Mrs Whittelsey's Magazine for Mothers and Daughters - Volume 3
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responsible for the conduct of their parents. Parents have a right to act for them, and children must abide by their decisions, and endure the consequences of their acts. They cannot escape from it, for this is a natural as well as moral law which is continually operating. The character and destiny of the child are determined mainly by the parent. He may educate him to be refined, intelligent and useful, or to be vicious, debased and dangerous. This process is going on continually. The parent may make positive engagements in behalf of his children, which they are bound to perform, and which the law recognizes as valid. A father dying, for example, while his children are in infancy or in their minority, may require them to appropriate a portion of his estate for certain ends, as a condition on which they shall receive it. Another may require of his children a given service, on condition of receiving his blessing; and if the requirement be not morally wrong, who would not feel themselves bound to observe it? But there are examples, perhaps more in point, in Scripture, in which parents have entered into formal covenants that have had direct reference to their children. Adam covenanted for himself and posterity. They had no personal agency in it, in any sense, and yet all are held accountable for its transgression; all suffer a portion of its penalty, as they might, if he had kept it, been made possessors of its blessings. So Abraham covenanted with God for himself and his seed; and his descendants felt themselves bound to fulfill its requirements. They knew, in fact, that unless they did, its benefits could not be enjoyed. The same principle holds good in reference to the baptized. You are bound by the covenant engagements of your parents. You cannot be released from them on the ground that you had no agency in assuming them. They were assumed for you by those who had the right to do it—a right recognized by both God and man—and you cannot therefore throw them off; you cannot willfully disregard or live contrary to them, without guilt and dishonor. The apostle urges this principle when he testifies "to every man that is circumcised that he is a debtor to do the whole law." His consecration to God in this rite bound him to keep his whole law; and yet this obligation was imposed on him when an infant only eight days old; but after arriving at maturity, he could not shake it off. He was a debtor still, for he was placed in that position in accordance with the divine command and by those who had the authority over him. With equal propriety may we now testify unto you who are baptized, that you are debtors unto Christ. You are bound to keep the laws of his kingdom, bound to serve him to whose service you have been set apart. You are not your own; you are not, therefore, to live unto yourselves. The vows of God are upon you. You have been sealed with his seal. And since you have attained an age at which you can understand your position, you are bound to perform those vows; to seek to be sealed with the Holy Spirit unto the day of redemption. There is no escape from this obligation; and when, therefore, you live utterly regardless of it, as many do, your conduct is doubly criminal. You may have flattered yourselves that you enjoyed superior advantages, and that you were more highly favored than others; and this is true. But you must take into the account your corresponding responsibilities. There is a broad distinction between your position, and that of mere worldlings, and there ought to be a like difference in your practice. You cannot give yourselves to the sins of youth, or the gayeties of life. You cannot set your hearts on fashion, dress, amusements, business or any mere worldly ends, with as much consistency, or with as little guilt, as your unbaptized associates. You cannot harden yourselves against the truth, grieve the Holy Spirit, turn away in coldness or disdain from the claims of Christ, without exposing yourselves to an aggravated condemnation. Shall you who are pledged servants of Christ, who are bound to him by solemn covenant, be regardless of these vows, or be recreant to Him as his avowed enemies? Ah, this is approaching fearfully near the appalling sin of "treading under foot the Son of God, of counting the blood of his covenant an unholy thing, and doing despite unto the Spirit of grace." You cannot, surely, have considered your relations to Christ and to his church. You cannot have pondered the nature of your baptismal vows which were taken for you, but which are now binding upon your own souls. You cannot realize against what gracious promises, what high, privileges you sin, in living contrary to your obligations, and in remaining at heart, and by your conduct, "strangers to God and aliens from the commonwealth of Israel." Review your position, and remember you are placed where you cannot recede. Duties press upon you which you cannot disregard; vows are upon you which you cannot break with safety or with honor. It is not enough that you lead a moral life, or that you continue in your present position. You are required to advance. You have been pledged to God; and to fulfill this pledge you must be His in heart. You must choose His service. You must take Christ's yoke upon you and dedicate yourselves to Him. Nothing short of this will fulfill your covenant vows or insure your enjoyment of its blessings. As to receding, that is utterly inadmissible. You have been put in this relation by those who loved you and had the right, nay, were commanded of God, to dispose of you in this manner. You cannot then evade it. You may say you never gave it your consent, and that it is hard to be thus bound to act contrary to your natural inclinations; but it is right, and you cannot help it. You are in this position, and you cannot break away but at the peril of your salvation; nay, without the certainty of perdition. But it is not hard, or cruel, to require you to love and obey God. You were created for this, and your nature will never attain to its perfection until you fulfill this its noblest destiny. A hard thing to do right! A grievous thing to be saved from the pollution of sin and the very gulf of perdition! A hard thing to be taken under divine protection; to be enriched with God's blessing; to be numbered among his people on earth and ultimately admitted to his kingdom in heaven! Impossible! You did not think it; you did not mean to urge this as an objection to your most obvious duty. You would not object to your parents' securing for you a costly estate while in your minority, and why then discard the heavenly inheritance they would provide for you? Fulfill your vows. Choose His service, and be blessed now and forever.

* * * * *



"Leave thy fatherless children with me, and I will preserve them alive."

(Concluded from page 119.)

The elder brother, DE WITT, from childhood, was of a thoughtful cast of mind, regular in his habits, careful in forming his associations, kind and dutiful as a son and brother. He ever proved a help and solace to his mother in the family circle, where he was the oldest child. In pursuing his course of studies he evinced industry of application, and sustained an excellent standing in his classes. His regular and interested attendance on the exercises of the Sabbath-school, as well as the services of the sanctuary; his conduct in the family circle, and the developments of the closing scenes of his life, all tend to form the conviction that divine truth had obtained a lodgment in his mind by the sanctifying influence of the Holy Spirit. At the interesting period of nineteen years, full of hope and promise, the seeds of pulmonary disease sprang forth within him. In the fall of 1850, he began to cough, and since then, with variations as to its severity, it continued with him, and his friends marked that it became deeply seated, and apprehended its probable termination. He, however, retained his active habits and course of study till last fall. His earnest attention to sermons, his occasional remarks on their evangelical and practical character as profitable, and his prayerful reading of the Bible, showed the influence divine truth was exerting upon him. The sickness and rapid decline of his brother Joseph was to him most affecting, as they had grown up from childhood together in uninterrupted intercourse and love. In his feeble state of health, he saw his beloved brother hastening to death and the grave, while their dear mother was yearning over both in view of their spiritual welfare. While everything indicated a deep interest in the matter of the soul's salvation, doubts and difficulties prevented him from finding joy and peace in believing. About ten days before his death, and just before the death of Joseph, he received the remarkable letter from his Uncle Scudder which wrought powerfully on his mind, and followed by Joseph's death, was doubtless instrumental, under the divine blessing, in leading him to the decision of giving himself to the Savior by the profession of his faith. The Sabbath, January 11, on the morning of which Joseph died, was indeed a memorable and impressive one in many of its associations. De Witt had just made profession of his faith, and was admitted into the communion of the Presbyterian Church in Canal street, of which the Rev. Mr. Carpenter is pastor, and was carried into the church to unite with God's people in celebrating the Lord's supper, and it was just at the expiration of the two months of special prayer by his uncle in India. When his mother, this morning, announced to him the death of his brother, he just exclaimed, with much emotion, "Is Joseph dead? Then I have no brother." He left the room for a moment and returned, saying, "Mother, we have no cause to mourn. Joseph is only gone to the new Jerusalem, where dear father was waiting to receive him," and then calmly prepared himself for the sacramental service in the church before him. The writer of this had an interview with him the following morning (Monday). Everything conspired to render the scene impressive. As I saw the remains of Joseph, I observed in the appearance of De Witt the indications of approaching death, and heard the account of his attendance at the Lord's table on the preceding day. After conversation, he asked me to pray that it would please God to spare his life that he might be a support and comfort to his mother, and be permitted to labor for Christ. I replied that such desires were in themselves worthy, but that I strongly felt it would be with him as with David in whose heart was the desire to build the house of God. God accepted the desire, but denied him the work, and assigned it to another. I told him that I must affectionately tell him that every indication denoted that the Savior was preparing him shortly to enter upon his service in heaven, and that he would soon join his brother, whose mortal remains were then waiting for the tomb. He received this without agitation, and calmly replied that he then wished me to pray that it would please God to impart and preserve to him the light of his countenance, and his divine peace, and enable him to glorify Him during the little portion of time which might still be allotted to him on earth. His mother states she does not remember after this to have heard him say much about living, and that only as connected with the service of his Savior. His mind, which had been opening to the light and peace of the Gospel, became more and more established in the faith of Christ, and enriched with the comforts of the Spirit. While his body was fast wasting, his soul as rapidly grew strong. There has rarely been a more striking growth in grace, calm and substantial, free from all vain excitements and feverish heats. Many interesting incidents connected with the spirit he displayed, and the words he uttered during the week following my interview with him just alluded to, are treasured up in the heart's memory. But there is no room for details until we reach the closing scene, from Friday to Monday, January 19. I shall copy from some memoranda furnished by the mother. She had before urged that he should pray in view of continued life only for strength to speak of the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living, and thus live a long life in the little time spared to him. This seemed to be verified. Mrs. Hunt writes: "On Friday morning he arose as usual, and reclined on the sofa. He was weak, and his throat sore, so that he could only swallow liquids. When the physician visiting him left, I told him that he thought him very low, but I requested him to remember what his beloved minister had told him, to look away from death to Jesus and Heaven; he exclaimed, 'O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law; but thanks to God, who giveth me the victory, through my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.' He expressed the delightful thought that he would be where 'the Lamb would feed him, lead him to living waters, and wipe away all tears from his eyes.' Sometimes he would say, 'Precious Savior. Mother, what would I do without such a Savior? Precious hope, what would I do without such a hope?' And then he would speak of the mansions in Heaven. The 27th and 40th Psalms, which his dear father had selected for us a short time before his death, that we might read them for our comfort after he was gone, were given. When the 27th was commenced he took it up and repeated the whole. On Saturday he had severe pain in the lungs, and thought his end near. Several of his friends called, and he noticed them all distinctly. He addressed two of his fellow-students in the University in an affectionate appeal to what he supposed their spiritual condition. In a conversation with Rev. Mr. C., he said that if God had been pleased to spare his life, he should have felt himself consecrated to the ministry and missionary service; and expressed the calm assurance of his faith. Prayer was offered that he might spend one more precious Sabbath on earth. The night passed, and the Sabbath came. My child exclaimed, soon after waking, 'Precious Sabbath,' and his eyes beamed with hallowed feeling. I said, 'Dear son, can you truly say this morning that you feel the peace of God which passeth understanding?' He raised his eyes and replied, most impressively, 'Oh, yes.' He said with delight, 'Mother, O think that Joseph is now by the river of the water of life.' He said also to me, 'Mother, you will not weep for me?' I replied, 'If I do joy will mingle with my tears.' He continued, 'I shall be nearer to you in Heaven than in India' (alluding to his purpose, if his life should be spared, to be a missionary in India). I asked him what message I should send to his Uncle Scudder. He said, 'Tell him I think my heart was in the right place when his letter reached me, or I know not what I should have done.' Two friends came in. De Witt said, 'I thought I should have spent part of this day around the throne in heaven.' And one (a pious young college companion) said to the other, 'If this be dying, I envy him.' After service in the afternoon, Rev. Mr. Carpenter came in with two of his elders, and three other Christian friends were present. Singing was proposed; De Witt was delighted with the thought of it, and selected the hymns. 'Come, thou fount of every blessing,' was sung first. My child could not join with his voice, but stretched out his arm, and with his arm, having the forefinger extended, beat the time. It was a touching, solemn scene; the singing filled the room, and seemed to go up to Heaven. After we had ended the second hymn, 'Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,' he exclaimed, 'I thought I was almost in heaven.' On Sabbath night, about ten o'clock, he inquired of a friend, 'whether she did not think he would soon die?' I went to him and asked him if he felt any change that induced him to ask the question. He replied, 'Everything seems to fail.' I then talked to him about the Savior being with him when he passed through the dark valley, and added, 'Dear son, I will give you up to the Lord.' Directly he said, 'I am now ready any moment to say, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.' He afterward repeated 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit. The Lord is my light and my salvation. Of whom shall I be afraid? It is better to die than live.' A little before six o'clock he looked intensely upon me. I asked what he wished to give me?—his farewell kiss, which he repeated several times. He then again gave me an intense look. I said, 'My son, God will take care.' He replied, 'I know he will.' He shook hands with two of his youthful companions, and sent a message to the brother of one of them, expressive of his solicitude for his spiritual welfare. I said to him, 'I have taken care of you these nineteen years, for the Lord.' He said, 'Yes, these nineteen years,' but did not proceed. He asked one of his friends to pray, which he did. After this he ceased to speak, and sank, continuing to breathe hard, without a struggle, until the precious spirit took its everlasting flight a little before eight o'clock, January 19."

