A Memorial of Mrs. Margaret Breckinridge

by John Breckinridge; Samuel Miller

LETTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.

My Dear Grandchildren:—The decease of your beloved and lamented Mother, has placed both you and me in circumstances of great solemnity and responsibility. To be deprived of a mother's care and counsel at the tender age at which she left you, is indeed a loss which no human arithmetic can estimate; especially to be deprived of such a mother, one so well qualified by strength of intellect, by sincere piety, and by peculiar loveliness of character, to be a blessing to you, for time and eternity, is a bereavement of which, even now, I know not how to speak without emotions too strong for utterance. While this precious Parent lived, she seemed to interpose between your beloved grandmother and myself, and any immediate responsibility in regard to your education; but now that she is removed, we seem to be brought, in the mysterious and mournful Providence of God, to stand in some measure in her place, and to perform some of the most important duties which she owed to her children. And, although your surviving Parent is eminently fitted, both by nature and grace, to be a guide to your youth; yet, as he is engaged, and is likely for some time to be engaged, in active, arduous, and extended labours for the Church of God, which will probably separate him from you often and much for a considerable time;—an additional responsibility on our part seems to grow out of every circumstance.

It is under these impressions that I now address you. Your grandparents are drawing near to the end of their course. They must soon leave you in a depraved and ensnaring world. What they do for your benefit, they must do quickly. As one placed in these tender and endearing relations to you, and in these solemn circumstances, allow me to pour out the fulness of a heart most earnestly engaged for your welfare, and desiring more ardently than I am able to express, to see you walking in truth and happiness, and embalming by your conduct, as well as by your affection, the memory of that blessed Parent, who, if she is ever permitted from her high and holy abode, to look down on those whom she has left behind, will rejoice to see you making choice of that path which leads to the same blessedness.

There are two considerations, beloved grandchildren, which, I think, you will all agree, entitle me to expect from you a respectful and affectionate attention to what I have to offer in these letters. The first is, that I have lived a long and somewhat eventful life; and, of course, my range of experience has not been small. In my three-score and tenth year, I have had an opportunity of following many young people from the cradle to the grave. I have seen the training, the subsequent course, and the end of thousands. Need I say, that the lessons derived from such experience are not unworthy of your regard? O, if you could start in your career with that practical knowledge of the vanity, the snares, and the sufferings of the world, which has come to me through the medium of many a melancholy sight, and many a painful conflict, how great would be the advantage! But this cannot be. Happy were it for you, if you were willing to profit as you might from the experience of others. But neither can this be expected, in ordinary cases, to be realized. I cannot, however, admit the thought, that you will be willing to reject this teaching altogether.

The second claim which I have on your attention is, my ardent and affectionate desire to promote your happiness. You cannot suspect me of any sinister design in what I have to say. This would be to suppose me capable of "hating my own flesh." No, dear children, I have no desire to damp the sanguine joy, or cloud the smiling sun of your youth. I would not take from you a single rational pleasure. On the contrary, I delight to see you happy; and desire, by all the means in my power to promote your true enjoyment and honour. But you must allow me now, in my old age, when I have seen so much of the illusions of the world, and so many examples of the destruction of those who yielded to them, to counsel you, not in the style of youthful flattery, but in the language of "truth and soberness." You will find nothing in these letters intended to carry a point by overpainting, or by any other artifice. If you have a real disinterested friend on earth, who unfeignedly wishes to promote your best interest in both worlds, it is he who now addresses you. I shall not give a counsel or an injunction, but what I verily believe your precious Mother, if she were permitted to speak from the bosom of her Saviour, would ratify with all her heart.

You will observe that some of my counsels have a respect to objects beyond the period of childhood, which you now occupy. The truth is, I expect soon to leave you. Probably long before any of you shall reach adult age. Of course, I feel that what I have to say at all, had better be said now. I may have no other opportunity. Besides, one of the great truths which I wish to impress upon your minds is, that you are, even at your present age, sowing the all important seeds of a future harvest of good or evil. You will not find a single habit or attainment recommended in the following pages, which, if you are ever to gain it, you will not find an advantage in having calculated and prepared for, as far as possible, at the earliest age. The earlier you begin to imbibe good principles, and lay good plans, the better will it be for all the future.

Let me entreat you, then, to receive with all the affection and docility of dutiful children, the counsels of one who, while he writes, looks up to "Him who has the residue of the Spirit," that what is rightly said, may be impressed upon your hearts, and made to bring forth precious fruit, to your happiness, and to the glory of his holy name!

LETTER II.
HUMAN NATURE.

Dear Children:—On all important subjects there are certain great facts which must be regarded as fundamental; as lying at the foundation of all truth, and all duty. I feel that this is peculiarly the case in regard to the counsels which I am about to give you concerning your course in life. Among these fundamental facts are the depravity, the misery, and the numberless temptations of the world in which you live; the depravity of your own nature, ever ready to be attracted by the allurements and corruptions of the world; and your consequent need of the grace of God, at every step, for your guidance, protection, and deliverance. And until you know and feel, and in some degree lay to heart, that the world in which you live is a fallen, depraved world; that its habitual maxims and ways are hostile to your best interests; that you are yourselves, by nature, miserable sinners, standing in need of pardoning mercy, and sanctifying grace; and that you are every day exposed to snares and perils, from the joint influence of a depraved nature and a corrupt world;—until you have learned, in some good measure, to recognise these facts; to dwell upon them daily and hourly; and to receive the lessons which they are adapted to teach; you are not prepared even to begin life. You are not prepared to meet or encounter the most common scenes, much less the more formidable dangers which are likely to beset your path every day that you live. But the moment you are brought to admit these humbling, momentous truths; to feel their reality; and to consider and treat them in some degree according to their practical importance; then, and not till then, may we hope you will be ready to make a proper estimate of the world; to guard against its allurements; to ponder well what you need for securing your true happiness; and to implore that divine aid which is necessary if you desire, in such circumstances, to perform any duty aright. And, therefore, when I see young people apparently forgetful of the character of their own hearts, and of the world in which they live; thinking that all is gold that glitters; and imagining that they can safely trust to their own wisdom and strength in every situation, I regard them as objects of the deepest commiseration, and as wholly unqualified for either the duties or the best enjoyments of life.