The Child At Home Part 8

We are all disgusted with vanity wherever it appears. Go into a school-room, and look around upon the appearance of the various pupils a.s.sembled there. You will perhaps see one girl, with head tossed upon one shoulder, and with a simpering countenance, trying to look pretty.

You speak to her. Instead of receiving a plain, kind, honest answer, she replies with voice and language and att.i.tude full of affectation.

She thinks she is exciting your admiration. But, on the contrary, she is exciting disgust and loathing.

You see another girl, whose frank and open countenance proclaims a sincere and honest heart. All her movements are natural. She manifests no desire to attract attention. The idea of her own superiority seems not to enter her mind. As, in the recess, she walks about the schoolroom, you can detect no airs of self-conceit. She is pleasant to all her a.s.sociates. You ask her some question. She answers you with modesty and unostentation. Now, this girl, without any effort to attract admiration, is beloved and admired. Every one sees at once that she is a girl of good sense. She knows too much to be vain. She will never want for friends. This is the kind of character which insures usefulness and happiness.

A little girl who had rich parents, and was handsome in personal appearance, was very vain of her beauty and of her father's wealth.

She disgusted all her school-mates by her conceit. And though she seemed to think that every one ought to admire her, she was beloved by none. She at last left school, a vain, disgusting girl. A young man, who was so simple as to fall in love with this piece of pride and affectation, at length married her. For a few years the property which she received of her father supported them. But soon her father died, and her husband grew dissipated, and before long their property was all squandered. She had no friends to whom she could look for a.s.sistance, and they were every month sinking deeper and deeper in poverty. Her husband at last became a perfect sot, and staggered through the streets in the lowest state of degradation. She was left with one or two small children, and without any means of support. In a most miserable hovel, this poor woman was compelled to take up her residence. By this time, her pride had experienced a fall. She no longer exhibited the airs of a vain girl, but was an afflicted and helpless woman. The sorrow and disgrace into which she was plunged by the intemperance of her husband, preyed so deeply upon her feelings as to destroy her health, and in this condition she was carried to the poor-house. There she lingered out the few last years of her sad earthly existence. What a termination of life for a vain and haughty girl! And what a lesson is this to all, to be humble and una.s.suming!

You may be in health to-day, and in sickness to-morrow. This year you may be rich, and have need of nothing, and the next year you may be in the most abject poverty, Your early home may be one of luxury and elegance, and in your dying hour you may be in the poor-house, without a friend to watch at your bedside. Is it not, then, the height of folly to indulge in vanity?

If any child will look around upon his own companions, he will see that those are most beloved and respected, who have no disposition to claim superiority over their a.s.sociates. How pleasant is it to be in company with those who are conciliating and una.s.suming! But how much is every one disgusted with the presence of those who a.s.sume airs of importance, and are continually saying, by their conduct, that they think themselves deserving particular attention! No one regrets to see such self-conceit humbled. When such persons meet with misfortune, no one appears to regret it, no one sympathizes with them.

You must guard against this contemptible vice, you would be useful, or respected, or happy. If you would avoid exciting disgust, avoid vanity. If you do not wish to be the laughing-stock of all your acquaintance, do not let them detect in you consequential airs. If you would not be an object of hatred and disgust, beware how you indulge feelings of fancied superiority. Be plain, and sincere, and honest-hearted. Disgrace not yourself by affectation and pride. Let all your words and all your actions show that you think no more highly of yourself than you ought to think. Then will others love you. They will rejoice at your prosperity. And they will be glad to see you rising in the world, in usefulness and esteem.

Moral courage is a trait of character of the utmost importance to be possessed. A man was once challenged to fight a duel. As he thought of his own condition, if he should kill his adversary, and of his widowed wife and orphan children, if he should be shot himself as he thought of his appearance before the bar of G.o.d to answer for the atrocious sin, he shrunk from accepting the challenge. But when he thought of the ridicule to which he would be exposed if he declined; that others would call him a coward, and point at him the finger of scorn, he was afraid to refuse. He was such a coward that he did not dare to meet the ridicule of contemptible men. He had so little moral courage, that he had rather become a murderer, or expose himself to be shot, than boldly to disregard the opinions and the sneers of the unprincipled and base. It is this want of moral courage which very frequently leads persons to the commission of crimes.

There is nothing so hard to be borne as ridicule. It requires a bold heart to be ready to do one's duty, unmoved by the sneers of others.

