Earlier text: BE JUST BEFORE GENEROUS.“If they wouldn’t let him have it!” said Mrs. Leslie, weeping; “Oh! if they wouldn’t sell him liquor there’d be no trouble. He’s one of the best men when he doesn’t drink. He never brings liquor into the house; and he tries hard, I know, to keep sober, but he cannot pass Jenk’s tavern.” Mrs. Leslie was talking with a sympathizing neighbor, who responded by saying, “It’s a downright shame!” While this conversation was going on a little girl, not over ten years old, sat listening attentively. After awhile she went quietly from the room and took her way, unobserved by her mother, down the road. There was a purpose on her mind; she had started on a mission. “Oh, if they wouldn’t sell him liquor!” Those earnest words of her mother had filled her thoughts. If Mr. Jenks wouldn’t sell her father drink, there would be no more trouble. How simple the remedy! She would go to Mr. Jenks and ask him not to let her father have any more372Bliquor, and all would be well again. Artless, innocent child! The tavern kept by Jenks—the laziest man in Milanville, he was too lazy to work—stood nearly a quarter of a mile from the tenement occupied by the Leslies. Toward this point under a hot sun, Lizzie made her way, her mind so filled with its purpose that she was unconscious of heat or fatigue. Not long before a traveler alighted at the door. After giving directions to have his horse fed, he entered the bar room, where Jenks stood behind the counter. “Have something to drink?” inquired the landlord. “I’ll take a glass of water, if you please.” Jenks could not hide the indifference felt at once toward the stranger. Very deliberately he set a pitcher and glass upon the counter, and then turned partly away. The stranger poured out a full tumbler of water, and drank it off with an air of satisfaction. “Good water, that of yours, landlord,” said he. “Is it?” was returned somewhat uncourteously. “I call it good water, don’t you?” “Never drink water by itself.” As Jenks said this, he winked to one of his customers, who was lounging on the bar. “In fact, it’s so long since I drank any water that I forget how it tastes. Don’t you Leslie?” The man to whom this was addressed was not so far lost to shame as Jenks. He blushed and looked confused as he replied:— “It might be better for some of us if we had not lost our relish for pure water.” “A true word spoken, my friend!” said the stranger, turning to the man whose swollen visage, and patched, threadbare, garments, too plainly told the story of his life. “Water, pure water, bright water! is my motto. Its attendants are health, thrift and happiness. It takes not away the child’s bread, nor the toiling wife’s garments.” There were two or three customers at the bar besides Leslie, to whom this was addressed; and all of them, in spite of the landlord’s angry and sneering countenance, treated the stranger with attention and respect. Seeing this, Jenks could not restrain himself; so, advancing to his side, and laying his hand rudely on his shoulder, said, in a peremptory manner, “See here, my377friend, if you are about to make a temperance lecture you can adjourn to the town-hall or Methodist chapel.” The stranger moved aside a pace or two, so that the hand of Jenks might fall from his person, and then said, mildly, “There must be something wrong here, if a man may not speak in praise of water without giving offense.” “I said you could adjourn your lecture.” The landlord’s face was now a fiery red, and he spoke with insolence and passion. “Oh, well, as you are president of the meeting, I suppose we must let you exercise an arbitrary power of judgment,” said the stranger; “I didn’t think any one had so strong a dislike of water as to consider its praise an insult.” At this moment a child stepped into the bar room. She glanced neither to the right nor left, but walked up to the landlord, lifted up to him her sweet, young face, and said, in tones that thrilled every heart but his, “Please, Mr. Jenks, don’t sell papa any more liquor!” “Off home with you this instant!” exclaimed Jenks. As he spoke he advanced toward the child with his up-lifted hand in a threatening attitude. “Please don’t, Mr. Jenks,” persisted the child, not moving or taking her eyes from the landlord’s countenance. “Mother says if you would not sell him liquor, there’d be no trouble. He’s kind and good to us all when he does not drink.” “Off, I say!” shouted Jenks, now maddened beyond self-control, and his hand was about to descend upon the little one, when the stranger caught her in his arms, exclaiming as he did so, with deep emotion, “God bless the child! No! no, precious one!” he added, “do n’t fear him. Plead for your father; plead for your home. Your petition must prevail. He cannot say nay to the little ones, whose angels do always behold the face of their Father in Heaven. God bless the child!” added the stranger, in a choking voice. “Oh, that the father, for whom she has come on this touching errand, were present now! If there were anything of manhood yet left