The Child at Home: The Principles of Filial Duty, Familiarly Illustrated

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

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

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

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

You rise to leave the house without any bonnet or cloak. But your mother says, "Stop one moment. Is there not an account to be settled before you leave? We have now clothed and boarded you for ten years. The trouble and expense, at the least calculation, amount to two dollars a week. Indeed I do not suppose that you could have got any one else to have taken you so cheap. Your board, for ten years, at two dollars a week, amounts to one thousand and forty dollars. Are you 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 you say? You have no money. You cannot pay them.

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

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

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

They at once reply, "We have so many children of our own, that we cannot afford to take you, unless you will pay for your board and clothing."

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

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

You are carried to the poor house. There you had a very different home from your father's. You are dressed in the coarsest garments. You have the meanest food, and are compelled to be obedient, and to do the most servile work.

Now, suppose, while you are in the poor house, some kind gentleman and lady should come and say, "We will take this little girl, and give her food and clothes for nothing. We will take her into our own parlor, and give her a chair by our own pleasant fireside. We will buy every thing for her that she needs. We will hire persons to teach her. We will do every thing in our power to make her happy, and will not ask for one cent of pay in return."

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

The child who does not feel grateful for all this kindness, must be more unfeeling than the brutes. How can you refrain from, doing every thing 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 thing noble or generous in your nature, it must be excited by a parent's love. You sometimes see a child who receives all these favors as though they were her due. She appears to have no consciousness of obligation; no heart of gratitude. Such a child is a disgrace to human nature. Even the very fowls of the air, and cattle of the fields, love their parents. They put to shame the ungrateful child.

You can form no conception of that devotedness of love which your mother cherishes for you. She is willing to suffer almost every thing to save you from pain. She will, to protect you, face death in its most terrific form. An English gentleman tells the following affecting story, 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 had toddled away from a small house, was lying basking in the sun, in the middle 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 of which had stopped to drink at a tavern at the brow of the hill, started off, and came nearly abreast, galloping down the road. I got my gig off the road as speedily as I could, but expected to see the poor child crushed to pieces. A young man, a journeyman carpenter, who was shingling a shed by the road side, seeing the child, and seeing the danger, though a stranger to the parents, jumped from the top of the shed, ran into the road, and snatched up the child from scarcely an inch before the hoof of the leading horse. The horse's leg knocked him down; but he, catching the child by its clothes, flung it back out of the way of the other horses, and saved himself by rolling back with surprising agility. The mother of the child, who had apparently been washing, seeing the teams coming, and seeing the situation of the child, rushed out, and, catching up the child, just as 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 if perfectly dead. By the application of the usual means, she was restored, however, in a little while, and I, being about to depart, asked the carpenter if he were a married man, and whether he were a relation of the parents of the child. He said he was neither. 'Well, then,' said I, you merit the gratitude of every father and mother in the 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, I thank you, sir,' said he, 'I have only done what it was my duty to do.'

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

Now, can you conceive a more ungrateful wretch, than that boy would be, if he should grow up, not to love or obey his mother? She was willing to die for him. She was willing to run directly under the feet of those ferocious horses, that she might save his life. And if he has one particle of generosity in his bosom, he will do every thing in his power 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 can you ever bear the thought of causing grief to her whose love is so strong; whose kindness is so great? It does appear to me that the generous-hearted boy, who thinks of these things, will resolve to be his mother's joy and blessing.

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

"In the year 1821 I was stationed on the Mad River circuit. You know there are extensive prairies in that part of the state. In places, there are no dwellings within miles of each other; and animals of prey are often seen there. One evening, late in autumn, a few of the neighbors were assembled around me, in one of those solitary dwellings, and we had got well engaged in the worship of God, when it was announced that the child of a widow was lost in the prairie. It was cold; the wind blew; and some rain was falling. The poor woman was in agony, and our meeting was broken up. All prepared to go in search of the lost child. The company understood the business better than I did, for they had been bred in those extensive barrens; and occurrences like the present are, probably, not unfrequent among them. They equipped themselves with lanterns and torches, for it was quite dark; and tin horns, to give signals to different parts of the company, when they should become widely separated. For my part, I thought duty required that I should take charge of the unhappy mother. She was nearly frantic; and as time permitted her to view her widowed and childless condition, and the circumstances of the probable death of her child, her misery seemed to double upon her. She took my arm; the company divided into parties; and, taking different directions, we commenced the search. The understanding was, that, when the child should be found, a certain wind of the horn should be made, and that all who should hear it should repeat the signal. 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 must be greatly increased by a dark, rainy night. We travelled many miles, and to a late hour. At length we became satisfied that further search would 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 of nothing 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 face from further search, and gave up her child as lost, her misery was almost too great for endurance. 'My child,' said she, 'has been devoured by a wild beast; his little limbs have been torn asunder; and his blood been drunk by the hideous monster,'—and the idea was agony. As she clung to my arm, it seemed as if her heart-strings would break. At times I had almost to support her in my arms, to prevent her falling to the earth.

