Books: The Home Mission
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T.S. Arthur >> The Home Mission
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"No parent should lay down a law not right in itself; nor one
obedience to which was not good for the child."
"But it is very hard to do this. We have not the wisdom of Solomon.
Every day, nay, almost every hour, we err in judgment; and
especially in a matter so little understood as the management of
children."
"Better, then, have very few laws, and them of the clearest kind.
But, having them, implicit obedience should be exacted. At least,
that is my rule."
"And you punish for every infraction?"
"Certainly. But, I am always sure that the child is fully aware of
his fault, and let my punishment be graduated according to the
wilfulness of the act."
"And you do this coolly?"
"Oh, yes. I never punish a child while I am excited with a feeling
of indignation for the offence."
"If I waited for that to pass off, I could never punish one of my
children."
"Do you find, under this system, that your children are growing up
orderly and obedient?"
"No, indeed! Of course I do not. Who ever heard of orderly and
obedient children? In fact, who would wish their children to be mere
automatons? I am sure I would not. They are, by nature, restless,
and impatient of control. It will not do to break down their young
spirits. As for punishments, I don't believe much in them, any how.
I have an idea that the less they are brought into requisition the
better. They harden children. Kindness, long suffering, and
forbearance will accomplish a great deal more, and in the end be
better for the child."
At this moment a little fellow came sliding into the parlour, with a
look that said plainly enough, "I know you don't want me here."
"Run out, Charley, dear," said Mrs. Stanley, in a mild voice.
But Charley did not seem to notice his mother's words, for he
continued advancing toward her, until he was by her side, when he
paused and looked the visiter steadily in the face.
"Charley, you must run out, my dear," said Mrs. Stanley, in a firmer
and more decided voice.
But Charley only leaned heavily against his mother, not heeding in
the smallest degree her words. Knowing how impossible it would be to
get the child out of the room, without a resort to violence, Mrs.
Stanley said no more to him, but continued the conversation with her
friend. She had only spoken a few words, however, before Charley
interrupted her by saying--
"Mother!--Mother!--Give me a piece of cake."
"No, my son. You have had cake enough this afternoon," replied Mrs.
Stanley.
"Oh yes, do, mother, give me a piece of cake."
"It will make you sick, Charley."
"No, it won't. Please give me some."
"I had rather not."
"Yes, mother. Oh do! I want a piece of cake."
"Go 'way, Charles, and don't tease me."
There was a slight expression of impatience in the mother's voice.
The child ceased his importunities for a few moments, but just as
Mrs. Stanley had commenced a sentence, intended to embody some wise
saying in regard to the management of children, the little boy broke
in upon her with--
"I say, mother, give me a piece of cake, won't you?" in quite a loud
voice.
Mrs. Stanley felt irritated by this importunity, but she governed
herself. Satisfied that there would be no peace unless the cake were
forthcoming, she said, looking affectionately at the child:
"Poor little fellow! I suppose he does feel hungry. I don't think
another piece of cake will hurt him. Excuse me a moment, Mrs.
Noland."
The cake was obtained by Charley in the very way he had, hundreds of
times before, accomplished his purpose, that is, by teasing it out
of his mother. For the next ten minutes the friends conversed,
unmolested. At the end of that time Charley again made his
appearance.
"Go up into the nursery, and stay with Ellen," said Mrs. Stanley.
The child took no notice, whatever, of this direction, but walked
steadily up to where his mother was sitting, saying, as he paused by
her side--
"I want another piece of cake."
"Not any more, my son."
"Yes, mother. Give me some more."
"No." This was spoken in a very positive way. Charley began to beg
in a whining tone, which, not producing the desired effect, soon
rose into a well-defined cry.
"I declare! I never saw such a hungry set as my children are. They
will eat constantly from morning until night." Mrs. Stanley did not
say this in the most amiable tone of voice.
"Mother! I want a piece of cake," cried Charley.
"I'll give you one little piece more; but, remember, that it will be
the last; so don't ask me again."
Charley stopped crying at once. Mrs. Stanley went out with him. As
soon as she was far enough from the parlour not to be heard, she
took Charley by the shoulders, and giving him a violent shake,
said--
"You little rebel, you! If you come into the parlour again, I'll
skin you!"
The cake was given. Charley cared about as much for the threat as he
did for the shaking. He had gained his end.
"I pray daily for patience to bear with my children," said Mrs.
