Earlier text: TAKING A SITUATION.JOHN CORSON was a tall, stout boy for his years. He was full of life and spirit as a boy could be, running over with frolic and good feeling and restless energy. Any out-of-door business was his delight. He could skate, fish, row, hoe garden, and drive horses as well for his age as the best. He was manly and truthful, too—a noble fellow in his boyish style, that his mother loved, and his father was very proud of. Everybody liked him; I don’t know indeed why it should not be so, for he was my ideal of a boy. Only he was not quite perfect, just as nobody in this world is. He had a quick, passionate temper; but that is no fault if it is not allowed to get the mastery of a man. John’s temper did sometimes rule him; he had not learned to say “Down!” to the tyrant. John liked to read, “Robinson Crusoe,” all sorts of war histories, tales of adventure and heroism, and wild, exciting stories were devoured as greedily as a lunch at recess.210 Oh, how his boy imagination reveled in all dangerous exploits and longed for the dash and the daring of a soldier or a savage! He went to school, as most boys do; but that was the place he never appeared to the best advantage. He was a favorite in the school-yard, and was admired for many fine qualities by his teachers; but he did not like to apply himself to a book; his out-door nature rebelled against the confinement of the school-room and the discipline of close, earnest thinking. He was not much of a scholar; I should say, perhaps, such was his reputation, since many boys younger and weaker and less talented than he stood above him in every class study. But really John had all the capacities of a true student, and if he were only diligent, he could have been as far ahead of the majority of the school in mathematics and classics as he was in archery and horsemanship. Well was it for the boy that his preceptor was a judicious man; he opened no contest with his pupil, but he took with a true eye the measure of his capacity, and resolved to inspire him with an ambition he had never felt. For a day or two he waited, watching211 closely the boy’s habits and moods, not as one determined himself to subdue, but whose purpose it is to lead the offender, through his own sense of honor and right, to self-mastery. There he sat holding his grammar, and feeling as a bird fresh from the wood does the first day in a cage, and putting himself into ill-humor because he could not go off on some rollicking expedition with horse or dog. He was dreaming of Crusoe life, and wishing there were no such things as school-masters and Latin verbs. The bell struck, and John’s class was called for recitation. John’s lesson was the least understood and the worst recited of the whole. Such a failure was common to John’s case. He had been reproved, assisted, and encouraged, but his impatience of discipline left him always far below the standard of his fellows. The master looked stern; the boy, bright, noble and beautiful, stood before him, with his one great failing uppermost over all his young manliness. Mr. L. felt that the hour was a crisis in that young life. He could no longer allow in him the self-indulgence which should leave him weak and superficial in mental requirement;212 he must teach him to control his restless spirit, and to train his mind to think closely, and reason exactly, and act within itself in a way to become efficient in all worthy uses. “John Corson,” said Mr. L., “do you want to be a man?” John smiled, and answered promptly, “Yes, sir.” “A whole, true, finished man, John, that can always do whatever he finds to do, being a power in himself—that can fight the bad with the good, and be always a victor?” “Why, yes, sir,” said John. “I thought so; will you please tell me now what makes just such a man?” John had a pretty good idea of a man; he looked as though he had some pretty strong independent thoughts about it, but he did not know just how to express his thoughts. “Speak right out, John,” said the master; “tell us what you think.” “Why, sir,” said John, “a man is noble; he don’t do anything mean; and he is somebody.” “Not a bad definition, my lad; a man, you suppose, does his duty, comes right up213 to the mark, whether it is pleasant to him or not, and makes as much of himself as he can?” “John, who do you suppose does the most for one toward making a man of him—a man, as you say, that is somebody?” “I don’t know, sir, unless it is his father.” “A good father helps a great deal—a good teacher also; good companions and good books very much; but the work is done chiefly by the man himself. It is self-work, such as none other can do for him—more than everything else together. God gives one a being full of capacities to be developed and strengthened and enlarged; all good and right, you know; but