I have thus given, from the notes furnished by the bereaved and mourning, but grateful and comforted mother, a sketch of the closing hours and dying scene of this youth, which, in connection with the similar scene in the younger brother, beautifully and strongly illustrates the precious trust committed to mothers, the importance and value of maternal influence, and the encouragement to its faithful and wisely-directed exercise.

T. D. W.

* * * * *



"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might."—ECCLESIASTES 9:10.

(Continued from page 128.)

That evening a little schoolmate came to visit her; they played several amusing games, and Emily staid up much past her usual hour. The next morning when her mother called her, she felt very sleepy, and unwilling to rise, so instead of jumping up at once, she turned her head on the pillow thinking "I will get up in a minute." But in less than that minute she was fast asleep again, and did not awake until aroused by Mary the nurse, whose voice sounded close in her ear, exclaiming,

"Why, Miss Emily, are you in bed yet! Here have I been looking all through the house and garden for you. Jump up quick, breakfast is just over."

You may be sure Emily did not wait a second bidding, but hurrying on her clothes, hastened down stairs without even thinking about saying her prayers, which no little child should ever forget to do, because it is the kind and merciful God who keeps us safely through the night, and our first thoughts when we awaken should be gratitude to him for protecting us, and we should pray to Him to keep us all day out of sin and danger, and teach us how to improve the time which He has intrusted to our care.

Emily thought of none of these things, but ran down to the breakfast-room, feeling rather ashamed of being so late. Her papa had finished his breakfast, and gone out, and when her mother looked up to the clock as she entered, she saw that it wanted twenty minutes to nine.

"How very late it is!" thought the little girl, as she hurried off to school, "mamma always calls me at seven. I did not think I had slept so long."

Despite all Emily's haste she was too late; school had commenced when she entered, and worse than all, she did not know her lessons, and was kept in an hour after the rest were dismissed. She could not study the evening before, and had depended upon an hour's study before breakfast, but her unlucky morning nap left her no time to think about lessons before school, and her consequent disgrace was the punishment. The little girl returned home that day very unhappy.

Emily had not forgotten the conversation about the wasted gift, and had determined to give no opportunity for her mother to complain. She thought she was very careful that week, but never imagined how much of the precious gift she wasted each day in idleness.

The day after her unfortunate disgrace in school, she brought down several articles of dress that needed repairing, and seated herself at the window to work. Her mother had promised to take her out with her, and Emily had to finish her mending first. She plied the needle very steadily for a while, but presently her attention was attracted by the opposite neighbors.

"Look, mamma," she exclaimed, "there is Mrs. Dodson and Lucy; they are just going out, and Lucy has on a new hat."

"Well, my dear," returned her mother quietly, "it is not unusual for people to get new bonnets at this season."

Emily felt a little abashed at this reply, but could not refrain from casting furtive glances across the way. The afternoon was fine, and the street filled with well-dressed people. The little girl watched the passers-by, holding her needle listlessly in her fingers, and presently cried out,

"Did you see that lady, mamma? How oddly she was dressed."

"No," answered Mrs. Manvers, "I am attending to my work now, but I hope soon to join the promenaders myself."

Emily stole a glance at her mother to see whether her countenance implied reproof, but Mrs. Manvers's eyes were fixed upon her work and the little girl again endeavored to fix her attention upon her sewing. At length Mrs. Manvers rose and put aside her work-basket. "I am going to dress, Emily," she said.

"Very well, mother, I will be ready in a minute," replied her daughter, and she followed her mother up stairs.

Emily tossed over her bureau in vain to find a clean pair of pantalets, and then she remembered of having taken several pairs down stairs to mend. She ran hastily down and selected the best pair. Some of the button-holes were torn out, but she could not wait to mend them now, so hastily pinning on the pantalets, she dressed and joined her mother.

As they pursued their walk, Emily felt something about her feet, and looking down discovered her pantalets; she hastily stooped to pull them off and the pin scratched her foot severely. Mrs. Manvers saw all this, but said nothing; she knew that her daughter had wasted time enough to have mended all her pantalets, and she added another hour to the already long account of wasted minutes in her memorandum.

The following day was Friday, and it was part of Emily's duties on this day to arrange her bureau-drawers and put her closet in order. She went up stairs after dinner with this intention, but there were so many little gifts and keep-sakes in her drawers, to be successively admired and thought over, so many sashes to unfold, and odd gloves to be paired, that the whole afternoon was consumed, and the tea-bell rang before she had quite finished the second drawer, and consequently the duty of that day remained to be finished on the next.

"Well, my little girl," said her father the next morning, "I hope you will have my handkerchief nicely hemmed by this afternoon; you have had it several days now, and I suppose it is nearly finished. I shall want it, as I am going away after dinner."

"You shall have it, papa," replied Emily. She did not like to tell him the handkerchief was not yet commenced, as she felt quite sure she could finish it in time, and determined to begin immediately after breakfast.

When she went up stairs to get the handkerchief out of her drawer she saw her bureau was yet in disorder. "Mamma will be displeased to see this," she thought, "and I shall have time enough to put it in order and hem papa's handkerchief beside." She went eagerly to work, but the bureau took her longer than she anticipated, and when her father came home to dinner she had not finished his handkerchief.

Now she made her needle fly, but her industry came too late; her father could not wait, and Emily had the mortification of hearing him say:

"I hope my handkerchief will not be like my gloves, that you kept so long to mend, and mamma had to finish after all."

She cried bitterly after he was gone, but managed through her tears to finish the handkerchief at last, and carried it to her mother, asking her to beg her papa's forgiveness.

After tea was over, Mrs. Manvers called Emily to her, and folding her arm fondly around the little girl's waist, pointed to a small book lying open upon the table, saying as she did so:

"Do you remember, my love, our conversation last Saturday night upon the subject of your gifts?"

"Oh, yes, mamma, and you told me you would keep an account of my ill-usage of one of them."