"As we proceeded on our way back, I thought I heard, at a great distance, the sound of a horn. We stopped, and listened: it was repeated. It was the concerted signal. The child was found. And what were the feelings of the mother!" Language cannot describe them. Such is 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 more ungrateful than to grieve one who loves you so ardently, and who has done so much for you? If there be any crime which in the sight of God is greater than all others, it appears to me it must be the abuse of parents. If the spirit of a demon dwells in any human breast, it must be in that breast which is thankless for parental favors, and which can requite that love, which watched over our infancy and protected our helpless years, with ingratitude and disrespect.

CHAPTER V.

RELIGIOUS TRUTH

In this chapter I shall take up the subject of religion. That you may understand your duties, it is important that you should first understand 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 Northern Ocean. As it was a voyage of no common danger to face the storms and the tempests of those icy seas, a crew of experienced seamen was obtained, and placed under the guidance of a commander of long-tried skill. As the ship sailed from an English port, in pleasant weather and with favorable breezes, all was harmony on board, and every man was obedient to the lawful commander. As weeks passed away, and they pressed forward on the wide waste of waters, there were occasional acts of neglect of duty. Still the commander retained his authority. No one ventured to refuse to be in subjection to him, But as the ship advanced farther and farther into those unexplored regions, new toils and dangers stared them in the face. The cold blasts of those wintry regions chilled their limbs. Mountains of ice, dashed about by the tempests, threatened destruction to the ship and to the crew. As far as the eye could reach, a dreary view of chilling waves and of floating ice warned them of dangers, from which no earthly power could extricate them. The ship was far away from home, and in regions which had been seldom, if ever, seen by mortal eyes. The boldest were at times appalled by the dangers, both seen and unseen, which were clustering around them. Under these circumstances the spirit of revolt broke out among that ship's crew. They resolved that they would no longer be in subjection to their commander. They rose together in rebellion: deprived him of his authority, and took the control of the ship into their own hands. They then placed their captain in an open boat, and throwing in to him a few articles of provision, they turned him adrift upon that wide and cheerless ocean, and he never was heard of more. Appointing one of their number as commander, they turned the ship in a different direction, and regulated all their movements by their own pleasure. After this revolt, things went on pretty much as before. They had deprived their lawful commander of his authority and elevated another to occupy his place. A stranger would, perhaps, have perceived no material difference, after this change, in the conduct of the crew. The preservation of their own lives rendered it necessary that the established rules of naval discipline should be observed. By night the watches were regularly set and relieved as before. The helmsman performed his accustomed duty, and the sails were spread to the winds, or furled in the tempest, as occasion required. But still they were all guilty of mutiny. They had refused to submit to their lawful commander. Consequently, by the laws of their country, they were all condemned to be hung. The faithful discharge of the necessary duties of each day after their revolt, did not in the least free them from blame. The crime of which they were guilty, and for which they deserved the severest punishment, was the refusal to submit to authority.

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 not have God to reign over us." Instead of living in entire obedience to him, we have chosen to serve ourselves. The accusation which God has against us, is not that we occasionally transgress his laws, but that we refuse to regard him, at all times and under all circumstances, as our 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 only to do our duty to our parents, and to those around us, but also to love him with our most ardent affection, and to endeavor at all times to do that which will be pleasing to him. While the mutinous seamen had command of the ship, they might have been kind to one another; they might, with unwearied care and attention, have watched over the sick. They might, with the utmost fidelity, have conformed to the rules of naval discipline, seeing that every rope was properly adjusted, and that cleanliness and order should pervade every department. But notwithstanding all this, their guilt was undiminished. They had refused obedience to their commander, and for this they were exposed to the penalty of that law which doomed them to death.

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

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

Judge.—You have been accused of mutiny, and are found guilty; and now what have you to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced against you?

