THE CONSEQUENCES OF IDLENESS.

Many young persons seem to think it is not of much consequence if they do not improve their time well when in youth, for they can make it up by diligence when they are older. They think it is disgraceful for men and women to be idle, but that there can be no harm for persons who are young to spend their time in any manner they please.

George Jones thought so. He was twelve years old. He went to an academy to prepare to enter college. His father was at great expense in obtaining books for him, clothing him, and paying his tuition. But George was idle. The preceptor of the academy would often tell him that if he did not study diligently when young, he would never succeed well. But George thought of nothing but present pleasure. Often would he go to school without having made any preparation for his morning lesson; and, when called to recite with his class, he would stammer and make such blunders, that the rest of his class could not help laughing at him. He was one of the poorest scholars in school, because he was one of the most idle.

When recess came, and all the boys ran out of the academy, upon the play-ground, idle George would come moping along. Instead of studying diligently while in school, he was indolent and half asleep. When the proper time for play came, he had no relish for it. I recollect very well that, when tossing up for a game of ball, we used to choose every body on the play-ground before we chose George. And if there were enough to play without him, we used to leave him out. Thus was he unhappy in school and out of school. There is nothing which makes a person enjoy play so well as to study hard. When recess was over, and the rest of the boys returned fresh and vigorous to their studies, George might be seen lagging and moping along to his seat. Sometimes he would be asleep in school, sometimes he would pass his time in catching flies and penning them up in little holes, which he cut in his seat. And sometimes, when the preceptor's back was turned, he would throw a paper ball across the room. When the class was called up to recite, George would come drowsily along, looking as mean and ashamed as though he were going to be whipped. The rest of the class stepped up to the recitation with alacrity, and appeared happy and contented. When it came George's turn to recite, he would be so long, and make such blunders, that all most heartily wished him out of the class.

At last George went with his class to enter college. Though he passed a very poor examination, he was admitted with the rest, for those who examined him thought it was possible, that the reason why he did not answer the questions better was that he was frightened. Now came hard times for poor George. In college there is not much mercy shown to bad scholars; and George had neglected his studies so long that he could not now keep up with his class, let him try ever so hard.

He could without much difficulty get along in the academy, where there were only two or three boys of his own class to laugh at him. But now he had to go into a large recitation room, filled with students from all parts of the country. In the presence of all these he must rise and recite to the professor. Poor fellow! He paid dear for his idleness. You would have pitied him, if you could have seen him trembling in his seat, every moment expecting to be called upon to recite. And when he was called upon, he would stand up and take what the class called a dead set; that is, he could not recite at all. Sometimes he would make such ludicrous blunders that the whole class would burst into a laugh. Such are the applauses idleness gets. He was wretched, of course. He had been idle so long, that he hardly knew how to apply his mind to study. All the good scholars avoided him; they were ashamed to be seen in his company. He became discouraged, and gradually grew dissipated.

The government of the college soon were compelled to suspend him. He returned in a few months, but did no better; and his father was then advised to take him from college. He left college, despised by every one. A few months ago I met him in New-York, a poor wanderer, without money or friends. Such are the wages of idleness. I hope every reader will from this history take warning, and "stamp improvement on the wings of time."

This story of George Jones, which is a true one, shows how sinful and ruinous it is to be idle. Every child who would be a Christian, and have a home in heaven, must guard against this sin. But as I have given you one story, which shows the sad effects of indolence, I will now present you with another, more pleasing, which shows the rewards of industry.

THE ADVANTAGES OF INDUSTRY.

I gave you the history of George Jones, an idle boy, and showed you the consequences of his idleness. I shall now give you the history of Charles Bullard, a class-mate of George. Charles was about of the same age with George, and did not possess naturally superior talents. Indeed, I doubt whether he was equal to him, in natural powers of mind. But Charles was a hard student. When quite young, he was always careful to be diligent in school. Sometimes, when there was a very hard lesson, instead of going out in the recess to play, he would stay in to study. He had resolved that his first object should be to get his lesson well, and then he could play with a good conscience. He loved play as well as any body, and was one of the best players on the ground; I hardly ever saw any body catch a ball better than he could. When playing any game every one was glad to get Charles on his side. I have said that Charles would sometimes stay in at recess. This, however, was very seldom; it was only when the lesson was very hard indeed. Generally he was among the first upon the play-ground, and he was also among the first to go into school, when called in. Hard study gave him a relish for play, and play again gave him a relish for hard study; so he was happy both in school and out. The preceptor could not help liking him, for he always had his lessons well committed, and never gave him any trouble.