"I have done so, my dear, and now tell me can you not imagine what this gift is which you so much abuse?"

"Indeed, I cannot, mamma," replied the little girl with a sigh. Mrs. Manvers placed the memorandum book in her daughter's hand without saying a word.

There, written at the head of the page, were these words:

"Emily's Waste of Time."

and beneath was quite a long column of figures, and a list of duties unfulfilled.

"Oh, mamma," cried Emily, throwing herself upon her mother's breast, "it is time, precious time, that is the gift I waste; but surely I have not spent so many idle minutes in just one week."

"I am sorry to say that you have, my dear daughter, all these and even more. I have promised to keep an account, and I have done so; add them up and see how many there are."

Emily added up the figures with tearful eyes, and said, "there are four hundred and twenty, mamma."

"And how many hours does that make, Emily?"

The little girl thought a moment, and then answered,

"Seven hours."

"Very well; then you see you waste seven hours in a week, which would make three hundred and sixty-four in a year, and if you should live the allotted period of life, which would be sixty years from the present time, you will willfully waste twenty one thousand eight hundred and forty hours of the precious time God has given you in which to work out His will."

"Oh, dear mamma, it does not seem possible; I am sure I don't know how the time slips away," said Emily, sadly.

"I will tell you, my love," replied Mrs. Manvers. "It slips away in just a minute; as uncounted drops of water form the sea, so do millions of minutes make up the sum of life; but so small are they that they pass without our heeding them, yet once gone they come back to us no more. Time is the one talent, the precious gift which God has bestowed upon all his creatures, and which we are bound to improve. Every hour brings its duty, and do you think it is right, Emily, to leave that duty unfulfilled?"

Emily hung her head, while tears slowly coursed down her cheek.

"Do you not see, my dear, that by idling away the precious moments you crowd the duty of one hour into the next, so your task can never be finished, or at best very imperfectly? If you reflect, the experience of the past week will tell you this. I have kept this memorandum on purpose to convince you of your sinful waste of that most precious of all gifts,—the time which our Master allows us here to work out our happiness hereafter. Remember, my love, that you are accountable to Him for your use of His gifts, and a proper improvement of time will not only save you many mortifications and produce much pleasure and comfort to yourself and all about you, but it is a duty you owe to the God who bestowed it. Do not think me unnecessarily earnest, my dear little girl; the subject is of fearful importance, and this habit of putting off till to-morrow what should be done to-day, is your greatest fault. Remember hereafter that 'Whatsoever thine hand findeth to do, do it now with all thy might,' and then I shall have no more occasion to remind you of the wasted gift."

Emily never forgot the lesson of that week, but gradually overcame the evil habits of idleness and procrastination which were becoming fixed before she was made fully aware of their danger, and a long life of usefulness attested the good impression left upon her mind by her mother's memorandum of "The Wasted Gift."

* * * * *



"Will you excuse me, mother," said a bright looking boy of twelve or thirteen to his mother, as soon as he had finished his meat and potato. "Yes, if you wish." "And may I be excused too, mother?" cried his little brother of some six or seven years. "Yes, dear, if there is any occasion for such haste, but why do you not wish for your pudding or fruit?" "Oh, Charley is going to show me something," replied the happy little boy, as he eagerly hastened from his seat, and followed his brother to the window, where they were both speedily intent upon a new bow and arrow, which had just been presented to Charley by a poor wandering Indian, to whom he had been in the habit of giving such little matters as his means would allow. Sometimes a little tobacco for his pipe, a pair of his father's cast-off boots or a half-worn pair of stockings, and sometimes he would beg of his mother a fourpence, which instead of purchasing candy for himself was slid into the hand of his aboriginal friend, and whenever he came, a good warm dinner was set before him, under Charley's special direction. He loved the poor Indian, and often told his mother he would always help an Indian while he had the power, for "Oh, how sorry I am that they are driven away from all these pleasant lands," he often used to say, "and are melting away, like the snows in April. Mother, I should think they would hate the sight of a white man." But the poor Indian is grateful for kindness from a white man, and this day as Charley came from school, poor Squantum was sitting at the corner of the house waiting for him, with a fine long smooth bow, and several arrows. "I give you this," he said, "for you always good to Squantum;" and without waiting for Charley's thanks, or accepting his earnest invitation to come in and get some dinner, he strode away. Charley was wild with delight. He flew to the house with his treasure, but the dinner-bell rang at that moment. He could not find in his heart to put it out of his hand, so he took it with him, and seated himself at the table, and as soon as his hunger was appeased, he nodded to his brother and hurried to show him his precious gift. The family were quietly conversing and finishing their dinner, when crash! and smash! went something! Poor Charley! In the eagerness of his delight, while showing the beautiful bow to his brother, he had brought the end of it within the handle of a large water-pitcher, which stood on the side table near him, and alas, the twirl was too sudden—the poor pitcher came to the floor with a mighty emphasis. "Boy! what are you about? What have you done? What do you mean by such carelessness? Will you break everything in the house, you heedless fellow? I'd rather you had broken all on the table than that pitcher, you young scapegrace. Take that, and learn to mind what you are about, or I'll take measures to make you." And with a thorough shaking, and a sound box on the ear, the father quitted the room, took his hat, and marched to his office, there to explain the law, and obtain justice for all offenders. But alas for Charley! How great was the change of feeling in his boyish heart. His mother looked for a moment with an expression of fear and sorrow upon her countenance, and telling a servant to wipe up the water he had spilled—she took his hand gently to lead him away. For a moment he repulsed her, and stood as if transfixed with astonishment and rage. But he could not withstand her pleading look, and she led him to her own room. As soon as the door closed upon them, his passion burst forth in words. "Father treats me like a dog. I never will bear it—never, never, another day. Mother, you know I did not not mean to do a wrong thing, and what right has my father to shake and cuff me as if I were a vile slave? Mother, I'll break the house down itself if he treats me so—to box my ears right before all the family! And last night he sent me out of the room, so stern, just because I slammed the door a little. I was glad he had to go to the office, and I wish he would stay there—"

"Hush, hush, my son, what are you saying? Stop, for a moment, and think what you are saying of your own kind father! Charles, my son, you are adding sin to sin. Sit down, my dear child, and crush that wicked spirit in the bud." And she gently seated him in a chair, and laying her cool hand upon his burning brow, she smoothed his hair, and pressing her lips to his forehead, he felt her tears. "Mother, mother, you blessed good mother." His heart melted within him, and he wept as if it would burst. For a few moments, both wept without restraint, but feeling that the opportunity for making a lasting impression must not be lost, Mrs. Arnold struggled to command herself. "Charles, my son, you have displeased your father exceedingly, and you cannot wonder that he was greatly disturbed. That pitcher, you often heard him say, was used for many years in his father's family. It is an old relic which he valued highly. It was very strong, and has been used by us so long, that it seemed like a familiar friend. It is not strange that for a moment he was exceedingly angry to see it so carelessly broken, and oh, my son, what wicked feelings have been in your heart, what undutiful words upon your tongue!"

"I cannot help it, mother—I cannot help it," replied the excited boy, "he ought not to treat me so, and I will not—" "Charles, Charles, you are wrong, you are very wrong, and I pray you may be sorry for it," interrupted his mother, in a tone of the deepest sorrow. "Do not speak again till you can conquer such a spirit," and they were both silent for a few moments. The mother's heart went up in fervent prayer that this might be a salutary trial, and that she might be enabled to guide his young and hasty spirit aright.

At length he spoke slowly, and his voice trembled with the strong feelings which had shaken him. "Mother, you are the dearest and best mother that ever lived. I wish I could be a good boy, for your sake; but when father speaks so harsh, I am angry all the time, and I cannot help being cross and ugly too. I know I am more and more so; I feel it, and the boys tell me so sometimes. John Gray said, yesterday, I was not half as pleasant in school as I used to be. I feel unhappy, and I am sure if I grow wicked, I grow wretched too." And again he burst into a passion of tears.

"Does not sin always bring misery, my dear boy?" asked his mother, after a little pause, "and will you not daily meet with circumstances to make you angry and unhappy, if you give way to your first impulse of impatience,—and is it not our first duty to resist every temptation to feel or act wrong? God has not promised us happiness here, but He has promised that if we resist evil it will flee from us. He has promised that if we strive to conquer our wicked feelings and do right when we are tempted to do wrong He will aid us, and give us sweet peace in so doing. To-day you have given way to anger, and you are wretched. You are blaming your father and think he is the cause of your trouble; but think a moment. If you had borne the punishment he gave you meekly and patiently, would not a feeling of peace be in your bosom, to which you are now a stranger? You know that when we suffer patiently for doing well, God is well pleased; and would not the consciousness that you had struggled against and overcome a wicked feeling, and that God looked upon you with approbation, make you more really happy than anything else can? My dear, dear boy, your happiness does not consist in what others say or do to you, but in the feelings you cherish in your own heart. There you must look for happiness, and there, if you do right, you will find it."

"I know you always say right, mother, and I will try, I will try, if I can, to bear patiently; but oh, if father only was like you"—and again tears stopped his utterance.

