GLEANINGS BY THE WAYSIDE. No. 3.
A river never rises higher than the source from whence it springs; so a character is never more elevated and consistent, in mature life, than the principles which were adopted in childhood were pure, reasonable, and consistent with truth: so a tree is either good or bad, and brings forth fruit after its own kind, though it be ever so stinted. If you find a crab-apple on a tree, you may be sure that the tree is a crab-tree. So one can predicate a pretty correct opinion of a person, as to character, disposition, and modes of thinking and acting, from a single isolated remark, incidentally made, or an act performed on the spur of the moment.
This I shall attempt to show by reference to two occurrences which took place in the case of a young husband and wife.
Joseph, the father of a young child, one day brought home "Abbott's Mother at Home," remarking to his wife, as he presented it, "Louise, I have been persuaded to buy this book, in the hope that it may aid us in the training of our little daughter."
Her quick and tart reply was—"I don't think I shall 'bring up' my child by a book."
It may be useful to learn under what peculiar circumstances this young wife and mother had herself been "brought up."
Certainly not, as a matter of course, in the country, where good books are comparatively difficult to be obtained, and (though every one has much to do) are usually highly prized, and read with avidity. Certainly not, as a matter of course, where there was a large family of children, and where all must share every thing in common, and where each must perform an allotted part in household duties, perhaps to eke out a scanty salary. Not in a farm-house, where the income will yield but a bare competency for the support of ten or twelve children. If there is a good and wise father and mother at the helm, it is under such conflicting circumstances that children are usually the most thoroughly and practically taught the great principles which should govern human society.
Louise was educated under very different circumstances. Her father's residence was the great metropolis. He was a very wealthy man, and he had the means of choosing any mode of education which he might prefer to adopt.
The mother of Louise was said to have been a noble-minded woman, but always in delicate health. She early dedicated this infant daughter to God, but died while she was quite young. Unfortunately, poor little Louise was for a few years left to the care of ignorant and selfish relatives, who intermeddled, and often in the child's hearing, with a significant nod of the head, would utter the piteous inuendo, "Who knows how soon the poor thing may have a step-mother!"
From this and similar ill-timed remarks, poor little Louise very early fostered an inveterate dislike to her father's ever marrying a second time.
But he did soon marry again. Instead of at once taking this cruel sliver out of the flesh, acting on the sublime principle, "Duty belongs to us; leave consequences with God," the father of Louise very injudiciously and selfishly fell in with this child's foolish and wicked notions, and in order, as he thought, to remunerate this darling child for her great trial, allowed her to live almost entirely abstracted from the family circle.
She was allowed to have a room entirely by herself, which was the largest and best in the house, and in all respects to maintain a separate interest. No one might interfere with this or that, for it belonged to Miss Louise.
Her father said, at any rate, she should not be annoyed by any participation in the care of the little ones, as she left no one in doubt of the fact, that above every thing she disliked children, and especially the care of them. Certainly, he said, they should not interfere in any way with her in acquiring a "liberal education." And thus she lost the sweet privilege of acting the honorable and useful part usually assigned to an "elder daughter," and an "elder sister."
To atone for her isolated and unfortunate situation—made unfortunate by the contracted and selfish views of this ill-judging father—her father made another mistake under the circumstances, for, instead of sending her to a good select school, where she would come in contact with children of her own age, and her intellectual powers might be sharpened by coming in contact with other minds, he procured for her private teachers, and she had not even the benefit of a good long walk to and from school in the open air.
Thus was this mere child, day after day, and hour after hour, confined to the piano, to her drawing and painting lessons, and her worsted work. She became a proficient in these external accomplishments, and was by some considered quite a prodigy—possessing a rare genius, which often means nothing more nor less than a distorted character.
Her health for a time was sadly undermined, and her nervous system was shattered by too close attention to pursuits which imposed too great a tax upon the visual organs, and too much abstraction from common objects.
Who would not rather see a young daughter—the merry, laughing companion of a group of girls—out after wild flowers, weaving them into garlands to crown the head of some favorite of the party, making up bouquets as a gift for mamma, or some favorite aunt—cutting paper into fantastic figures, and placing them upon the wall to please children, or dressing a doll for little sister? Who would not rather see their young daughter a jumping delicate little romp, chasing a bird in mirthful glee, as if she verily thought she could catch it?
How could this young wife and mother, so differently trained, be expected all at once to judge and act wisely and impartially about the grave matter of infant training—a subject she absolutely knew nothing about, having never contemplated it? What do parents think, or expect when their young daughters marry and become parents? Do they suppose that some magic spell will come over a girl of eighteen in going through the matrimonial ceremony, which shall induct her into all the mysteries of housewifery, and initiate her into the more intricate and important duty of training the infant, so as to give it a sound mind in a sound body, so that it shall possess a symmetrical character?
The father of Louise saw too late his mistake in allowing this daughter the great privilege, as he thought at the time, of having her own way in every thing.