When he went to enter college, the preceptor gave him a good recommendation. He was able to answer all the questions which were put to him when he was examined. He had studied so well when he was in the academy, and was so thoroughly prepared for college, that he found it very easy to keep up with his class, and had much time for reading interesting books. But he would always first get his lesson well, before he did any thing else, and would review it just before recitation. When called upon to recite, he rose tranquil and happy, and very seldom made any mistake. The government of the college had a high opinion of him, and he was respected by all the students.

There was in the college a society made up of all of the best scholars. Charles was chosen a member of that society. It was the custom to choose some one of the society to deliver a public address every year. This honor was conferred on Charles; and he had studied so diligently, and read so much, that he delivered an address, which was very interesting to all who heard it. At last he graduated, as it is called; that is, he finished his collegiate course, and received his degree. It was known by all that he was a good scholar, and by all he was respected. His father and mother, brothers and sisters, came, commencement day, to hear him speak. They all felt gratified, and loved Charles more than ever. Many situations of usefulness and profit were opened to him, for Charles was now a man, intelligent, and universally respected. He is now a useful and a happy man. He has a cheerful home, and is esteemed by all who know him.

Such are the rewards of industry. How strange is it, that any persons should be willing to live in idleness, when it will certainly make them, unhappy! The idle boy is almost invariably poor and miserable; the industrious boy is happy and prospered.

But perhaps some child who reads this, asks, "Does God notice little children in school?" He certainly does. And if you are not diligent in the improvement of your time, it is one of the surest of evidences that your heart is not right with God. You are placed in this world to improve your time. In youth you must be preparing for future usefulness. And if you do not improve the advantages you enjoy, you sin against your Maker.

"With books, or work, or healthful play, Let your first years be past, That you may give, for every day, Some good account at last."

One of the petitions in the Lord's prayer is, "forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." We do thus pray that God will exercise the same kind of forgiveness towards us, which we exercise towards others. Consequently, if we are unforgiving or revengeful, we pray that God will treat us in the same way when we appear before him in judgment. Thus God teaches the necessity of cultivating a forbearing and a forgiving spirit. We must do this or we cannot be Christians. When I was a boy, there was another little boy who went to the same school with me, who was a professed Christian. He seemed to love the Savior, and to try in all things to abstain from sin. Some of the bad boys were in the habit of ridiculing him, and of doing every thing they could to tease him, because he would not join with them in mischief. Near the school-house there was a small orchard; and the scholars would, without the leave of the owner, take the apples. One day a party of boys were going into the orchard for fruit, and called upon this pious boy to accompany them.

"Come, Henry," said one of them to him, "let us go and get some apples."

"The apples are not ours," he fearlessly replied, "and I do not think it right to steal."

"You are a coward, and afraid to go," the other replied.

"I am afraid," said Henry, "to do wrong, and you ought to be; but I am not afraid to do right."

This wicked boy was exceedingly irritated at this rebuke, and called Henry all manner of names, and endeavored to hold him up to the ridicule of the whole school.

Henry bore it very patiently, though it was hard to be endured, for the boy who ridiculed him had a great deal of influence and talent.

Some days after this the boys were going a fishing. Henry had a beautiful fishing-rod, which his father had bought for him.

George—for by that name I shall call the boy who abused Henry—was very desirous of borrowing this fishing-rod, and yet was ashamed to ask for it. At last, however, he summoned courage, and called out to Henry upon the play-ground—

"Henry, will you lend me your rod to go a fishing?"

"O yes," said Henry; "if you will go home with me, I will get it for you now."

Poor George felt ashamed enough for what he had done. But he went home with Henry to get the rod.

They went up into the barn together, and when Henry had taken his fishing-tackle from the place in which he kept it, he said to George, "I have a new line in the house, which father bought me the other day; you may have that too, if you want it." George could hardly hold up his head, he felt so ashamed. However, Henry went and got the new line, and placed it upon the rod, and gave them into George's hand.

A few days after this, George told me about it. "Why," said he, "I never felt so ashamed in my life. And one thing is certain, I will never call Henry names again."

Now, who does not admire the conduct of Henry in this affair? This forgiving spirit is what God requires. The child who would be the friend of God, must possess this spirit. You must always be ready to forgive. You must never indulge in the feelings of revenge. You must never desire to injure another, how much soever you may feel that others have injured you. The spirit of the Christian is a forgiving spirit.