"My dear child," said his mother, "your father has many troubles. It is a great care to provide for his family, and you know he suffers us to want for nothing. He often has most perplexing cases, and his poor brains are almost distracted. You are a happy boy, with no care but to get your lessons, and obey your parents, and try to help them. You know nothing yet of the anxieties which will crowd upon you when you are a man. Try now to learn to bear manfully and patiently all vexations—looking for help to that blessed One, who, when he was reviled, reviled not again. How much happier and better man you will be, how you will comfort your mother, and still more, you will please that blessed Savior, who has left such an example of meekness—suffering for sinners, and even dying for his cruel enemies. Oh, my son, my son, ask that blessed Savior to make you like himself, and you will be happy, and His own Spirit will make you holy. Let us ask Him to do it," and she knelt by her bedside, and her son placed himself beside her. It was no new thing for him to pray with this devoted mother. Often had she been with him to the throne of grace, when his youthful troubles or faults had made him feel the need of an Almighty helper and friend, but never had he come before with such an earnest desire to obtain the gift of that blessed Spirit, to subdue and change his heart and make him like his Savior. When they rose from prayer he sought his own room. He felt unable to go to school, and his mother hoped the impression would be more lasting, if he thought it over in the solitude of his own chamber, and she had much reason afterward to hope that this solemn afternoon was the beginning of good days to the soul of her child. As she looked anxiously at the expression of his countenance when the family assembled at the tea-table, she was pleased to notice, though an air of sadness hung around him, he was subdued, gentle, and affectionate, and she hoped much from this severe contest with his besetting sin. His father said little, and soon hurried away to a business engagement for the evening. Mr. Arnold was a lawyer, a gentleman and a professing Christian, and though never very strongly beloved, yet few of his neighbors could tell why, or say aught against his respectability and general excellence of character. He was immersed in the cares of an extensive business, and spent little time at home, and when there he seemed to have no room in his busy heart for the prattle of his children, no time to delight and improve them, with the stores of knowledge he might have brought forth from his treasury. If company were present, he was polite and agreeable. If only his wife and children, he said little, and that little was chiefly confined to matters of domestic interest—what they should have for dinner—what schools the children should attend—or the casual mention of the most common news of the day. He provided liberally for his family, what they should eat and drink, and wherewithal they should be clothed and instructed—but he took no pains to gain their affections or their confidence, to enlarge their ideas and awaken within them the thirst for knowledge, and plant within them the deathless principles of right and wrong—or even to inspire their young minds with love and reverence for their Divine Creator and Preserver. All this most important duty of a father was left to his wife, and blessed is the man who has such a wife and mother, to whom to intrust the precious charge he neglects. Most amiable and affectionate, intelligent and judicious, and of ardent and cheerful piety, this excellent woman devoted herself with untiring zeal to the training of her cherished flock, and as she saw and felt with poignant grief that she would have no help in this greatest and first earthly duty, from him who had solemnly promised to sustain and comfort, and assist, and cherish her, to bear and share with her the trials and cares of life (and what care is greater than the right training of our offspring), she again and again strove with earnest faith and humble prayer, to cast all her care upon Him, who she was assured cared for her, and go forward in every duty with the determination to fulfill it to the utmost of her power. Many times did the cold and stern manner of her husband, his anger at trifles, and his thoughtless punishment for accidental offenses, cause her heart to bleed for the effects of such government, or want of government, upon her children's hearts and minds. But she uttered no word of blame in their presence, she ever showed them that any want of love or respect for their father grieved her, and was, moreover, a heinous sin, and by patient continuance in well doing, she yet hoped to reap the full reward. Her eldest, Charles, felt most keenly his father's utter want of sympathy, and to him she gave her most constant tender care. Affectionate, but hasty, he was illy constituted to bear the harsh command, or the frequent fault finding of his father, and often she trembled lest he should throw off all parental control, and goaded by his irritated feelings, rush into sin without restraint. And so, probably, he would have done but for the unbounded love and reverence with which he regarded his "blessed mother." Her gentle influence he could not withstand, and it grew more and more powerful with him for good, till the glance of her loving eye would check his wayward spirit, and calm him often, when passion struggled for the mastery. Often did she venture to hope he had indeed given himself to his Savior, and her conversations with him from time to time, showed so much desire to conquer every evil passion, and to shun every false way with so much affectionate reverence for his God and Redeemer, that the mother's heart was sweetly comforted in her first-born.

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The days of primer, and catechism, and tasks for the memory are gone. The schoolmaster is no longer to us as he was to our mothers, associated with all that is puzzling and disagreeable in hard unmeaning rules, with all that is dull and uninteresting in grave thoughts beyond the reach of the young idea. He is to us now rather the interpreter of mysteries, the pleasant companion who shows us the way to science, and beguiles its tediousness. If there is now no "royal road," certainly its opening defiles are made easier for the ascent of the little feet of the youthful scholar. The memory is not the chief faculty which receives a discipline in the present system of things. The "how," the "why," are the subjects of interest and attention. This is well; but it may be that in our anxiety to reach the height of the hill, and to keep up with the progress of the age, we are neglecting too much the training of the memory, which should be to us a treasury of beautiful thoughts, to cheer us in the prose of every-day life, to refine and elevate taste and feeling. We do not think it was a waste of time to learn, as our mothers did, long extracts from Milton, the sweet lyrics of Watts, the Psalms of David. Have we not often been soothed by their recitation of them in the time of sickness, at the hour of twilight, when even the mind of the child seems to reach out after the spiritual, and to need the aliment of high and holy thought? The low, sweet voice, the harmony of the verse, were conveyancers of ideas which entered the soul to become a part of it forever.

If we would be rich in thought, we must gather up the treasures of the past, and make them our own. It is not enough, certainly, for ordinary minds, simply to read the English classics; they must be studied, learned, to get from them their worth. And the mother who would cultivate the taste, the imagination of the child, must give him, with the exercise of his own inventive powers, the rich food of the past.

It need not be feared that there will not be originality in the mind of one thus stored with the wealth which others have left. Where there is a native vigor, and invention, it will remould truth into new forms, and add a value of its own, having received an inspiration from the great masters of thought.

If, then, you would bless your child, persuade him to make Milton and Cowper, and other authors of immortal verse, his familiar friends. They shall be companions in solitude, ministers of joy in hours of sadness. And let the "songs of Zion" mould the young affections, and be associated with a mother's love, and the dear delights of home. Perhaps in a strange land, and in a dying hour, when far from counselor and friend, they may lead even the prodigal to think upon his ways, and be his guide to Heaven.

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"THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."—This is a charming book, written by one of our own countrywomen, which we think may be safely and appropriately given to a pure-minded and simple-hearted daughter. If it is fictitious, it is only so as the ideal landscape of an artist, which, though unreal, compels us to exclaim, How true to nature! If the delineation of true religious character is not its main object, that of piety and benevolence is as truly a part of it, as is its fragrance a part of the rose. We should love to give it to some of our friends whose Christianity may be vital, but which does not make them lovely—who may show some of its fruits, but who hardly cultivate what may be called the leaves and flowers of a holy character. If the sternness and want of sympathy of Aunt Fortune does not rebuke them, perhaps the loveliness and patience of Ellen, and her friends, may win them to an imitation.

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"LIFE IN THE WEST; OR, THE MORETON FAMILY."—This tasteful little work, coming out under the sanction of the American Sunday-School Union, hardly needs from us an item of praise; but we cannot consent to pass it by unnoticed. A more faithful and interesting picture of the trials of a Christian family in removing westward, and of their surmounting such trials, we have never seen. Religion, the religion of home, they take with them; and by the wayside, and in the log cottage, they worship their father's God. We needed such a delineation, in the form of an attractive narrative, to show us that in passing through the trials of a strange country, we are yet to be on the Lord's side. But beside this, there is in the work the loveliness of a well-ordered home; the picture of a faithful, thoughtful mother, and of children and husband appreciating such a mother. To give one little extract—"The mother's room! What family knows not that sociable spot—that heart of the house? To it go the weary, the sick, the sad and the happy, all sure of sympathy and of aid; all secure in their expectation of meeting there the cheering word, the comforting smile, and the loving friend." In thorough ignorance of what a new home should mean, little Willie inquires, "Home is not a house, is it?" Most sensible question for a child. To such as desire an answer to the inquiry, we recommend the work, as one which will be of value to them and their children.

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In my intercourse with Christian parents, and it has not been limited, I have often found a deep anxiety pervading their hearts in relation to the spiritual state of their children. And why should not such anxiety exist? If a parent has evidence that his child is in an impenitent state—especially if that child is growing up in habits of vicious indulgence—he ought to feel, and deeply feel. That child is in danger, and the danger is the greater by how much the more his heart has become callous, under the hardening influence of a wicked life; and every day that danger increases. God's patience may be exhausted. The brittle thread of life may be sundered at any moment, and the impenitent and unprepared soul be summoned to the bar of God. With great propriety, therefore, may the parent feel anxious in regard to his unconverted children.

But to some parents it seems mysterious that such deep, constant, corroding anxiety should be their allotment. They sometimes attempt to cast it off. They would feel justified in doing so, were they able. But that is impossible. Now, to such parents allow me to address a few thoughts which, may the Divine Spirit, by his gracious influence, bless to their comfort and direction.

And the first thing I have to say is, that the solicitude they feel for their children may be excessive. That it should be deep must be admitted, and it should continue as long as the danger lasts. It should even increase as that danger increases up to a given point; but there is a point beyond which even parental solicitude should never be suffered to proceed. It should not become excessive. It should never be suffered to weaken our confidence in the divine goodness, nor in the wisdom of the divine dispensations. It should never prompt the parent to desire that God should alter the established order of his providence, or change or modify the principles of his moral government. It would not be right for me to wish my children saved at all adventures. That anxiety which prompts to such a desire is both excessive and selfish. It can never be justified, nor can God ever favorably regard it.