Criminal.—To be sure I did help place the captain in the boat and turn him adrift; but then I was no worse than the others. I did only as the rest did.

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

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

Judge.—You are not on trial for idleness, but for refusing obedience to your commander.

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

Judge.—You are not accused of profanity, or of impoliteness. The charge for which you are arraigned, is that you have rebelled against 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 night long at his hammock. And after we placed the captain in the boat, and cut him adrift, I threw in a bag of biscuit, that he might have some food.

Judge.—If your benevolence had shown itself in defending your commander, and in obedience to his authority, you might now be rewarded; 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 perished if it had not been for me, for no one else understood navigation. I have a good education, and did everything I could to instruct my shipmates, and to make them skilful seamen.

Judge.—You are then the most guilty of the whole rebellious crew. You knew your duty better than the rest, and are more inexcusable in not being faithful. It appears by your own confession, that your education was good; that your influence was extensive; and that you had been taught those duties which man owes his fellow man. This does not extenuate, but increases your guilt. Many of your shipmates were ignorant, and were confirmed in their rebellion by your example. They had never been taught those moral and social duties which had been impressed upon your mind. That you could have been so ungrateful, so treacherous, so cruel as to engage in this revolt, justly exposes you to the severest penalty of the law. I therefore proceed to pronounce upon you the sentence which your crimes deserve. You will be led from this place to the deepest and strongest dungeon of the prison; there to be confined till you are led to the gallows, and there to be hung by 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 does not 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, to be obedient to God. The charge which God brings against us, is, that we have refused to obey him. For this we deserve that penalty which God has threatened against rebellion. If we love our parents ever so ardently, it will not save us, unless we also love God. If we are ever so kind to those around us, it will not secure God's approbation, unless we are also obedient to him. If our conduct is so correct 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 the promises of God, and with persevering efforts to do his will. And we shall be as foolish as was the guilty mutineer, if we expect that any such excuses will save us from the penalty of his law.

We cannot, by any fidelity in the discharge of the common duties of life, atone for the neglect to love and serve our Maker. We have broken away from his authority. We follow our own inclinations, and are obedient to the directions of others, rather than to those of our Maker. The fact is, that the duties we owe God and our fellow men are not to be separated. God expects the child in the morning to acknowledge his dependence upon his Maker, and to pray for assistance to do that which is right, during all the hours of the day. And he expects you, when the evening comes, to thank him for all his goodness, and solemnly to promise, all your days, to be obedient to his authority. You must not only love your parents, but you must also love your God. You must try to have your words and your thoughts pure, and all your conduct holy. Now, when you look back upon your past lives, and when you examine your present feelings, do you not see that you have not obeyed God in all your ways? Not only have you had wicked thoughts, and at times been disobedient to your parents, but you have not made it the great object of your life to serve your Maker.

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

One of the most affecting scenes described by the pen of the most eloquent of writers, is, that of an aged father driven from his home by ungrateful and hard-hearted children. The broken-hearted man is represented as standing by the door of his own house, in a dark and tempestuous night, with his gray locks streaming in the wind, and his head unprotected to the fury of the storm. There he stands, drenched with the rain, and shivering with the cold. But the door is barred, and the shutters are closed. His daughters hear the trembling voice of their aged parent, but refuse him admission. Their flinty hearts remain unmoved. The darkness increases; the tempest rages; the rain falls in torrents, and the wind howls most fearfully. The voice of their father grows feebler and feebler, as the storm spends its fury upon him. But nothing can touch the sympathies of his unnatural children. They will not open the door to him. At last, grief, and the pangs of disappointed hope, break the father's heart. He looks at the black and lowering clouds above him, and, in the phrensy of his distracted mind, invites the increasing fury of the storm. And still those wretched children refuse to receive him to their fireside, but leave him to wander in the darkness and the cold.

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

Our blessed Savior represents himself as taking a similar attitude before the hearts of his children. He has presented himself at the door of your heart, and can you refuse him admission? "Behold," says he, "I stand at the door and knock." But we, with a hardness of heart which has triumphed over greater blessings, and is consequently more inexcusable than that of the daughters of King Lear, refuse to love him, and to receive him as our friend. He entreats admission. He asks to enter and be with you and you with him, that you may be happy. And there he has stood for days, and months, and years, and you receive him not. Could we see our own conduct in the light in which we behold the conduct of others, we should be confounded with the sense of our guilt.