Mrs. Whittelsey's Magazine for Mothers and Daughters

A WORD OF EXHORTATION

Sensible of our accountability to God, of our entire dependence upon his blessing for success in all our undertakings, knowing that of ourselves we can do nothing, but believing that through Christ strengthening us we may accomplish something in his service, we enter upon the duties of another year—the twentieth year of our editorial labors.

With language similar to that which the mother of Moses is supposed to have employed when she laid her tender offspring by the margin of the Nile:—

we launched our frail bark upon the tide of public opinion. Since then, with varied success, have we pursued our course—often amid darkness, through difficulties and dangers, and to the present time have we been wafted in safety on our voyage, because, as he did Moses in the ark, "the Lord hath shut us in."

Referring whatever of success has attended our efforts to His blessing, and believing that He has given us length of days, and strengthened our weakness, and poured consolation into our hearts when ready to sink in despair, in answer to persevering and importunate prayer, we come to direct our readers to this source of wisdom and aid,—to urge upon them to engage often in this first duty and highest privilege. Let us go forth, dear friends, to the work we have to do in the education of our families, having invoked the Divine blessing upon our efforts, holding on to the promises of the covenant, and pleading for their fulfillment in reference to ourselves and our households.

As Mrs. H. More has beautifully said: "Prayer draws all the Christian graces into her focus. It draws Charity, followed by her lovely train—her forbearance with faults—her forgiveness of injuries—her pity for errors—her compassion for want. It draws Repentance, with her holy sorrows—her pious resolutions—her self-distrust. It attracts Truth, with her elevated eyes; Hope, with her gospel anchor; Beneficence, with her open hand; Zeal, looking far and wide; Humility, with introverted eye, looking at home."

And who need these graces more than parents, in the government and training of those committed to their charge? Could our Savior rise a great while before day,—forego the pleasures of social intercourse with his beloved disciples, and retiring to the mountains, offer up prayers with strong crying and tears, unto Him who was able to save from death in that he feared, and shall we, intrusted with the immortal destinies of our beloved offspring, refuse to follow his example, and pleading want of time and opportunity for this service, be guilty of unbelief, of indolence, and worldly-mindedness?

You labor in vain, dear readers, unless the arm of the Almighty shall be extended in your behalf, and you cannot receive the blessing except you ask it. Let then your supplications be addressed to your Father in heaven;—pray humbly, believingly, perseveringly, for wisdom and aid, then may you expect to be blessed. So important is this duty, and so much is it neglected, that we could not forbear to urge your attention thereto, ere we entered upon another year.

And will not our Christian friends remember us in their prayers, asking that we may be directed in what we shall say and do this present year, in the work in which we are engaged? And if God shall answer our united petitions, we shall not labor in vain.

TO FATHERS

How gladly would the writer gain (were it possible) the ear of every father in the land, if it were but for the short space of one quarter of an hour,—nay, some ten minutes, at a propitious time,—such a time as, perhaps, occasionally occurs, when business cases are not pressing, when the mind is at ease, and the heart has ceased its worldly throbbings. He wants such a quarter of an hour, if it ever exists.

"And for what?" That he may have an opportunity to propose some worldly scheme,—some plan which has reference to the probable accumulation of hundreds of thousands? Nothing of the kind. Fathers at the present day generally need no suggestions of this sort—no impulses from me in that direction. They are already so absorbed, that it is difficult to gain their attention to any matters which do not concern the line of business in which they are engaged.