My second remark is, that a deep solicitude of the parent for the spiritual good of his children is most desirable. I am aware that it is more or less painful, and in itself is neither pleasant nor desirable. But may it not, notwithstanding, be beneficial in its results, and even of incalculable importance? Where no danger is apprehended, no care will be exercised. Who knows not that the unsolicitous mariner is far more likely to suffer shipwreck than he who, apprehensive of rocks and reefs, exercises a wise precaution? The parent who never suffers himself to be disturbed—whose sleep is never interrupted while his children are abroad, exposed to temptation—may for that very reason neglect them at the critical juncture, and the head-waters may become too impulsive; the tendencies to vice and crime too powerful to be resisted. Oh! had the parent been a little more anxious—had he looked after his children with a higher sense of his obligations, how immeasurably different, probably, had been the result! The truth is, that where one parent feels too much in relation to his children, hundreds of parents are criminally indifferent. In regard to such parents, it is our duty to awaken their anxieties by every means in our power. But what shall we say to those who may be thought already over-solicitous? Such parents are seldom to be found. If any such there be, let them moderate what may possibly be excessive; but be sure to bless God, who has given you a deep anxiety for the salvation of your loved ones. Remember that it prompts you to greater watchfulness and care than you would otherwise exercise. You pray more, you instruct them more, you guard them more. And your children, therefore, are more likely to become the children of God. And remember, further, that your Heavenly Father knows just what solicitudes you feel, their weight, their painfulness; and just so long as you feel them, and in consequence of them, act in the use of those legitimate means which God has instituted for the restraint and conversion of your children, you have reason to hope. The very end and object of those Christian anxieties are just what you desire, and for which you are daily praying—the conversion of your children; and if you pursue a proper course under them, you are probably more likely to see your hopes accomplished than if they did not exist.

I had contemplated adding other suggestions, but time and space will not allow. But I cannot dismiss this subject without saying, that instead of ever complaining that God has imparted to you such a deep anxiety for the spiritual good of your children, let that time thus spent be employed in fervent, importunate and agonizing prayer for them. That is the best way of washing off these accumulated and accumulating loads of anxiety. Plead in view of your deep solicitude—plead in Christ's name—plead by the worth of your children's souls—plead by every consideration you can think of, and then plead by every consideration which the All Omniscient mind of God can think of—especially plead the divine honor and glory, as involved in such a desired result, and when you have done all these, then act wisely, and efficiently as you can. Never give up—never falter—not even for a moment. But be steady to your purpose—yet in every step of your progress say, "O God, thy will be done."

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A family is a community or government, of which the parents are the legislators, and the children are the subjects. The parents are required by the family constitution to superintend and direct the conduct of their children, and others under their care. And children, by the same authority, are required to obey their parents. "Children, obey your parents in all things; for this is well pleasing unto the Lord." But parents are more than legislators; they possess the executive power. They are to see their rules carried out. And, still further, they are to judge of the penalty due to infraction and disobedience, and of the time and manner in which punishment is to be inflicted. The authority vested in parents is great, and most judiciously should it be exercised. God has given general directions in his word touching the exercise of their authority. To Him they are amenable. And by all the love they bear to their offspring, their desire for their welfare, and the hope of the future approbation of God, they should endeavor to bring up their children in the "nurture and admonition of the Lord."

But are not parents apt to legislate too much? This is often an error in all legislative assemblies. Perhaps there is not a State in the Union in which the laws are not too many, and too minute. Every legislator feels desirous of leaving his impress on the statute book. And so there is yearly an accumulation of laws and resolves, one-half of which might probably be dispensed with, with advantage to the people.

The same over legislation often obtains in the school-room, springing doubtless from a desire on the part of the teacher to preserve a more perfect order among his pupils. Hence the number and minuteness of his rules; and in his endeavor to reduce them to practice, and make clock-work of the internal machinery, he quite likely defeats the very object he has in view. A school-teacher who pretends to notice every aberration from order and propriety is quite likely to have his hands full, and just so with parents. Some children cannot keep still. Their nervous temperament does not admit of it. I once heard an elderly gentleman say, that when riding in a coach, he was so confined that he felt as if he should die because he could not change his position. Oh! if he could have stirred but an inch! Children often feel just so. And it is bad policy to require them to sit as so many little immoveable statues. "There, sit in just that spot, and don't you move an inch till I bid you." Who has not heard a parent give forth such a mandate? And a school-master, too, to some little urchin, who tries to obey, but from that moment begins to squirm, and turn, and hitch, and chiefly because his nervous system is all deranged by the very duty imposed upon him. And, besides, what if Tommy, in the exuberance of his feelings, while sitting on the bench, does stick out his toe a little beyond the prescribed line. Or suppose Jimmy crowds up to him a little too closely, and feeling that he can't breathe as freely as he wishes, gives him a hunch; or suppose Betty, during a temporary fit of fretfulness, induced by long setting in one posture, or overcome with the heat of a midsummer afternoon, or the sweltering temperature of a room where an old-fashioned box stove has been converted into a furnace; suppose Betty gives her seat-mate a sly pinch to make her move to a more tolerable distance, shall the teacher utter his rebuke in tones which might possibly be appropriate if a murder was about being committed? I have known a schoolmaster "fire up" like a steam-engine, and puff and whiz at the occurrence of some such peccadilloes, and the consequence was that the whole school was soon at a stand-still as to study, and the askance looks and suppressed titter of the little flock told you that the teacher had made no capital that time. I have seen essentially the same thing in parents.

Now, I am not exactly justifying such conduct in children. But such offences will exist, despite of all the wisdom, authority, and sternness in the wide world. My position is, that these minor matters must sometimes be left. They had better not always be seen, or if seen, not be noticed. I think those who have the care of children may take a lesson from a slut and her pups, or a cat and her kittens. Who has not seen the puppy or the kitten taking some license with their dams?—biting as puppies and kittens bite at play? Well, and what sort of treatment do they sometimes get from the older folks? Now and then you hear a growl, or see a spat. But, generally, the "old ones" know better. The little frolicsome creatures are indulged. Nature seems to teach these canine and feline parents that their progeny must and will have sport. I have, indeed, as I have said, heard the ominous growl and the warning spat or spit, but what good has it done? Why, the growl seems only to inspirit the young dog. He plays so much the more; or, at least, if he plays shy for a brief space, the next you'll see, he jumps on to the old dog and plays the harder, and the kitten acts in like manner.

But I have said enough. The sum is, that it is wise not to take cognizance of all that might be considered amiss in children. Correct the faults which are the most prominent. Let the statute-book not be overburdened with small enactments. Nothing is small which is morally wrong; but little physical twitchings, and nervous peccadilloes are not worthy of grave legislation. The apostle's account of himself has some pertinence here. "When I was a child, I thought as a child, I spoke as a child"—Paul, doubtless acted as a child; "but when I became a man, I put away childish things." The experience and observation of years often make salutary corrections, which you would in vain attempt to effect in early childhood, by all the laws of a ponderous octavo, or by all the birch saplings to be found in a western forest.


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Kind reader, whoever thou art, I come to thee with an earnest plea, and that I may the more surely prevail in my suit, let me for a time exert over thee the mesmeric power; thy bodily eyes being closed, and thy spirit set free from its encumbering clay, let me introduce thee to distant scenes.

The hour is midnight,—the place an humble home in far off Michigan. Let us enter; nothing hinders, for bolts and bars are here unknown. Step quietly, that we may not disturb the sleeping. Come with me to this bed-chamber; it is indeed dark, but the spirit does not need material light. On this rude bed reposes an aged man with whitened locks and furrowed face, and yonder lies a little child whose tiny feet have yet taken but few steps on life's rude journey. Listen!—she moves—she is not asleep. What has wakened thee, gentle one?—the slumbers of childhood should be undisturbed. She sings—in the silent, lonely night, with sweet low voice she is singing—

"Jesus, Saviour, Son of God, Who for me life's pathway trod; Who for me became a child, Make me humble, meek, and mild.

I thy little lamb would be, Jesus, I would follow thee; Samuel was thy child of old, Take me now within thy fold."

The old man wakens—she has disturbed him. Shall he stop her?—no; he loves that little one, and he has not the heart to bid her be silent. One after another she pours forth her sweet melodies, till at last her voice grows fainter and fainter, and soon she and her grandfather are both lying again in unbroken repose. The morning comes. The old man calls to him the petted one, and says: "Lucy, why did you sing last night when you should have been asleep? What were you singing?" Stopping her play she looks up and says brightly—"I was singing to Jesus, grandpa, and you ought to sing to him, too."

Why does he start and tremble, that stern, gray-headed man? He has lived more than sixty years an unbeliever—a despiser of the lowly Savior. No thought of repentance or remorse has afflicted him—no desire has he ever had to hear the words of eternal life. He has trained up his family in ignorance of God, and only in his memory has the blessed Sabbath had a name since he went to his distant western home.

Not long ago a benevolent man passing through the town, gathered some of the ragged and forsaken little ones into a Sabbath-school, and bestowed on them the inestimable gift of a few small books. The little Lucy heard from her young companions the wonderful story, and begged to go. But she was sternly refused. He wanted nothing with the Sabbath-school. She could not be pacified, however, and at length with prayers and tears she was permitted to prevail. She went, and returned with her Testament and little hymn-book, and with such joy and glee, that even her grandfather came to think the Sabbath-school an excellent thing. Of that blessed school he is now a member, and is weekly found studying the word of God, as humbly and diligently as a little child. The infidel of sixty years is a penitent follower of that Jesus to whom little Lucy sung her midnight song, and who out of the mouths of babes often perfects his praise.

