THE

CHILD AT HOME;

OR

THE PRINCIPLES OF FILIAL DUTY

FAMILIARLY ILLUSTRATED. 

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT, Author Of "The Mother At Home. "

Published By The

American Tract Society

150 Nassau-Street New-York. 

Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1833, by CROCKER andBREWSTER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court ofMassachusetts. 

Right of publishing transferred to American Tract Society. 

PREFACE. 

This book is intended for the children of those families to which TheMother at Home has gone. It is prepared with the hope that it mayexert an influence upon the minds of the children, in excitinggratitude for their parents' love, and in forming characters whichshall ensure future usefulness and happiness. 

The book is intended, not for entertainment, but for solidinstruction. I have endeavored, however, to present instruction in anattractive form, but with what success, the result alone can tell. Theobject of the book will not be accomplished by a careless perusal. Itshould be read by the child, in the presence of the parent, that theparent may seize upon the incidents and remarks introduced, and thusdeepen the impression. 

Though the book is particularly intended for children, or rather foryoung persons, it is hoped that it will aid parents in their effortsfor moral and religious instruction. 

It goes from the author with the most earnest prayer, that it maysave some parents from blighted hopes, and that it may allure manychildren to gratitude, and obedience, and heaven. 

JOHN S. C. ABBOTT

Worcester December, 1833. 

TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Chapter I. 

RESPONSIBILITY. --The Police Court. The widow and her daughter. Effect of a child's conduct upon the happiness of its parents. Theyoung sailor. The condemned pirate visited by his parents. Consequences of disobedience. A mother's grave. The sick child. . . 7

Chapter II. 

DECEPTION. --George Washington and his hatchet. --Consequences ofdeception. Temptations to deceive. Story of the child sent on anerrand. Detection. Anecdote. The dying child. Peace of a dying hourdisturbed by falsehood previously uttered. Various ways ofdeceiving. Thoughts on death. Disclosures of the judgment day. . . 28

Chapter III. 

OBEDIENCE. --Firmness requisite in doing duty. The irresolute boy. Thegirl and the green apples. Temptations. Evening party. Importantconsequences resulting from slight disobedience. The state prison. History of a young convict. Ingratitude of disobedience. The soldier'swidow and her son. Story of Casabianca. Cheerful obedience. Illustration. Parental kindness. . . 46

Chapter IV. 

OBEDIENCE, continued. --The moonlight game. Reasons why good parentswill not allow their children to play in the streets in the evening. The evening walk. The terrified girl, Instance of filial affection. Anecdote. Strength of a mother's love. The child's entire dependence. A child rescued from danger. Child lost in the prairie. . . 71

Chapter V. 

RELIGIOUS TRUTH. --Human character. The Northern Voyagers. Imaginaryscene in a court of justice. Love of God. Scene from Shakspeare. Efforts to save us. The protection of angels. The evening party. Thedissolute son. A child lost in the woods. The sufferings of theSavior. The Holy Spirit. . . 94

Chapter VI. 

PIETY. --Penitence. Charles Bullard. His good character in school. Incollege. The pious boy. The orchard. The fishing-rod. The forgivingspirit. How children may do good. The English clergyman and the childwho gave himself to the Savior. The happy sick boy. The Christianchild in heaven. Uncertainty of life. The loaded gun. The boy in thestage-coach. . . 119

Chapter VII. 

TRAITS OF CHARACTER. --We cannot be happy without friends. Why scholarsare unpopular in school. The way to gain friends. The warm fire. Playing ball. Recipe for children who would be loved. A bad temper. Amiable disposition to be cultivated. The angry man. Humility. Thevain young lady. Vanity always ridiculous. The affected school girl. The unaffected schoolgirl. Story of the proud girl. Moral courage. The duellist. The three school-boys. George persuaded to throw thesnow-ball. What would have been real moral courage. The boy leavinghome, His mother's provisions for his comfort. The parting. Hisfather's counsel. His reflections in the stage-coach. He consecrateshimself to his Maker. . . 347

THE CHILD AT HOME

CHAPTER I. 

RESPONSIBILITY. 

In large cities there are so many persons guilty of crimes, that itis necessary to have a court sit every day to try those who areaccused of breaking the laws. This court is called the Police Court. If you should go into the room where it is held, you would see theconstables bringing in one after another of miserable and wickedcreatures, and, after stating and proving their crimes, the judgewould command them to be led away to prison. They would look sowretched that you would be shocked in seeing them. 

One morning a poor woman came into the Police Court in Boston. Hereyes were red with weeping, and she seemed to be borne down withsorrow. Behind her followed two men, leading in her daughter. 

"Here, sir, " said a man to the judge, "is a girl who conducts sobadly that her mother cannot live with her, and she must be sent tothe House of Correction. "

"My good woman, " said the judge, "what is it that your daughter doeswhich renders it so uncomfortable to live with her?"

"Oh, sir, " she replied, "it is hard for a mother to accuse her owndaughter, and to be the means of sending her to the prison. But sheconducts so as to destroy all the peace of my life. She has such atemper, that she sometimes threatens to kill me, and does every thingto make my life wretched. "

The unhappy woman could say no more. Her heart seemed bursting withgrief, and she wept aloud. The heart of the judge was moved with pity, and the bystanders could hardly refrain from weeping with thisafflicted mother. But there stood the hard-hearted girl, unmoved. Shelooked upon the sorrows of her parent in sullen silence. She was sohardened in sin, that she seemed perfectly insensible to pity oraffection. And yet she was miserable. Her countenance showed thatpassion and malignity filled her heart, and that the fear of theprison, to which she knew she must go, filled her with rage. 

The judge turned from the afflicted mother, whose sobs filled theroom, and, asking a few questions of the witnesses, who testified tothe daughter's ingratitude and cruelty, ordered her to be led away tothe House of Correction. The officers of justice took her by the arm, and carried her to her gloomy cell. Her lonely and sorrowing motherwent weeping home to her abode of penury and desolation. Her owndaughter was the viper which had stung her bosom. Her own child wasthe wretch who was filling her heart with sorrow. 

And while I now write, this guilty daughter is occupying the gloomycell of the prison, and this widowed mother is in her silentdwelling, in loneliness and grief! Oh, could the child who readsthese pages, see that mother and that daughter now, you might formsome feeble idea of the consequences of disobedience; you might seehow unutterable the sorrow a wicked child may bring upon herself andupon her parents. It is not easy, in this case, to judge which is themost unhappy, the mother or the child. The mother is broken-heartedat home. She is alone and friendless. All her hopes are most cruellydestroyed. She loved her daughter, and hoped that she would live tobe her friend and comfort. But instead of that, she became her curse, and is bringing her mother's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. Andthen look at the daughter--guilty and abandoned--Oh, who can tell howmiserable she must be!

Such is the grief which children may bring upon themselves and theirparents. You probably have never thought of this very much I writethis book that you may think of it, and that you may, by obedienceand affection, make your parents happy, and be happy yourselves. 

This wicked girl was once a playful child, innocent and happy. Hermother looked upon her with most ardent love, and hoped that her deardaughter would live to be her companion and friend. At first sheventured to disobey in some trifling thing. She still loved hermother, and would have been struck with horror at the thought ofbeing guilty of crimes which she afterwards committed. But she wenton from bad to worse, every day growing more disobedient, until shemade her poor mother so miserable that she almost wished to die, andtill she became so miserable herself, that life must have been aburden. You think, perhaps, that you never shall be so unkind andwicked as she finally became. But if you begin as she began, bytrifling disobedience, and little acts of unkindness, you may soon beas wicked as she, and make your parents as unhappy as is her poorbroken-hearted mother. 

Persons never become so very wicked all at once. They go on from stepto step, in disobedience and ingratitude, till they lose all feeling, and can see their parents weep, and even die in their grief, without atear. 

Perhaps, one pleasant day, this mother sent her little daughter toschool. She took her books, and walked along, admiring the beautifulsunshine, and the green and pleasant fields. She stopped one momentto pick a flower, again to chase a butterfly, and again to listen toa little robin, pouring out its clear notes upon the bough of somelofty tree. It seemed so pleasant to be playing in the fields, thatshe was unwilling to go promptly to school. She thought it would notbe very wrong to play a little while. Thus she commenced. The nextday she ventured to chase the butterflies farther, and to rove moreextensively through the field in search of flowers. And as she playedby the pebbles in the clear brook of rippling water, she forgot howfast the time was passing. And when she afterwards hastened toschool, and was asked why she was so late, to conceal her fault shewas guilty of falsehood, and said that her mother wanted her at home. Thus she advanced, rapidly in crime. Her lessons were neglected. Sheloved the fields better than her book, and would often spend thewhole morning idle, under the shade of some tree, when her motherthought her safe in school. Having thus become a truant and adeceiver, she was prepared for any crimes. Good children would notassociate with her, and consequently she had to choose the worst forher companions and her friends. She learned wicked language; she wasrude and vulgar in her manners; she indulged ungovernable passion;and at last grew so bad, that when her family afterwards removed tothe city, the House of Correction became her ignominious home. Andthere she is now, guilty and wretched. And her poor mother, in hersolitary dwelling, is weeping over her daughter's disgrace. Who cancomfort such a mother? Where is there any earthly joy to which shecan look?

Children generally do not think how much the happiness of theirparents depends upon their conduct. But you now see how very unhappyyou can make them. And is there a child who reads this book, whowould be willing to be the cause of sorrow to his father and hismother? After all they have done for you, in taking care of you whenan infant, in watching over you when sick, in giving you clothes towear, and food to eat, can you be so ungrateful as to make themunhappy? You have all read the story of the kind man, who found aviper lying upon the ground almost dead with cold. He took it up andplaced it in his bosom to warm it, and to save its life. And what didthat viper do? He killed his benefactor! Vile, vile reptile! Yes! assoon as he was warm and well, he stung the bosom of his kindpreserver, and killed him. 

But that child, is a worse viper, who, by his ingratitude, willsting the bosoms of his parents; who, by disobedience and unkindness, will destroy their peace, and thus dreadfully repay them for alltheir love and care. God will not forget the sins of such a child. His eye will follow you to see your sin, and his arm will reach youto punish. He has said, Honor your father and your mother. And thechild who does not do this, must meet with the displeasure of God, and must be for ever shut out from heaven. Oh, how miserable mustthis wicked girl now be, locked up in the gloomy prison! But how muchmore miserable will she be when God calls her to account for all hersins!--when, in the presence of all the angels, the whole of herconduct is brought to light, and God says to her, "Depart from me, yecursed!" As she goes away from the presence of the Lord, to thegloomy prisons of eternal despair, she will then feel a degree ofremorse which I cannot describe to you. It is painful to think of it. Ah, wretched, wretched girl! Little are you aware of the woes you arepreparing for yourself. I hope that no child who reads these pageswill ever feel these woes. 

You have just read that it is in your power to make your parents veryunhappy; and you have seen how unhappy one wicked girl made her poormother. I might tell you many such melancholy stories, all of whichwould be true. A few years ago there was a boy who began to bedisobedient to his parents in little things. But every day he grewworse, more disobedient and wilful, and troublesome. He would run awayfrom school, and thus grew up in ignorance. He associated with badboys, and learned to swear and to lie, and to steal. He became so badthat his parents could do nothing with him. Every body who knew him, said, "That boy is preparing for the gallows. " He was the pest of theneighborhood. At last he ran away from home, without letting hisparents know that he was going. He had heard of the sea, and thoughtit would be a very pleasant thing to be a sailor. But nothing ispleasant to the wicked. When he came to the sea-shore, where therewere a large number of ships, it was some time before any one wouldhire him, because he knew nothing about a ship or the sea. There wasno one there who was his friend, or who pitied him, and he sat downand cried bitterly, wishing he was at home again, but ashamed to goback. At last a sea captain came along, and hired him to go on adistant voyage; and as he knew nothing about the rigging of a vessel, he was ordered to do the most servile work on board. He swept thedecks and the cabin, and helped the cook, and was the servant of all. He had the poorest food to eat he ever ate in his life. And whennight came, and he was so tired that he could hardly stand, he had nosoft bed upon which to lie, but could only wrap a blanket around him, and throw himself down any where to get a little sleep. This unhappyboy had acquired so sour a disposition, and was so disobliging, thatall the sailors disliked him, and would do every thing they could toteaze him. When there was a storm, and he was pale with fear, and thevessel was rocking in the wind, and pitching over the waves, theywould make him climb the mast, and laugh to see how terrified he was, as the mast reeled to and fro, and the wind almost blew him into theraging ocean. Often did this poor boy get into some obscure part ofthe ship, and weep as he thought of the home he had forsaken. Hethought of his father and mother, how kind they had been to him, andhow unkind and ungrateful he had been to them, and how unhappy he hadmade them by his misconduct. But these feelings soon wore away. Familiarity with sea life gave him courage, and he became inured toits hardships. Constant intercourse with the most profligate andabandoned, gave strength and inveteracy to his sinful habits; andbefore the voyage had terminated, he was reckless of danger, and ashardened and unfeeling as the most depraved on board the ship. Thisboy commenced with disobedience in little things, and grew worse andworse, till he forsook his father and his mother, and was preparedfor the abandonment of every virtue, and the commission of any crime. But the eye of God was upon him, following him wherever he went, andmarking all his iniquities. An hour of retribution was approaching. It is not necessary for me to trace out to you his continued steps ofprogress in sin. When on shore, he passed his time in haunts ofdissipation. And several years rolled on in this way, he growing morehardened, and his aged parents, in their loneliness, weeping over theruin of their guilty and wandering son. 

One day an armed vessel sailed into one of the principal ports of theUnited States, accompanied by another, which had been captured. Whenthey arrived at the wharf, it was found that the vessel taken was apirate. Multitudes flocked down upon the wharf to see the pirates asthey should be led off to the prison, there to await their trial. Soonthey were brought out of the ship, with their hands fastened withchains, and led through the streets. Ashamed to meet the looks ofhonest men, and terrified with the certainty of condemnation andexecution, they walked along with downcast eyes and trembling limbs. Among the number was seen the unhappy and guilty boy, now grown tobe a young man, whose history we are relating. He was locked up inthe dismal dungeon of a prison. The day of trial came. Pale andtrembling; he was brought before the judge. He was clearly provedguilty, and sentenced to be hung. Again he was carried back to hisprison, there to remain till the hour for his execution shouldarrive. News was sent to his already broken-hearted parents, thattheir son had been condemned as a pirate, and was soon to be hung. The tidings was almost too much for them to endure. In an agony offeeling which cannot be described, they wept together. They thoughtof the hours of their child's infancy, when they watched over him insickness, and soothed him to sleep. They thought how happy they feltwhen they saw the innocent smile play upon his childish cheek. Theythought of the joy they then anticipated in his opening years, and ofthe comfort they hoped he would be to them in their declining days. And now to think of him, a hardened criminal, in the murderer'scell!-- Oh, it was too much, too much for them to bear. It seemed asthough their hearts would burst. Little did they think, when, withso much affection they caressed their infant child, that he would bethe curse of their life, embittering all their days, and bringingdown their gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. Little did theythink, that his first trifling acts of disobedience would lead on tosuch a career of misery and of crime, But the son was sentenced todie, and the penalty of the law could not be avoided. His own remorseand his parents' tears could be of no avail. Agonizing as it would beto their feelings, they felt that they must go and see their sonbefore he should die. 

One morning, a gray-headed man, and an aged and infirm woman, wereseen walking along, with faltering footsteps, through the street whichled to the prison. It was the heart-broken father and mother of thisunnatural child. When they came in sight of the gloomy granite wallsand iron-grated windows of this dreary abode, they could hardlyproceed, so overwhelming were the feelings which pressed upon theirminds. When arrived at the door of the prison, the aged father, supporting upon his arm the weeping and almost fainting mother, toldthe jailer who they were, and requested permission to see their son. Even the jailer, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, couldnot witness this exhibition of parental grief without being moved totears. He led the parents through the stone galleries of the prison, till they came to the iron door of the cell in which their son wasconfined. As he turned the key with all his strength, the heavy boltflew back, and he opened the door of the cell. Oh, what a sight for afather and a mother to gaze upon! There was just enough light in thisgloomy abode to show them their son, sitting in the corner on thestone floor, pale and emaciated, and loaded with chains. The momentthe father beheld the pallid features of his long-absent son, heraised his hands in the agony of his feelings, and fell fainting athis feet. The mother burst into loud exclamations of grief, as sheclasped her son, guilty and wretched as he was, to her maternalbosom. Oh, who can describe this scene! Who can conceive the anguishwhich wrung the hearts of these afflicted parents! And it was theirown boy, whom they had loved and cherished, who had brought all thiswo upon them. I cannot describe to you the scene which ensued. Eventhe very jailer could not bear it, and he wept aloud. At last he wascompelled to tear the parents away; and it was agonizing indeed toleave their son in such a situation, soon to be led to an ignominiousdeath. They would gladly have staid and died with their guilty child. But it was necessary that they should depart; and, the jailer havingclosed the door and turned the massive bolt, they left the unhappycriminal in his cell. Oh, what would he have given, again to beinnocent and free! The parents returned to their home, to weep by dayand by night, and to have the image of their guilty son disturbingevery moment of peace, and preventing the possibility of joy. The dayof execution soon arrived, and their son was led to the gallows, andlaunched into eternity. And, crimsoned with guilt, he went to thebar of God, there to answer for all the crimes of which he had beenguilty, and for all the woes he had caused. 

You see, then, how great are your responsibilities as a child. Youhave thought, perhaps, that you have no power over your parents, andthat you are not accountable for the sorrow which your conduct maycause them. Think you that God will hold this child guiltless for allthe sorrow he caused his father and his mother? And think you God willhold any child guiltless, who shall, by his misconduct, make hisparents unhappy? No. You must answer to God for every thing you do, which gives your parents pain. And there is no sin greater in thesight of God than that of an ungrateful child, I have shown you, inthe two illustrations which you have just read, how much thehappiness of your parents depends upon your conduct. Every day youare promoting their joy or their sorrow. And every act ofdisobedience, or of ingratitude, however trifling it may appear toyou, is, in the eyes of your Maker, a sin which cannot passunnoticed. Do you ask, Why does God consider the ingratitude ofchildren as a sin of peculiar aggravation? I reply, Because you areunder peculiar obligation to love and obey your parents. They haveloved you when you could not love them. They have taken care of youwhen you could not reward them. They have passed sleepless nights inlistening to your cries, and weary days in watching over you, whenyou could neither express thanks nor feel grateful. And after theyhave done all this, is it a small sin for you to disobey them andmake them unhappy?

And indeed you can do nothing to make yourself so unhappy as toindulge in disobedience, and to cherish a spirit of ingratitude. Younever see such a child happy. Look at him at home, and, instead ofbeing light-hearted and cheerful, he is sullen and morose. He sitsdown by the fireside in a winter evening, but the evening firesideaffords no joy to him. He knows that his parents are grieved at hisconduct. He loves nobody, and feels that nobody loves him. There hesits silent and sad, making himself miserable by his own misconduct. The disobedient boy or girl is always unhappy. You know how differentthe dispositions of children are. Some are always pleasant andobliging, and you love their company. They seem happy when they arewith you, and they make you happy. Now you will almost always find, that such children are obedient to their parents. They are happy athome, as well as abroad. God has in almost every case connectedenjoyment with duty, and sorrow with sin. But in no case is thisconnection more intimate, than in the duty which children owe theirparents. And to every child who reads this book, I would say, If youwish to be happy, you must be good. Do remember this. Let notemptation induce you for a moment to disobey. The more ardently youlove your parents, the more ardently will they love you. But if youare ungrateful and disobedient, childhood will pass away in sorrow;all the virtuous will dislike you, and you will have no friends worthpossessing. When you arrive at mature age, and enter upon the activeduty of life, you will have acquired those feelings which willdeprive you of the affection of your fellow beings, and you willprobably go through the world unbeloved and unrespected. Can you bewilling so to live?

The following account, written by one who, many years after hermother's death, visited her grave, forcibly describes the feelingswhich the remembrance of the most trifling act of ingratitude will, under such circumstances, awaken. 

"It was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a longabsence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound, beneath which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period, agreat change had come over me. My childish years had passed away, andwith them my youthful character. The world was altered too; and as Istood at my mother's grave, I could hardly realize, that I was thesame thoughtless, happy creature, whose cheeks she so often kissed inan excess of tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen years hadnot effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile. It seemed as if Ihad seen her but yesterday--as the blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was in my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy andchildhood were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that, had itnot been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed would havebeen gentle and refreshing. The circumstance may seem a trifling one, but the thought of it now pains my heart, and I relate it, that thosechildren who have parents to love them may learn to value them asthey ought. 

"My mother had been ill a long time, and I became so accustomed to herpale face and weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, aschildren usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed violently; butwhen, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same, Ibegan to believe she would always be spared to me. But they told meshe would die. 

