascinated. The young doctor
possessed peculiar conversational talent, and in our
quiet, out-of-the-way village, Maurise had never met his
equal.
Well, they went home to dream of each other, I sup-
pose, and the next day, as Maurise was walking out, the
doctor met her, and judging by the length of their ab-
108 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
sence they must have achieved quite a pedestrian feat
that afternoon.
The doctor had engaged to pass that summer at Val-
ley Falls ; hence he and Maurise were thrown constantly
together.
Mrs. Hillyard was an indulgent mother. She was
proud of the attentions her daughter received, as the
doctor was quite the lion of Valley Falls, and very inju-
diciously (considering her amhitious projects for her
daughter's future) allowed the doctor's visits.
You have guessed the rest, Luella, I see it in your
eyes.
One night, in early September, the doctor, as was hia
custom, accompanied Maurise home from singing school.
They paused in the old grove of pines, where you say
the wind is always singing mournful love ballads. There
the young doctor told the story of his love.
Maurise's shadow-filled eyes were very bright with
tenderness, as she answered, "If mamma consents, I
will be your wife, Austin."
They went home ; the doctor left her at her mother'a
gate ; Maurise went in, laid her bright head in her mo-
ther's lap, and told her what she had said.
" Maurise, my daughter," and for the first time those
calm, low tones sent a chill to the girl's heart. " You
shall never be the wife of Austin Enfield."
" But, mother, I love him so, it will break my heart
to give him up. I cannot, I cannot !" Maurise's voice
crushed down her sobs as she repeated it.
The night was coming up into the gray shadows of
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 109
morning, before the mother and daughter separated. It
had been a season of extreme suffering to both.
Maurise had proved that she inherited some of the
character and firmness of her parent.
All the mother could urge in defence of her adverse
position was the poverty of the doctor, and his family's
want of social eminence.
" I never can, I never will give my consent, Maurise,"
she repeated. " You, whom I yet hope to see the wife
of one of the first men in our country you, wedded to
a beggar !"
"A beggar! mamma." The sweet face flushed with
anger. " For the sake of your child, do not couple that
name with Austin Enfield."
" Well, he is neither rich nor honourable among men.
If he were, you should have my consent to your union.
As it is, I shall never grant it."
" Don't, mother, unless you would kill me, say this !
Only tell me, if he wins riches and distinction, I may
be his wife. We are both young, and can wait many
years, and patiently."
And the mother looked on the pleading, tear-stained
face of her child, and the woman that was in her re-
lented.
" If he earn wealth, and can place you in a social
position which will do you honour to be his wife, then,
and only then, Maurise, will I consent."
The next day the doctor called. Mrs. Hillyard haJ
a long interview with him.
It was decided that Maurise should wait five years,
110 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
and that during that time no intercourse, except
passed under the mother's supervision, should occur
between them.
The doctor was to leave Valley Falls immediately.
If he was successful in his profession during that pe-
riod ; if he could place Maurise in an elevated social
position, at the end of that time, Mrs. Hillyard would
no longer oppose their union.
" You have heard my stipulations. You can accede
to them or not. I have only presented them because
this thing involves the happiness of my child," was the
not very flattering conclusion of Mrs. Hillyard's remarks
that morning.
But the doctor was young, and his nature was high
and hopeful. Moreover, he loved Maurise as he could
never again love woman ; so he said to her stately mo-
ther,
" I will accede to your propositions, Mrs. Hillyard,
hard as they seem to me. In five years, if God pros-
pers me, I will come back, and claim your daughter."
The young couple had a brief interview that morning,
and then they separated for five years.
Time wore on. Dr. Enfield went to Europe to seek
that fortune which alone would entitle him to the hand
of Maurise ; for, in her last interview with him, the girl
had said,
"Austin, I will never wed any other man ; but, even
as your wife, I could not be happy with the curse of my
mother on uur union."
Two years went by. Austin wrote very hopefully tc
his beloved, and she had begun to dream of the time
ORANJMOTHEB'S STOKY. Ill
when her bright head should lie again in the sheltering
of his arms.
It was in the soft June days that a gentleman, who
was travelling through the interior of the state, stopped
one Siturday afternoon at Valley Falls, and, as it was
late, concluded to wait till Monday before prosecuting
farther his journey.
On the Sabbath he attended morning service, and
there he saw Maurise Hillyard. I remember how she
looked that morning as though I had seen her yester-
day. Her new blue hat harmonized so completely with
her pure complexion, and its drooping lilies of the valley
trembled against her flushed cheeks as she came, grace-
ful and reed-like, up the old church aisle, behind her
mother.
The rustle of her lilac silk, the waving of her em-
broidered cape, yet live in my memory ; and the small
fingers clasped over her hymn book come back, to com-
plete the sweet vision of early womanhood.
Mr. Wilmot, the stranger, was a middle-aged and
noble-looking man, with that indefinable air, made up of
courtliness and character, which at once distinguishes
the accomplished gentleman.
He had borne, with undisturbed equanimity, the cu-
rious glances of the five hundred eyes that greeted his
entrance into the old church ; but when Maurise passed
before him, a sudden start and a visible change came
over the gentleman's face.
She sat where he could have a distinct view of her
face during the service ; and, it must be admitted, his
eyes wandered oftener to the maiden than to the minis-
112 GRANDMOTHER'S STCRT
ter that morning and I doubt not but her mother,
though she sat calm and erect as usual, was quite aAvare
of this fact.
Mr. Wilmot did not leave Valley Falls the next day,
as he stated to his host he should do.
It was very easy for him to procure an introduction
to Mrs. Hillyard and her daughter, which he did,
through the intervention of the squire, that same even-
ing.
Mrs. Hillyard learned, through this latter gentleman,
that Mr. Wilrnot was a widower and a millionaire ; and
from that hour the ambitious mother formed a project,
which her bright child, who was to be its victim, little
dreamed of.
No efforts, within the mother's limited means, had
been spared to render Maurise's education equal to the
position which her parent had dreamed always she
should occupy, and Mr. Wilmot found the country girl
as intelligent as she was beautiful.
He was exceedingly agreeable in manner and conver-
sation, and he was so much older than Maurise, and his
attentions were bestowed in such a quiet, half-fatherly
manner, that the girl little suspected what an intimate
relation they had with her future.
So she laughed and sang, she walked and rode with
Mr. Wilmot, and her mother looked on, with her sweet,
cold smile, and planned and exulted.
At the end of two weeks, business imperatively sum-
moned Mr. Wilrnot from Valley Falls. The night before
he left he had a long interview with Mrs. Hillyard ; and
the offer he made her child was certainly a flattering
ORANDMOTHER' STORY. 113
one, though he had three children, and was as old aa
Maurise's father.
" I will give your child an old name and an honoura-
ble one ; I will surround her loveliness with every luxury
that pride and my great wealth can procure ; and in the
home to which I shall take her, her beauty and her in-
telligence will win her the homage they deserve."
And the mother laid up his words in her heart, and
in an evil hour they brought forth ruin, despair, and
death.
" Maurise, my child, come, and sit down at my feet."
The mother's voice was very tender that evening, and
Maurise went to her feet, and laid her little hands in
her lap.
And then her mother told the astonished girl the proud
offer that Mr. Wilmot had made her. Oh ! it was a
gorgeous future the ambitious woman painted for her
child ! A future to dazzle the brain, and lead astray
the heart of a girl of twenty ; and thus she concluded,
kissing the uplifted forehead :
" And now, dear, Mr. Wilmot said he would return
in a month for my answer ; and then shall I not tell him
my Maurise will be his bride ?"
Those blue, bewildered eyes moved not from the lady's
face while she spoke ; but Maurise answered,
" Mother, have you forgotten my troth-plight to
Austin Enfield? I can never marry another man."
" Nonsense, my child ; it is quite time you had lost
eight of that foolish dream of your girlhood. Your life
will be far above the plodding way on which Austin En
114 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
field would take you. Come, it is high time you should
forget him !"
*' Never, never, mother, till I lie down where my
heart will put aside its memories for ever, will it forget
Austin Enfield !"
She syllabled the name with a world of tenderness,
as she sprang from her mother's feet, her eyes bright-
ening like night-stars off which rolls suddenly a summer
cloud.
I know not whether it is true, hut the neighbours say
that the light in Mrs. Hillyard's drawing-room burned
again till the gray of the morning, as the mother and
the daughter sat there ; and they say more than this,
that at last the proud woman knelt at the feet of her
daughter, and implored her, in the name of her mother's
love, to become the wife of Mr. Wilmot.
And Maurise answered through her sobs, as she cov-
ered her pale face, to shut out the vision of her kneeling
mother,
" I cannot, mother, for I do not love him !"
I do not know, Luella, at what time the tempter came
to the heart of Mrs. Hillyard, and first whispered that
dark deed, for whose perpetration she paid so dearly. I
know not what struggle the quiet of her own chamber,
or the stars of midnight witnessed. I only know that
the evil conquered.
" Maurise, I have had a letter to-day. Can you gueas
from whom ?"
Maurise could not see her mother's face as she said
the words, for the lady was bending over her sewing.
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 115
4< No. I'll give it up at once, mamma." The girl
looked up from her book, and answered indifferently.
" It was from Austin Enfield, and I thought you
might be interested in its contents."
The book dropped from Maurise's fingers. Her face
grew pale, and her eyes bright.
" What did he say, mamma ?"
" Something which you should know, my child ; and
yet I am reluctant to tell you, for fear it will give you
pain."
" No matter. Tell me quick, mamma ; anything is
better than suspense." Her voice was quick and husky.
And Mrs. Hillyard told her daughter that the doctor
had written from Italy, requesting that their engage-
ment might be annulled doubting not, as he said, that
the matured judgment of Miss Hillyard would concur
with his own in this matter, as it probably originated on
her part, as it did on his, in a childish partiality, of
which late years, more especially late attachments, had
taught him the weakness.
Maurise rose up, and went to her mother's side. She
was very calm, but the shroud-plaits were never drawn
over a whiter face.
" Mother," she said, "let me see that letter !"
Her mother took it from her pocket, and laid it in her
hands.
And Maurise read it ; his own words in his own
handwriting. She gave it back quietly, as she had re-
ceived it,
" Come, darling, don't look so, for it troubles me.
110 GRANDMOTHER'S STORTT.
He was not worthy of you, and I would forget him at
once. Shall I write that you will release him ?"
Maurise put her hand to her forehead.
" Yes ; tell him this without delay. At least I will
not stand in the way of his happiness."
Her eyes had a strange, far-off look in them as she
said the words ; and she turned to leave the room, and
with her second step sank senseless to the floor.
" And he did not write that letter, the doctor did not
write it," I whispered, drawing closer to my grandmo-
ther.
"No, dear. She wrote it herself, the day before,
with his last letter to her child lying before her that
letter full of the great love and the high hopes that were
in his heart.
I must hurry through with the remainder of my sad
history, Luella, for the sun is sloping westward.
In a month Mr. Wilmot, as he had stipulated, return-
ed, and Mrs. Hillyard met him in the parlour, and whis-
pered,
" My daughter has consented. She will be youi
wife."
In two weeks they were married. There was a wed
ding festival such as Valley Falls had never witnessed.
There were crowds of city guests, and the beauty of
Mr. Wilmot's village bride was the theme of all their
lips. They were married in the morning, and bridal
crown neyer rested on brighter head, and bridal vows
were never breathed by sweeter lips ; and yet, as the
sun came from behind a uioud, and ieli like a sudden
glory all about her, I had a full view of her face, and
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 117
there was something in it that made my heart ache for
aer.
Two years had passed. The spring was late that sea-
Bon, and in the early June the tree branches were swing-
ing in the wind, heavy with the beautiful blossoms of
May.
Mrs. Wilmot has come home to pass a week with her
mother. Her life in New York had been a scene of
dazzling triumph. Her beauty and her elegance had
won for her all the admiration her husband had pre-
dicted. I do not know whether she was happy. I only
know that her manners had a calm, stately repose, very
unlike the ardent, impulsive, light-hearted girl we re-
member at Valley Falls. But that summer she seemed
more like her old self than ever. She went down in
the meadows, and off in the springing wheat fields, and
again the old echoes woke up to the light rich laugh of
her girlhood.
Late one afternoon, Mrs. Wilmot and her mother sat
together in the old sitting-room. The former had been
relating, to her proud, attentive listener, a history of
some of the most brilliant parties she had attended
the preceding season, the dinners she had given, the
toasts that had been drunken in her honour, and matters
of like character, when she broke off, suddenly :
" How exquisitely beautiful those apple-blossoms are !
Do you remember, mamma, how I used to twine them in
my curls every May-time? I used to say they were
prettier than diamonds ; and now I have tried these,
118 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
I'll see if my old taste doesn't hold good yet;" and,
springing from her chair, she -went out into the garden.
The little hands at last succeeded in reaching the
lowest branch, and Mrs. Wilmot was breaking off a sprig
of the white blossoms, when the stage rolled suddenly
up to the front gate, and a young gentleman alighted a
few yards from her.
He looked eagerly over the grounds and building until
he espied Maurise ; *-hen he advanced quickly towards
her. He stretched out his arms, and cried, in a voice
trembling with glad tenderness,
" Maurise, Maurise, I have come back to you !"
The lady grew white as the blossoms that dropped
around her. For a moment her light figure wavered to
and fro like the apple-branches ; but as the young man
attempted to seize her hand, she drew it hastily away,
and stood very still as she sternly, scornfully confronted
him.
" How dare you address me thus, Austin Enfield,
wlrtfn you yourself first forfeited the right to do it;
when I am now the wife of another ?"
He sprang from her as though suddenly electrified.
His face was whiter even than hers, and for a moment
it worked fearfully as he stared at her, apparently not
comprehending what she had spoken.
" Maurise, I do not understand you."
" Yes, you do. You remember the letter you wrote,
requesting our engagement might be broken ; and why
have you come now, when I was growing happy again,
lo disturb my wedded peace ?"
GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 119
She hardly knew, in her excitement, what she was
*<a - ng, but she was turning from him.
" Maurise ! Maurise !" He sprang into her path, and
held her back. " Hear me ! You shall hear me ! I
never wrote such a letter; I never dreamed of such an
act. God is my witness, I never did it !"
They went back together, and talked for an hour,
under the still shadows of the great apple-tree. What
they said there, God only knows ; but when Doctor En-
field went out from it, he looked ten years older.
Maurise rose up. The sun had gone over the hill.
She went slowly towards the house, still holding the
crushed apple-blossoms in her hands.
Her mother came to the door to meet her ; but she
started, and drew back, when she looked in her face.
Her child drew up to her, and whispered in her ear,
" Mother, Doctor Enfield has just come out from the
garden gate. We have learned all. You have betrayed
your child, and broken her heart !" And she went up
stairs, to her own room, and her mother could not an-
swer her.
The next day there was a report through Valley Falls
that Mrs. Wilmot had been suddenly seized with brain-
fever, and that Mrs. Hillyard herself was hardly able
to leave her apartment.
The best physicians and the most skilful nurses were
procured. But each night the reports were less favour-
able the younger lady was no better, but rather grew
worse.
I was acquainted with the nurse who attended Mau
rise during her illness. She was truly a judicious, faith-
120 GRANDMOTHER'S STJRT.
ful womaE ; but she has since confidently told me it was
the saddest sick-bed she ever watched over. Her moana
for Austin Enfield ; her shrieking entreaties to her mo-
ther ; her wild prayers for help, were sounds which
WDuld haunt her memory till all sound would to her be
silence.
One night (I must hasten over this, Luella, for I can-
not dwell on it) Mrs. Wilmot seemed quieter than she
had been for several previous days, and the nurse, whom
constant watching had completely exhausted, left the
sick lady in charge of a woman who had been hired the
previous day, to occasionally relieve her in her arduous
duties.
It was two o'clock when the nurse rose and went into
Mrs. Wilmot's room. The night-lamp was burning
dimly on the table, and the watcher sat by it in a heavy
slumber ; but the bed was empty ! the sick woman was
gone !
The house was alarmed ; the neighbourhood was
aroused, and that night Valley Falls was vainly search-
ed for the sick woman. I cannot describe the agonies
of the frantic mother, to which remorse must have added
a tenfold bitterness, although no one at the time dream-
ed of this. She had seen her daughter but twice during
her illness, having been carried thither both times, as
she was too feeble to walk.
Dr. Enfield was riding down to Valley Falls, from a
neighbouring village, the next morning. He had heard
of Maurise's illness, and he knew, as none but her mo-
ther did, the circumstances which had occasioned it
He could not leave the vicinity while she remained ir
GRANDMOTHER'S STORT. 121
this state, and accordingly came down each day to learn
the reports of her health.
His road lay near the bank of the river. The cur-
rent is, as you know, a very strong one, and as the doc-
tor looked off on the blue waters rolling out in the
morning sunshine, something white arrested his atten-
tion. He was half convinced it must be the body of a
woman, as he strained his eyes to distinguish the object,
for he could see the long yellow hair floating on the
waves.
Something in that bright hair sent a chill to the doc-
tor's heart. He tried to alight, but he sank back in his
carriage, and a strange faintness came over the strong
man.
Some men were working in a meadow, a few rods dis-
tant. The doctor made a sign to them, and they came
to his carriage. He pointed to the object in the river.
Two of the men sprang in immediately, succeeded in
reaching the body, and bore it ashore. Then the doc-
tor looked down on the cold, dead face, round which laj
the wet, bright hair, and he saw "
" Oh, grandma, don't say it was Maurise ; don't,
don't !" I cried, shuddering through my sobs, as I laid
my arms about her waist.
My grandmother answered only by her tears, and they
fell thick as raindrops on my bowed head.
" They carried her home, (she continued at 'ast.) Her
mother saw them coming up the walk, and, weak as she
was, rushed out, and met them on the steps. One long,
wild, eager look she gave to that dead face. Then the
truth broke upon her. She thrust her arms upward,
122 GRANDMOTHER'S STORT.
with a laugh that curdled the blood in the very veins of
those that heard it, and from that hour to this she has
been what you have seen her, Luella."
" And her husband and the doctor what became of
them, grandma?"
"A messenger was despatched for the former, and
the broken-hearted husband came, and saw all that was
left of his beautiful, his idolized Maurise. He had not
been apprised of her illness, as Mrs. Hillyard had for-
bidden this, fearing, I suppose, that in her delirious
ravings her daughter might reveal more than it was well
he should know.
But the doctor attended her funeral. She was buried
by her father ; and before the two gentlemen left they
had a long interview. It is supposed that all was re-
vealed at that time to Mr. Wilmot. Both gentlemen
probably felt that God's retribution was fearful, and
greatly as she had sinned, they must have pitied the
wretched mother.
The doctor returned to Europe. I have never heard
from him since. Mr. Wilmot married again some three
years after the death of his wife.
It is generally believed that Maurise left the house
that night, and threw herself into the river, in a state
of high delirium, produced by brain-fever ; but the cau&e
of that fever is known by few."
" There, Luella, goes the supper-bell ! Come, my
lliild," and my grandmother lifted my face, and kissed
it tenderly.
The sun had gone down, and the twilight was build
I DREAMED OP MY MOTHER. 123
ing up its shadows in the corners of the bedroom. The
wind had taken up a new hymn, the soft doxology of the
day. The quiet and the heauty filled my heart with a
prayer :
" May God keep me from the sin of pride !"
" Amen !" said my grandmother, as we rose up, and
went out.
I DREAMED OF MY MOTHER.
I DREAMED of my mother, and sweet to my soul
Was the brief-given spell of that vision's control :
I thought she stood by me, all cheerful and mild
As when to her bosom J clung as a child.
Her features were bright with the smiles that she wore,
When heeding my idle-tongued prattle of yore;
And her voice had that kindly and silvery strain
That from childhood had dwelt in the depths of my brain.
She spoke of the days of her girlhood and youth
Of life and its cares, and of hope and its truth ;
And she seemed as an angel just winged from above,
To bring me a message of duty and love.
She told of her thoughts at the old village school
Of her walks with her playmates when loosed from its rule-
Of her rambles for berries, and when they were o'er
Of the mirth-making groups at the white cottage door.
She painted the garden, so sweet to the view,
Where the wren made its nest and the pet-flowers grew
Of the trees that she loved for their scent and their shade.
Where the robin, and wild-bee, and humming-bird played.
124 I DREAMED OF MY MOTHER.
And she spoke of the greenwood which bordered the farih
Where her glad moments glided unmixed with alarm
Of the well by the wicket, whose waters were free,
And the lake with its white margin traversed in glee.
And she pondered delighted the joys to retrace
Of the family scenes of that ruralized place,-
Of its parties and bridals, its loves and its spells
Its heart-clinging ties, and its saddened farewells.
She pictured the meeting-house, where, with the throng,
She heard the good pastor, and sang the sweet song
Of the call from the pulpit, the feast at the shrine,
And the hallowed communings with feelings divine.
" And listen, my son !" she did smilingly say,
" If 'tis pleasant to sing it is sweeter to pray
If the future is bright in the day of thy prime,
That brightness may grow with the fading of time.
" As the bow bringeth promise while arching the skies,
With its beautiful glory emblazed on the eyes
Though blended with ether its loveliness fade,
The splendour is lost not, but only delayed.
" What healing like hope's shall the mourners restore,
When their sad bosoms sigh over pleasures no more,
As back to the place of departure they gaze,
Where the moonlight of memory mellowly plays ?
" But thy present, my son, as its brief moments flee,
Is the prize to be seized and be cherished by thee
; Tis the earnest of joys that no time can impair,
And is linked with a peace that I may not declare.
" And when the frail strength of humanity fades,
And darkness the eye-ball of nature invades,
From thy Pisgah of Hope 'twill be sweet to behold
What a Canaan of glories her hand has unrolled.
I DREAMED OF MY MOTHER. 125
" Look up to thy Maker, my son, and rejoice !"
Was the last gentle whisper that came from that voice,
"While its soft soothing tones on my dreaming ear fell,
As she glided away with a smiling farewell.
There are dreams of the heavens, and dreams of the earth,
And dreams of disease that to phantoms give birth,
But the hearer of angels, awake or asleep,
Has a vision to love, to remember and keep.
I woke from the spell of that visit of night,
And inly communed with a quiet delight,
And the past, and the present, and future surveyed,
In the darkness presented, by fancy arrayed.
I thought of the scenes when that mother was nigh,
In a soft sunny land and beneath a mild sky,
When at matins we walked to the health-giving spring,
With the dew on the grass, and the birds on the wing.
Of the draughts at the fount as the white sun arose,
And the views from the bluffs where the broad river flows
Of the sound from the shore of the fisherman's strain,
And the sight of the ship as it sailed to the main.
Of the wild-flowers plucked from the glen and the field,
And the beauties the meadows and gardens revealed
Of all that she paused to explain or explore,
'Till I learned in my wonder to think and adore.
And of joys that attended the fireside scene,
When woodlands and meadows no longer were green
Of the sports, and the tales, and the holiday glee,
That ever were rife at that fond mother's knee.
Of the duties of home, and the studies of school,
With the many delights that divided their rule,
'Till the sunshine of boyhood had ended, and brought
The cares and the shadows of manhood and thought.
126 MOTHERS, DO YOU SYMPATHIZE
And I sighed for the scenes that had faded away-
For the forms that had fallen from age to decay
For the friends who had vanished, while looking before
To paths that their feet were forbid to explore.
And glancing beyond, through the vista of time,
With a soul full of hope, and with life in its prime,
Though flowers by memory cherished had died,
Life's garden was still with some blossoms supplied.
And oft as that dream to my spirit comes back,
A newness of thought re-illumes my track ;
For it seems as a spell undefined and alone,
Of something concerned with the vast and unknown.
MOTHERS, DO YOU SYMPATHIZE WITH YOUR
CHILDREN?
ROBERT MOLTON was very fond of his aunt Mary.
Nothing ever gave him greater pleasure than the per-
mission to spend a few days with her he loved so dearly
to listen to her stories. Indeed, it was a pleasure to sit
down at any time and have a talk with Aunt Mary, if
she did not tell a single story. Robert could bear to
hear her talk, even about his faults, far better than he
could bear it from any other person. But, for some
reason, Robert was a better boy and exhibited fewer
faults when with Aunt Mary, than at any other time.
" I wish," said Robert to his aunt Mary, one day,
" that mother would talk to me as you do. If she
would, I believe I should be a better boy when I am at
home."
WITH YOUR CHILDREN? 127
"I do not understand you, Robert," replied his aunt;
' 1 am sure you have one of the kindest of mothers, who
loves you as well as a boy can ask to be loved."
"1 know my mother loves me," Robert replied.
" She would do anything in the world for me, I really
believe : but when I do anything she does not like, she
ion't talk to me as you do, but she "
Here an awkward pause ensued. Aunt Mary waited
for Robert to finish his sentence, but it was left un-
finished after all. Robert was going to say, " she
does scold so, it makes me so angry," but he well knew
that his aunt Mary would not approve of his talking in
that way about his mother. He tried to think of some
other word which would express the same thing, and be
less exceptionable, but of all the words in the English
language which occurred to him, no other word but
"scold " would express the idea he wished to convey
so he gave it up.
Aunt Mary could guess pretty well what was passing
in Robert's mind ; but as she did not wish to enter into
conversation upon that subject, she encouraged Robert
in a general way to try and be a good boy, when he
returned home, and then began to talk of something
else.
" I will be a good boy to-day," said Robert to himself,
the morning after his return from his Aunt Mary's. " I
will try to be as good a boy at home as I am when at
Aunt Mary's."
Robert had an irritable temper. A trifle would make
him angry, and then would come an outburst of passion.
These fits of passion were met by those reproofs which
128 MOTHERS, DO YOU SYMPATHIZE
were administered in such a manner, and with such
tones of voice, that they certainly seemed to Robert
more like scolding than like anything else ; and were
by no means calculated to restore calmness to his
irritated feelings.
Robert was aware of his weakness, and knew if he
wished to be a good boy that day he must set a double
watch upon his temper. This he tried to do.
The morning was not far advanced, however, befoie
his brother, next older than himself, said something
which vexed Robert very much. His eye kindled, his
cheeks were flushed, and on his tongue was the angry
retort. But just then he thought of his morning's
resolution, and with a mighty effort forced back the
burning words.
Robert instinctively turned to his mother, to see if
the conflict and the victory had been observed by her;
but no word or glance of hers gave any intimation that
she had taken note of the moral conflict which had been
transpiring close by her side, or of the moral victory
that had been achieved. Yet she had seen it all. She
heard the remark of George, and knowing the irritable
temper of Robert, had expected an outburst of passion ;
but, as it did not occur, she merely congratulated herself
that she had not, as she expected, been annoyed by an
angry altercation between her sons, and dismissed the
Bubject from her thoughts.
Robert felt disappointed and discouraged. He could
could but say to himself, " If Aunt Mary were here, she
might not have said a word ; but the very glance of her
eye would have said as plainly as words could do, ' I
WITH YOUR CHILDREN ? 129
understand it all, Robert. You have done bravely. 1
know you have had a hard battle, and I congratulate
you most heartily for the victory you have gained.' "
How amply would Robert have been rewarded by
snch a smile of approbation for all it had cost him to
suppress his angry feelings ; and how would his soul
have been strengthened for another conflict !
But did not his mother know that it had cost her son
something to control his temper, and keep back the
angry words which had all but escaped ? Could she not
read the language of that flashing eye and flushed face,
and could she not know that there was a work for her
to do even when reproof and condemnation were not
called for ?
Robert did not reason very deeply on the subject, but
he felt that if it was right for his mother to condemn
when he did wrong, it was no more than right that she
should observe and approve when he did right. But,
though discouraged, and feeling much like a soldier
fighting alone, he resolved to persevere yet longer, and
6<3e if he could not be a good boy all that day.
An hour or two more passed. Robert had taken out
his building blocks, and was very busily engaged in
erecting a building, upon which he was bestowing a
good deal of thought and contrivance. It was nearly
completed, and he was just about to call his mother's
attention to it, and ask if he had not done well, when
his little sister, in playing about the room, chanced to
upset a chair, which, in falling, upset in its turn the
building Robert was so carefully rearing. Robert felt
very angry- so angry that he even raised his hand to
130 MOTHERS, DO YOU SYMPAfHIZE
strike his little sister. But again he thought or his
morning's resolution, and immediately girded himself to
the great -work of ruling his own spirit. It was a bard-
fought battle, but Robert was conqueror. The uplifted
hand fell gently by his side, and not even an angry
word escaped him.
His mother was sitting near, engaged with a book.
When Robert's edifice fell, she was disturbed with the
thought, " Now we shall have a storm !" but when all
passed off quietly, and the expected storm did not come,
she resumed her reading with a feeling of satisfactioc
that the affair had passed off so smoothly, but without
bestowing one approving glance upon the moral hero
who stood in her presence, although that hero was her
own son.
Robert was discouraged from continuing the unaided
struggle. He had spent, as it were, all his moral
courage in this last conflict, and all he had gained, as
respected his mother, was freedom from reproof. The
next time he was tempted, he yielded almost without a
struggle. His mother's reproof, which, as usual, fol-
lowed instantly upon the offence, stung him to the
quick. He felt as if he were the injured party.
"I have tried all day," he said to himself, "to be a
good boy, and mother has taken no notice of it. 1 did
not speak angrily to George, this morning, when he pr,o-
voked me so ; and I said not a word to Lucy for her
knocking down my house, but mother never so much aa
smiled upon me, when I was trying to be good ; but if J
get angry ever so little, I hear of it quickly enough.'"
The more Robert thought of these things, the rr.ore
WITH YOUR CHILDREN 1 131
out of temper he grew. He did not any longer try to
control himself, but all the rest of the day was so
peevish, it was hardly safe to speak to him.
Now it was not from any want of love for her son
tliat Mrs. Molton erred so greatly in her management
of him. As Robert had said, she loved him well enough
to do almost anything for him ; but she did not cultivate
a hearty sympathy with him. " What if his sister did
throw down his play-house? It was only a play-house,
a very small thing to be angry about, and he did not
deserve much credit for not getting angry about such a
trifle."
Now this reasoning was wrong, all wrong. If this
mother had placed herself back to the days of her own
early childhood, and candidly asked herself how she
would then have felt about the very same thing, she
would have felt that it was not a trifle to Robert, and
she would have learned an invaluable lesson of sym-
pathy for her child in his childish struggles, conflicts,
and victories.
The exhibition of such sympathy was just what Robert
needed to encourage him in the efforts which he really
did often make to overcome his faults. All he asked
was that these efforts should be appreciated. A smile
of approbation, as the reward of one such successful
effort as Robert had made that day, would have dono
more to aid him to overcome his violent temper than
all the reproofs he had ever received.
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
" HAVE you come to a decision, Mrs. Bradford ?"
"Yes, sir." This was meant to be firmly spoken ; but
there was a low tremor in the soft, sad voice of the pale
young woman, in widow's weeds, who answered, that
betrayed more feeling than she wished to manifest.