God also requires of his friends, that they shall ever be doing good, as they have opportunity. The Christian child will do all in his power to make those happy who are about him. He will disregard himself that he may promote the happiness of others. He will be obliging to all.

This world is not your home. You are to remain here but a few years, and then go to that home of joy or wo, which you never, never will leave. God expects you to be useful here. "How can I do any good?" do you say? Why, in many ways. You can make your parents happy; that is doing good. You can make your brothers and sisters happy; that is doing good. You can try to make your brothers and sisters more obedient to their parents; that is doing good. You can set a good example at school; that is doing good. If you see your companions doing any thing that is wrong, you can try to dissuade them. You can speak to your bosom friend, upon the Savior's goodness, and endeavor to excite in his heart the feelings which are in yours. Thus you may be exerting a good influence upon all around you. Your life will not be spent in vain. God will smile upon you, and give joy in a dying hour.

Some children appear to think that if they are Christians, they cannot be so happy as they may be if they are not Christians. They think that to love God, and to pray, and to do their duty, is gloomy work. But God tells us that none can be happy but those who love him. And every one who has repented of sin, and loves the Savior, says that there is more happiness in this mode of life than in any other. We may indeed be happy a little while without piety. But misfortunes and sorrows will come. Your hopes of pleasure will be disappointed. You will be called to weep; to suffer pain; to die. And there is nothing but religion which can give you a happy life and a peaceful death. It is that you may be happy, not unhappy, that God wishes you to be a Christian.

It is true that at times it requires a very great struggle to take a decided stand as a Christian. The proud heart is reluctant to yield. The worldly spirit clings to worldly pleasure. It requires bravery and resolution to meet the obstacles which will be thrown in your way. You may be opposed. You may be ridiculed. But, notwithstanding all this, the only way to ensure happiness is to love and serve your Maker. Many children know that they ought to love God, and wish that they had resolution to do their duty. But they are afraid of the ridicule of their companions. Henry, who would not rob the orchard, was a brave boy. He knew that they would laugh at him. But what did he care? He meant to do his duty without being frightened if others did laugh. And the consciousness of doing his duty afforded him much greater enjoyment than he could possibly have received from eating the stolen fruit. Others of the boys went and robbed the orchard, because they had not courage to refuse to do as their companions did. They knew it was wrong, but they were afraid of being laughed at. But which is the most easy to be borne, the ridicule of the wicked, or a condemning conscience, and the displeasure of God? It is so with all the duties of the Christian. If you will conscientiously do that which God approves, he will give you peace of mind, and prepare you for eternal joy.

One of the most eminent and useful of the English clergymen was led, when a child, by the following interesting circumstance, to surrender himself to the Savior. When a little boy, he was, like other children, playful and thoughtless. He thought, perhaps, that he would wait until he was old, before he became a Christian. His father was a pious man, and frequently conversed with him about heaven, and urged him to prepare to die.

On the evening of his birth-day, when he was ten years of age, his father took him affectionately by the hand, and reminding him of the scenes through which he had already passed, urged him to commence that evening a life of piety. He told him of the love of Jesus. He told him of the danger of delay. And he showed him that he must perish for ever unless he speedily trusted in the Savior, and gave his life to his service. As this child thought of a dying hour, and of a Savior's love, his heart was full of feeling, and the tears gushed into his eyes. He felt that it was time for him to choose whether he would live for God or for the world. He resolved that he would no longer delay.

His father and mother then retired to their chamber to pray for their child, and this child also went to his chamber to pray for himself. Sincerely he gave himself to the Savior. Earnestly he implored forgiveness, and most fervently entreated God to aid him to keep his resolutions and to refrain from sin. And do you think that child was not happy, as, in the silence of his chamber, he surrendered himself to God? It was undoubtedly the hour of the purest enjoyment he ever had experienced, Angels looked with joy upon that evening scene, and hovered with delight and love around that penitent child. The prayers of the parent and the child ascended as grateful incense to the throne, and were accepted. And from that affecting hour, this little boy went on in the path which leads to usefulness, and peace, and heaven. He spent his life in doing good. A short time since, he died a veteran soldier of the cross, and is now undoubtedly amid the glories of heaven, surrounded by hundreds, who have been, by his instrumentality, led to those green fields and loved mansions. Oh, what a rapturous meeting must that have been, when the parents of this child pressed forward from the angel throng, to welcome him, as, with triumphant wing, he entered heaven! And, oh, how happy must they now be, in that home of songs and everlasting joy!