"One day, when I had lost my place in the class, and had done my workwrong side outward, I came home discouraged and fretful. I went to mymother's chamber. She was paler than usual, but she met me with thesame affectionate smile that always welcomed my return. Alas, when Ilook back through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my heart musthave been stone not to have melted by it. She requested me to go downstairs and bring her a glass of water. I pettishly asked why she didnot call a domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach, which Ishall never forget, if I live to be a hundred years old, she said, 'And will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sickmother?'

"I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Insteadof smiling and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I set the glass downvery quickly, and left the room. After playing about a short time, Iwent to bed without bidding my mother good night. But when alone inmy room, in darkness and in silence, I remembered how pale shelooked, and how her voice trembled when she said, 'Will not mydaughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?' I couldnot, sleep. I stole into her chamber to ask forgiveness. She had sunkinto an easy slumber, and they told me I must not waken her. I didnot tell any one what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, resolvedto rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry I was for myconduct. 

"The sun was shining brightly when I awoke: and, hurrying on myclothes, I hastened to my mother's chamber. She was dead! She neverspoke more--never smiled upon me again and when I touched the handthat used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold that itmade me start. I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitternessof my heart. I thought then I might wish to die, and be buried withher, and, old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine togive, could my mother but have lived to tell me that she forgave mychildish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when I stand byher grave, and whenever I think of her manifold kindness, the memoryof that reproachful look she gave me will bite like a serpent andsting like an adder. "

And when your mother dies, do you not think that you will feel remorsefor every unkind word you have uttered, and for every act ofingratitude? Your beloved parents must soon die. You will probably beled into their darkened chamber, to see them pale and helpless ontheir dying bed. Oh, how will you feel in that solemn hour! All yourpast life will come to your mind, and you will think that you wouldgive worlds, if you could blot out the remembrance of pastingratitude. You will think that, if your father or mother shouldonly get well, you would never do any thing to grieve them again. Butthe hour for them to die must come. You may weep as though your heartwould break, but it will not recall the past, and it will not delaytheir death. They must die; and you will probably gaze upon theircold and lifeless countenances in the coffin. You will follow them tothe grave, and see them buried for ever from your sight. Oh, howunhappy you will feel, if you then have to reflect upon yourmisconduct! The tears you will shed over their graves will be themore bitter, because you will feel that, perhaps, your own misconducthastened their death. 

But perhaps you will die before your parents do. If you go into thegrave-yard, you will see the graves of many children. You know thatthe young are liable to die, as well as the old. And what must bethe feelings of the dying child, who knows that he is going to appearbefore God in judgment, and yet feels conscious that he has beenunkind to his parents! Oh, such a child must fear to go into thepresence of his Maker. He must know that God will never receive intoheaven children who have been so wicked. I have seen many childrendie. And I have seen some, who had been very amiable and pleasant alltheir lives, when they came to die, feel grieved that they had notbeen more careful to make their parents happy. I knew oneaffectionate little girl, who was loved by all who knew her. Shehardly ever did any thing which was displeasing to her parents. Butone day she was taken sick. The doctor was called: but she grew worseand worse. Her parents watched over her with anxiety and tears, butstill her fever raged, and death drew nearer. At last all hopes ofher recovery were over, and it was known that she must die. Then didthis little girl, when she felt that she must leave her parents forever, mourn that she had ever done any thing to give them pain. Themost trifling act of disobedience, and the least unkindness of whichshe had ever been guilty, then came fresh into her mind, and shecould not die in peace, till she had called her father and her motherto her bedside, and implored their forgiveness. If so obliging andaffectionate a little girl as this felt so deeply in view of thepast, when called upon to die, how agonizing must be the feelingswhich will crowd upon the heart of the wicked and disobedient childwho has filled her parents' heart with sorrow!

But you must also remember, that there is a day of judgment to come. You must appear before God to answer for every thing you have done orthought while in this world. Oh, how will the ungrateful child thenfeel! Heaven will be before him, in all its beauty and bliss, but hecannot enter. 

"Those holy gates for ever barPollution, sin and shame. "

He has, by his ingratitude, made a home on earth unhappy, and God willnot permit him to destroy the happiness of the homes in heaven. 

He will see all the angels in their holiness and their joy, but hecannot be permitted to join that blessed throng. With his ungratefulheart he would but destroy their enjoyment. The frown of God must beupon him, and he must depart to that wretched world where all thewicked are assembled. There he must live in sorrows which have no end. Oh, children, how great are your responsibilities! The happiness ofyour parents depends upon your conduct. And your ingratitude may fillyour lives with sorrow, and your eternity with wo. Will you not, then, read this book with care, and pray that God will aid you to obey itsdirections, that your homes on earth may be joyful, and that you maybe prepared for happier homes beyond the stars?

CHAPTER II. 

DECEPTION. 

Probably nearly all who read this book have heard the story of GeorgeWashington and his hatchet. 

George, when a little boy, had received from his father a hatchet, andhe, much pleased with his present, walked around the house trying itskeen edge upon every thing which came within his reach. At last hecame to a favorite pear-tree of his father's, and began, with greatdexterity, to try his skill in felling trees. After hacking upon thebark until he had completely ruined the tree, he became tired, andwent into the house. Before long, his father, passing by, beheld hisbeautiful tree entirely ruined; and, entering the house, he earnestlyasked who had been guilty of the destruction. For a moment Georgetrembled and hesitated. He was strongly tempted to deny that he knewany thing about it. But summoning all his courage, he replied, "Father, I cannot tell a lie. I cut it with my hatchet. " His fatherclasped him to his arms, and said, "My dear boy, I would rather losea thousand trees than have my son a liar. "

This little anecdote shows that George Washington, when a boy, wastoo brave and noble to tell a lie. He had rather be punished than beso mean and degraded as to utter a falsehood. He did wrong to cut thepear-tree, though, perhaps, he did not know the extent of the injuryhe was doing. But had he denied that he did it, he would have been acowardly and disgraceful liar. His father would have been ashamed ofhim, and would never have known when to believe him. If little GeorgeWashington had told a lie then, it is by no means improbable that hewould have gone on from falsehood to falsehood, till every bodywould have despised him. And he would thus have become a disgrace tohis parents and friends, instead of a blessing to his country and theworld. No boy, who has one particle of that noble spirit which GeorgeWashington had, will tell a lie. It is one of the most degrading ofsins. There is no one who does not regard a liar with contempt. Almost always, when a lie is told, two sins are committed. The firstis, the child has done something which he knows to be wrong. And thesecond is, that he has not courage enough to admit it, and tells alie to hide his fault. And therefore, when a child tells a lie, youmay always know that that child is a coward. George Washington was abrave man. When duty called him, he feared not to meet danger anddeath. He would march to the mouth of the cannon in the hour ofbattle; he would ride through the field when bullets were flying inevery direction, and strewing the ground with the dead, and not anerve would tremble. Now, we see that George Washington was bravewhen a boy, as well as when a man. He scorned to tell a lie, and, like a noble-hearted boy, as he was, he honestly avowed the truth. Every body admires courage, and every body despises cowardice. Theliar, whether he be a boy or a man, is looked upon with disgust. 

Cases will occur in which you will be strongly tempted to say thatwhich is false. But if you yield to the temptation, how can you helpdespising yourself? A little girl once came into the house and toldher mother something which was very improbable. Those who weresitting in the room with her mother did not believe her, for they didnot know the character of the little girl. But the mother replied atonce, "I have no doubt that it is true, for I never knew my daughterto tell a lie. " Is there not something noble in having such acharacter as this? Must not that little girl have felt happy in theconsciousness of thus possessing her mother's entire confidence? Oh, how different must have been her feelings from those of the childwhose word cannot be believed, and who is regarded by every one withsuspicion! Shame, shame on the child who has not magnanimity enoughto tell the truth. 

God will not allow such sins to go unpunished. Even in this world theconsequences are generally felt. God has given every person aconscience, which approves that which is right, and condemns thatwhich is wrong. When we do any thing wrong, our consciences punishus for it, and we are unhappy. When we do any thing that is right, the approval of conscience is a reward. Every day you feel the powerof this conscience approving or condemning what you do. Sometimes aperson thinks that if he does wrong, and it is not found out, hewill escape punishment. But it is not so. He will be punished whetherit is found out or not. Conscience will punish him if no one elsedoes. 

There was once a boy whose father sent him to ride a few miles uponan errand, and told him particularly not to stop by the way. It wasa beautiful and sunny morning in the spring; and as he rode along bythe green fields, and heard the singing of the birds as they flewfrom tree to tree, he felt as light-hearted and as happy as they. After doing his errand, however, as he was returning by the housewhere two of his friends and playmates lived, he thought he could notresist the temptation just to call a moment to see them. He thoughtthere would be no great harm if he merely stopped a minute or two, and his parents would never know it. Here commenced his sin. Hestopped, and was led to remain longer and longer, till he found hehad passed two hours in play. Then, with a troubled conscience, hemounted his horse, and set his face towards home. The fields lookedas green, and the skies as bright and cloudless, as when he rodealong in the morning; but, oh, how different were his feelings! Thenhe was innocent and happy; now he was guilty and wretched. He triedto feel easy, but he could not; conscience reproached him with hissin. He rode sadly along, thinking what excuse he should maketo his parents for his long absence, when he saw his father, at adistance, coming to meet him. His father, fearing that some accidenthad happened, left home in search of his son. The boy trembled andturned pale as he saw him approaching, and hesitated whether he hadbetter confess the truth at once, and ask forgiveness, or endeavor tohide the crime with a lie. Oh, how much better it would have been forhim if he had acknowledged the truth! How much sooner would he havebeen restored to peace! But one sin almost always leads to another. When this kind father met his son with a smile, the boy said, "Father, I lost the road, and it took me some time to get back again, and thatis the reason why I have been gone so long. "

His father had never known him to be guilty of falsehood before, andwas so happy to find his son safe, that he did not doubt what he saidwas true. But, oh, how guilty, and ashamed, and wretched, did that boyfeel, as he rode along! His peace of mind was destroyed. A heavyweight of conscious guilt pressed upon his heart. The boy went homeand repeated the lie to his mother. It is always thus when we turnfrom the path of duty; we know not how widely we shall wander. Havingcommitted one fault, he told a lie to conceal it, and then added sinto sin, by repeating and persisting in his falsehood. What a changehad one short half day produced in the character and the happiness ofthis child! His parent had not yet detected him in his sin, but hewas not, on that account, free from punishment. Conscience was atwork, telling him that he was degraded and guilty, His look ofinnocence and his lightness of heart had left him. He was ashamed tolook his father or mother in the face. He tried to appear easy andhappy, but he was uneasy and miserable. A heavy load of consciousguilt rested upon him, which destroyed all his peace. 

When he retired to bed that night, he feared the dark. It was longbefore he could quiet his troubled spirit with sleep. And when heawoke in the morning, the consciousness of his guilt had notforsaken him. There it remained fixed deep in his heart, and wouldallow him no peace. He was guilty, and of course wretched. The firstthought which occurred to him, on waking, was the lie of thepreceding day. He could not forget it. He was afraid to go into theroom where his parents were, lest they should discover, by hisappearance, that he had been doing something wrong. And though, asweeks passed away, the acuteness of his feelings in some degreeabated, he was all the time disquieted and unhappy. He wascontinually fearing that something would occur which should lead tohis detection. 

Thus things went on for several weeks, till, one day, the gentleman atwhose house he stopped called at his father's on business. So soonas this boy saw him come into the house, his heart beat violently, and he turned pale with the fear that something would be said thatwould bring the whole truth to light. The gentleman, after conversinga few moments with his father, turned to the little boy, and said, "Well, how did you get home the other day? My boys had a verypleasant visit from you. " Can you imagine how the boy felt? You couldalmost have heard his heart beat. The blood rushed into his face, andhe could not speak; and he dared not raise his eyes from the floor. The gentleman then turned to his parents, and said, "You must letyour son come up again and see my boys. They were quite disappointedwhen he was there a few weeks ago, for he only staid about two hours, and they hoped he had come to spend the whole day with them. " There, the whole truth was out. And how do you suppose that boy felt? He haddisobeyed his parents; told a lie to conceal it; had for weekssuffered the pangs of a guilty conscience; and now the whole truthwas discovered. He stood before his parents overwhelmed with shame, convicted of disobedience, and mean, degraded falsehood. 

This boy was all the time suffering the consequences of his sin. Formany days he was enduring the reproaches of conscience, when theknowledge of his crime was confined to his own bosom. How bitterlydid he suffer for the few moments of forbidden pleasure he hadenjoyed! The way of the transgressor is always hard. Every child whodoes wrong must, to a greater or less degree, feel the same sorrows. This guilty child, overwhelmed with confusion and disgrace, burstinto tears, and implored his parents' forgiveness. But he was told byhis parents that he had sinned, not only against them, but againstGod. The humble child went to God in penitence and in prayer. He madea full confession of all to his parents, and obtained theirforgiveness; and it was not till then that peace of mind was restored. 

Will not the child who reads this account take warning from it? Ifyou have done wrong, you had better confess it at once. Falsehood willbut increase your sin, and aggravate your sorrow. Whenever you aretempted to say that which is untrue, look forward to the consequences. Think how much sorrow, and shame, and sin, you will bring uponyourself. Think of the reproaches of conscience; for you may dependupon it, that those reproaches are not easily borne. 

And is it pleasant to have the reputation of a liar? When persons aredetected in one falsehood, they cannot be believed when they speak thetruth. No person can place any more confidence in them till a longtime of penitence has elapsed, in which they have had an opportunityto manifest their amendment. The little boy, whose case we have abovealluded to, was sincerely penitent for his sin. He resolved that henever would tell another lie. But since he had deceived his parentsonce, their confidence in him was necessarily for a time destroyed. They could judge of the reality of his penitence only by his futureconduct. One day he was sent to a store to purchase some smallarticles for his mother. In his haste, he forgot to stop for the fewcents of change which he ought to have received. Upon his returnhome, his mother inquired for the change. He had not thought a wordabout it before, and very frankly told her, that he had forgotten itentirely. How did his mother know that he was telling the truth? Shehad just detected him in one lie, and feared that he was now tellingher another. "I hope, my dear son, " she said, "you are not againdeceiving me. " The boy was perfectly honest this time, and hisparents had never before distrusted his word. It almost broke hisheart to be thus suspected, but he felt that it was just, and went tohis chamber and wept bitterly. These are the necessary consequencesof falsehood. A liar can never be believed. It matters not whether hetells truth or falsehood, no one can trust his word. If you are evertempted to tell a lie, first ask yourself whether you are willing tohave it said that nobody can trust your word. The liar is alwaysknown to be such. A person may possibly tell a lie which shall not bedetected, but, almost always something happens which brings it tolight. The boy who stopped to play when on an errand two miles fromhis father's house, thought that his falsehood would never bediscovered. But he was detected, and overwhelmed with shame. 

It is impossible for a person who is in the habit of utteringuntruths to escape detection. Your character for truth or falsehoodwill be known. And what can be more humiliating and degrading than tohave the name of a liar? It is so considered in all nations and withall people. It is considered one of the meanest and most cowardlyvices of which one can be guilty. The liar is always a coward. Hetells lies, because he is afraid to tell the truth. 

And how do you suppose the liar must feel when he comes to die? Itis a solemn hour. Perhaps many of the children who read this bookhave never seen a person die. I have seen many. I have seen childrenof all ages dressed in the shroud and placed in the coffin. I mightwrite pages in describing to you such scenes. One day, I went to seea little girl about ten years of age, who was very sick. When I wentinto the room, she was lying upon the little cot-bed, her lipsparched with fever, and her face pale and emaciated with suffering. Her mother was standing by her bed-side, weeping as though her heartwould break. Other friends were standing around, looking in vain forsomething to do to relieve the little sufferer. I went and took herby the hand, and found that she was dying. She raised her languideyes to me, but could not speak. Her breathing grew fainter andfainter. Her arms and limbs grew cold. We could only look mournfullyon and see the advances of death, without being able to do any thingto stop its progress. At last she ceased to breathe. Her spiritascended to God to be judged, and her body remained upon the bed, acold and lifeless corpse. All children are exposed to death; and whenyou least expect it, you may be called to lie upon a bed of sickness, and go down to the grave. There is nothing to give one joy in such anhour, but a belief that our sins are forgiven, and that we are goingto the heavenly home. But how must a child feel in such an hour, whenreflecting upon falsehoods which are recorded in God's book ofremembrance! Death is terrible to the impenitent sinner; but it is amessenger of love and of mercy to those who are prepared to die. Ifyou have been guilty of a falsehood, you cannot, die in peace tillyou have repented and obtained forgiveness. 

There was a little girl eleven years of age, who died a few monthsago. She loved the Savior, and when told that she could not live, wasvery happy. She said she was happy to die, and go home and be withher Savior and the angels in heaven. But there was one thing, which, for a time, weighed heavily upon her mind. A year or two before shefelt interested in religion she had told a lie to her aunt; and shecould not die in peace, till she had seen that aunt, confessed hersin, and asked forgiveness. Her aunt was sent for, though she wasmany miles distant. When her aunt came, the sick little girl, withsorrow for her fault, made confession, and asked forgiveness, "Aunt, "said she, "I have prayed to God, and hope that he has forgiven me;and I cannot die in peace till I have obtained your forgiveness. " Ifany child who reads this book is tempted to deceive his parents orhis friends, I hope he will remember that he must soon die, and thinkhow he will feel in that solemn hour. 

But perhaps you think that the falsehood of which this girl was guiltywas one of peculiar aggravation. It was simply this: She was one dayplaying in the room with several little children, and was making themlaugh very loud. Her aunt said, "My dear, you must not make themlaugh so loud. "

And she replied, "It is not I, aunt, who makes them laugh. "

This was the falsehood she uttered. And though her aunt did not knowthat it was false, the little girl did, and God in heaven did. Andwhen she came to die, though it was a year or two after, her soul wastroubled, and the consciousness of her sin destroyed her peace. A lieis, in the sight of God, a dreadful sin, be it ever so trifling in ourestimation. When we are just ready to leave the world, and to appearbefore God in judgment, the convictions of a guilty conscience willpress upon the heart like lead. 

There are many ways of being guilty of falsehood without utteringthe lie direct in words. Whenever you try to deceive your parents, indoing that which you know they disapprove, you do, in reality, tella lie. Conscience reproves you for falsehood. Once, when I was incompany, as the plate of cake was passed round, a little boy, who satby the side of his mother, took a much larger piece than he knew shewould allow him to have. She happened, for the moment, to be lookingaway, and he broke a small piece off and covered the rest in his lapwith his handkerchief. When his mother looked, she saw the smallpiece, and supposed he had taken no more. He intended to deceive her. His mother has never found out what he did. But God saw him, andfrowned upon him, as he committed this sin. And do you not think thatthe boy has already suffered for it? Must he not feel mean andcontemptible whenever he thinks that, merely to get a little bit ofcake, he would deceive his kind mother? If that little boy had oneparticle of honorable or generous feeling remaining in his bosom, hewould feel reproached and unhappy whenever he thought of hismeanness. If he was already dead to shame, it would show that he hadby previous deceit acquired this character. And can any one love oresteem a child who has become so degraded? And can a child, who isneither beloved nor respected, be happy? No! You may depend upon it, that when you see a person guilty of such deceit, he does in some wayor other, even in this world, suffer a severe penalty. A frank andopen-hearted child is the only happy child. Deception, howeverskilfully it may be practised, is disgraceful, and ensures sorrow andcontempt. If you would have the approbation of your own conscience, and the approval of friends, never do that which you shall desire tohave concealed. Always be open as the day. Be above deceit, and thenyou will have nothing to fear. There is something delightful in themagnanimity of a perfectly sincere and honest child. No person canlook upon such a one without affection. You are sure of friends, andyour prospects of earthly usefulness and happiness are bright. 