" You will let Edward come?"
" Excuse me, sir, I I "
" Oh, very well ! very well !" said the visiter, in an
impatient tone of voice. "Just as you please, ma'am."
And he arose quickly, and commenced buttoning his
coat across his breast. " It's a matter of indifference to
me wholly so. As an old friend of Mr. Bradford's, 1
thought it but right to make this offer for the benefit of
his son. Not that it is of any special importance to
me; for I can have my pick of a dozen lads quite as
bright as your boy, and as well suited for my purpose.
To Edward I have given the preference, out of regard
to his father. You decline my offer to take him, and
that ends the matter. I have done my duty."
Mr. Gardiner that was the man's name turned
partly away, and made a step towards the door. Mrs.
Bradford, instead of seeking to prevent his abrupt depar-
ture, shrunk deeper in the chair that supported her slen-
der person. How strong a contrast presented between
the two ! one a stout, confident, easy-to-do in the world,
self-reliant man ; the other a weak, almost friendless,
sad and desponding woman,
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 13S
With his hand upon the door, Mr. Gardiner paused,
and looked back, half proudly, upon the sorrowing widow
of his early friend, whose eyes, cast down, ventured not
to meet his gaze.
" Think again, ma'am," said he coldly, almost severely.
" I have thought it all over, Mr. Gardiner," was
answered in a firmer voice than the man expected to
hear. At the same moment the eyes of Mrs. Bradford
were lifted to his face. Steadily she gazed, until his
eyes fell to the floor.
" I have thought it all over," she repeated, " and my
decision has not been made without a long and painful
struggle. For your kind preference, believe me. I am
grateful ; and I thank you for it in the name of him who,
when living, you called your friend. But I cannot
accept the advantage you offer my son."
"Good morning, ma'am." The words were said ab-
ruptly, almost rudely. A moment after, and the door
closed heavily.
" Mother," said a lad, who, until now, had remained
a silent observer of what passed between his mother and
her visiter, " why won't you let me go to Mr. Gardiner's ?
I'm sure he offered us very fair. Three dollars a week
for the first year ; and after that as much more as I might
be worth to him. That was what he said."
Edward had come to the side of his mother ; and stood
looking quite soberly into her face. It was clear, from
the tone of his voice, that he was not pleased with her
decision.
"I don't believe I'll ever have as good an offer again
134 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE
He wanted me, and said he'd do well by me," added the
boy, pettishly.
" I have not declined this proposition of Mr. Gardi-
ner's without good reason, Edward." Mrs. Bradford
spoke with gentle earnestness, and there were tears in
her eyes as she lifted them to the fine, manly face of
her son.
"I'll never have another chance like this," said Ed-
ward.
"A chance for what?" asked his mother.
" Mr. Gardiner is a rich man," said the boy.
" I know he is," was answered.
" He's doing a large business."
"Yes."
" And he promised to do well by me."
" He did. And yet, Edward, it was best for me to
decline his offer ; and the day will come, I trust, when
you will see this as clearly as I do."
The boy was Tar from being satisfied. The necessity
for entering upon some employment was imperative ; that
he clearly understood, and his mind was made up to do
his part bravely. Two places were offered for his accept-
ance, one in the large wholesale store of Mr. Gardiner,
and the other in the counting-room of a Mr. Lee, a
young man of small means, who had just started a com-
mission business. Mr. Lee could offer no salary for the
first year; and this was a serious drawback, for Mrs
Bradford's income was exceedingly limited insufficient,
in fact, for the comfortable maintenance of herself and
Bon.
In deciding between the two situations offered to
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 135
Edward, she had suffered a strong conflict. The fairest
promise of worldly advantage for her son was on the side
of the rich merchant ; but she had no confidence in his
principles. That he lacked integrity of character, and,
in business, was guilty of practices which her clear sense
of what was right between man and man hesitated not
to class as dishonest actions, she knew through her hus-
band, who had become attached to him early in life, but
in later years had withdrawn himself from an intimate
association.
James Lee was the younger brother of a very dear
friend, and a man of different stamp from Gardiner. He
had been carefully educated morally as well as intellec-
tually and bore the reputation, among all with whom
he had any intercourse, of a just man. This was the
reason why Mrs. Bradford decided to place Edward in
his care, instead of accepting the more advantageous offer
of Mr. Gardiner. In looking to the future of her child,
she had a regard for something more permanent, more
to be desired, and more soul-satisfying, than wealth or
position. Of all things, she wished to see him grow up
a true man. Not a mere self-seeker ; net one who. to
elevate himself, would coldly tread down the weak, or
wrong the helpless and ignorant. She had tried to make
Edward comprehend the wide difference between the
characters of these two men, and the great injury he
might sustain in coming under the influence and control
of Mr. Gardiner. But Edward saw only the worldly
advantage that was promised, and perceived in his
mother's objections only idle fears.
Thus was Mrs. Bradford's trial made only the more
136 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
severe. If there had been cheerful, or even dutiful
acquiescence on the part of her son, her feelings on the
occasion would have been of a less painful character.
But she was resolute. The place offered by Mr. Lee
was accepted, and Edward entered his counting-room,
simply in obedience to his mother's wishes.
When it became known among the friends of Mrs.
Bradford that she had refused to let Edward go into
Mr. Gardiner's store, she was severely blamed. A bro
ther of her late husband said many harsh things to hei
on the subject ; and some that she felt to be insulting.
But she did not waver, even though family estrange-
ments followed, and she was left still more alone in the
world.
One of the false views of life which Mrs. Bradford
had now, under the teaching of stern necessity, to un-
learn, was, that for a woman to work for money had in
it something degrading. From childhood up to this
period, all things needful for life and comfort had been
provided for her by the hands of others. Father and
husband had kept her above the sphere of care as to
what we shall eat, or what we shall drink, or where-
withal be clothed ; and insensibly she had come to feel
something like contempt for all women who were com-
pelled to toil for the bread that perisheth.
How all was changed now ! The mother's pure love
lifted her out of this obscurity, and she saw a meaning
in the words that pronounced him greatest of all ^ho
became servant of all, that never before came even dimly
to her perceptions. All hopes, all aspirations, all pur-
poses in life, were now terminated in the future weU'ura
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 137
of her sun : and for his sake she was ready t( do and
sacrifice all that a true and loving heart can do and sacri
fice in this world.
As Edward would receive nothing for the first year,
and as the meagre remnant of property that survived to
her after the settlement of her husband's estate was in-
sufficient for the support of herself and son, Mrs. Brad-
ford now began to revolve in her mind the ways and
means of procuring an additional income
"What shall I do?" How earnestly, even tearfully,
did she ask this question ! How earnestly and tearfully
is it daily asked by thousands, who, like Mrs. Bradford,
are thrown upon the world, and made wholly dependent
on their feeble resources ! Yet to whom comes a clear,
confident answer ?
The education of Mrs. Bradford had not been thorough.
A little of almost everything taught in fashionable
schools she had learned; yet nothing had been so fully-
acquired as to give her a teacher's proficiency. She had
a fair acquaintance with French, and could speak it with
some fluency ; but possessed no critical knowledge of the
language. She could draw tolerably well ;' but had no
taste for the beautiful art. For years her music had
been neglected. So far, therefore, as her early edu-
cation was concerned, it availed her little or nothing in
the present trying position of affairs.
" What shall I do ?" How sadly, almost hopelessly,
over and over again did Mrs. Bradford repeat these
words ! and yet there was not even an echo to the
question.
One day it was mentioned in her presence tl.at the
138 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
matron of a certain charitable institution had resigned her
place, and that the Board of Directors were about appoint-
ing another. It flashed through her mind that here was
a chance for her ; but with the thought pride awoke, and
her cheeks burned as she imagined herself in the position
of a matron where she had once been a lady patroness.
For a time she shrunk away into herself, and pushed the
thought afar off. But turn which way she would, no light
from any other quarter broke through the clouds that
gathered above her, black as midnight.
Nearly a month had gone by since Edward entered the
counting-room of Mr. Lee. From the beginning he
had looked sober and seemed spiritless. To him the
present was cheerless, and the future lured him on with
no bright promise. A school companion, named Henry
Long, had obtained the situation with Mr. Gardiner, and
it so happened that the two lads met almost every day.
Their conversation naturally turned upon their relative
positions ; and the contrasts which were drawn, always
left Edward's mind in a state of dissatisfaction. The
business of Mr. Gardiner was very heavy, his employees
numbering over one hundred ; while in the store and
counting-room of Mr. Lee were only Edward and a por-
ter. Mr. Lee kept his own books ; Mr. Gardiner was,
moreover, a "liberal" man generous towards his clerks,
and not over particular in regard to them, provided they
were always in place and active during business hours.
There was in the whole operations of his large establish-
ment, an imposing progression, which, in contrast with
the intermitting and lighter operations of the young com-
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 139
mission merchant, made the latter appear in the eye of
Edward, almost contemptible.
He came home one evening, after one of his talks with
Henry Long, considerably fretted at what he chose to
think the great injustice practised by his mother in refus-
ing to let him accept the place which had been offered by
Mr. Gardiner. On that very day, a favourable answer
had been received by Mrs. Bradford to her application
for the situation of matron in an Orphan Asylum.
She had not spoken to Edward on the subject, and he
had no suspicion of what was in her mind. How to
break it to him, was now the subject of her thoughts.
That he would oppose her, she knew; and the more
strongly, because it involved the breaking up of their
home. And was it just to him for her to do so ? That
was still a question, ever recurring, though answered
over and over again conclusively, the mother tried to
think.
Edward came in with his usual quiet step. There was
no smile on his lip as he glanced into his mother's face ;
and though she tried to smile an evening welcome home,
there was only a feeble ray upon her countenance that
soon faded.
"Edward," said Mrs. Bradford, as they were about
leaving the tea-table, almost compelling herself to intro-
duce a subject that could no longer be kept back, " we
shall have to make a change in our mode of life."
The boy looked at her inquiringly.
" I need not say, my son, that we are very poor,"
she added ; " too poor even to maintain our present style
of living."
140 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
"Well, mother, whose fault is it?" Edward spoke
coldly nay, severely.
" I do not charge it as the fault of any one," answered
Mrs. Bradford.
"I do, then," was the quick response. Accusation
and rebuke, both, were in the boy's tones.
" Upon whom ?" The mother looked him firmly in the
face.
"It is your fault," said he.
"Edward!"
" I cannot help it, mother. But for your refusal to
let me accept the offer of Mr. Gardiner, I might now be
receiving three dollars weekly, which would help a great
deal."
" In that small gain would have been, I fear, the seed
of an infinite loss, my son." The voice of Mrs. Brad-
ford trembled, and her eye grew suddenly dim.
" Uncle Bradford said that was all a woman's silly
notion, and I believe him."
Edward uttered this with a cruel thoughtlessness, and
his words pierced the heart of his mother. A little
while she looked with a rapidly changing countenance
into his face looked half timidly, but oh ! so sorrow-
fully ; and then leaning down until her forehead rested
upon the table at which she sat, sobbed out loudly, while
her body shook as with a convulsion.
Touched, but not subdued by this effect of his hard
words, Edward arose and commenced walking the room
hurriedly. Gradually Mrs. Bradford regained possession
of her feelings, and, in a few minutes, was able to com
inand her voice entirely.
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 141
" I have looked to your good alone, my son," said she;
" and time will prove that I did not err in accepting the
place you have, instead of the one offered by Mr. Gardi-
ner. Do your mother at least the justice to believe that
she was governed by no selfish consideration. But to
recur to what I wished to say in the beginning. We are
too poor to retain even this humble home. Providen-
tially, however, in this our extremity, a way has been
opened. This afternoon I received notice that I was
appointed matron in the Orphan Asylum. The
salary is five hundred dollars."
Edward's face flushed suddenly, and then grew pale as
ashes. He had continued walking the floor with uneasy
step, but now he stood still, gazing upon his mother with
a strange, doubting, startled look.
" With this income," she added, " and no expense of
rent or housekeeping, I shall be able to support you com-
fortably, until your services in Mr. Lee's counting-room
command a salary. The only drawback in the matter ia
the giving up of our home."
The whole manner of the boy underwent a change.
Without speaking, he moved across the room to where
his mother still sat, and, bending down, laid his head
upon her bosom, and burst into tears. Not only wag
his pride wounded at the thought of her taking the place
of a matron in an orphan asylum ; he was touched by so
strong a manifestation of her self-sacrificing love for him.
And he had, moreover, an oppressive sense of loneli-
ness- -home-sickness it might almost be called as the
idea of separation from his mother presented itself
vividly.
142 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
"You will not go there, dear mother," he sobbed, lift-
ing his tearful face from her bosom.
" It would be wrong, under present circumstances, for
me to refuse the offer," was the quiet answer.
"You cannot do it you must not do it, mother!'
Edward spoke with rising warmth.
" There is no alternative, my son."
" Don't say so, mother. Wait, wait."
" Wait for what, Edward ?"
" I can, I will earn something. I must support you,
not you support me. My hands are ready, and my
heart willing. No no you shall not go there."
"Mr. Lee cannot pay you a salary at present."
" Then I must find some one who can," was the reso-
lute answer.
" I do not wish you to leave Mr. Lee's service. I
know it will be best for you in the end to remain with
him," interposed Mrs. Bradford.
" I cannot work, starving," said the lad, bitterly.
" Calm yourself, Edward." The mother spoke ear-
nestly and tenderly. " Trust something in my judg-
ment. Time will prove to you that I am right in what
I propose doing."
"Right to take from me my home?" said the boy,
with a mournfulness in his voice that thrilled on his
mother's heart-strings, and started in her mind a new
train of thoughts. Yes, it would be taking from him
his home, poor and humble though it was ; for when she
entered upon the matron's duties, he would go among
strangers ; and who could tell whether the Hew relations
into which he must come, would be for good or evil ?
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 143
And now Mrs. Bradford's purpose, so firmly settled,
began to waver.
'You have not yet accepted the offer?" inquired Ed-
ward, after his excitement of feeling had in a measure
subsided, and thought began to flow on in a clearer
current.
"No, but I will he expected to give an answer at
once."
"Can it be put off until the day after to-morrow?"
"It might."
" Then don't say yes, to-morrow ; don't, mother !
Promise me, won't you ?"
" But what will it avail, my son ?"
" Only wait, mother," urged the lad eagerly. "Say
that you will wait."
"I need not give the answer to-morrow; and if you
so earnestly desire it, I will not."
Ed\vard said no more, but from that moment his
thoughts were indrawn, and he remained during the
evening in a state of deep distraction. All the powers
of his young mind he was taxing for a solution of one
of life's intricate problems. He was in a more tranquil,
hopeful state on the next morning ; for he had come t )
a decision, and that was, to tell the story of his mother's
extremity, and ask from Mr. Lee either the payment of
a salary, or a release from his engagement.
Mr. Lee heard his story, and it awakened a strong
interest in favour of the lad, for he was a man of generous
sympathies. But the question of paying Edward a salary
was one hat he could not easily decide. His business
was only in its forming stage, and in commencing it, ho
144 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
had graduated his expenses to the very lowest scale. It
was part of his calculation to do without a clerk for the
first year ; and to take an office boy, who would be compen-
sated for his services during at least that period by the
knowledge of business he would acquire. This economi-
cal arrangement of Las affairs was not, in any sense, the
offspring of meai* cupidity; nor was it grounded in a
principle of injustice to others. It was only a measure
of prudence, the dictate of a clear judgment. " Little
boats keep near the shore," was one of his safe axioms.
"I will think about this, Edward," he answered,
kindly, after the boy had told his story, "and see whac
can be done. I like your manly spirit, and right feeling
towards your mother."
There was something so cheerful and encouraging in
Mr. Lee's voice, that the lad felt his heart bound with
hope. The fact was, on this very morning, the young
commission merchant had received a letter from a large
manufacturing establishment at the East, notifying him
of a handsome consignment of goods, and promising to
keep him supplied. The goods were in demand, and
sales could be made to some of the best houses in the
city. From this source alone, his profits would be
several hundred dollars in the year.
Mr. Lee was not one of those men whose sympathy
for others grows narrower, as the dawn of a more pros-
serous day begins to break along the murky horizon.
"I am glad for his sake, as well as for my own," was
ho thought which flitted through his mind, after Edward
nad told his story, " that a favourable change in business
piospeets has just occurred. I can now afford to pay
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 145
him something ; and I. will do it. A lad with such a
spirit deserves encouragement."
As Edward was about leaving the counting-room at
dinner-time, Mr. Lee said to him,
" I have been thinking over what you told me this
morning, and I have every disposition to meet your
wishes. My business, as you know, is yet small, and
the income from it limited. But I have just received
some better consignments, with the promise of liberal
shipments of goods, from a large manufactory. Yes-
terday, I do not think your application would have met
with a favourable answer. Now I can offer you a salary
of one hundred and fifty dollars for the first year."
Tears sprung to the lad's eyes, and he could not
restrain the impulse that prompted him to seize the
hand of Mr. Lee.
" Oh ! I am so glad !" he exclaimed, as a light broke
over his face.
"But that sum," added Mr. Lee, "will not go far
towards supporting yourself and mother."
" Mother has a small income ; and this will help very
much. I think she can make it do."
Mr. Lee mused for some moments.
"I've been thinking since you spoke to me this
morning "
Mr. Lee paused, and seemed turning something over
in his mind, that was not altogether clear to him.
" I've been thinking, perhaps, you might do same-
thing for yourself," he at length said.
Edward's face brightened.
"There are some little articles in which you migni
10
146 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
trade safely. In breaking bales of goods, for instance,
pieces of rope and bagging accumulate. For these odds
and ends there is a sale. I know two or three stores
where you can buy the article, and I know where yon
can sell it at a small advance. It will take so small a
portion of your time and attention that I can have no
objection, and the matter is so simple and safe that you
arill run no risk."
The light faded from the boy's face ; observing which,
Mr. Lee said,
"It does not strike you favourably."
" I have no money to buy with," was the dispirited
answer.
" Oh, as to that," came the cheerful response, " no
very large capital will be required. Ten or fifteen
dollars will start you in the business, and I can supply
that."
"You are very kind, sir," was Edward's grateful
answer. A few moments he stood with his eyes bent
upon the floor then moving away he left the counting-
room, and hurried home to communicate the good news
to his mother. As he ascended the stairs, leading to
the apartments they occupied, he heard the voice of a
man in his mother's room, and on opening the door, hia
eyes fell upon the cold face of his Uncle Bradford. A
brief and distant greeting took place, and then the
visitor said to the widow of his brother,
" The salary is a liberal one, and will make you very
comfortable. I am glad you were so fortunate as to
teiure the appointment. You may not know that you
PASSING THROUGH THE J-'IKE. 147
are in a good measure indebted to me for your success.
[ made interest for you in an influential quarter."
" Mother is not going there," said Edward, abruptly.
He was unable to keep back the words that leaped to hia
tongue.
Mr. Bradford turned suddenly upon the boy, and
scowled darkly.
"Not going where," he asked.
"Not going to be a matron in an orphan asylum,"
answered Edward, firmly.
" She isn't, ha !" Mr. Bradford's lip had a sneer
upon it ; and he looked first at the boy and then at his
mother.
" No, sir, she isn't going." And Edward stood up
and returned the gaze of his uncle with so steady a
look, that Mr. Bradford felt irritated beyond measure.
" Oh, very well," said he, in an offended voice
" very well if you are master here, I have nothing to
say." And he arose, and took two or three hurried
steps across the room. At the door he paused and
glanced back towards Mrs. Bradford, who looked be-
wildered, and almost frightened at the unexpected
rencontre, so to speak, between Edward and his uncle.
"It's no use, I find," said he, speaking severely,
" for me to try to do anything for you. My advice has
not been taken in a single instance since my brother's
death ; and now I shall just let you go your own way.
You were silly enough to refuse Mr. Gardiner's excellent
offer to take Edward. There isn't a more advantageous
place in the city his fortune would have been made
49 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
I'm out of all patience with you ! But, gang y'r ain
gait gang y'r ain gait ! It will be all the same to me.
A.nd just bear this in mind don't call on me to help
jrou out of any of the troubles your stupidity may
create."
And Mr. Bradford went off in a passion, leaving the
widow in tears.
" Don't cry, mother dear don't cry," said Edward,
tenderly, coming to the side of his weeping parent, and
laying his face to hers. "You're not going to the
Asylum. Mr. Lee says he will pay me one hundred
and fifty dollars for the first year, and that is as much
as Mr. Gardiner promised. He spoke very kindly to
me ; and said he would show me how I could trade a
little for myself, and make a few dollars now and then.
Oh, mother! I feel such a weight taken from my heart."
Mrs. Bradford could not answer in words, but she
drew the boy's face tightly to her breast, and kissed
over and over again, fervently, his pure white forehead.
" Mr. Lee is a true man," she said, when she could
trust herself to speak. " He is not rich, like Mr. Gar-
diner; but he has a larger heart, my son."
Edward raised himself up, and looked earnestly al
bis mother. Her words seemed to have light in them,
and made things clear which were before in obscurity.
"A kind, true heart, Edward," the mother added,
u ia worth more than gold; and you can trust it better."
"Mr. Lee has a kind, true heart," said the lad,
speaking as if to himself.
" That I have known for years, Edward," answered
uis mother; "and he has not only a true heart, but just
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 149
and honourable principles. It was for this reason that
I decided against Mr. Gardiner and in his favour. I
knew it would be better for you in the end to be under
his care ; and, already, this is becoming apparent even
in your eyes."
Serious thought was now given by Mrs. Bradford to
the subject of accepting or declining the appointment
which she had just received. Would it be right for
her, under the circumstances, to refuse an offer of five
hundred dollars a year? Another such opportunity
would hardly again occur. If she did refuse, the act
would estrange certain friends who had interested them-
selves in her behalf; and in case of future extremity, no
dependence could be placed on their kind offices. As
these and other considerations were revolved, her mind
came into a bewildered state ; and she was sorely op-
pressed by doubts. Edward opposed her acceptance,
and begged her not to take from him his home, humble
and obscure though it might be.
" I will live in a garret with you, mother," he said.
"Anywhere I will be contented with poor food and
plain clothing, until I grow older."
If the thought of Mrs. Bradford had in any respect
turned inwards upon herself if, in thinking of a clear
income of five hundred dollars a year, her imagination
had pictured a condition of freedom from care and
worldly anxieties, every selfish impulse was stifled now.
"What will be best for my boy?" That was the
earnestly asked question, and upon that turned a de-
cision of the case. Clearly, now, she saw the dangers
to which Edward would be exposed, if removed from
150 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
her loving care her watchful guardianship and she
wondered within herself that this had not vividly pre-
sented itself before.
" We will remain together, my son," were her calmly
spoken words, after all was decided in her mind ; " and
if we can only get bread to eat and water to drink, wo
will share them, and be thankful that the worse evil of
separation is yet far from us."
Both mother and son had passed through what to
them was a fiery trial, but now they saw with a purer
vision ; now they felt stronger to endure, and had a
better hope for the future.
When the purpose of Mrs. Bradford was made known
to her friends, and they became aware of the slender
support she had chosen, instead of the comfortable
income which had been offered for her acceptance, they
were greatly displeased, and censured her strongly;
even going so far as to charge her with lack of energy,
and insinuating that both pride and indolence had
conspired to effect her decision. She bore the storm
meekly, for she knew that the words of self-justification
she could speak would not be understood. Estrange-
ment from her husband's relations was the consequence,
and an almost total exclusion from the old social circles.
Patiently and hopefully she bore all this, for her
earnest, self-devoted love for Edward gave clearness to
her vision, and she saw that she was moving in the right
way. Very poorly did they live on their slender income,
but day after day was the widow's heart made glad by
the knowledge that her son was gradually learning to
estimate truly the character of Mr. Lee, and to imbibe
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 151
from him those higher principles of action by which hill
own life was governed. True to his promise to Edward,
the latter had not only advanced him a small sum of
money to purchase certain articles in which he might
freely traffic, but had advised him where and how to
buy, and where to sell. From this source the lad was
soon in receipt of light profits, that were never, from
the beginning, less than five or six dollars a month ; all
of which was given to his mother.
One evening Edward said to his mother, " Henry
Long told me something about Mr. Gardiner, to-day,
that don't seem to me just right. I'm sure Mr. Lee
wouldn't have done such a thing."
" What was it, my son ?" asked Mrs. Bradford.
" Henry, in looking over an account which a mer-
chant from the country had just settled, discovered an
error of a hundred dollars against the merchant. He
showed it to Mr. Gardiner, saying, as he did so, ' Mr.
told us that he wouldn't leave until six o'clock this
afternoon. Shall I go round to the hotel, and see him
about it ?'
" ' No !' was Mr. Gardiner's answer. ' Let him find
it out himself, which he will do, if he is sharp enough ;
and if he is not, he deserves to lose it.' "
" That is dishonest," said Mrs. Bradford, with much
gravity of manner.
" So I told Henry ; but he laughed, and said Mr.
Gardiner was keen, and knew how to take care of num-
ber one."
' And did Henry Long make so Kght of a wicked
%ction ? I thought better of him than that, my son.'
152 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
" He wouldn't have made light of it, I am sure, whes
w went to school together. Then he was a very honour-
able boy."
"Evil communications corrupt good manners. Them
must, then, be something wrong in his associations."
" I'm afraid so," said Edward.
" Does it not occur to you in what direction this may
lie?"
Edward looked thoughtful.
" If a man in Mr. Gardiner's position makes light of
dishonesty, is there not danger in coming within the
Bpher^ of his influence? If the principal in a large
establishment manifests nc just regard for the rights of
others, what is to be expected from his subordinates ?
Believe me, Edward, there is great danger in being in
the service of such a man. And now I am sure you
can begin to see how grave my reasons were for not per-
mitting you to accept the offer he seemed so kindly to
make."
What a glow of pleasure warmed the bosom of Mr*.
Bradford, as her son expressed strongly his abhorrence
of Mr. Gardiner's principles, and said that he hoped
ever to be thankful that he had a mother who was wise
enough to save him from the influences of such a man !
Time passed on. Mr. Lee's business steadily increased*
though not rapidly. He was active, prompt, and honour-
able in dealing, thus securing a good reputation in busi-
ness circles. At the end of a year he was abie to
increase Edward's salary to three hundred dollars, and
50 intelligent had the lad become in such matters of
trade as were permitted to him on his own account, that
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 153
he added two hundred dollars to this income during the
second year he was with the young commission mer-
chant. From this time the widow and her son, though
still in obscurity, and overlooked by friends who should
have stood by them in their hours of need, and encour-
aged them as they passed through the trials of adversity,
had not only all things needful for comfort, but enjoyed
a measure of happiness that is meted out to but few.
The years now glided by with a fleeter motion. Mr.
Lee's business steadily increased. His strictly honour-
able dealings had become widely known ; and every
season he received new and more valuable consignments.
For Edward he had from the beginning felt a true in-
terest. Very careful was he to instil just principles into
his mind, and to demonstrate the fallacy of the bad
maxim, so widely prevalent, that no man can conduct
business successfully at the present day and be strictly
honest. Success, he always maintained, was dependent
on a thorough knowledge of the business in which a
man engaged, united with untiring inductry. " This,"
he would say, " is the only safe road in which to walk
All others are full of danger." Every year he con-
tinued to increase the salary of Edward ; for every year
he became of more value to him.
It was just seven years from the day on which Mrs.
Bradford declined the offer of the rich merchant to take
her son into his service. Circumstances were consider-
ably altered. Edward's salary was enabling her to live
in more comfort, and some of her old friends were be-
ginning to approach again. Of these was the mother
of Henry Long, the boy who had taken tbo plpce at
154 PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
Mr. Gardiner's. Henry had grown up a gay, dashing
young man ; and it was plain to all close observers that
in his contact with the world he had soiled his gar-
ments.
Mrs. Long, rather a worldly-minded woman herself,
did not seem clearly conscious of the change for the
worse that was steadily progressing. Henry had a
manly, confident way about him that gratified her vanity ;
and he adroitly deceived her in many things that a truer-
hearted woman would have known by an unerring in-
stinct. Mrs. Long had called twice upon Mrs. Brad
ford ; and the latter, who did not much care to renew
the acquaintance, felt that it was hardly kind not to
return a visit. So, one fine morning she rung the bell
at Mrs. Long's door. The servant who admitted her
had a frightened look, and exclaimed, as soou as the
door was closed, " Oh, ma'am, go up quickly to Mra.
Long ! I don't know what ails her !"
" Is she sick ?" was Mrs. Bradford's anxious inquiry.
" Something's the matter. She's in a dreadful way,"
answered the servant. " A man left a letter for her
just now, and as soon as she began to read it she turned
as pale as death, and fell right down on the floor. I
got her on the bed, and she's lying there now, moaning
and crying, oh, so dreadfully ! Do go up, and see her.
I don't know what to do !"
Mrs. Bradford went hastily up to the chamber of Mrs.
Long. As she opened the door, the groans that fell
upon her ears were so full of anguish that every nerve
thrilled with pain. Crouching down upon the bed, with
her face pressed into and hidden on a pillow, lay the
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 155
Friend she had called to visit, shivering as if in a strong
ague-fit. Going quickly to the bedside, she placed her
hand upon Mrs. Long, and repeated her name. The
suffering woman did not seem to feel the touch, nor hear
the voice.
" Mrs. Long ! Mrs. Long !" The call was repeated in
a low, earnest, penetrating voice ; but the only response
was a moan more full of anguish.
" My friend ! Mrs. Long !"
It availed not. Her ears seemed deaf her senses all
indrawn.
" What great trouble has come upon you so suddenly,
my friend?'' Very tenderly did Mrs. Bradford speak,
bending her face low to the ear of the wretched woman.
There was a half-smothered murmur of words.
" It is Mrs. Bradford," said the visiter.
The hands of Mrs. Long were instantly waved back-
ward, with a repelling motion.
" Think of me as a true friend as an earnest, sym-
pathizing friend."
" Mother ! mother ! send for my mother !" was the
sufferer's answer. And again she waved her hand for
Mrs. Bradford to leave her.
Delicacy forbade further intrusion on the part of Mrs.
Bradford. Leaving the room, she made known the wish
of Mrs. Long to have her mother, who lived near by,
sent for, and went back to her own home deeply pained
at the scene she had witnessed, and wondering what it
could mean.
When Edward came home that evening, he said to JIIB
mother, the moment he entered,
IWJ PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE.
" A dreadful thing has happened here, to-day !"
" What ?" was the quick inquiry.
" Henry Long sailed in the English steamer at twelve
o'clock, after having robbed his employer of more than
a hundred thousand dollars."
" Oh, no, Edward ! Impossible !"
"It is too true."
" But he could not abstract so much money at one
time?"