in his nature, this would awaken it from its palsied sleep.” “Papa! O papa!” now cried the child, stretching forth her hand. In the next moment she was clinging to the breast of her father, who, with his arms clasped tightly379around her, stood weeping and mingling his tears with those raining from the little one’s eyes. What an oppressive stillness reigned in the room! Jenks stood subdued and bewildered, his state of mental confusion scarcely enabling him to comprehend the full import of the scene; the stranger looked on wonderingly, yet deeply affected. Quietly, and with moist eyes, the two or three drinking customers, who had been lounging at the bar, went stealthily out; and the landlord, the stranger, the father and his child, were left the only inmates of the room. “Come, Lizzie, dear! this is no place for us,” said Leslie, breaking the dead silence. “We’ll go home.” And the unhappy inebriate took his child by the hand, and led her toward the door. But the little one held back. “Wait, papa, wait,” she said; “he hasn’t promised yet. Oh, I wish he would promise!” “Promise her, in Heaven’s name!” said the stranger. “If I do promise, I keep it!” returned the landlord, in a threatening tone. “Then, for God’s sake, promise,” exclaimed380Leslie, in a half-despairing voice; “promise, and I’m safe!” “Be it so! May I be cursed, if ever I sell you a drop of drink at this bar, while I am landlord!” Jenks spoke with an angry emphasis. “God be thanked!” murmured the poor drunkard, as he led his child away. “God be thanked; there is hope for me yet.” Hardly had the mother of Lizzie missed her child ere she entered, leading her father by the hand. “O mother!” she exclaimed, with a joy-lit countenance and a voice of exultation, “Mr. Jenks has promised.” “Promised what?” Hope sprang up in her heart on wild and fluttering wings, her face flushed and grew deadly pale. She sat panting for an answer. “That he would never sell me another glass of liquor,” said her husband. A pair of thin, white hands were clasped together; an ashen face was turned upward; tearless eyes looked their thankfulness to Heaven. “There is hope yet,” said Leslie. “Hope, hope! And, O Edward, you have said the word. Hope through our child.381Innocence has triumphed over vice and cruelty. She came to the strong, evil, passionate man, and in her weakness and innocence prevailed over him. God made her fearless and eloquent.” A year afterward a stranger came that way, and stopped at the same old tavern. As before, Jenks was behind his well-filled bar, and drinking customers came and went in numbers. Jenks did not recognize him till he called for water, and drank a full tumbler of the pure liquid with a hearty zest. Then he knew him, but feigned to be ignorant of his identity. The stranger made no reference to the scene he had witnessed there twelve months before, but lingered in the bar room most of the day, closely observing every one who came there to drink. Leslie was not among the number. “What has become of the man and little girl that I saw here at my last visit to Milanville?” said the stranger, speaking at last to Jenks. “Gone to the devil, for all I care,” was the landlord’s rude answer as he turned away. “Do you see that little white cottage away off there, just at the edge of the wood?” said one of the customers. “Two tall poplars stand in front. The young man you ask for lives there. And what is more, if he keeps on the way he has begun, the cottage will be his own in another year.” “Ah! I see; well, did Leslie, as you call him, ever try to get a drink here, since the landlord promised never to let him have another drink?” “Yes; if you remember, he said in his anger, ‘May I be cursed if I sell him another drop.’ That saved poor Leslie. Jenks is superstitious in some things. On one occasion he drove Leslie from the bar room, threatening, at the same time, to horsewhip him if he ever set foot over his threshold again.” A YOUNG oriental prince was visiting at the castle of a duke in one of the finest countries in England. He looked from his window into a beautiful garden, and inhaled the fragrance which was wafted toward him by the gentle breath of June. “What exquisite perfume,” he cried; “bring me, I pray you, the flower that so delights my sense. See you yon stately stalk, bearing on its shaft those gorgeous lilies, whose snowy petals are veined with blood-red lines and with violet shade; that is undoubtedly the plant I seek.” They brought him the curious lily of Africa. “Its odor is nauseating,” he said, “but bring me that flower of a hue so much deeper and richer than even the beautiful roses of my own fair land. See how it glows like flame!