But we must not forget that there is a day of most solemn judgmentnear at hand. When you die, your body will be wrapped in the shroud, and placed in the coffin, and buried in the grave; and there it willremain and moulder to the dust, while the snows of unnumberedwinters, and the tempests of unnumbered summers, shall rest upon thecold earth which covers you. But your spirit will not be there. Faraway, beyond the cloudless skies, and blazing suns, and twinklingstars, it will have gone to judgment. How awful must be the scenewhich will open before you, as you enter the eternal world! You willsee the throne of God: how bright, how glorious, will it burst uponyour sight! You will see God the Savior seated upon that majesticthrone. Angels, in numbers more than can be counted, will fill theuniverse with their glittering wings, and their rapturous songs. Oh, what a scene to behold! And then you will stand in the presence ofthis countless throng to answer for every thing you have done whileyou lived. Every action and every thought of your life will then befresh in your mind. You know it is written in the Bible, "God willbring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether itbe good or whether it be evil. " How must the child then feel who hasbeen guilty of falsehood and deception, and has it then all broughtto light! No liar can enter the kingdom of heaven. Oh, how dreadfulmust be the confusion and shame with which the deceitful child willthen be overwhelmed! The angels will all see your sin and yourdisgrace. And do you think they will wish to have a liar enterheaven, to be associated with them? No! They must turn from you withdisgust. The Savior will look upon you in his displeasure. Consciencewill rend your soul. And you must hear the awful sentence, "Departfrom me, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and hisangels. " Oh, it is a dreadful thing to practice deceit. It will shutyou from heaven. It will confine you in eternal wo. Though you shouldescape detection as long as you live; though you should die, and yourfalsehood not be discovered, the time will soon come when it willall be brought to light, and when the whole universe of men and ofangels will be witnesses of your shame. If any child who reads thisfeels condemned for past deception, oh, beware, and do not postponerepentance till the day of judgment shall arrive. Go at once to thosewhom you have deceived, and make confession, and implore forgiveness. Then go to your Savior, fall upon your knees before him; pray that hewill pardon you, and promise to sin no more. If your prayer isoffered in sincerity, and your resolution remains unbroken, theSavior will forgive you; and when the trump of the archangel shallsummon you to judgment, he will give you a home in heaven. The tearof sincere penitence our kind Saviour is ever ready to accept. 

If you are ever tempted to deceive, O, remember, that your deceptionmust soon be known. It is utterly impossible that it should longremain undetected. The moment the day of judgment arrives, your heartwill be open to the view of the universe, and every thought will bepublicly known. How much safer then is it to be sincere and honest!Strive to preserve your heart free from guile. Then you will havepeace of conscience. You will fear no detection. You can lie down atnight in peace. You can awake in the morning with joy. Trusting inthe Saviour for acceptance, you can die happy. And when the morningof the resurrection dawns upon you, your heart will be filled with ajoy which earth's sunniest mornings and brightest skies never couldafford. The Saviour will smile upon you. Angels will welcome you toheaven. You will rove, in inexpressible delight, through the greenpastures of that blissful abode. You will lie down by the stillwaters where there is sweet repose for ever. Oh, what an hour ofbliss must that be, when the child, saved from sin and sorrow, "Has reached the shoreWhere tempests never beat nor billows roar!"

CHAPTER III. 

OBEDIENCE. 

In the chapters you have now read, I have endeavored to show you howmuch your own happiness, and that of your parents, depend upon yourconduct. And I trust every child who has read thus far, has resolvedto do all in his power to promote the happiness of those who havebeen so kind to him. But you will find that it is a very differentthing to resolve to do your duty, from what it is to perform yourresolutions when the hour of temptation comes. It requires courageand firmness to do right, when you are surrounded by those who urgeyou to do wrong. Temptations to do wrong will be continually arising;and, unless you have resolution to brave ridicule, and to refusesolicitation, you will be continually led into trouble. I knew ayoung man who was ruined entirely, because he had not courage enoughto say no. He was, when a boy, very amiable in his disposition, anddid not wish to make any person unhappy; but he had no mind of hisown, and could be led about by his associates into almost anydifficulties, or any sins. If, in a clear moonlight winter evening, his father told him he might go out doors, and slide down the hillfor half an hour, he would resolve to be obedient and return home atthe time appointed. But if there were other boys there, who shouldtease him to remain longer he had not the courage to refuse. And thushe would disobey his kind parents because he had not courage to dohis duty. He began in this way, and so he continued. One day, a badboy asked him to go into a store, and drink some brandy. He knew itwas wrong, and did not wish to go. But he feared that, if he did not, he would be laughed at; and so he went. Having thus yielded to thistemptation, he was less prepared for temptation again. He went to thebottle with one and another, till at last he became intemperate, andwould stagger through the streets. He fell into the company ofgamblers, because he could not refuse their solicitations. He thusbecame a gambler himself, and went on from step to step, never havingresolution to say no, till he ruined himself, and planted within himthe seeds of disease, which hurried him to a premature grave. He diedthe miserable victim of his own irresolution. 

Thousands have been thus ruined. They are amiable in disposition, andin general mean well, but have not courage to do their duty. They fearthat others will laugh at them. Now, unless you are sufficiently bravenot to care if others do laugh at you; unless you have sufficientcourage to say no, when others tempt you to do wrong, you will bealways in difficulty: such a person never can be happy or respected. You must not expect it will be always easy to do your duty. At timesit will require a great mental struggle, and call into exercise allthe resolution you possess. It is best that it should be so, that youmay acquire firmness of character and strength of integrity. Near aschool-house in the country, there was an apple-tree. One summer itwas covered with hard, and sour, and green apples, and the littlegirls who went to that school could hardly resist the temptation ofeating those apples, though they knew there was danger of its makingthem sick. One girl, who went to that school, was expressly forbiddenby her mother from eating them. But when all her playmates werearound her, with the apples in their hands, and urging her to eat, telling her that her mother never would know it, she wickedly yieldedto their solicitation. She felt guilty, as, in disobedience to hermother's commands, she ate the forbidden fruit. But she tried toappease her conscience by thinking that it could do no harm. Havingthus commenced disobedience, she could every day eat more freely, andwith less reluctance. At last she was taken sick. Her mother askedher if she had been eating any of the green apples at school. Herecame another temptation to sin. When we once commence doing wrong, it is impossible to tell where we shall stop. She was afraid toacknowledge to her mother her disobedience; and to hide the fault shetold a lie. She declared that she had not eaten any of the apples. Unhappy girl! she had first disobeyed her mother, and then told a lieto conceal her sin. But she continually grew more sick, and it becamenecessary to send for the physician. He came, and when he had lookedupon her feverish countenance, and felt her throbbing pulse, he saidthere was something upon her stomach which must be removed. As he waspreparing the nauseous emetic, the conscience-smitten girl trembledfor fear that her disobedience and her falsehood should both bebrought to light. As soon as the emetic operated, her mother saw, inthe half-chewed fragments of green apples, the cause of her sickness. What could the unhappy and guilty girl say? Denial was now, ofcourse, out of the question. She could only cover her face with herhands, in the vain attempt to hide her shame. We hope that thisdetection and mortification will teach that little girl a lessonwhich she will never forget. And we hope that the relation of thestory will induce every child, who reads it, to guard againsttemptation, and boldly to resist every allurement to sin. Temptationswill be continually coming, which you will find it hard to resist. But if you once yield, you have entered that downward path whichleads inevitably to sorrow and shame. How much wiser would it havebeen in the little girl, whose story we have just related, if she hadin the first instance resolutely refused to disobey her mother'scommand! How much happier would she have been, when retiring to sleepat night, if she had the joy of an approving conscience, and could, with a grateful heart, ask the blessing of God! The only path ofsafety and happiness is implicit obedience. If you, in the slightestparticular, yield to temptation, and do that which you know to bewrong, you will not know when or where to stop. To hide one crime, you will be guilty of another; and thus you will draw down uponyourself the frown of your Maker, and expose yourself to sorrow fortime and eternity. 

And think not that these temptations to do wrong will be few orfeeble. Hardly a day will pass in which you will not be tempted, either through indolence to neglect your duty, or to do that whichyou know your parents will disapprove. A few years ago, two littleboys went to pass the afternoon and evening at the house of one oftheir playmates, who had a party, to celebrate his birth-day. Theirparents told them to come home at eight o'clock in the evening. Itwas a beautiful afternoon, late in the autumn, as the large party ofboys assembled at the house of their friend. Numerous barns andsheds were attached to the house, and a beautiful grove of beach andof oak surrounded it, affording a most delightful place for all kindsof sport. Never did boys have a more happy time. They climbed thetree, and swung upon the limbs, And as they jumped upon the new-madehay in the barns, they made the walls ring with their joyous shouts. Happiness seemed, for the time, to fill every heart. They continuedtheir sports till the sun had gone down behind the hills, and thelast ray of twilight had disappeared. When it became too dark foroutdoor play, they went into the house, and commenced new plays in thebrightly-lighted parlor. As they were in the midst of the excitinggame of "blind man's buff, " some one entered the room, and requestedthem all to take their seats, for apples and nuts were to be broughtin. Just as the door was opened by the servant bringing in the waiterloaded with apples and nuts, the clock struck eight. The boys, whohad been told to leave at that hour, felt troubled enough. They knewnot what to do. The temptation to stay was almost too strong to beresisted. The older brother of the two faintly whispered to one athis side, that he must go. Immediately there was an uproar all overthe room, each one exclaiming against it. 

"Why, " said one, "my mother told me I might stay till nine. "

"My mother, " said another, "did not say any thing about my cominghome: she will let me stay as long as I want to. "

"I would not be tied to my mother's apron-string, " said a rude boy, ina distant part of the room. 

A timid boy, who lived in the next house to the one in which thesetwo little boys lived, came up, and said, with a very imploringcountenance and voice, "I am going home at half past eight. Now dostay a little while longer, and then we will go home together. Iwould not go alone, it is so dark. "

And even the lady of the house where they were visiting, came tothem and said, "I do not think your mother will have any objection tohave you stay a few moments longer, and eat an apple and a few nuts. I would have sent them in earlier, if I had known that you wanted togo. "

Now, what, could these poor boys do? How could they summonresolution to resist so much entreaty? For a moment they hesitated, and almost yielded to the temptation. But virtue wavered only for amoment. They immediately mustered all their courage, and said, "Wemust go. " Hastily bidding them all good night, they got their hats asquick as they could, for fear, if they delayed, they should yield tothe temptation, and left the house. They stopped not a moment to lookback upon the brightly-shining windows, and happy group of boyswithin, but, taking hold of each other's hands, ran as fast as theycould on their way home. When they arrived at home, their father andmother met them with a smile. And when their parents learnt underwhat strong temptations they had been to disobey, and that they hadtriumphed over these temptations, they looked upon their childrenwith feelings of gratification, which amply repaid them for all theirtrial. And when these boys went to bed that night, they felt thatthey had done their duty, and that they had given their parentspleasure; and these thoughts gave them vastly more happiness thanthey could have enjoyed if they had remained with their playmatesbeyond the hour which their parents had permitted. This was a nobleproof of their determination to do their duty. And, considering theiryouth and inexperience and the circumstances of the temptation, itwas one of the severest trials to which they could be exposed. Probably, in all their after life, they would not be under strongertemptations to swerve from duty. Now, every child will often beexposed to similar temptations. And if your resolution be not strong, you will yield. And if you once begin to yield, you will never knowwhere to stop but, in all probability, will go on from step to steptill you are for ever lost to virtue and to happiness. 

But perhaps some child, who reads this, thinks I make too serious amatter of so slight a thing. You say, It cannot make much differencewhether I come home half an hour earlier or later. But you aremistaken here. It does make a great difference. Think you God canlook upon the disobedience of a child as a trifling sin? Is it atrifle to refuse to obey parents who have loved you, and watched overyou for months and for years; who have taken care of you in sickness, and endeavored to relieve you when in pain; who have given youclothes to wear, and food to eat, and have done all in their power tomake you happy? It is inexcusable ingratitude. It is awful sin. Butperhaps you ask, What positive harm does it do? It teaches yourparents that their child is unwilling to obey them; and is there noharm in that? It makes your parents unhappy; and is there no harm inthat? It tempts you to disobey in other things; and is there no harmin that? It is entering upon that career of sin which led the girl, whom we have, in the first chapter, described to you, to the house ofcorrection, and the wretched boy to the gallows. Oh, beware how youthink it is a little thing to disobey your parents! Their happinessis in a great degree in your hands; and every thing which youknowingly do that disturbs their happiness in the least degree, issin in the sight of God; and you must answer for it at his bar. 

If you go into any state prison, you will see a large number of menworking in silence and in gloom. They are dressed in clothes ofcontrasted colors, that, in case of escape, they may be easilydetected. But the constant presence of vigilant keepers, and the highwalls of stone, guarded by an armed sentry, render escape almostimpossible. There many of these guilty men remain, month after month, and year after year, in friendlessness, and in silence, and insorrow. They are in confinement and disgrace. At night, they aremarched to their solitary cells, there to pass the weary hours, withno friend to converse with, and no joy to cheer them. They are left, in darkness and in solitude, to their own gloomy reflections. And, oh! how many bitter tears must be shed in the midnight darkness ofthose cells! How many an unhappy criminal would give worlds, if hehad them to give, that he might again be innocent and free! You willsee in the prison many who are young--almost children. If you goaround from cell to cell, and inquire how these wretched personscommenced their course of sin, very many will tell you that it waswith disobedience to parents. You will find prisoners there, whoseparents are most affectionate and kind. They have endeavored to maketheir children virtuous and happy. But, oh! how cruelly have theirhopes been blasted! A disobedient son has gone from step to step incrime, till he has brought himself to the gloomy cell of the prison, and has broken his parents' hearts by his disobedience. 

The chaplain of the Massachusetts state prison recently communicatedto the public the following interesting narrative of the progress ofcrime. 

"A few weeks since, I addressed the congregation to which Iminister, on the importance of a strict attention to what are usuallydenominated little things; and remarked, that it is the want ofattention to these little things, which not unfrequently throws adisastrous influence over the whole course of subsequent life. It wasalso further remarked, that a large proportion of the events andtransactions, which go to make up the lives of most men, are, as theyare usually estimated, comparatively unimportant and trivial; andyet, that all these events and transactions contribute, in a greateror less degree, to the formation of character; and that on moralcharacter are suspended, essentially, our usefulness and happiness intime, and our well-being in eternity. 

"I then remarked, that I could not doubt, but, on sober reflection, many of that assembly would find that they owed the complexion of agreat portion of their lives, and their unhappy situation as tenantsof the state prison, to some event or transaction comparativelytrivial, and of which, at the time, they thought very little. Irequested them to make the examination, and see whether the remark Ihad made was not correct. 

"This was on the Sabbath. The next morning; one of the prisoners, aninteresting young man, came to me, and observed, that he should beglad to have some conversation with me, whenever I should find itconvenient. Accordingly, in the afternoon of the same day, I sent forhim. On his being seated, and my requesting him to state freely whathe wished to say, he remarked, 'that he wished to let me know howpeculiarly appropriate to his case were the observations I had made, the previous day, on the influence of little things; and if I wouldpermit him, he would give me a brief sketch of his history; and, particularly, of the transaction, which, almost in childhood, hadgiven a disastrous coloring to the whole period of his youth, and, inthe result, had brought him to be an occupant of his present drearyabode. '

"It appears, from the sketch which he gave, that he was about tenyears of age, when his father moved from a distant part of the stateto a town in the vicinity of Boston. In this town was a respectableboarding-school, not a great distance from the residence of hisfather; and to this school he was sent. Having always lived in thecountry, he had seen very few of those novelties, and parades, andshows, which are so common in and near the city; and it is notwonderful, that, when they occurred, he should, like most children, feel a strong desire to witness them. 

"Before he had been long at school, he heard there was to be a"Cattle Show" at Brighton. He had never seen a Cattle Show. Hepresumed it must be a very interesting spectacle, and felt a verystrong desire to attend. This desire, on the morning of the first dayof the show, he expressed to his father, and was told that it wouldbe a very improper place for him to go to, unless attended by somesuitable person to watch over and take care of him; and that such wasthe business of the father, that he could not accompany him, and, ofcourse, his desire could not be gratified. He was sorelydisappointed, but resolved not to give up, without further effort, anobject on which his heart was so much set. 

"The next morning he beset his father again on the subject. Hisfather seemed anxious to have his son gratified, but told him that hecould by no means consent to have him go to such a place withoutsuitable company; and, though his business was urgent, he would try togo in the afternoon; and, if he did, he would call at the school-house, and take him with him. This was all he could promise. 

"But here was an uncertainty, an if, which very illy accorded withthe eager curiosity of the son. Accordingly, he resolved that hewould go at all hazards. He doubted much whether his father would go, and if he did not, he concluded he might, without much difficulty, conceal the matter from him. Having formed his determination and laidhis plan, he went, before leaving home in the morning, to hisfather's desk, and took a little money to spend on the occasion; and, instead of going to school, went to Brighton. Contrary, however, tohis expectations and hopes, his father, for the sake of gratifyinghim, concluded to go to the show, and, on his way, called for him. But no son was to be found, and no son had been there that day. Thefather, during the afternoon, saw the son, but took care that the sonshould not discover him. After the return of both at evening, thefather inquired of the son whether he had attended school that day. His reply was that he had. My youthful readers will perceive howreadily and naturally one fault leads to another. But the son wassoon satisfied from further questions, and from the manner of hisfather, that he knew where he had been; and he confessed the whole. 

"The father told him that he should feel himself bound in duty toacquaint his teacher with the affair, and to request him to call himto account for absenting himself thus from the school withoutpermission, and to inflict such punishment on him as might be thoughtproper. 

"He was, accordingly, sent to school, and, in his view, disgraced inthe estimation of his teacher and of his school-fellows; and heresolved not to submit to it for any great length of time. A few daysafter this, he left home, under pretence of going to school, and ranaway. He travelled on, until he reached the town from which his fatherhad removed, and had been absent for several weeks before his parentsascertained what had become of him. He was, however, discovered, andbrought back to his home. 

"Some time after this, he was sent to another school, in aneighboring town; but, not being altogether pleased, he resolved, ashe had run away once, he would try the experiment again; and this hedid. He had been absent six months before his parents ascertainedwhat had become of him. He had changed his name; but, getting intosome difficulty, in consequence of which he must go to jail, unlesshe could find friends, he was constrained to tell his name, and whowere his parents; and in this way his good father, whom he had somuch abused, learning his son's condition, stepped in to his aid, andsaved him from confinement in a prison. 

"But I should make this story much too long, were I to detail allthe particulars of his subsequent life until he became a tenant ofthe state prison. Suffice it to say, that he went on from onemisstep to another, until he entered upon that career of crime whichterminated as before stated. 

"And now, beloved reader, to what do you think this unhappy young manascribes his wanderings from home, and virtue, and happiness, and theforlorn condition in which he now finds himself? Why, simply, to thetrivial circumstance of his leaving school one day, without hisfather's consent, for the purpose of going to a cattle show! And whatdo you think he says of it now? 'I feel, ' said he, 'that all I havesuffered, and still suffer, is the righteous chastisement of heaven. Ideserve it all, for my wicked disobedience both to my earthly and myheavenly Father; and I wish, ' said he, further, 'that you would makesuch use of my case as you shall think best calculated to instruct andbenefit the young. '

"And now, beloved reader, I have drawn up this sketch--and I canassure you it is no fictitious one--for your perusal. You here seewhat has been the result of a single act of disobedience to a parent;what it has already cost this unhappy man to gratify, in an unlawfulway, his youthful curiosity even in a single instance. 

"May He, who giveth wisdom to all who ask it, lead and guide yousafely through the journey of life, and cause that even this humblesketch shall serve to strengthen you in virtue, and to deter you fromthe paths of the Destroyer. "

Can any child read this narrative without trembling at the thoughtof disobedience, even in the most trifling affair? If you oncedisobey your parents, it is impossible to tell to what it will lead. Crime follows in the steps of crime, till the career is closed byirretrievable disgrace and eternal ruin. The consequences reach far, far beyond the grave. They affect our interests and our happiness inthat eternal world to which we are all rapidly going. Yes; the childwho utters one falsehood, or is guilty of one act of disobedience, may, in consequence of that one yielding to temptation, be hurried onfrom crime to crime, till his soul is ruined, and he is shut up, bythe command of God, in those awful dungeons of endless despairprepared for the devil and his angels. 

And how ungrateful is disobedience! A noble-hearted boy would denyhimself almost any pleasure; he would meet almost any danger; hewould endure almost any suffering, before he would, in the mosttrifling particular, disobey parents who had been so kind, and hadendured so much to make him happy. How different is such a child fromone who is so ungrateful that he will disobey his parents merely thathe may play a few moments longer, or that he may avoid some triflingwork, that he does not wish to perform! There is a magnanimity in achild who feels so grateful for his parents' love that he will repaythem by all the affection and obedience in his power, which attractsthe respect and affection of all who know him. 

Suppose you see a little boy walking before his mother. The boy'sfather is dead; he has been killed in battle. You see the orphan boycarrying upon his shoulder his father's sword and cap. You look at hispoor mother. She is weeping, for her husband is dead. She is returningin sorrow to her lonely house. She has no friend but her dear boy. Howardently does she love him! All her hopes of earthly happiness aredepending upon his obedience and affection. She loves her boy so well, that she would be willing to die, to make him happy. She will worknight and day, while he is young, to supply him with clothes and withfood. And all she asks and hopes is, that her boy will beaffectionate, and obedient, and good. 

And, oh! how ungrateful and cruel will he be, if he neglect thatmother, and by his unkindness cause her to weep! But you see that helooks like a noble-hearted boy. His countenance seems to say, "Dearmother, do not cry; if ever I grow up to be a man, you shall neverwant, if I can help it. " Oh, who can help loving the boy who loves hismother!