It is thus that piety promotes our enjoyment. It promotes our happiness at all times. It takes away the fear of death, and deprives every sorrow of half its bitterness. Death is the most gloomy thought that can enter the minds of those who are not Christians. But the pious child can be happy even when dying. I was once called to see a boy who was very dangerously sick, and expected soon to die. I expected to have found him sorrowful. But, instead of that, a happy smile was on his countenance, which showed that joy was in his heart. He sat in bed, leaning upon his pillow, with a hymn book in his hand, which he was reading. His cheeks were thin and pale, from his long sickness, while, at the same time, he appeared contented and happy. After conversing with him a little while, I said,

"Do you think you shall ever get well again?"

"No, sir," he cheerfully replied, "the doctor says I may perhaps live a few weeks, but that he should not be surprised if I should die at any time."

"Are you willing to die?" I said.

"O yes, sir," he answered; "sometimes I feel sad about leaving father and mother. But then I think I shall be free from sin in heaven, and shall be with the Savior. And I hope that father and mother will soon come to heaven, and I shall be with them then. I am sometimes afraid that I am too impatient to go."

"What makes you think," I asked, "that you are prepared to die?"

He hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Because Jesus Christ has said, Whosoever cometh to me I will in no wise cast out. I do think that I love the Savior, and I wish to go to him, and to be made holy."

While talking with him, I heard some boys laughing and playing under the window. But this sick boy looked up to me, and said, "Oh, how much more happy am I now, than I used to be when well and out at play, not thinking of God or heaven! There is not a boy in the street so happy as I."

This little boy had for some time been endeavoring to do his duty as a Christian. His conduct showed that he loved the Savior. And when sickness came, and death was near, he was happy. But, oh, how sad must that child feel, who is dying in unrepented sin! We all must certainly soon die, and there is nothing to make us happy in death but piety.

But when the Christian child goes to heaven, how happy must he be! He rises above the clouds, and the blue sky, and the twinkling stars, till he enters the home of God and the angels. There he becomes an angel himself. God gives him a body of perfect beauty, and furnishes him with wings, with which he can fly from world to world. God is his approving Father. Angels are his beloved friends. You often, in a clear evening, look up upon the distant stars, and wonder who inhabits them. You think, if you had the wings of an eagle, you would love to fly up there, and make a visit. Now, it is not improbable that the Christian, in heaven, can pass from star to star, as you can go from house to house in your own neighborhood. The very thought is enrapturing. If every hour of our lives were spent in sorrow, it would be nothing, compared with the joys which God has promised his friends at his right hand. When we think of the green pastures of heaven; of the still waters of that happy world; when we think of mingling with the angels in their flight; of uniting our voices with theirs in songs of praise; of gazing upon all the glories and sharing all the rapture of the heavenly world—O, how tame do the joys of earth appear!

Some children, however, think that they can put off becoming Christians till a dying hour, and then repent and be saved. Even if you could do this, it would be at the loss of much usefulness and much happiness. But the fact is, you are never curtain of a moment of life. You are little aware of the dangers to which you are continually exposed.

"The rising morning can't assure, That we shall spend the day; For death stands ready at the door, To snatch our lives away."

We are reminded of the uncertainty of life, by the accidents which are every day occurring. Often, when we least suspect it, we are in the most imminent hazard of our lives. When I was a boy, I one day went a gunning. I was to call for another boy, who lived at a little distance from my father's. Having loaded my gun with a heavy charge of pigeon- shot, and put in a new flint, which would strike out a brilliant shower of sparks, I carefully primed the gun, and set out upon my expedition. When arrived at the house of the boy who was to go with me, I leaned the gun against the side of the house, and waited a few moments for him to get ready. About a rod from the door, where I was waiting, there was another house. A little girl stood upon the window- seat, looking out of the window. Another boy came along, and, taking up the gun, not knowing that it was loaded and primed, took deliberate aim at the face of the girl, and pulled the trigger. But God, in mercy, caused the gun to miss fire. Had it gone off, the girl's face would have been blown all to pieces, I never can think of the danger she was in, even now, without trembling. The girl did not see the boy take aim at her, and does not now know how narrow was her escape from death. She little supposed that, when standing in perfect health by the window in her own father's house, she was in danger of dropping down dead upon the floor. We are all continually exposed to such dangers, and when we least suspect it, may be in the greatest peril. Is it not, then, folly to delay preparation for death? You may die within one hour. You may not have one moment of warning allowed you.