—surely a rich odor should distill from that regal plant.” It was a dahlia, and its scent was even less agreeable than that of the lily. “Can it be, then, the large white blossoms clustered on yonder bush, or the blue cups on the neighboring shrub?” he asked. No, the snowball and campanular proved alike scentless. Various plants yielded their odorless buds or broad-spreading petals for his inspection. But he found not among them what he sought. “Surely, it must be that golden ball,” he said; “for so showy a blossom should at least charm the nostrils as well as the eye.” “Faugh!” it was a marigold. At length they placed in his hand a wee brown blossom. “So unpretending a thing as this cannot surely be that for which I seek,” exclaimed the prince with a vexed air—“this appears to be nothing better than a weed.” He cautiously lifted it to his face. “Is it possible?” he cried. “Is it really this unobtrusive brown weed which gives forth so precious an odor? Why, it hangs over the whole garden, and comes fanning in at my window like the very breath of health and purity. What is the name of this little darling?” “Precisely, that, your highness,” answered385his attendant; “this flower is called ‘mignonette,’ the little darling.” “Wonderful! wonderful!” repeated the astonished prince, placing it in his bosom. “Thus your highness perceives,” remarked his tutor, gravely, “that the humble and unpretending often exhale the most precious virtues.” It naught avails thee where, but what thou art. All the distinctions of this little life, Are quite cutaneous, foreign to the man— Away with all but moral, in his mind; And let what then remains compose his name, Pronounce him weak or worthy, great or mean. Th’ Almighty, from his throne, on earth surveys Naught greater than an honest, humble heart; An humble heart, his residence! pronounced His second seat; and rival to the skies— The private path, the secret acts of men, If noble, far the noblest of our lives.
WHY, Archie Allen, you are not ready for church yet; we shall surely be late,” said the young wife as she entered the elegant library where her husband sat reading a choice volume of poetry. It was Clara’s first Sabbath in her new home. She had but lately left the sheltering roof of a kind great-uncle, who had taken her to his home when a lonely orphan, and reared her very tenderly, surrounding her with every comfort and many of the elegancies of life. A gentleman some years her senior had won her heart’s affection, and now she was installed as mistress of his beautiful city home. Six months before she had publicly professed her love for the Saviour, but she was yet in the morning of her religious life. She needed the fostering care of an experienced, devoted Christian. Would she meet with such aid from him who was to be her future companion and protector? “Marry only in the Lord,” was the advice of an aged friend to the young girl. “Archie is not a professor of religion,”387she reasoned with herself; “but he respects religion, I know, and who can tell what influence I may exert over him?” “You are not really going to church today, Clara, dear, cold as it is?” said the young man dropping his book and looking up with a smile. “Why, who ever heard of such a thing as staying at home from church unless one was ill!” “I think I am not very well, Clara. Won’t you stay at home and take care of me? Read me some poetry and sing a few of your sweet songs.” Clara looked at him a moment a little incredulously and then replied, “You are quite well, I know by your laughing. I think it is very wrong to stay at home from church; indeed I do, Archie. Won’t you go with me?” “But where shall we go, my good wife?” “Wherever you are accustomed to.” “I am accustomed to attend that cozy little brick church down by your uncle’s, and I thought I had done duty so well there I should be considered religious enough for the rest of my days. But don’t look so sad,388Clara. I will go anywhere to please you. I know of a splendid marble church on the Avenue. We will drive there if you like, though I really have no idea of what persuasion it is. I will order the carriage and be ready in a few minutes,” and he left the room gayly humming the fragment of an opera air. It was an elegant, stately church. The brilliant light which flowed through the stained windows almost dazzled the sight of the young girl, accustomed only to the plain green shades of the humble village church. The voice of the deep-toned organ rolled through the marble hall and then burst forth into a light, gay air, which, to her unaccustomed ears, sounded strangely in a house of worship. God seemed nearer in the little church at home, which, nestled down among the grassy mounds and moss-grown headstones, seemed always pointing to a life beyond. When the minister arose she marked well his graceful air, the polished words and sentences which flowed so smoothly from his lips as he read them from the page before him. But, alas! “So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.”
