There was a boy in Boston, the son of respectable parents, who gave promise of becoming a respectable and useful man. He stood well in school, and had the reputation of being a good scholar. He attended the Sabbath school, and appeared to be a good boy. His mother was endeavoring to bring him up in the way he should go. But, on one Sabbath, he was persuaded by some bad boys not to go to Sabbath school, but to go with them to Chelsea. This was his first step in the down-hill road. The next thing was, to conceal his conduct from his mother. She asked him if he had been to Sabbath school, and he said he had. Then she asked him for the text. He repeated a text; and as she was not able to go that afternoon, she could not detect his deception. He also pretended to repeat parts of the sermon, in order to blind her eyes. She was satisfied, supposing he had been at Sabbath school and meeting, secure from temptation. Finding he had succeeded so well in deceiving his mother, he continued to seek his pleasure on God’s holy day, and to repeat his deceptions to his mother, making her believe that he had been at Sabbath school and meeting. He went on so for some time, hardening himself in sin, and associating with bad boys, till he became ripe for mischief and crime. He was employed by the publisher of a paper, as an errand boy. One part of his duty was to bring letters and papers from the post-office. While thus engaged, he learned that money frequently came to his employer in letters. After a while, he left this employment. The money in the letters now tempted him. Having hardened his heart by breaking the Sabbath, associating with bad boys, and deceiving his mother, he had not strength of principle to resist. He continued to receive the letters, robbing them of their contents. At length he was detected, and sent to prison for two years. The gentleman who related this to me said he went one day to the prison, and there he saw the boy’s mother and sister, talking with him through an iron-grated window, and weeping as though they would break their hearts. All this came upon him by his seeking his pleasure on God’s holy day. And if you knew the history of those who have been imprisoned for crime, you would find a great many such cases. If he had turned away his foot from the Sabbath, from seeking his pleasure on this holy day, he might have been sitting with his mother and sister in their own quiet home, instead of being locked up in a filthy prison, with a company of hardened criminals.
[CHAPTER XI.]
HABITS.
Besides what I have noticed in several of the foregoing chapters, there are many things of a general nature, which I shall group together under the title of habits. A habit is what has become easy and natural by frequent repetition. People not unfrequently become much attached to practices, which at first were very unpleasant. You will sometimes see men chewing, smoking, or snuffing tobacco, a most filthy and poisonous plant, a little bit of which you could not be persuaded to take into your mouth, it is so nauseous; yet, by long use, people learn to love it. That is a habit. So, likewise, you see persons very fond of drinking intoxicating liquors, which to you would be a nauseous medicine; and which are poisonous and destructive to all. It is practice which has made these drinks so pleasant. This is a habit.
Habits are both bad and good; and a habit is a very good or a very bad thing, as it is good or bad. Habits are mostly formed in early life; and a habit, once formed, is difficult to be broken;—once fixed, it may follow you as long as you live.
I shall specify a few of the bad habits which boys of your age are liable to contract, with their opposite good habits. It is very likely I shall fail to notice many others, equally important; but these may put you upon thinking, and lead you to discover and correct other bad practices.
I. Dilatoriness or Tardiness.—The tardy boy is dilatory about rising in the morning. Although old Chanticleer is pouring his shrill note of warning into his ear, and the birds are filling the air with their merry song, and the morning rays of the sun are peeping stealthily through the half-closed shutter, still he thinks, “There’s time enough yet;” and instead of starting up with the lark, he lingers and delays, saying with the sluggard, “A little more sleep, a little more slumber, a little more folding of the hands to sleep.” At length he rises, in a yawning mood, and proceeds slowly to pull on his clothes, lingering with every article, looking here and there, and stopping every now and then to play, or to amuse himself in gazing about his chamber. And sometimes he stops, half-dressed, to read a story from a piece of an old newspaper. In this and other ways, he amuses himself until the breakfast bell rings, and he is not ready. Perhaps he has been called half a dozen times to “do his chores,” and as often answered, “Well, I’m coming;” till, wearied with his delay, his mother or sister has done the work that belonged to him, or his father has been called from his room, or the hired man from his work, to do it for him. At length, he makes his appearance at the table after the blessing, when the rest of the family have begun their meal. But, having just emerged from the foul air of his bedroom, he has no appetite for his breakfast, and feels peevish and fretful. A scowl appears upon his brow, and he turns up his nose at the food spread before him, forgetful alike of his obligations to his Heavenly Father for providing, and to his mother for preparing it. Or, if he sometimes gets dressed before breakfast, he is not in season to do his chores, or to complete the lesson which he left unfinished the night before. He hears the breakfast bell, but he is just now engaged, and thinks, “There’s time enough yet,—I’ll just finish what I’ve begun;” and so he is not in season for the table. He has either detained the table till all are impatient of waiting, or else he takes his seat after the rest have commenced eating. In consequence of this loss of time, he is left at the table to finish his breakfast, and his seat is for some time vacant at prayers, when he comes in and disturbs the whole family. Or, if at any time, he gets his seat with the rest, he is dilatory in finding his place, and is never ready to read when his turn comes. This dilatoriness goes on, till the school hour arrives, and he is not ready; or he delays on the way to school, and arrives, perhaps, just after his class have recited. Sabbath morning, when the bell tolls, and the family are starting for meeting, he is roused from a reverie, and has yet to get ready. And so in every thing else this dilatory habit follows him. When his father or mother calls him, instead of promptly making his appearance, to serve them, as a dutiful son should do, he answers, “Yes, in a minute,” or, “Yes, I’m going to.” He must dispose of something else first; and before he comes, the service for which he was called has been despatched by some one else. He does not seem to know how to start quick. He is always in a hurry when the time comes to do any thing, because he was dilatory in making preparation when he had time. He is always late,—always out of time,—vexing those that are about him, and injuring himself. He seems to have started too late. You would think that he began too late in the beginning,—that he was born too late, and has never been able to gain the lost time. Every thing comes too soon, before he is prepared for it. If he ever becomes a man, and this habit continues, it will always be a source of vexation and disaster to him. If he is a mechanic, he will fail to meet his engagements, and disappoint, vex, and lose his customers. If he is a man of business, he will fail to meet his appointments, and thus lose many a bargain. He will suffer his notes to be protested at the bank, and thus injure his friends and destroy his credit. His dilatory habits will be the ruin of his business. And if he carries the same habit into religion, he will ruin his soul, for death will overtake him before he is ready.