But we cannot tarry here; let us journey on. Our way lies through these woods. Do you hear the sound of an axe? Yonder is a woodman, and by his side a little boy. We will approach. Never fear. Spirits cannot be discerned by mortal eyes, and though we come very near, they will be unconscious of our presence. How attractive is childhood. The little fellow is as merry as a lark, and chatters away to his father, who, with silent absorption pursues his work. Suddenly his axe slips, and a large limb, which should have fallen in the other direction, descends with violence upon his foot. Can spirits be deaf at pleasure? If so we will quickly close our ears, for fearful is the torrent of oaths proceeding from the mouth of the infuriated man. But where is the child? Look at him where he stands; his innocent prattle hushed—his whole appearance and attitude showing the utmost fear and distress. Listen—he speaks—slowly and solemnly: "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain." Who made thee a preacher of righteousness, a rebuker of sin, thou little stray lamb of the Savior's fold? The Sabbath-school,—lone instrument of good in these western wilds, has taught thee, and thou teachest thy father. Nor is the reproof vain. Heart-stricken and repentant he is henceforth a new man. "God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform." But we will on. The woods are passed, and we emerge again into the highway. Who goes yonder with painful effort in the road before us? It is a crippled boy. Stop—let us speak to him. Can spirits converse in human tones? We will try. "Good morning, my poor boy; are you going far on your crutches over this rough road?"

"Only to the village, sir, about a mile from this."

"And pray what may be your errand that you make so much effort?"

"Oh, sir, one of the boys, last week, gave me a little book, which told about God, and heaven, and hell, and I am frightened about my soul, and I am going to ask the good minister who lives in the village what I shall do that I may go to heaven."

"God speed and teach thee, and give us to see thee at last among the ransomed ones."

We have left the village where the "good minister" lived, far behind, and now we approach a populous town. By our side travels a thoughtful man, all unwitting of his company. It is the Sabbath, and he has been ten miles to hear the gospel preached. No church-going bell has as yet ever gladdened the place which he calls his home. Deep sighs escape from his breast, as he rides slowly along. He meditates on the wretched condition of his neighbors and friends. As we approach the town the sound of voices is heard. The good man listens, and distinguishes the tones of children familiar and dear. He approaches the hedge from which they proceed. What anguish is depicted on his face as he gazes on the boys, sitting under the hedge, on God's holy day, busily engaged in playing cards! Are you a parent, kind reader? Are you a Christian parent? If so, perhaps you can understand his feelings as he turns desparingly away, and murmurs to himself—"No preacher of the gospel—no Sunday-school—no Sabbath day. Alas! what shall save our children?"

Our journey is ended. Every incident which we have imagined we saw, is recorded in God's book of remembrance as a fact.

My plea is in behalf of those who would establish Sabbath-schools among the thousands of precious infant souls in the far-off West.

Do you ask what you can do? Perhaps you can increase your donations to the Home Missionary and Sunday-school Societies. Every dollar goes far, given to either. But perhaps you are doing all you can in that way. Have you then no good books lying about your home which have done their work for your loved ones, and can be dispensed with? Can you collect among your friends a dozen or more? Do not think it a small thing. Gather them together, and put them in some box of clothing which is destined to Michigan. Every one of those defaced and cast-off books may be a messenger of life to some starving soul.

More than this you can do. Train your own precious children to value their abundant privileges, and embue them with the earnest desire to impart freely what is so freely given. Look upon your son, your pride and joy. A few years hence may find him living side by side with one of those unfortunate boys who knew no better than to desecrate the holy day with gambling. Will he be able to withstand the influences which will surround him in such society? That, under God, depends on your prayers and efforts. Ask earnestly for grace to prepare him to do the blessed work, wherever he goes, of winning souls to Christ, and not be himself enticed to evil. Your daughter—your gentle, bright-eyed one—over whom your heart yearns with unspeakable tenderness—her home may be yet appointed far toward the setting sun. For her sake, lend all your influence to the good work of saving those rapidly populating towns from the dominion of evil. Labor and pray, and day by day, instil into her young mind the principles which governed her Savior's earthly life—who went about doing good, and who valued not the riches of heaven's glory that he might redeem souls.


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There is always great danger of wounding the sensibilities of a timid, retiring child. It requires great forbearance and discrimination on the part of parents and teachers, in their endeavors to develop the latent faculties of the minds of such children, (whether this dullness is natural, or the effect of untoward circumstances,) without injuring the sensibilities of the heart.

This is especially true at the present day, when the world is laying such heavy demands upon the time and attention of parents.

We not unfrequently hear a father confessing, with regret, to be sure, but without any apparent endeavors to obviate the evil, that his time and thoughts are so absorbed in the cares of his business, that his little children scarcely recognize him, as he seldom returns to his family, till they are in bed, and goes forth to his business before they are up in the morning.

This is, indeed, a sad evil, and if possible ought to be remedied. How can we expect that such a father will understand the peculiar temper and dispositions of his children so as to aid a mother in their proper training? Perhaps in some cases such evils cannot be remedied.

But, alas! what heavy responsibilities does such neglect, on the part of the father, devolve upon the mother! Methinks the circumstances of such a mother may be even more difficult to meet than if she were a widow!

We invite the attention of parents to a consideration of this topic and some of the evils growing out of the wrong treatment of timid, dull children. We can do no more at present than attempt to show, in a given case, how such an existing evil was cured by forbearance and kindness. The illustration is taken from "Pictures of Early Life," in the case of a little girl by the name of Lilias Tracy.

This poor child, though her father was rich, and held an honorable station in society, yet on account of her mother's sorrows, and subsequent insanity, her poor child, Lilias, who was allowed to remain with her mother, was brought up in an atmosphere of sadness, and it was no wonder that she became melancholy and reserved.

After the death of her mother, her father understood too little of the character of his only child to be able to afford her much solace, and he therefore determined to send her to a boarding-school.

If there be a trial which exceeds a child's powers of endurance, it is a first entrance into a boarding-school. Little Lilias felt at once this painful situation in all its bitterness.

Shy and sensitive at all times, she had never felt so utterly forlorn, as when she first found herself in the play-ground belonging to Mrs. Bellamy's school.

Not only was she timid and shy, but the necessity of being always with her mother to soothe the paroxysms of distress, had deprived Lilias of many opportunities of education, and she was therefore far less advanced in knowledge than most of her companions. Numberless were the mortifications to which she was obliged to submit on account of her ignorance, while her timidity and shyness increased in proportion to the reproofs of her teachers, and the ridicule of her schoolfellows. She at length came to be regarded as one of those hopelessly dull pupils who are to be found cumbering the benches of every large school, and but for her father's wealth and honorable station in society, she would, probably, have been sent away in disgrace.

Fortunately, Providence raised up for poor Lilias, at this juncture, a kind friend and patient teacher in a schoolfellow, by the name of Victorine Horton. This amiable young lady, seeing the trials and mortifications of this sensitive child, begged Mrs. Bellamy to allow Lilias to become her room-mate, and she would assist her in her lessons. Some few weeks after this arrangement took place, Victorine was accosted thus—

"How can you waste so much time on that stupid child, Miss Horton?" said one of the teachers. "She does not seem to improve any, with all your pains; she will never repay your trouble."

"I do not despair," said Victorine, smiling. "She is an affectionate little creature, and if continual dropping will wear away a stone, surely, repeated kindness will melt the icy mantle of reserve which now conceals her better qualities."

A happy child was little Lilias, thus to become the companion and bedfellow of such a kind-hearted friend as she found in Victorine. Stimulated by affection, she applied herself to her studies, and as "perfect love casteth out fear," she was enabled to get her lessons, and to recite them without that nervous timidity which had usually deprived her of all power.

A few months after Victorine had thus undertaken the charge of Lilias, a prize was offered, in each class, for the most elegantly written French exercise. Lilias observed the eagerness of the pupils to compete for the medals, but she never dreamed of becoming a candidate till Victorine suggested it.

"I wish you would try to win the prize in your class, dear Lilias," said Victorine.

"I, Victorine! It would be impossible."

"Why, impossible, Lilias? You have lately made great progress in the study of French, and if I may judge by your last translation, you will stand as good a chance as any of the class."

"But, you know, I have your assistance, Victorine, and if I were writing for the prize I should be obliged to do it all myself."

"I gave you little aid in your last exercises, Lilias, and there are yet two months before the time fixed for awarding the premiums, so you will have opportunity enough to try your skill."

"But if I should not succeed, the whole school will laugh at me for making the attempt."

"No, Lilias; those who possess proper feelings will never laugh at an attempt to do right, and for those who can indulge an ill-natured jest at the expense of a schoolfellow's feelings, you need not care. I am very anxious you should make the attempt."

"Well, if you wish it, Victorine, I will do my best; but I know I shall fail."

"Do you know how I generally succeed in such tasks, Lilias? It is never by thinking of the possibility of failure. I have almost forgotten to say, I can't, and have substituted, upon every occasion, I'll try."

"Well, then, to please you, Victorine, 'I'll try,'" said Lilias, smiling.

"Poor child," thought Victorine, "with your affectionate nature, and noble principles, it is a pity you should be regarded only as a dull and sullen little dunce, whom no one cares to waste a thought upon."