they must be very carefully guarded and educated so as to do the best work and the most of it, and in the best manner. Some have more in themselves upon which to build a fine manhood than others; but it is for every one to say for himself how much of a man he shall be—whether little or noble—nobody or somebody. Did you ever think of this, John?” “Not very much, I guess.” “So I suppose. You see how it is—one214 must be determined to correct the bad traits of character if he would become a good man. His too strong points, like a hasty, disagreeable temper, he must subdue and keep down, because it is not noble to be overcome of a harsh and hateful passion; the weak places he must teach and train and strengthen as much as he can, or there will be great defects to shame and hinder him. The slack places he must take special care of. If there is anything in his duties of learning or training he does not like to do, he must gird his will and his resolution right up to see that he does not lose his chance of being a man just then. “You have some nice accomplishments, John, and I am glad for it; they will help you to be a man; and you can be as brave and noble in many things as any boy I know, and that makes me proud and happy. But, oh, the slack spot, John! do you know where it is?” “It is about the lesson, I suppose,” said John. “Yes. Here you are, a bright, strong boy, ready to walk right up to a true, finished manhood if you will; but you come here day after day and sit restlessly and idly, with215 your hands full of true and important and beautiful work, which you leave half done because you are too slack to do it; you don’t want to grow strong and large in intellect; to learn the best ideas of the noblest minds; to reason and compare and calculate, because it costs an effort you are not fond of now. And I never feel that my pupil, with all his talent for being somebody, is sure to become a noble man, full grown in mind and soul, because he does not take his work with a right manly courage and say, I will do it!” “You see, the battle is all to yourself, John, and nobody can fight it out but you—the battle between duty and discipline on one side and ill-tempered slackness on the other. How shall it be?—will you conquer the lessons, and so grow efficient in mind and manly in will? or shall the lessons conquer you while your intellect lies weak and untrained, and your manhood becomes only a dwarf to the strong, brave character it can as well grow to as not? In this great life-battle will you be a common soldier, or an officer fit to command yourself and to lead other men?” John could not bear to think of being less than a man; he saw and was ashamed of his216 weakness. But he did not say much that day, and Mr. L. left him to his own meditations. The next day John came to school and sat down to his duties. “Well, my lad,” said the master, very kindly, “have you decided who shall conquer?” “I will do it!” answered John, promptly and nobly; “please, sir, see if I do n’t!” “That is the point to be gained, John; hold to it, and I expect you to be a man.” Oh, it was hard work, sometimes—up-hill work for awhile, but John Corson persevered and conquered. All the boy’s better nature was enlisted; the new motive, the manly aim, accomplished the master’s ideas. Mr. L. became proud of his pupil. I wish you could see John now that ten years are added to his age—ten years of close study and earnest thinking and doing. He has been looking carefully to the weak places and the slack places, for which he has reaped an honorable and glorious reward. He is somebody, and whoever looks upon his intelligent face and manly figure acknowledges it. John Corson will never forget that schoolmaster; he loves him with a noble friendship, and thanks God that there was one to inspire at the right moment with a right ambition.217 I think, also, that Mr. L. was never more grateful that God had given him some true work to do than when a few years ago John called on his old teacher to express his gratitude for the few kind words that startled him out of his indolence, and set before him a true and noble endeavor. “Conquer or be conquered, as you spoke the word that afternoon,” said he, “has stood by me ever since.” “Rather say,” replied Mr. L., “that the ‘I will do it,’ you uttered the next morning has carried you through.” Boys, take up the “I will do it,” fill out the pattern of your best, noblest being, and see if that is far different from, or much less than genius! SARAH, I wish you would lend me your thimble. I can never find mine when I want it.” “Why can you not find it, Mary?” “If you do not choose to lend me yours, I can borrow of somebody else.” “I am willing to lend it to you, Mary. Here it is.” “I knew you would let me have it.” “Why do you always come to me to borrow when you