Look for a moment at that busy, bustling man; you see him walking down Broadway this morning; it is early, quite early. May be he is calling a physician, or is on some visit to a sick friend. He walks so fast; and though early, there is something on his brow which indicates care and anxiety. And yet I think no one of his family is sick, nor do I know of any of his friends who are sick. I have seen that man out thus early so often, and hurrying at just that pace, that I suspect, after all, he is on his way to his place of business. That, doubtless, is the whole secret. He is engaged in a large mercantile concern. It seems to require—at least it takes—all his attention. He is absorbed in it. And, if you repair to his store or office at any hour of the day, you can scarcely see him,—not at all,—unless it be on some errand connected with his business, or with the business of some office he holds, and which must be attended to; and even in these matters you will find him restless. He attends to you so far as to hear your errand; and what then? Why, if it will require any length of time, he says: "I am very busy at this moment, I can't possibly attend to it to-day; will you call to-morrow? I may then have more leisure." Well, you agree for to-morrow. "Please name the hour," you say. He replies—"I can't name any hour; but call, say after twelve o'clock, and I will catch a moment, if I can, to talk over the business."

Now, that merchant is not to blame for putting you off. His business calls are so many and so complex, that he scarcely knows which way to turn, nor what calculations to make. The real difficulty is, he has undertaken too much; his plans are too vast; his "irons," as they say, are too many.

This is the morning aspect of affairs. Watch that merchant during the day,—will you find things essentially different? The morning, which is dark and cloudy and foggy, is sometimes followed by a clear, bright, beautiful day. The mists at length clear off, the clouds roll away, and a glorious sun shines out broadly to gladden the face of all nature. Not so with the modern man of business. It is labor, whirl, toil, all the day, from the hour of breakfast till night puts an end to the active, hurrying concerns of all men. There is no bright, cheerful, peaceful day to him. Scarcely has he time to eat—never to enjoy his dinner,—that must be finished in the shortest possible time: often at some restaurant, rather than with his family. Not one member of that does he see from the time he leaves the breakfast table till night, dark night has stretched out her curtain over all things.

Let us go home with him, and see how the evening passes.

His residence, from his place of business, perchance, is a mile or two distant—may be some fifteen or twenty, in which latter case he takes the evening train of cars. In either case he arrives home only at the setting in of the evening shades. How pleasant the release from the noise and confusion of the city! or, if he resides within the city, how pleasant in shutting his door, as he enters his dwelling, to shut out the thoughts and cares of business! His tea is soon ready, and for a little time he gives himself up to the comforts of home. His wife welcomes him, his children may be hanging upon him, and he realizes something of the joys of domestic life!

Scarcely, however, is supper ended, before it occurs to him that there is a meeting of such a committee, or such an insurance company, to which he belongs, and the hour is at hand, and he must go. And he hies away, and in some business on hand he becomes absorbed till the hours of nine, ten, or eleven, possibly twelve o'clock. He returns again to his home, wearied with the toils of the day,—his wife possibly, but certainly his children, have retired,—and he lays his aching head upon his pillow to catch some few hours of rest, and with the morning light to go through essentially the same busy routine, the same absorbing care, the same wearing, weary process.

This is an outline of the life which thousands of fathers are leading in this country at this present time. We do not pretend that it is true of all,—but is it not substantially true, as we have said, of thousands? And not only of thousands in our crowded marts of commerce, but in our principal towns—nay, even in our rural districts. It is an age of impulse. Every thing is proceeding with railroad speed. Every branch of business is urged forward with all practical earnestness. Every sail is set—main-sail, top-sails, star-gazers, heaven-disturbers—all expanded to catch the breeze, and urge the vessel to her destined port.

This thirst for gain! this panting after fortune! this competition in the race for worldly wealth, or honor, where is it leading the present generation—where?

To men who have families—to fathers, who see around them children just emerging from childhood into youth, or verging toward manhood,—this is and should be a subject of the deepest interest.

Fathers! am I wrong when I say you are neglecting your offspring? Neglecting them? do I hear you respond with surprise;—"Am I not daily, hourly stretching every nerve and tasking every power to provide for them, to insure them the means of an honorable appearance in that rank of society in which they were born, and in which they must move? In these days of competition, who sees not that any relaxation involves and necessarily secures bankruptcy and ruin?"