How often does a child do that which he knows to be wrong, because he is afraid that others will call him a coward if he does right! One cold winter's day, three boys were pa.s.sing by a school-house. The oldest was a mischievous fellow, always in trouble himself, and trying to get others into trouble. The youngest, whose name was George, was a very amiable boy, who wished to do right, but was very deficient in moral courage. We will call the oldest Henry, and the other of the three James. The following dialogue pa.s.sed between them.

Henry.--What fun it would be to throw a s...o...b..ll against the schoolroom door, and make the instructer and scholars all jump!

James.--You would jump if you should. If the instructer did not catch you and whip you, he would tell your father, and you would get a whipping then, that would make you jump higher than the scholars, I think.

Henry.--Why, we could get so far off, before the instructer could come to the door, that he could not tell who we are. Here is a snow-ball just as hard as ice, and George had as lief throw it against that door as not.

James.--Give it to him and see. He would not dare to throw it against the door.

Henry.--Do you think George is a coward? You don't know him as well as I do. Here, George, take this snow-ball, and show James that you are not such a coward as he thinks you to be.

George.--I am not afraid to throw it. But I do not want to. I do not see that it will do any good or that there will be any fun in it.

James.--There, I told you he would not dare to throw it.

Henry.--Why, George, are you turning coward? I thought you did not fear any thing. We shall have to call you chicken-hearted. Come, save your credit, and throw it. I know you are not afraid to.

George.--Well, I am not afraid to, said George. Give me the s...o...b..ll. I had as lief throw it as not.

Whack went the snow-ball against the door; and the boys took to their heels. Henry was laughing as heartily as he could to think what a fool he had made of George. George afterwards got a whipping for his folly, as he richly deserved. He was such a coward that he was afraid of being called a coward. He did not dare to refuse to do as Henry told him do, for fear that he would be laughed at. If he had been really a brave boy, he would have said,

"Henry, do you suppose that I am such a fool as to throw that s...o...b..ll just because you want to have me? You may throw your own s...o...b..a.l.l.s, if you please."

Henry would perhaps have tried to laugh at him. He would have called him a coward, hoping in this way to induce him to obey his wishes. But George would have replied,

"Do you think that I care for your laughing? I do not think it is right to throw a snow-ball against the school-room door. And I will not do that which I think to be wrong, if the whole town join with you in laughing."

This would have been real moral courage. Henry would have seen at once, that it would do no good to laugh at a boy who had so bold a heart. And you must have this fearlessness of spirit, or you will be continually involved in trouble, and will deserve and receive contempt.

I once knew a man who had so little independence, that he hardly dared express an opinion different from that of those he was with. When he was talking upon politics, he would agree with the persons with whom he happened to be conversing, no matter what their views, or what their party. He was equally fickle and undecided upon the subject of religion, differing from none, and agreeing with all. The consequence was, that he had the confidence of none, and the contempt of all. He sunk into merited disgrace in the estimation of the whole community.

You must have an opinion of your own. And you must be ready, frankly and modestly, to express it, when occasion requires, without being intimidated by fear of censure. You can neither command respect nor be useful without it.

In things which concern your own personal convenience merely, you should be as yielding us the air. But where duty is concerned, you should be as firm and as unyielding as the rock. Be ever ready to sacrifice your own comfort to promote the comfort of others. Be conciliating and obliging in all your feelings and actions. Show that you are ready to do every thing in your power to make those around you happy. Let no one have occasion to say that you are stubborn and unaccommodating. But, on the other hand, where duty is involved, let nothing tempt you to do wrong. Be bold enough to dare to do right, whatever may be the consequences. If others laugh at your scruples, let them laugh as long as they please. And let them see that you are not to be frightened by their sneers. Your courage will often be tried. There will be occasions in which it will require a severe struggle to preserve your integrity. But ever remember that if you would do any good in the world, you must possess this moral courage.

It is the want of this that leaves thousands to live in a way which their consciences reprove, and to die in despair. Unless you possess this trait of character, to some considerable degree, it can hardly be expected that you will ever become a Christian. You must learn to act for yourself, unintimidated by the censure, and unmoved by the flattery of others.

I now bring this book to a close. If you will diligently endeavor to be influenced by its directions your usefulness and happiness will surely be promoted. Soon you will leave home, no more to return but as a visitor. The character you have acquired and the habits you have formed while at home, in all probability, will accompany you through life. You are now surrounded by ah the joys of home.