have lost anything, Mary?” “Because you never lose your things, and always know where to find them.” “How do you suppose I always know where to find my things?” “I am sure I cannot tell. If I knew, I might, perhaps, sometimes contrive to find my own.” “This is the secret. I have a place for everything, and after I have done using anything, it is my rule to put it away in its proper place.” “Yes, just as though your life depended upon it.” “My life does not depend upon it, Mary, but my convenience does very much.” “Well, I never can find time to put my things away.” “How much more time will it take to put a thing away, in its proper place, than it will to hunt after it, when it is lost?” “Well, I’ll never borrow of you again, you may depend on it.” “Why? you are not affronted, Mary, I hope!” “Oh no, Sarah. But I am ashamed that I have been so careless and disorderly, and now resolve to do as you do, to have a place for everything, and everything in its place.” “Well, Mary, this is a good resolution and will be easily carried out, if you bear in mind that, ‘Heaven’s first law is order.’” A CLUSTER of young girls stood about the door of the school-room one afternoon, engaged in close conversation, when a little girl joined them, and asked what they were doing. “I am telling the girls a secret, Kate, and we will let you know, if you will promise not to tell any one as long as you live,” was the reply. “I won’t tell any one but my mother,” replied Kate. “I tell her everything, for she is my best friend.” “No, not even your mother, no one in the world.” “Well, then I can’t hear it; for what I can’t tell mother, is not fit for me to know.” After speaking these words, Kate walked away slowly, and perhaps sadly, yet with a quiet conscience, while her companions went on with their secret conversation. I am sure that if Kate continued to act on that principle, she became a virtuous, useful woman. No child of a pious mother will be221 likely to take a sinful course, if Kate’s reply is taken for a rule of conduct. As soon as a boy listens to conversation at school, or on the play-ground, which he would fear or blush to repeat to his mother, he is in the way of temptation, and no one can tell where he will stop. Many a man dying in disgrace, in prison or on the scaffold, has looked back with bitter remorse to the time when first a sinful companion gained his ear, and came between him and a pious mother. Boys and girls, if you would be honored and respected here in this life, and form characters for heaven, make Kate’s reply your rule: “What I cannot tell my mother, is not fit for me to know;” for no other person can have as great an interest in your welfare and prosperity as a true Christian mother. Every child and youth should always remember that a pious mother is their best earthly friend, from whom no secret should be kept. A HABIT of making fun of the peculiarities of individuals is indulged to such an extent that if line upon line discountenancing it would have the effect to reform any, we would favor agitating the subject quite frequently. Aside from its sinfulness, the habit is so offensive to good taste that a really well-bred person does not indulge it; therefore we believe that if the young were properly instructed regarding so unbecoming a practice, they would avoid it altogether. We well remember receiving a sharp rebuke from an associate in our younger days for participating in this sort of mirth. The crime was made to appear almost unpardonable, so that the impression was lasting. We were admonished, “Never, upon any occasion, indulge in sport at the expense of others; it is heartless, and cruel in the extreme. When tempted to do so, place yourself in their circumstances, and the temptation will immediately vanish.” These were weighty words to come from223 the lips of one who did not even profess to be influenced by the spirit of the Saviour. If this friend so scrupulously regarded the feelings of others, what should we expect from those who claim a relationship to Christ? Accompany the Saviour during every act of his earthly mission, and none but the most tender feelings of pity and sympathy for the oppressed and afflicted can be discerned. Destitute of the same spirit, we need not cherish a hope of being recognized by Him when he comes to claim the subjects of his kingdom. We will here relate a story that represents a class of individuals who may have indulged innocently in this sort of merriment; but when light comes, it is duty to obey, and refrain from such a course:— Once, when traveling in a stage-coach, I met with a young lady who seemed to be upon the constant lookout for something laughable. Every old barn was made the subject of a passing joke, while the cows and sheep looked demurely at us, little dreaming that folks could be merry at their