"No ; but the frauds on the hoase have been going on,
as is alleged, for years. This morning he was sent to
collect some large drafts, and make heavy deposits, the
whole amounting to over forty thousand dollar?. In-
stead of making the deposits, he bought bills of excnange,
and left for Europe in the steamer."
" Dreadful ! Dreadful !"
" In consequence of this large abstraction of money,
Mr. Gai diner was unable to meet his payments, to-day,
and called a hurried meeting of creditors. We had
sold him some goods, and Mr. Lee was present at the
meeting. And, what do you think he says ? Why, that
it is the strong impression of nearly all his creditors,
after hearing his story, that he is a partner in the guilt
of his clerk."
" Oh, Edward ! Edward !"
A shade of fear went darkly over the mother's face,
as she remembered how near she had been to yield-
ing to the strong pressure that was on her, and con-
senting that her son should take the place afterwards
filled by Henry Long. " Thanks to my Heavenly Fa-
PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE. 15?
thor, for giving me the strength to endure !" was her
fervent heart-ejaculation.
" The failure, that comes in conseqaence of Henry's
crime, will be a very bad one. Fake entries were ex-
hibited (too quickly discovered, some think,) showing the
abstraction of over sixty thousand dollars, besides the
heavy sum taken to-day. If the creditors get thirty
cents in the dollar, it will be a large dividend on the
effects produced by Mr. Gardiner."
" Then he may be a worse man than his abscondin t
clerk."
" And no doubt is, mother. He has not, for some
time, borne a good reputation among honourable busi-
ness men. I have heard the worst epithets applied to
him by merchants."
" Oh, Edward !" said Mrs. Bradford, speaking with
BO much feeling that tears stood in her eyes, " how
thankful I am that you did not enter his service instead
of Henry Long !"
" Not more thankful than I am," was the reply of
Edward. " For years I have seen how wisely you acted
in choosing a place for me with a true, good man, in-
stead of one whose only recommendation was the worldly
advantage he had to offer. How far I might have been
corrupted in his service I know not but I have, several
times to-day, had an inward shudder as I thought of it.'
There was a pause, and then the young man said, with
a brightening countenance,
" But I have some good as well as evil tidings for your
ear Air ~w has offered me an interest in his business
158 FITS OF OBSTINACY.
on most liberal terras ; and I have accepted the propo-
sition."
Mrs. Bradford's race kindled with a glow of delight.
No strong expression of pleasure leaped from her tongue ;
she only clasped the hand of her son, and looking at
him with an expression of maternal love and pride, said,
" I have my reward, and it comes quicker and more
abundant than ever imagination realized. My dearest
hope for you in life has been that you might be a true-
hearted, honourable, honest man. You are all this,
Edward ! all this. And now there is added the worldly
prosperity that I was willing to sacrifice for those higher
and better things. There is no happier mother in the
land this day. My cup runs over !"
FITS OF OBSTINACY.
MY memory recalls one morning when, superintend-
ing the instruction of a very intelligent and amiable
child, a sister about ten years of age, I was surprised at
her hesitation in commencing to read some verses of
rhyme which I had selected for the purpose. I waited.
'* Come, Annie !" No answer a pause. " For what
are you waiting ?" No reply. " Can't you begin ?" I
read a verse. "Now, then;" not a sound, but a quiet,
undisturbed look, without the appearance of any feeling,
but that of a resolute determination not to read. If 1
rightly remember, an hour must have passed without any
progress towards the desired end; until at length I said
FITS OF OBSTINACY. 159
quietly and affectionately, for dearly I loved the little
one : ' Annie, I am sorry to see you so naughty and
obstinate; you must read it, you know," and beginning
to read I went through the several verses. " Now, then,
like a good child." Annie began, in a somewhat low
voice, gradually raising it as she proceeded. A gentle
word of commendation cheered her on to the end, when
I patted her shoulder, and asked her if she could not
read it better with another trial. Annie answered in
the affirmative, and went through the task the second
time, with her usual accuracy and propriety. The mat-
ter had now ended, business proceeded in its ordinary
manner, and no allusion was ever made to it afterwards.
I never could account for this fit of obstinacy. It stood
alone in the child's career. Annie remembers not the
hour which almost frightened her youthful instructress
I have not, however, been so successful in other cases.
Permit me to say, that I should hesitate to use expressions
of pity and sorrow for the poor little dear that is unable
to perform the very easy act. Such a proceeding would
sting some proud, self-important children, and it would
wound some of a tenderly affectionate disposition. It
would also probably elicit the thought that you either
wanted discernment, of which some would take advan-
tage, or convey an idea that you were deliberately saying
what you know to be an untruth. I have sat during one,
two, three, or more hours, quietly waiting for the work-
ing of a simple sum. I have first pointed out the error,
and desired that it should be rectified. "If you do not
know the table correctly, get your book and ascertain,
but bring me the sum of your own working ;" anJ frr
1(50 FITS OF OBSTINACY.
this I have waited with as much temper and self-possession
as I could possibly command until I obtained it. I do
not say I retained my seat the whole time, or that I kept
the child in the same room. On the contrary, I have,
if the weather were suitable, sent her into the garden,
when probably the change in her will might be effected
in part by the change of air and scene. But while a
little relief was afforded from the close application of
the study, and the slate or book laid aside for a short
time, no other occupation was allowed till the sum or
lesson was accomplished. The hour of repose has occa-
sionally arrived, and brain and body wearied, I have sent
the moral patient to bed with some such remark " to-
morrow, the first thing after breakfast, I hope we shall get
over this difficulty. It can be done, it is right it should
be done, and you know all other business stands still
till this shall have been accomplished." Frequently have
I alluded to some passage in Holy Writ, as a warning,
or a rule, or for encouragement, as the case might seem
to require. Patience is the grand requisite, combined
with quiet and considerate kindness ; but some children
make much larger demands upon these qualities in the
parent or educator than do others. Verily, motheia
work foi Eternity, and onerous is the task committed to
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
" WHEX you are married, Isabel, and have children
til your own, you will then know how much I love you."
" I know you love me, dear mother. If I did not
acknowledge and understand your love, what should I
be but the most ungrateful of living beings?"
" No one who is not a mother herself can rightly un-
derstand a mother's love. What you feel for me, and
what you fancy I feel for you, comes no nearer the
reality, Isabel, than the chirp of the sparrow does to the
song of the nightingale. The fondest child does not
fully return the love of the coldest mother."
Tears came into Isabel's eyes ; for her mother spoke
in tender, querulous accents of uncomplaining wrong,
which went to the daughter's heart. Mrs, Gray waa
one of those painfully introspective people who live on
themselves ; who think no one loves as they love, no one
suffers as they suffer ; who believe they give their heart's
blood to receive back ice and snow, and who pass their
lives in agonizing those they would die to benefit. A
more lonely-hearted woman never, in her own opinion,
existed, although her husband had, she thought, a cer-
tain affection from habit for her ; but any real heart-
sympathy, any love equal to her fond adoration of him,
was no more like her own feelings than stars are equal
to the noonday sun.
" Not a bad simile, my dear," Mr. Gray once answered,
with his pleasant smile, "since the stars are suns thein-
11
162 THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
selves ; and if we could change our point of view we
might find them even bigger and brighter than our own
sun. Who knows but, after all, I, who am such a clod
compared to you who am, you say, so cold and un-
imaginative that my star is not a bigger, stronger sut
than yours ?"
His wife gave back a pale smile of patient suffering,
and said sadly,
" Ah, Herbert ! if you knew what agony I endure
when you turn my affection into ridicule, you would
surely spare me."
The frank, joyous husband was, as he expressed it,
" shut up for the evening." And then Mrs. Gray wept
gently, and called herself the "family kill-joy."
With her daughter it was the same. Isabel's whole
soul and life were devoted to her mother. She was the
centre round which that young existence steadily re-
volved. The daughter had not a thought of which her
mother was not the principal object, not a wish of which
her mother was not the actuating spirit; yet Mrs. Gray
could never be brought to believe that her daughter's
love equalled hers by countless degrees. Isabel worked
for her, played to her, read to her, walked with her,
lived for her. "Duty, my Isabel, is not love, and 1 am
not blind enough to mistake the one for the other."
This was all the reward Isabel received. W T hen she fell
in love, as she did with Charles Houghton, Mrs. Gray's
happiness was at an end. Henceforth, her life was one
long, weak wail of desolation. She was nothing now;
her child had cast her out of her heart, and had given
the dearest place to another; her own chili, her Isabel,
t
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER. 163
ter treasure, her life, her soul. Her hour had passed:
but even death seemed to have forgotten 1 er. No one
loved her now. She was a down-trodden worm ; a poor,
despised old woman ; an unloved, childless widow ! Ah !
why could she not die? What sin had she committed
to be so sorely tried ?
Isabel had many sorrowful hours, and held many
long debates with her conscience, asking herself more
than once whether she ought not to give up her engage-
ment with Charles Houghton if its continuance made
her mother so unhappy ; also whether the right thing
was not always the most painful. But her conscience
did not make out a clear case of filial obligation to this
extent, for there was a duty due to her betrothed; and
Isabel felt she had no right to trifle with any man after
having taught him to love her. She owed the first duty
to her parents; but she was not free from obligation to
her lover ; and even for her mother's sake, she must not
quite forget this obligation. So her engagement went
on, saddened by her mother's complaints.
"My love," said her father, "Houghton has been
speaking to me of your marriage, to-day. Come into
my study."
Isabel, pale and red by turns, followed her father,
dreading both his acquiescence or refusal. In one she
heard her mother's sobs, in the other her lover's despair.
" He says, Bell, that you have been engaged above a
year. We must not be hard on him. He is naturally
desirous to have the affair settled. What do you say ?
Will a month from this seem to you too soon for your
marriage ?"
164 THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
"As. you wish, papa," said Isabel, breaking up a
spray of honeysuckle.
" No, no, as you wish, my dear child. Do you think
you would be happy with Houghton ? Have you known
Lim long enough?"
" Yes, papa : but "
"But what, love?"
" I hesitate to leave mamma," (her head sorrowfully
bent down.)
" That is the trial of life, my child," said Mr. Gray,
in a low tone ; his face full of that quiet sorrow of a
firm nature which represses all outward expression,
lest it add a double burden on another. " Yet it is one
which, by the nature of things, must be borne. We can-
not expect to keep you with us always ; and, although
it will be a dark day to us when you are gone, yet if it
is for your happiness, it ought to be so for ours. Tell
me, Bell. What answer do you wish me to give ?"
"Will he not wait a little time yet?" and the girl
crept closer to her father.
" I see I must act without you," he said, smiling and
patting her cheek.
" Poor Charles !" she half sighed.
Her father smiled still, but this time rather sadly,
and said,
" There, go back to your mother, child. You are a
baby yet, and do not know your own mind better than
a girl who has to choose between two toys. You do
not know which to leave and which to take. I must, it
ieems, choose for you."
" Oh, papa !"
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER. 16ft
"Yes you need not look so distressed. Trust to
me, and meanwhile go ; your mother will be weary for
you."
Although this little scene had sunk an old sorrow
deeper into his heart, Mr. Gray was, when he joined
the family, calm, almost merry. He challenged Charles
to a game of bowls on the lawn, and ran a race with
Isabel round the garden. When he returned to his
wife, she told him, pettishly, "that it was a marvel to
her how he could be so unfeeling. See how she suffered
from this terrible marriage ! And yet she had no right
to suffer more than he; but," sighed the lady, "no man
ever loved as much as woman loves!"
" And don't you think I feel, my dear, because I don't
talk? Can you not understand the duty of silence?
Complaints may at times be mere selfishness."
He spoke very mournfully. She shook her head.
"People who can control themselves so entirely," she
said, " have seldom much to control. If you felt as I
do about our darling child, you could neither keep silence,
nor feign happiness."
Herbert smiled, but made no answer ; and Mrs. Gray
fairly cried over Isabel's hard fate in having such an in-
different father.
It was all settled ; Isabel was to be married in a month's
time. Charles mildly complained of the delay, and
thought a fortnight ample time for any preparations ;
but Isabel told him that a month was ridiculously soon,
and she wished her father had doubled it ; " only I long
very much to see Scotland." They were to go to toe
Highlands to spend their honeymoon.
166 THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
Mrs. Gray -was entirely inconsolable. The pDor wo-
man was not well, and her nerves were more than ordi-
narily irritable. She gave herself a good deal of extra
trouble, too, much more than was necessary, and took
cold by standing in a draught, cutting out a gown for
Isabel ; which the maid would have done a great dea'i
better, and would not have complained of the fatigue of
standing so long ; which Mrs. Gray did all day long.
Her cold, and her grief, and her weariness made her the
most painful companion ; especially to a devoted daughter.
She wept day and night, and coughed in the intervals.
She did not eat, and answered every one, who pressed
any kind of food on her, reproachfully, as if they had
insulted her. She slept very little, and denied even that
little. She was always languid, and excess of crushed
hopes and unrequited affection stimulated her into a fever.
The marriage-day drew nearer. The preparations,
plentifully interspersed with Mrs. Gray's sighs, and
damped by her tears, savoured less of a wedding than
of a funeral, at which Mrs. Gray was chief mourner.
The father, on the contrary to whom Isabel was the
only bright spot in life, and who would lose all in losing
her was the gayest of the party. Isabel herself, divided
between her lover and her parents, was half distracted
with her conflicting feelings, and often wished she had
never seen Charles Houghton at all. She told him so
once, to his great dismay, after a scene of hysterics and
fainting-fits performed by her mother.
It wanted only a week now to the marriage, when Her
bert Gray came down to breakfast alone.
" Where is mamma?" asked Isabel.
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER. 10?
" She is not well, my dear, and will have breakfast
in bed."
' Poor mamma ! how long her cold has continued !
What can be done for her?"
" We must send for Doctor Melville, if she does not
get better soon. I am quite uneasy about her, and have
been so for some time. But she did not wish a physician
to bo sent for."
" There is no danger ?" asked Isabel, anxiously.
Her father did not answer for a moment ; then he
said, gravely, " She was never strong, and I find her
much weakened by her cough."
By this time breakfast was ready, and Isabel prepared
to take up her mother's tray. She looked at her father
lovingly when she passed him, and turned back at the
door and smiled. Then she softly ascended the stairs.
A fearful fit of coughing seemed to have been suddenly-
arrested as she entered her mother's room. She placed
the tray gently on the dressing-table.
There was a faint moan ; a moan which caused Isabel
an agony of terror. On tearing back the curtains, sho
beheld her mother lying like a corpse the bed-clothr s
.saturated with blood. At first she thought of murder,
and looked wildly around the room, expecting to see some
one again clutch at that sacred life ; but Mrs. Gray said
faintly, " I have only broken a blood-vessel, my love ;
send for your father." A new nature seemed to be roused
in Isabel. Agitated and frightened as she was, a womanly
self-possession seemed to give her double power, both of
act and vision, and to bury for ever all the child in her
heart. She forgot herself. She thought only of her
168 THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
mother, and what would be good for her. As with all
strong natures, sympathy took at once the form of help
rather than of pity. She rang the bell and called the
maid. " Go down and tell my father he is wanted here,"
ehe said, quietly. " Mamma is very ill. Make hasto
and tell my father ; but do not frighten him."
She went back to her mother's room, quietly and stea-
dily, without a sign of terror or bewilderment. She
washed the blood from her face, gently ; and, without
raising her head, she drew off the crimsoned cap. Not
to shock her father by the suddenness of all the ghastly
evidences of danger, perhaps of death, she threw clean
linen over the bed, and placed wet towels on her mother's
breast. Then, as her father entered, she drew back the
curtains, and opened the window, saying softly, " Do
not speak loud, dear papa. She has broken a blood-
vessel."
Herbert Gray, from whom his daughter had inherited
all her self-command, saw at a glance that everything was
already done which could be done without professional
advice ; and, giving his wife's pale cheek a gentle kiss,
he left the room, saying simply, " God bless you !" and
in less time than many a younger and more active man
could have done it, was at Doctor Melville's door.
All this self-possession seemed to Mrs. Gray only in-
tense heartlessness ; and she lay there brooding over the
indifference of her husband and child with such bitter-
ness, that at last she burst into a fit of hysterical tears,
and threw herself into such agitation, that she brought
back the bleeding from the ruptured vessel to a more
alarming extent than before. She would have been more
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER. 169
comforted, ten tb ousand times, if they had both fallen to
weeping and wailing ; and had rendered themselves use-
less by indulgence in grief. Love with her meant pity
and caresses.
" Oh, child !" gasped Mrs. Gray, " how little you love
me!"
Isabel said nothing for a moment. She kissed her
mother's hand ; and with difficulty repressed her tears.
For it was a terrible accusation, and almost destroyed
her calmness. But, fearing that any exhibition of emo-
tion would excite and harm her mother, she pressed back
the tears into her inmost heart, and only said, " Dearest
mother, you know I love you more than my life !"
But Mrs. Gray was resolved to see in all this calmness,
only apathy. She loosened her daughter's hand pet-
tishly, and sobbed afresh. If Isabel had wept a sea of
tears, and had run the risk of killing her with agitation,
she would have been better pleased than now. Isabel
thought her mind was rather affected, and looked anx-
iously for her father.
" Don't stay with me, Isabel ! Go go you want to
go," sobbed Mrs. Gray, at long, long intervals. " Go to
your lover ; he is the first consideration now !"
" Dear mamma, why do you say such terrible things ?"
eaid the girl, soothingly. " What has come to you?"
" If you loved me," sighed Mrs. Gray, " you would
act differently!"
At this moment Herbert Gray and Doctor Melville
entered. Having examined the patient, the doctor at
once said,
" You have done everything, Miss Isabel, like tho
HO THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
most experienced nurse. You deserve great praise
Had you been less capable or less self-possessed, your
mother might have lost her life."
He said this to comfort the patient ; but she turned
awa y sadly, and murmured,
" My child does not love me ; she has done her duty ;
bu'; iuty is not love !"
Mrs. Gray recovered from this phase of her illness
oiily to fall into another more dangerous. In a few
weeks she was pronounced in a deep decline, which
might last for some years, or be ended in comparatively
a few days one of those lingering and capricious forms
of consumption, that keeps every one in a kind of sus-
pense, than which the most painful certainty would be
better.
Of course, Isabel's marriage was postponed to an
indefinite time, and Charles Houghton murmured sadly,
as was natural. He proved to Isabel in the most con-
clusive logic that the kindest thing she could do for her
mother, and the most convincing proof of love she could
give her, was to marry him at once, and then she would
have a great deal more time to attend on her ; for now
his visits took up so much time, and all that would b3
saved. His logic failed ; and then he got very angry.
So that between her mother and her lover, the girl's
life was not spent among roses. She went on, however,
doing her duty steadily; turning neither to the right
hand nor to the left, but acting as she felt to be right.
Her mother's querulous complaints used always to
be most severe after some terrible scene with Charles,
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER. 171
when perhaps he had been beseeching Isabel not to kill
him with delay.
One day Charles came to the house looking very
jiale.
"You are ill!" she said, anxiously.
" I am, Isabel, very ill."
She took his hand and caressed it in both her own,
looking fondly into his face. He left his hand quite
passive. To say the truth frankly, although he looked
ill he looked also sulky.
" Can I do anything for you?"
"Everything, Isabel," he said, abruptly "marry
me."
She tried to smile, but her lover's gravity chilled her.
"You can do all for me, and you do nothing."
" I will do all I can. But if a greater duty "
" A greater duty !" Charles interrupted. " What
greater duty can you have than to the man you love,
and whose wife you have promised to be?"
" But, Charley, if I were your wife, I should then
have, indeed, no greater duty than your happiness. As
it is, I have more sacred ties though none dearer," she
added in her gentlest voice.
"I also have superior duties, Isabel."
She started ; but after a moment's pause, she said,
" Certainly !" The young man watched her face
intently.
" And how will you feel, Isabel, when I place those
ties far above your love, and all I owe you, and all that
we have vowed together?"
"Nothing unkind towards you, Charles," Isabel
172 THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
answered, her heart failing hei at the accusing tone of
her lover's voice.
"But, Isabel, you will not let me go alone !" he cried
passionately. "You cannot have the heart to separate
from me perhaps for ever !"
He threw his arms round her.
" Go alone separate what do you mean ? Are yor
going anywhere ? or are you only trying me ?"
" Trying you, my dear Isabel ? no, I am too sadlj
in earnest !"
"What do you mean, then?" tears filling her eyes.
" You know that my father's affairs have been rather
embarrassed lately ?"
"No," she said, speaking very rapidly.
"Yes, his West India property is almost a wreck.
He has just lost his agent, of yellow fever, and must
send out some one immediately to manage the estate.
It is all he-has to live on, unless he has saved something
and I don't think he has when he can no longer
practise at the bar. It is too important to be lost."
"Well, Charles?"
" I must go."
There was a deep pause. Isabel's slight fingers
closed nervously on the hand in hers ; she made a
movement as if she would have held him nearer to her.
" And now, what will you do, my Isabel ? will yon
suffer me to go alone ; will you let me leave you, per-
haps for ever certainly for years without the chance
of meeting you again and with many chances of
death ? Will you virtually break your engagement, and
give me back my heart, worn and dead, and broken ; or
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER. 173
vsill you brave the world with me, become my wife, ami
shaie my fortunes ?"
" Charles, how can I leave my mother, when every
day may be her last; yet when, by proper care and
management, she may live years longer ? What can J
].)?"
" Come with me. Listen to the voice of your own
heart, and become my wife."
Isabel sunk back in deep thought.
" No," she whispered, " my mother first of all before
you."
He let her hand fall from his.
" Choose, then," he said coldly.
She clung to him ; weeping now and broken. He
pressed her to his heart. He believed that he had con-
quered.
"Choose," he again whispered. "If you have not
chosen already ," and he kissed her tenderly.
" Oh, Charles ! you know how dearly I love you."
At that moment her mother's cough struck her ear.
The windows were open, and it sounded fearfully distinct
in the still summer air. Isabel shuddered, and hid her
face on her lover's shoulder, resting it there for many
minutes.
" I have chosen," she then said, after a long, long
pause. She lifted her head and looked him in the eyes.
A.lthough pale as a marble statue, but quiet and resolved,
she never looked so lovely, never so loveworthy. There
was something about her very beauty that awed her
lover, and something in the very holiness of her nature
that humbled and subdued him :>nly for a moment;
174 THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
that passed, and all his man's eagerness and strength
of will returned, and he would have given his life to
destroy the very virtues he reverenced.
He besought her by every tender word love ever
framed, to listen to him and to follow him. He painted
Bcenes of such desolation and of such abject misery
without her, that Isabel wept. He spoke of his death as
certain, and asked how she would feel when she heard
}f his dying of a broken heart in Jamaica, and how
could she be happy again when she had that on her
conscience ? And although she besought him to spare
her, and once was nearly fainting in his arms from
excessive emotion, yet he would not ; heaping up her
pile of woes high and still higher, and telling her
'hroughout all, "that she did not love him now."
After a fearful scene the girl tore herself away ; rush-
ing as if for refuge from a tempting angel, and from
herself, into her mother's room ; busying herself about
that sick-bed with even greater care and tenderness
than usual.
"You have been a long time away, Isabel," Mrs.
Gray said, petulantly.
" Yes ; I am very sorry, dearest mamma, I have been
detained." Isabel kissed her withered hand.
" Detained you don't deny it, Isabel."
" I am very sorry."
Tears trembled in her mother's eyes as she murmured,
" Sorry ! Don't stay with me, child, if you wish to go.
1 am accustomed to be alone."
" I entreat you not to think that I wish to leave yru
for a moment."
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER. 175
" Oh yes, you do, Isabel ! I dare say Charles is below
stairs he seems to be always here since I have been ill.
You have a great deal to say to him, I am sure."
" I have said all I had to say," answered Isabel ,
quietly.
She was sitting in the shadow of the window curtains,
and. as she spoke, she bent her head lower over her work.
Her mother did not see the tears which poured down fast
from her eyes.
" Oh, then it was Charles who kept you ! I can easily
understand, my love, the burden I must be to you. I
am sure you are very good not to wish me dead per-
haps you do wish me dead, often I am in your way,
Isabel. If I had died, you would have been happily
married by this time ; for you would not have worn mourn-
ing very long, perhaps. Why have I been left so long
to be a burden to my family?"
All this, broken up by the terrible cough, and by sobs
and tears, Isabel had to bear and to soothe away, when
she herself was tortured with real grief.
Charles departed for Jamaica. The thick shadow of
absence fell between their two hearts. Henceforth she
must live on duty and forget lov<; ; now almost hopeless.
A stern decree, this, for a girl of nineteen.
For the youth himself, the excitement of the voyage,
the novelty of his strange mode of life, and the dis-
tractions of business, were all so many healing elements
which soon restored peace to his wounded heart. Not
that he was disloyal or forgetful of his love, but he was
annoyed and angry. He thought that Isabel might have
easily le f t her mother to go with him, and that she waa
176 THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
very wrong not to have done so. Between the excite-
ment of new scenes and new amusements, and the ex-
citement of anger and disappointment, Charles Hough-
ton recovered his serenity, and flourished mightily on
Jamaica hospitality.
By the end of that year the invalid grew daily weaker
and weaker. She could not leave her bed now ; and
then she could not sit up even ; and soon she lay without
motion or colour and then, on the first day of spring she
died. She died on the very same day that Charles Hough-
ton entered the house of the rich French planter, Gerard,
and was presented to his heiress, Pauline.
Pauline Gerard ! a small, dark, gleaming gem, a flit-
ting humming-bird a floating flower a fire-fly through
the night a rainbow through the storm all that exists
in nature most aerial, bright and beautiful ; these Charles
compared her to, and a great deal more ; that is when
they first met. Charles, with his great Saxon heart,
fell in love with her at first sight. It was not love such
as he had felt for Isabel. It struck him like a swift dis-
ease. It was not the quiet, settled, brother-like affec-
tion which had left him nothing to regret and little to
desire ; but it was a wild, fierce fever, that preyed on
his heart and consumed his life. He would fly ; he would
escape ; he was engaged to Isabel. It must be that she
did not love him, else she never could have suffered him
to leave her ; yet he was bound to her. Honour was not
to be lightly sacrificed. Would Pauline, with her large
passionate eyes, have given up her lover so coldly ? Still
bo was engaged, and it was a sin and a crime to think
of another. He would fly from the danger while he
THE SENSITIVE MOTHER. 177
could ; he would fight the battle while he had strength.
fie was resolved, adamant. One more interview with
Pauline but Pauline presented herself accidentally in
the midst of these indomitable projects. One glance
from her deep sapphire eyes put all his resolutions to
flight duty, like a pale ghost, passing slowly by in the
shade.
When fully awake to the truth of his position, Hough-
ton wrote to Isabel. He wrote to her like a madman,
imploring her to come out to him immediately; to lay
aside all foolish scruples, to think of him only as her
husband, to trust to him implicitly, and to save him from
destruction. He wrote to her with a fierce emphasis
of despair and entreaty that burned like fire in his words.
This letter found Isabel enfeebled by long attendance
on her mother ; unable to make much exertion of mind
or body, and requiring entire repose. That she should
be. restored to her lover; that she should be happy as his
wife, was, for a moment, like a new spring-tide in her
life to dream. Then she remembered her father, her
dear, patient, noble, self-denying father, to whom she
was now everything in life ; and she wrote and told
Charles that she could not go out to him ; but reminded
him that his term of absence had nearly expired ; and
that, when he returned, they should be married, never
to be parted again. Why should they not be married
in England rather than in Jamaica?
" Thank God I am free !" Houghton exclaimed, when ho
Lad read the letter. It dropped from his nerveless hand.
He ordered his horse, and rode through the burning
tropical sun to Pauline Gerard. Not two hours after the
12
178 THE SENSITIVE MOTHER.
receipt of Isabel's letter lie was the accepted lover of
the young French heiress.
Poor Isabel ! at that instant she was praying for him
in her own chamber.
News came to England in due time. Charles himself
wrote to Isabel, gently and kindly enough ; but unmis-
takeably. It stood in plain, distinct words, " I am to
be married to Pauline Gerard;" and no sophistry could
soften the announcement. He tried to soothe her wounded
feelings by dealing delicately with her pride. He had
been, he urged, only secondary in her heart. She placed
others before him, and would make no sacrifice for him.
What had happened was her own doing entirely ; she had
not cared to retain him, and he had only acted as she
would have him act, he was sure of that, in releasing
her. And then he was " hers very affectionately," and
" would be always her friend."
Isabel did not die. She did not even marry another
man out of spite, as many women have done. She looked
ill; but was always cheerful when she spoke, and de-
clared that she was quite well. She was more than ever
tender and attentive to her father ; and she went out
much less amongst even the quiet society of their quiet
home ; but she read a great deal, and without effort or
pretension she lived over her sweet poen: of patience
and duty and womanly love.
THE MOTHER'S PRAYER.
NEWLING in his mother's breast
Lay a sleeping child,
Like a wood-dove in its nest,
Pure and undefiled :
Quiet tears the mother wept.
While her infant sweetly slept.
Softly prayed the mother then,
From an o'er-full heart,
That when in the ways of men
He must bear a part,
God would teach him to endure,
God would make him strong and
" Father ! if it is Thy will
That his path be rough,
Guide him with Thy spirit still-
That shall be enough :
In life's darkness be his sun,
Oh ! thou true and Holy One.
Not the victor's wreath or crown
Ask I for my child,
But Thy smile when strife is done.
Beaming pure and mild ;
And that smile shall brighter seem,
lor his troubled earthly dream.
" Not for talents, power, or fame
Shall my prayer be,
But that through the cross or shame,
He may trust in Thee ;
Leaning gently on Thy arm,
Through the sunshine, through the stornv.
180 MRS. BALE'S TWO VISITS.
44 Well I know my faith is dim,
And my heart is weak ;
And in earnest prayer for him
Oft I dare to spak
Earth-born hopes of peace and real.
Deeming that my will is best
" If such wishes ever press
To my faltering tongue,
If from me in feebleness
Such a prayer be wrung :
Father check my wayward will,
Whisper softly ' Peace be still'
" Ask I not that every sting
From his path depart,
But through all the suffering
Keep him ' pure in heart ;'
Then though troubled and distressed,
Ba shall know Thy will is best."
Brightly o'er the mother's cheek
Burned a living joy,
While she asked, with soul so meek,
Blessings for her boy ;
And her prayer sweet peace did bring,
Even in the offering.
MRS. HALE'S TWO VISITS.
" GET up from that chair, I want to sit in it !" cried
Willie Gordon, a little boy six years oid; at the same
nine pulling at the dress of the lady who was seated in
the chair he wished to have.
MRS. BALE'S TWO VISITS. 181
" Willie, my love, you must not speak in that wav.
Go and play with your little horse and carriage, there's
a dear boy," said Mrs. Gordon, in a coaxing tone. But
Willie was not to be coaxed.