Affectionate parents watch over you, supplying all your wants. You have but few solicitudes and but few sorrows. Soon, however, you must leave parents, brothers, and sisters, and enter upon the duties and cares of life almost alone. How affecting will be the hour, when your foot steps from your father's dwelling, from your mother's care, to seek a new home among strangers! You now cannot conceive the feelings which will press upon you as your father takes your hand to bid you the parting farewell, and your mother endeavors to hide her tears, as you depart from her watchful eye, to meet the temptations and sorrows of life. Your heart will then be full. Tears will fill your eyes.

Emotion will choke your voice.

You will then reflect upon all the scenes of your childhood with feelings you never had before. Every unkind word you have uttered to your parents--every unkind look you have given them, will cause you the sincerest sorrow. If you have one particle of generous feeling remaining in your bosom, you will long to fall upon your knees and ask your parents' forgiveness for every pang you may have caused their hearts. The hour when you leave your home, and all its joys, will be such an hour as you never have pa.s.sed before. The feelings which will then oppress your heart, will remain with you for weeks and months. You will often, in the pensive hour of evening, sit down and weep, as you think of parents and home far away. Oh, how cold will seem the love of others, compared with a mother's love! How often will your thoughts fondly return to joys which have for ever fled! Again and again will you think over the years that are past.

Every recollection of affection and obedience will awaken joy in your heart. Every remembrance of ingrat.i.tude will awaken repentance and remorse.

O, then, think of the time when you must bid father and mother, brothers and sisters, farewell. Think of the time when you must leave the fireside around which you have spent so many pleasant evenings, and go out into the wide world, with no other dependence than the character you have formed at home. If this character be good, if you possess amiable and obliging and generous feelings, you may soon possess a home of your own, when the joys of your childhood will in some degree be renewed. And if you will pa.s.s your days in the service of G.o.d, imitating the character of the Savior, and cherishing the feelings of penitence and love, which the Bible requires, you will soon be in that happy home which is never to be forsaken. There, are joys from which you never will be separated, There, are friends, angels in dignity and spotless in purity, in whose loved society you will find joys such as you never experienced while on earth.

When a son was leaving the roof of a pious father, to go out into the wide world to meet its temptations, and to battle with its storms, his heart was oppressed with the many emotions which were struggling there. The day had come in which he was to leave the fireside of so many enjoyments; the friends endeared to him by so many a.s.sociations-- so many acts of kindness. He was to bid adieu to his mother, that loved, loved benefactor, who had protected him in sickness, and rejoiced with him in health. He was to leave a father's protection, to go forth and act without an adviser, and rely upon his own unaided judgment. He was to bid farewell to brothers and sisters, no more to see them but as an occasional visitor at his paternal home. Oh, how cold and desolate did the wide world appear! How did he hesitate from launching forth to meet its tempests and its storms! But the hour had come for him to go; and he must suppress his emotions, and triumph over his reluctance. He went from room to room, looking, as for the last time, upon those scenes, to which imagination would so often recur, and where it would love to linger. The well-packed trunk was in the entry, waiting the arrival of the stage. Brothers and sisters were moving about, hardly knowing whether to smile or to cry. The father sat at the window, humming a mournful air, as he was watching the approach of the stage which was to bear his son away to take his place far from home, in the busy crowd of a bustling world. The mother, with all the indescribable emotions of a mother's heart, was placing in a small bundle a few little comforts such as none but a mother could think of, and, with most generous resolution, endeavoring to preserve a cheerful countenance, that, as far as possible, she might preserve her son from unnecessary pain in the hour of departure.

"Here, my son," said she, "is a nice pair of stockings, which will be soft and warm for your feet. I have run the heels for you, for I am afraid you will not find any one who will quite fill a mother's place."

The poor boy was overflowing with emotion, and did not dare to trust his voice with an attempt to reply.

"I have put a little piece of cake here, for you may be hungry on the road, and I will put it in the top of the bundle, so that you can get it without any difficulty. And in this needle-book I have put up a few needles and some thread, for you may at times want some little st.i.tch taken, and you will have no mother or sister to go to."

The departing son could make no reply. He could retain his emotion only by silence. At last the rumbling of the wheels of the stage was heard, and the four horses were reined up at the door. The boy endeavored, by activity, in seeing his trunk and other baggage properly placed, to gain sufficient fort.i.tude to enable him to articulate his farewell. He, however, strove in vain. He took his mother's hand. The tear glistened for a moment in her eye, and then silently rolled down her cheek. He struggled with all his energy to say good by, but he could not. In unbroken silence he shook her hand, and then in silence received the adieus of brothers and sisters, as one after another took the hand of their departing companion. He then took the warm hand of his warm-hearted father. His father tried to smile, but it was the struggling smile of feelings which would rather have vented themselves in tears. For a moment he said not a word, but retained the hand of his son, as he accompanied him out of the door to the stage. After a moment's silence, pressing his hand, he said, "My son, you are now leaving us; you may forget your father and your mother, your brothers and your sisters, but, oh, do not forget your G.o.d!"