Stanley, on returning to the parlour. "They try us severely."
"That they do," replied Mrs. Noland. "But it is in our power, by
firmness, consistency, and kindness, to render our tasks
comparatively light."
"Perhaps so. I try to be firm, and consistent, and kind with my
children; to exercise toward them constant forbearance; but, after
all, it is very hard to know exactly how to govern them."
"Mother, can't I go over into the square?" asked Emma, looking into
the parlour just at this time. She was a little girl about eight
years old.
"I would rather not have you go, my dear," returned Mrs. Stanley.
"Oh yes, mother, do let me go," urged Emma.
"Ellen can't go with you now; and I do not wish you to go alone."
"I can go well enough, mother."
"Well, run along then, you intolerable little tease, you!"
Emma scampered away, and Mrs. Stanley remarked--
"That is the way. They gain their ends by importunity."
"But should you allow that, my friend?"
"There was no particular reason why Emma should not go to the
square. I didn't think, at first, when I said I would rather not
have her go, or I would have said 'yes' at once. It is so difficult
to decide upon children's requests on the spur of the moment."
"But after you had said that you did not want her to go to the
square, would it not have been better to have made her abide by your
wishes?"
"I don't think it would have been right for me to have deprived the
child of the pleasure of playing in the square, from the mere pride
of consistency. I was wrong in objecting at first--to have adhered
to my objection would have been still a greater wrong;--don't you
think so?"
"I do not," returned Mrs. Noland. "I know of no greater evil in a
family, than for the children to discover that their parents
vacillate in any matter regarding them. A denial once made to any
request should be positive, even if, in a moment after, it be seen
to have been made without sufficient reason."
"I cannot agree with you. Justice, I hold, to be paramount in all
things. We should never wrong a child."
The third appearance of Charley again broke in upon the
conversation.
"Give me another piece of cake, mother."
"What! Didn't I tell you that there was no more for you? No! you
cannot have another morsel."
"I want some more cake," whined the child.
"Not a crumb more, sir."
The whine rose into a cry.
"Go up stairs, sir."
Charley did not move.
"Go this instant."
"Give me some cake."
"No."
The cry swelled into a loud bawl.
Mrs. Stanley became excessively annoyed. "I never saw such
persevering children in my life," said she, impatiently. "They don't
regard what I say any more than if I had not spoken. Charles! Go out
of the parlour this moment!"
The tone in which this was uttered the child understood. He left the
parlour slowly, but continued to cry at the top of his voice. The
parlour bell was rung, and Ellen the nurse appeared.
"Do, Ellen, give that boy another piece of cake! There is no other
way to keep him quiet."
In about three minutes after this direction had been given, all was
still again. Mrs. Stanley now changed the topic of conversation. Her
manner was not quite so cheerful as before. The conduct of Charley
had worried and mortified her.
The last piece of cake had not been really wanted. Charley asked for
it because a spirit of opposition had been aroused, but he had no
appetite to eat it. It was crumbled about the floor and wasted. His
mother had peace for the next hour. After that she went into the
kitchen to give directions, and make some preparations for tea.
Charley was by her side.
"Ellen, take this child out," said she.
Ellen took hold of Charley's arm.
"No!--no!--Go 'way, Ellen!" he screamed.
"There!--there!--never mind. Let him stay," said the mother.
A jar of preserved fruit was brought forth.
"Give me some?" asked Charley.
"No, not now. You will get some at the table."
"I want some now. Give me some now."
A spoonful of the preserves was put into a saucer, and given to the
child.
"Give me some more," said he, holding up his saucer in about half a
minute.
"No. Wait until tea is ready."
"Give me some sweetmeats. I want more, mother!"
"I tell you, no."
A loud bawl followed.
"I declare this child will worry me to death!" exclaimed the mother,
her mind all in confusion, lading out a large spoonful of the fruit,
and putting it into his saucer.