" I don't want to play," he replied ; " I want to sit
in the rocking-chair I will have it, I will !' and with
renewed vigour he pulled at the lady's dress.
" Indeed, Willie, I feel quite ashamed of yon," said
his mother, in a languid tone.
Mrs. Hale, perceiving that Willie's conduct would
receive no check from his mother, and that her barege
dress would be the sufferer, if the child's attack on it
was prolonged, rose from the rocking-chair, and took
another seat.
Willie climbed into the chair with a cry of exultation,
and commenced rocking to and fro, violently.
Mrs. Gordon coloured slightly, and said to her visiter,
" I fear, Mrs. Hale, you will think my Willie a bad
boy. I own I spoil him a little. But he is my onlj
child : he knows he is mother's pet. and he takes advan-
tage of it sometimes."
" Not a little spoiled ; not a little" thought Mrs.
Hale ; but she was too sensible a woman to utter, in the
child's presence, anything that might imply blame of
his mother. She merely bowed in reply to Mrs. Gor-
don's half-apology, and began talking on other subjects.
Presently a smart blow on her arm caused Mrs. Hale
to look round. Willie had slipped off the rod ing-chair,
and was standing behind her; and as she turned sud-
denly, she received another blow from the whip, in her
face.
162 MRS. KALE'S TWO VISITS.
" Willie, Willie !" cried his mother, now seriously con-
cerned ; " give me that whip, there's a darling. And
go, ask Jane to give you a nice piece of pound-cake."
"I don't care for pound-cake; I want her" (pointing
to Mrs. Hale) " to be my horse."
" Mother will be your horse, by-and-bye. Now go tc
Jane. She has something nice for you, I know," rejoin-
ed the mother.
" I won't go. I want to stay here," stoutly responded
the son.
Meanwhile Mrs. Hale had risen from her seat, for
she foresaw who would be the victor in this contest. She
had intended to spend the afternoon with her friend,
but now she heartily wished to escape from the house
where this little tyrant ruled. So, when Mrs. Gordon
pressed her to resume her seat, and lay off her bonnet,
she declined, saving, she had other calls to make.
Mrs. Gordon accompanied her friend to the door, say-
ing, " I am very sorry Willie behaved so badly. I am
afraid his conduct is driving you away. But he is my
only child. I cannot bear to thwart him, or to Dunish
him. If I had half-a-dozen children it would be differ
ent. I should then form a system of government, and
oblige the children to conform to it, and obey me. But
where there is only one child, a mother cannot be always
scolding ; for my part, I can only love and pet my little
Willie."
The two ladies shook hands, and parted. Mrs. "ttale
walked musingly down the street. "Mrs. Gordon gave
me a strange excuse for spoiling her child. Easier to
goveru six than one ! But she is not the first mother I
MRS. n ALE'S TWO VISITS. 183
have heard say so. Can there he any truth in it ? 1
owe Mrs. Johnson a call ; that will give me an oppor-
tunity of comparing. Her system of government may
be complete, for she has seven or eight children."
A walk of a few minutes brought her to Mrs. John-
son's door. She rang, and after waiting a considerable
time, pulled the bell-handle again, when an untidy-look-
ing maid-servant appeared, and in answer to her inquiry,
replied that Mrs. Johnson was at home.
" I'm afeard I kept you waiting," said the girl, as she
opened the shutters. " Master Tom, for mischeeve, tied
up the tongue of the bell. By good chance I seed it
trembling like, or yees might have been kept waiting till
the gloaming, and I none the wiser."
" There must be some flaw in the system of govern-
ment," thought Mrs. Hale. A glance round the parlour
confirmed her in this opinion. It was in a state of un-
utterable disorder. Not a single chair was in its place.
Three or four were tied together with twine to form
"coach and horses." A quantity of loose music was
scattered over the floor, and the sofa was occupied by
two dolls, and the various articles of their wardrobe.
Mrs. Johnson entered, with a smile of welcome. But
the cordiality of her greeting was sadly marred by the
look of vexation which overspread her features as she
glanced round the room.
" I am very glad to see you, my dear Mrs. Hale.
The children have been in here again, I declare! It ia
an age since I have seen you. Not half an hour ago I
Bet everything to rights. Do take a seat on the sofa,"
w< eping with her hand the dolls and their dresses into
184 MRS. BALE'S TWO VISITS.
one corner. Then, throwing herself into the re :king-
chair, she exclaimed,
" Oh, Mrs. Hale, you, who have no children of your
own, can't imagine all a mother has to put up with. 1
suppose it looks dreadful to you to see the parlour in
this state. It is bad enough, to be sure, but what can
be expected when there are seven children in the house?"
At this moment the door was burst open, and two
little girls rushed in. They paused a moment at sight
of the visiter. But it was only for a moment. Running
up to the sofa, they commenced exclaiming, and crying,
when they found that their dolls had been pushed into
a corner.
" Who crushed my doll's bonnet?" cried Julia.
"Look, how this white frock is tumbled!" exclaimed
Mary.
" I wish folks would leave my things alone !" rejoined
Julia, stamping her foot passionately.
" Don't you see the lady, children?" exclaimed their
mother. "I am really quite ashamed of you. Take
your dolls away, and go up stairs."
The little girls were silent, but they began arranging
their dolls' clothes, wholly unmindful of their mother's
command.
Mrs. Johnson, however, did not appear to notice their
disobedience. She did not repeat her own injunction,
but continued conversing with Mrs. Hale on the troubles
of housekeeping, the idleness of her servants, &c. Pre-
eently a dispute arose between the little girls. Sharp
words were spoken, and Julia struck Mary in the face j
MRS. HALE'S TWO \ISITS. 185
she ran to her mother, who again interposed her weak
and disregarded authority.
" Julia, you are a very naughty girl go up stairs,
this instant." Then, taking Mary on her lap, she said,
" There, my darling, let mother kiss it, and it will soon
be well."
Mary turned away, pettishly, from her mother's prof-
fered kiss, and Julia, having retreated to the other end
of the room, began building a doll's house with books,
which she took off the centre-table.
Mrs. Johnson sighed, and exclaimed,
" I have no peace or comfort with these children !
My health is so indifferent that I cannot exert myself,
and they take advantage of my indulgence towards
them."
The door opened, and a boy of twelve or thirteen
called out,
" Here, girls, come quick ; there are soldiers passing."
The little girls ran out of the room, and Mrs. Hale
took advantage of their absence to say,
" If you were rather more firm, my dear friend, in
requiring obedience now, I think you would have lesa
trouble in the end."
" Ah, it is too late, now," said Mrs. Johnson, with a
sigh. " If I had begun so with Emma, my eldest child,
it would have been well for me. And not only for me,
but for her, and for all the rest of them. An old aunt
gave me good advice, then, but I foolishly disregarded
it. I well remember her words : ' Now, Mary, you have
but one child, and can devote all your attention to her.
Train her from the beginning in habits of obedience.
186 MRS. BALE'S TWO VISITS.
Sucli training will be a priceless blessing to her through
out the whole of her life. And if God grants you
more children, you will find that they will be likely to
imitate the example of their eldest sister, whether it be
for g.od or for evil. Take my advice, therefore, and
train your first-born in habits of obedienc*.' She spoke
truly and wisely, but I was a young and foolish mother.
The words ' obedience' and ' authority' sounded harshly
to me. I indulged Emma exceedingly, and gave way
to her continually. And, oh, how many a heart-ache
does she cost me !"
Mrs. Johnson paused, and covered her face with her
handkerchief. Mrs. Hale took her hand, and began,
soothingly,
" Dearest friend"
" Do not attempt to console me, my friend, or to pal-
liate my fault. It has been great, and bitter is its pun-
ishment. As one after another were added to our little
flock, the duties of family government became more and
more difficult. My health is feeble, and my time much
occupied ; my husband is away all day. The only way
to keep the children from being entirely ruined, will be
to send them all to boarding-school. The two eldest
boys are there already. James is to go next month.
And I am endeavouring to make up my mind to send
away Emma, Mary, and Julia. It is hard thus to part
from my children, but I know I have brought this trial
on myself by my foolish, false indulgence. My little
Lizzie is only three years old I will try to be firm with
her, and train her up in habits of obedience. God grant
MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN. 187
(?he may be a comfort to me, and that I may have grace
to carry out my resolution !"
In this earnest desire Mrs. Hale cordially joined, and
warmly pressing her friend's nand, she took her leave,
pondering on her two visits.
MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN.
CHILDREN are naturally selfish as regards their
physical and animal wants, ; but they are not naturally
ungenerous ; this may seem a paradox yet it is true ;
their feelings are easily touched ; their affection for each
other is fond and sincere ; they will clutch at an apple or
a cake, to have the first mouthful, but they will readily
offer the second to their playfellow, and sympathize in
the pleasure with which he eats it. Daily experience
proves this; place a child in the corner by way of
punishment ; for the first five minutes his little brothers
and sisters look on with silent awe : then they watch
till the teacher's brow is again smooth then the eldest
assumes courage, and exclaims " Mamma, Ellen is good
now," and finally all join in chorus, and entreat that
she may come out, for they are " sure she will be good,'
naturally adopting the old Saxon principle of being
sponsors for each other's behaviour. The celebrated
apothegm, that man rejoices in the misfortunes of his
neighbours., does not hold good in children.
But this is a principle diametrically opposed to tale-
188 MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN
bearing, and it is because we believe it t be almost a a
instinctive principle in children, that we consider it easy
to impress on their minds the criminality of that ill
nature, on which tale-bearing is founded. In tale-
bearing there is mingled malice, dishonesty, and mean-
ness. It springs from all the baser elements of human
nature. We are fully sensible of this in adults : although
we are too apt to listen with the attention of curiosity
to the scandal which Mrs. Jones or Mr. Smith may tell
us of their neighbours, we are conscious that in our
hearts we not only discredit, but despise them, as the
propagators of it. Neither the wealth of Crossus, nor
the beauty of Venus, nor the fascination of Circe, would
obtain a husband for the woman who habitually indulged
in uncharitable tales of her friends.
A similar antipathy prevails among children towards
any of their playmates given to this unhappy vice ; and
while we admit that it requires much tact and delicacy
to correct the failings of one child, by reference to those
of another, we think that in this case, there is scarcely
any more effective lesson than that which may be drawn
from the acknowledged odium which such offenders
bring on themselves. But where instances are not a
hand to furnish such a lesson, then the proper check in
limited to a decided repulse, given in a tone of indigna-
tion. Refuse to hear another word, after enough has
been said to show the nature of the intended communi-
cation ; repel the tale-bearer witl decision and disgust.
To this must be added explanation of the dishonour
and ill-nature of all uncalled-for scouting into the say-
ings and doings of those around us. "How would you
MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN. 189
like It. if Caroline c::.me to me to tell me of all the
foolish things you had been saying ? What would you
think of your brother, if he had been watching you when
you were cutting up your pinafore, and asked me to
whip you for it ? or when you snatched away your
sister's doll, and put it on the fire ?"
The disposition to speak kindly, to think favourably,
to act charitably, in respect of others, cannot be too
much or too early cultivated in human nature, ere it
becomes necessary to teach distinctions between the
reality and the semblance of virtue in those around us.
Those who have lived much in the world, never fail
to observe the kind feeling that obtains towards men
who habitually seek out the good points in a neighbour's
character or conduct. No doubt that, in many instances,
this lenient bearing proceeds from timidity ; in many
others, from a servile and mean anxiety to court the
reciprocity of good nature " screen my offences, and I
will publish your merits" in some cases from a natural
and cherished dullness of perception to the nature of
vicious habits a sort of " well, after all, I see no great
harm in that." This blinking of vice, is not what we
mean by charity ; but we intend by the term, a dis-
position to place a favourable construction upon acts
admitting either of censure or applause an inclination
to attribute right motives, where such as are wrong are
not unequivocally betrayed a willingness to think tho
best, where circumstances are ambiguous and even
where Christian principle is obliged to condemn, to find
scope for Christian charity, in favourable contrast of
that which is occasionally wrong with that which is
90 MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN.
habitually right. This is a liberality of mind strictly in
accordance with the apostolic definition of charity, that
" thiriketh no evil," and not less so with a manly and
generous disposition, that will nevertheless "call a
spade, a spade," when duty makes it proper to speak
out. Such is the disposition we would foster in earliest
infancy.
Yet even here, again, discrimination is required ; the
child must be taught to overlook a brother's or a sister's
failings, but not to connive at their faults. And how
is this to be done, where the line of demarcation between
faults and failings is, in reference to their tender age,
necessarily fine ? It is not difficult : very little attention
will suffice to show whether a complaint of another
springs from ill-natured officiousness, or from conscien-
tious duty to the parent. In the one case it is tendered
secretly, stealthily with an " only think, mamma, what
Louisa has been doing !" in the other case it is made
openly gravely bringing up the culprit in hand to
listen to the accusation " Mamma, Louisa has told a
story ;" the tone and the features alike betray sorrow
and concern ; and the reporter of the offence shows that
she takes no pleasure in making it known, though she
dare not conceal it. Here attention must be given, and
thft accuser and accused both heard with calmness and
gravity ; and punishment inflicted or withheld, a-i justice
may require.
This doctrine is only applicable to the internal
economy of the nursery itself ; for in no case ought com-
plaint, however just, or information, however accurate,
to be received from a child, as to the proceedings of the
MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN. 191
parlour or the kitchen. It must indeed be a most mis-
managed household, where the children are, even by
accident, accessible to knowledge of the misdeeds of
cither parents or servants. Such knowledge snould
find no possibility of access to their ears. We may
advert to this hereafter ; we content ourselves at pre-
sent with the observation that, if, with respect to each
other, the inmates of the nursery can only be properly
permitted to disclose offences in some very special cases,
it is scarcely possible to conceive a case, in any well-
regulated establishment, where a child can be a propel
channel to convey to a parent's ear the indecorums
of the household ; the door of the nursery or school-
room should be hermetically sealed to all unsummoned
approach.
Lying, sullenness, and tale-bearing, are three of the
cardinal points of juvenile delinquency : many would
add quarrelling as the fourth, while others would assign
equal rank to disobedience. We are inclined, however,
to regard both in a more venial light, unless quarrelling
is followed up with vindictiveness, or disobedience is
persisted in to contumacy. In either of these extreme
cases, the fault becomes a crime, and the same duty of
insisting on its sinfulness, arises ; but simple dissension,
caused by a transient impulse of anger, is not matter
for stern rebuke ; it rather calls for conciliation and
expostulation. Children may be induced to check the
expression of anger, but will not conquer it merely
because they are punished for giving way to it ; on the
contrary, the very remembrance that they have under-
gone punishment on a brother's account, often gives a per*
19*J MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN.
maueucy to angry feeling, which would have evaporated
with the moment, had a reconciliation been instantly
promoted. It is also proverbially the case, that there
u always fault on both sides, and unless the origin of
the dispute is actually witnessed, it is most difficult to
decide to whom the greater share belongs ; hence, if
only one is punished, injustice may be done ; if both
undergo the penalty, injustice must be done. Yet when
cooler feelings return, and they are again susceptible of
instruction, too much pains cannot be taken to make
the reconciliation perfect, by appealing to their natural
affection for each other, and then the weight of the
admonition sliould fall on the elder, even if he happens
not to be the aggressor.
Nor is disobedience to be visited with extreme se-
verity ; we began with stating it to be a prevailing
error in nursery education, to make passive obedience
the basis of all discipline; an obedient and a docile
spirit is assuredly indispensable to all improvement. But
though the rod may make the spirit obedient, it will not
make it docile, and the docility is at least as important
as the obedience ; to obtain both, the reason must be
appealed to, and where this appeal is judiciously and
habitually made, it will seldom be found that the dis-
obedience of a child amounts to contumacy. When it
does, it must be subdued : but where it stops short of
this, it springs only from thoughtlessness or forgetful-
ness : and these are not faults to demand more than
gentle reproof. We place them only in the same clasa
with untidyness, carelessness, negligence, or impatience,
THE BRIGHT SIDE.
* Borne murmur when their sky is clear,
And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue ;
And some with thankful love are filled
If but one streak of light
One ray of God's great mercy gild
The darkness of their night " TRENCK.
WITH LOW much force did these lines come to me, as
i listened this morning to the petulant complaints of a
neighbour, who came in to sit an hour with me ! The
poor woman would have me believe that her sky waa
ever cloudy, nor was ever gilded by " one streak of
light." Yet she is blessed with an indulgent husband,
who loves her as much as he can love an habitual grum-
bler. Her children are active little beings, for whom
she ought to feel the deepest thankfulness. The ap-
pointments of her household betoken an abundance and
the best of this world's goods. She has keen intellect,
and the means for satisfying every mental craving ; but,
alas ! her wit is only expended in sarcasm, and in con-
tempt of all that surround her yes, even of husband,
children, and home !
The fiend of discontent sits for ever by her side, and
paints all things in dark, distorted lines, and false colour-
ing, and shuts out from her soul's vision the fair, sunny
side of life. The " inner eye" recognises nothing of the
sweet look which nature wears, nor reflects the shining
13
194 THE BRIGHT SIDE.
glory of the material world, nor the tender kindness of
human faces. She sees deceit in smiles, treachery in
kisses, and guilt in the blush of youth and animation.
Her heart is thrilled hy no true, sweet echoes. The
warbling of woodbirds the music of waterfalls, and
even the gentle speech of friends, have each for her
some peculiar monotony, or harshness, or dissonance.
Alas ! that she should hear little children call her by
the sweet, sacred name of mother, and not be stirred by
holy, softening emotions ! They call her mother, but
know nothing of maternal advice and sympathy so
precious, so all-healing ! Those little children hide fn in
her, most carefully, their faults and sorrows, for they
shrink from the sharp invective, the stern, unloving re-
proof with which their confessions would be received.
She has no "bright side" for their griefs, nor tender
prayer, nor consoling counsel, for winning the erring
one to repentance and hopeful resolves.
Poor things ! there are step-children far happier than
they, obliged to speak of this sad mockery as their real
mother! Ah! the brother-baby that was taken away
by the angels has found, we may believe, his real mo-
ther, with her bright face, and her voice soft and musical
with affection.
Nor do the children " tell mother" their little plea-
sures and plans that would be most ruinous policy !
She would be sure to discover in every loved amusement
some hidden danger, or certain disaster, or dire wicked-
ness, which they, by themselves, would never have found
out ; and so they prefer, by keeping silence, never to find
it out.
THE BRIGHT SIDE. 195
Little Willie had been told, by bis cousins, a long,
wonderful, yet "real, true" story of all tbe delightful
things to be enjoyed " out at grandfather's" of clover
fields, haymaking, meadow-larks, poneys, bee-hives,
cows, frisky pigs, and " such a dog that kneAY every-
thing" and "such a great, high tree, that can be
climbed as easy as a stairway, and from the top of which
you can see almost to the city !" Then there is an old
mysterious garret for rainy days just like the one Ik
Marvel tells about and grandmother! "she looks ex-
actly like Dame Bountiful in the Fairy Book !" Oh,
how the little boy's fancy revelled in these enchanting
scenes, and straightway came the daring thought that
he, Willie, might go and see that good old grandmother,
and be a partaker in these darling country sports ! At
last hope made him bold to face his mother with the re-
quest to " go home with grandfather the next time he
comes to town."
Oh, what a damper of an answer he got ! How sadly
the boy's anticipations drooped beneath it ! Hear, her :
" No, child, it isn't worth while for you to go out to that
dull place for the risk of getting your neck broken, or
being drowned in the great pond ! Don't say another
word about it, but go, now, and study your multiplica-
tion-table !" And then in a croaking, soliloquizing tone,
" They are certainly the most ungrateful children that
ever were born to think of the very youngest fretting
to leave his mother's wing !" Wing, indeed ! To poor
Willie it was only a great spectral thing, after the raven
or bat order, which was for ever spread between him
and all that the wide world had of free lorn or delight,
196 THE BRIGHT SIDE.
and which always came flapping along to brush away his
grand, boyish projects, just as they had reached their
prime ! What a discouraging, dismal mother ! To her,
gay, light-hearted girls are frivolous, and all boys noisy
savages, who are, as a matter of course, to be snubbed,
and stinted, and put down!
Let us leave such a very dark side of the picture, and
turn to the cheerful, ever-youthful mother, whose coun-
tenance is beaming with love glances and caressing
smiles ; whose heart is ever ready with its hearty, warm,
abundant sympathy ; whose very presence brings a sense
of safety and comfort. She is so "full of fun," as the
little ones say ; so inventive, appreciating no one with-
in her sphere grows stupid, morose, or idle. What child,
with such a mother, could be naughty for a very long
time ? Who could deceive her ?
Her daily life preaches a beautiful, convincing sermon
of " good-will towards men." Her patience and self-
sacrifice have silent, irresistible force, and the children
must needs " do as mother does." Her trust in Divine
Providence is so real and practical her belief in the
Bible so firm and loving her religion so active and
her conscience so delicate cognisant of the minutiae of
thought, feeling, and deed, that her children catch the
inspiration, and learn to love to "do as mother does."
Manhood and womanhood find them ready for all that
life has for them to do, strong in the hope, and trust,
and belief in which "mother" did rest and live.
READER, have you such a mother ? Do you help to
make that " bright side" to which her eye is ever timied 1
I did not think, when I began, of saying so much
THE BRIGHT SIDE. 197
about maternal influence, but my thoughts have ever
such tendency.
Every subject is likely to lead me into speculation as
to its connexion with the mother and children.
We are all, in every position of life, concerned in thia
seeking for whatever is beautiful and genial in life. The
" Bright Side" is the side of truth and goodness, in
whatever forms they may be manifested. It is bounded
by no conditions, high or lowly, nor seasons, nor climes,
nor age. It belongs to that world in which every pure,
affectionate spirit does live, and encloses that unfading
garden of Paradise which such a spirit makes for itself.
It takes its light from Heaven. Neither poverty, nor
hard labour, nor pain, nor separation from friends, can
darken that spiritual radiance.
DEAR READERS let us not only look with " thankful
love" on every ray which God's great mercy sends us,
but let us seek continually in all people the kind, the
true, and the amiable. For there is no human being,
hoAvever degraded, that possesses not some spark of
goodness, and some divine truth which that spark keeps
alive.
Let us meet the stranger without suspicion, or desire
to know his faults. Let us be our own judge of him,
closing our hearts against all that gossip or slander may
say. We will meet him with the " charity that hopcth
all things." We will receive /him as the angels receive
a new comer from this world eager to discover what he
has that is wise and good, and to cherish and encourage
in him all heavenly affections.
And now let me leave you with an appropriate coaplot
198 A WORD TO PARENTS.
from the author whose verses I quoted in opening thii
appeal for the Bright Side :
"Envy detects the spots in the great orb of light,
And Love, the little stars in the darkest, saddest night"
A WORD TO PARENTS.
LET the parent take care to keep humility ahead of
self-confidence. Let him cherish the hope in the child
of becoming something worthy, amiable, and intelligent
in future, rather than the thought of his being such
already. Let him practically impress the child, that
the attainments which the wisest have made, as com-
pared with those which are yet to be acquired, are as a
drop of water compared to the whole ocean ! Let him
remember the Lord's caution to us against self-esteem
and self-merit, where he says, " When ye shall have done
all those things which are commanded you, say, We are
unprofitable servants: we have done only that which was
our duty to do." This passage, in other words, may read
thus : " We have yielded that only which we could not
withhold without robbery ; we have paid but a very small
part of an old debt ; and far be the thought from us, that
we can bring our Maker into debt to us, or to our merit !"
And, remembering this complete antidote to self-gratu-
lation, should not a wise parent, by some sentiment analo-
gous to it, endeavour to counteract the intoxicating
quality of praise? How careful we are, supposing we
are administering ardent spirit to a child under bodily
A WORD TO PARENTS. 199
ailment, lest, by giving too much, we should injuriously
inflame ! It would be well if a caution which appears to
correspond to this, were as carefully observed ; that is,
a caution lest praise should do hurt, by inflaming the self-
love through its injudicious or immoderate application.
Might not a parent say beneficially to a child some-
thing to the following effect ? " My dear child ! You
have done well ; you have done your duty; I commend
you ; and rejoice while I compare your attainments with
your age and capability ; I praise your diligence and
care ; I present you with a reward as a testimony of my
love and approbation ; but I should leave my duty un-
fulfilled if I did not remind you, that the benefit of your
improvement and well-doing is entirely your own ; that
no one can owe you anything because you have done
well ; but, on the contrary, you yourself are become a
debtor to your Heavenly Father for the disposition and
ability which he has given you to become good and wise,
for goodness and wisdom are his best gifts, being the only
springs of true happiness. While, then, I praise you,
or whenever any one else praises you, it becomes you to
take such praise only as a testimony, that you owe to
your Heavenly Father still higher praise, for giving you
a title to receive praise from me, or from others; and
then you will be willing to refer all merit and praise to
Him alone. Remember, also, that if I praise you for
learning, or doing right, my praise implies that YOU
should refer it back to me, in part, because wh^re would
have been your title to such praise, had not I first im-
parted to you information, and made you sensible of tho
great privilege and happiness of doing right ? You will
200 A WORD TO PARENTS.
not then, my dear child, think highly of yourself liec:ms
I or others praise you, but you will reverence and adore
the Lord, who has, in his goodness, given you a good
will and ability ; and you will esteem and love your pa-
rents, because they, by that wise instruction which the
Lord has helped them to administer, have opened and
directed your faculties to their destined improvement in
goodness and knowledge." Thus will the parent teach
his child to love his parents more than himself, and
to value them more than he values himself; and this
will be the best preparation for the child's coming, at
maturity, into that regenerate state in which he will love
the Lord for his goodness more than himself ; (knowing
that, of himself he is nothing !) and esteem the Lord's
wisdom, that is, THE TRUTH, above his own intellectual
powers, attainments, or opinions.
In supposing a child to merit reward and praise from
his parents, we are, of course, supposing him to be tracta-
ble and teachable. Now the giving such a stimulus as
reward and praise is often resorted to as a means of en-
couraging and cherishing an obedient and teachable dis-
position ; but may not a bad, selfish motive be thua
inspired, which will do more harm, than the good con-
duct will do good ; and which, in the end, by feeding
selfishness and self-will, may render a chili more un-
tractable and untcachable than ever?
There is a far better way than this of encouraging
teachableness ; that is, by implanting in the child's mind
that very disposition which is the solid ground of it.
And here let us recur to the Lord's example, where he
says, " If any man will do his will, he shall know of tho
HOUSEHOLD MUSIC. 201
doctrine whether it be of God." It is here declared, that
thy 'capability of learning and being taught the truth,
depends upon the willingness to obey the teacher's will,
in which there must be a confidence, that such will is
goud in. its requirements, and, therefore, that it is good
to yield it. By analogy it follows: that the most effect-
ual way to lead a child to learn and imbibe truth is, to
beget in him a willingness to obey the parent's will; so
that we are again led to the burden of all our arguments,
that so far as a child's ill propensities are effectually coun-
teracted, so far the parent's will becomes the child's
will; and for the purposes of instruction, the parent's
understanding becomes the child's understanding; and,
as a consequence, the pure happiness of the regenerate
parent becomes, in a degree, the child's happiness; and,
as a further consequence, the religion of the parent, the
cause of the child's happiness as well as of the parent's,
becomes immovably implanted in the child's mind.
HOUSEHOLD MUSIC.
ONE evening, taking my little boy, a child of two and
a half years, in my arms, to lull him to rest, as have
fond mothers since the world began, I took up a book
of simple nursery rhymes, that some one had left on my
table, containing the words and music on opposite pages.
As I listlessly turned the leaves, and carelessly hummed
the music, I heard a soft sigh from my child ; but, with-
out apparently noticing him, I sang on, when dewy tears
202 HOUSEHOLD MUSIC.
welled out from beneath his closed eyelids ; but stilS I
sang, till, nestling closer to my bosom, the little fellow
half whispered, his voice broken by sobs, " Oh, mamma,
dorit sing that !" Surprised at the circumstance, I sought
for the cause. Examining the book, I found I had been
humming the well-known air by Sir J. Stevenson, the
Vesper Hymn. I knew no association connected with
the air that could awaken such emotion in my boy ; the
words were entirely common-place, and could not have
been the cause ; and to determine that question, many
weeks after, under like circumstances, I again sang the
same air to words totally different, but the same result
followed, first the silent tear, then a burst of mournful
weeping.
Often, when I've heard the power of music denied or
ridiculed, have I thought of this incident. Tell us, ye
wise utilitarians ! dwells there not a potent spell in an
art that can work effects like these ? Tell us, ye learned
metaphysicians ! what subtler chords vibrate in the human
heart, than answer to its touch ? Oh, ye mothers ! sis-
ters! prize your lovely gift, and by it weave strong
bands, wreathe golden chains, binding in one loving circle
the dwellers at your hearth-stone.
Oh, ye parents ! ye who bend daily at the altar of
devotion, lose not the holy influence of this " most sweet "
accompaniment; let with your morning orisons let with
your evening sacrifice ascend the voice of praise to the
Highest ! " for praise is comely, and it is good to sing
praises unto our God !" Yea, with the royal psalmist
let us say, " I will sing praises while I have being."
Who does not feel and acknowledge the power of the
HOUSEHOLD MUSIC. 203
human voice ? In whose memory how thickly overpiled
it may be, with a long life's gathered incrustations, with
the thick layers of a stern life's realities down, deep
down in the heart's recesses, dwells there not the echo
of a mother's lullaby the remembrance of sweet hymns
beard in earliest years? In " visions of the night," in
i reams of long-gone times and scenes, they come to us
like whispers of distant lutes, like the harmony of soft
chords, such as one conceives the angels loved to harp.
Because the influence of music is not measurable by u
mathematical scale, is not reducible to a logarithmic
expression, too many deem its power a fiction of poets
and dreamers ; but, parents ! surrounded by young, im-
pressible minds, reject so false an estimate, and despise
not the moulding power you may exert on plastic hearts,
by your tuneful praises of the "Lord of Hosts." Silently
and unseen, perhaps, you shall plant a seed that " after
many days " shall prove a gentle cord to lure back to
paths of peace and virtue, a wayward, erring child, who,
though widely straying, shall, in some silent watch, hear
the still whisper of a reproving conscience, floating in,
as it were, upon his soul's ear, in tones of an old, familiar
melody
"Return, oh wanderer! return,
And seek an injured Father's face.'*
What a reward ! what notes of rapture shall sound from
the redeemed, over one so reclaimed !
It needs no great skill in the science of music for tin.-
office in social worship. Sing the old airs and melodies
your grandsires sang. The older, simpler, perhaps the
dearer. They have the charm of associations of you/
204 LOVE'S YEARNING.
early days. They are linked with sweet memories of
those, perhaps, who have long sung nobler songs, 1'jng
struck golden lyres. There's no melody on earth so
perfect as the blending of kindred voices. Gather, then,
your households, and attune their hearts and voices to
sing " the song of Moses and the Lamb." What medium
more fitting by which to celebrate the praises of a Saviour
such as ours to extol a love so ineffable as His ? Daily
let our voices "beat the heavenward flame," preparing
us to join the seraph-choir, if at last we be permitted to
Soar and touch the heavenly strings,
And vie with Gabriel while he sings
Iii notes that are divine."