Clara felt that her soul had not been fed, as the carriage rolled away from the marble church; but there was much around her to attract the gaze of one who had never before spent a Sabbath in the city. Her husband was glad to be released from the sound of “the prosy old doctor’s essay,” and was in quite good humor with himself for his act of self-denial in going to church. So the drive home was quite a pleasant one, though considerably longer than the one to church. When they reached home a note was brought in containing an invitation from a fashionable friend of Mr. Allen’s to take a little drive out to the new park grounds that afternoon. The carriage would call at three o’clock. Clara was shocked at such a disregard of the sanctity of God’s holy day, and her husband employed a great deal of skillful rhetoric and much more subtile sophistry before she could be brought even to entertain such a project. “You know I went to church to please you this morning. I am sure you will be kind enough to oblige me by accepting my friend’s invitation. I know he would be seriously offended if we did not.” Alas for youth, when the counselors it relies on “counsel to do wickedly!” Clara yielded, though with sad misgivings, and dressed herself for the ride. The lady beside her was very courteous and attentive, and the gay conversation turned on various frivolous worldly subjects, till in the pleasant excitement of the drive Clara almost forgot the day. When they turned back again Mrs. Harvey insisted that they should dine with her, and the carriage stopped at their residence. A gay evening was spent, Clara being prevailed upon to play some of her choicest music and join her new acquaintance in singing some popular songs, which she did with most exquisite grace and expression. Her dark eye grew brighter and her fair cheek flushed softly, as she felt the proud, admiring glance of her husband bent upon her. But underneath all her pleasure was a dull sense of pain and a consciousness of wrong-doing, which was a very serpent trail among her fragrant flowers. When she reached her home again a flood of regretful sorrow overwhelmed her heart, and she wept bitterly. Her husband sought most tenderly to soothe her grief, and secretly391resolved to undermine the “superstition which caused the dear girl so much unhappiness.” “You have done nothing wrong, dear Clara, that you need reproach yourself so bitterly. You have only spent a pleasant afternoon and evening with a friend. We must have dined somewhere, and what difference whether at their house or our own! what is life given us for except to make it just as full of happiness as we can, and to make others around us happy! Just think how much pleasure your sweet singing gave my friends and me. Harvey said it was better than the finest opera he ever heard. Religion ought to make people happy. I am afraid yours has not to-day, Clara, so I cannot think it is just the right sort for you. Now, really, did not the drive to and from church do you more good than the sermon? I am quite sure it did; so I always intend to take a good long road to church in future.” It was some consolation to know that her husband intended to go to church with her in the future; so Clara dried her eyes and listened to a little gem of poetry he had selected to read to her that morning. Little by little the rock of her faith was worn away, and she was fast learning to look on happiness as the true end of existence instead of holiness, “without which no man shall see the Lord.” And, alas! many whose associations are far less worldly make this mistake, and look mainly for a great deal of joy and exalted happiness in their religious life. Because they do not attain it they go mourning all their days, looking with weeping eyes on those whom they regard as more favored of God, because the light of gladness shines upon their pathway. Desponding heart! there is no true happiness in religion where that alone is the end you seek. Holiness must be the end and aim of your whole course, or your joy will be like the “hope of the hypocrite, but for a moment.” “Be ye holy, for I am holy,” is the divine command. How strange that a truly loving heart could enter upon such a task as that which Mr. Allen now commenced—the work of loosing a trusting nature from its only safe moorings, leaving it to drift without a compass or a guiding-star upon a sea abounding with fearful rocks and angry breakers. But393such is the hatred of the natural heart to the humbling doctrine of the cross and salvation alone through Him who was crucified upon it. Clara was fond of reading, and her husband took care to place in her way certain fascinating writers then quite popular, whose frequent merry flashes and sarcastic allusions to the “orthodoxy” tended more surely than serious reasoning would have done to make her think lightly of the faith in which she had been trained. The old-fashioned Bible was skillfully tortured out of its plainest meaning by these so-called reformers, or utterly ignored where it could not be distorted to suit their views. What their opinions of its inspiration were could never be clearly seen by others, if, indeed, they had ever given such a trifling matter any consideration whatever. Instead of the sure foundation which has Jesus Christ for its corner-stone, and a religion which teaches faith, humility, self-denial, earnest labor for souls, and all lowly virtues, they profess to throw wide open the doors of