I hear you, and you urge strongly, powerfully your cause. You must, indeed, provide for your household. You must be diligent in business. You may—you ought in some good measure, to keep up with the spirit, the progress of the age. But has it occurred to you that there is danger in doing as you do; that you will neglect some other interests of your children as important, to say the least, as those you have named? Are not your children immortal? Have they not souls of priceless value? Have they not tendencies to evil from the early dawn of their being? And must not these souls be instructed—watched over? Do they not need counsel—warning—restraint? "O yes!" I hear you say, "they must be instructed—restrained—guided—all that, but this is the appropriate business and duty of their mother. I leave all these to her. I have no leisure for such cares myself; my business compels me to leave in charge all these matters to her."

And where, my friend—if I may speak plainly—do you find any warrant in the Word of God for such assumptions as these? Leave all the care of your children's moral and religious instruction, guidance, restraint, to their mother! It is indeed her duty, and in most cases she finds it her pleasure, to watch over her beloved ones. And in the morning of their being, and in the first years of their childhood, it is hers to watch over them, to cherish them, and to bring out and direct the first dawnings of their moral and intellectual being.

But beyond this the duties of father and mother are coincident. At a certain point your responsibilities touching the training of your children blend. I find nothing in the Word of God which separates fathers and mothers in relation to bringing up their children in the ways of virtue and obedience to God.

I know what fathers plead. I see the difficulties which often lie in their path. I am aware of the competition which marks every industrial pursuit in the land. And many men who wish it were different, who would love to be more with their families, who would delight to aid in instructing their little ones, find it, they think, quite impossible so to alter their business—so to cast off pressure and care, as to give due attention to the moral and religious training of their children.

But, fathers, might you not do better than you do? Suppose you should make the effort to have an hour each day to aid your wife in giving a right moral direction to your little ones? How you would encourage her! What an impulse would you give to her efforts! Now, how often has she a burden imposed upon her, which she is unable to bear! What uneasiness and worry—what care and trouble are caused her, by having, in this matter of training the children, to go on single-handed! whereas, were your parental authority added to her maternal tenderness, your children would prove the joy of your hearts and the comfort of your declining years. But as you manage—or rather as you neglect to manage them, a hundred chances to one if they do not prove your sorrow, when in years you are not able well to sustain it. Gather a lesson, my friend, from the conduct of David in respect to Absolom. He neglected him—he indulged him, and what was the consequence? The bright, beautiful, gifted Absolom planted thorns in his father's crown,—he attempted to dethrone him,—he was a fratricide,—he would have been a parricide: and what an end! Oh, what an end! Listen to the sorrowful outpourings of a fond, too fond, unfaithful parent: "My son, oh, my son Absolom,—would to God I had died for thee, oh, Absolom, my son, my son!"

Take another example, and may it prove a warning to such indulgence and such neglect! Eli had sons, and they grew up, and they walked in forbidden ways, and he restrained them not; yet he was a good man: but good men are sometimes most unfaithful fathers, and what can they expect? Shall we sin because grace abounds? Shall we neglect our children in expectation that the grace of God will intervene to rescue them in times of peril? That expectation were vain while we neglect our duty. That expectation is nearly or quite sure to be realized if duty be performed.

But I must insist no longer; I will only add, then, in a word,—that it were far, far better that your children should occupy a more humble station in life—that they should be dressed in fewer of the "silks of Ormus," and have less gold from the "mines of Ind," than to be neglected by a father in regard to their moral and religious training. Better leave them an interest in the Covenant than thousands of the treasures of the world. Your example, fathers,—your counsel—your prayers, are a better bequest than any you can leave them. Think of leaving them in a cold, rude, selfish world, without the grace of God to secure them, without his divine consolation to comfort. Think of the "voyage of awful length," you and they must "sail so soon." Think of the meeting in another world which lies before you and them, and say, Does the wide world afford that which could make amends for a separation—an eternal separation from these objects of your love?