When this was eaten, still more was demanded, and peremptorily
refused. Crying was resorted to, but without effect, though it was
loud and deafening. Finding this unsuccessful, the spoiled urchin
determined to help himself. As soon as his mother's back was turned,
he clambered up to the table and seized the jar containing the
preserves. In pulling it over far enough to get his spoon into it,
the balance of the jar was destroyed, and over it went, rolling off
upon the floor, and breaking with a loud crash. At the moment this
occurred, Mrs. Stanley entered the room. Her patience, that had been
severely tried, was now completely overthrown. She was angry enough
to punish her child, and feel a delight in doing so. Seizing him by
one arm, she lifted him from the floor, as if he had been but a
feather, and hurried with him up to her chamber. There she whipped
him unmercifully, and then put him to bed. He continued to cry after
she had done so, when she commanded him to stop in a voice that he
dared not disobey. An hour afterward, when much cooled down, she
passed through the chamber. She looked down upon her little boy with
a feeling of repentance for her anger and the severity of her
punishment. This feeling was in no way mitigated on hearing the
child sob in his sleep. The mother felt very unhappy.
So much for Mrs. Stanley--so much for her tenderness of feeling--so
much for her warm-blooded system. Its effects need not be exposed
further. Its folly need not be set in any plainer light.
Some weeks afterward she was spending an afternoon with Mrs. Noland.
Her favourite topic was the management of children, and she
introduced it as usual, inveighing as was her wont against the
cruelty of punishing children--especially in cold blood, as she
called it. For her part, she never punished except in extreme cases,
and not then, unless provoked to do so. Unless she felt angry, and
punished on the spur of the moment, she could not do it at all.
During the conversation, which was led pretty much by Mrs. Stanley,
a child, about the age of Charley, came into the parlour. He walked
up to his mother and whispered some request in her ear.
"Oh no, Master Harry!" was the smiling, but decided reply.
The child lingered with a look of disappointment. At length he came
up, and kissing his mother, asked again, in a sweet, earnest way,
for what he had been at first denied.
"After I said no!" And Mrs. Noland looked gravely into his face.
Tears came into Henry's eyes. But he said no more. In a moment or
two he silently left the room.
"Mrs. Noland! How could you resist that dear little fellow? I
declare it was right down cruel in you."
The eyes of Mrs. Stanley glistened as she spoke.
"It would have been far more cruel to him if I had yielded, after
once having said 'no'--far more cruel had I given him what I knew
would have injured him."
"But, I don't see how you could refuse so dear a child, when he
asked you in such a sweet, affectionate manner. I should have given
him any thing in the world he had asked for."
"That's not my way. I say 'no' only when I have good reason, and
then I never change."
"Never?"
"Never."
Henry appeared at the parlour door again.
"Come in, dear," said Mrs. Noland.
The child came quickly forward, put up his mouth to kiss her, and
then nestled closely by his mother's side. The conversation
continued, without the slightest interruption from him.
"Dear little fellow," said Mrs. Stanley, once or twice, looking into
the child's face, and smoothing his hair with her hand.
When the tea bell rung, the family assembled in the dining-room. A
visiter made it necessary that one of the children should wait.
Henry was by the table as usual.
"Harry, dear," said his mother, "you will have to wait and come with
Ellen."
The child felt very much disappointed. He looked up into his
mother's face for a moment, and then, without a word, went out of
the room.
"Poor little fellow! It is really a pity to make him wait; and he is
so good," said Mrs. Stanley. "I am sure we can make room for him. Do
call him back, and let him sit by me."
And she moved close to one of the older children as she spoke. "Here
is plenty of room."
Mrs. Noland thought for a moment, and then told the waiter to call
Henry back. The child came in as quietly as he had gone out, and
came up to his mother's side.
"My dear," said Mrs. Noland, "this good lady here has made room for
you by her side. You can go and sit by her."
The child's face brightened. He went quickly and took the offered
seat. By the time tea was over, Henry had fallen asleep in his
chair. Mrs. Noland, when all arose from the table, took Henry in her
arms, and went with him, accompanied by Mrs. Stanley, to her
chamber, where she undressed him, and kissing fondly his bright
young cheek, laid him in his little bed.
Mrs. Stanley stood for some moments over the sleeping child, and
looked down upon his calm face. As she did so, she remembered her
own little Charley, and under what different circumstances and
feelings he had been put to bed on the evening of Mrs. Noland's
visit to her.
Whether the contrast did her any good, we have no means of knowing.
We trust the lesson was not without its good effect upon her.
THE EVENING PRAYER.
"Our Father."
"OUR Father." The mother's voice was low, and tender, and solemn.
"Our Father." On two sweet voices the words were borne upward. It
was the innocence of reverent childhood that gave them utterance.
"Who art in the heavens."
"Who art in the heavens," repeated the children, one with her eyes
bent meekly down, and the other looking upward, as if she would
penetrate the heavens into which her heart aspired.