There was a little boy about thirteen years old, whose name wasCasablanca. His father was the commander of a ship of war called theOrient. The little boy accompanied his father to the seas. His shipwas once engaged in a terrible battle upon the river Nile. In themidst of the thunders of the battle, while the shot were flyingthickly around, and strewing the decks with blood, this brave boystood by the side of his father, faithfully discharging the dutieswhich were assigned to him. At last his father placed him in aparticular part of the ship to be performing some service, and toldhim to remain in his post till he should call him away. As the fatherwent to some distant part of the ship to notice the progress of thebattle, a ball from the enemy's vessel laid him dead upon the deck. But the son, unconscious of his father's death, and faithful to thetrust he posed in him, remained in his post, waiting for his father'sorders. The battle raged dreadfully around him. The blood of theslain flowed at his feet. The ship took fire, and the threateningflames drew nearer and nearer. Still this noble-hearted boy would notdisobey his father. In the face of blood, and balls, and fire, hestood firm and obedient. The sailors began to desert the burning andsinking ship, and the boy cried out "Father, may I go?" But no voiceof permission could come from the mangled body of his lifelessfather. And the boy, not knowing that he was dead, would rather diethan disobey. And there that boy stood, at his post, till every manhad deserted the ship; and he stood and perished in the flames. O, what a boy was that! Every body who ever heard of him thinks that hewas one of the noblest boys that ever was born. Rather than disobeyhis father, he would die in the flames. This account has been writtenin poetry, and, as the children who read this book, may like to seeit, I will present it to them here:

CASABIANCA. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him, o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form. 

The flames rolled on; he would not go, Without his father's word;That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud--"Say, father, say'If yet my task is done. '"He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son. 

"Speak, father, " once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone. "And--but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breach, And in his waving hair;And looked from that lone post of death, In still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud, "My father, must I stay?"While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. 

Then came a burst of thunder soundThe boy--oh! where was he?Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea. 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part, But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young, faithful heart. 

O, who would not love to have such a child as that! Is not such a boymore noble than one who will disobey his parents merely that he mayhave a little play, or that he may avoid some unpleasant duty? Thebrave little Casablanca would rather die than disobey. He loved hisfather. He had confidence in him. And even when death was staring himin the face, when

"The flames rolled on, he would not go, Without his father's word. "

I have seen some bad boys who thought it looked brave to care nothingfor the wishes of their parents. But do you think that Casabiancawas a coward? No; the boy who is truly brave, and has a noblespirit, will obey his parents. If others tease him to dodifferently, he will dare to tell them, that he means to do his duty;and if they laugh at him, he will let them laugh, and show them, byhis conduct, that he does not care for the sneers of bad boys. Thefact is, that, in almost all cases, disobedient boys are mean, andcowardly, and contemptible. They have not one particle of the spiritof the noble little Casabianca. And when these disobedient boys growup to be men, they do not command influence or respect. 

If you would be useful and happy when you arrive at mature years, you must be affectionate and obedient as a child. It is invariablytrue that the path of duty is the path of peace. The child who hasestablished principles of firm integrity--who has that undauntedresolution which can face opposition and brave ridicule--bids fair torise to eminence in usefulness and respect. These qualities, whichshed so lovely a charm over childhood, will go with you into maturerlife; they will give stability to your character, and commandrespect. And those faults of childhood which render one hesitating, and weak, and cowardly, will, in all probability, continue throughyour whole earthly existence. The man is but the grown-up child, possessing generally the same traits of character in every period oflife. How important it is then that, in early youth, you shouldacquire the habit of triumphing over temptation, and of resolutelydischarging all your duties!

It is important for you to remember that obedience requires of you, not only to do as you are bidden, but to do it with cheerfulness andalacrity. Suppose, as you are sitting at the table in a pleasantevening, the customary hour for you to retire to rest arrives. Youare, perhaps, engaged in reading some very interesting book, and donot feel at all sleepy. You ask permission to sit up a little longer. But your mother tells you that the time for you to go to bed hascome, and she prefers that you should be regular in your habits. Youthink it is rather hard that you cannot be indulged in your wishes, and, with sullen looks, shut your book, and, taking a light, in illhumor go to your chamber. Now, this is not obedience. As you retireto your chamber, the displeasure of God follows you. Your sin ofdisobedience is so great, that you cannot even pray before you fallasleep. It is impossible for a person to pray when out of humor. Youmay repeat the words of prayer, but you cannot offer acceptableprayer to the Lord. And as you lie down upon your bed, and thedarkness of night is around you, your offended Maker regards you asan ungrateful and disobedient child. And all the night long his eyeis upon your heart, and the knowledge of your sin is in his mind. Obedience belongs to the heart, as well as to the outward conduct. Itis necessary that you should, with affection and cheerfulness, fulfill the wishes of your parents. You should feel that they knowwhat is best, and, instead of being sullen and displeased becausethey do not think fit to indulge you in all your wishes, you should, with a pleasant countenance and a willing heart, yield to theirrequirements. 

You do not know how much pleasure it affords your parents to see youhappy. They are willing to make almost any sacrifice for your good. And they never have more heartfelt enjoyment themselves than whenthey see their children virtuous, contented, and happy. When theyrefuse to gratify any of your desires, it is not because they do notwish to see you happy, but because they see that your happiness willbe best promoted by refusing your request. They have lived longer inthe world than you, and know better than you the dangers by which youare surrounded. Deeply interested in your book, you desire to sit uplater than usual, and think it would make you happy. But your mother, who is older and wiser, knows that the way to make children healthyand happy, is to have them in the regular habit of retiring early atnight. And when you ask to sit up later than usual, she loves you toowell to permit it. You think she is cruel, when, in fact, she is askind as she can be. If she were an unkind mother, and cared nothingabout your happiness, she would say, "O yes; you may sit up as longas you please. I do not care any thing about it. "

Now, is it obedience, when your kind mother is doing all in her powerto make you happy, for you to look sullen and morose? Is it honoringyour father and your mother, for you to look offended and speakunkindly, because they wish you to do that which they know to be foryour welfare? The truly grateful child will endeavor, always, with apleasant countenance, and a peaceful heart, to yield ready obedienceto his parents' wishes. He will never murmur or complain. Such a childcan retire to bed at night contented and happy. He can sincerelythank God for all his goodness and pray for that protection whichGod is ever ready to grant those who love him. 

CHAPTER IV. 

OBEDIENCE, (continued)

There is hardly any subject upon which children in well-regulatedfamilies feel more like complaining-, than of the unwillingness oftheir parents to indulge them, in evening plays and evening visits. An active boy, whose heart is full of fun and frolic, is sittingquietly by the fireside, in a pleasant winter evening. Every now andthen he hears the loud shouts and joyful laugh of some twenty of hiscompanions, who are making the moonlight air ring with theirmerriment. Occasionally, a troop of them will go rushing by thewindows, in the impetuosity of their sports. The ardent little fellowby the fireside can hardly contain himself. He longs to unite hisvoice in the shout, and try his feet in the chase. He nestles uponhis chair, and walks across the room, and peeps through the curtains. As he sees the dark forms of the boys clustered together in merrygroups, or scattered in their plays, he feels as though, he were aprisoner. And even though he be a good boy, and obedient to hisparents, he can hardly understand why it is that they deprive him ofthis pleasure. I used to feel so when I was a boy, and I supposeother boys feel so. But now I see the reason. Those night plays ledthe boys into bad habits. All kinds of boys met together, and somewould use indecent and profane language, which depraved the heartsand corrupted the morals of the rest. The boys who were thus spendingtheir evenings, were misimproving their time, and acquiring adisrelish for the purifying and peaceful enjoyments of home. Yousometimes see men who appear to care nothing about their families. They spend their evenings away from home with the idle and thedissolute. Such men are miserable and despised. Their families areforsaken and unhappy. Why do these men do so? Because, when they wereboys, they spent their evenings away from home, playing in thestreets. Thus home lost all its charms, virtue was banished from, their bosoms, and life was robbed of its joy. I wish every boy whoreads this would think of these reasons, and see if they are notsufficient. Your kind parents do not allow you to go out in theevenings and play in the streets--

I. Because you will acquire bad habits. You will grow rude andvulgar in manners, and acquire a relish for pleasures which willdestroy your usefulness and your happiness. 

II. You will always find in such scenes bad boys, and must hear muchindecent and profane language, which will corrupt your heart. 

III. You will lose all fondness for the enjoyment of home, and will bein great danger of growing up a dissipated and a worthless man. 

Now, are not these reasons sufficient to induce your parents to guardyou against such temptations? But perhaps you say, Other parents lettheir children go out and play as much as they please every evening. How grateful, then, ought you to be, that you have parents who are sokind and faithful that they will preserve you from these occasions ofsin and sorrow! They love you too well to be willing to see youpreparing for an unhappy and profitless life. 

It not unfrequently is the case that a girl has young associates, who are in the habit of walking without protectors in the eveningtwilight. On the evening of some lovely summer's day, as the wholewestern sky is blazing with the golden hue of sunset, her companionscall at her door, to invite her to accompany them upon an excursion ofpleasure. She runs to her parents with her heart bounding with joy, in anticipation of the walk. They inquire into the plans of theparty, and find that it will be impossible for them to return fromtheir contemplated expedition before the darkness of the eveningshall come. As affectionate and faithful parents, they feel that itis not proper or safe for them to trust their little daughter in sucha situation. They, consequently, cannot consent that she should go. She is disappointed in the extreme, and as she sees her friendsdeparting, social and happy, she retires to her chamber and weeps. The momentary disappointment to her is one of the severest she canexperience, and she can hardly help feeling that her parents arecruel, to deprive her of so much anticipated pleasure. Her companionsgo away with the same feelings. They make many severe remarks, andreally think that this little girl's parents are unkind. Perhaps theyhave a pleasant walk, and all return home in safety; and for manydays they talk together at school of the delightful enjoyments ofthat evening. And this increases the impression on the mind of thelittle girl, that it was unkind in her parents not to let her go. 

But, perhaps, as they were returning, they met a drunken man, whostaggered in amongst them. Terrified, they scatter and run. One, inendeavoring to jump over a fence, spoils her gown. Another, fleeing inthe dark, falls, and sadly bruises her face. Another, with loss ofbonnet, and with dishevelled hair, gains the door of her home. Andthus is this party, commenced with high expectations of joy, terminated with fright and tears. The parents of the little girl whoremained at home, knew that they were exposed to all this; and theyloved their daughter too well to allow her to be placed in such asituation. Was it not kind in them?

Perhaps, as they were returning, they met some twenty or more of therudest boys of the village, in the midst of their most excitingsports. Here are Emma, Maria, and Susan, with their party of timidgirls, who must force their way through this crowd of turbulent andnoisy boys. It is already dark. Some of the most unmannerly andwicked boys of the village are there assembled. They are highlyexcited with their sports. And the moment they catch a view of theparty of girls, they raise a shout, and rush in among them recklessand thoughtless. The parents of the little girl who staid at home, knew that she would be exposed to such scenes; and as they lovedtheir daughter, they could not consent that she should go. Was it notkind?

A few young girls once went on such an evening walk, intending toreturn before it was dark. But in the height of their enjoyment theyforgot how rapidly the time was passing, and twilight leaving them. But, at last, when they found how far they were from home, and howdark it was growing, they became quite alarmed, and hastenedhomeward. They, however, got along very well while they were alltogether. But when it became necessary for them to separate, to go totheir respective homes, and several of them had to go alone in thedarkness, they felt quite terrified. It was necessary for one ofthese little girls, after she had left all her companions, to gonearly a quarter of a mile. She set out upon the run, her heartbeating with fear. She had not proceeded far, however, before sheheard the loud shouts of a mob of young men and boys, directly in thestreet through which she must pass. As she drew nearer, the shoutsand laughter grew louder and more appalling. She hesitated. But whatcould she do? She must go on. Trembling, she endeavored to glidethrough the crowd, when a great brutal boy, with a horrid mask on hisface and a "jack-o'lantern" in his hand, came up before her. He threwthe glare of the light upon her countenance, and stared her full inthe face. "Here is my wife, " said he, and tried to draw her arm intohis. A loud shout from the multitude of boys echoed through thedarkened air. Hardly knowing what she did, she pressed through thecrowd, and, breathless with fright, arrived at her home. And I willassure you she did not wish to take any more evening walks without aprotector. From that time afterwards she was careful to be under herfather's roof before it was dark. 

Now can you think that your father or mother are unkind, becausethey are unwilling to have you placed in such a situation? And whenthey are doing all that they can to make you happy, ought you not tobe grateful, and by a cheerful countenance, and ready obedience, totry to reward them for their love?

It is the duty of all children to keep in mind that their parents knowwhat is best. And when they refuse to gratify your wishes, you shouldremember that their object is to do you good. That obedience which isprompt and cheerful, is the only obedience which is acceptable tothem, or well-pleasing to God. A great many cases will occur in whichyou will wish to do that which your parents will not approve. If youdo not, in such cases, pleasantly and readily yield to their wishes, you are ungrateful and disobedient. 

Neither is it enough that you should obey their expressed commands. You ought to try to do every thing which you think will give thempleasure, whether they tell you to do it or not. A good child willseek for opportunities to make his parents happy. A little girl, forinstance, has some work to do. She knows that if she does it well andquick, it will gratify her mother. Now, if she be a good girl; shewill not wait for her mother's orders, but will, of her own accord, improve her time, that she may exhibit the work to her mother soonerand more nicely done than she expected. 

Perhaps her mother is sick. Her affectionate daughter will not waitfor her mother to express her wishes. She will try to anticipatethem. She will walk softly around the chamber, arranging every thingin cheerful order. She will adjust the clothes of the bed, that hermother may lie as comfortably as possible. And she will watch all hermother's movements, that she may learn what things she needs beforeshe asks for them. Such will be the conduct of an affectionate andobedient child. I was once called to see a poor woman who was verysick. She was a widow, and in poverty. Her only companion and onlyearthly reliance was her daughter. As I entered the humble dwellingof this poor woman, I saw her bolstered up in the bed, with her palecountenance emaciated with pain, and every thing about the roomproclaiming the most abject poverty. Her daughter sat sewing at thehead of the bed, watching every want of her mother, and active withher needle. The perfect neatness of the room, told how faithful wasthe daughter in the discharge of her painful and arduous duties. Buther own slender form and consumptive countenance showed that by toiland watching she was almost worn out herself. This noble girl, bynight and by day, with unwearied attention, endeavored to alleviatethe excruciating pains of her afflicted parent. I could not look uponher but with admiration, in seeing the devotedness with which shewatched every movement of her mother. How many wealthy parents wouldgive all they possess, to be blessed with such a child! For monthsthis devoted girl had watched around her mother by night and by day, with a care which seemed never to be weary. You could see by themovement of her eye, and by the expression of her countenance, howfull her heart was of sympathy. She did not wait for her mother totell her what to do, but was upon the watch all the time to find outwhat would be a comfort to her. This is what I call obedience. It isthat obedience which God in heaven approves and loves. 

I called often upon this poor widow, and always with increasingadmiration of this devoted child, One morning, as I entered the room, I saw the mother lying upon the bed on the floor, with her head inthe lap of her daughter. She was breathing short and heavy in thestruggles of death. The tears were rolling down the pale cheeks ofher daughter, as she pressed her hand upon the brow of her dyingmother. The hour of death had just arrived, and the poor mother, inthe triumphs of Christian faith, with faint and faltering accents, was imploring God's blessing upon her dear daughter. It was a mostaffecting farewell. The mother, while thus expressing her gratitudeto God for the kindness of her beloved child, breathed her last. Andangels must have looked upon that humble abode, and upon thataffecting scene, with emotions of pleasure, which could hardly beexceeded by any thing else which the world could present. O that allchildren would feel the gratitude which this girl felt for a mother'searly love! Then would the world be divested of half its sorrows, andof half its sins. This is the kind of obedience which every childshould cultivate. You should not only do whatever your parents tellyou to do, with cheerfulness and alacrity, but you should be obedientto their wishes. You should be watching for opportunities to givethem pleasure. You should, at all times, and under all circumstances, do every thing in your power to relieve them from anxiety and to makethem happy. Then can you hope for the approbation of your God, andyour heart will be filled with a joy which the ungrateful child cannever feel. You can reflect with pleasure upon your conduct. Whenyour parents are in the grave, you will feel no remorse of conscienceharrowing your soul for your past unkindness. And when you dieyourselves, you can anticipate a happy meeting with your parents, inthat heavenly home, where sin and sorrow, and sickness and death, cannever come. 

God has, in almost every case, connected suffering with sin. Andthere are related many cases in which he has, in this world, mostsignally punished ungrateful children. I read, a short time since, anaccount of an old man, who had a drunken and brutal son. He wouldabuse his aged father without mercy. One day, he, in a passion, knocked him flat upon the floor, and, seizing him by his gray hairs, dragged him across the room to the threshold of the door, to cast himout. The old man, with his tremulous voice, cried out to hisunnatural son, "It is enough--it is enough. God is just. When I wasyoung, I dragged my own father in the same way; and now God is givingme the punishment I deserve. "

Sometimes you will see a son who will not be obedient to his mother. He will have his own way, regardless of his mother's feelings. He hasgrown up to be a stout and stubborn boy, and now the ungratefulwretch will, by his misconduct, break the heart of that very mother, who, for months and years, watched over him with a care which knew noweariness. I call him a wretch, for I can hardly conceive of moreenormous iniquity. That boy, or that young man, who does not treathis affectionate mother with kindness and respect, is worse than Ican find language to describe. Perhaps you say, your mother is attimes unreasonable. Perhaps she is. But what of that? You have beenunreasonable ten thousand times, and she has borne with you and lovedyou. And even if your mother be at times unreasonable in herrequirements, I want to know with what propriety you find fault withit. Is she to bear with all your cries in infancy, and all yourfretfulness in childhood, and all your ingratitude and wants till youarrive at years of discretion, and then, because she wishes you to dosome little thing which does not exactly meet your views, are you toturn upon her like a viper and sting her to the heart? The time was, when you was a little infant, your mother brought paleness to her owncheek, and weakness to her own frame, that she might give yousupport. You were sick, and in the cold winter night she would sitlonely by the fire, denying herself rest that she might lull her babeto sleep. You would cry with pain, and hour after hour she would walkthe floor, carrying you in her arms, till her arms seemed ready todrop, and her limbs would hardly support her, through excess ofweariness. The bright sun and the cloudless sky would invite her togo out for health and enjoyment, but she would deny herself thepleasure, and stay at home to take care of you, her helpless babe. Her friends would solicit her to indulge in the pleasures of thesocial evening party, but she would refuse for your sake, and, in thesolitude of her chamber, she would pass weeks and months watching allyour wants. Thus have years passed away in which you have receivednothing but kindness from her hands; and can you be so hard-hearted, so ungrateful, as now to give her one moment of unnecessary pain? Ifshe have faults, can you not bear with them, when she has so longborne with you? Oh, if you knew but the hundredth part of what shehas suffered and endured for your sake, you could not, could not besuch a wretch as to requite her with ingratitude. A boy who has oneparticle of generosity glowing in his bosom, will cling to his motherwith an affection which life alone can extinguish. He will never lether have a single want which he can prevent. And when he grows to bea man, he will give her the warmest seat by his fire-side, and thechoicest food upon his table. If necessary, he will deprive himselfof comforts, that he may cheer her declining years. He will prove, byactions which cannot be misunderstood, that he feels a gratitude fora mother's love, which shall never, never leave him. And when shegoes down to the grave in death, he will bedew her grave with thehonorable tears of manly feeling. The son who does not feel thus, isunworthy of a mother's love; the frown of his offended Maker must beupon him, and he must render to Him an awful account for hisungrateful conduct. 

It is, if possible, stranger still, that any daughter can forget amother's care. You are always at home. You see your mother'ssolicitude. You are familiar with her heart. If you ever treat yourmother with unkindness, remember that the time may come when your ownheart will be broken by the misconduct of those who will be as dear toyou as your mother's children are to her. And you may ask yourselfwhether you would be pleased with an exhibition of ungrateful feelingfrom a child whom you had loved and cherished with the tenderest care. God may reward you, even in this world, according to your deeds. Andif he does not, he certainly will in the world to come. A day ofjudgment is at hand, and the ungrateful child has as fearful anaccount to render as any one who will stand at that bar. 