expense. All this was, perhaps, harmless enough. Animals are not sensitive in that respect.224 They are not likely to have their feelings injured because people make fun of them; but when we come to human beings, that is quite another thing. So it seemed to me; for, after a while, an aged woman came running across the fields, lifting up her hand to the coachman, and in a shrill voice begging him to stop. The good-natured coachman drew up his horses, and the old lady, coming to the fence by the roadside, squeezed herself through between two posts which were very near together. The young lady in the stage-coach made some ludicrous remark, and the passengers laughed. It seemed very excusable; for in getting through the fence the poor woman made sad work with her old black bonnet, and now, taking a seat beside a well-dressed lady, really looked as if she had been blown there by a whirlwind. This was a new piece of fun, and the girl made the most of it. She caricatured the old lady upon a card, pretended to take a pattern of her bonnet, and in various other ways sought to raise a laugh at her. At length the poor woman turned a pale face toward her and said:— “My dear girl, you are now young, and healthy, and happy. I have been so, too, but that time is past. I am now old and forlorn. The coach is taking me to the death-bed of my only child. And then, my dear, I shall be a poor old woman, all alone in the world, where merry girls will think me a very amusing object. They will laugh at my old-fashioned clothes and sad appearance, forgetting that the old woman has loved and suffered, and is left alone.” The coach now stopped before a poor-looking house, and the old lady feebly descended the steps. “How is she?” was the first trembling inquiry of the mother. “Just alive,” said the man who was leading her into the house. The driver mounted his box and we were upon the road again. Our merry young friend had placed the card in her pocket. She was leaning her head upon her hand; and you may be sure I was not sorry to see a tear upon her fair young cheek. It was a good lesson, and one which we greatly hoped would do her good. It was a half holiday. The children were gathered on the green and a right merry time they were having. “Come, girls and boys,” called out Ned Graham, “let’s play hunt the squirrel.” All assented eagerly, and a large circle was formed with Ned Graham for leader because he was the largest. “Come, Susie,” said one of the boys, to a little girl who stood on one side, and seemed to shrink from joining them. “Oh, never mind her!” said Ned, with a little toss of his head, “she’s nobody, anyhow. Her father drinks.” A quick flush crept over the child’s pale face as she heard the cruel, thoughtless words. She was very sensitive, and the arrow had touched her heart in its tenderest place. Her father was a drunkard, she knew, but to be taunted with it before so many was more than she could bear; and with great sobs heaving her bosom, and hot tears filling her eyes, she turned and ran away from the playground. Her mother was sitting by the window when she reached home and the tearful face of the little girl told that something had happened to disturb her. “What is the matter, Susie?” she asked, kindly. “Oh mother,” Susie said, with the tears dropping down her cheeks, as she hid her face in her mother’s lap, “Ned Graham said such a cruel thing about me,” and here the sobs choked her voice so that she could hardly speak; “He said I wasn’t anybody, and that father drinks.” “My poor little girl,” Mrs. Ellet said, very sadly. There were tears in her eyes, too. Such taunts as this were nothing new. “Oh, mother,” Susie said, as she lifted her face, wet with tears, from her mother’s lap, “I can’t bear to have them say so, and act just as if I had done something wicked. I wish father wouldn’t drink! Do you suppose he’ll ever leave it off?” “I hope so,” Mrs. Ellet answered, as she kissed Susie’s face where the tears clung like drops of dew on a rose. “I pray that he may break off the habit, and I can do nothing but pray, and leave the rest to God.” That night Mr. Ellet came home to supper, as usual. He was a hard-working man, and a good neighbor. So everybody said, but he had the habit of intemperance so firmly fixed upon him that everybody thought he would end his days in the drunkard’s grave. Susie kissed him when he came through the gate, as she always did, but there was something in her face that went to his heart. A look so sad, and full of touching sorrow for one so young as she! “What ails my little girl?” he asked as he patted her curly head. “I can’t tell you, father,” she answered, slowly. “Because it would make you feel bad.”