LOVE'S YEAKNIXG.
ARE they all here ?"
" Yes, all but one; and she has just waked up from a
nap she will be down soon."
" Isn't it a beautiful sight ?" exclaimed a fashionably-
dressed woman, sinking languidly into a seat, and
smoothing the folds of her thick satin.
"Beautiful, but exceedingly sad," replied another,
whose lip trembled, and in whose eyes stood unrestrain-
ed tears; "the little darlings are motherless."
"Yes, but hew well they are provided for ! Just look
at that sweet little thing with the auburn curls. Isn't
she pretty ?"
LOVE'S YEARNING. 205
Pretty she was, indeed ; nay, beautiful, with her little
round limbs full of dimples the short frock hanging
archly over the plump ankles. A sight worth seeing
wa that band of motherless children. There was one
they called Matty, with bright, crisp curls, and dancing
eyes another who answered to the name of Lilly, with
eyes as blue as heaven, and brow as fair as unstained
snow. Some were plain and sickly, but most had the
rosy glow the smile unconscious, yet happy, of con-
fiding infancy.
" Many years ago," said Mrs. Eastman, turning to
^he matron, " I promised a dear friend that, in the event
of her death, if she left daughters, they should be taken
to my heart and home. She was unfortunate after that,
I heard though I lost sight of her and died misera-
bly poor. I traced her to this city, and here, they tell
me, is her only child a girl.
" The name ?" asked the matron.
" A plain one Mary Harson ; her mother was beau-
tiful," she added, running her eye along the group, an-1
among the sparkling faces and curly heads.
"Bring Mary Harson down," said the matron to an
assistant ; and Mrs. Eastman, startled from her compo-
sure, uttered an exclamation of surprise as the child
entered.
She was a little, odd figure, with large eyes, almost
preternaturally bright, thin in form, neither elastic in
limb nor rosy of cheek. She came forward with painful
timidity, and laid that small, shrunken hand in the
gloved hand of the lady, holding it there as if it were
206 LOVE'S YEARNING.
not a part of herself but something she was obliged to
offer.
"She's a strange child," said the matron, reading the
glance of her visiter, " but intelligent. Her great fault
is her sensitive temperament; she never ceases mourning
for her mother that for so little a child is singular,
you know and she dead so long."
Mrs. Eastman had fully expected that one of the
most beautiful of that little group was the child of her
early friend. Much she was disappointed at the diminu-
tive figure and plain features of this little stranger, and
her looks showed her regret. She strove to master it,
however, as she gazed at the downcast child the weak
frame so eager to shrink out of notice.
"Will you be my little girl?" she said.
The pale under lip quivered, and the diminutive thuml)
sought shelter in her mouth, while her eyes were cast
towards the floor ; but she answered not a word.
"Certainly you will like to go with this lady," said
the matron, encouragingly; "you will love to live in a
fine house, and have plenty of dolly-babies, plenty to eat,
and everybody to love you ? Say yes to the lady she
is going to be your mother."
That word broke the loosed fountain a long-drawn,
convulsive sigh, that must nearly have broken her little
heart, dilated the child's whole figure then the tears
fell fast and copiously, and she sobbed so violently that
Mrs. Eastman exclaimed, pettishly,
" Why, what a queer child it is !" at which the little
oue sobbed harder than ever and the matron led her
from the room.
******
LOVE'S YEARNING. 207
"Tiney, ray love, be quiet, and get your lesson.
Christmas is coming, you know ; and you must do your
best. Mary, your eyes are constantly wandering; why
will you not heed what I say ? Are you dreaming ?"
The little one started, cast a long, mournful look in
the face bent above hers, and, with a deep, oldish sigh,
gathered her brows, and resolutely applied herself to her
book.
The parlour was beautiful, and well supplied with
luxuries. The rich red of the coal glow brought out
innumerable pictures of rosewood carving, and struck
into vivid light the rare pictures on the wall.
Tiney, a girl with bright black eyes, set in a roguish
face, held in her hand a little silver pencil, with which,
though her mother did not see her, she was making pic-
tures on the margin of her books. She was the child
of wealth ; any one might have known that, for the
garments folding over those polished limbs were of fine
and dainty material. A rich necklace of coral, with
golden clasps, encircled her neck ; and her little shoes,
neatly laced, shone in a casing of the brightest kid. The
little girl at her side was not a whit the less beautifully
attired ; but from her brow the innocent joys, and loves,
and sweet surprises of childhood seemed permanently
banished. Even the rose-light of health looked only
dimly through the transparent cheeks, and her large
Bad eyes always made one think of something mournful.
A chubby babe, almost ready for the nursery, lay quietly
upon the lounge, drowsily playing with his blocks, and
crowing in an undertone.
" How now'!" that voice was all heart " How long
208 LOVE'S VEAKNINO
have you been dumb all of you ? Come, I'm for a game
rouse up look something like life !" and Mr. East-
man thiew his great frame into an easy-chair, holding
out his arms for the now wide-awake baby.
" Tiney, do you know your lesson?"
"Yes, mamma," answered the child, hastily conceal-
ing the pencil she had made her plaything.
" And you, Mary ?"
" No, mamma," timidly replied the more conscientious
M&iry.
" Then you must not expect to play," said Mrs. East-
man, sharper than was wont. " There, no crying I'm
tired of it."
" Don't be harsh to her," exclaimed Mr. Eastman,
softly ; "perhaps she isn't well."
"Then, if she isn't well, she may go to bed," added
the lady, impatiently ; " but I know better, she is well
and she will be well and she will look like a funeral
all the time, notwithstanding all I have done for her. I
hate ingratitude."
" Never mind, Molly, you'll try harder to study to-
morrow won't you ?" But the child shrieked convul-
sively, as his kind voice touched her heart, and laying
her head low on her hands, sobbed as she had not for
many days.
A bitter look crossed Mrs. Eastman's face. Just then
a servant came in. " Take Miss Mary to her room
where she can stay till she feels better," she said, sternly ;
>,nd her husband, who could think of no cause for such
strange conduct, silently acquiesced.
"I ahall dislike her by-and-bye, I fear," said the
LOVE'S YEARNING 209
lady, half-communing with herself. *' I don't see what it
is she has every comfort. I'm sure poor Mary, her
mother, was one of the most amiable beings that ever
lived. How little her child takes after her ! She is for
ever weeping, notwithstanding all I can do. I've loaded
her with toys, and anticipated all her wishes, yet she
will be sad and miserable. I don't understand it. I'm
out of all patience."
Ah ! kind mother and gentle friend, you know not
that little tender heart ! You could not touch its quiver-
ing strings but to wake discordant notes. The spirit so
sensitive, shrinking if a breath brushed it too harshly,
needed at least something akin to a mother's love. It
yearned for the good-night kiss ; for the arm placed in-
voluntarily about the slight form ; for the gentle press-
ure sometimes given when least expected. This that
little sensitive on 3 longed for in the far dark distance
she looked back, remembering how it had been with her.
Tiney and Mary slept in two small, adjoining cham-
bers. Twice, before bedtime, did Mrs. Eastman send
up to know if Mary could come to her supper ; but the
servant returned, saying she was still " in the sulks,"
she called it but she did not know. So the babe was
laid sweetly in its cradle. Tiney was carefully disrobed
before the warm, shining fire her snowy night-dress
put on and kneeling, with her white hands raised, and
clasped in those of her mother her little body swaying
to the measure of her good-night hymn, she happily
prepared for slumber.
" 0, dear, oh ! ,<Jear, dear, dear !" sobbed a small
14
210 LOVE'S YEARNINO.
childish voice, " will God please take me home to He
von ?"
Mrs. Eastn:an paused in absolute astonishment before
she entered Mary's room. The door was slightly ajar
the full moon lay lovingly over little Mary, its beams
brightening the white objects about the bed, and making
her, with her grieved, upturned face, clasped hands, and
streaming eyes, seem like an angel sorrowing over some
mortal's untimely sin.
" Oh ! I am so lonely !" sighed the little thing, still
talking to her Father in Heaven " this mother don't
love me I know she don't she loves her own little
girl, for she kisses her a great deal, and she looks at her
happy ; but, oh, dear God, she don't love me like her !
Please take me right to Heaven !"
Mrs. Eastman swallowed her emotion ; pity swelled
at her heart. She remembered how quick the rebuking
word sprang forth at any of her faults ; how often she
called her " lazy little thing," because she turned
dreamily away from her book, and how frequently she
sent her to her slumbers without one word of praise,
while she almost smothered her own child with caresses.
All this while the child was sobbing as she prayed,
" Don't let me cry so much, dear God, because they say
I'm cross and wicked ! Oh, God, do let me think of my
own dear mamma, without feeling so very bad ; and
don't let me think what nice times we used to have when
little Willy was alive, and mamma used to smile on ua
BO sweetly ! Oh, dear good God, if I might only go to
Heaven with my dear mother, I never could want ta 07
again I"
LOVE'S YEARNING. 211
Mrs. Eastman hurried down stairs, and, going by her-
self, bitterly wept. She saw all her error, and how sor-
rowful she was making that young life. Drying her
tears, after a prayer for guidance, she hastened up
stairs. Little Mary had undressed, and with all a wo-
man's precision had laid her clothes carefully aside.
"Mary," said Mrs. Eastman, in a soft voice.
The child looked round, alarmed.
" Mary, shan't I hear your prayers, love ?"
Not a word said the child ; but with her great eyes
wide open, she came slowly towards her foster-mother,
and dropped on her knees ; nor did she take her won-
dering glance from that gentle face till she had repeated
the last amen.
"Now kiss me, darling!" said Mrs. Eastman, with
trembling voic'j.
There was a pause of a moment. The child caught
her breath ; then flung her arms passionately about the
neck of her mother, kissing her again and again. With
a new impulse the foster-mother strained her to her bo-
som, and so held her, while the hot tears fell like rain
down her cheeks.
" And do you think you can love me ?" she murmured,
disengaging herself from the rapturous embrace.
" Oh, yes, I do love you ; I love you like my own
dear mamma ; oh, you never were so good to me be-
fore !"
"And you will not cry so much, my darling, and
make me sad."
" No, I will never cry, for I think my own mamma has
come back from Heaven my sorry has all gone. How
212 DEAL GENTLY WITH THE TIMID CHILD.
kind you arc, mamma !" and the beautiful head reposed
lovingly, and without rebuke, against the heart beating
with such new and sweet tenderness : and when Mrs.
Eastman again looked down the child was sleeping, with
an angelic happiness playing over her serene counte
nance.
From that time little Mary was like a new creature
It was love she yearned for ; her tender ixature, like the
flower for the dew, pined for its sweet nourishment.
Never more she wept without cause never went alone
to her Father, and in agony cried, " Dear God, please
take me home to Heaven !"
DEAL GENTLY WITH THE TIMID CHILD.
MRS. LARFORD said : " ' Supposing this to be all
right, the mother will feel herself from the first the
depository of its confidence, a confidence as sacred as
any other, though tacit, and about matters which may
appear to all but itself and her, infinitely small. Enter-
ing by sympathy into its fears, she will incessantly
charm them away, till the child becomes open to reason,
and even afterwards, for the most terrible fears are
thos; which have nothing to do with reason ; the mother
wili bring it acquainted with every object in the room
or house, letting it handle in merry play everything
which could look nvysterious to its fearful eyes, and
rendering it familiar with every household sound.'
'This is a thought worth remembering," sa : u Mrs
ON GRANDPA'S KNEE.
DEAL GENTLY WITH THE TIMID CHILD. 218
Larford, laying down her book for a moment; "and it
reminds me of a circumstance my nurse once told me,
relating to a child of hers. The little girl went to visit
an aunt, when about ten years of age ; and after she was
in bed one night, quite alone, she heard the clock give
warning of being about to strike. Not having had a
clock in her cottage home, and being consequently
unaccustomed to the sound, she became dreadfully
alarmed, and when unable to bear the terror of being
alone any longer, she rushed to the stairs in the dark,
fell, and broke her leg. It is of importance, therefore,
to make children acquainted with the varied sounds
they may hear after they are retired for the night. But
to proceed :
" ' Some of my worst fears in infancy were from lights
and shadows. The lamp-lighter's torch on a winter's
afternoon, as he ran along the street, used to cast a
gleam, and the shadows of the window frames on the
ceiling, and my blood ran cold at the sight every day,
even though I was on my father's knee, or on the rug
in the middle of the circle round the fire. Nothing
but compulsion could make me enter our drawing-room
before breakfast on a summer morning ; and if carried
there by the maid, I hid my face in a chair, that I might
not see what was dancing on the Avail. If the sun shone,
as it did at that time of day, on the glass-lustres on the
mantel-piece, fragments of gay colour were cast on the
wall, and as they danced when the glass drops were
shaken, I thought they were alive a sort of imps ! But
as I never told anybody what I felt, these fears could
not be met or charmed away ; and I grew up to an ago
214 TWO IN HEAVEN.
that I will not mention, before I could look steadfastly
at prismatie colours dancing on the wall. Suffice that
it was long after 1 had read enough of optics to have
taught my child how such colours came there.
" ' Many an infant is terrified at the snadow of a
perforated night-lamp, with its round spaces of light.
Many a child lives in perpetual terror of the eyes of
portraits on the walls, or some grotesque shape in the
pattern of the paper-hangings. Sometimes the terror is
of the clack of the distant loom, or of the clink from
the tinman's, or of the rumble of carts under a gateway,
or of the creak of a water-wheel, or of the gush of a
mill-race. Everything is or may be terrifying to a
timid infant , and it is, therefore, a mother's charge to
familiarize it gently and playfully with everything that
it can possibly notice, making sport with all sights, and
inciting it to imitation of all sounds, from the drone of
the pretty bee to the awful cry of the old clothes' man,
from the twitter of the sparrows on the roof, to the
toll of the distant church-bell.' "
TWO IN HEAVEN.
"You have two children," said I.
"I have four," was the reply; "two on earth, two in
heaven."
There spoke the mother! Still hers! only "gone
before !" Still remembered, loved, and cherished, by
the hearth and at the board ; their places not yet filled,
THE MOTHER AND THE SOIf. 215
ven tlu ugh their successors draw life from the same
faithful breast where their dying heads were pillowed.
" Two in heaven !" Safely housed from storm and tem-
pest ; no sickness there, nor drooping head, nor fading
oye, nor weary feet. By the green pastures ; tended by
the Good Shepherd, linger the little lambs of the hea-
venly fold. " Two in heaven !" Earth less attractive !
Eternity nearer ! Invisible cords, drawing the maternal
soul upwards. " Still small" voices, ever whispering
come! to the world-weary spirit. "Two in heaven!"
Mother of angels, walk softly ! Holy eyes watch thy
footsteps, cherub forms bend to listen ! Keep thy spirit
free from earth-taint ; so shalt thou " go to them,"
though "they may not return to thee."
THE MOTHER AND THE SON.
IT is a question long since settled by actual facts,
that the son, however wayward he may be, will listen to
a mother's voice, and call to remembrance her prayers,
even long after her voice may be silent in death, and
her prayers for him cease. A young minister of the
gospel, now an active labourer in the vineyard of the
Lord, says : " At twelve years of age I had stood beside
the couch of a dying mother, whose voice had often i.old
me of Jesus, and whose prayers had constantly ascended
for her first-born. The hand which had led him to the
Sabbath School was now motionless. With weeping
216 THE MOTHER AND THE S0!.
eyes and a sad heart, the son saw the coffin placed in
he grave."
A few years had passed away, when this young man
was led to make one honest effort for his soul's salvation.
Having given himself to Christ, he adds: "A mother's
prayers were answered, though she did not live to wit-
ness the conversion of her son."
Edward Payson, the devoted and successful Portland
pastor, was a child of many prayers. From the nature
of his father's professional duties, his attention to Ed-
ward must have been less frequent than his mother's,
and partaken in some degree of a more formal character.
The recollections of his mother extend from very early
childhood to his latest days. He has been heard to say
that though she was solicitous that he might be liberally
educated and be an accomplished scholar, yet he could
distinctly see that her all-absorbing thought respecting
him was, that he might be a Christian. To this end
she instructed him in early life, and followed up those
instructions with fervent prayers. At the early age
of three years he was known to call his mother by his
bedside to talk with her about God, and his relations
to a future world. In a letter to his parents when in
college, he writes thus : " To your admonitions and
instructions I am indebted for all the moral and religious
impressions which are imprinted on my mind, and which
I hope will give me reason to bless you through all
eternity." There is abundant testimony in the writings
of Payson that he attributes his religious feelings, hopes,
nd usefulness in life, to early parental influences.
.Richard Cecil developed, in early life, a marked cha.
THE MOTHER AND THE SON. '217
racter. lie was decided, daring, and authoritative ; even
his school-mates yielded implicit obedience to his com-
mands. But there was united with his almost untame-
able spirit a generous and manly heart. His mother
yras pious, and did not fail to use the means for his
spiritual welfare. He says: "My mother would put
things in my way, and I could not get rid of them."
When he was six years old, his mother gave him a little
book, " Janeway's Token for Children." He says: "I
was much affected on reading it. I wept over it. I got
into a corner and prayed that I might be as happy aa
those little children." His early religious impressions
wore away as he began to form acquaintances with
young men into whose vices and follies he soon fell, and
which was the cause of his gradual departure from his
mother's admonitions. He began to avow infidel prin-
ciples at quite an early age, though he afterwards con-
fessed that he did not half believe them.
Here was a painful passage in Cecil's early history ;
and how must that praying mother feel, after all her
counsels and prayers, to see the child of her deepest
affections a leader in infidel principles ? Ah ! that
mother believed in God in the efficacy of prayer. She
prayed more earnestly for her boy -and he has left a
most impressive memorial of a mother's influence in
preserving him, under God, from entirely believing a lie.
"I was afraid," he says, "to read any author who
treated Christianity in a wise and searching manner.
Conscience would recall my early instructions and im-
pressions, while my happiness could only consist witt
their obliteration." At one time he went with one of
218 THE MOTHER AND THE SON.
his associates to see persons caricatured, when in the
personage of a woman was represented those persons who
talk abouf, religion. " My friend," he says, "laughed
heartily ; but I could not, for I knew that I had a
Christian mother."
At one time when standing by the bedside of a sick
mother, he asked her a question : " Are you not afraid
to die ?" "No, no !" she replied. " Why does not the
uncertainly of another state give you no concern ?"
" She looked me in the face," says Cecil, "with a holy
and heavenly smile, which cannot be effaced from my
memory, and replied, ' Because God has said to me, Fear
not ; when thou passest through the waters, I will be
with thee.' The remembrance of this scene has often-
times since drawn an ardent prayer from me that I might
die the death of the righteous."
Grace at last conquered the opposition of Cecil's
heart to the truth of the gospel. The seed which was
faithfully sown by the hand of a Christian mother, and
watered with her tears in prayer, though it lay long
buried in the heart, at length sprung up, and grew with
astonishing vigour, and he stood out in the world a noble
champion for God and His truth. Parental influence
thus cleaves to the man, and a mother's prayers are
heard and answered.
Another striking illustration of a mother's influence
is seen in the early history of Philip Doddridge, whose
name is ever associated with "The Family Expositor"
and the " Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul."
He first saw the light in an obscure street in London, a
frail flower then, for he was laid away socn after his
MOTHER. 219
birth as dead. He had a mother of earnest prayer and
living piety. She taught Iier children to love the Scrip-
tures, by describing the scenes in the Bible, in a familial
manner, on the old Dutch tiles which lined the chimney
corner. Little did the mother of Doddridge anticipate
his future career, when he reclined on her knee, folloAved
the direction of her fingers in the Bible, and in childlike
simplicity listened to the words of eternal life. When
she laid her hand on his head and prayed that he might
be a child of God, she did not know that God was pre-
paring him, through her instrumentality, to stand up in
the pulpit at Northampton, on Castle Hill, and preach
the gospel with so much success.
MOTHER.
YEARS have rolled away since these eyes looked their
last, in this world, upon " Mother," yet I cannot now
write the name, but it sends a thrill of joy and sorrow
through my frame. Joy that I had such a mother ;
sorrow that I was so soon deprived of her priceless
counsel and sympathy. While I think of it, ere I am
aware, my eyes fill with tears, and those tender chords
of affection that bound me to her, vibrate again with all
their wonted vigour, and she seems near me still. I hear
her voice I feel her hand upon my head I see her, as
once I did, and rejoice in her presence. But when my
senses would realize the fact, I am like the man who has
lost an arm ; he feels the hand, the fingers as they were,
220 MOTHER.
though amputated years ago ; but when, with the other,
he would touch it. 'tis not there.
Oh, how indelibly does the mother stamp her moral
precepts upon the hearts of her children ! Has she a
tender conscience, venerating the word of God as its
only guide ? You may trust her children, if she lived
to train them until they became active citizens. 'Tis
true sin may hide for years, and seem to annihilate her
principles, yet they are " like fire in the bones," as the
prophet says, or like a pent volcano in the bosom.
Sooner or later they will burn out, and the pastor or
Christian teacher finds that the foundation for his work
was laid years ago, in the prayers and tears of a FAITH-
FUL mother; and he, under God, is only permitted to
clear away a little of the rubbish, and bring to light what
that mother has done. I sometimes think it is well that
mothers do not FULLY comprehend the power they
possess ; if they did they would sink under the weight of
their responsibility. Oh, if there be any difference,
surely, nearest, and dearest to the Saviour's heart, is the
patient, faithful, Christian mother.
Seeing, in a recent publication, an article headed the
" Door in the heart," I have endeavoured to embody
the sentiment with some additions and alterations in the
following lines. Should they encourage any in a per-
severing labour of love, they will fulfil their desired
ibject.
THE KEY TO THE HEART. 221
THE KEY TO THE HEART.
No bandit on the mountain,
No robber on the plain.
But hath within a fountain
Of sympathy to gain.
No tyrant o'er a nation,
Though Nero were his name,
No outcast in creation,
But hath some sense of
No heart how hard soever,
And calloused o'er by sin,
But there we may discover
Some door to enter in.
The way is often winding,
That hidden door to reach ;
Yet sure 'tis worth the finding
Salvation's truths to teach.
Take with you constant kindneM,
Be sympathy your guide
Not long you'll grope in blindnOM^
The key is on your side.
Nine times in ten, I'll venture,
A mother's name you'll find
Has been the key to enter
That door within the mind.
Then bear thy burden, mother.
Aye bear it patiently,
Thy name is like no other.
The heart's most sacred key.
"LITTLE THINGS."
A WRITER in the Mother's Journal speaks wisely on
the importance of little things :
Due consideration and strict watchfulness in little
things, are of importance to the happiness and welfare of
all, hut how especially do little things commend them-
selves to the attention of a mother ! In the sphere of her
duties can anything be esteemed little or trifling ? We
think not. She has to deal with little folks. To the
mother is intrusted the directing and the moulding of
little intellects just beginning to bud and to expand.
Can anything be deemed trifling that influences, whether
for good or evil, these young but immortal minds ? Oh,
let a mother weigh well her words, before she allows her-
self to say of anything pertaining to the little ones
around her, " It is but a trifle."
Your little boy utters an untruth. Do not say, " It
was about a mere trifle, and besides it did not deceive
me for a moment. It is not worth while to make a fuss
about it !" A trifle ! Is it a trifle in the estimation of
that little fellow ? It did not deceive you ! Did he not
mean to deceive ? Oh, as you value hie future happi-
ness and your own peace of mind in after years, beware
how you pass lightly over the least departure from truth.
Gloss it over with no softening terms. Let the little
one of two years old know that a lie is displeasing in the
sight of the great God. Let him see and feel that
" LITTLE THINGS." 223
nothing can grieve or displease his mother more than to
hear her darling "tell a lie." Speak of it ever with
contempt and disgust, and let him see in every word anj
action the high value you set upon TRUTH.
On entering the breakfast room you perceive a little
hand hastily withdrawn from the sugar howl, or from
the plate of biscuit. Do you say, " Well, I'm sure a
lump of sugar, or a biscuit is a mere trifle. And the
child is heartily welcome to it. I hope you would not
pretend to call that stealing." What does the child
herself consider it to be ? Why was the little hand so
hastily withdrawn ? Why are her cheeks like crimson,
and why is her manner so confused ? Does she not
know that she has taken what was not her own ? Is
there not a monitor within which tells her she has done
wrong ? If you pass by the act as too trifling for your
notice, it will be repeated again and again. She also
will consider it as a trifle, and the habit, the fearful
habit of pilfering will grow upon her. Little by little
little by little ; till at last whatever she wishes for, she
will take, provided only she thinks herself secure against
detection. And what misery will be yours if one day
you awaken to the consciousness that your cherished
daughter hides, beneath a lovely exterior, the hideous
sin of theft, and its twin brother, lying ! You start
with horror from the very thought. Beware how you
pass over the slightest act of pilfering, lest you one day
Cnd it to be a dreadful reality.
To turn to less serious matters. You look with plea-
sure on a well-bred child. You say, perhaps, " I wish
my children would keep their clothes neat, and try to
224 "LITTLE THINGS."
give civil answers when a stranger speaks to them."
Have you watched them in these respects ? Or have
you allowed many a little instance of rudeness to pass
unreproved ? and considered it too troublesome and fussy
to teach them habits of cleanliness? Is " Give me some
bread;" "I want some pie;" "Get me my hat," the
usual way in which your children make known their
wants ? and do you let them have the things they ask for
thus, because you " don't like to make a fuss about such
trifles ?" No wonder then that they grow up rude and
uncouth in speech. It is as easy and pleasant for a
child to say, " Please," and " Thank you," if he is taught
from the first to do so, as it is for him to say, " Give me
this," " I want that." It will require, it is true, con-
stant attention to this little matter till the habit is
formed. But is it not worth the trouble ? Rudeness of
manner may seem a trifle at two years old. Is it a trifle
by the time the boy reaches twelve or fourteen years of
age?
We might go on multiplying examples, but the few
hints we have already given will suffice. And we wish
to add a word or two upon the importance, on the other
hand, of noticing and encouraging every little effort to
do right.
A mother should endeavour, as far as possible, to
enter into her child's thoughts and feelings, and to view
things as he views them. Then she will be able in some
degree to estimate the greatness of the struggle in the
little bosom, as the child stands making up his mind to
lend a favourite plaything to his little sister; and the
pleasant "Here, Fanny, you may play with my cart
" LITTLE THINGS." 225
till you are tired of it," will not be passed unnoticed,
but receive the wished-for kiss of approbation.
The love of praise is stronger in children than at any
other period of life. Children may certainly be over-
praised, and flattery has sown the germ of much evil in
the youthful heart ; but we do think that very many err
on the opposite extreme. They are busy and do not
notice the child's little effort to win an approving smile ;
or something has put them out of humour, and they do
not feel in a mood to praise.
The blocks have all been arranged in their box, and
the playthings put neatly away, and the little boy runs
to his mother to tell her of his industry. If she merely
says, hurriedly, " Very well, very well, now you can go
up to bed," what a disappointment she will cause to the
little heart that expected a pleasant smile and an ap-
proving " There's a good boy."
Such encouragement consumes very little time ; it
need encroach on none of your duties. But it does
make one important demand on you, which is, that your
attention be continually alive to everything which may
promote the progress and improvement of your child ;
and that your hearty sympathy be at once aroused by
every little effort which he makes towards well doing.
And is this too much to ask of a mother ? Is it not
your highest duty, your sweetest privilege, to direct, to
support and encourage those trembling little steps which
without your watchful guidance will surely stray in paths
of error and of sin ? The steps are feeble and faltering
now, the progress is slow ; but, Christian mother, let
yours be the blessed task of placing those little feet in
16
226 THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL.
the rigt t way, and aiding them in their gradual progress,
and then yours will be the bright reward of beholding
them in later years running with patience the race set
before them, " pressing on towards the mark for the
prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus."
Doubt it not, for the word of the Lord has spoken it
THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL.
"WELL there," muttered Mrs. Lee, in a somewhat
petulant tone, as she laid down her babe ; " thank for-
tune, as the last one is abed and asleep. Now for a
little comfort."
Carefully drawing the blankets around the tiny form,
she rested one hand for a few moments upon the gently
heaving breast, stirred the cradle with the other, singing
the while a low lullaby.
Assured from its soft breathing, and quiet limbs, that
it was indeed asleep, she turned from it quickly, drew
her low rocker to the stand, picked up the light, and
took, from underneath a miscellaneous pile in her work
basket, an uncut novel.
"What a beautiful title!" said she, all traces of
weariness vanishing with electric rapidity from her
countenance. As her eye glanced over its pages, the
dull look they had worn all day disappeared, and the
light of anticipated joy flashed in its stead.
" I know that I shall be pleased with it. I feel thai
it will be interesting," continued she.
THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL. 227
" What charming names the author has chostn. None
of your Johns and Hannahs, your Roberts and Marga-
rets oh no ! here is noble Rodrigo, poetic Clarence,
sweet Florilla, saintly Therese : why, there is not an
ordinary name in the book. The writer must be one
of unusual taste !"
Having hastily cut the leaves, she shaded her brow
with one hand, grasped the charming book with tho
other, as though it were polished gold and she a miser,
and commenced, in the phrase of enthusiastic novel
readers, to devour the pages.
Rapidly did her eyes run over the first chapter. But
then she turned her head with a quick, impatient move-
ment. Did she not hear a noise in the cradle ? Yes, a
liHe hand was lifted from beneath the cover.
" Too bad, too bad ; he'll be awake all the evening
IKW;" and she glided with a noiseless step to the child's
8J /4 .e.
But the eyelids were still closed ; the measured breath
of slumber stole gently from the half-parted lips, and
th-! offending hand rested in quiet beauty upon tho soft
ne^k.
It was a fair, sweet babe, whose little heart had
throbbed but one short summer. As it lay there, the
spell of sinless sleep upon its brow, it seemed the type
of all things pure and blest. Eden, with all its loveli-
ness, never charmed the gaze of Eve with such a pic-
ture. The holier feelings of the mother's breast were
touched, as if by a hand from heaven. The angel began
to trouble the deep waters of her soul as she stood be-
side that cradle-bed ; and when after a vigil of several
228 THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL
moments, the child still sleeping, she bent her head and
imprinted upon its lips the kiss of love, the healing
wave flowed for an instant, then ebbed, for the novel
was not yet read.
Resuming her seat, Mrs. Lee again took her book.