I have just spoken to you of the grateful girl who took such good careof her poor sick mother. When that good girl, dies, and meets hermother in heaven, what a happy meeting it will be! With how much joywill she reflect upon her dutifulness as a child! And as they dwelltogether again in the celestial mansions, sorrow and sighing will forever flee away. If you wish to be happy here or hereafter, honor yourfather and your mother. Let love's pure flame burn in your heart andanimate your life. Be brave, and fear not to do your duty. Bemagnanimous, and do more for your parents than they require or expect. Resolve that you will do every thing in your power to make them happy, and you will be blest as a child, and useful and respected in yourmaturer years. Oh, how lovely is that son or daughter who has agrateful heart, and who will rather die than give a mother sorrow!Such a one is not only loved by all upon earth, but by the angelsabove, and by our Father in heaven. 

It may assist you a little to estimate your obligations to yourparents, to inquire what would become of you if your parents shouldrefuse to take care of you any longer. You, at times, perhaps, feelunwilling to obey them: suppose they should say, "Very well, my child, if you are unwilling to obey us, you may goaway from home, and take care of yourself. We cannot be at thetrouble and expense of taking care of you unless you feel somegratitude. "

"Well, " perhaps you would say, "let me have my cloak and bonnet, andI will go immediately. "

"YOUR CLOAK AND BONNET!" your mother would reply. "The cloak andbonnet are not yours, but your father's. He bought them and paid forthem. Why do you call them yours?"

You might possibly reply, after thinking a moment, "They are minebecause you gave them to me. "

"No, my child, " your mother would say, "we have only let you havethem to wear. You never have paid a cent for them. You have not evenpaid us for the use of them. We wish to keep them for those of ourchildren who are grateful for our kindness. Even the clothes you nowhave on are not yours. We will, however, give them to you; and nowsuppose you should go, and see how you can get along in taking care ofyourself. "

You rise to leave the house without any bonnet or cloak. But yourmother says, "Stop one moment. Is there not an account to be settledbefore you leave? We have now clothed and boarded you for ten years. The trouble and expense, at the least calculation, amount to twodollars a week. Indeed I do not suppose that you could have got anyone else to have taken you so cheap. Your board, for ten years, attwo dollars a week, amounts to one thousand and forty dollars. Areyou under no obligation to us for all this trouble and expense?"

You hang down your head and do not know what to say. What can yousay? You have no money. You cannot pay them. 

Your mother, after waiting a moment for an answer, continues, "Inmany cases, when a person does not pay what is justly due, he is sentto jail. We, however, will be particularly kind to you, and waitawhile. Perhaps you can, by working for fifteen or twenty years, andby being very economical, earn enough to pay us. But let me see; theinterest of the money will be over sixty dollars a year. Oh, no! itis out of the question. You probably could not earn enough to pay usin your whole life. We never shall be paid for the time, expense, andcare, we have devoted to our ungrateful daughter. We hoped she wouldlove us, and obey us, and thus repay. But it seems she prefers to beungrateful and disobedient. Good by. "

You open the door and go out. It is cold and windy. Shivering withthe cold, and without money, you are at once a beggar, and mustperish in the streets, unless some one takes pity on you. 

You go, perhaps, to the house of a friend, and ask if they will allowyou to live with them. 

They at once reply, "We have so many children of our own, that wecannot afford to take you, unless you will pay for your board andclothing. "

You go again out into the street, cold, hungry, and friendless. Thedarkness of the night is coming on; you have no money to purchase asupper, or night's lodging. Unless you can get some employment, orfind some one who will pity you, you must lie down upon the hardground, and perish with hunger and with cold. 

Perhaps some benevolent man sees you as he is going home in theevening, and takes you to the overseers of the poor, and says, "Hereis a little vagrant girl I found in the streets. We must send the poorlittle thing to the poor house, or she will starve to death. "

You are carried to the poor house. There you had a very different homefrom your father's. You are dressed in the coarsest garments. You havethe meanest food, and are compelled to be obedient, and to do the mostservile work. 

Now, suppose, while you are in the poor house, some kind gentleman andlady should come and say, "We will take this little girl, and giveher food and clothes for nothing. We will take her into our ownparlor, and give her a chair by our own pleasant fireside. We willbuy every thing for her that she needs. We will hire persons to teachher. We will do every thing in our power to make her happy, and willnot ask for one cent of pay in return. "

What should you think of such kindness? And what should you think ofyourself, if you could go to their parlor, and receive their bounty, and yet be ungrateful and disobedient? Would not a child who couldthus requite such love, be deserving of universal detestation? Butall this your parents are doing, and for years have been doing foryou. They pay for the fire that warms you; for the house that sheltersyou; for the clothes that cover you; for the food that supports you!They watch over your bed in sickness, and provide for yourinstruction and enjoyment when in health! Your parents do all thiswithout money and without price. Now, whenever you feel ill humored, or disposed to murmur at any of their requirements, just look amoment and see how the account stands. Inquire what would be theconsequence, if they should refuse to take care of you. 

The child who does not feel grateful for all this kindness, must bemore unfeeling than the brutes. How can you refrain from, doing everything in your power to make those happy who have loved you so long, and have conferred upon you so many favors! If you have any thingnoble or generous in your nature, it must be excited by a parent'slove. You sometimes see a child who receives all these favors asthough they were her due. She appears to have no consciousness ofobligation; no heart of gratitude. Such a child is a disgrace tohuman nature. Even the very fowls of the air, and cattle of thefields, love their parents. They put to shame the ungrateful child. 

You can form no conception of that devotedness of love which yourmother cherishes for you. She is willing to suffer almost every thingto save you from pain. She will, to protect you, face death in itsmost terrific form. An English gentleman tells the following affectingstory, to show how ardently a mother loves her child. 

"I was once going, in my gig, up the hill in the village of Frankford, near Philadelphia when a little girl about two years old, who hadtoddled away from a small house, was lying basking in the sun, in themiddle of the road. About two hundred yards before I got to the child, the teams of three wagons, five big horses in each, the drivers ofwhich had stopped to drink at a tavern at the brow of the hill, started off, and came nearly abreast, galloping down the road. I gotmy gig off the road as speedily as I could, but expected to see thepoor child crushed to pieces. A young man, a journeyman carpenter, who was shingling a shed by the road side, seeing the child, andseeing the danger, though a stranger to the parents, jumped from thetop of the shed, ran into the road, and snatched up the child fromscarcely an inch before the hoof of the leading horse. The horse'sleg knocked him down; but he, catching the child by its clothes, flung it back out of the way of the other horses, and saved himselfby rolling back with surprising agility. The mother of the child, whohad apparently been washing, seeing the teams coming, and seeing thesituation of the child, rushed out, and, catching up the child, justas the carpenter had flung it back, and hugging it in her arms, uttered a shriek, such as I never heard before, never heard since, and, I hope, shall never hear again; and then she dropped down as ifperfectly dead. By the application of the usual means, she wasrestored, however, in a little while, and I, being about to depart, asked the carpenter if he were a married man, and whether he were arelation of the parents of the child. He said he was neither. 'Well, then, ' said I, you merit the gratitude of every father and mother inthe world, and I will show you mine by giving you what I have, --pulling out the nine or ten dollars which I had in my pocket. 'No, Ithank you, sir, ' said he, 'I have only done what it was my duty todo. '

"Bravery, disinterestedness, and maternal affection surpassing theseit is impossible to imagine. The mother was going right in amongst thefeet of these powerful and wild horses, and amongst the wheels ofthe wagons. She had no thought for herself; no feeling of fear forher own life; her shriek was the sound of inexpressible joy, joy toogreat for her to support herself under. "

Now, can you conceive a more ungrateful wretch, than that boy wouldbe, if he should grow up, not to love or obey his mother? She waswilling to die for him. She was willing to run directly under the feetof those ferocious horses, that she might save his life. And if he hasone particle of generosity in his bosom, he will do every thing in hispower to make her happy. 

But your mother loves you as well as did that mother love her child. She is as willing to expose herself to danger and to death. And canyou ever bear the thought of causing grief to her whose love is sostrong; whose kindness is so great? It does appear to me that thegenerous-hearted boy, who thinks of these things, will resolve to behis mother's joy and blessing. 

A few years ago a child was lost in one of those vast plains in thewest, called prairies. A gentleman who was engaged in the search forthe child, thus describes the scene. It forcibly shows the strength ofa mother's love. 

"In the year 1821 I was stationed on the Mad River circuit. You knowthere are extensive prairies in that part of the state. In places, there are no dwellings within miles of each other; and animals ofprey are often seen there. One evening, late in autumn, a few of theneighbors were assembled around me, in one of those solitarydwellings, and we had got well engaged in the worship of God, when itwas announced that the child of a widow was lost in the prairie. Itwas cold; the wind blew; and some rain was falling. The poor womanwas in agony, and our meeting was broken up. All prepared to go insearch of the lost child. The company understood the business betterthan I did, for they had been bred in those extensive barrens; andoccurrences like the present are, probably, not unfrequent amongthem. They equipped themselves with lanterns and torches, for it wasquite dark; and tin horns, to give signals to different parts of thecompany, when they should become widely separated. For my part, Ithought duty required that I should take charge of the unhappymother. She was nearly frantic; and as time permitted her to view herwidowed and childless condition, and the circumstances of theprobable death of her child, her misery seemed to double upon her. She took my arm; the company divided into parties; and, takingdifferent directions, we commenced the search. The understanding was, that, when the child should be found, a certain wind of the hornshould be made, and that all who should hear it should repeat thesignal. In this way all the company would receive the information. 

"The prospect of finding a lost child in those extensive prairies, would, at any time, be sufficiently discouraging. The difficulty mustbe greatly increased by a dark, rainy night. We travelled many miles, and to a late hour. At length we became satisfied that further searchwould be unavailing; and all but the mother determined to return home. It was an idea she could not, for a moment, endure. She would hear ofnothing but further search. Her strength, at last, began to fail her, and I prevailed on her to return to her abode. As she turned her facefrom further search, and gave up her child as lost, her misery wasalmost too great for endurance. 'My child, ' said she, 'has beendevoured by a wild beast; his little limbs have been torn asunder; andhis blood been drunk by the hideous monster, '--and the idea wasagony. As she clung to my arm, it seemed as if her heart-stringswould break. At times I had almost to support her in my arms, toprevent her falling to the earth. 

"As we proceeded on our way back, I thought I heard, at a greatdistance, the sound of a horn. We stopped, and listened: it wasrepeated. It was the concerted signal. The child was found. And whatwere the feelings of the mother!" Language cannot describe them. Suchis the strength of maternal affection. And can a child be so hard-hearted as not to love a mother? Is there any thing which can be moreungrateful than to grieve one who loves you so ardently, and who hasdone so much for you? If there be any crime which in the sight of Godis greater than all others, it appears to me it must be the abuse ofparents. If the spirit of a demon dwells in any human breast, it mustbe in that breast which is thankless for parental favors, and whichcan requite that love, which watched over our infancy and protectedour helpless years, with ingratitude and disrespect. 

CHAPTER V. 

RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 

In this chapter I shall take up the subject of religion. That youmay understand your duties, it is important that you should firstunderstand your own character in the sight of God. I can, perhaps, make this plain to you by the following illustration:

A few years since a ship sailed from England to explore the NorthernOcean. As it was a voyage of no common danger to face the storms andthe tempests of those icy seas, a crew of experienced seamen wasobtained, and placed under the guidance of a commander of long-triedskill. As the ship sailed from an English port, in pleasant weatherand with favorable breezes, all was harmony on board, and every manwas obedient to the lawful commander. As weeks passed away, and theypressed forward on the wide waste of waters, there were occasionalacts of neglect of duty. Still the commander retained his authority. No one ventured to refuse to be in subjection to him, But as the shipadvanced farther and farther into those unexplored regions, new toilsand dangers stared them in the face. The cold blasts of those wintryregions chilled their limbs. Mountains of ice, dashed about by thetempests, threatened destruction to the ship and to the crew. As faras the eye could reach, a dreary view of chilling waves and offloating ice warned them of dangers, from which no earthly powercould extricate them. The ship was far away from home, and in regionswhich had been seldom, if ever, seen by mortal eyes. The boldest wereat times appalled by the dangers, both seen and unseen, which wereclustering around them. Under these circumstances the spirit ofrevolt broke out among that ship's crew. They resolved that theywould no longer be in subjection to their commander. They rosetogether in rebellion: deprived him of his authority, and took thecontrol of the ship into their own hands. They then placed theircaptain in an open boat, and throwing in to him a few articles ofprovision, they turned him adrift upon that wide and cheerless ocean, and he never was heard of more. Appointing one of their number ascommander, they turned the ship in a different direction, andregulated all their movements by their own pleasure. After thisrevolt, things went on pretty much as before. They had deprived theirlawful commander of his authority and elevated another to occupy hisplace. A stranger would, perhaps, have perceived no materialdifference, after this change, in the conduct of the crew. Thepreservation of their own lives rendered it necessary that theestablished rules of naval discipline should be observed. By nightthe watches were regularly set and relieved as before. The helmsmanperformed his accustomed duty, and the sails were spread to thewinds, or furled in the tempest, as occasion required. But still theywere all guilty of mutiny. They had refused to submit to their lawfulcommander. Consequently, by the laws of their country, they were allcondemned to be hung. The faithful discharge of the necessary dutiesof each day after their revolt, did not in the least free them fromblame. The crime of which they were guilty, and for which theydeserved the severest punishment, was the refusal to submit toauthority. 

Now, our situation is very similar to that of this rebellious crew. The Bible tells us that we have said in our hearts that "we will nothave God to reign over us. " Instead of living in entire obedience tohim, we have chosen to serve ourselves. The accusation which God hasagainst us, is not that we occasionally transgress his laws, but thatwe refuse to regard him, at all times and under all circumstances, asour ruler. Sometimes children think that if they do not tell lies, and if they obey their parents, it is all that God requires of them. This, however, is by no means the case. God requires of us not onlyto do our duty to our parents, and to those around us, but also tolove him with our most ardent affection, and to endeavor at all timesto do that which will be pleasing to him. While the mutinous seamenhad command of the ship, they might have been kind to one another;they might, with unwearied care and attention, have watched over thesick. They might, with the utmost fidelity, have conformed to therules of naval discipline, seeing that every rope was properlyadjusted, and that cleanliness and order should pervade everydepartment. But notwithstanding all this, their guilt wasundiminished. They had refused obedience to their commander, and forthis they were exposed to the penalty of that law which doomed themto death. 

It is the same with us. We may be kind to one another; we may befree from guile; we may be faithful in the discharge of the ordinaryduties of life; yet, if we are not in subjection to God, we arejustly exposed to the penalty of his law. What would have beenthought of one of those mutinous seamen, if, when brought before thebar of his country, he had pleaded in his defence, that, after therevolt, he had been faithful to his new commander? Would any personhave regarded that as an extenuation of his sin? No! He would at oncehave been led to the scaffold. And the voice of an indignant publicwould have said that he suffered justly for his crime. 

Let us imagine one of the mutineers in a court of justice, and urgingthe following excuses to the judge. 

Judge. --You have been accused of mutiny, and are found guilty; and nowwhat have you to say why sentence of death should not be pronouncedagainst you?

Criminal. --To be sure I did help place the captain in the boat andturn him adrift; but then I was no worse than the others. I did onlyas the rest did. 

Judge. --The fact that others were equally guilty, is no excuse foryou. You are to be judged by your own conduct. 

Criminal. --Well, it is very unjust that I should be punished, for Iwas one of the hardest-working men on board the ship. No one can saythat they ever saw me idle, or that I ever refused to perform anyduty, however dangerous. 

Judge. --You are not on trial for idleness, but for refusingobedience to your commander. 

Criminal. --I was a very moral man. No one ever heard me use a profaneword; and in my conduct and actions, I was civil to all my shipmates. 

Judge. --You are not accused of profanity, or of impoliteness. Thecharge for which you are arraigned, is that you have rebelledagainst lawful authority. Of this you have been proved to be guilty;and for this I must now proceed to pass the penalty of the law. 

Criminal. --But, may it please your honor, I was a very benevolent man. One night one of my shipmates was sick, and I watched all the nightlong at his hammock. And after we placed the captain in the boat, andcut him adrift, I threw in a bag of biscuit, that he might have somefood. 

Judge. --If your benevolence had shown itself in defending yourcommander, and in obedience to his authority, you might now berewarded; but you are guilty of mutiny, and must be hung. 

Criminal. --There was no man on board the ship more useful than I was. And after we had turned the captain adrift, we must all have perishedif it had not been for me, for no one else understood navigation. Ihave a good education, and did everything I could to instruct myshipmates, and to make them skilful seamen. 

Judge. --You are then the most guilty of the whole rebellious crew. Youknew your duty better than the rest, and are more inexcusable in notbeing faithful. It appears by your own confession, that youreducation was good; that your influence was extensive; and that youhad been taught those duties which man owes his fellow man. This doesnot extenuate, but increases your guilt. Many of your shipmates wereignorant, and were confirmed in their rebellion by your example. Theyhad never been taught those moral and social duties which had beenimpressed upon your mind. That you could have been so ungrateful, sotreacherous, so cruel as to engage in this revolt, justly exposes youto the severest penalty of the law. I therefore proceed to pronounceupon you the sentence which your crimes deserve. You will be led fromthis place to the deepest and strongest dungeon of the prison; thereto be confined till you are led to the gallows, and there to be hungby the neck till you are dead; and may God have mercy upon your soul. 

Now, who would not declare that this sentence is just? And who doesnot see the absurdity of the excuses which the guilty man offered?

So it is with you, my young reader. It is your duty, at all times, tobe obedient to God. The charge which God brings against us, is, thatwe have refused to obey him. For this we deserve that penalty whichGod has threatened against rebellion. If we love our parents ever soardently, it will not save us, unless we also love God. If we areever so kind to those around us, it will not secure God'sapprobation, unless we are also obedient to him. If our conduct is socorrect that no one can accuse us of what is called an immoral act, it will be of no avail, unless we are also living with faith in thepromises of God, and with persevering efforts to do his will. And weshall be as foolish as was the guilty mutineer, if we expect that anysuch excuses will save us from the penalty of his law. 

We cannot, by any fidelity in the discharge of the common duties oflife, atone for the neglect to love and serve our Maker. We havebroken away from his authority. We follow our own inclinations, andare obedient to the directions of others, rather than to those ofour Maker. The fact is, that the duties we owe God and our fellow menare not to be separated. God expects the child in the morning toacknowledge his dependence upon his Maker, and to pray for assistanceto do that which is right, during all the hours of the day. And heexpects you, when the evening comes, to thank him for all hisgoodness, and solemnly to promise, all your days, to be obedient tohis authority. You must not only love your parents, but you must alsolove your God. You must try to have your words and your thoughtspure, and all your conduct holy. Now, when you look back upon yourpast lives, and when you examine your present feelings, do you notsee that you have not obeyed God in all your ways? Not only have youhad wicked thoughts, and at times been disobedient to your parents, but you have not made it the great object of your life to serve yourMaker. 

God now desires to have you obedient to him. He loves you, and wishesto see you happy. He has for this purpose sent his Son into the worldto die for your sins, and to lead you to piety and peace. The Saviornow asks you to repent of sin and love him, that, when you die, youmay be received to heaven, and be happy for ever. You perhapsremember the passage of Scripture found in Rev. 3:2, "Behold, Istand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice, and open thedoor, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me. " Bythis he expresses his desire that we should receive him to ourhearts. 

One of the most affecting scenes described by the pen of the mosteloquent of writers, is, that of an aged father driven from his homeby ungrateful and hard-hearted children. The broken-hearted man isrepresented as standing by the door of his own house, in a dark andtempestuous night, with his gray locks streaming in the wind, and hishead unprotected to the fury of the storm. There he stands, drenchedwith the rain, and shivering with the cold. But the door is barred, and the shutters are closed. His daughters hear the trembling voice oftheir aged parent, but refuse him admission. Their flinty heartsremain unmoved. The darkness increases; the tempest rages; the rainfalls in torrents, and the wind howls most fearfully. The voice oftheir father grows feebler and feebler, as the storm spends its furyupon him. But nothing can touch the sympathies of his unnaturalchildren. They will not open the door to him. At last, grief, and thepangs of disappointed hope, break the father's heart. He looks at theblack and lowering clouds above him, and, in the phrensy of hisdistracted mind, invites the increasing fury of the storm. And stillthose wretched children refuse to receive him to their fireside, butleave him to wander in the darkness and the cold. 

The representation of this scene, as described by the pen ofShakspeare, has brought tears into millions of eyes. The tragedy ofKing Lear and his wretched daughters is known throughout the civilizedworld. What heart is not indignant at such treatment? Who does notabhor the conduct of these unnatural children?

Our blessed Savior represents himself as taking a similar attitudebefore the hearts of his children. He has presented himself at thedoor of your heart, and can you refuse him admission? "Behold, " sayshe, "I stand at the door and knock. " But we, with a hardness of heartwhich has triumphed over greater blessings, and is consequently moreinexcusable than that of the daughters of King Lear, refuse to lovehim, and to receive him as our friend. He entreats admission. He asksto enter and be with you and you with him, that you may be happy. Andthere he has stood for days, and months, and years, and you receivehim not. Could we see our own conduct in the light in which we beholdthe conduct of others, we should be confounded with the sense of ourguilt. 