For a long time, Lilias' project in regard to the medal was concealed from the school. To tell the truth, Victorine, herself, had many doubts as to the success of her little friend, but she knew if she failed to obtain the prize, the exertion would be of service to herself.

Long before the day arrived, Lilias had twenty times determined to withdraw from all competition; but she never broke a promise, and as she had pledged herself to Victorine, she resolved to persevere.

In the sequel, Victorine was surprised at the beauty of the thoughts in Lilias' exercise, as well as the correctness of the language. She was satisfied that Lilias had done well; her only fear was lest others should do better.

At the head of the class to which Lilias belonged was Laura Graham; and a mutual dislike had always existed between them. Laura was a selfish, as well as an avaricious girl; and she had often looked with a covetous eye upon the costly trifles which Lilias' father had bestowed upon his daughter. To her narrow mind it seemed impossible that Victorine should not have an interested motive in her kindness to Lilias, and she thought an opportunity was now offered her of sharing some of her spoils.

About a week before the trial day, Laura G. sought Lilias, and leading her to a remote part of the garden, she unfolded to her a scheme for insuring the prize she so much coveted. She proposed to destroy her own theme, knowing she was one of the best French pupils, thereby securing the prize to Lilias, on condition she should receive, in return, a pearl brooch and bracelet she had long coveted. Lilias, as might have been expected, expressed the greatest contempt and resentment at the proposal.

When the day arrived, many a little heart beat high with hope and fear. Victorine, as might have been expected, took the first prize in the first class. The class to which Lilias belonged was next in order. As Mrs. Bellamy arose, Lilias perceived she held in her hand two themes, while before her on the table lay a small box. Addressing Laura Graham, who sat with an air of conscious superiority at the head of the class, Mrs. Bellamy said,

"Of the two themes I hold in my hand, the one written by you, Miss Graham, and the other by Miss Lilias Tracy, I am sorry to say that yours is best."

Lilias could scarce restrain her tears, as she saw Laura advance, proudly, towards Mrs. Bellamy, and bend her head as if to receive the riband that suspended the glittering prize; but what was her surprise, when Mrs. Bellamy, instead of offering it to Laura, in the usual manner, handed her a small box, closely sealed.

"As the best French scholar, Miss Graham," said she, "I am compelled to bestow on you the medal which you will find enclosed in a box; but, as an act of justice, and a proper punishment for your want of integrity, (Mrs. B. having casually overheard what passed in the garden), I forbid you to wear, or exhibit it, for twelve months."

"Come hither," said Mrs. B. to Lilias, as Laura, pale and trembling, and drowned in tears, hurried in shame and sorrow from the room. Lilias, scarcely less overwhelmed than her guilty fellow-pupil, advanced with faultering step, and Mrs. Bellamy, suspending from her neck a small and highly-finished locket, said:

"I can give but one medal in each class for improvement in French, and had not Miss Graham been in your class, yours, Miss Tracy would have been the best; I cannot, however, allow this opportunity to pass without some lasting memorial of your merit. I therefore present you with a locket containing the hair of your beloved friend, Victorine, as a testimonial of my esteem for your integrity and honor."

Poor Lilias! She had never been so happy in her life as when she threw herself in Victorine's arms, and shed tears of joy upon her bosom.

Whether these few outlines of this truly interesting story be founded on fact or not, we cannot forbear to say that God will assuredly, sooner or later, fully reward all those who live up to the holy principles and precepts of his own blessed truth, and he is no less faithful in punishing every proud and wicked doer.

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(Continued from page 162.)

At length it was time to choose his path in life, and being inclined to mercantile pursuits, his father placed him in the store of one of their friends, where he would have every facility for acquiring a thorough knowledge of business. Oh, how carefully did his mother watch the effect of a closer contact with the world, and a more prolonged absence from her hallowed influence—and how gratefully did she perceive that her precious boy still came to her with the confiding love of his childhood, in all the temptations of his business life, and that her influence was still potent with him for good.

"Mother, I was terribly urged to go to the theater last week," said he in one of his frequent visits at home. "Harvey and Brown were going, and they are pretty steady fellows, and I really was half inclined to go."

"Well, what saved you?"

"Oh, I knew just how you would look, mother, dear, and I would rather never see a theater than face that grieved look of yours. Mother, the thought of you has saved me from many, many temptations to do wrong, and if I am good for anything, when I am a man, I must thank God for my mother."

"Thank God for his preserving grace, my dearest Charley, and ask him to give you more and more of it."

Not many days after, Mrs. Arnold was in company with her son's employer. "Your son promises well, Mrs. Arnold," said he, "he is very accurate, obliging, respectful. I am somewhat hasty at times, and a few days since blamed him severely for something which I thought he had done wrong. He showed no ill-temper, but received it with so much meekness, my heart smote me. The next day he asked me very respectfully if I would inquire of one of the clerks about it, which I did, and found he had done nothing blameworthy in the least. He is a fine boy, madam, a very fine boy, and I hope will make as good a man as his father."

But a good man Charley was not destined to be. Her reward was nearer than she had thought, and he who had learned of the lowly Saviour to be meek and lowly of heart, was soon to be transplanted to dwell with loving and holy ones above. One day he returned home unexpectedly, and the first glance told his mother he was in trouble. "Mother, I feel really sick. I was sick yesterday, but I kept in the store; but to-day I could only go down and see Mr. Barker, and tell him I must come home for a day or two. Oh, mother it is a comfort to see your dear kind face again," said he, as she felt his pulse, examined his tongue, and inquired how he felt, "and perhaps if I can rest quietly an hour or two this dreadful pain in my head will be relieved."

He went to his pleasant chamber, to his quiet bed, the physician was summoned, and all that skill and the tenderest care could do was done, but he rapidly drew near the grave. He was patient, gentle, grateful, beautiful upon that bed of death, and while his mother's soul was poured forth in earnest prayer, for his continued life, her heart swelled with grateful thanksgiving for the sweet evidence he gave of a subdued and Christian spirit, and she could say with true and cheerful submission, "Not my will but Thine be done, whether for life or death, for it is well with the child."

Just at twilight one evening, he awoke from a short slumber, and his eye sought his mother at his bedside. She leaned over him and softly pressed her lips to his forehead. "Mother," he said, faintly, "the Doctor has given up all hope of my life, has he not?" Nerving herself to calmness for his sake, she answered, "He thinks you very sick, Charley, but I cannot give up all hope. How can I part with you, my beloved?"

"Mother," said he, as he took her hand in both his, and laid it on his breast, "I want, while I am able, to tell you how I feel, and I want you to know what you have done for me. I was a passionate, bad tempered boy, and you know father—" He stopped. "Mother, I should have been a ruined boy but for you. I see it all now plainly. You have saved me, mother. You have saved my soul. You have been my guide and comfort in life. You have taught me to meet even death and fear no evil, for you have shown me my sin, and taught me to repent of it, and love and trust the precious Saviour, who died that His blood might cleanse even my guilt. I feel that I can lie in His arms, sure that He has forgiven my sin and washed my sinful soul white in His blood. How often you have told me He would do it if I asked Him, and I have asked Him constantly, and He will do it, He will not cast me off. Mother, when you think of me, be comforted, for you have led me to my Saviour, and I rejoice to go and be with Him forever."

The next sun arose on the cold remains of what was so lately the active and happy Charles Arnold, and there was bitter grief in that dwelling, for very dear had the kind and loving brother been to them. The father was stunned—thunderstruck. Little had he expected such a grief as this, and he seemed utterly unable to endure it, or to believe it. How much he communed with his own heart of his neglected duty to that departed boy, we know not, but dreadful was the anguish he endured, and the mother had the joy to perceive that his manner afterward was far more tender to his remaining children, whom he seemed now for the first time to realize he might not always have with him, to be neglected and put aside, as a trouble and as a care, rather than as a precious gift, to be most carefully trained up for God.

But all wondered at the perfect calmness of that afflicted mother. So devoted—so saintlike—it would seem that she was in constant and sweet communing with the redeemed spirit of her boy. No regret, no repining escaped her lips, and many who knew how fondly she loved her children, and had feared that this sudden blow would almost overwhelm her, gazed with wonder at her perfect submission, her cheerful touching tenderness of voice and speech. And though tears would at times flow, yet she would say in the midst of them, "These are not tears of grief but of joy, that my darling son is safe, and holy, and blessed forever. Tears of gratitude to God for His goodness." And when hours of sadness, and of longing for her absent one came, as they will come to the bereaved at times, a faint voice seemed to whisper in her ear. "Mother, you have saved me, you have saved my soul!" And sweetest comfort came with that never to be forgotten whisper from the dying bed of her precious child, to sustain her in the darkest hour.

Fathers! Plead as you will, that you are full of care and labor to support your families. Say it over and over, till you really believe it yourself, if you please, that when you come home tired at night, you cannot be crazed with the clatter of children's tongues. You want to rest and be quiet. So you do, and so you should—but have you any right to be so perfectly worn out with business, that the voice of your own child is irksome to you? Try, for once, a little pleasant, quiet, instructive chat with him. Enter for a few moments into his feelings, and pursuits and thoughts—for that child has feelings, that need cherishing tenderly, for your own future comfort. He has pursuits, and you are the one to talk with him about them, and kindly tell him which are right and useful, and which he would do better to let alone. He has thoughts, and who shall direct that mind aright which must think forever, if not the author of his being? Ask of his school, and his playmates, and see if your own spirit is not rested and refreshed, and your heart warmed by this little effort to win the love and confidence, and delight the heart of this young immortal, who owes his entrance into this weary world to you, and whom you are under the most solemn obligations, to strive to prepare to act well his part in it. Do not say this is his mother's business. Has the Bible laid any command upon mothers? Would it not seem that He who formed her heart, knew that she needed not to be told to labor, in season and out of season, for her beloved offspring? But to you is the strong command, "Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath, but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord."