Susie replied. “I guess not,” he said, as they walked up to the door together. “What is it, Susie?” “Oh, father,” and Susie burst into tears again as the memory of Ned Graham’s words came up freshly in her mind, “I wish you wouldn’t drink any more for the boys and girls don’t like to play with me, ’cause you do.” Mr. Ellet made no reply. But something stirred in his heart that made him ashamed229 of himself; ashamed that he was the cause of so much sorrow and misery. After supper he took his hat, and Mrs. Ellet knew only too well where he was going. At first he had resolved to stay at home that evening, but the force of habit was so strong that he could not resist, and he yielded, promising himself, that he would not drink more than once or twice. Susie had left the table before he finished his supper, and as he passed the great clump of lilacs by the path, on his way to the gate, he heard her voice and stopped to listen to what she was saying. “Oh, good Jesus, please don’t let father drink any more. Make him just as he used to be when I was a baby, and then the boys and girls can’t call me a drunkard’s child, or say such bad things about me. Please, dear Jesus, for mother’s sake and mine.” Susie’s father listened to her simple prayer with a great lump swelling in his throat. And when it was ended he went up to her, and knelt down by her side, and put his arm around her, oh, so lovingly! “God in Heaven,” he said, very solemnly, “I promise to-night, never to touch another230 drop of liquor as long as I live. Give me strength to keep my pledge, and help me to be a better man.” “Oh, father,” Susie cried, her arms about his neck, and her head upon his breast, “I’m so glad! I shan’t care about anything they say to me now, for I know you won’t be a drunkard any more.” “God helping me, I will be a man!” he answered, as, taking Susie by the hand he went back into the house where his wife was sitting with the old patient look of sorrow on her face,—the look that had become so habitual. I cannot tell you of the joy and thanksgiving that went up from that hearthstone that night. I wish I could, but it was too deep a joy which filled the hearts of Susie and her mother to be described. Was not Susie’s prayer answered? GOD SEEN IN ALL HIS WORKS.
IN that beautiful part of Germany which borders on the Rhine, there is a noble castle, as you travel on the west bank of the river, which you may see lifting its ancient towers on the opposite side, above the grove of trees about as old as itself. About forty years ago, there lived in that castle a noble gentleman, Baron Philippie. He had only one son, who was not only a companion and a comfort to his father, but a blessing to all who lived on his father’s estate. It happened, on a certain occasion, that, this young man being from home, there came a French gentleman to the castle, who began to talk of his heavenly Father in terms that chilled the old Baron’s blood, who reproved him, saying, “Are you not afraid of offending God?” The gentleman replied that he was not, for he had never seen him. The Baron did not notice this answer, but the next morning he took his visitor about the castle grounds, and among other objects showed him a very beautiful picture that hung on the wall. The gentleman admired232 it very much, and remarked, that whoever drew that picture, knew how to use the pencil. “My son drew that picture,” said the Baron. “Then your son is a clever man,” replied the gentleman. The Baron then went with his visitor into the garden, and showed him beautiful flowers, and plantations of forest trees. “Who had the ordering of this garden?” asked the gentleman. “My son,” replied the Baron; “he knows every plant here, from the cedar of Lebanon to the hyssop on the wall.” “Indeed,” replied the gentleman, “I shall think very highly of him soon.” The Baron then took him into the village, and showed him a small, neat cottage, where his son had established a school, and where he caused all young people who had lost their parents to be received and nourished at his expense. The children in the house looked so innocent and so happy, that the gentleman was very much pleased; and when he returned to the castle, he said to the Baron, “What a happy man you are to have so good a son?” “How do you know that I have so good a son?” “Because I have seen his works; and I know that he must be good and clever, if he has done all that you have showed me.” “And you have not seen him?” “No; but I know him very well, for I judge of him by his works.” “True,” replied the Baron; “and in this way I judge of the character of our heavenly Father. I know by his works that he is a being of infinite wisdom, power, and goodness.” The French gentleman felt the force of the reproof, and was careful not to offend the good old Baron any more by his remarks. All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips, that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well.