Is there a child who reads this book, who has not at times felt theimportance of loving the Savior? When you felt these seriousimpressions, Christ was pleading for admission to your heart. Youhave, perhaps, been sick, and feared that you were about to die. And, oh, how ardently did you then wish that the Savior were yourfriend! Perhaps you have seen a brother or a sister die: you weptover your companion, as her cheek daily grew more pale, and she drewnearer and nearer to death. And when she ceased to breathe, and herlimbs were cold and lifeless, you wept as though your heart wouldbreak. And when you saw her placed in the coffin and carried to thegrave, how earnestly did you desire to be prepared to die yourself!Oh, how did the world seem then to you! This was the way the Saviortook to reach your heart. When on earth, he said, "Suffer littlechildren to come unto me, and forbid them not. " And now he endeavors, in many ways, to induce you to turn to him. Sometimes he makes youhappy, that his goodness may excite your love. When he sees that inhappiness you are most prone to forget him, he sends sorrow andtrouble, under which your spirits sink, and this world appearsgloomy, and you are led to look forward to a happier one to come. Anddoes it not seem very ungrateful that you should resist all thiskindness and care, and continue to refuse to submit yourself to him?You think the daughters of King Lear were very cruel. Indeed theywere; but not so cruel as you. Their father had been kind to them, but not so kind as your Savior has been to you. He stood long at thedoor and knocked, but not so long as the Savior has stood at the doorof your heart. It is in vain that we look to find an instance ofingratitude equal to that manifested by the sinner who rejects theSavior. And it is, indeed, melancholy to think, that any child couldbe so hard-hearted. 

It is strange that any person can resist the love which God hasmanifested for us. He has sent angels with messages of mercy, andinvitations to his home in heaven. He sent his Son to die that wemight be saved from everlasting sorrow. He has provided a world ofbeauty and of glory, far surpassing any thing we can conceive, towhich he invites us, and where he will make us happy for ever. And weare informed that all the angels in heaven are so much interested inour welfare, that "there is joy in the presence of the angels of Godover one sinner that repenteth. " It is indeed wonderful that the holyand happy angels above should feel so deep an interest in ourconcerns. But, oh, how surpassingly strange it is, that we feel solittle for ourselves!

It is kind in God that he will not let the wicked enter heaven. Heloves his holy children there too well, to allow the wicked to enterand trouble them, and destroy their peace. There was a little girlonce, who had a party of her companions to spend the evening withher. They were all playing very happily in the parlor, when a drunkenman happened to go by. As he heard their voices, he came staggeringup to the door, and tried to get in. All the girls were very muchfrightened, for fear the degraded wretch would get into the parlor. But the gentleman of the house told them not to be frightened. Heassured them that the man should not come in, and though it was acold winter's night, he went out and drove him away. Now, was notthis gentleman kind thus to protect these children?

Suppose a wicked man, or a lost spirit, should go to the gates ofheaven and try to enter there. Do you suppose that God would let himin? Would not God be as kind to the angels as an earthly father tohis earthly children? Every angel in heaven would cry to God forprotection, if they should see the wicked approaching that happyworld. And God shows his love, by declaring that the wicked shallnever enter there. 

"Those holy gates for ever barPollution, sin and shame;None shall obtain admittance there, But followers of the Lamb. "

It is not because God is unkind and cruel that he shuts up the wickedin the world of wo. He does this because he loves his children, and, like a kind father, determines to protect them from oppression andsorrow. The bright wings of the angel glitter in the heavenly world. Pure joy glows in the bosoms of the blest. Love unites them all, asthey swell their songs, and take their flight. In their home, thewicked cease from troubling, and the weary are for ever at rest. 

A few years since, there was a certain family which was united andhappy. The father and mother looked upon the children who surroundedtheir fireside, and beheld them all virtuous in their conduct, andaffectionate towards one another. Their evening sports went onharmoniously, and those children were preparing, in their belovedhome, for future virtues and usefulness. But, at last, one of thesons became dissipated. He went on from step to step in vice, till hebecame a degraded wretch. His father and mother wept over his sins, and did everything in their power to reclaim him. All was in vain. Every day he grew worse. His brothers and sisters found all thehappiness-of their home destroyed by his wickedness. The family wasdisgraced by him, and they were all in sorrow and tears. One eveninghe was brought home so intoxicated that he was apparently lifeless. His poor broken-hearted mother saw him conveyed in this disgracefulcondition to his bed. At another time, when his parents were absent, he came home, in the evening, in a state of intoxication bordering onphrensy. He raved about the house like a madman. He swore the mostshocking oaths. Enraged with one of his sisters, he seized a chair, and would have struck her, perhaps, a fatal blow, if she had notescaped by flight. The parents of this child felt that such thingscould no longer be permitted, and told him that, if there was not animmediate reformation in his conduct, they should forbid him to entertheir house. But entreaties and warnings were alike in vain. Hecontinued his disgraceful career. His father, perceiving thatamendment was hopeless, and that he was, by remaining at home, imbittering every moment of the family, and loading them withdisgrace, sent his son to sea, and told him never to return till hecould come back improved in character. To protect his remainingchildren, it was necessary for him to send the dissolute one away. 

Now, was this father cruel, in thus endeavoring to promote the peaceand the happiness of his family? Was it unkind in him to resolve tomake his virtuous children happy, by excluding the vicious and thedegraded? No! Every one sees that this is the dictate of paternallove. If he had been a cruel father--if he had had no regard for hischildren, he would have allowed this abandoned son to have remained, and conducted as he pleased. He would have made no effort to protecthis children, and to promote their joy. 

And is it not kind in our heavenly Father to resolve that those whowill not obey his laws shall be for ever excluded from heaven? Heloves his virtuous and obedient children, and will make them perfectlyhappy. He never will permit the wicked to mar their joys and degradetheir home. If God were an unkind being, he would let the wicked goto heaven. He would have no prison to detain them. He would leave thegood unprotected and exposed to abase from the bad. But God is love. He never thus will abandon his children. He has provided a strongprison, with dungeons deep and dark, where he will hold the wicked, so that they cannot escape. The angels in heaven have nothing to fearfrom wicked men, or wicked angels. God will protect his children fromall harm. 

Our Father in heaven is now inviting all of us to repent of our sins, and to cultivate a taste for the joys of heaven. He wishes to take usto his own happy home, and make us loved members of his ownaffectionate family. And every angel in heaven rejoices, when he seesthe humblest child repent of sin and turn to God. But if we will notbe obedient to his laws; if we will not cultivate in our hearts thosefeelings of fervent love which glow and burn in the angel's bosom; ifwe will not here on earth learn the language of prayer and praise, Godassures us that we never can be admitted to mingle with his happyfamily above. Would not God be very unkind to allow the wicked andimpenitent to enter in and mar their joys? The angels are happy towelcome a returning wanderer. But if they should see an unsubduedspirit directing his flight towards heaven, they all would pray toGod that he might not be permitted to enter, to throw discord intotheir songs, and sorrow into their hearts. God is love. He will keepheaven pure and happy. All who will be obedient to him, he willgladly elevate to walk the streets of the New Jerusalem, and toinhabit the mansions which he has built. 

But those who will not submit to his authority must be shut out forever. If we do not yield to the warnings and entreaties which now cometo us from God, we must hear the sentence, "Depart from me, "--"I knowyou not. " God uses all the means which he deems proper to reclaim us;and when he finds that we are incorrigible, then does he close upon usthe doors of our prison, that we never may escape. 

If God cared not for the happiness of his children, he would breakthese laws; he would tear down this prison; he would turn all itsguilty inmates loose upon the universe, to rove and to desolate attheir pleasure. But, blessed be God, he is love; and the brightnessand glory of heaven never can be marred by the entrance of sin. Inhell's dreary abyss, the wretched outcasts from heaven will findtheir secure and eternal abiding place. Where do you wish to haveyour home? with the virtuous and happy in heaven, or with the viciousand miserable in the world of wo? Now is the time to decide. But lifewill soon be gone. As we die, we shall continue for ever. 

"There are no acts of pardon passedIn the cold grave to which we haste. "

God, in this world, makes use of all those means which he thinkscalculated to affect your feelings and to incline you to his service. You now hear of the love of Jesus, and feel the strivings of the HolySpirit. You are surrounded by many who love the Savior, and enjoy allthe precious privileges of the Bible and the Sabbath. God speaks toyou in afflictions and enjoyments, and tries ways without number toreclaim you to himself. If you can resist all this, your case ishopeless. In the world of wo there will be no one to plead with youthe wonders of a Savior's love. You will feel no strivings of theSpirit. No Christian friends will surround you with their sympathiesand their prayers. The Sabbath will no longer dawn upon you, and theBible will no longer entreat you to turn to the Lord. If you canresist all the motives to repentance which this life affords, you areproof against all the means which God sees fit to adopt. If you dieimpenitent, you will for ever remain impenitent, and go onunrestrained in passion and wo. The word of God has declared that, atthe day of judgment our doom will be fixed for ever. The wicked shallthen go into everlasting punishment, and the righteous to lifeeternal. The bars of the sinner's prison will never be broken. Theglories of the saint's abode will never be sullied. 

A few years since, a child was lost in the woods. He was out, with hisbrothers and sisters, gathering berries, and accidentally wasseparated from them and lost. The children, after looking in vainfor some time in search of the little wanderer, returned just in thedusk of the evening, to inform their parents that their brother waslost, and could not be found. The woods at that time were infestedwith bears. The darkness of a cloudy night was rapidly coming on, andthe alarmed father, gathering a few of his neighbors, hastened insearch of the lost child. The mother remained at home, almostdistracted with suspense. As the clouds gathered and the darknessincreased, the father and the neighbors, with highly-excited fears, traversed the woods in all directions, and raised loud shouts toattract the attention of the child. But their search was in vain. They could find no traces of the wanderer; and as they stood underthe boughs of the lofty trees, and listened, that if possible theymight hear his feeble voice, no sound was borne to their ears but themelancholy moaning of the wind as it swept through the thick branchesof the forest. The gathering clouds threatened an approaching storm, and the deep darkness of the night had already enveloped them. It isdifficult to conceive what were the feelings of that father. And whocould imagine how deep the agony which filled the bosom of thatmother as she heard the wind, and beheld the darkness in which herchild was wandering! The search continued in vain till nine o'clockin the evening. Then one of the party was sent back to the village tocollect the inhabitants for a more extensive search. The bell rungthe alarm, and the cry of fire resounded through the streets. It was, however, ascertained that it was not fire which caused the alarm, butthat the bell tolled the more solemn tidings of a lost child. Everyheart sympathized in the sorrows of the distracted parents. Soon themultitudes of the people were seen ascending the hill upon thedeclivity of which the village was situated, to aid in the search. Ere long the rain began to fall, but no tidings came back to thevillage of the lost child. Hardly an eye was that night closed insleep, and there was not a mother who did not feel for the agonizedparents. The night passed away, and the morning dawned, and yet notidings came. At last those engaged in the search met together andheld a cousultation. They made arrangements for a more minute andextended search, and agreed that in case the child was found, a gunshould be fired to give a signal to the rest of the party. As the sunarose, the clouds were dispelled, and the whole landscape glitteredin the rays of the bright morning. But that village was deserted andstill. The stores were closed, and business was hushed. Mothers werewalking the streets with sympathising countenances and anxioushearts. There was but one thought there--What has become of the lostchild? All the affections and interest of the community were flowingin one deep and broad channel towards the little wanderer. About ninein the morning the signal gun was fired, which announced that thechild was found; and for a moment how dreadful was the suspense! Wasit found a mangled corpse, or was it alive and well? Soon a joyfulshout proclaimed the safety of the child. The shout was borne fromtongue to tongue, till the whole forest rung again with the joyfulacclamations of the multitude. A commissioned messenger rapidly borethe tidings to the distracted mother. A procession was immediatelyformed by those engaged in the search. The child was placed upon aplatform, hastily constructed from the boughs of trees, and borne intriumph at the head of the procession. When they arrived at the browof the hill, they rested for a moment, and proclaimed their successwith three loud and animated cheers. The procession then moved on, till they arrived in front of the dwelling where the parents of thechild resided. The mother, who stood at the door, with streaming eyesand throbbing heart, could no longer restrain herself or herfeelings. She rushed into the street, clasped her child to her bosom, and wept aloud. Every eye was suffused with tears, and for a momentall were silent. But suddenly some one gave a signal for a shout. Oneloud, and long, and happy note of joy rose from the assembledmultitude, and they then dispersed to their business and their homes. 

There was more joy over the one child that was found than over theninety and nine that went not astray. Likewise there is joy in thepresence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth. Butstill this is a feeble representation of the love of our Father inheaven for us, and of the joy with which the angels welcome thereturning wanderer. The mother cannot feel for her child that is lostas God feels for the unhappy wanderers in the paths of sin. The childwas exposed to a few hours of suffering; the sinner to eternaldespair. The child was in danger of being torn by the claws and theteeth of the bear--a pang which would be but for a moment; but thesinner must feel the ravages of the never-dying worm, must be exposedto the fury of the inextinguishable flame. Oh, if a mother can feelso much, what must be the feelings of our Father in heaven! If mancan feel so deep a sympathy, what must be the emotions which glow inthe bosoms of angels! Such is the nature of the feelings with whichwe are regarded by our heavenly Father and the holy angels. 

Many parables are introduced in the Bible to illustrate this feelingon the part of God. He compares himself with the kind shepherd, who, finding that one little lamb had strayed from the flock, left theninety and nine and went in search of the lost one. He illustratesthis feeling by that of the woman who had lost a piece of silver, andimmediately lit a candle and swept the house diligently, till shefound it. In like manner, we are informed, that it is not the will ofour Father who is in heaven, that one of his little ones shouldperish. He has manifested the most astonishing love and kindness thathe might make us happy. 

But what greater proof of love can we have than that which God hasgiven in the gift of his Son! That you might be saved from sin andceaseless wo, Jesus came and died. He came to the world, and placedhimself in poverty, and was overwhelmed with sorrow, that he mightinduce you to accept salvation, and to be happy for ever in heaven. The Savior was born in a stable. When an infant, his life wassought. His parents were compelled to flee out of the country, thatthey might save him from a violent death. As he grew up, he wasfriendless and forsaken. He went about from town to town, and fromvillage to village, doing good to all. He visited the sick, andhealed them. He went to the poor and the afflicted, and comfortedthem. He took little children in his arms, and blessed them. Heinjured no one, and endeavored to do good to all. And yet he waspersecuted, and insulted, and abused. Again and again he wascompelled to flee for his life. They took up stones to stone him. They hired false witnesses to accuse him. At last they took him bynight, as he was in a garden praying. A cruel multitude came and tookhim by force, and carried him into a large hall. They then surroundedour blessed Savior, and heaped upon him all manner of insult andabuse. They mocked him. They collected some thorns, and made a crown, which they forced upon his head, pressing the sharp thorns into hisflesh, till the blood flowed down upon his hair and his cheeks. Andafter thus passing the whole night, he was led out to the hill ofCalvary, tottering beneath the heavy burden of the cross, which hewas compelled to bear upon his own shoulders, and to which he was tobe nailed. When they arrived at the place of crucifixion, they drovethe nails through his hands and his feet. The cross was then fixed inthe ground, and the Savior, thus cruelly suspended, was exposed tothe loud and contemptuous shouts of an insulting mob. The morning airwas filled with their loud execrations. A soldier came and thrust aspear deep into his side. To quench his burning thirst, they gave himvinegar, mixed with gall. Thus did our Savior die. He endured allthis, from the cradle to the grave, that he might save sinners. Andwhen he, while enduring the agony of the cross, cried out, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" he was then suffering thosesorrows which you must otherwise have suffered. If it had not beenfor our Savior's sorrows and death, there would have been no help forany sinner. You never could have entered heaven. You must for everhave endured the penalty of that law which saith, "The soul thatsinneth, it shall die. " Was there ever such love as this? And, oh, must not that child's heart be hard, who will not love such a Savior, and who will not do all in his power to prove his gratitude by a holyand an obedient life? Christ so loves you, that he was willing to diethe most cruel of deaths, that he might make you happy. He is now inheaven, preparing mansions of glory for all those who will accept himas their Savior, and obey his law. And where is the child who doesnot wish to have this Savior for his friend, and to have a home inheaven?

The Holy Spirit is promised to aid you in all your efforts to resistsin. If, when the power of temptation is strong, you will look to himfor aid, he will give you strength to resist. Thus is duty made easy, God loves you. Angels desire that you should come to heaven. Jesus hasdied to save you. The Holy Spirit is ready to aid you in everyChristian effort, and to lead you on, victorious over sin. Howunreasonable, then, and how ungrateful it is, for any child to refuseto love God, and to prepare to enter the angels' home! There you canbe happy. No night is there. No sickness or sorrow can ever reach youthere. Glory will fill your eye. Joy will fill your heart. You willbe an angel yourself, and shine in all the purity and in all thebliss of the angels' happy home. 

CHAPTER VI. 

PIETY. 

In the last chapter I have endeavored to show you in what your sinprincipally consists; and also the interest which God feels in yourhappiness, and the sacrifice he has made to lead you to penitence andto heaven. But you desire more particular information respecting theduties which God requires of you. I shall in this chapter explain therequirements of God; and show you why you should immediatelycommence a life of piety. 

Probably no child reads this book who is not conscious of sin. Youfeel not only that you do not love God as you ought, but thatsometimes you are ungrateful or disobedient to your parents; you areirritated with your brother or your sister, or you indulge in otherfeelings, which you know to be wrong. New, the first thing which Godrequires of you is, that you should be penitent for all your sins. Atthe close of the day, you go to your chamber for sleep. Perhaps yourmother goes with you, and hears you repeat a prayer of gratitude toGod for his kindness. But after she has left the chamber, and you arealone in the darkness, you recall to mind the events of the day, asking yourself what you have done that is wrong. Perhaps you wereidle at school, or unkind to a playmate, or disobedient to yourparents. Now, if you go to sleep without sincere repentance, and afirm resolution to try for the future to avoid such sin, the frown ofyour Maker will be upon you during all the hours of the night. Youought, every evening, before you go to sleep, to think of yourconduct during the day, and to express to God your sincere sorrow forevery thing you have done which is displeasing to him, and humblyimplore the pardon of your sins through Jesus Christ. Such a childGod loves. Such a one he will readily forgive. And if it is his willthat you should die before the morning, he will take you to heaven, to be happy there. But remember that it is not enough simply to saythat you are penitent. You must really feel penitent. And you mustresolve to be more watchful in future, and to guard against the sinover which you mourn. You have, for instance, spoken unkindly, duringthe day, to your brother. At night, you feel that you have donewrong, and that God is displeased. Now, if you are sincerelypenitent, and ask God's forgiveness, you will pray that you may notagain be guilty of the same fault. And when you awake in the morning, you will be watchful over yourself, that you may be pleasant andobliging. You will perhaps go to your brother, and say, "I did wrongin speaking unkindly to you yesterday, and I am sorry for it. I willendeavor never again to do so. " At any rate, if you are reallypenitent, you will pray to God for forgiveness, and most sincerelyresolve never willingly to be guilty of the same sin again. 

But you must also remember that, by the law of God, sin can never passunpunished. God has said, "The soul that sinneth, it shall die. " Andwhen you do any thing that is wrong, and afterwards repent of it, Godforgives you, because the Savior has borne the punishment which youdeserve. This is what is meant by that passage of Scripture, "he waswounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities. " OurFather in heaven loved us so much that he gave his own Son to die inour stead. And now he says that he is ready to forgive, if we willrepent, and believe in his Son who has suffered and died to save us. And ought we not to love so kind a Savior?

You cannot expect at present precisely and fully to understand everything connected with the sufferings and death of Christ, and the moraleffect they produce. In fact, it is intimated in the Bible, that eventhe angels in heaven find this subject one capable of tasking alltheir powers. You can understand, however, that he suffered anddied, that you might be forgiven. It would not be safe in anygovernment to forgive sin merely on the penitence of the sinner. Civil government cannot do this safely; a family government cannot doit safely. It is often the case, when a man is condemned to death fora crime he has committed, that his dearest friends, sometimes hiswife and children, make the most affecting appeals to the chiefmagistrate of the state, to grant him pardon. But it will not do. Thegovernor, if he knows his duty, will be firm, however painful it maybe, in allowing the law to take its course; for he has to considernot merely the wishes of the unhappy criminal and his friends, butthe safety and happiness of the whole community. 

And so the governor of the universe must consider, not merely his ownbenevolent feelings towards the sinner, but the safety and theholiness of all his creatures; and he could not have forgiven oursins, unless he had planned a way by which we might safely beforgiven. This way he did devise, to sustain law and protectholiness, and yet to let us go free from the punishment due to oursins. Jesus died for us. He bore our sins. By his stripes we arehealed. And shall we not be grateful?