A few years ago, a little boy was riding in the stage. It was a pleasant summer's day. The horses were trotting rapidly along by fields, and bridges, and orchards, and houses. The little boy stood at the coach window with a happy heart, and looked upon the green fields and pleasant dwellings; upon the poultry in the farm-yards, and the cattle upon the hills. He had not the least idea that he should die that day. But while he was looking out of the window, the iron rim of the wheel broke, and struck him upon the forehead. The poor boy lay senseless for a few days, and then died. There are a thousand ways by which life may be suddenly extinguished, and yet how seldom are they thought of by children! They almost always entirely forget the danger of early death, and postpone to a future day making their peace with God. And how little do those who read this book think that they may die suddenly! Many children, when they go to bed at night, say the prayer,

"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

I used to say this prayer, when a child, every night before I went to sleep. But I did not know then, as well as I do now, that I might die before the morning. Almost every night some children go to bed well, and before morning are dead. It is, therefore, very dangerous to delay repentance. Love the Savior immediately, and prepare to die, and it will be of but little consequence when you die, for you will go to heaven and be happy for ever.

But we must not forget that a most terrible doom awaits those who will not serve their Maker. It matters not how much we may be beloved by our friends; how amiable may be our feelings. This alone will not save us. We must repent of sin, and love the Savior, who has suffered for us. We must pass our lives in usefulness and prayer, or, when the day of judgment comes, we shall hear the sentence, "Depart from me, for I know you not." It is indeed a fearful thing to refuse affection and obedience to our Father in heaven. He will receive none into his happy family above, but those who love him. He will have no angry, disagreeable spirits there. He will receive none but the penitent, and the humble, and the grateful, to that pure and peaceful home. Who does not wish to go to heaven? O, then, now begin to do your duty, and earnestly pray that God will forgive your sins, and give you a heart to love and obey him.



CHAPTER VII.



TRAITS OF CHARACTER.



Every child must observe how much more happy and beloved some children appear to be than others. There are some children you always love to be with. They are happy themselves, and they make you happy. There are others whose society you always avoid. The very expression of their countenances produces unpleasant feelings. They seem to have no friends.

No person can be happy without friends. The heart is formed for love, and cannot be happy without the opportunity of giving and receiving affection.

"It's not in titles, nor in rank, It's not in wealth like London bank, To make us truly blest. If happiness have not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest."

But you cannot receive affection, unless you will also give. You cannot find others to love you, unless you will also love them. Love is only to be obtained by giving love in return. Hence the importance of cultivating a cheerful and obliging disposition. You cannot be happy without it. I have sometimes heard a girl say,

"I know that I am very unpopular at school."

Now, this is simply saying that she is very disobliging and unamiable in her disposition. If your companions do not love you, it is your own fault. They cannot help loving you if you will be kind and friendly. If you are not loved, it is good evidence that you do not deserve to be loved. It is true that a sense of duty may at times render it necessary for you to do that which is displeasing to your companions. But if it is seen that you have a noble spirit; that you are above selfishness; that you are willing to make sacrifices of your own personal convenience to promote the happiness of your associates, you will never be in want of friends. You must not regard it as your misfortune that others do not love you, but your fault. It is not beauty, it is not wealth, that will give you friends. Your heart must glow with kindness if you would attract to yourself the esteem and affection of those by whom you are surrounded.

You are little aware how much the happiness of your whole life depends upon your cultivating an affectionate and obliging disposition. If you will adopt the resolution that you will confer favors whenever you have an opportunity, you will certainly be surrounded by ardent friends. Begin upon this principle in childhood, and act upon it through life, and you will make yourself happy, and promote the happiness of all within your influence.

You go to school in a cold winter morning. A bright fire is blazing upon the hearth, surrounded with boys struggling to get near it to warm themselves. After you get slightly warmed, another schoolmate comes in suffering with the cold.

"Here, James," you pleasantly call out to him, "I am 'most warm; you may have my place."

As you slip one side to allow him to take your place at the fire, will he not feel that you are kind? The worst dispositioned boy in the world cannot help admiring such generosity. And even though he be so ungrateful as to be unwilling to return the favor, you may depend upon it that he will be your friend, as far as he is capable of friendship. If you will habitually act upon this principle, you will never want for friends.