FAULT-FINDING: ITS EFFECTS

"What in creation have you done! Careless boy, how could you be so heedless? You are forever cutting some such caper, on purpose to ruin me I believe. Now go to work, and earn the money to pay for it, will you? lazy fellow!"

Coarse and passionate exclamations these, and I am sorry to say they were uttered by Mr. Colman, who would be exceedingly indignant if any body should hint a suspicion that he was, or could be, other than a gentleman, and a Christian. His son, a bright and well-meaning lad of fourteen, had accidentally hit the end of a pretty new walking cane, which his favorite cousin had given him a few hours before, against a delicate china vase which stood upon the mantle-piece, and in a moment it lay in fragments at his feet. He was sadly frightened, and would have been very sorry too, but for the harsh and ill-timed reproof of his father, which checked the humble plea for forgiveness just rising to his lips, and as Mr. Colman left the room, put on his hat and coat in the hall, and closed the street door with more than usual force, to go to his store, the young lad's feelings were anything but dutiful. Just then his mother entered.

"Why James Colman! Did you do that? I declare you are the most careless boy I ever beheld! That beautiful pair of vases your father placed there New Year's morning, to give me a pleasant surprise. I would not have had it broken for twenty dollars."

"Mother, I just hit it accidentally with this little cane, and I'm sure I'm as sorry as I can be."

"And what business has your cane in the parlor, I beg to know? I'll take it, and you'll not see it again for the present, if this is the way you expect to use it. You deserve punishment for such carelessness, and I wish your father had chastised you severely." And taking the offending cane from his hand, she, too, left him to meditations, somewhat like the following:—

"'Tis too bad, I declare! If I had tried to do the very wickedest thing I possibly could, father and mother would not have scolded me worse. That dear little cane! I told Henry I would show it to him on my way to school, and now what shall I say about it? It's abominable—it's right down cruel to treat me so. When I had not intended to do the least thing wrong, only just as I was looking at the bottom of my cane, by the merest accident the head of it touched that little useless piece of crockery. I hate the sight of you," he added, touching the many colored and gilded fragments with the toe of his boot, as they lay before him, "and I hate father and mother, and every body else—and I'm tired of being scolded for nothing at all. Big boy as I am, they scold me for every little thing, just as they did when I was a little shaver like Eddy. What's the use? I won't bear it. I declare I won't much longer." And then followed reveries like others often indulged before, of being his own master, and doing as he pleased without father and mother always at hand to dictate, and find fault, and scold him so bitterly if he happened to make a little mistake. Other boys of his age had left home, and taken care of themselves, and he would too. "I am as good a scholar as any one in school, except Charles Harvey, and I am as strong as any boy I play with, and pity if I can't take care of myself. Home! Yes, to be sure it might be a dear good home, but father is so full of business, and anxious, and thinking all the time, he never speaks to one of us, unless it is to tell us to do something, or to find fault with what is done. And mother—fret, fret, fret, tired to death with the care of the children, and company, and servants, and societies, and every thing—it really seems as if she had lost all affection for us—me, at any rate, and I am sure I don't care for any body that scolds at me so, and the sooner I am out of the way the better. I am sure if father is trying to make money to leave me some of it, I'd a thousand times rather he'd give me pleasant words as we go along, than all the dollars I shall ever get—yes, indeed I had."