"Hallowed be Thy name."
Lower fell the voices of the little ones. In a gentle murmur they
said: "Hallowed be Thy name."
"Thy kingdom come."
And the burden of the prayer was still taken up by the
children--"Thy kingdom come."
"Thy will be done on earth, as it is done in heaven."
Like a low, sweet echo from the land of angels--"Thy will be done on
earth, as it is done in heaven," filled the chamber.
And the mother continued--"Give us this day our daily bread."
"Our daily bread" lingered a moment on the air, as the mother's
voice was hushed into silence.
"And forgive us our debts, as we also forgive our debtors."
The eyes of the children had drooped for a moment. But they were
uplifted again as they prayed--"And forgive us our debts, as we also
forgive our debtors."
"And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. For
Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen."
All these holy words were said, piously and fervently, by the little
ones, as they knelt with clasped hands beside their mother. Then, as
their thoughts, uplifted on the wings of prayer to their heavenly
Father, came back again and rested on their earthly parents, a
warmer love came gushing from their hearts.
Pure kisses--tender embraces--the fond "good night." What a sweet
agitation pervaded all their feelings! Then two dear heads were
placed side by side on the snowy pillow, the mother's last kiss
given, and the shadowy curtains drawn.
What a pulseless stillness reigns throughout the chamber! Inwardly
the parents' listening ears are bent. They have given these innocent
ones into the keeping of God's angels, and they can almost hear the
rustle of their garments as they gather around their sleeping babes.
A sigh, deep and tremulous, breaks on the air. Quickly the mother
turns to the father of her children, with a look of earnest inquiry
on her countenance. And he answers thus her silent question.
"Far back, through many years, have my thoughts been wandering. At
my mother's knee thus said I nightly, in childhood, my evening
prayer. It was that best and holiest of all prayers, "Our Father,"
that she taught me. Childhood and my mother passed away. I went
forth as a man into the world, strong, confident, and self-seeking.
Once I came into great temptation. Had I fallen in that temptation,
I would have fallen, I sadly fear, never to have risen again. The
struggle in my mind went on for hours. I was about yielding. All the
barriers I could oppose to the in-rushing flood seemed just ready to
give way, when, as I sat in my room one evening, there came from an
adjoining chamber, now first occupied for many weeks, the murmur of
low voices. I listened. At first, no articulate sound was heard, and
yet something in the tones stirred my heart with new and strange
emotions. At length, there came to my ears, in the earnest, loving
voice of a woman, the words--'Deliver us from evil.' For an instant,
it seemed to me as if the voice were that of my mother. Back, with a
sudden bound through all the intervening years, went my thoughts;
and, a child in heart again, I was kneeling at my mother's knee.
Humbly and reverently I said over the words of the holy prayer she
had taught me, heart and eyes uplifted to heaven. The hour and the
power of darkness had passed. I was no longer standing in slippery
places, with a flood of waters ready to sweep me to destruction; but
my feet were on a rock. My mother's pious care had saved her son. In
the holy words she taught me in childhood, was a living power to
resist evil through all my after life. Ah! that unknown mother, as
she taught her child to repeat his evening prayer, how little
dreamed she that the holy words were to reach a stranger's ears, and
save him through memories of his own childhood and his own mother!
And yet it was so. What a power there is in God's Word, as it flows
into and rests in the minds of innocent children!"
Tears were in the eyes of the wife and mother as she lifted her
face, and gazed with a subdued tenderness upon the countenance of
her husband. Her heart was too full for utterance. A little while
she thus gazed, and then, with a trembling joy, laid her head upon
his bosom. Angels were in the chamber where their dear ones slept,
and they felt their holy presence.
A PEEVISH DAY, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
"IT is too bad, Rachael, to put me to all this trouble; and you know
I can hardly hold up my head!"
Thus spoke Mrs. Smith, in a peevish voice, to a quiet-looking
domestic, who had been called up from the kitchen to supply some
unimportant omission in the breakfast-table arrangement.
Rachael looked hurt and rebuked, but made no reply.
"How could you speak in that way to Rachael?" said Mr. Smith, as
soon as the domestic had withdrawn.
"If you felt just as I do, Mr. Smith, you would speak cross too!"
Mrs. Smith replied a little warmly. "I feel just like a rag; and my
head aches as if it would burst."