Suppose some day you are out with your companions playing ball. After you have been playing for some time, another boy comes along. He cannot be chosen upon either side; for there is no one to match him.

"Henry," you say, "you may take my place a little while, and I will rest."

You throw yourself down upon the grass, while Henry, fresh and vigorous, takes your bat, and engages in the game. He knows that you gave up to accommodate him. And how can he help liking you for it? The fact is, that neither man nor child can cultivate such a spirit of generosity and kindness, without attracting affection and esteem. Look and see who of your companions have the most friends, and you will find that they are those who have this noble spirit; who are willing to deny themselves, that they may make their associates happy. This is not peculiar to childhood, but is the same in all periods of life. There is but one way to make friends, and that is by being friendly to others.

Perhaps some child who reads this, feels conscious of being disliked, and yet desires to have the affection of companions. You ask me what you shall do. I will tell you what. I will give you an infallible recipe. Do all in your power to make others happy. Be willing to make sacrifices of your own convenience that you may promote the happiness of others. This is the way to make friends, and the only way. When you are playing with your brothers and sisters at home, be always ready to give them more than their share of privileges. Manifest an obliging disposition, and they cannot but regard you with affection. In all your intercourse with others, at home or abroad, let these feelings influence you, and you will receive the rich reward of devoted friends.

The very exercise of these feelings brings enjoyment. The benevolent man is a cheerful man. His family is happy. His home is the abode of the purest earthly joy. These feelings are worth cultivating, for they bring with them their own reward. Benevolence is the spirit of heaven. Selfishness is the spirit of the fiend.

The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God.

But persons of ardent dispositions often find it exceedingly difficult to deny themselves. Some little occurrence irritates them, and they speak hastily and angrily. Offended with a companion, they will do things to give pain, instead of pleasure. You must have your temper under control if you would exercise a friendly disposition, A bad temper is an infirmity, which, if not restrained, will be continually growing worse and worse. There was a man, a few years since, tried for murder. When a boy, he gave loose to his passions. The least opposition would rouse his anger, and he made no efforts to subdue himself. He had no one who could love him. If he was playing with others, he would every moment be getting irritated. As he grew older, his passions increased, and he became so ill-natured that every one avoided him. One day, as he was talking with another man, he became so enraged at some little provocation, that he seized a club, and with one blow laid the man lifeless at his feet. He was seized and imprisoned. But, while in prison, the fury of a malignant and ungoverned spirit increased to such a degree that he became a maniac. The very fires of the world of wo were burning in his heart. Loaded with chains, and immured in a dark dungeon, he was doomed to pass the miserable remnant of his guilty life, the victim of his ungovernable passion.

This is a very unusual case. But nothing is more common than for a child to destroy his own peace, and to make his brothers and sisters continually unhappy by indulging in a peevish and irritable spirit. Nothing is more common than for a child to cherish this disposition until he becomes a man, and then, by his peevishness and fault- finding, he destroys the happiness of all who are near him. His home is the scene of discord. His family are made wretched.

An amiable disposition makes its possessor happy. And if you would have such a disposition, you must learn to control yourself. If others injure you, they the gospel rule, and do them good in return, If they revile you, speak kindly to them. It is far better to suffer injury than to inflict injury. If you will endeavor in childhood in this way to control your passions, to be always mild, and forbearing, and forgiving, you will disarm opposition, and, in many cases, convert enemies to friends. You will be beloved by those around you, and when you have a home of your own, your cheerful and obliging spirit will make it a happy home.

One thing you may be sure of. There can be no real happiness when there is not an amiable disposition. You cannot more surely make yourself wretched, than by indulging in an irritable spirit. Love is the feeling which fills every angel's bosom; and it is the feeling which should fill every human heart. It is love which will raise us to the angel's throne. It is malice which will sink us to the demon's dungeon. I hope that every child who reads this, will be persuaded, by these remarks, immediately to commence the government of his temper, Resolve that you never will be angry. If your brother or your sister does any thing which has a tendency to provoke you, restrain your feelings, and speak mildly and softly. Let no provocation draw from you an angry or an unkind word. If you will commence in this way, and persevere, you will soon get that control over yourself that will contribute greatly to your happiness. Your friends will increase, and you will be prepared for far more extensive usefulness in the world.