a “broad church,” which should gather in all mankind as brothers, which should teach them the dignity and excellence of humanity, and give394every one a free pass at last on the swift train over the celestial railway. In their great harvest field they claimed the tares to be as valuable as the wheat, and never gave thought to the “harvest day.” But, alas! calling the tares wheat will not avail when “the Lord of the harvest” comes and the command is given, “Bind them in bundles to burn them.” But the form in which the fatal error was clothed was fair and pleasing, especially so when her husband would “Lend to the charm of the poet The music of his voice.” There was one favorite writer who seemed to possess a magic power in painting every shady nook and mossy way-side spring of the human heart. No old, gray rock or fathomless shadow of feeling seemed to escape that observing eye. And there were clear, bold strokes sometimes which showed a strength not often given to a woman’s hand. Through all her writings ran a thread of light reflected from God’s word, though bent out of its own right line by the prism through which it flowed. Much was said of the love and tender mercy of God, but the395fact that he is also a just God, and will in no wise clear the guilty, was set aside as a hard doctrine. The gay scoffer, the one who despises Christ’s tender offers of love and pardon, provided he is amiable and pleasant among his friends and associates, must not be given over to a just retribution. God is too loving a father to see such a lovely scorner perish. It is “so incongruous” to think of the one with whom we have had such pleasant converse here being forever lost. The sophistry gradually wrought its work; the more readily, as poor Clara, in the whirl of fashion and gayety, failed to bring it to the test of “the law and the testimony.” Time rolled on, and Clara was becoming more thoughtful and studious. Various philosophical works which her husband admired, and which he often read and discussed with her, were becoming favorite volumes. There was something grand in the old philosopher’s views of life and its little ills and joys. There was something wonderful in their curious speculations respecting the mysteries of the world beyond. Her husband delighted in leading her mind through all their fantastic396windings as they groped for the truth so clearly revealed to us. He praised his wife for her appreciation of such intellectual food, and rejoiced that he had been so successful in winning the affection of a truly intellectual woman. Her self-love was gratified, and her diligence in diving deeper into his favorite works daily increased. In her own home circle her heart had room to expand its choicest tendrils. A noble boy three summers old was prattling at her feet, and all the demands of fashion could not make her forget a mother’s duties. Still they were only the duties that pertained to his temporal welfare, for the flame of devotion had smoldered to ashes on the hearthstone of her heart. The rain was dashing against the closed shutters one November night as an anxious group gathered in Mrs. Allen’s chamber. They were standing on either side of a beautiful rose-wood crib, whose hangings of azure gauze were closely drawn aside. There lay a little form tossing and restless, his little face and throat seemed scarlet as they rested on the snowy pillow, and his little hand moved restlessly to and fro, as if vainly striving to397cool the burning heat. It was the mother’s hand that tirelessly bathed the scarlet brow and burning limbs. Servants were constantly in waiting, but no hand but her husband’s was allowed to take her place. “Do you think there is hope, doctor?” was the question she longed to ask, but could not frame it into words. It came at length from her husband’s lips. The answer was only a straw to grasp at. “He is in a very critical state, indeed. If I had been at home when he was first taken ill I think the fever would not have reached such a hight. But everything almost depends on first steps. We must do what we can now to make up for lost hours.” But all that the best medical skill could do proved useless. The little sufferer lingered through the long night watch, and when the morning dawned seemed once more to know them all. “My mamma,” were the first words which fell from his lips, sending a thrill of joy to all their hearts. It was bliss to see the smile of recognition light once more those sweet blue eyes, and the parents grasped each other’s hand in silent joy. The old physician alone looked grave and sorrowful.398The little light was fast fading out, and this was its dying flicker. “Mamma, please take Bertie,” said the little one, holding up the dimpled hands. Very tenderly was he lifted up and laid in her arms. “Good night, papa, it’s most dark now; Bertie is going to sleep.” His mother’s tearful face bent over him, and as the strange hand of Death was laid upon his heart-strings he clasped her closely about the neck, as if she were a refuge from every danger. They took the