But the fiction seemed to have lost some of its fascina-
tion. For some time her glance vacillated betAveen its
finely printed pages and her heaped-up basket. She
even put on her thimble and threaded a needle. But a
moonlight scene, where, in a honeysuckle bower, the
noble lover draws a trembling girl to his bosom, and
pours into her ears the bewitching words of wild court-
ship, acted like magic on the reader's mind, and she
became absorbed in the glowing picture.
The second and third chapters were soon perused,
and she was entering with interest upon the fourth,
when a sweet voice from the trundle-bed called out,
" Mother, mother, mother !"
Her ear caught the sound ; but it made no impression
upon her mind till it had been several times repeated ;
then turning quickly, in no very gentle voice, she ex-
claimed, " What do you want, Lizzie ? I thought you
were asleep an hour ago."
" I have been asleep, mother," answered the daughter,
in a timid tone. " I waked up because"
" Because you were a naughty girl and wanted to
plagus me. Strange that I can't have a minute's com-
fort," ao.d going hastily to the bed, she drew the clothea
around the child, and bade her shut her eyes and go to
sleep.
THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL. 229
" I want a drink, mother ; I can't sleep, I am so
thirsty."
The mother looked around ; there was neither pitcher
nor glass in the room.
"It's always just so. I never forget to bring wat n
but you are sure to want some. Why didn't you drinfe
last night, when I had a whole pitcher full for you?"
" I wasn't thirsty last night. Do please give me a
<irink, and I'll go right to sleep."
" I'm not going to run down stairs to-night ; so just
turn over and shut your eyes."
And she sat down again to her novel, leaving the
thirsty child to its thoughts, or dreams, as the case
might be.
Lizzie, as she said, wanted a drink very much, and
so she turned and tossed, and tried to think of every-
thing but water, while that was all she could think of.
"If I only had one little swallow," murmured she to
herself, " I think I could get along till morning." But
she might as well have wanted a pailful ; there was no
prospect, of getting any. By-and-by, she spied upon
the stove hearth a tin cup. " The baby's milk !" said
she. " Perhaps that would be as good as water. 1
wonder if mother would let me have it ?" She looked
toward the parent. She was absorbed in her book ; her
very being seemed bound up in it. The child knew too
much to disturb her.
But perhaps she could get it without disturbing her
mother, and she did want a drink so much. She hesi-
tated awhile, then crept silently out of bed, stole to the
cup, seized it eagerly, and took a swallow But it
230 THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL.
tasted better than she thought it would, and her thirst
was such that she drained it. Alarmed at what she
had done, she was in such haste to put it back that it
slipped from her trembling hand, bounding against the
stove, falling on the hearth, and rolling thence on the
carpet.
" Why, Lizzie Lee !" screamed the mother, dropping
her book and running to the child. " I should like to
know what you've been about ; spilt all the baby's milk,
I'll warrant," as she took up the empty cup. Then see-
ing the carpet was quite dry, she seized Lizzie by the
shoulder, exclaiming in an angry voice, " What have
you done with the milk, you little plague ? Tell me this
minute what's become of it ?"
" I was so thirsty, mother," answered the child in a
pleading voice, tears starting to her eyes, " I could not
go to sleep, and so"
" So you drank it, did you ! you naughty girl," con-
tinued Mrs. Lee with increased vehemence of tone ;
" drank it, and I haven't another drop of milk in the
house. I'll teach you to do such things;" and her
hand came down heavily upon the shrinking shoulder,
one ! two ! three times ! A wild scream of pain burst
from the child's lips. Another and another, and angry
and excited as the mother was, they pierced her heait
with deep arrows.
The noise startled another child who slept in the same
bed with Lizzie. Frightened from its sound slumbers,
it shrieked in alarm, when the babe, waking at the same
moment, joined its voice with the others, not in harmony.
THK CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL. 281
but in discords which echo so often in the nursery, stun-
ning the ear and bewildering the brain.
With quick steps, quick hands, and a softened tone,
Mrs. Lee strove to calm the tempest she had raised.
Lizzie's cries soon merged into piteous sobs, but Willie
and the babe continued their loud screams, till the
mother, in her perplexity, would fain have wrung her
hands and sat down and wept with them. She ran
from one to the other, soothing, singing, and caressing.
But they would not hush in the least, till, as a last
resource, she took the baby in one arm, Willie in the
other, and, thus burthened, paced the chamber. Her
limbs ached with the effort, her voice grew plaintive,
her heart sad and sore with the upbraidings of con-
science which she had striven too long to stifle. She
breathed sweet music in the ears of the little sobbing
creatures who struggled in her arms, but not a word of
anger escaped from her pale lips. She felt she was the
guilty cause of all her trouble. A little forethought, a
little self-denial, a little discipline of temper, and all had
been well.
It was a long time ere she ventured to sit down and
rock the children, and they did not soon close their eyes
in sleep. They would start and scream, then draw back
such long sighs, that the tears which trembled in the
mother's eyes would flood her cheeks.
When, at last, they rested in a sweet, calm slumber,
fihe was at a loss how to put them down to release her
weary arms, without the risk of new confusion. There
was no one whom sle could call upon for aid. No one?
Yes, there was the little trembling creature whose tender
32 THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL.
skin still smarted with the chastisement of an angry
mother.
" Lizzie," called the mother, after a long while, in a
very low gentle tone.
The child was quickly beside her.
" Bring your little chair, and sit down close to me
and see if you can draw the baby on your lap without
waking him."
Lizzie did as directed, and the babe was soon clasped
to her heart, her lips breathing childish words of affec-
tion over its unconscious form.
Very carefully did Mrs. Lee lay down her little Wil-
lie, and for some moments she sat beside him smoothing
gently his fair brow, twining his golden locks around her
fingers, and pressing the softest and sweetest of kisses
upon his still lips.
Then going to Lizzie, she took from her arms the
sleeping babe, and placing it in the cradle, bent over it,
whispering the fondest terms of endearment.
Sitting down beside it, she covered her face, and
thought grew busy. By-and-by, Lizzie stole quietly to
the chair, knelt beside it, and buried her head in her
mother's lap. Mrs. Lee's hands toyed with the scft
brown curls that fell over it in such rich profusion, and
several times pushed them off the forehead, when the
child felt the mute pressure of her lips. For some time
both were silent. At length Lizzie looked timidly up,
saying, in a touching voice,
" I am so sorry, mother, I made you so much trou
ble. I'll try and never be thirsty again when you are
reading."
THE CHILDREN AND THE NOVEL. 233
The mother's heart started ; she drew the child to her
bosom, embraced it fondly, closely, as though she thought
by pressure to still its painful throbbings. Then bear-
ing her to the bed, she set her down and hastily left
the room. She soon returned, a glass of water in her
hand. "Thank you, mother," said Lizzie, when she
had quenched her thirst, " you will have a good time to
read now, for I shall go right to sleep."
With her eyes brimful of tears, the mother bent over
her child and kissed her again and again. And Lizzie,
feeling that she was quite forgiven, and not dreaming
that she had been more sinned against than sinning,
threw her arms around her parent's neck, and gave back
kiss for kiss ; then nestling on the warm pillow of her
little brother, she closed her weary eyes and in a few
minutes was sound asleep.
For a long while the mother knelt beside the low
couch, and when she rose and sat down again by the
stand, she left the novel where she had dropped it, but
took from her basket an unfinished doll, and with rapid
fingers plied her needle.
It was long ere she placed her head upon her pillow.
When she did, the doll, completed and neatly dressed,
lay by the side of Lizzie ; the novel, half-read, upon the
Lehigh in the stove, a handful of light ashes.
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD.
Mus JAMESON has given us the following deeply inter-
esting revelation of her childhood. There are lessons i&
it which every parent should lay to heart. She says :
We are all interested in this great question of popu-
lar education"; but I see others much more sanguine
than I am. They hope for some immediate good result
from all that is thought, written, spoken on the subject
day after day. I see such results as possible, probable,
but far, far off. All this talk is of systems and me-
thods, institutions, school-houses, schoolmasters, school-
mistresses, school-books ; the ways and the means by
which we are to instruct, inform, manage, mould, regulate,
that which lies in most cases beyond our reach the spirit
sent from God. What do we know of the mystery of
child-nature, child-life? What indeed do we know of any
life ? All life we acknowledge to be an awful mystery,
but child-life we treat as if it were no mystery whatever
just so much material placed in our hands to be fash-
ioned to a certain form, according to our will or our
prejudices fitted to certain purposes, according to our
notions of expediency. Till we know how to rt aerence
childhood we shall do no good. Educators con-mit tho
same mistake with regard to childhood that theologians
commit with regard to our present earthly ex stence ;
thinking of it, treating of it, as of little value '{ signi-
ficance in itself, only transient, and preparatory r j some
condition of being which is to follow as u it were
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 235
something separate from us and to be left behind us as
the creature casts its skin. But as in the sight of God
this life is also something for its own sake, so in the esti-
mation of Christ, childhood was something for its own
sake, something holy and beautiful in itself, and dear
to him. He saw it not merely as the germ of something
to grow out of it, but as perfect and lovely in itself as the
flower which precedes the fruit. We misunderstand child-
hood, and we misuse it ; we delight in it, and we pamper
it ; we spoil it ingeniously, we neglect it sinfully ; at the
best we trifle with it as a plaything which we can pull
to pieces and put together at pleasure ignorant, reck-
less, presumptuous that we are !
And if we are perpetually making the grossest mis-
takes in the physical practical management of childhood,
how much more in regard to what is spiritual ! What
do we know of that which lies in the minds of children ?
we know only what we put there. The world of in-
stincts, perceptions, experiences, pleasures, and pains,
lying there without self-consciousness, sometimes help-
lessly mute, sometimes so imperfectly expressed, that
we quite mistake the manifestation what do we know
of all this ? How shall we come at the understanding
of it? The child lives, and does not contemplate its
own life. It can give no account of that inward, busy,
perpetual activity of the growing faculties and fcelinga
which it is of so much importance that we should know.
To lead children by questionings to think about their
own identity, or observe their own feelings, is to teach
them to be artificial. To waken self-consciousness be-
fore yu awaken conscience, is the beginnirg of iucal-
236 A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD.
cu'able mischief. Introspection is always, as a habit,
unhealthy : introspection in childhood fatally so. How
shall we come at a knowledge of life such as it is when
it first gushes from its mysterious fountain head? We
cannot reascend the stream. We all, however we may
remember the external scenes lived through in our in-
fancy, either do not, or cannot consult that part of our
nature which remains indissolubly connected with the
inward life of that time. We so forget it that we know
not how to deal with the child-nature when it comes
under our power. We seldom reason about children
from natural law r s, or psychological data. Unconsciously
we confound our matured experience with our memory :
we attribute to children what is not possible, exact from
them what is impossible ; ignore many things which
the child has neither words to express, nor the will nor
the power to manifest. The quickness with which child-
ren perceive, the keenness with which they suffer, the
tenacity with which they remember, I have never seen
fully appreciated. What misery we cause to children,
what mischief we do them, by bringing our own minds,
habits, artificial prejudices and senile experiences, to
bear on their young life, and cramp and overshadow it
it is fearful !
Of all the wrongs and anomalies that afflict our earth,
a sinful childhood, a suffering childhood, are among the
worst.
0, ye men ! who sit in committees, and are called upon
to legislate for children, for children who are the off-
spring of diseased or degenerate humanity, or the vic-
tims of a yet more diseased society, do you, when you
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 237
take evidence from jailors, and policemen, and parish
schoolmasters, and doctors of divinity, do you ever call
up, also, the wise physician, the thoughtful physiologist,
the experienced mother ? You have accumulated facts,
great blue books full of facts, but till you know in what
fixed and uniform principles of nature to seek their solu-
tion, your facts remain a dead letter.
I say nothing here of teaching, though very few in
truth understand that lowest part of our duty to child-
ren. Men, it is generally allowed, teach better than wo-
men, because they have been better taught the things they
teach. Women train better than men, because of their
quick intinctive perceptions and sympathies, and greater
tenderness and patience. In schools and in families I
would have some things taught by men, and some by
women : but we will here put aside the art, the act of
teaching : we will turn aside from the droves of child-
ren in national schools and reformatory asylums, and
turn to the individual child, brought up within the
guarded circle of a home or a select school, watched by
an intelligent, a conscientious influence. How shall we
deal with that spirit which has come out of Nature's
hands unless we remember what we were ourselves in
the past ? What sympathy can we have with that state
of being which we regard as immature, so long as we
commit the double mistake of sometimes attributing to
children motives which could only spring from our adult
expeiionce, and sometimes denying to them the same
intuitive tempers and feelings which actuate and agitate
our ma'vurer life ? We do not sufficiently consider that
witr life is not made up of separate parts, but is one is
238 A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD.
a progressive whole. When we talk of leaving our child-
hood behind us, we might as well say that the river flow-
ing onward to the sea had left the fountain behind.
I will here put together some recollections of my own
child-life ; not because it was in any respect an excep-
tional or remarkable existence, but for a reaon exactly
*,he reverse, because it was like that of many children :
at least I have met with many children who throve or
suffered from the same or similar unseen causes even
under external conditions and management every way
dissimilar. Facts, therefore, which can be relied on,
may be generally useful as hints towards a theory of
conduct. What I shall say here shall be simply the
truth so far as it goes ; not something between the false
and the true, garnished for effect, not something half-
remembered, half-imagined, but plain, absolute matter
of fact.
No ; certainly I was not an extraordinary child. I
have had something to do with children, and have met
with several more remarkable for quickness of talent,
and precocity of feeling. If anything in particular, I
believe I was particularly naughty, at least so it was
said twenty times a day. But looking back, now, I do
not think I was particular even in this respect ; I per-
petrated not more than the usual amount of mischief
so called which every lively, active child perpetrates
between five and ten years old. I had the usual desire
to know, and the usual dislike to learn ; the usual love
of fairy tales, and hatred of French exercises. But not
of what I learned, but of what I did not learn ; not of
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 239
what they taught me, but of what they could not teach
me ; not of what was open, apparent, manageable, but
of the under current, the hidden, the unmanaged or
unmanageable, I have to speak, and you, my friend, to
hear and turn to account, if you will, and how you will.
As we grow old, the experiences of infancy come back
upon us with a strange vividness. There is a period when
the overflowing, tumultuous life of our youth rises up
between us and those first years ; but as the torrent
subsides in its bed, we can look across the impassable
gulf to that haunted fairy land which we shall never
more approach, and never more forget !
In memory I can go back to a very early age. I
perfectly remember being sung to sleep, and can remem-
ber even the tune which was sung to me blessings on
the voice that sang it ! I was an affectionate, but not,
as I now think, a lovable or an attractive child. I
did not, like the little Mozart, ask of every one around
me, " Do you love me ?" The instinctive question was,
rather, "Can I love you?" Yet certainly I was not
more than six years old when I suffered from the fear of
not being loved where I had attached myself, and from
tho idea that another was preferred before me, such
anguish as had nearly killed me. Whether those around
me regarded it as a fit of ill-temper, or a fit of illness,
I do not know. I could not then have given a name to
the pang that fevered me. I knew not the cause, but
never forgot the suffering. It left a deeper impression
than childish passions usually do ; and the recollection
was so far salutary, that JP $fter Ufe I guarded myself
240 A REVELAIION OF CHILDHOOD.
against the approaches of that hateful, deformed, ago-
nizing thing which men call jealousy, as I would from
an attack of cramp or cholera. If such self-knowledge
has not saved me from the pain, at least it has saved me
from the demoralizing effects of the passion, by a whole-
some terror, and even a sort of disgust.
With a good temper there was the capacity of strong,
deep, silent resentment, and a vindictive spirit of
rather a peculiar kind. I recollect that when one of
those set over me inflicted what then appeared a most
horrible injury and injustice, the thoughts of vengeance
haunted my fancy for months ; but it was an inverted
sort of vengeance. I imagined the house of my enemy
on fire, and rushed through the flames to rescue her.
She was drowning, and I leaped into the deep water to
draw her forth. She was pining in prison, and I forced
bars and bolts to deliver her. If this were magna-
nimity, it was not the less vengeance ; for, observe, I
always fancied evil, and shame, and humiliation to my
adversary ; to myself the rdle of superiority and grati-
fied pride. For several y*sars this sort of burning re-
sentment against wrong done to myself and others,
though it took no mean or cruel form, was a source of
intense, untold suffering. No one was aware of it. I
was left to settle it ; and my mind righted itself I hardly
know how : not certainly by religious influences they
passed over my mind, and did not at the time sink into
it, and as for earthly counsel or comfort, I never had
cither when most needed. And as it fared with me then,
6^ it has been in after life ; so it has been, must be, with
all those who, in fighting out alone the pitched battle
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 241
between principle and passion, will accept no interven-
tion between the infinite within them and the infinite
above them; so it has been, must be, Avith all stroig
natures. Will it be said that victory in the strugg .e
brings increase of strength ? It may be so with some
who survive the contest ; but then how many sink ! how
many are crippled morally for life ! how many, strength-
ened in some particular faculties, suffer in losing the
harnony of the character as a whole ! This is one of
tin' points in which the matured mind may help the
cl ildish nature at strife with itself. It is impossible to
s* j how far this sort of vindictiveness might have penc-
il ited r^nd hardened into the character, if I had been of
a timid or retiring nature. It was expelled at last by
110 outer influences, but by a growing sense of power
pul self-reliance.
In regard to truth always such a difficulty in educa-
1; on, I certainly had, as a child, and like most child-
ren, confused ideas about it. I had a more distinct and
absolute idea of honour than of truth, a mistake into
which our conventional morality leads those who edu-
cate and those who are educated. I knew very well, in
a general way, that to tell a lie was wicked ; to lie for
my own profit or pleasure, or to the hurt of others, was,
according to my infant code of morals, worse than
wicked it was dishonourable. But I had no compunc-
tion about telling fiction s ; inventing scenes and circum-
Btancos which I related as real, and with a keen sense
of triumphant enjoyment in seeing the listener taken in
by a most artful and ingenious coucatenation of impos*
Itt
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOO1*.
sibilities. In this respect " Ferdinand Mendez Pinto,
that liar of the first magnitude," was nothing in com-
parison to me. I rmst have been twelve years old be-
fore my conscience was first awakened up to a sense of
the necessity of truth as a principle, as well as its holi-
ness as a virtue. Afterwards, having to set right the
minds of others cleared by my own mind on this and
some other important points.
1 do not think I was naturally obstinate, but remem-
ber going without food all day, and being sent hungry
and exhausted to bed, because I would not do some
trifling thing required of me. I think it was to recite
some lines I knew by heart. I was punished P-" wilfully
obstinate : but what no one knew then, and what I know
now as the fact, was, that after refusing to do what was
required, and bearing anger and threats in consequence,
I lost the power to do it. I became stone : the will
was petrified, and I absolutely could not comply. They
might have hacked me in pieces before my lips could
have unclosed to utterance. The obstinacy was not in
the mind, but on the nerves ; and I am persuaded that
what we call obstinacy in children, and grown-up people,
too, is often something of this kind, and that it may be
increased by mismanagement, by persistence, or what is
called firmness in the controlling power, into disease, or
Bomething near to it.
There was in my childish mind another cause of suf-
fering besides those I have mentioned, less acute, but
more permanent and always unacknowledged. It was feai
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 24.1
fear of darkness and supernatural influences. Aa
long as I can remember anything, I remember these
horrors of my infancy. How they had been awakened
I do not know ; they were never revealed. I had heard
other children ridiculed for such fears, and held my
peace. At first these haunting, thrilling, stifling terrors
were vague ; afterwards the form varied ; but one of
the most permanent was the ghost in Hamlet. There
was a volume of Shakspeare lying about, in which was
an engraving I have not seen since, but it remains dis-
tinct in my mind as a picture. On one side stood Ham-
let with his hair on end, literally " like quills upon the
fretful porcupine," and one hand with all the fingers
outspread. On the other strided the ghost, encased in
armour with nodding plumes ; one finger pointing for-
wards, and all surrounded with a supernatural light. 0,
that spectre ! for three years it followed me up and
down the dark staircase, or stood by my bed : only the
blessed light had power to exorcise it. How it was that
I knew, while I trembled and quaked, that it was un-
real, never cried out, never expostulated, never con-
fessed, I do not know. The figure of Apollyon looming
over Christian, which I had found in an old edition of
the "Pilgrim's Progress," was also a great torment.
But worse, perhaps, were certain phantasms without
shape, things like the vision in Job, " A spirit passed
before my face ; it stood still, but I could not discern the
form thereof:" and if not intelligible voices, there
were strange unaccountable sounds filling the air around
with a sort of mysterious life. In daylight I was not
only fearless, but audacious, inclined to defy all power
244 A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD.
and brave all danger, that is, all danger I could see,
I remember volunteering to lead the way through a herd
of cattle (among which was a dangerous bull, the terror
of the neighbourhood) armed only with a little stick ;
but first I said the Lord's Prayer fervently. In the
ghastly night I never prayed ; terror stifled prayer.
These visionary sufferings, in some form or other, pur-
sued me till I was nearly twelve years old. If I had
not possessed a strong constitution and a strong under-
standing, which rejected and contemned my own fears,
even while they shook me, I had been destroyed. How
much weaker children suffer in this way I have since
known ; and have known how to bring them help and
strength, through sympathy and knowledge, the sym-
pathy that soothes and does not encourage the know-
ledge that dispels and does not suggest the evil.
People in general, even those who have been much
interested in education, are not aware of the sacred
duty of truth, exact truth in their intercourse with
children. Limit what you tell them according to the
measure of their faculties ; but let what you say be the
truth. Accuracy not merely as to fact, but well-consi-
dered accuracy in the use of words, is essential with
children. I have read some wise book on the treatment
of the insane, in which absolute veracity and accuracy
in speaking is prescribed as a curative principle ; and
deception for any purpose is deprecated as almost fatal
to the health of the patient. Now, it is a good sani-
tary principle that what is curative is preventive ; and
chat an unhealthy state of mind, leading to madness,
may, in some organizations, be induced by that sort of
A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 245
uncertainty and perplexity which grows up where the
mind has not been accustomed to truth in its external
relations. It is like breathing for a continuance an im-
pure or confined air.
Of the mischief that may be done to a childish mind
by a falsehood uttered in thoughtless gayety, I remem-
ber an absurd and yet a painful instance. A visiter
was turning over for a little girl some prints, one of
which represented an Indian widow springing into the
fire kindled for the funeral pile of her husband. It was
thus explained to the child, who asked innocently whe-
ther, if her father died, her mother would be burned ?
The person to whom the question was addressed, a lively,
amiable woman, was probably much amused by the
question, and answered giddily, " Oh, of course, cer-
tainly !" and was believed implicitly. But thenceforth,
for many weary months, the mind of that child was
haunted and tortured by the image of her mother
springing into the devouring flames, and consumed by
fire, with all the accessories of the picture, particularly
the drums beating to drown her cries. In a weaker
organization, the results might have been permanent
and serious. But to proceed.
These terrors I have described had an existence ex-
ternal to myself: I had no power over them to shape
them by my will, and their power over me vanished
gradually before a more dangerous infatuation the
propensity to revery. The shaping spirit of imagina-
tion began when I was about eight or nine years old to
haunt my inner life. I can truly say that, from ten
years old to fourteen or fifteen, I lived a double exist-
248 A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD.
ence ; one outward, linking me with the external sensi-
ble world, the other inward, creating a world to and for
itself, conscious to itself only. I carried on for whole
years a series of actions, scenes, and adventures ; one
springing out of another, and coloured and modified by
increasing knowledge. This habit grew so upon me,
that there were moments as when I came to some
crisis in my imaginary adventures, when I was not
more awake to outward things than in sleep scarcely
took cognisance of the beings around me. When pun-
ished for idleness by being placed in solitary confine-
ment (the worst of all punishments for children), the
intended penance was nothing less than a delight and
an emancipation, giving me up to my dreams. I had a
very strict and very accomplished governess, one of the
cleverest women I have ever met with in my life ; but
nothing of this was known or even suspected by her,
and I exulted in possessing something which her power
could not reach. My reveries were my real life : it was
an unhealthy state of things.
Those who are engaged in the training of children
will perhaps pause here. It may be said, in the first
place, How are we to reach those recesses of the inner
life which the God who made us keeps from every eye
but his own ? As when we walk over the field in spring
we are aware of a thousand influences and processes at
work of which we have no exact knowledge or clear
perception, yet must watch and use accordingly; so it
is with education. And secondly, it may be asked, if
such secret processes be working unconscious mischief,
where is the remedy ? The remedy is in employment.
A REVELATION OP CHILDHOOD. 247
Then the mother or the teacher echoes with astonish
raent, "Employment! the child is employed from morn-
ing till night ; she is learning a dozen sciences and
languages ; she has masters and lessons for every hour
of every day; with her pencil, her piano, her books,
her companions, her birds, her flowers ; what can she
want more ?" An energetic child even at a very early
age, and yet further as the physical organization is de-
veloped, wants something more and something better ;
employment which shall bring with it the bond of a
higher duty than that which centres in self and self-
improvement ; employment which shall not merely cul-
tivate the understanding, but strengthen and elevate
the conscience ; employment for the higher and more
generous faculties ; employment addressed to the sym-
pathies; employment which has the aim of utility, not
pretended, but real, obvious, direct utility. A girl who
as a mere child is not always being taught or being
amused, whose mind is early restrained by the bond of
definite duty, and thrown out of the limit of self, will
not in after years be subject to fancies that disturb or
to reveries that absprb, and the present and the actual
will have that power they ought to have as combined in
due degree with desire and anticipation.
DISCRIMINATION WITH RESPECT TO CHILDREN.
FROM a most excellent volume, entitled "My Mother,
or Recollections of Maternal Influence," we take the
following plea for little children, and particularly com-
mend it to the attention of mothers.
In the discipline of children, as in all government, it
is important to estimate offences according to the degree
of their moral obliquity. Sins of ignorance, or of in-
advertency, of which children commit a great many, are
not to be put upon a par with deliberate and downright
iniquities even though the former be more mischievous
in their effects (putting moral tendencies out of view)
than the latter. This is very obvious, but not always
acted on. There are parents who will be more disturbed
by an accident than by a crime. For instance, they will
more severely reprove or punish a child for breaking a
looking-glass or a piece of porcelain, than for a false-
hood or a quarrel. And what wonder if the child him-
self learns to estimate his conduct by the same law.
An accident alarms him for the consequences, while a
moral fault does not distress his conscience. So much
harm done, so much guilt; or rather, so much ob-
noxiousuess to punishment, or blame. An unsuccessful
fraud, a lie from which no mischief follows, a fit of
anger that injures nobody, is passed over by the parent
as though it were venial ; and so the child's conscience,
as well as his fears, is relieved. Nor is that the worst
RESPECT TO CHILDREN. 249
His conscience is mis-instructed. His moral vision is
perverted, and a false standard of accountability and
character giv^en him, to take along with him up to man-
hood, and through life, till the great tribunal of another
world sets him right.
You will often see a child attempt to forestall the
punishment of an act by offering the parent an equiva-
lent. "How much did the broken thing cost? I will
pay you for it out of the money I have got laid up."
If the act was one of mere heedlessness, and if such
heedlessness was habitual, it might be expedient to take
the money, as a means of correcting the heedless habit.
The heedlessness of servants is often corrected in this
way.
My mother never confounded the venial with the cul-
pable ; and I remember instances where, but for such
discrimination in her, I might have smarted for doings
that only incurred some gentle reproof, as a caution for
the future. To give you an example. A cousin having
come to see us, my brother and me, one summer day,
we amused ourselves a while with observing the bees.
The wish arose in our hearts that we had some of their
honey. But how to get at it ? At length it was sug-
gested that, if a hive were overturned, they would fly
away and leave their treasure at our mercy. " Who
will upset it, then '(" We were all quite young, myself
the youngest ; and as it generally happens among child-
ren that the risks and responsibilities are put upon the
youngest, it was proposed to me to perform the feat. I
got behind -i hive, therefore, and over it went; and you
may imagine the music about our ears that ensued there-
250 DISCRIMINATION WITH
upon. It was w > that flew away, and not the bees. My
mother came out, exclaiming at the hazard and the mis-
chief, and, quite contrary to our expectation, said no
more about it. Our very ignorance of the risk we ran
(for we might have been stung to death) was e\idenee
to her that we had no culpable intentions. She had tho
courage to replace the hive, greatly to the contentment
of the bees, and had the good fortune to do so without
getting stung. Do you know that bees have a special
antipathy to some people, and will sting them almost
unprovoked, while others can do anything with them
with impunity? She was one of their favourites, as thej
were hers.
I apprehend that we often do injustice to the feelingi
and behaviour of children by not duly considering that
they are children. We forget how inexperienced thej
are, how excitable, how imaginative and impulsive. A
friend of ours, in a letter, the other day, described the
high excitement of her little daughter, whom she was
about to take with her on a visit to some relations. The
child ran up stairs and down, flew to the window, as if
to anticipate the carriage, and could neither eat nor
sleep. "Is it possible," exclaims the mother, "that /
was ever such an one ?" Yes, madam, you were, pro-
bably, very much such an one.
Mrs. Howitt, in her "Own Story," tell us that in her
childhood she saw on a distant hill-top what seemed to
her '' an immense elephant, or monstrous beast. I never
gaw it as anything else," she says. "I was not at all
afraid of it, for I saw it every day. Once I said to a
vibiter, Mhen in a very talkative humour, that a great
RESPECT TO CHILDREN. 251
Mack elephant always stood opposite to our house. My
parents reproved me for saying that which was not true.
I stoutly maintained that it was so; my firmness seemed
like wilful obstinacy, and I was reproved severely; but
[ would not withdraw my assertion, and my parents,
grieving to see such perversity, thought it much better
to let the subject drop. This affair sunk deep in my
mind. I saw the elephant every day as plain as could
be, but I dared not recur to the subject, because it had
given so much displeasure. The fields, however, were
bought ; and then we went to the very top of them ; and
as I ascended the hill, my elephant was gone, there was
nothing at all but two dark Scotch firs, and a slender
ash-tree growing beside them. [The trunks and tops cf
the firs forming the legs and body of the creature, and
the ash tree head and proboscis, aided by the obscurity
of the English atmosphere, which is much less clear than
ours.] The whole thing was disenchanted ; and when I
returned home, though I still, by a stretch of the im-
agination, could see the elephant, it gradually became
three distinct trees. I never, as I remember, mentioned
it to any one, not even to Anna, but it made a deep
impression on my mind, and has given me great charity
with the exaggerations and even the apparent falsehoods
of children."
Truth, strict truth, is certainly to be inculcated. The
slightest deviations from it should alarm us, and put
us upon correcting so pernicious a habit. There can be
no true excellence of character there is no foundation
for it, without integrity. Behold an Israelite indeed, in
whom is no guile. Even the honest exaggerations of a
252 DISCRIMINATION WITH
lively imagination ought to be checked, lest they lead
to something worse. Yet, mere misapprehensions, ele-
phants made out of trees, are not to be treated as wilful
whole-cloth falsehoods.
