Chapter 16

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

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

SIGMA.

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Original.

THE STUPID, DULL CHILD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I, Victorine! It would be impossible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you know how I generally succeed in such tasks, Lilias? It is never by thinking of the possibility of failure. I have almost forgotten to say, _I can't_, and have substituted, upon every occasion, _I'll try_."

"Well, then, to please you, Victorine, '_I'll try_,'" said Lilias, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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FAULT FINDING--THE ANTIDOTE.

(Continued from page 162.)

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

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

"Well, what saved you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ELLEN ELLISON. Feb. 1852.

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Original.

NEVER TEMPT ANOTHER.

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

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

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

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

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

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