I called often upon this poor widow, and always with increasing admiration of this devoted child, One morning, as I entered the room, I saw the mother lying upon the bed on the floor, with her head in the lap of her daughter. She was breathing short and heavy in the struggles of death. The tears were rolling down the pale cheeks of her daughter, as she pressed her hand upon the brow of her dying mother. The hour of death had just arrived, and the poor mother, in the triumphs of Christian faith, with faint and faltering accents, was imploring God's blessing upon her dear daughter. It was a most affecting farewell. The mother, while thus expressing her gratitude to God for the kindness of her beloved child, breathed her last. And angels must have looked upon that humble abode, and upon that affecting scene, with emotions of pleasure, which could hardly be exceeded by any thing else which the world could present. O that all children would feel the gratitude which this girl felt for a mother's early love! Then would the world be divested of half its sorrows, and of half its sins. This is the kind of obedience which every child should cultivate. You should not only do whatever your parents tell you to do, with cheerfulness and alacrity, but you should be obedient to their wishes. You should be watching for opportunities to give them pleasure. You should, at all times, and under all circumstances, do every thing in your power to relieve them from anxiety and to make them happy. Then can you hope for the approbation of your God, and your heart will be filled with a joy which the ungrateful child can never feel. You can reflect with pleasure upon your conduct. When your parents are in the grave, you will feel no remorse of conscience harrowing your soul for your past unkindness. And when you die yourselves, you can anticipate a happy meeting with your parents, in that heavenly home, where sin and sorrow, and sickness and death, can never come.
God has, in almost every case, connected suffering with sin. And there are related many cases in which he has, in this world, most signally punished ungrateful children. I read, a short time since, an account of an old man, who had a drunken and brutal son. He would abuse his aged father without mercy. One day, he, in a passion, knocked him flat upon the floor, and, seizing him by his gray hairs, dragged him across the room to the threshold of the door, to cast him out. The old man, with his tremulous voice, cried out to his unnatural son, "It is enough—it is enough. God is just. When I was young, I dragged my own father in the same way; and now God is giving me the punishment I deserve."
Sometimes you will see a son who will not be obedient to his mother. He will have his own way, regardless of his mother's feelings. He has grown up to be a stout and stubborn boy, and now the ungrateful wretch will, by his misconduct, break the heart of that very mother, who, for months and years, watched over him with a care which knew no weariness. I call him a wretch, for I can hardly conceive of more enormous iniquity. That boy, or that young man, who does not treat his affectionate mother with kindness and respect, is worse than I can find language to describe. Perhaps you say, your mother is at times unreasonable. Perhaps she is. But what of that? You have been unreasonable ten thousand times, and she has borne with you and loved you. And even if your mother be at times unreasonable in her requirements, I want to know with what propriety you find fault with it. Is she to bear with all your cries in infancy, and all your fretfulness in childhood, and all your ingratitude and wants till you arrive at years of discretion, and then, because she wishes you to do some little thing which does not exactly meet your views, are you to turn upon her like a viper and sting her to the heart? The time was, when you was a little infant, your mother brought paleness to her own cheek, and weakness to her own frame, that she might give you support. You were sick, and in the cold winter night she would sit lonely by the fire, denying herself rest that she might lull her babe to sleep. You would cry with pain, and hour after hour she would walk the floor, carrying you in her arms, till her arms seemed ready to drop, and her limbs would hardly support her, through excess of weariness. The bright sun and the cloudless sky would invite her to go out for health and enjoyment, but she would deny herself the pleasure, and stay at home to take care of you, her helpless babe. Her friends would solicit her to indulge in the pleasures of the social evening party, but she would refuse for your sake, and, in the solitude of her chamber, she would pass weeks and months watching all your wants. Thus have years passed away in which you have received nothing but kindness from her hands; and can you be so hard-hearted, so ungrateful, as now to give her one moment of unnecessary pain? If she have faults, can you not bear with them, when she has so long borne with you? Oh, if you knew but the hundredth part of what she has suffered and endured for your sake, you could not, could not be such a wretch as to requite her with ingratitude. A boy who has one particle of generosity glowing in his bosom, will cling to his mother with an affection which life alone can extinguish. He will never let her have a single want which he can prevent. And when he grows to be a man, he will give her the warmest seat by his fire-side, and the choicest food upon his table. If necessary, he will deprive himself of comforts, that he may cheer her declining years. He will prove, by actions which cannot be misunderstood, that he feels a gratitude for a mother's love, which shall never, never leave him. And when she goes down to the grave in death, he will bedew her grave with the honorable tears of manly feeling. The son who does not feel thus, is unworthy of a mother's love; the frown of his offended Maker must be upon him, and he must render to Him an awful account for his ungrateful conduct.
It is, if possible, stranger still, that any daughter can forget a mother's care. You are always at home. You see your mother's solicitude. You are familiar with her heart. If you ever treat your mother with unkindness, remember that the time may come when your own heart will be broken by the misconduct of those who will be as dear to you as your mother's children are to her. And you may ask yourself whether you would be pleased with an exhibition of ungrateful feeling from a child whom you had loved and cherished with the tenderest care. God may reward you, even in this world, according to your deeds. And if he does not, he certainly will in the world to come. A day of judgment is at hand, and the ungrateful child has as fearful an account to render as any one who will stand at that bar.
I have just spoken to you of the grateful girl who took such good care of her poor sick mother. When that good girl, dies, and meets her mother in heaven, what a happy meeting it will be! With how much joy will she reflect upon her dutifulness as a child! And as they dwell together again in the celestial mansions, sorrow and sighing will for ever flee away. If you wish to be happy here or hereafter, honor your father and your mother. Let love's pure flame burn in your heart and animate your life. Be brave, and fear not to do your duty. Be magnanimous, and do more for your parents than they require or expect. Resolve that you will do every thing in your power to make them happy, and you will be blest as a child, and useful and respected in your maturer years. Oh, how lovely is that son or daughter who has a grateful heart, and who will rather die than give a mother sorrow! Such a one is not only loved by all upon earth, but by the angels above, and by our Father in heaven.
It may assist you a little to estimate your obligations to your parents, to inquire what would become of you if your parents should refuse to take care of you any longer. You, at times, perhaps, feel unwilling to obey them: suppose they should say,
"Very well, my child, if you are unwilling to obey us, you may go away from home, and take care of yourself. We cannot be at the trouble and expense of taking care of you unless you feel some gratitude."
"Well," perhaps you would say, "let me have my cloak and bonnet, and
I will go immediately."
"YOUR CLOAK AND BONNET!" your mother would reply. "The cloak and bonnet are not yours, but your father's. He bought them and paid for them. Why do you call them yours?"
You might possibly reply, after thinking a moment, "They are mine because you gave them to me."