When I see how very strict and strait-laced some
people are with children, I feel disposed to put in a
plea or two in their behalf. Pray be a little tolerant
of our mirth and noise, because of the excess of our
animal spirits ; which we can no more repress wholly
than you can stop the gushing fountains and flowing
brooks of spring. How delightful to all young crea
tures is freedom ! Pray suffer us to breathe a little of
that wholesome luxury. Why should we be made to
envy the lambs that frolic in the pastures ? What ! is
our home a monastery, and are we monks and nuns,
that nowhere and never can we for a moment seem to
ourselves exempt from irksome supervision never feel
ourselves at large a little, to run about as our eager
senses and our sportive spirits prompt us ? Plow ab-
surd to say to us, as you often do in look and in effect, if
not in just those words, "Don't be so childish !" What
are we else but children, and what else is to be expected
but that we should think as children, speak as children,
and understand and act as children ? When we become
men and women we shall behave as such. You wonder
at our emotions and behaviour ; you see nothing to justify
it. We are always looking, hearkening, shouting, leap-
ing, wishing, fearing, hoping, in the midst of the most
ordinary objects. Well, we have to say to you that the
most ordinary things are new and strange to us, and
therefore exciting. Do but consider that that mountain
RESPECT TO CHILDREN. 253
there hill or hillock only, as it may seem to you over
which the blue sky sleeps, or the fleecy clouds sail, ia
the first, perhaps the only like elevation we ever saw,
and saw that so recently that it does not yet cease to
affect us with a feeling of the sublime. To you it is a
fixed and motionless object ; but to us its top nods and
swims, as if it were going to topple down, or sail away.
High trees, tall steeples, great rocks, deep pits and
gullies, dark fathomless wells, frightful precipices, awful
solitudes, great storms and floods, roaring winds and
cataracts, loud thunder, lightnings that can be felt upon
the hands and face, unutterable splendours in the rain-
bow these and such like things, how few of them you
seem to perceive at your time of life ; but we, all sensi-
tive, and wakeful, and inexperienced as we are, are
meeting with them continually. We see a thousand
sights you do not see, and hear a thousand sounds you
do not hear. How alive to us the air is with birds !
how social the woods with winged creatures, quadrupeds,
and creeping things! A squirrel arrests and amuses us
as a mastodon would hardly arrest you. What an in-
cident to us is the passage of the wild geese screaming
along their airy way mid-heaven ! Do you see how
vexed the sunbeams are with insects ? You heed them
not; you even brush them from your eyes and breathe
with scarce a consciousness of their presence. What a
saucy rogue is echo ! How startling is the sudden sing-
ing of the locust; and what a din the beetle makes upon
the wing ! What mysterious things the fire-flies are,
twinkling in the dark : and how wakeful does the distant
baying of the inastitt keep us, when we have gone to
254 DISCRIMINATION WITH
bed ! A love of the marvellous we confess. It is natn.
ral alike to us and you, with this difterence, that with
you experience has done away with the objects that
U'ied to excite it.
Some such plea as this I incline to make in behalf of
such little people as are subjected to uncharitable judg
raent, or over-strict restraint. A still child is cither
unwell or unnatural ; and a child that sees things with
the senses of an adult is either a prodigy or a dolt.
The eyes of children are magnifying lenses, and their
ears acoustic tubes. They see things large and wonder-
ful, and see them manifold and multiform a hundred
cats where there are but two or three. Hence the
cumulative style of their descriptions " great, big,
large" with all the other intensive words and syno-
nyms they are able to command; and hence we often
charge them, and sometimes cruelly, perhaps, with cul
pable exaggerations, if riot with downright falsehoods,
when they do but report things as they apprehend them.
Hyperbole with them is not hyperbole, in all cases. Do
we not all naturally use such language as our senses and
emotions dictate ? And who shall acquit us grown
people of expressing more, or expressing less, than the
truth, if other people's senses and experience are to be
the standard ?
An intelligent gentleman, who had been absent above
fifty years from his and our native place, requested mv
brother to conduct him to the "Beggar-land." This
was a little common, a rood or more of green-sward,
elliptical in form, with a bank round its sides. It had
been a favourite play-ground of several generations On
RESPECT TO CHILDREN. 1255
coming to the spot, "That the Beggar-land!" ho ex-
claimed. " But how extravagant were my impressions
of it! carried away with me in my childhood. I ima-
gined those hanks to be at least seventy feet high, and
would almost have taken my oath of it; whereas they
are not above a dozen feet. And they cannot but be
as high now as they ever were, indeed they must be
higher; for the level turf is as it was, while the road on
one side and the little water-course on the other would
naturally be wearing deeper, and thus increase the ele-
vation between."
Thus we see things in our childhood ; and due allow-
ance should be made for it, in justice and in charity.
However, these remarks must not be pushed too far.
While we teach the heart to mean truth, we should also
discipline the senses to perceive the truth ; that so the
heart, the senses, and the tongue, may all be truthful.
How amiable is truthfulness, how beautiful is truth !
HOME ECONOMY.
MRS. SIGOURNEY, in her admirable series of letters to
mothers, offers, on this subject, some truthful observa-
tions. She says :
I have a few words to say to mothers on a point of
domestic economy. In a country like ours, where there
are few large estates, and where almost every father of
a family is subjected to some kind of labour, either for
the maintenance of those who are dear, or the preserve
256 HOME ECONOMY.
tion of possessions on which they are to depend when
he shall be taken from them, the duty of the " help-
meet," to lighten as far as possible these burdens, by a
consistent economy, is too obvious to need illustration.
To adapt whatever may be intrusted to her care, to the
best ends, and to make it subservient to the greatest
amount of good, should be her daily study. There is,
perhaps, no community of women, who more faithfully,
or dexterously, than the wives and mothers of New Eng-
land, carry this wisdom and forethought into all the
details of that science by which the table is spread, and
the apparel adapted, to the ever-changing seasons. The
same judgment which so admirably regulates food and
clothing, it would.be desirable to apply to another and
a higher department. It is to mothers, with the care
of young children, that these remarks on economy are
peculiarly addressed. They have the charge of im-
mortal beings, whose physical, mental, and moral tem-
perament are, for a long period, exclusively in their
hands. Nothing save the finger of God has written on
the tablet, when it is committed to them. It is im-
portant that they secure time to form deep and lasting
impressions.
Let them, therefore, devote their first strength, and
their utmost effort, to the highest duties. The heart
soon develops itself, and asks culture. Through the
feelings and affections it bursts forth, even while the
infant is considered not to have advanced beyond animal
nature. The preferences, the passions, reveal them-
selves, like the young tendrils of the vine, reaching out
feebly and blindly. The mother must be assiduous, iu
HOME ECONOMY. 257
teaching them where to twine. While the character of
the babe is forming, let every action and indication of
motive be a subject of observation. But how can sho
be adequate to this, if the whole attention to the per-
sonal comfort of several young children devolves upon
herself? If she is to make and mend their articles of
dress, bear them in her arms during their period of
helplessness, and exhaust herself by toils throughout
the day, and watchings by night, how can she Lave
leisure to study their varying shades of disposition, and
adapt to each the fitting mode of discipline, as the skil-
ful gardener suits the plant to the soil ? Will she
not be sometimes moved to apostrophize them, like the
leader of the wandering, repining Israelites, "how can
I alone bear your cumbrance, and your burden, and
your strife ?"
The remedy is, for the mother to provide herself with
competent assistance, in the sphere of manual labour,
that she may be enabled to become the constant direc-
tress of her children, and have leisure to be happy in
their companionship. This would seem to be a rational
economy. The thrifty village-matron, when she returns
from church, takes off her Sunday dress, and deposits
it in its accustomed place, substituting one better fitted
to her household duties. She is not blamed for preserv-
ing her most valuable garment for its appropriate uses.
Let every mother pay herself the same respect, which
the good farmer's lady pays her "bettcrmost goun
riot the homage of a miserly parsimony, but a just pro-
tection in freshness and order, for fitting and dignified
offices.
17
258 HOME ECONOMY.
" My husband cannot afford to hire a nurse for the
little ones," said a young friend. " We have so many,
that we must economize."
Her mother suggested that the expenditure should he
saved in some other department of housekeeping, in the
toilette, or in luxurious entertainment. But the counsel
was not accepted by the daughter, who, in her zeal for
economy, failed to comprehend its elementary principles.
She commenced her task with vigour, and confidence
in the correctness of her own decision. Sickness in the
various forms that mark the progress of dentition, and
neglect of slight diseases in thei;- first symptoms, came
upon her young family. Uninstructed by experience,
she gave powerful medicines for trifling maladies, or
summoned and teased physicians, when Nature was
simply perfecting her own operations. The children
who had emerged from infancy, were indulging bad dis-
positions, and acquiring improper habits. She knew it.
But what could she do ? She was depressed by fatigue.
The wardrobe of her numerous little ones continually
required her attention. It would not do for them to be
unfashionably clad, or appear worse than their neigh-
bours. So, the soul being most out of sight, must suffer
most. Blindness to evil, or hasty punishment, render-
ing it still more inveterate, were the only resources of
her hurried and hurrying mode of existence. For her,
there seemed no rest. If health returned to her young
family, mental diseases were disclosed. She became
spiritless, nervous, and discouraged. She was harassed
by the application offeree among the inferior machinery.
When it was necessary that power should be brought to
HOME ECONOMY. 259
boar upon the minds committed to her care, she waa
painfully conscious that her energies had spent them-
selves in other channels. Running up the shrouds like
a ship-boy, the helm, where she should stand, was left
unguided. The pilot, steering among rocks, does not
weary himself with the ropes and rigging, which a com-
mon sailor as well manages, and better understands.
The temper and constitution of the young mother
became equally impaired. Her husband complained of
:he bad conduct and rude manners of the children.
'What could she do? She was sure there was nothing
but toil and trouble, by night and by day." This was
true. There was an error in economy. The means
were not adapted to their highest ends. She was an
educated woman, and a Christian. Her children should
have reaped the advantage of her internal wealth, as
soon as their unfolding minds cast forth the first beam
of intelligence. But she led. the life of a galley-slave,
and their heritage was in proportion.
Is this an uncommon example ? Have we not often
witnessed it ? Have we not ourselves exhibited some of
its lineaments ?
The proposed remedy, is to employ an efficient person
in the nurse's department. I say efficient, for the young
girls, to whom this responsibility is sometimes intrusted,
arc themselves an additional care. " I am net willing,"
said a judicious father, "to place my infant in the arma
of one, with whom I would not trust an expensive glass
dish." Half-grown girls are not the proper assistants
to a young mother. They themselves need her super-
260 HOME ECONOMY
intendence, and create new demands on time already
too much absorbed.
" I know she is small," says the mistaken parent,
"but she will do to hold a baby."
Holding a baby, is not so slight a vocation as many
suppose. Physicians assert that deformity is often pro-
duced, by keeping an infant in those uneasy positions
to which a feeble arm resorts ; and health and life have
been sacrificed to accidents and falls, through the care-
lessness, or impatience, of an over-wearied girl. The
argument for the substitution of an immature nurse,
drawn from the circumstance of the saving of expense,
is doubtless futile ; for the apparel and means of educa-
tion, which a conscientious person feels bound to provide
for a young girl, will equal the wages of a woman. In
many departments of domestic labour, the help of minors
is both pleasant and profitable ; and the lady who brings
them up properly, confers a benefit on the community,
and may secure to herself lasting gratitude and attach-
ment.
But the physical welfare of infancy is of such im-
mense importance, that it seems desirable that those
whom the mother associates with herself in this depart-
ment, should have attained full strength, both of mind
and body. Moral integrity, patient and kind disposi-
tions, industrious habits, and religious principles, are
essential to the faithful discharge of these deputed
duties, and to render that influence safe, which they
will necessarily acquire over the little being whose com-
fort they promote. Such qualities are deserving of
respect, in whatever station they may be found ; and I
HOME ECONOMY. 261
srould suggest, both as a point of policy and justice, the
attaching higher consideration to the office of a nurse,
when her character comprises them. If the nurture of
an immortal being for immortality is an honourable
work, and if its earliest impressions are allowed to be
most indelible, those who minister to its humblest wants,
partake in some measure of its elevated destiny ; as the
porters and Levites derived dignity from the temple-
service, though they might not wear the Urim and
Thummim of the High-Priest, or direct the solemn
sacrifices, when the flame of Heaven descended upon
the altar.
To the inquiry, why this kind of assistance is more
needed by ths mother in our own days, than by her of the
" olden time," by whom the care of children, the opera-
-tions of the needle, the mysteries of culinary science,
and all the complicated duties of housekeeping, were
simultaneously performed, without failure or chasm, the
natural reply is, that the structure of society is different,
and from an educated parent the modern system of
division of labour asks new and extended effort. She
requires aid, not that she may indulge in indolence, but
that she may devote the instruments intrusted to her to
their legitimate uses. There is, perhaps, no sphere of
action, where indolence is both so fatal and so sinful, as
in that of a mother of young children. She is a sentinel
who should never sleep at her post. She cannot be long
relieved without hazard, or exchanged without loss. She
fihould therefore be careful of her strength, her health,
and her life, for her children's sake. If she employ a
subaltern, it is that s.he may .give herself more
gively to their highest and best interest?.
262 HOME ECONOMY.
Let her be persuaded, -whatever may be the demands
upon her time, or their advantages for gaining know-
ledge from other sources, to spend systematically a por-
tion of time in their daily instruction. Let her also be
with them, when they retire at night, to review the
day's little gatherings and doings, and to point the
tender spirit to the Giver of all its gifts. Let the
period devoted to them, be as far as possible uninter-
rupted by the presence of others, and chosen, in the
morning, before care has seized the teacher's mind, or
temptation sadden the beloved pupil. Let the time be
spent in reading some book adapted to their comprehen-
sion, which conveys useful knowledge or moral and reli-
gious instruction, questioning them respecting its con-
tents, and adding such illustrations, as the subject, or
their peculiar state of intellect and feeling, may render
appropriate ; having it always understood, that at night,
some recapitulation will be expected of the lessons of
the day.
The mother who regularly does this, will find herself
in *he practice of a true and palpable economy. She
will be induced to furnish herself with new knowledge,
and to simplify it, for those whom she seeks to train up
for the kingdom of heaven. She will not strive to com-
bine fashionable amusement, or dissipation of thought,
nuth her solemn and delightful obligations. She will
labour as " ever in her Great Task-Master's Eje," to
do for the minds and souls of her children, that which
none can perform as well as herself, which, if she
neglects, may not be done at all, and which, if left
undone, will be a loss, for which Eternity must pay.
YOUNG MOTHER,
YOUNG mothei, what dc you hold in your arms? A
machine ^f exquisite symmetry; the blue veins revealing
the mysterious life-tide through an almost transparent
surface ; the waking thought speaking through the spark-
ling eye, or dissolving there in tears; such a form as the
art of man has never equalled; and such a union of
matter with mind, as his highest reason fails to compre-
hend. Yon embrace a being, whose developments may
yet astoni^ 1 ! you ; who may perhaps sway the destiny of
others ; whose gatherings of knowledge you can neither
foresee r :>r limit ; and whose chequered lot of sorrow or
of joy. are known only to the Omnipotence which
fashioned him. Still, if this were all, the office of a
mother would lose its crowning dignity. But to be the
guide of a spirit which can never die, to make the first
indelible impressions on what may be a companion of
seraphs, and live with an unbounded capacity for bliss
or woe, when these poor skies under which it was born,
shall have vanished like a vision, this is the fearful
honour vhich God hath intrusted to the " weaker ves-
sel," and which would make us tremble amid our happi-
ness, if we took not refuge in Him.
I have seen a young and beautiful mother, herself lite
a brilliant and graceful flower. Nothing could divide
her from her infant. It was to her as a twin-soul. She
had loved society, for there she had been as an idol.
But what was the fleeting delight of adulation, to the
264 YOUNG MOTHER.
deep love that took possession of her whole being ! Sho
had loved her father's house. There, she was ever like
a song-bird, the first to welcome the day, and the last to
bless it. Now, she wreathed the same blossoms of the
heart around another home, and lulled her little nursling
with the same inborn melodies.
It was sick. She hung over it. She watched it. She
comforted it. She sat whole nights with it in her arms.
It was to her like the beloved of the King of Israel,
"feeding among the lilies." Under the pressure of
this care, there was in her eye a deep and holy beauty,
which never gleamed there, when she was radiant in the
dance, or in the halls of fashion the cynosure. She
had been taught to love God, and his worship, from her
youth up ; but when health again glowed in the face of
her babe, there came from her lip such a prayer of flow-
ing praise, as it had never before breathed.
And when in her beautiful infant there were the first
developments of character, and of those preferences and
aversions which leave room to doubt whether they are
from simplicity or perverseness, and whether they should
be repressed or pitied, and how the harp might be so
tuned as not to injure its tender and intricate harmony,
there burst from her soul a supplication more earnest,
more self-abandoning, more prevailing, than she had
ever before poured into the ear of the majesty of Heaven.
So the feeble hand of the babe that she nourished, led
her through more profound depths of humility, to higher
aspirations of faith. And I felt that the affection, to
whose hallowed influence she had so yielded, was guiding
her to a higher seat among the "just made perfect."
110W TO MAKE BOYS LOVE HOME.
" I WISH those boys loved to stay at home in the
evening," said a mother in my hearing, last night ;
and the sigh and look of distress which accompanied
her words, told plainly that her heart was deeply pained
by their oft-repeated absence, and she watched their
retreating footsteps with a troubled countenance, and
knew not what might be the company they sought, nor
what evil influence might be thrown around them.
They were industrious boys of sixteen and eighteen,
just beginning to fancy they were too large and too old
to be longer subject to parental authority. They were
not vicious or idle, but worked with a willing hand
through the day, doing the work of men ; but when
evening came, they sought pleasure abroad,- unmindful
of a father's advice, or a mother's entreaty. I glanced
around their home, a comfortable, farmer-like dwelling,
where all the wants of the physical nature were well
supplied, but, as is too often the case, the food for the
mind was less abundant. A few school books, which
the boys had never learned to love, a Bible, and a
hymn book, constituted the family library; and I was
not surprised that they should leave the circle at home,
and seek the cheerful throng that were lounging in the
store, or join in the vulgar mirth and profane jests that
went round the boisterous group.
" You are seeing your happiest days with your boy,"
266 HOW TO MAKE BOYS LOVE HOME.
said *.he mother to me, as my baby clung to my arm
with the swe^t confidence of infancy ; " you know where
he is, and ha^e no anxiety for him now; but when he is
older, he will be beyond your influence, and go you
know not where."
I thought of the old proverb, " Train up a child in
the \\ay he should go, and when he is old he will not
depart from it;" and I shook my head doubtingly, and
said nothing. But I asked myself, is it really true, as
I have often heard it remarked, that parents enjoy more
pleasure in the society of their children in infancy, than
in youth and maturity ? If so, surely there is a reason,
and that reason too often the result of parental mistakes
in the early discipline of their children. We watch with
delight the first dawning of intellect, await with impa-
tience the first indistinct effort to talk, and are pleased
with their infantile prattle, and it seems strange that
the pleasures of social intercourse should diminish with
their growing intelligence.
But we cannot expect children to be like ourselves,
steady, old, and care : worn. Fun and frolic are essen-
tial to their happiness, and it is no injury to any one to
join heartily in these sports. If we enter into their
sports in childhood, and take the lead of their pleasures
in youth, we shall keep our own hearts young and joyous,
make home the centre of attractions, and while doing
much to educate their mental faculties, we shall find a
far greater satisfaction in their society, than we can
x>ssibly find in the artless trust of infancy.
A. few dollars judiciously expended in books and en-
gravings suitable for young children, will do much *0
HOW TO MAKE BOYS LOVE HOME. 267
awaken a love of home; and I venture to assert, there
is nothing which will have a stronger influence in keep-
ing " those boya" quietly at home, than to cultivate a
taste for reading. Begin early. Read to them before
they can read for themselves; explain what you read,
and encourage them to converse with you about it.
Teach them to observe the common phenomena of na-
ture, and to study into the causes which produce the
effects they see. A mother may do this herself without
being a philosopher. She may awaken their curiosity
upon the various objects around them, and direct them
where this curiosity may be gratified, place within their
reach useful and instructive books, and show by example
as well as by precept that she appreciates them, and the
pleasures of home will be purer and sweeter to every
member of the family, and the children will seldom have
occasion to seek evening amusement away from the
charmed circle of home. It has been truthfully said,
" a good book is the best of company ;" and the earlier
we introduce our children into the society of good books,
the greater will be the benefit derived from them, and
the stronger will be their attachment to the social circle
around the evening fire, and there will be less danger
of their seeking diversion in the society of the idle and
vicious. But if we neglect to make home happy, and
to furnish entertainment for the intellect, be assure!
that the restless desire of the human mind for " some
new thing,'' will frequently attract " those boys," and
girls too, away from home in search of amusement.
HAFPY AT HOME.
LET tha gay and the idle go forth where they will,
In search of soft Pleasure, that syren of ill ;
Let them seek her in Fashion's illumined saloon,
Where Melody mocks at the heart out of tune ;
Where the laugh gushes light from the lips of the maiden
While her spirit, perchance, is with sorrow o'erladen ;
And where, 'mid the garlands Joy only should braid,
Is Slander, the snake, by its rattle betrayed.
Ah, no! let the idle for happiness roam,
For me I but ask to be " happy at home !"
At home ! oh how thrillingly sweet is that word,
And by it what visions of beauty are stirred 1
I ask not that Luxury curtain my room
With damask from India's exquisite loom ;
The sunlight of heaven is precious to me,
And muslin will veil it if blazing too free;
The elegant trifles of Fashion and Wealth
I need not I ask but for comfort and health !
With these and my dear ones I care not to roam,
For, oh ! I am happy, most " happy at home 1"
One bright little room where the children may play,
Unfearful of spoiling the costly array ;
Where he, too our dearest of all on the earth,
May find the sweet welcome he loves at his hearth ;
The fire blazing warmly the sofa drawn nigh,
And the star lamp alight on the table close by ;
A few sunny pictures in simple frames shrined,
A few precious volumes the wealth of the mind ;
And here and there treasured some rare gem of art|
To kindle the fancy or soften the heart ;
Thus richly surrounded, why, why should I roam?
Oh ! am I not happy most " happy at h >me ?"
OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER.
The little ones, weary of books and of play,
Nestlo down on our bosoms our Ellen and May I
And sjftly the simple, affectionate prayer,
Ascends in the gladness of innocence there ;
And now, ere they leave us, sweet kisses and light
They lavish, repeating their merry "good-nighl!"
While I with my needle, my book, or my pen,
Or in converse with HIM, ani contented again,
And cry "Can I ever be tempted to roain,
While blessings like these make me happy at home ?"
OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER.
B'..TSSED be the children who have an old-fashioned
grandmother ! As they hope for length of days let
them love and honour her, for we can tell them they
will never find another.
The dear, oM-fashioned grandmother, whose thread
ot love, spun " by hand" on life's little wheel, was
longer and stronger than they make it now, was wound
about and about the children she saw playing in the
children's arms, in a true love knot that nothing but
the shears of Atropos could sever ; for do we not recog-
nise the lambs sometimes, when summer days are over,
and autumn winds are blowing, as they come bleating
from the yellow fields, by the crimson thread we wound
about their necks in April or May, and so undo the
gate and let the wanderers in ?
There is a large old kitchen somewhere in the pnst,
and an o.!d : fashioned fire-place therein, with its smooth
270 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER.
old jambs of stone ; smooth with many knives that had
been sharpened there ; smooth with many little fingera
that have clung there. There are andirons, too, the old
andirons, with rings in the top, wherein many temples
of flames have been builded, with spires and turrets of
crimson. There is a broad worn hearth ; broad enough
for three generations to cluster on ; worn by feet that
have been torn and bleeding by the way, or been made
"beautiful," and walked upon floors of tessellated gold.
There are tongs in the corner wherewith we grasped a
coal, and "blowing for a little life," lighted our first
candle ; there is a shovel, wherewith were drawn forth
the glowing embers in which we saw our first fancies
and dreamed our first dreams ; the shovel with which
we stirred the sleepy logs till the sparks rushed up the
chimney, as if a forge were in blast below, and wished
we had so many lambs, or so many marbles, or so many
somethings that we coveted; and so it was we wished
our first wishes.
There is a chair a low, rush-bottom chair ; there is
a little wheel in the corner, a big wheel in the garret, a
loom in the chamber. There are chests full of linen
and yarn, and quilts of rare pattern, and " samplers" in
frames.
And everywhere and always the dear old wrinkled
face of her whose firm, elastic step mocks the feeble
gaunter of her children's children the old-fashioned
grandmother of twenty years ago. She, the very Pro
vidence of the old homestead; she, who loved us all.
and said she wished there were more of us to love, and
took all the school in the Hollow for grandchildren
OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER 271
beside. A great expansive heart was hers, beneath that
woollen gown, or that more stately bombazine, or that
sole heirloom of silken texture.
We can see her to-day, those mild blue ey<a, with
more of beauty in them than Time could touch or Death
do more than hide those eyes that held both smiles
and tears within the faintest call of every one of us, and
soft reproof, that seemed not passion but regret. A
white tress has escaped from beneath her snowy cap ;
she has just restored a wandering lamb to its mother ;
she lengthened the tether of a vine that was straying
over a window, as she came in, and plucked a four-
leaved clover for Ellen. She sits down by the little
wheel a tress is running through her fingers from the
distaff's dishevelled head, when a small voice cries
" Grandma," from the old red cradle, and "Grandma!"
Tommy shouts from the top of the stairs. Gently she lets
go the thread, for her patience is almost as beautiful as
her charity, and she touches the little red bark a mo-
ment till the young voyager is in a dream again, and
then directs Tommy's unavailing attempts to harness the
cat. The tick of the clock runs faint and low, and she
opens the mysterious door and proceeds to wind it up.
We are all on tiptoe, and we beg in a breath to be lifted up
and look in for the hundredth time upon the tin cases of
the weights, and the poor lonely pendulum, which goeu
to and fro by its little dim window, and never comes out
iu the world ; and our petitions are all granted, and we
are lifted up, and we all touch with a finger the wonder-
ful weights, and the music of the little wheel is resumed.
Was Mary to be married, or Jane t( be wrapped in i
272 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER.
shroud ? So meekly did she fold the white hands of
the one upon her still bosom, that there seemed to be a
prayer in them there; and so sweetly did she wreath
the white rose in the hair of the other, that one would
net have wondered had more roses budded for company,
How she stood between us and apprehended harm ;
how the rudest of us softened beneath the gentle prcs
sure of her faded and tremulous hand ! From her capa-
cious pocket that hand was ever withdrawn closed, only
to be opened in our own with the nuts she had gathered,
the cherries she had plucked, the little egg she had
found, the " turn-over" she had baked, the trinket she
had purchased for us as the product of her spinning,
the blessing she had stored for us the offspring of her
heart.
What treasures of story fell from those old lips ! of
good fairies and evil ; of the old times when she was a
girl ; and we wondered if ever but then she couldn't be
handsomer or dearer, but that she ever was "little.''
And then, when we begged her to sing, " Sing us one
of the good old songs you used to sing to mother,
grandma."
" Children, I can't sing," she always said ; and mothci
used to lay her knitting softly down, and the kitten
stopped playing with the yarn upon the floor, and the
clock ticked lower in the corner, and the fire died down
to a glow like an old heart that is neither chilled nor
dead, and grandmother sang. To be sure it wouldn't
do for the parlour and the concert-room now-a-days ;
but then it was the old kitchen, and the old-fashioned
grandmother, and the old ballad, in the dear old times,
OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 273
and we can hardly see to write for the memory of them,
(hough it is hand's breadth to the sunset.
Well, she sang. Her voice was feeble and wavering,
like a fountain just ready to fall, but then how swoot-
ton3d it was ; and it becanu deeper and stronger, but it
couldn't grow sweeter. What "joy of grief" it was to
eit tLere around the fire, all of us except Jane ; that
clasped a prayer to her bosom, and her we thought we
Baw when the hall door was opened a moment by the
wind ; but then we were not afraid, for wasn't it her old
smile she wore ? to sit there around the fire and weep
over the woes of the "Babes in the Woods," who lay
down side by side in the great solemn shadows ; and
how strangely glad we felt when the robin red-breast
covered them with leaves, and last of all when the
angels took them out of the night into day-everlasting.
We may think what we will of it now, but the song
and the story heard around the kitchen fire have coloured
the thoughts and lives of the most of us ; have given us
the germs of whatever poetry blesses our hearts ; what-
ever of memory blooms in our yesterdays. Attribute
whatever we may to the school and the schoolmaster,
the rays which make that little day we call life radiate
from the God-swept circle of the hearth-stone.
Then she sings an old lullaby she sang to mother
her mother sang to her; but she does not sing it through,
and falters ere 'tis done. She rests her head upon her
hands, and it is silent in the old kitchen. Something
glitters down between her fingers in the fire-light, and
it looks like rain in the soft sunshine. The old grand-
mother is thinking when she first heard the song, and
18
274 OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER.
of the voice that sang it ; when, a light-haired and light-
hearted girl, she hung around that mother's chair, nor
saw the shadows of the years to come. Oh ! the days
that are no more ! What spell can we weave to bring
them back again ? What words unsay, what deeds
undo, to set back, just this once, the ancient clock of
time?
So all our little hands were for ever clinging to her gar
ments and staying her, as if from dying, for long ago
she had done living for herself, and lived alone in us.
But the old kitchen wants a presence to-day, and the
rush-bottomed chair is tenantless.
How she used to welcome us when we were grown,
and came back once more to the homestead.
We thought we were men and women, but we were
children there. The old-fashioned grandmother was
blind in the eyes, but she saw with her heart, as she
always did. We threw our long shadows through the
door, and she felt them as they fell over her form, and
Bhe looked dimly up and saw tall shapes in the door-
way, and she says, "Edward I know, and Lucy's voice
I can hear, but who is the other? It must be Jane's ;"
for she had almost forgotten the folded hands. " Oh,
no ! not Jane ; for she let me see she is waiting for
me, isn't she ?" and the old grandmother wandered and
wept.
" It is another daughter, grandmother, that Edward
baa brought," says some one, "for yoir blessing."
" Has she blue eyes, my son ? Put her hand in mine,
for she is my latest born, the child of my old age. Shall
I sing you a aong, children ?" Her hand is in hei
GOVERNMENT OF CHILDREN. 275
pocket as of old ; she is idly fumbling for a toy, a wel-
come gift for the children that have come again.
One of us, ir.en as we thought we were, is weeping;
she hears the half-suppressed sob ; she says,
" Here, my poor child, rest upon your grandmother's
shoulder ; she will protect you from all harm. Come,
children, sit round the fire again. Shall I sing you a
song or tell you a story ? Stir the fire, for it is cold ;
the nights are growing colder!"