little one gently from her arms and laid him on his couch again. Her husband could not even strive to comfort her. He saw the joy and pride of his existence, the heir of his name and fortune, around whom so many fair hopes clustered, “taken away by a stroke,” and his soul seemed crushed within him. He bowed his head upon his hands, and, regardless of other eyes, the proud man groaned, and sobbed, and wept as never in his life he had done before. Both were too deeply stricken to utter words of comfort. Clara felt her bleeding heart torn from her bosom. Yet no399tears came to her relief. Her brain seemed bursting with the pressure upon it. Where was the sustaining power of boasted philosophy in this hour of darkness? Ah, when the afflictions of life come home to “the bone and marrow of our own households” they are far different to us from those which concern only our neighbors. It is an easy thing to look on pleasure philosophically, or even the afflictions of others, but when our turn to suffer comes we shall feel our need of a strong staff to lean upon, a sure support that can keep us in perfect peace, even in the furnace. Clara had sought to pray when the agony of fear was upon her, but God seemed too far away to listen. “I cannot give him up, my husband!” was the agonized cry of the mother as they stood for the last time by his side before he was to be taken forever from their chamber. “I cannot give him up,” was the despairing language of both their hearts. There can be no true resignation where a loving Father’s hand is not recognized in the affliction; where this poor world is allowed to bound the spirit’s vision. But at last the precious dust was borne away to be seen no400more by mortal eye till the resurrection morning. Time, the great healer, wore away the sharpness of the bereavement, but Clara could never again delight in her former pursuits. How like very dust and ashes seemed the food she had been seeking to nourish her soul upon! A softened melancholy rested upon her heart, and she would wander about her house looking at the relics of her lost one. And day by day the roses faded from her cheeks, her step grew lighter on the stair, and she rapidly declined, till at length she was startled at the shadowy form and face her mirror revealed to her. Her long-neglected Bible was once more sought for, and she read with all the desperate eagerness of a drowning man, who catches at every chance of safety. It was her mother’s Bible, and all along the margin were delicate pencil tracings, pointing to many precious passages. How eagerly she read them over! and when she was too weary herself, she gave the book into her husband’s hand. Still he could give her no advice in her spiritual distress, and looked upon it with compassion as the result of her disease. He gave her the tenderest401worldly consolation, but it brought no peace to her anxious soul. Was there no one to offer a word of true counsel? From a very humble source came the advice she so much needed. The kind nurse, Margaret, whom little Bertie had loved next to his parents, was an earnest, humble Christian. It was from her lips he had learned to lisp his morning and evening prayer, and her low, gentle voice that told him over and over the sweet story he never tired of hearing—the story of the Babe of Bethlehem. Plainly and simply she pointed Clara’s mind to the Lamb of God as the only Saviour, praying hourly in her heart that God would bring home the truth with power to her. At length a little light broke in upon her mind. “It may be he will receive even such a wandering sheep as I,” she said, “oh, I will cast myself upon his mercy only, for I can do nothing to make myself better!” The thin hands were folded over the Bible, the eyes closed wearily, a faint motion of the lips told of the silent prayer her heart was offering, as gently she breathed her life away. A few months later Mr. Allen became a wanderer in many lands. Do you ever sigh and disquiet your heart, Christian pilgrim, because God has not given you wealth and worldly ease? Remember the words of One who never gave a needless caution nor spoke an untruthful word—“How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven!” It is a dangerous step indeed for a young heart to form a life-long union with one who is a stranger to its hopes of heaven. “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers,” is a command which may not be lightly broken. Where all of this world, and very probably the world to come, are at stake the cost should be well counted. “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” Even the most devoted affection the world can bestow will be no substitute for God’s loving favor. “What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” SHE IS UNKIND TO HER MOTHER.
