Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

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NOTICES OF BOOKS.

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

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

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Original.

PARENTAL SOLICITUDE.

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

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

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

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

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

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Original.

EXCESSIVE LEGISLATION.

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

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

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

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

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

A GRANDFATHER.

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Original.

MAGNETISM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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