Mothers, do you not reap a rich reward for curbing your own spirits, for every self-denial, for untiring devotion to the immortals given to your care, with souls to be saved or lost? Oh! neglect them not, lest conscience utter the fearful whisper, "Mother, you might have saved that soul!"


* * * * *



There are thousands of persons in the United States to whom the name of Jonathan Trumbull, formerly a governor of Connecticut, is familiar—I mean the first governor of that name. He was a friend and supporter of General Washington during the Revolutionary War, and greatly contributed by his judicious advice and prompt aid to achieve the Independence of America.

This Governor Trumbull had a son by the name of John, who became distinguished in the use of the pencil, and who left several paintings of great merit commemorative of scenes in the history of our revolutionary struggle. My story relates to an incident which occurred during the boyhood of John.

His father, for the purpose of giving employment to the Mohegan Indians, a tribe living within the bounds of the Connecticut colony, though at some distance from the governor's residence, hired several of their hunters to kill animals of various kinds for their furs. One of the most successful of these hunters was a sachem by the name of Zachary.

But Zachary was a drunkard, and persisted in his intemperate habits till he reached the age of fifty. By whose means I am unable to say, but at that time he was induced utterly to abandon the use of intoxicating drinks. His life was extended to eighty years, but he was never known after the above reformation, although often under powerful temptation, to taste in a single instance of the "accursed thing."

In his history of the Indians of Connecticut, De Forest has given us an account of the manful resistance of Zachary on one occasion of an artful temptation to violate his temperance principles, spread before him by John Trumbull, at his father's house. He says, "In those days the annual ceremony of election was a matter of more consequence than it is now; and the Indians, especially, used to come in considerable numbers to Hartford and New Haven to stare at the governor, and the soldiers, and the crowds of citizens, as they entered those cities, Jonathan Trumbull's house was about half-way between Mohegan and Hartford, and Zachary was in the habit of stopping, on his way to election, to dine with his old employer.

"John Trumbull, then about ten years old, had heard of the reformation of Zachary, and, partaking of the common contempt for the intemperate and worthless character of the Indians, did not entirely credit it. As the family were sitting around the dinner-table, he resolved to test the sincerity of the visitor's temperance.

"Sipping some home-brewed beer, which stood on the table, he said to the old man, 'Zachary, this beer is excellent; won't you taste it?' The knife and fork dropped from the Indian's hand; he leaned forward with a stern intensity of expression, his dark eyes, sparkling with indignation, were fixed on the young tempter: 'John,' said he, 'you don't know what you are doing. You are serving the devil, boy. Don't you know that I am an Indian? I tell you that I am; and if I should taste your beer, I could never stop until I got to rum, and become again the drunken, contemptible wretch your father once knew me. John, while you live, never again tempt any man to break a good resolution.'"

This was said in an earnest, solemn tone, and deeply affected Governor Trumbull and lady, who were at the table. John was justly awed, and deep was the impression made upon him. His parents often recurred to the incident, and charged their son never to forget it.

The advice of the sachem was indeed most valuable. "Never again tempt any man to break a good resolution." It were well if this precept were followed by all. How many who are reformed from evil habits, yet not firm and established, but who would persevere in their better resolutions were they encouraged, are suddenly, and to themselves surprisingly, set back by some tempter! What sorrow is engendered! and how difficult to regain what is thus lost! All this is essentially true of the young. Their good resolutions are assaulted; the counsels of a pious mother—the precepts of a kind father, and the determinations which a son may have formed in view of those counsels and those precepts, may be easily undermined and destroyed by the flattery or the ridicule, the reproach or the banter of some subtle or even of some thoughtless companion. To those who may read these pages, and who may at any time be tempted to seduce others from paths of virtue, or to break over solemn resolutions which they may have formed as to an upright and commendable course of life, let the injunction of old Zachary, the Mohegan sachem, not come in vain. "Never tempt any one to break a good resolution."


* * * * *





In a lone forest, dark and drear, Stood wrapt in grief a maiden fair; Her flowing locks were wet with dew, Her life was sad, her friends were few.

A sparkling light gleam'd distant far, Like twinkling faint of evening star; Quickly it spread its brilliant ray, Till forest drear looked bright and gay.

And on the wings of love and light, A radiant figure, pure and white, Approached and spake with accents mild: "Why so despondent, sorrow's child?

"When thy lone feet the violet press, Its perfume rises still to bless; While groves and lawns, with landscape fair, Are bathed in healthful mountain air."

"Ah, friend! thy path shines bright and clear; Daily thou breath'st the mountain air; But mine is in the barren wild, Where naught looks bright to sorrow's child."

"Then take my arm, pale sister, dear, With you I'll tread this forest drear; When guided by this light from Heav'n, Strength and peace will both be given."

They journeyed on through glade and fen, 'Till passing near a rocky glen, Mild Patience came and sweetly smiled Upon the path of sorrow's child.

The measured way still brighter grew, 'Till cares and griefs were faint and few. Thus, Hope and Patience oft beguiled The toil-worn path of sorrow's child.

* * * * *




There is no path of duty appointed for man to tread, concerning which the Almighty has not expressed his will in terms so plain that the sincere inquirer may always hear a voice behind him saying, "This is the way, walk ye in it;" nor are there any relations of life, nor any human affections which he has not constituted, and bestowed, nor any disappointment of those affections for which he has not manifested a sympathy so sincere, that the desolate and heart-stricken may always say, "Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal."

Yet, it is something difficult for us to realize in our hours of darkness and despondency, that toward us personally and individually, the great heart of Infinite Love yearns with tenderness and pity. Even if we can say, "Though clouds and darkness are round about him, justice and judgment are the habitation of his throne," and can acquiesce meekly in all his dispensations, and believe sincerely that they will work for our good, yet we often fail of the blessedness which might be ours, if we could be equally assured that, "As a father pitieth his children, so doth the Lord pity them that fear him." This assurance only the faithful student of the Bible can feel, as the great truth gleams forth upon him from time to time, illuming "dark afflictions midnight gloom" with rays celestial, and furnishing balm for every wound, the balm of sympathy and love.

We often hear it said, by those who even profess themselves Christians, and devout lovers of the sacred oracles, "How can you read the book of Leviticus? What can you find in the dry details of the ceremonial law to detain you months in its study and call forth such expressions of interest?" Such will probably pass by this article when they find themselves invited again to Horeb. Turn back, friends. You are not the only ones who have excused themselves from a feast. And we—we will extend our invitation to others. On the by-ways and lanes they can be found; in every corner of this wide-spread earth are some for whom our table is prepared. We leave the prosperous, the gay, the happy, and speak to the desolate—the widowed.

Dearly beloved, you can look back to a day in your history over which no cloud lowered, when you wore the bridal wreath, and stood at the sacred altar, and laid your hand in a hand faithful and true, and pledged vows of love, and when hope smiled on all your future path; but who have lived to see all you then deemed most precious, laid beneath the clods of the valley, and have exchanged buds of orange for the most intensely sable of earthly weeds; you who once walked on your earthly journey in sweet companionship which brightened your days; who were wont to lay your weary head every night on the faithful "pillowing breast," and there forget your woes and cares, but who are now alone; you who trusted in manly counsel and guidance for your little ones, but who now shed bitter, unavailing tears in every emergency which reminds you that they are fatherless; and, worse than all, you who had all your wants supplied by the loving, toiling husband and father, but have now to contend single-handed with poverty,—come, sorrowing, widowed hearts, visit with us Horeb's holy mound. It is, indeed, a barren spot; nevertheless, it has blossoms of loveliness for you. Come in faith, and perchance the prophet's vision shall be yours—peradventure, the "still, small voice" which bade to rest the turmoil of his soul, shall soothe your griefs also; the words which are heard from its summit as Jehovah gives to Moses his directions, have indeed to do with "meats and drinks and divers washings," yet, if you listen intently, you will now and then hear those which, as the expression of your Heavenly Father's heart, will amply repay the toil of the ascent. Draw near and hearken:

"Ye shall not afflict any widow nor fatherless child. If thou afflict them in any wise, and they cry at all unto me, I will surely hear their cry, and my wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sword; and your wives shall be widows, your children fatherless."

Will you not now be comforted? "The Eternal makes your sorrows his own," and Himself stands forth as your protector against every ill.

"When thou cuttest down thy harvest in thy field, and hast forgotten the sheaf in the field, thou shalt not go again to fetch it, but it shall be for the stranger, and the fatherless, and the widow, that the Lord thy God may bless thee in all the works of thy hands."

If God's will is done, you see you will not suffer. He will raise you up friends, and those who obey Him, who wish to please Him, will always be ready to aid you for His sake. As shown to himself, he regards and will reward the kindness shown to you, and He has all hearts in his hands. But this is not all. A certain portion of every Israelite's possessions is to be given to furnish the table of the Lord, and, as if to assure you that He considers you His own, and will perform the part of husband and father for you at that table, and in his own house he provides for you ever a place. "In the tithes of wine, corn and oil, the firstlings of the herds and flocks, in all that is to be devoted to the service of the Lord, you have your share.

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