"I know you feel badly, and I am very sorry for you. But still, I
suppose it is as easy to speak kindly as harshly. Rachael is very
obliging and attentive, and should be borne with in occasional
omissions, which you of course know are not wilful."
"It is easy enough to preach," retorted Mrs. Smith, whose temper,
from bodily lassitude and pain, was in quite an irritable state. The
reader will understand at least one of the reasons of this, when he
is told that the scene here presented occurred during the last
oppressive week in August.
Mr. Smith said no more. He saw that to do so would only be to
provoke instead of quieting his wife's ill-humour. The morning meal
went by in silence, but little food passing the lips of either. How
could it, when the thermometer was ninety-four at eight o'clock in
the morning, and the leaves upon the trees were as motionless as if
suspended in a vacuum? Bodies and minds were relaxed--and the one
turned from food, as the other did from thought, with an instinctive
aversion.
After Mr. Smith had left his home for his place of business, Mrs.
Smith went up into her chamber, and threw herself upon the bed, her
head still continuing to ache with great violence. It so happened
that a week before, the chambermaid had gone away, sick, and all the
duties of the household had in consequence devolved upon Rachael,
herself not very well. Cheerfully, however, had she endeavoured to
discharge these accumulated duties, and but for the unhappy, peevish
state of mind in which Mrs. Smith indulged, would have discharged
them without a murmuring thought. But, as she was a faithful,
conscientious woman, and, withal, sensitive in her feelings, to be
found fault with worried her exceedingly. Of this Mrs. Smith was
well aware, and had, until the latter part of the trying month of
August, acted toward Rachael with consideration and forbearance. But
the last week of August was too much for her. The sickness of the
chambermaid threw such heavy duties upon Rachael, whose daily
headaches and nervous relaxation of body were borne without a
complaint, that their perfect performance was almost impossible.
Slight omissions, which were next to unavoidable under the
circumstances, became so annoying to Mrs. Smith, herself, as it has
been seen, labouring under great bodily and mental prostration, that
she could not bear them.
"She knows better, and she could do better, if she chose," was her
rather uncharitable comment often inwardly made on the occurrence of
some new trouble.
After Mr. Smith had taken his departure on the morning just referred
to, Mrs. Smith went up into her chamber, as has been seen, and threw
herself languidly upon a bed, pressing her hands to her throbbing
temples, as she did so, and murmuring,
"I can't live at this rate!"
At the same time, Rachael set down in the kitchen the large waiter
upon which she had arranged the dishes from the breakfast-table, and
then sinking into a chair, pressed one hand upon her forehead, and
sat for more than a minute in troubled silence. It had been three
days since she had received from Mrs. Smith a pleasant word; and the
last remark, made to her a short time before, had been the unkindest
of all. At another time, even all this would not have moved her--she
could have perceived that Mrs. S. was not in a right state--that
lassitude of body had produced a temporary infirmity of mind. But,
being herself affected by the oppressive season almost as much as
her mistress, she could not make these allowances. While still
seated, the chamber-bell was rung with a quick, startling jerk.
"What next?" peevishly ejaculated Rachael, and then slowly proceeded
to obey the summons.
"How could you leave my chamber in such a condition as this?" was
the salutation that met her ear, as she entered the presence of Mrs.
Smith, who, half raised upon the bed, and leaning upon her hand,
looked the very personification of languor, peevishness, and
ill-humour. "You had plenty of time while we were eating breakfast
to have put things a little to rights!"
To this Rachael made no reply, but turned away and went back into
the kitchen. She had scarcely reached that spot, before the bell
rang again, louder and quicker than before; but she did not answer
it. In about three minutes it was jerked with an energy that snapped
the wire, but Rachael was immovable. Five minutes elapsed, and then
Mrs. Smith, fully aroused from the lethargy that had stolen over
her, came down with a quick, firm step.
"What's the reason you didn't answer my bell? say!" she asked, in an
excited voice.
Rachael did not reply.
"Do you hear me?"
Rachael had never been so treated before; she had lived with Mrs.
Smith for three years, and had rarely been found fault with. She had
been too strict in regard to the performance of her duty to leave
much room for even a more exacting mistress to find fault; but now,
to be overtasked and sick, and to be chidden, rebuked, and even
angrily assailed, was more than she could well bear. She did not
suffer herself to speak for some moments, and then her voice
trembled, and the tears came out upon her cheeks.
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