The stage door closed upon the boy, The crack of the driver's whip was heard, and the rumbling wheels bore him rapidly away from all the privileges and all the happiness of his early home. His feelings, so long restrained, now burst out, and, sinking back upon his seat, he enveloped himself in his cloak, and burst into tears.

Hour after hour the stage rolled on. Pa.s.sengers entered and left; but the boy (perhaps I ought rather to call him the young man) was almost insensible to every thing that pa.s.sed. He sat, in sadness and in silence, in the corner of the stage, thinking of the loved home he had left. Memory ran back through all the years of his childhood, lingering here and there, with pain, upon an act of disobedience, and recalling an occasional word of unkindness. All his life seemed to be pa.s.sing in review before him, from the first years of his conscious existence, to the hour of his departure from his home. Then would the parting words of his father ring in his ears. He had always heard the morning and evening prayer. He had always witnessed the power of religion exemplified in all the duties of life. And the undoubted sincerity of a father's language, confirmed as it had been by years of corresponding practice, produced an impression upon his mind too powerful ever to be effaced--"My son, you may forget father and mother, you may forget brothers and sisters, but, oh, do not forget your G.o.d." The words rung in his ears. They entered his heart. Again and again his thoughts ran back through the years he had already pa.s.sed, and the reviving recollections brought fresh floods of tears.

But still his thoughts ran on to his father's parting words, "forget not your G.o.d."

It was midnight before the stage stopped, to give him a little rest.

He was then more than a hundred miles from home. But still his father's words were ringing in his ears. He was conducted up several flights of stairs to a chamber in a crowded hotel. After a short prayer, he threw himself upon the bed, and endeavored to obtain a little sleep. But his excited imagination ran back to the home he had left. Again he was seated by the fireside. Again he heard the soothing tones of his kind mother's voice, and sat by his father's side. In the vagaries of his dream, he again went through the scene of parting, and wept in his sleep as he bade adieu to brothers and sisters, and heard a father's parting advice, "Oh, my son, forget not your G.o.d."

But little refreshment could be derived from such sleep. And indeed he had been less than an hour upon his bed, before some one knocked at the door, and placed a lamp in his room, saying, "It is time to get up, sir: the stage is almost ready to go." He hastily rose from his bed, and after imploring a blessing upon himself, and fervently commending to G.o.d his far-distant friends, now quietly sleeping in that happy home which he had left for ever, he hastened down stairs, and soon again was rapidly borne away by the fleet horses of the mailcoach.

It was a clear autumnal morning. The stars shone brightly in the sky, and the thoughts of the lonely wanderer were irresistibly carried to that home beyond the stars, and to that G.o.d whom his father had so affectingly entreated him not to forget. He succeeded, however, in getting a few moments of troubled sleep, as the stage rolled on; but his thoughts were still reverting, whether asleep or awake, to the home left far behind. Just as the sun was going down the western hills, at the close of the day, he alighted from the stage, in the village of strangers, in which he was to find his new home. Not an individual there had he ever seen before. Many a pensive evening did he pa.s.s, thinking of absent friends. Many a lonely walk did he take, while his thoughts were far away among the scenes of his childhood.

And when the winter evenings came, with the cheerful blaze of the fireside, often did he think, with a sigh, of the loved and happy group encircling his father's fireside, and sharing those joys he had left for ever. But a father's parting words did not leave his mind.

There they remained. And they, in connection with other events, rendered effectual by the Spirit of G.o.d, induced him to endeavor to consecrate his life to his Maker's service. In the hopes of again meeting beloved parents and friends in that home, which gilds the paradise above, he found that solace which could no where else be obtained, and was enabled to go on in the discharge of the duties of life, with serenity and peace. Reader, you must soon leave your home, and leave it for ever. The privileges and the joys you are now partaking, will soon pa.s.s away. And when you have gone forth into the wide world, and feel the want of a father's care, and of a mother's love, then will all the scenes you have pa.s.sed through, return freshly to your mind, and the remembrance of every unkind word, or look, or thought, will give you pain. Try, then, to be an affectionate and obedient child. Cultivate those virtues which will prepare you for usefulness and happiness in your maturer years, and above all, make it your object to prepare for that happy home above, where sickness can never enter, and sorrow can never come.

THE END.

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