If this were a proper place to give advice to young men on the grave subject of selecting a wife, we should say, "Never marry a young lady merely for her showy, outward accomplishments, which, ten chances to one, have been attained at the expense of more valuable and useful acquirements—perhaps at the sacrifice of the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price. Never select for a wife a young lady who dishonors her name and sex by the avowal that she dislikes children; that she even hates the care of them, and that she never could find pleasure in household duties. She could never love flowers, or find satisfaction in cultivating them."
A lovely infant is the most beautiful object of all God's handy works. "Flowers are more than beautiful;" they give us lessons of practical wisdom. So the Savior teaches us. If I did not love little children—if I did not love flowers—I would studiously hide the fact, even from myself, for then I could not respect myself.
But to return to the remark which Louise made to her husband, when he presented her with that good and useful book—a book which has elicited praise from many able writers, and called forth the gratitude of many wise and good parents.[D]
This remark was anything rather than a grateful acknowledgment to her husband for his thinking of her when absent; and it not only evinced a spirit of thoughtlessness and ingratitude to him, but manifested a remarkable share of self-sufficiency and self-complacency.
Just so it is with a head of wheat. When it is empty, it stands perfectly erect, and looks self-confident; but as soon as it is filled with the precious grain, it modestly bends its head, and waives most gracefully, as if to welcome every whispering breeze.
But was Louise wanting in affection and care to her own child? No; not in one sense, for she was foolishly fond of this little paragon of perfection. She one day said, boastingly, "My child has never been washed but with a fine cambric handkerchief, which is none too good for her soft flesh. Nothing can be too good for this precious darling, and while I live she shall never want for any indulgence I can procure for her."
It might be said, too, that Louise evinced a fondness for her husband; and she was proud of the attentions of a youth who was admired for his remarkable polish of manners; but she certainly had not at this time—whatever she might afterwards acquire—a warm and generous heart, free from selfish interests, to bestow upon any object on earth or in heaven.
Notwithstanding Joseph's elegant address and appearance, his character was in one respect vulnerable, as will be seen from a trivial act which I have yet to mention.
His mother was an occasional assistant in her son's family. He was her only son. She was in most respects a highly-educated woman, with no ordinary share of self-possession, having pleasing manners, unless it might be said that she evinced a kind of hauteur, which made her rather feared than loved. But it was apparent to every one that she was selfishly attached to this only son. Louise said one day to a friend—"I never had occasion to be jealous of Joseph's attentions to me, or of his affection for me, except when his mother was present."
No one could help noticing the greater deference this mother paid to her son, even when his father was present; and most fully did this son reciprocate his mother's respectful attachment. This love and reverence for his mother, on the part of this son, would have been right and beautiful if it had not been so exclusive.
In one of her visits in her son's family, when she was in feeble health, this son proposed to his mother, towards night, in the presence of Louise, but without conferring with her, that his mother should lodge in his broad bed, with Louise, in their well-heated nursery.
To this Louise objected, saying she would quickly have a fire made in the spare chamber, and there would be ample time to have it thoroughly heated; and if she did not choose to lodge alone, she would offer her a charming young lady to sleep in the room with her. The choice was again referred by Joseph to his mother. Louise now expostulated with her husband. She said, as she was not strong, she needed his assistance a part of the night, as usual, in the care of the infant. But still, without any regard for her feelings and her wishes to the contrary, Joseph insisted that his mother should make a choice; and, strange to say, she chose to lodge with Louise.
This unaccountable preference, unless it was because it was proffered by her son, it would seem, must have produced unhappiness and discomfort, on her part, on witnessing this daughter the livelong night restlessly turning from side to side, and her child restless and crying. But not one expression of regret was manifested the next day by either mother or son.
The day after the incident referred to above occurred, a kind friend whispered in Joseph's ear a truth, which, perhaps, till then had been entirely overlooked by him. This friend reminded him that when he plighted his vows to his young wife at the altar, he did most solemnly promise, agreeably to God's ordinance, "that he would forsake father and mother, and all others, and he would cleave to his wife, and to her alone; that he would take her for better or for worse."
We may laud the conduct of Naomi and Ruth in their beautiful attachment to each other, at the point of history where they are first introduced to us. But their love to each other was doubtless greatly modified by the circumstances into which they were now brought. They had a remarkable sympathy and fellow-feeling for each other in their sufferings. That son and husband, the bond of this tender and happy union, and the occasion had there been any strife between them when this loved object was living, was now forever removed from them, and not a trace of any thing to blame or to regret was still remembered by them.
I can never be sufficiently grateful for the oft-reiterated advice of my father to his children. "Never," he would say, "act a selfish part." In all your plans and purposes in life, do not have an exclusive regard to self-interest. If you do, you will find many competitors. But if you strive to render others happy, you will always find a large and open field of enterprise; and let me assure you that this is the best way to promote your own happiness for time and for eternity.