And is there not something noble in being able to be always calm and pleasant? I once saw two men conversing in the streets. One became very unreasonably enraged with the other. In the fury of his anger, he appeared like a madman. He addressed the other in language the most abusive and insulting. The gentleman whom he thus abused, with a pleasant countenance and a calm voice, said to him, "Now, my friend, you will be sorry for all this when your passion is over. This language does me no harm, and can do you no good."

Now is it not really magnanimous to have such a spirit? Every person who witnessed this interview despised the angry man, and respected the one who was so calm and self-possessed.

Humility is another very important trait of character, which should be cultivated in early life. What can be more disgusting than the ridiculous airs of a vain child? Sometimes you will see a foolish girl tossing her head about, and walking with a mincing step, which shows you at once that she is excessively vain. She thinks that others are admiring her ridiculous airs, when the fact is, they are laughing at her, and despising her. Every one speaks of her as a very simple, vain girl. Vanity is a sure sign of weakness of mind; and if you indulge in so contemptible a passion, you will surely be the subject of ridicule and contempt. A young lady was once passing an afternoon at the house of a friend. As she, with one or two gentlemen and ladies, was walking in the garden, she began to make a display of her fancied learning. She would look at a flower, and with great self- sufficiency talk of its botanical characteristics. She thought that the company were all wondering at the extent of her knowledge, when they were all laughing at her, as a self-conceited girl who had not sense enough to keep herself from appearing ridiculous. The gentlemen were winking at one another, and slyly laughing as she uttered one learned word after another, with an affected air of familiarity with scientific terms. During the walk, she took occasion to lug in all the little she knew, and at one time ventured to quote a little Latin for their edification. Poor simpleton! She thought she had produced quite an impression upon their minds. And, in truth, she had. She had fixed indelibly the impression that she was an insufferably weak and self-conceited girl. She made herself the laughing-stock of the whole company. The moment she was gone, there was one general burst of laughter. And not one of those gentlemen or ladies could ever think of that vain girl afterwards, without emotions of contempt.

This is the invariable effect of vanity. You cannot so disguise it, but that it will be detected, and cover you with disgrace. There is no foible more common than this, and there is none more supremely ridiculous.

One boy happens to have rich parents, and he acts as though he supposed that there was some virtue in his father's money which pertained to him. He goes to school and struts about, as though he were lord of the play-ground. Now, every body who sees this, says, it is a proof that the boy has not much mind. He is a simple boy. If he had good sense he would perceive that others of his playmates, in many qualities, surpassed him, and that it became him to be humble and unostentatious, The mind that is truly great is humble.

We are all disgusted with vanity wherever it appears. Go into a school-room, and look around upon the appearance of the various pupils assembled there. You will perhaps see one girl, with head tossed upon one shoulder, and with a simpering countenance, trying to look pretty. You speak to her. Instead of receiving a plain, kind, honest answer, she replies with voice and language and attitude full of affectation. She thinks she is exciting your admiration. But, on the contrary, she is exciting disgust and loathing.

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

A little girl who had rich parents, and was handsome in personal appearance, was very vain of her beauty and of her father's wealth. She disgusted all her school-mates by her conceit. And though she seemed to think that every one ought to admire her, she was beloved by none. She at last left school, a vain, disgusting girl. A young man, who was so simple as to fall in love with this piece of pride and affectation, at length married her. For a few years the property which she received of her father supported them. But soon her father died, and her husband grew dissipated, and before long their property was all squandered. She had no friends to whom she could look for assistance, and they were every month sinking deeper and deeper in poverty. Her husband at last became a perfect sot, and staggered through the streets in the lowest state of degradation. She was left with one or two small children, and without any means of support. In a most miserable hovel, this poor woman was compelled to take up her residence. By this time, her pride had experienced a fall. She no longer exhibited the airs of a vain girl, but was an afflicted and helpless woman. The sorrow and disgrace into which she was plunged by the intemperance of her husband, preyed so deeply upon her feelings as to destroy her health, and in this condition she was carried to the poor-house. There she lingered out the few last years of her sad earthly existence. What a termination of life for a vain and haughty girl! And what a lesson is this to all, to be humble and unassuming! You may be in health to-day, and in sickness to-morrow. This year you may be rich, and have need of nothing, and the next year you may be in the most abject poverty, Your early home may be one of luxury and elegance, and in your dying hour you may be in the poor-house, without a friend to watch at your bedside. Is it not, then, the height of folly to indulge in vanity?