The clock in the corner struck nine, the bedtime of
those old days. The song of life was indeed sung, the
story told ; it was bedtime at last. Good night to thee,
grandmother ! The old-fashioned grandmother was no
more, and we miss her for ever. But we will set up a
tablet in the midst of the memory, in the midst of the
heart, and write on it only this : *' Sacred to the Me-
mory of the old-fashioned Grandmother. God bless her
for ever !"
GOVERNMENT OF CHILDREN.
ANTICIPATE and prevent fretfulness and ill-temper by
keeping the child in good health, ease, and comfort.
Never quiet with giving to eat, or by bribing in any
way, still less by opiates.
For the first few months avoid loud and harsh sounds
in the hearing of children, or violent lights in their
sight ; address them in soft tones ; do nothing to frighten
them and never jerk or roughly handle them.
276 GOVERNMENT OF CHILDREN.
Avoid angry words and violence both to a child and
in its presence : by which means a naturally violent
child may be ti lined to gentleness.
Moderate any propensity of a child, such as anger,
violence, greediness for food, cunning, &c., which ap-
pears too active. Show him no example of these.
Let the mother be, and let her select servants sucli
as she wishes the child to be. The youngest child is
affected by the conduct of those in whose arms he lives.
Let a mother feel as she ought, and she will look 0.9
she feels. Much of a child's earliest moral training is
by looks and gestures.
When necessary, exhibit firmness and authority,
always with perfect temper, composure, and self-pos-
session.
Never give a child that which it cries for ; and avoid
being too ready in answering children's demands, else
they become impatient of refusal, and selfish.
When the child is most violent, the mother should be
most calm and silent. Out-screaming a screaming child
is as useless as it is mischievous. Steady denial of the
object screamed for, is the best cure for screaming.
In such contests, witnesses should withdraw, and leave
mother and child alone. A child is very ready to look
round and attract the aid of foreign sympathy in its
little rebellions.
Never promise to give when the child leaves off cry-
MI^. Let the crying be the reason for not giving.
SPECIAL EDUCATION.
TRUE education in its highest sense is, as we ha ro
again and again remarked, the thorough and happy
development of the whole nature. It is not the mere
acquisition of knowledge, of accomplishments, of man-
ners it is not the cultivation of the intellect or of the
heart, hut it is the blending of all these means for the
attainment of one grand end an end to be arrived at
by silent and almost imperceptible degrees.
To suppose that education can be completed within a
given number of years and lessons, to imagine that by
the aid of masters on the one side, and a certain amount
of daily application on the other, a man or woman will
become as finished as a Dutch painting, or the minia-
tures of Sacci, is a popular fallacy, which must be
exploded before long.
Knowledge and wisdom are often confounded in con-
versation and in books, so, too, are instruction and edu-
cation ; but a little thought a very little will serve to
expose the delusion. In advocating a large and liberal
system of education, we are not, by any means, disposed
to overlook the specialities of instruction. For many
peculiar spheres, peculiar knowledge is required. A
comprehensive view of things, and the power of extract-
ing great principles from a number of small details,
betoken a well-cultivated mind ; but it will be mani-
festly defective if from this mental height it cannot
278 SPECIAL EDUCATION.
descend to the daily duties and solicitudes, the neces-
sary acts and acquisitions, of every-day existence.
Cloud-land, however gorgeous, is not the home for
frail, helpless human souls ; the sphere of noble and
invigorating thought, the fairy land of poetry, the
seductive regions of romance, the peaceful haunts cf
contemplation, must only be resorted to, in order that
from them we may gain fresh vigour for life's common
cares. It is not difficult to draw a picture of the ac-
complished young lady, who is admirably fitted for
shining in society, and perfectly unadapted for the
trials and emergencies of domestic life.
But it is possible and to this point we wish to draw
special attention that the highly accomplished, but ill-
educated woman may be merely on a level with one of
great intellectual endowments and culture in the fulfil-
ment of her domestic duties. Both may be equally
ignorant, equally without training, and equally incom-
petent to manage a household, to direct servants, to
attend either to the physical or moral education of their
children. The one has spent her maiden-life in those
pursuits which prove attractive in society, the other has
passed hers, perhaps, in acquiring information, in devel-
oping her mental powers, in earnest thought on great
and earnest subjects both, from very different causes,
are alike deficient in that special knowledge \hich every
woman should acquire.
It is scarcely necessary t( point out in what this
knowledge consists. A few suggestive hints and in-
stances will, however, not be out of place.
There are few women who do not learn how to train
SPECIAL EDUCATION. 279
and treat their servants, by means of a good deal of
awkward and unpleasant experience. There are some
who betray their incapacity, and testify to their annoy-
ance in consequence through the whole of their house-
keeping existence. Every fault is laid upon the domes-
tics ; it never occurs to them that their own conduct is
defective, that they expect more than can be reasonably
hoped for, or by their uncertain and fitful caprices
forfeit the respect and irritate the temper of their
servants.
To exercise authority without abusing it, to hold the
reins with a firm and yet a gentle hand, and to win the
affections of her servants without encouraging famili-
arity, is an art which all ladies should learn, not only
for the sake of their own comfort, but out of considera-
tion to those who serve under them.
How to nurse sick children is another problem which
the most loving and feminine intuition will not solve.
It needs special knowledge, which must first of all be
gained from books and then from careful practice.
The knowledge of the laws of health, of the means by
which the physical powers are developed, and of every-
thing that is detrimental to the frame, however sanc-
tioned by fashion or custom, should be especially urged
upon the attention of women. Where health is con-
cerned, women are frequently more inconsiderate and
careless than men. They fancy they may commit almost
any act of folly, and yet escape with impunity. Often
a life-long illness is the penalty they have to pay for
this wilful ignorance.
Then, again, wom^n should have a general acquaint-
280 FAULT-FINDING.
ance with the different articles of food, and with thc.r
different prices ; they should know where to buy with
advantage ; and the science of economy is one in which,
without any hints from their husbands, they should bo
perfectly at home. It would be easy to add a whole
string of requisitions which we are inclined to demand
from well-educated women. But we have only space to
repeat our assertion that, combined with that general
education which is to be primarily sought after, special
knowledge must be added if, as wife or mother, a wo-
man would fill the post assigned her with dignity and
FAULT-FINDING.
MR. ABBOTT, in his "Mother at Home," makes these
judicious remarks on fault-finding. They are com-
mended to the consideration of all who have the govern-
ment of children :
Do not be continually finding fault with your children.
It is at times necessary to censure and to punish. But
very much more may be done by encouraging children
when they do well. Be therefore more careful to ex-
press your approbation of good conduct, than your dis-
approbation of bad. Nothing can more discourage a
child than a spirit of incessant fault-finding, on the part
of its parent. And hardly anything can exert a more
injurious influence upon the disposition both of the
parent and the child. There are two great motives
FAULT-FINDING. 281
influencing human actions , hope and fear. Both of
these are at times necessary. But who would not pre-
fer to have her child influenced to good conduct by the
desire of pleasing, rather than by the fear of offending?
If a mother never expresses her gratification when her
children do well, and is always censuring them wheu
she sees anything amiss, they are discouraged and un-
happy. They feel that it is useless to try to please.
Their dinpositions become hardened and soured by this
ceaseless fretting ; and at last, finding that, whether
they do well or ill, they are equally found fault with,
they relinquish all efforts to please, and become heedless
of reproaches.
But let a mother approve of her child's conduct
whenever she can. Let her show that his good be-
haviour makes her sincerely happy. Let her reward
him for his efforts to please, by smiles and affection.
In this way she will cherish in her child's heart some
of the noblest and most desirable feelings of our nature.
She will cultivate in him an amiable disposition and a
cheerful spirit. Your child has been, during the day,
very pleasant and obedient. Just before putting him
to sleep for the night, you take his hand and say, " My
son, you have been a very good boy to-day. It makes
me very happy to see you so kind and obedient. God
loves children who are dutiful to their parents, and he
promises to make them happy." This approbation from
his mother is, to him, a great rewaicf. And when, with
a more than ordinarily affectionate tone, you say, " Good
night, my dear son," he leaves the room with his little
heart full of feeling. And when he closes his eyes for
282 FAULT-FINDIXO.
sleep, he is happy, and resolves that he will always try
to do his duty.
Basil Hall thus describes the effects produced on
board ship, by the different modes of government adopted
by different commanders.
" Whenever one of these commanding officers," speak-
ing of a fault-finding captain, " came on board the ship,
after an absence of a day or two, and likewise when he
made his periodical round of the decks after breakfast,
his constant habit was to cast his eye about him, in
order to discover what was wrong ; to detect the small-
est thing that was out of its place ; in a word, to find as
many grounds for censure as possible. This constituted,
in his opinion, the best preventive to neglect, on the
part of those under his command ; and he acted in this
rrusty way on principle. The attention of the other
officer, on the contrary, appeared to be directed chiefly
to those points which he could approve of. For instance,
he would stop as he went along, from time to time, and
say to the first lieutenant, ' Now, these ropes are very
nicely arranged ; this mode of stowing the men's bags
and mess kids is just as I wish to see it ;' while the
officer first described would not only pass by these well-
arranged things, which had cost hours of labour to put
in order, quite unnoticed, but would not be easy till his
eye had caught hold of some casual omission which
afforded an opening for disapprobation.
" One of these captains would remark to the first
lieutenant, as he walked along, ' How white and clean
you have got the decks to-day ! I think you must have
been at them all the morning, to have got them into
FAULT-FINDING. 283
such order.' The other, in similar circumstances, but
eager to find fault, would say, even if the decks were
as white and clean as drifted snow, ' I wish you would
teach these sweepers to clear away that bundle of shak-
ings !' pointing to a bit of rope yarn not half an inch
long, left under the truck of a gun. It seemed, in short,
as if nothing was more vexatious to one of these officers,
than to discover things so correct as to afford him no
good opportunity for finding fault ; while, to the other,
the necessity of censuring really appeared a punishment
to himself.
" Under the one, accordingly, we all worked with
cheerfulness, from a conviction that nothing we did in a
proper way would miss approbation.
" But our duty under the other, being performed in
fear, seldom went on with much spirit. We had no
personal satisfaction in doing these things correctly,
from the certainty of getting no commendation.
" The great chance, also, of being censured, even in
those cases where we had laboured most industriously
to merit approbation, broke the spring of all generous
exertion, and by teaching us to anticipate blame as a
matter of course, defeated the very purpose of punish-
ment when it fell upon us. The case being quite hope-
less, the chastisement seldom conduced either to the
amendment of an offender, or to the prevention of
offences. But what seemed the oddest thing of all was,
that these men were both as kind-hearted as could be;
or, if there were any difference, the fault-finder was the
better-natured, and, in matters not professional, the
more indulgent of the two.
284 FAULT-FINDING.
" The lii.e of conduct I have described was purely a
matter of official system, not at all of feeling. Yet, as
it then appeared, and still appears to me, nothing could
be more completely erroneous than the snarling method
of the one, or more decidedly calculated to do good
than .the approving style of the other. It has, in fact,
always appeared to me an absurdity, to make any real
distinction between public and private matters in these
respects.
" Nor is there the smallest reason why the same prin-
ciple of civility, or consideration, or by whatever name
that quality be called, by which the feelings of others
are consulted, should not modify professional inter-
course quite as much as it does that of the freest society,
without any risk that the requisite strictness of disci-
pline would be hurt by an attention to good manners.
" The desire of discovering that things are right, and
a sincere wish to express our approbation, are habits
which, in almost every situation in life, have the best
possible effects in practice.
" They are vastly more agreeable certainly to the
superior himself, whether he be the colonel of a regi-
ment, the captain of a ship, or the head of a house ;
for the mere act of approving seldom fails to put a
man's thoughts into that pleasant train which predis-
poses him to be habitually pleased, and this frame of
mind alone, essentially helps the propagation of a simi-
lar cheerfulness among all those who are about him. It
requires, indeed, but a very little experience of soldiers
or sailors, children, servants, or any pther kind of de-
pendants, or even of companions and superiors, to show
FAULT-FINDING. 285
that this good-humour, on the part of those whom we
wish to influence, is the best possible coadjutor to our
schemes of management, whatever these may be."
The judicious bestowal of approbation is of the first
importance in promoting obedience, and in cultivating
in the bosom of your child affectionate and cheerful
feelings. Let your smiles animate your boy's heart,
and cheer him on in duty. When he returns from
school, with his clothes clean and his countenance hap-
py, reward him with the manifestation of a mother's
love. This will be the strongest incentive to neatness
and care. An English gentleman used to encourage
his little children to early rising, by calling the one who
first made her appearance in the parlour in the morn-
ing, Lark. The early riser was addressed by that name
during the day. This slight expression of parental
approval was found sufficient to call up all the children
to the early enjoyment of the morning air. A child
often makes a very great effort to do something to merit
a smile from its mother. And most bitter tears are
frequently shed because parents dc not sufficient] 31
sympathize in theee feelings.
TUB PECUNIARY INDEPENDENCE OF CHILDREN
CHILDREN should be early taught the value of money.
In order to do this, they should be allowed the free use
of a small sum, varying according to their age and the
ability of their parents. This should never be given to
them, but they should be allowed some means of earning
it for themselves, and they shouM be taught to keep an
accurate account of whatever they spend. If this prac-
tice were adopted, there w\mld bft fewer spendthrift sons
and daughters to squander the Lord* earnings of their
parents in useless extravagance, and then sink into
poverty and want. They should early learn the relation
between labour and its results, and their right of pro-
perty be held as sacred as that of their seniors, lest
their sense of justice be wounded by seeing that which
they have regarded as their own, unceremoniously trans-
ferred to another without their consent. Said a young
man of my acquaintance, " I remember the first dime I
ever possessed. It was given me by a friend of my
father's, who was visiting at our house, ill rctern for
attentions bestowed upon his horse. It was a proud
and happy moment for me, and I could not refrain from
showing my treasure to all who caire in my way. My
father, after looking at the shining coin for a moment,
deliberately placed it in his own pocket, and it was lost
to me for ever." Is it strange that the sons of such a
father should become tenants of a jail before they arrive
to manhood ! Their rights have been outraged, and
EXCITING IMAGINARY FEARS. 287
they have been deliberately taught a lesson of dis-
honesty. Nor are instances of this nature uncommon.
Parents often, perhaps unconsciously, violate the sense
of justice implanted in the breast of the child. A pet
l:imb is given them to train, or perhaps a calf or colt
is called theirs, but when the animal is sold, they shed
bitter tears over what is to them a loss of property. As
a remedy for this, call nothing theirs .which is not so in
reality, and allow every child some means of earning a
trifle which shall be their own, and you will cultivate a
spirit of manly independence friendly to the growth of
every virtue.
EXCITING IMAGINARY FEARS.
WE extract the following from Mr. Abbott's "Mother
at Home :"
There is something very remarkable in the universal
prevalence of superstition. Hardly an individual is to
be found, enlightened or unenlightened, who is not, in
a greater or less degree, under the influence of these
irrational fears. There is, in the very nature of man,
a strong susceptibility of impression upon this subject
A ghost story will be listened to with an intensity of
interest which hardly anything else can awaken. Per-
sons having the care of children, not unfrequently take
advantage of this, and endeavour to amuse them bv
relating these stories, or to govern them by exciting;
their fears. It surely is not necessary to argue the
288 EXCITING IMAGINARY FEARS.
impropriety of such a course. Every one knows how
ruinous must he the result. Few parents, however,
practise the caution which is necessary to prevent
others from filling the minds of their children with
superstition. How often do we find persons who retain
through life the influence which has thus been exerted
upon them in childhood ! It becomes to them a real
calamity. Much watchfulness is required to preserve
the mind from such injuries.
There is a mode of punishment, not unfrequent,
which is very reprehensible. A child is shut up in the
cellar, or in a dark closet. It is thus led to associate
ideas of terror with darkness. This effect has sometimes
been so powerful, that hardly any motive would induce
a child to go alone into a dark room. And sometimes
even they fear, after they have retired for sleep, to be
left alone without a light. But there is no difficulty in
training up children to be as fearless by night as by
day. And you can find many who do not even dream
of danger in going anywhere about the house in the
darkest night. If you would cultivate this state of
mind in your children, it is necessary that you should
preserve them from ideas of supernatural appearances,
and should never appeal to imaginary fears. Train up
your children to be virtuous and fearless. Moral courage
is one of the surest safeguards of virtue.
An English writer gives a most appalling account of
two instances in which fatal consequences attended the
strong excitement of fear. Says he, " I knew in Phila-
delphia, as fine, and as sprightly, and as intelligent a
ehild as ever was born, -made an idiot for life, by being,
EXCITING IMAGINARY FEARS. 289
when about three years old, shut into a dark closet by
a maid-servant, in order to terrify it into silence. The
thoughtless creature first menaced it with sending it to
'the bad place,' and at last to reduce it to silence, put
it into the closet, shut the door, and went out of the
room. She went back in a few minutes, and found the
child in a fit. It recovered from that, but was for life
an idiot. When the parents, who had been out two
days and two nights on a visit of pleasure, came home,
they were told that the child had had a fit, but they
were not told the cause. The girl, however, who was a
neighbour's daughter, being on her death-bed about ten
years afterward, could not die in peace without sending
for the mother of the child and asking forgiveness of
her. Thousands upon thousands of human beings have
been deprived of their senses by these and similar
means.
" It is not long since that we read, in the newspapers,
of a child being absolutely killed the case occurred at
Birmingham, I think by being thus frightened. Th
parents had gone out into what is called an evening
party. The servants, naturally enough, had their party
at home ; and the mistress, who, by some unexpected
a 3cident, had been brought home at an early hour, find-
ing the parlour full of company, ran up stairs to find
hpr child, which was about two or three years old. She
found it with its eyes open, but fixed; touching it, she
found it inanimate. The doctor was sent for in vain :
it was dead. The maid affected to know nothing of the
cause ; but some one of the parties assembled disco-
vered, pinned up to the curtains of the bed. a horrid
19
290 CHILD-TALK..
fyure, made up partly of a frightful mask ! Thi? d8
the wretched girl confessed, had been done to keep tho
child quiet while she was with her company below.
When one reflects on the anguish that the poor littlo
thing must have endured before the life was quite fright-
ened out of it, one can find no terms sufficiently strong
to express the abhorrence due to the perpetrator of this
crime, which was, in fact, a cruel murder ; and, if it
was beyond the reach of the law, it was so, because, as
in the case of parricide, the law in making no provision
for wickedness so unnatural, has, out of respect to hu-
man nature, supposed such crimes to be impossible."
CHILD-TALK.
THE editor of the Musical World thus vindicates child-
talk :
Listen to the mother, talking comfort to her young
babe. The comfort is surely not in the words for the
child understands not one of them. It lies, of course,
then, in the music of the words. It is the mother's tone
of voice her music which the child understands and
receives into its little troubled heart.
I was lately one of a circle of friends where the con-
versation turned upon the prevailing manner of talking
with very young children. One friend insisted strongly
that mothers should talk common sense to their off-
spring ; that it was just as intelligible, and in far better
CHILD-TALK 291
taste than nonsense ; in short, that all this so-called
baby-talk was as unnecessary as it was foolish.
Now, common sense is a very excellent thing ; but
let us not overlook the occasional uses of nonsense. The
truth is as I have already stated, very young children
understand neither sense nor nonsense. They only feel.
But the words they cannot feel not comprehending
them : it is of course, then, the music of the voice- -if
they feel at all. Music, and particularly a mother's
music, is the very language of feeling; and it is a
" mother-tongue" perfectly well understood by the
youngest child.
If a mother, for instance, is reproving a child, be the
child ever so young, the reproof seems perfectly well
understood ; and we see its little watchful eye fixed
steadily on the face of its mother. If cheering or en-
livening, or frolicking, the child seems equally to under
stand what is meant. And here, again, it is the tone of
cheerfulness, and the tone of reproof, and the tone of
playfulness which is understood not the word.
Does it not naturally follow, then, that the talking of
plain common sense to such young children would be
wnoiiy impracticable, just for this reason that we should
fall inevitably into the common-sense tone of voice ; which
is the even and less musical voice of ordinary conversa
tion the voice of the intellect, not the voice of the
heart ? We should compose no pleasant music to what
we were saying. Children, therefore, would not un-
derstand us. And though it might seem to us sound
common sense enough, it might haply appear to tho
292 CHILD-TALK.
children great nonseuse for they would not understand,
nor would they long to listen to us.
Let any mother try the experiment, and make a very
sensible remark to her child, with the sensible tone of
voice thereto appertaining ; and see what degree of suc-
cess that remark will have with her child.
We contended, therefore, with our disputing friends,
that a mother's talk with her young child should be left,
in all its naturalness and loving significance, e'en as it
is without the modern improvements. The motherly
instinct is as beautiful as it is inevitable ; and in no case
is it more beautiful and truthful than is shown in her
using a language with her child which it will understand
the language of music. The words are nothing ; and
they go for nothing. They serve merely as a means of
articulation ; and this is all the mother means by them.
The music is not set to the words ; but the words were
simply used as syllables for the music. And, if listen-
ing, grown-up persons (for whom, albeit, the conversa-
tion is not intended) quarrel with the language of a
mother in sweet communing with her child, let them
close their intellect and open their hearts to the fre-
quently irresistible charm of such motherly melody-
Mid they will be content
TEACH YOUR CHILDREN FROM THE BIBLE.
MRS. M. T. RICHARDS makes these good suggestion*
co mothers :
All who have had the care of children are aware that
they early need some kind of mental aliment. Such
knowledge as they may gain by the senses of the various
objects by which they are surrounded, first supplies this
necessity. But the human mind ever grasping even in
earliest childhood soon requires more, and an additional
supply is furnished by the act of vividly conceiving and
revolving the various ideas and images it has previously
treasured.
Hence arises the delight of play. The little girl so
intently engaged with her doll, is experiencing a delight
purely mental. She moves in an entirely imaginary
sphere, a little world of her own. She is busily con-
ceiving and assuming the cares and anxieties of the
mother, and at the same time transferring to her flaxen-
haired treasure, the various peculiarities of childhood
with a strength and vividness which to her mind has all
the charm of reality.
The desire for stories which every mother knows is
so universal and insatiable, springs from the same
source. The pleasure which the child derives from
these stories lies in the mental activity awakened by
vividly conceiving of the subjects and events narrated
to him. The imaginary " Henry" or " Willie," to whose
294 TEACH YOUR CHILDREN FROM THE BIBLE.
sayings and doings he has so often been an eager listen-
er, becomes a frequent companion of his thoughts, the
hero of a drama, whose shifting scenes are often busily
enacted in his mind. It will be found that the concep-
tive faculty thus exercised, as says Isaac Taylor, is one
that is earliest developed, and is continually at work in
childhood. With this, therefore, lies the very com-
mencement of the process of intellectual training ; and
the result to be secured, that of giving scope and vigour
to its action, affects most materially and permanently
the whole mental character.
It is the work of the mother to supply the requisite
material for the active and healthful exercise of the
conceptive faculty. Her resources for this are abund-
ant : descriptions of scenes or events which her child
may or may not have witnessed ; sketches, even the
rudest outlines of animals, trees, or any tangible object,
and what is usually most called for, and most available,
narrations of individual characters, known as "stories."
Now it is here we would plead the excellence of the
Bible, as affording to the mother an unfailing treasury,
whence she may draw continually, without fear of ex-
hausting her resources. It is true that the materials
for stories are as multiplied and various as the scenes
and incidents of every day life, but aside from all these,
and above them all, are the tales which may be told
from the Bible. There is in them a life, a truthfulness,
a graphic power which will ever remain unequalled.
They pass before the child's mind as pictures of life
and beauty, and leave their impress indelibly engraveu
thereon. Let the offering up of Isaac be narrated, and
TEACH YOUR CHILDREN FROM THE BIBLE. 295
as the tale advances, the flushed cheek and mouth half-
parted in suspense, the clasped hands as if in supplica-
tion, as the fatal blow is about to be struck, and the
joy lighting up the countenance as the forbidding voice
is heard from heaven, strongly testify how vividly thf>
whole is conceived, how life-like is the scene transpiring
before the mental vision. Tell of the shining ladder,
with the angels of God ascending and descending upon
it. Paint the scene where the sleeping babe lay cradled
upon the banks of the Nile. Unroll the gorgeous pano-
rama of the history of Joseph. Show the waters of the
Red Sea forming a wall on the right hand and on the
left ; the manna ; the flowing rock ; the burning quak-
ing mount, with the whole multitude retreating in terror
afar off, and Moses " drawing near unto the thick dark-
ness where God was," and the mind of the child is
furnished with subjects of conception and thought which
could be derived from no other source. The marvel-
lousness of the Scripture records casts its wondrous
spell over his whole being, enchaining every faculty to
their contemplation. His thoughts become accustomed
to stretch beyond the line of his outward vision. His
conceptions take hold on things untried and strange.
And he is thus acquiring a breadth and amplitude of
capacity which will yet stamp its decided impress upon
his future mental character.
Let the mother then become a diligent student of the
Scriptures, that she may be " thoroughly furnished"
with Bible stories for the instruction of her child. The
advantage she may thus impart to him will be three-
fold : it will induce a mental activity ; it will provide a
296 PUNISHMENT.
select supply of intellectual furniture as it were, which
the rnind is storing for constant use ; and it will give
the renowned characters of sacred lore a hold upon his
veneration and love, which the lapse of years si all
rarely be able to displace. All this may be done for
young children, but as they advance through the later
periods of childhood to youth, the Bible may still be
the mother's grand text-book in their instruction.
PUNISHMENT.
THERE is probably no duty which the mother is called
to perform, so trying to her feelings, as the infliction
of punishment. And many a one, shrinking from the
duty, when the first grave offence of her child demanded
it at her hands, has multiplied tenfold its subsequent
necessity. We have known cases, in which a signal
punishment for a child's first falsehood, has been suffi-
cient for a lifetime, and a character of beautiful vera-
city has been henceforth established. And instances
will occur to every one, in which the omission of this
punishment has perpetuated the sin of lying, till it
became a settled habit, destroying all confidence in the
character so ruinously neglected.
It will greatly increase the moral power of punish-
ment in any given instance, if the child can be made to
feel and acknowledge its justice. The punishment of
David for causing the death of Uriah presents a forcible
PUNISHMENT. 297
illustration of this point. By the parable of the pro-
phet his sin was pictured vividly before him, in its real
deformity and guilt. He looked steadily at it, unveiled
by the distorting mists of prejudice, unprotected by the
invulnerable shield of selfishness And when the pro-
phet fastened the king's unqualified condemnation of so
aggravated a crime upon his own head, he had not a word
to offer in extenuation or self-defence. The mother
may often adopt this method of making her child per-
ceive his guilt. Let him look at his sin as he would
regard it in another, and she thus divests it of many
of the excuses and palliations which his self-love has
thrown around it.
Let not then the mother, as she values the present
and future welfare of her child, weakly shrink from
this painful duty, but faithfully meet it when first de-
manded, and she may be assured that she will be called
but seldom to its discharge ; and if she be tempted to
feel that one deliberate falsehood, in a child habitually
trnthful, may be passed by, or one act of wilful disobe-
dience, in a child usually docile, may be disregarded,
let her remember Moses, who by his usually quiet antf
forbearing spirit, gained the appellation of the " meek-
eat man," yet for one act of anger was fprbidden t
enter the land of promise.
THOUGHTS FOR MOTHERS.
THIS influence which woman exerts is silent and still,
felt rather than seen, not chaining the hands, hut re-
straining oar actions by gliding into the heart.
Young children often do wrong merely from the im-
maturity of their reason, or from a mistaken principle ;
and when this is the case, they should be tenderly re-
proved, and patiently shown their error.
The real object of education is to give children re-
sources that will endure as long as life endures ; habits
that will ameliorate, not destroy ; occupations that will
render sickness tolerable, solitude pleasant, age venera-
ble, life more dignified and useful, and death less ter-
rible.
Do all in your power to teach your children self-
government. If a child is passionate, teach him by
gentle and patient means to curb his temper. If he is
greedy, cultivate liberality in him. If he is selfish, pro-
mote generosity. If he is sulky, charm him out of it,
by encouraging frank good-humour. If he is indolent,
accustom him to exertion, and train him so as to per-
form even onerous duties with alacrity. If pride comes
in to make his obedience reluctant, subdue him, either
by counsel or discipline. In short, give your children
the habit of overcoming their besetting sins.
HEALTH OF CHILDREN.
MORE than half the diseases from which childrer
suffer, are caused by the injudicious treatment thev
receive at the hands of those who can have no excuse
for their ignorance. The influence of the brain on thc-
digestive organs is direct. During childhood, when the
brain is, in common with other organs, in a state of
great activity and rapid development, the proper arrange-
ment of diet is of the greatest importance. Cheerfu 1
activity, cleanliness, dry pure air, adequate clothing
and a suitable regimen, are indispensable promoters of
health. Horses and cattle are carefully fed with the
food that suits them best ; and by humane people greater
care is bestowed upon them than the majority of parents
give to their children. Some may think we are colour-
ing too highly this state of things ; that all right-minded
parents love their children too much willingly to injure
them. Still we may kill them by misguided kindness,
Look into society, as it is at present constituted, and
your own knowledge will furnish you with instances of
grievous wrong done to children by parents violating
the physical laws of their being. We know many such -
and we do not hesitate to say it, for such is our convic-
tion, that if their children be not removed when young
from the deteriorating example and pernicious training
of their parents, they will in all probability become
gluttons and drunkards. High-seasoned and unwhole-
some food is given in such large quantities, and at such
500 HEALTH OF CHILDREN.
iivegular times, that unnatural appetites are created,
ahd digestion impaired. Stimulating and poisonous sub-
stances are administered to them to invigorate their sys-
tems, which have quite the contrary effect, and lay the
foundation for all kinds of maladies in future years.
Some mothers so stuff their children the whole year
round with unwholesome, exciting, and stimulating meats
and drinks, that they hecome complete gourmands, and
their whole thoughts are occupied with what they shall
eat, what they shall drink, and wherewithal they shall
be clothed. If parents would give their children good,
wholesome, nourishing food, their only drink water, and
let strict regularity and punctuality be observed in re-
gard to their times of eating, a gradual change for the
better would distinctly mark the rising generation ; for
it is most certain that parents cannot be too particular
about the dietetic habits of their children. Their hap-
piness here and hereafter greatly depend upon the right
physiological training or treatment given them in early
1 fe And yet how many mothers make their table a
gr.are to their offspring by pampering their appetites,
and loading their stomachs with improper food !
THE END.
date stamped below.
EC' LO-URL
FE& as i
MAR
1 1973'
REC'DYRL
10M-1 1-50(2555)470
REMINGTON RAND - 20
Hllllliill