The above scene, I am sorry to say, is but a sample of what occurred weekly, and I fear I might say daily, or even hourly, to some member of the family of Mr. Colman, and yet Mr. and Mrs. Colman were very good sort of people—made a very respectable appearance in the world, regular at church with their children—ate symbolically of the body, and drank of the blood, of that loving Savior, who ever spake gently to the youthful and the erring—and meant to be, and really thought they were, the very best of parents. Their children were well cared for, mentally and physically. They were well fed, well clothed, attended the best schools—but as they advanced beyond the years of infancy, there was in each of them the sullen look, or the discouraged tone, the tart reply, or the vexing remark, which made them any thing but beloved by their companions, any thing but happy themselves. At home there was ever some scene of dispute, or unkindness, to call forth the stern look, or the harsh command of their parents—abroad, the mingled remains of vexation and self-reproach, caused by their own conduct or that of others, made them hard to be pleased—and so the cloud thickened about them, and with all outward means for being happy, loving and beloved, they were a wretched family. James, the eldest, was impetuous and self-willed, but affectionate, generous, and very fond of reading and study, and with gentle and judicious management, would have been the joy and pride of his family, with the domestic and literary tastes so invaluable to every youth, in our day, when temptations of every kind are so rife in our cities and larger towns, that scarcely is the most moral of our young men safe, except in the sanctuary of God, or the equally divinely appointed sanctuary of home. But under the influences we have sketched, he had already begun to spend all his leisure time at the stores, the railroad dépôts, wharves, engine-houses, and other places of resort for loiterers, where he saw much to encourage the reckless and disobedient spirit, which characterized his soliloquy above quoted. Little did his parents realize the effects of their own doings. Full of the busy cares of this hurrying life, they fancied all was going on well, nor were they aroused to his danger, until some time after the scene of the broken vase, above alluded to, when his more frequent and prolonged absence from home, at meal times, and until a late hour in the evening, caused a severe reprimand from his father. With a heart swelling with rage and vexation, James went to his room—but not to bed. The purpose so long cherished in his mind, of leaving parental rule and restraint, was at its height. He opened his closet and bureau, and deliberately selected changes of clothing which would be most useful to him, took the few dollars he had carefully gathered for some time past for this purpose, and made all the preparation he could for a long absence from the home, parents, and friends, where, but for ungoverned tempers and tongues, he might have been so useful, respected and happy. When he could think of no more to be done, he looked about him. How many proofs of his mother's careful attention to his wishes and his comfort, did his chamber afford! And his little brother, five years younger, so quietly sleeping in his comfortable bed! Dearly he loved that brother, and yet hardly a day passed, in which they did not vex, and irritate, and abuse each other. He was half tempted to lie down by his side, and give up all thoughts of leaving home. But no. How severe his father would look at breakfast, and his mother would say something harsh. "No. I'll quit, I declare I will—and then if their hearts ache, I shall be glad of it. Mine has ached, till it's as hard as a stone. No, I've often tried, and now I'll go. I won't be called to account, and scolded for staying out of the house, when there is no comfort to be found in it." And again rose before his mind many scenes of cold indifference or harshness from his parents, which had, as he said, hardened his heart to stone. "I'll bid good bye to the whole of it. Little Em,—darling little sister! I wish I could kiss her soft sweet cheek once more. But she grows fretful every day, and by the time she is three years old, she will snap and snarl like the rest of us. I'll be out of hearing of it any way." And he softly raised the window sash, and slipped upon the roof of a piazza, from which he had often jumped in sport with his brothers, and in a few moments was at the dépôt. Soon the night train arrived, and soon was James in one of our large cities—and inquiring for the wharf of a steamer about to sail for California; and when the next Sabbath sun rose upon the home of his youth, he was tossing rapidly over the waves of the wide, deep, trackless ocean, one moment longing to be again amid scenes so long dear and familiar, and the next writhing, as he thought of the anger of his father, the reproaches of his mother. On he went, often vexed at the services he was called to perform, in working his passage out, for which his previous habits had poorly prepared him. On went the stanch vessel, and in due time landed safely her precious freight of immortal beings at the desired haven—but some of them were to see little of that distant land, where they had fondly hoped to find treasure of precious gold, and with it happiness. The next arrival at New York brought a list of recent deaths. Seven of that ship's company, so full of health and buoyancy and earthly hopes, but a few short months before, were hurried by fevers to an untimely, a little expected grave. And on that fatal list, was read with agonized hearts in the home of his childhood, the name of their first-born—James Colman, aged sixteen.