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

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

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

There is nothing so hard to be borne as ridicule. It requires a bold heart to be ready to do one's duty, unmoved by the sneers of others. How often does a child do that which he knows to be wrong, because he is afraid that others will call him a coward if he does right! One cold winter's day, three boys were passing by a school-house. The oldest was a mischievous fellow, always in trouble himself, and trying to get others into trouble. The youngest, whose name was George, was a very amiable boy, who wished to do right, but was very deficient in moral courage. We will call the oldest Henry, and the other of the three James. The following dialogue passed between them.

Henry.—What fun it would be to throw a snowball against the schoolroom door, and make the instructer and scholars all jump!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

George.—Well, I am not afraid to, said George. Give me the snowball. I had as lief throw it as not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In things which concern your own personal convenience merely, you should be as yielding us the air. But where duty is concerned, you should be as firm and as unyielding as the rock. Be ever ready to sacrifice your own comfort to promote the comfort of others. Be conciliating and obliging in all your feelings and actions. Show that you are ready to do every thing in your power to make those around you happy. Let no one have occasion to say that you are stubborn and unaccommodating. But, on the other hand, where duty is involved, let nothing tempt you to do wrong. Be bold enough to dare to do right, whatever may be the consequences. If others laugh at your scruples, let them laugh as long as they please. And let them see that you are not to be frightened by their sneers. Your courage will often be tried. There will be occasions in which it will require a severe struggle to preserve your integrity. But ever remember that if you would do any good in the world, you must possess this moral courage. It is the want of this that leaves thousands to live in a way which their consciences reprove, and to die in despair. Unless you possess this trait of character, to some considerable degree, it can hardly be expected that you will ever become a Christian. You must learn to act for yourself, unintimidated by the censure, and unmoved by the flattery of others.

I now bring this book to a close. If you will diligently endeavor to be influenced by its directions your usefulness and happiness will surely be promoted. Soon you will leave home, no more to return but as a visitor. The character you have acquired and the habits you have formed while at home, in all probability, will accompany you through life. You are now surrounded by ah the joys of home. Affectionate parents watch over you, supplying all your wants. You have but few solicitudes and but few sorrows. Soon, however, you must leave parents, brothers, and sisters, and enter upon the duties and cares of life almost alone. How affecting will be the hour, when your foot steps from your father's dwelling, from your mother's care, to seek a new home among strangers! You now cannot conceive the feelings which will press upon you as your father takes your hand to bid you the parting farewell, and your mother endeavors to hide her tears, as you depart from her watchful eye, to meet the temptations and sorrows of life. Your heart will then be full. Tears will fill your eyes. Emotion will choke your voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a clear autumnal morning. The stars shone brightly in the sky, and the thoughts of the lonely wanderer were irresistibly carried to that home beyond the stars, and to that God whom his father had so affectingly entreated him not to forget. He succeeded, however, in getting a few moments of troubled sleep, as the stage rolled on; but his thoughts were still reverting, whether asleep or awake, to the home left far behind. Just as the sun was going down the western hills, at the close of the day, he alighted from the stage, in the village of strangers, in which he was to find his new home. Not an individual there had he ever seen before. Many a pensive evening did he pass, thinking of absent friends. Many a lonely walk did he take, while his thoughts were far away among the scenes of his childhood. And when the winter evenings came, with the cheerful blaze of the fireside, often did he think, with a sigh, of the loved and happy group encircling his father's fireside, and sharing those joys he had left for ever. But a father's parting words did not leave his mind. There they remained. And they, in connection with other events, rendered effectual by the Spirit of God, induced him to endeavor to consecrate his life to his Maker's service. In the hopes of again meeting beloved parents and friends in that home, which gilds the paradise above, he found that solace which could no where else be obtained, and was enabled to go on in the discharge of the duties of life, with serenity and peace. Reader, you must soon leave your home, and leave it for ever. The privileges and the joys you are now partaking, will soon pass away. And when you have gone forth into the wide world, and feel the want of a father's care, and of a mother's love, then will all the scenes you have passed through, return freshly to your mind, and the remembrance of every unkind word, or look, or thought, will give you pain. Try, then, to be an affectionate and obedient child. Cultivate those virtues which will prepare you for usefulness and happiness in your maturer years, and above all, make it your object to prepare for that happy home above, where sickness can never enter, and sorrow can never come.



THE END.



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