“My son,” said an aged father to his promising boy, as he discovered his increasing interest in the daughter of his neighbor,—“Weigh well this matter. I am an old man, and have not been an idle observer of the human family during my long life. One misstep taken now may ruin your prospects of happiness for this life; or so mar it as to render life almost undesirable. Many young men have made shipwreck of their peace by unadvisedly and injudiciously contracting an alliance of matrimony with women of bad dispositions.” “Why, father,” interrupted Charles, “you are putting me quite aback by speculating in so serious a manner, upon what I thought so agreeable a subject, as to excite my apprehensions and awaken my fears. I have not designedly kept anything secret from you; my visits to neighbor B.’s have all been known, and never disapproved of to my knowledge.” “No, my son,” continued the father, “you have not acted covertly or unfilially in this matter. This gives me404increasing confidence in you. I have noticed, and with pain too, your oft-repeated visits to Mr. B.’s, and have as often desired to caution you, but have been waiting a suitable opportunity. The best evidence, I think, a father can give to his son of his love, and his confidence in him, is the plainness and candor with which he makes known to him his mind upon all subjects. To be honest, then, you must allow me to say that you are mistaken in Miss B.’s worthiness of your affections. She is not the young lady your imagination has painted. I am sure that you would not, upon this or any other subject, act in direct opposition to sentiments you have habitually expressed.” “Why, father,” exclaimed Charles, “you seem more and more serious.” “Have I not, my son, again and again heard you say that you would not marry any young lady who was unkind to her mother, or who was disrespectful to her?” “Yes, father,” hastily answered Charles, “those are my sentiments, and always will be; but I was not aware that there could be any application of them in the present case. Miss B. has always appeared exceedingly mild and pleasant when in my company, and405always treated her mother, for aught I knew, with propriety.” “Ah, my son, your affection has thrown a mantle over her conduct. She has wounded her own mother’s feelings in the presence of us all. Old people look at these things dispassionately. Your mother and myself have often spoken, when alone, of Miss B.’s unkind treatment of her mother. We have seen her give her mother such glances, and heard her make such tart answers, when she was not suited, as to cause our hearts to ache. Miss B. has too much sense, and values our esteem too much to come right out before us, and tell her mother to ‘hold her tongue;’ or that ‘she does not know what she is talking about;’ and such like. But her natural good sense had not power enough over her bad natural disposition to suppress those glances, those intonations of voice, and those short answers which her too sensitive mother understood.” “But, father, Mary has much to contend with. Her mother, you know, is not the most intelligent woman in the world; and sometimes things occur very mortifying to Mary. She having been sent abroad, and becoming educated in a very superior manner,406finds it sometimes a very difficult task to put up with her mother’s lack of modern improvements.” “That argument, Charles,” rejoined the father, “if of any weight, goes directly against Miss B., because she should be the more tender and forbearing, kind and respectful to her mother, so as to hide, if possible, her imperfections. It is a hard case, my son, that a daughter, because she has had superior advantages, and become more accomplished than her mother, should set herself above her. In those very advantages and accomplishments should be laid the basis of heartfelt gratitude, respect and affection. What! treat her own mother with unkindness and neglect in company, especially before those in whose eyes she should endeavor to exalt her? Who was it, Charles, that watched over Mary from her earliest infancy, bore with the fretfulness and troublesomeness of her early childhood? Who was it that guarded her health, watched over her by day and by night, and often again, with maternal tenderness and anxiety, listened whether she breathed in health? Who was it that wept when Mary’s skin was hot, her407breath feverish, and her pulse quick and hard? Who was it that bathed her temples, prepared for her every little delicacy, and hung over her as an angel ministering to her wants? Whose eyes were those that beamed with delight as Mary gradually arose from her sick bed, and became restored to health? And last, though not the least, who was it that bowed with Mary at the throne of grace, when her little lips could scarcely articulate, and taught her to lisp the name of Jesus? Was it not her own mother? The same mother she can now treat with neglect and unkindness. Beware, my son! We know Miss B. is unquestionably a young lady of fine talents, and superior education. She has a fine, commanding person. She is of a highly respectable genteel family. All these things are desirable. But she lacks one thing, an amiable disposition—she is unkind to her mother; and my experience has always taught me that an unkind daughter habitually makes an unkind wife.”