It is thus that God has provided a way for our escape from the penaltyof his law. You have read, "God so loved the world, that he gave hisonly begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. " Was it not kind in God to give his Son tosuffer, that we might be saved from punishment? God has plainly givenhis law. And he has said, the soul that sinneth, it shall die. And hehas said, that his word is so sacred, that, though heaven and earthshould pass away, his word shall not pass away. We have all brokenGod's law, and deserve the punishment it threatens. But our indulgentFather in heaven is looking upon us in loving kindness and in tendermercy. He pities us, and he has given his own Son to bear thepunishment which we deserve. Oh, was there ever proof of greater love?

And how ardently should we love that Savior, who is nearer and dearerthan a brother, who has left heaven and all its joys, and come to theworld, and suffered and died, that we might be happy! God expects thatwe shall love him; that we shall receive him as our Savior, andwhenever we do wrong, that we shall ask forgiveness for his sake. Andwhen a child thinks of the sorrows which his sins have caused theSavior, it does appear to me that he must love that Savior with themost ardent affection. 

It was the law of a certain town that the boys should not slide downhill in the streets. [FOOTNOTE: To those children who live where itseldom or never snows, I ought to say in this note, that, in NewEngland, it is a very common amusement to slide down the hills onsleds or boards, in the winter evenings, when the roads are icy andsmooth. In some places this is dangerous to passengers, and then itis forbidden by law. ] If any were found doing so, they were to befined, and it the money was not paid, they were to be sent to jail. Now, a certain boy, the son of a poor man, broke the law, and wastaken up by an officer. They carried him into court, the fact wasfully proved against him, and he was sentenced to pay the fine. Hehad no money, and his father, who stood by, was poor, and found ithard work to supply the wants of the family. The money must be paid, however, or the poor boy must go to jail. The father thought that hecould earn it in the evenings, and he promised, accordingly, to paythe money if they would let his son go. 

Evening after evening, then, he went out to his work, while the boywas allowed to remain by the comfortable fire, at home. After a whilethe money was earned and paid, and then the boy felt relieved andfree. 

Now, suppose this boy, instead of being grateful to the father, whohad suffered for him, should treat him with coldness and unkindness. Suppose he should continually do things to give him pain, and alwaysbe reluctant to do the slightest thing to oblige him. Who would notdespise so ungrateful a boy?

And do you think that that child who will grieve the Savior withcontinued sin, who will not love him, who will not try to obey him, can have one spark of noble, of generous feeling in his bosom? Wouldany person, of real magnanimity, disregard a friend who had done somuch as the Savior has done for us? God requires of us, that while wefeel penitent for our sins, we should feel grateful to that Saviorwho has redeemed us by his blood. And when Jesus Christ says, "Comeunto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give yourest, " this is what he means. We must love Christ, We must regard himas the friend who has, by his own sufferings, saved us from thepenalty of God's law. And it is dishonorable and base to refuse tolove him, and to do every thing in your power to please him. 

This kind Savior is now looking upon you with affection. He has goneto heaven to prepare a place for you, and there he wishes to receiveyou, and to make you happy for ever. His eye is upon your heart everyday, and every hour. He never forgets you. Wherever you go, he followsyou. He shields you from harm. He supplies all your wants. Hesurrounds you with blessings. And now, all that he asks for all thesefavors is your love; not that you may do good to him, but that he maydo still more good to you. He wishes to take you, holy and happy, tothe green pastures and the still waters of heaven. Can any childrefuse to love this Savior? Oh, go to him at once, and pray that hewill receive you, and write your name among the number of hisfriends. Then will he soon receive you to his own blissful abode. 

"Fair distant land; could mortal eyesBut half its charms explore, How would our spirits long to rise, And dwell on earth no more!

No cloud those distant regions know, Realms ever bright and fair!For sin, the source of mortal wo, Can never enter there. "

Every child who reads this book probably knows, that, unless he ispenitent for sin, and trusts in the Savior, he must for ever bebanished from the presence of God. But a person cannot be penitent andgrateful who does not endeavor in all things to be obedient. You musttry at all times of the day, and in all the duties of the day, to befaithful, that you may please God. It is not a little thing to be aChristian. It is not enough that you at times pray earnestly and feeldeeply. You must be mild, and forbearing, and affectionate, andobedient. Do you think that child can be a Christian, who will, byingratitude, make his parents unhappy? There is, perhaps, nothingwhich is more pleasing to God than to see a child who is affectionateand obedient to his parents. This is one of the most importantChristian duties. And if ever you see a child who professes to be aChristian child, and who yet is guilty of ingratitude and ofdisobedience, you may be assured that those professions are insincere. If you would have a home in heaven, you must be obedient while in yourhome on earth. If you would have the favor and the affection of yourheavenly Father, you must merit the affection and the gratitude ofyour earthly parents. God has most explicitly commanded that youshould honor your father and your mother. If you sin in this respect, it is positive proof that the displeasure of God rests upon you. 

Sincere love to God will make a child not only more amiable in generalcharacter, but also more industrious. You are, perhaps, at school, and, not feeling very much like study, idle away the afternoon. Now, God's eye is upon you all the time. He sees every moment which iswasted. And the sin of that idle afternoon you must render an accountfor, at his bar. Do you suppose that a person can be a Christian, andyet be neglecting time, and living in idleness? Even for every idleword that men shall speak they must give an account in the day ofjudgment. If you do not improve your time when young, you can neitherbe useful, nor respected, nor happy. The consequences of thisidleness will follow you through life. With all sin God has connectedsorrow. The following account of George Jones will show howintimately God has connected with indolence sorrow and disgrace. 

THE CONSEQUENCES OF IDLENESS. 

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

George Jones thought so. He was twelve years old. He went to anacademy to prepare to enter college. His father was at great expensein obtaining books for him, clothing him, and paying his tuition. But George was idle. The preceptor of the academy would often tellhim that if he did not study diligently when young, he would neversucceed well. But George thought of nothing but present pleasure. Often would he go to school without having made any preparation forhis morning lesson; and, when called to recite with his class, hewould stammer and make such blunders, that the rest of his classcould not help laughing at him. He was one of the poorest scholars inschool, because he was one of the most idle. 

When recess came, and all the boys ran out of the academy, upon theplay-ground, idle George would come moping along. Instead of studyingdiligently while in school, he was indolent and half asleep. When theproper time for play came, he had no relish for it. I recollect verywell that, when tossing up for a game of ball, we used to choose everybody on the play-ground before we chose George. And if there wereenough to play without him, we used to leave him out. Thus was heunhappy in school and out of school. There is nothing which makes aperson enjoy play so well as to study hard. When recess was over, andthe rest of the boys returned fresh and vigorous to their studies, George might be seen lagging and moping along to his seat. Sometimeshe would be asleep in school, sometimes he would pass his time incatching flies and penning them up in little holes, which he cut inhis seat. And sometimes, when the preceptor's back was turned, hewould throw a paper ball across the room. When the class was calledup to recite, George would come drowsily along, looking as mean andashamed as though he were going to be whipped. The rest of the classstepped up to the recitation with alacrity, and appeared happy andcontented. 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 theclass. 

At last George went with his class to enter college. Though he passeda very poor examination, he was admitted with the rest, for those whoexamined him thought it was possible, that the reason why he did notanswer the questions better was that he was frightened. Now came hardtimes for poor George. In college there is not much mercy shown to badscholars; and George had neglected his studies so long that he couldnot now keep up with his class, let him try ever so hard. 

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

The government of the college soon were compelled to suspend him. Hereturned in a few months, but did no better; and his father was thenadvised to take him from college. He left college, despised by everyone. A few months ago I met him in New-York, a poor wanderer, withoutmoney or friends. Such are the wages of idleness. I hope every readerwill from this history take warning, and "stamp improvement on thewings of time. "

This story of George Jones, which is a true one, shows how sinful andruinous it is to be idle. Every child who would be a Christian, andhave a home in heaven, must guard against this sin. But as I havegiven you one story, which shows the sad effects of indolence, I willnow present you with another, more pleasing, which shows the rewardsof industry. 

THE ADVANTAGES OF INDUSTRY. 

I gave you the history of George Jones, an idle boy, and showed youthe consequences of his idleness. I shall now give you the history ofCharles Bullard, a class-mate of George. Charles was about of the sameage with George, and did not possess naturally superior talents. Indeed, I doubt whether he was equal to him, in natural powers ofmind. But Charles was a hard student. When quite young, he wasalways careful to be diligent in school. Sometimes, when there was avery hard lesson, instead of going out in the recess to play, hewould stay in to study. He had resolved that his first object shouldbe to get his lesson well, and then he could play with a goodconscience. He loved play as well as any body, and was one of thebest players on the ground; I hardly ever saw any body catch a ballbetter than he could. When playing any game every one was glad to getCharles on his side. I have said that Charles would sometimes stay inat recess. This, however, was very seldom; it was only when thelesson was very hard indeed. Generally he was among the first uponthe 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 playagain gave him a relish for hard study; so he was happy both inschool and out. The preceptor could not help liking him, for healways had his lessons well committed, and never gave him any trouble. 

When he went to enter college, the preceptor gave him a goodrecommendation. He was able to answer all the questions which were putto him when he was examined. He had studied so well when he was in theacademy, and was so thoroughly prepared for college, that he found itvery easy to keep up with his class, and had much time for readinginteresting books. But he would always first get his lesson well, before he did any thing else, and would review it just beforerecitation. When called upon to recite, he rose tranquil and happy, and very seldom made any mistake. The government of the college hada 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 bestscholars. Charles was chosen a member of that society. It was thecustom to choose some one of the society to deliver a public addressevery year. This honor was conferred on Charles; and he had studied sodiligently, and read so much, that he delivered an address, which wasvery interesting to all who heard it. At last he graduated, as it iscalled; that is, he finished his collegiate course, and received hisdegree. It was known by all that he was a good scholar, and by all hewas respected. His father and mother, brothers and sisters, came, commencement day, to hear him speak. They all felt gratified, andloved Charles more than ever. Many situations of usefulness andprofit were opened to him, for Charles was now a man, intelligent, and universally respected. He is now a useful and a happy man. He hasa cheerful home, and is esteemed by all who know him. 

Such are the rewards of industry. How strange is it, that any personsshould be willing to live in idleness, when it will certainly makethem, 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 littlechildren in school?" He certainly does. And if you are not diligentin the improvement of your time, it is one of the surest of evidencesthat your heart is not right with God. You are placed in this worldto improve your time. In youth you must be preparing for futureusefulness. And if you do not improve the advantages you enjoy, yousin 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 aswe forgive our debtors. " We do thus pray that God will exercise thesame kind of forgiveness towards us, which we exercise towardsothers. Consequently, if we are unforgiving or revengeful, we praythat God will treat us in the same way when we appear before him injudgment. Thus God teaches the necessity of cultivating a forbearingand 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 sameschool with me, who was a professed Christian. He seemed to love theSavior, and to try in all things to abstain from sin. Some of the badboys were in the habit of ridiculing him, and of doing every thingthey could to tease him, because he would not join with them inmischief. Near the school-house there was a small orchard; and thescholars would, without the leave of the owner, take the apples. Oneday a party of boys were going into the orchard for fruit, and calledupon this pious boy to accompany them. 

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

"The apples are not ours, " he fearlessly replied, "and I do not thinkit 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 Iam not afraid to do right. "

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

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

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

George--for by that name I shall call the boy who abused Henry--wasvery desirous of borrowing this fishing-rod, and yet was ashamed toask for it. At last, however, he summoned courage, and called out toHenry 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 foryou now. "

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

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

A few days after this, George told me about it. "Why, " said he, "Inever felt so ashamed in my life. And one thing is certain, I willnever call Henry names again. "

Now, who does not admire the conduct of Henry in this affair? Thisforgiving spirit is what God requires. The child who would be thefriend of God, must possess this spirit. You must always be ready toforgive. You must never indulge in the feelings of revenge. You mustnever desire to injure another, how much soever you may feel thatothers have injured you. The spirit of the Christian is a forgivingspirit. 

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 powerto make those happy who are about him. He will disregard himself thathe 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 willleave. 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; thatis doing good. You can make your brothers and sisters happy; that isdoing good. You can try to make your brothers and sisters moreobedient to their parents; that is doing good. You can set a goodexample at school; that is doing good. If you see your companionsdoing any thing that is wrong, you can try to dissuade them. You canspeak to your bosom friend, upon the Savior's goodness, and endeavorto excite in his heart the feelings which are in yours. Thus you maybe exerting a good influence upon all around you. Your life will notbe spent in vain. God will smile upon you, and give joy in a dyinghour. 

Some children appear to think that if they are Christians, they cannotbe so happy as they may be if they are not Christians. They think thatto love God, and to pray, and to do their duty, is gloomy work. ButGod tells us that none can be happy but those who love him. Andevery one who has repented of sin, and loves the Savior, says thatthere is more happiness in this mode of life than in any other. Wemay indeed be happy a little while without piety. But misfortunes andsorrows will come. Your hopes of pleasure will be disappointed. Youwill be called to weep; to suffer pain; to die. And there is nothingbut religion which can give you a happy life and a peaceful death. Itis that you may be happy, not unhappy, that God wishes you to be aChristian. 

It is true that at times it requires a very great struggle to take adecided stand as a Christian. The proud heart is reluctant to yield. The worldly spirit clings to worldly pleasure. It requires braveryand resolution to meet the obstacles which will be thrown in yourway. You may be opposed. You may be ridiculed. But, notwithstandingall this, the only way to ensure happiness is to love and serve yourMaker. Many children know that they ought to love God, and wish thatthey had resolution to do their duty. But they are afraid of theridicule of their companions. Henry, who would not rob the orchard, was a brave boy. He knew that they would laugh at him. But what didhe care? He meant to do his duty without being frightened if othersdid laugh. And the consciousness of doing his duty afforded him muchgreater enjoyment than he could possibly have received from eatingthe 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. Butwhich is the most easy to be borne, the ridicule of the wicked, or acondemning conscience, and the displeasure of God? It is so with allthe duties of the Christian. If you will conscientiously do thatwhich God approves, he will give you peace of mind, and prepare youfor eternal joy. 

One of the most eminent and useful of the English clergymen was led, when a child, by the following interesting circumstance, to surrenderhimself to the Savior. When a little boy, he was, like otherchildren, playful and thoughtless. He thought, perhaps, that he wouldwait until he was old, before he became a Christian. His father was apious man, and frequently conversed with him about heaven, and urgedhim to prepare to die. 

On the evening of his birth-day, when he was ten years of age, hisfather took him affectionately by the hand, and reminding him of thescenes through which he had already passed, urged him to commence thatevening a life of piety. He told him of the love of Jesus. He told himof the danger of delay. And he showed him that he must perish for everunless he speedily trusted in the Savior, and gave his life to hisservice. As this child thought of a dying hour, and of a Savior'slove, his heart was full of feeling, and the tears gushed into hiseyes. He felt that it was time for him to choose whether he wouldlive for God or for the world. He resolved that he would no longerdelay. 

His father and mother then retired to their chamber to pray fortheir child, and this child also went to his chamber to pray forhimself. Sincerely he gave himself to the Savior. Earnestly heimplored forgiveness, and most fervently entreated God to aid him tokeep his resolutions and to refrain from sin. And do you think thatchild was not happy, as, in the silence of his chamber, hesurrendered himself to God? It was undoubtedly the hour of the purestenjoyment he ever had experienced, Angels looked with joy upon thatevening scene, and hovered with delight and love around that penitentchild. The prayers of the parent and the child ascended as gratefulincense to the throne, and were accepted. And from that affectinghour, 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 timesince, he died a veteran soldier of the cross, and is now undoubtedlyamid the glories of heaven, surrounded by hundreds, who have been, byhis instrumentality, led to those green fields and loved mansions. Oh, what a rapturous meeting must that have been, when the parents ofthis child pressed forward from the angel throng, to welcome him, as, with triumphant wing, he entered heaven! And, oh, how happy must theynow be, in that home of songs and everlasting joy!

It is thus that piety promotes our enjoyment. It promotes ourhappiness at all times. It takes away the fear of death, and deprivesevery sorrow of half its bitterness. Death is the most gloomy thoughtthat can enter the minds of those who are not Christians. But thepious child can be happy even when dying. I was once called to see aboy who was very dangerously sick, and expected soon to die. Iexpected to have found him sorrowful. But, instead of that, a happysmile 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 longsickness, 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 perhapslive a few weeks, but that he should not be surprised if I should dieat any time. "

"Are you willing to die?" I said. 

"O yes, sir, " he answered; "sometimes I feel sad about leavingfather and mother. But then I think I shall be free from sin inheaven, and shall be with the Savior. And I hope that father andmother will soon come to heaven, and I shall be with them then. I amsometimes 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 hassaid, Whosoever cometh to me I will in no wise cast out. I do thinkthat 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 underthe window. But this sick boy looked up to me, and said, "Oh, how muchmore happy am I now, than I used to be when well and out at play, notthinking of God or heaven! There is not a boy in the street so happyas I. "

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

But when the Christian child goes to heaven, how happy must he be! Herises above the clouds, and the blue sky, and the twinkling stars, till he enters the home of God and the angels. There he becomes anangel himself. God gives him a body of perfect beauty, and furnisheshim with wings, with which he can fly from world to world. God is hisapproving Father. Angels are his beloved friends. You often, in aclear evening, look up upon the distant stars, and wonder whoinhabits them. You think, if you had the wings of an eagle, you wouldlove to fly up there, and make a visit. Now, it is not improbablethat the Christian, in heaven, can pass from star to star, as you cango from house to house in your own neighborhood. The very thought isenrapturing. If every hour of our lives were spent in sorrow, itwould be nothing, compared with the joys which God has promised hisfriends at his right hand. When we think of the green pastures ofheaven; of the still waters of that happy world; when we think ofmingling with the angels in their flight; of uniting our voices withtheirs in songs of praise; of gazing upon all the glories and sharingall the rapture of the heavenly world--O, how tame do the joys ofearth appear!

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

"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 areevery day occurring. Often, when we least suspect it, we are in themost imminent hazard of our lives. When I was a boy, I one day went agunning. I was to call for another boy, who lived at a little distancefrom 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 brilliantshower of sparks, I carefully primed the gun, and set out upon myexpedition. When arrived at the house of the boy who was to go withme, I leaned the gun against the side of the house, and waited a fewmoments for him to get ready. About a rod from the door, where I waswaiting, there was another house. A little girl stood upon the window-seat, looking out of the window. Another boy came along, and, takingup the gun, not knowing that it was loaded and primed, tookdeliberate aim at the face of the girl, and pulled the trigger. ButGod, in mercy, caused the gun to miss fire. Had it gone off, thegirl's face would have been blown all to pieces, I never can think ofthe danger she was in, even now, without trembling. The girl did notsee the boy take aim at her, and does not now know how narrow was herescape from death. She little supposed that, when standing in perfecthealth by the window in her own father's house, she was in danger ofdropping down dead upon the floor. We are all continually exposed tosuch dangers, and when we least suspect it, may be in the greatestperil. Is it not, then, folly to delay preparation for death? You maydie within one hour. You may not have one moment of warning allowedyou. 

A few years ago, a little boy was riding in the stage. It was apleasant summer's day. The horses were trotting rapidly along byfields, and bridges, and orchards, and houses. The little boy stood atthe coach window with a happy heart, and looked upon the green fieldsand pleasant dwellings; upon the poultry in the farm-yards, and thecattle upon the hills. He had not the least idea that he should diethat day. But while he was looking out of the window, the iron rimof the wheel broke, and struck him upon the forehead. The poor boylay senseless for a few days, and then died. There are a thousandways by which life may be suddenly extinguished, and yet how seldomare they thought of by children! They almost always entirely forgetthe danger of early death, and postpone to a future day making theirpeace with God. And how little do those who read this book think thatthey 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 tosleep. But I did not know then, as well as I do now, that I might diebefore the morning. Almost every night some children go to bed well, and before morning are dead. It is, therefore, very dangerous to delayrepentance. Love the Savior immediately, and prepare to die, and itwill be of but little consequence when you die, for you will go toheaven and be happy for ever. 

But we must not forget that a most terrible doom awaits those who willnot serve their Maker. It matters not how much we may be beloved byour friends; how amiable may be our feelings. This alone will notsave us. We must repent of sin, and love the Savior, who has sufferedfor us. We must pass our lives in usefulness and prayer, or, when theday of judgment comes, we shall hear the sentence, "Depart from me, for I know you not. " It is indeed a fearful thing to refuse affectionand obedience to our Father in heaven. He will receive none into hishappy 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. Whodoes 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 aheart to love and obey him. 

CHAPTER VII. 

TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 

Every child must observe how much more happy and beloved somechildren appear to be than others. There are some children you alwayslove to be with. They are happy themselves, and they make you happy. There are others whose society you always avoid. The very expressionof their countenances produces unpleasant feelings. They seem to haveno friends. 

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

"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 seatAnd 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. Youcannot find others to love you, unless you will also love them. Loveis only to be obtained by giving love in return. Hence the importanceof cultivating a cheerful and obliging disposition. You cannot behappy 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 andunamiable in her disposition. If your companions do not love you, itis your own fault. They cannot help loving you if you will be kindand friendly. If you are not loved, it is good evidence that you donot deserve to be loved. It is true that a sense of duty may at timesrender it necessary for you to do that which is displeasing to yourcompanions. But if it is seen that you have a noble spirit; that youare above selfishness; that you are willing to make sacrifices ofyour own personal convenience to promote the happiness of yourassociates, you will never be in want of friends. You must not regardit as your misfortune that others do not love you, but your fault. Itis not beauty, it is not wealth, that will give you friends. Yourheart must glow with kindness if you would attract to yourself theesteem and affection of those by whom you are surrounded. 

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

You go to school in a cold winter morning. A bright fire is blazingupon the hearth, surrounded with boys struggling to get near it towarm themselves. After you get slightly warmed, another schoolmatecomes in suffering with the cold. 

"Here, James, " you pleasantly call out to him, "I am 'most warm; youmay 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 inthe world cannot help admiring such generosity. And even though he beso ungrateful as to be unwilling to return the favor, you may dependupon it that he will be your friend, as far as he is capable offriendship. If you will habitually act upon this principle, you willnever want for friends. 

Suppose some day you are out with your companions playing ball. Afteryou have been playing for some time, another boy comes along. Hecannot 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 willrest. "

You throw yourself down upon the grass, while Henry, fresh andvigorous, takes your bat, and engages in the game. He knows that yougave up to accommodate him. And how can he help liking you for it? Thefact is, that neither man nor child can cultivate such a spirit ofgenerosity and kindness, without attracting affection and esteem. Look and see who of your companions have the most friends, and youwill find that they are those who have this noble spirit; who arewilling to deny themselves, that they may make their associateshappy. This is not peculiar to childhood, but is the same in allperiods of life. There is but one way to make friends, and that is bybeing friendly to others. 

Perhaps some child who reads this, feels conscious of beingdisliked, and yet desires to have the affection of companions. Youask me what you shall do. I will tell you what. I will give you aninfallible recipe. Do all in your power to make others happy. Bewilling to make sacrifices of your own convenience that you maypromote the happiness of others. This is the way to make friends, andthe only way. When you are playing with your brothers and sisters athome, be always ready to give them more than their share ofprivileges. Manifest an obliging disposition, and they cannot butregard you with affection. In all your intercourse with others, athome or abroad, let these feelings influence you, and you willreceive the rich reward of devoted friends. 

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

The heart benevolent and kindThe most resembles God. 

But persons of ardent dispositions often find it exceedinglydifficult to deny themselves. Some little occurrence irritates them, and they speak hastily and angrily. Offended with a companion, theywill do things to give pain, instead of pleasure. You must have yourtemper under control if you would exercise a friendly disposition, Abad temper is an infirmity, which, if not restrained, will becontinually growing worse and worse. There was a man, a few yearssince, tried for murder. When a boy, he gave loose to his passions. The least opposition would rouse his anger, and he made no efforts tosubdue himself. He had no one who could love him. If he was playingwith others, he would every moment be getting irritated. As he grewolder, his passions increased, and he became so ill-natured thatevery one avoided him. One day, as he was talking with another man, he became so enraged at some little provocation, that he seized aclub, and with one blow laid the man lifeless at his feet. He wasseized and imprisoned. But, while in prison, the fury of a malignantand ungoverned spirit increased to such a degree that he became amaniac. 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 topass the miserable remnant of his guilty life, the victim of hisungovernable passion. 

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

An amiable disposition makes its possessor happy. And if you wouldhave such a disposition, you must learn to control yourself. If othersinjure you, they the gospel rule, and do them good in return, If theyrevile you, speak kindly to them. It is far better to suffer injurythan to inflict injury. If you will endeavor in childhood in this wayto control your passions, to be always mild, and forbearing, andforgiving, you will disarm opposition, and, in many cases, convertenemies to friends. You will be beloved by those around you, and whenyou have a home of your own, your cheerful and obliging spirit willmake it a happy home. 

One thing you may be sure of. There can be no real happiness whenthere is not an amiable disposition. You cannot more surely makeyourself wretched, than by indulging in an irritable spirit. Love isthe feeling which fills every angel's bosom; and it is the feelingwhich should fill every human heart. It is love which will raise us tothe angel's throne. It is malice which will sink us to the demon'sdungeon. I hope that every child who reads this, will be persuaded, by these remarks, immediately to commence the government of histemper, Resolve that you never will be angry. If your brother or yoursister does any thing which has a tendency to provoke you, restrainyour feelings, and speak mildly and softly. Let no provocation drawfrom you an angry or an unkind word. If you will commence in thisway, and persevere, you will soon get that control over yourself thatwill contribute greatly to your happiness. Your friends willincrease, and you will be prepared for far more extensive usefulnessin the world. 

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

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

Humility is another very important trait of character, which shouldbe cultivated in early life. What can be more disgusting than theridiculous airs of a vain child? Sometimes you will see a foolishgirl tossing her head about, and walking with a mincing step, whichshows you at once that she is excessively vain. She thinks thatothers are admiring her ridiculous airs, when the fact is, they arelaughing at her, and despising her. Every one speaks of her as a verysimple, vain girl. Vanity is a sure sign of weakness of mind; and ifyou indulge in so contemptible a passion, you will surely be thesubject of ridicule and contempt. A young lady was once passing anafternoon at the house of a friend. As she, with one or two gentlemenand ladies, was walking in the garden, she began to make a display ofher fancied learning. She would look at a flower, and with great self-sufficiency talk of its botanical characteristics. She thought thatthe company were all wondering at the extent of her knowledge, whenthey were all laughing at her, as a self-conceited girl who had notsense enough to keep herself from appearing ridiculous. The gentlemenwere winking at one another, and slyly laughing as she uttered onelearned word after another, with an affected air of familiarity withscientific terms. During the walk, she took occasion to lug in allthe little she knew, and at one time ventured to quote a little Latinfor their edification. Poor simpleton! She thought she had producedquite an impression upon their minds. And, in truth, she had. She hadfixed indelibly the impression that she was an insufferably weak andself-conceited girl. She made herself the laughing-stock of the wholecompany. The moment she was gone, there was one general burst oflaughter. And not one of those gentlemen or ladies could ever thinkof 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 nofoible more common than this, and there is none more supremelyridiculous. 

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

We are all disgusted with vanity wherever it appears. Go into aschool-room, and look around upon the appearance of the various pupilsassembled there. You will perhaps see one girl, with head tossed uponone 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 asincere and honest heart. All her movements are natural. She manifestsno desire to attract attention. The idea of her own superiority seemsnot to enter her mind. As, in the recess, she walks about theschoolroom, you can detect no airs of self-conceit. She is pleasantto all her associates. You ask her some question. She answers youwith modesty and unostentation. Now, this girl, without any effort toattract admiration, is beloved and admired. Every one sees at oncethat she is a girl of good sense. She knows too much to be vain. Shewill never want for friends. This is the kind of character whichinsures usefulness and happiness. 

A little girl who had rich parents, and was handsome in personalappearance, was very vain of her beauty and of her father's wealth. She disgusted all her school-mates by her conceit. And though sheseemed to think that every one ought to admire her, she was belovedby none. She at last left school, a vain, disgusting girl. A youngman, who was so simple as to fall in love with this piece of prideand affectation, at length married her. For a few years the propertywhich she received of her father supported them. But soon her fatherdied, and her husband grew dissipated, and before long their propertywas all squandered. She had no friends to whom she could look forassistance, and they were every month sinking deeper and deeper inpoverty. Her husband at last became a perfect sot, and staggeredthrough the streets in the lowest state of degradation. She was leftwith one or two small children, and without any means of support. Ina most miserable hovel, this poor woman was compelled to take up herresidence. By this time, her pride had experienced a fall. She nolonger exhibited the airs of a vain girl, but was an afflicted andhelpless woman. The sorrow and disgrace into which she was plunged bythe intemperance of her husband, preyed so deeply upon her feelingsas to destroy her health, and in this condition she was carried tothe poor-house. There she lingered out the few last years of her sadearthly existence. What a termination of life for a vain and haughtygirl! 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 youmay be rich, and have need of nothing, and the next year you may bein the most abject poverty, Your early home may be one of luxury andelegance, and in your dying hour you may be in the poor-house, without a friend to watch at your bedside. Is it not, then, theheight of folly to indulge in vanity?

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

You must guard against this contemptible vice, you would be useful, orrespected, or happy. If you would avoid exciting disgust, avoidvanity. If you do not wish to be the laughing-stock of all youracquaintance, do not let them detect in you consequential airs. Ifyou would not be an object of hatred and disgust, beware how youindulge feelings of fancied superiority. Be plain, and sincere, andhonest-hearted. Disgrace not yourself by affectation and pride. Letall your words and all your actions show that you think no morehighly of yourself than you ought to think. Then will others loveyou. They will rejoice at your prosperity. And they will be glad tosee you rising in the world, in usefulness and esteem. 

Moral courage is a trait of character of the utmost importance to bepossessed. A man was once challenged to fight a duel. As he thought ofhis own condition, if he should kill his adversary, and of hiswidowed wife and orphan children, if he should be shot himself as hethought of his appearance before the bar of God to answer for theatrocious sin, he shrunk from accepting the challenge. But when hethought 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 ofscorn, he was afraid to refuse. He was such a coward that he did notdare to meet the ridicule of contemptible men. He had so little moralcourage, that he had rather become a murderer, or expose himself to beshot, than boldly to disregard the opinions and the sneers of theunprincipled and base. It is this want of moral courage which veryfrequently leads persons to the commission of crimes. 

There is nothing so hard to be borne as ridicule. It requires a boldheart 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 heis afraid that others will call him a coward if he does right! Onecold winter's day, three boys were passing by a school-house. Theoldest was a mischievous fellow, always in trouble himself, andtrying to get others into trouble. The youngest, whose name wasGeorge, was a very amiable boy, who wished to do right, but was verydeficient in moral courage. We will call the oldest Henry, and theother of the three James. The following dialogue passed between them. 

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

James. --You would jump if you should. If the instructer did not catchyou and whip you, he would tell your father, and you would get awhipping then, that would make you jump higher than the scholars, Ithink. 

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

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

Henry. --Do you think George is a coward? You don't know him as wellas I do. Here, George, take this snow-ball, and show James that youare 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 notsee 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 notfear 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 thesnowball. I had as lief throw it as not. 

Whack went the snow-ball against the door; and the boys took to theirheels. Henry was laughing as heartily as he could to think what a foolhe 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 ofbeing called a coward. He did not dare to refuse to do as Henry toldhim do, for fear that he would be laughed at. If he had been really abrave boy, he would have said, "Henry, do you suppose that I am such a fool as to throw thatsnowball just because you want to have me? You may throw your ownsnowballs, if you please. "

Henry would perhaps have tried to laugh at him. He would have calledhim a coward, hoping in this way to induce him to obey his wishes. ButGeorge would have replied, "Do you think that I care for your laughing? I do not think it isright to throw a snow-ball against the school-room door. And I willnot do that which I think to be wrong, if the whole town join withyou in laughing. "

This would have been real moral courage. Henry would have seen atonce, that it would do no good to laugh at a boy who had so bold aheart. And you must have this fearlessness of spirit, or you will becontinually involved in trouble, and will deserve and receivecontempt. 

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

You must have an opinion of your own. And you must be ready, franklyand modestly, to express it, when occasion requires, without beingintimidated by fear of censure. You can neither command respect nor beuseful without it. 

In things which concern your own personal convenience merely, youshould be as yielding us the air. But where duty is concerned, youshould be as firm and as unyielding as the rock. Be ever ready tosacrifice your own comfort to promote the comfort of others. Beconciliating and obliging in all your feelings and actions. Show thatyou are ready to do every thing in your power to make those around youhappy. Let no one have occasion to say that you are stubborn andunaccommodating. But, on the other hand, where duty is involved, letnothing 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 arenot to be frightened by their sneers. Your courage will often betried. There will be occasions in which it will require a severestruggle to preserve your integrity. But ever remember that if youwould 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 whichtheir consciences reprove, and to die in despair. Unless you possessthis trait of character, to some considerable degree, it can hardlybe expected that you will ever become a Christian. You must learn toact for yourself, unintimidated by the censure, and unmoved by theflattery of others. 

I now bring this book to a close. If you will diligently endeavor tobe influenced by its directions your usefulness and happiness willsurely be promoted. Soon you will leave home, no more to return butas a visitor. The character you have acquired and the habits youhave formed while at home, in all probability, will accompany youthrough life. You are now surrounded by ah the joys of home. Affectionate parents watch over you, supplying all your wants. Youhave but few solicitudes and but few sorrows. Soon, however, you mustleave parents, brothers, and sisters, and enter upon the duties andcares of life almost alone. How affecting will be the hour, when yourfoot steps from your father's dwelling, from your mother's care, toseek a new home among strangers! You now cannot conceive the feelingswhich will press upon you as your father takes your hand to bid youthe parting farewell, and your mother endeavors to hide her tears, asyou depart from her watchful eye, to meet the temptations and sorrowsof 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 withfeelings you never had before. Every unkind word you have uttered toyour parents--every unkind look you have given them, will cause youthe sincerest sorrow. If you have one particle of generous feelingremaining in your bosom, you will long to fall upon your knees andask your parents' forgiveness for every pang you may have causedtheir hearts. The hour when you leave your home, and all its joys, will be such an hour as you never have passed before. The feelingswhich will then oppress your heart, will remain with you for weeksand months. You will often, in the pensive hour of evening, sit downand weep, as you think of parents and home far away. Oh, how coldwill seem the love of others, compared with a mother's love! Howoften will your thoughts fondly return to joys which have for everfled! Again and again will you think over the years that are past. Every recollection of affection and obedience will awaken joy in yourheart. Every remembrance of ingratitude will awaken repentance andremorse. 

O, then, think of the time when you must bid father and mother, brothers and sisters, farewell. Think of the time when you must leavethe fireside around which you have spent so many pleasant evenings, and go out into the wide world, with no other dependence than thecharacter you have formed at home. If this character be good, if youpossess amiable and obliging and generous feelings, you may soonpossess a home of your own, when the joys of your childhood will insome degree be renewed. And if you will pass your days in the serviceof God, imitating the character of the Savior, and cherishing thefeelings of penitence and love, which the Bible requires, you willsoon be in that happy home which is never to be forsaken. There, arejoys from which you never will be separated, There, are friends, angels in dignity and spotless in purity, in whose loved society youwill 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 thewide world to meet its temptations, and to battle with its storms, hisheart was oppressed with the many emotions which were strugglingthere. The day had come in which he was to leave the fireside of somany enjoyments; the friends endeared to him by so many associations--so many acts of kindness. He was to bid adieu to his mother, thatloved, loved benefactor, who had protected him in sickness, andrejoiced 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 unaidedjudgment. He was to bid farewell to brothers and sisters, no more tosee them but as an occasional visitor at his paternal home. Oh, howcold and desolate did the wide world appear! How did he hesitate fromlaunching forth to meet its tempests and its storms! But the hour hadcome for him to go; and he must suppress his emotions, and triumphover his reluctance. He went from room to room, looking, as for thelast time, upon those scenes, to which imagination would so oftenrecur, and where it would love to linger. The well-packed trunk wasin the entry, waiting the arrival of the stage. Brothers and sisterswere moving about, hardly knowing whether to smile or to cry. Thefather sat at the window, humming a mournful air, as he was watchingthe approach of the stage which was to bear his son away to take hisplace far from home, in the busy crowd of a bustling world. Themother, with all the indescribable emotions of a mother's heart, wasplacing in a small bundle a few little comforts such as none but amother could think of, and, with most generous resolution, endeavoring to preserve a cheerful countenance, that, as far aspossible, she might preserve her son from unnecessary pain in thehour of departure. 

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

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

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

The departing son could make no reply. He could retain his emotiononly by silence. At last the rumbling of the wheels of the stage washeard, and the four horses were reined up at the door. The boyendeavored, by activity, in seeing his trunk and other baggageproperly placed, to gain sufficient fortitude to enable him toarticulate his farewell. He, however, strove in vain. He took hismother's hand. The tear glistened for a moment in her eye, and thensilently rolled down her cheek. He struggled with all his energy tosay good by, but he could not. In unbroken silence he shook her hand, and then in silence received the adieus of brothers and sisters, asone after another took the hand of their departing companion. He thentook the warm hand of his warm-hearted father. His father tried tosmile, but it was the struggling smile of feelings which would ratherhave vented themselves in tears. For a moment he said not a word, butretained the hand of his son, as he accompanied him out of the doorto 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 yourmother, your brothers and your sisters, but, oh, do not forget yourGod!"

The stage door closed upon the boy, The crack of the driver's whip washeard, and the rumbling wheels bore him rapidly away from all theprivileges and all the happiness of his early home. His feelings, solong restrained, now burst out, and, sinking back upon his seat, heenveloped himself in his cloak, and burst into tears. 

Hour after hour the stage rolled on. Passengers entered and left; butthe boy (perhaps I ought rather to call him the young man) was almostinsensible to every thing that passed. He sat, in sadness and insilence, in the corner of the stage, thinking of the loved home he hadleft. Memory ran back through all the years of his childhood, lingering here and there, with pain, upon an act of disobedience, andrecalling an occasional word of unkindness. All his life seemed to bepassing in review before him, from the first years of his consciousexistence, to the hour of his departure from his home. Then would theparting words of his father ring in his ears. He had always heard themorning and evening prayer. He had always witnessed the power ofreligion exemplified in all the duties of life. And the undoubtedsincerity of a father's language, confirmed as it had been by yearsof corresponding practice, produced an impression upon his mind toopowerful ever to be effaced--"My son, you may forget father andmother, you may forget brothers and sisters, but, oh, do not forgetyour God. " The words rung in his ears. They entered his heart. Againand again his thoughts ran back through the years he had alreadypassed, and the reviving recollections brought fresh floods of tears. But still his thoughts ran on to his father's parting words, "forgetnot 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 hisfather's words were ringing in his ears. He was conducted up severalflights of stairs to a chamber in a crowded hotel. After a shortprayer, he threw himself upon the bed, and endeavored to obtain alittle sleep. But his excited imagination ran back to the home he hadleft. Again he was seated by the fireside. Again he heard thesoothing tones of his kind mother's voice, and sat by his father'sside. In the vagaries of his dream, he again went through the sceneof parting, and wept in his sleep as he bade adieu to brothers andsisters, and heard a father's parting advice, "Oh, my son, forget notyour God. "

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

It was a clear autumnal morning. The stars shone brightly in the sky, and the thoughts of the lonely wanderer were irresistibly carried tothat home beyond the stars, and to that God whom his father had soaffectingly entreated him not to forget. He succeeded, however, ingetting a few moments of troubled sleep, as the stage rolled on; buthis thoughts were still reverting, whether asleep or awake, to thehome left far behind. Just as the sun was going down the westernhills, at the close of the day, he alighted from the stage, in thevillage of strangers, in which he was to find his new home. Not anindividual there had he ever seen before. Many a pensive evening didhe 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 thefireside, often did he think, with a sigh, of the loved and happygroup encircling his father's fireside, and sharing those joys he hadleft 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 toconsecrate his life to his Maker's service. In the hopes of againmeeting beloved parents and friends in that home, which gilds theparadise above, he found that solace which could no where else beobtained, and was enabled to go on in the discharge of the duties oflife, with serenity and peace. Reader, you must soon leave your home, and leave it for ever. The privileges and the joys you are nowpartaking, will soon pass away. And when you have gone forth into thewide world, and feel the want of a father's care, and of a mother'slove, then will all the scenes you have passed through, returnfreshly to your mind, and the remembrance of every unkind word, orlook, or thought, will give you pain. Try, then, to be anaffectionate and obedient child. Cultivate those virtues which willprepare you for usefulness and happiness in your maturer years, andabove 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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ALSO

Sabbath Manual, Parts 1, 2, and 3. 6 1/2 cents. Temperance Manual, 5. In GERMAN--31 vols. Various sizes. In FRENCH--12 vols. In WELSH--Pilgrim's Progress and Baxter's Saints' Rest and Call. 

Also, upwards of 1000 Tracts and Children's Tracts, separate, bound, or in packets, adapted for convenient sale by merchants and traders, many of them with beautiful engravings--in English, German, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Dutch, Danish, Swedish, and Welsh.