The Child at Home: The Principles of Filial Duty, Familiarly Illustrated

by John S. C. Abbott

Now, who would not declare that this sentence is just? And who does not see the absurdity of the excuses which the guilty man offered?

So it is with you, my young reader. It is your duty, at all times, to be obedient to God. The charge which God brings against us, is, that we have refused to obey him. For this we deserve that penalty which God has threatened against rebellion. If we love our parents ever so ardently, it will not save us, unless we also love God. If we are ever so kind to those around us, it will not secure God's approbation, unless we are also obedient to him. If our conduct is so correct that no one can accuse us of what is called an immoral act, it will be of no avail, unless we are also living with faith in the promises of God, and with persevering efforts to do his will. And we shall be as foolish as was the guilty mutineer, if we expect that any such excuses will save us from the penalty of his law.

We cannot, by any fidelity in the discharge of the common duties of life, atone for the neglect to love and serve our Maker. We have broken away from his authority. We follow our own inclinations, and are obedient to the directions of others, rather than to those of our Maker. The fact is, that the duties we owe God and our fellow men are not to be separated. God expects the child in the morning to acknowledge his dependence upon his Maker, and to pray for assistance to do that which is right, during all the hours of the day. And he expects you, when the evening comes, to thank him for all his goodness, and solemnly to promise, all your days, to be obedient to his authority. You must not only love your parents, but you must also love your God. You must try to have your words and your thoughts pure, and all your conduct holy. Now, when you look back upon your past lives, and when you examine your present feelings, do you not see that you have not obeyed God in all your ways? Not only have you had wicked thoughts, and at times been disobedient to your parents, but you have not made it the great object of your life to serve your Maker.

God now desires to have you obedient to him. He loves you, and wishes to see you happy. He has for this purpose sent his Son into the world to die for your sins, and to lead you to piety and peace. The Savior now asks you to repent of sin and love him, that, when you die, you may be received to heaven, and be happy for ever. You perhaps remember the passage of Scripture found in Rev. 3:2, "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me." By this he expresses his desire that we should receive him to our hearts.

One of the most affecting scenes described by the pen of the most eloquent of writers, is, that of an aged father driven from his home by ungrateful and hard-hearted children. The broken-hearted man is represented as standing by the door of his own house, in a dark and tempestuous night, with his gray locks streaming in the wind, and his head unprotected to the fury of the storm. There he stands, drenched with the rain, and shivering with the cold. But the door is barred, and the shutters are closed. His daughters hear the trembling voice of their aged parent, but refuse him admission. Their flinty hearts remain unmoved. The darkness increases; the tempest rages; the rain falls in torrents, and the wind howls most fearfully. The voice of their father grows feebler and feebler, as the storm spends its fury upon him. But nothing can touch the sympathies of his unnatural children. They will not open the door to him. At last, grief, and the pangs of disappointed hope, break the father's heart. He looks at the black and lowering clouds above him, and, in the phrensy of his distracted mind, invites the increasing fury of the storm. And still those wretched children refuse to receive him to their fireside, but leave him to wander in the darkness and the cold.

The representation of this scene, as described by the pen of Shakspeare, has brought tears into millions of eyes. The tragedy of King Lear and his wretched daughters is known throughout the civilized world. What heart is not indignant at such treatment? Who does not abhor the conduct of these unnatural children?

Our blessed Savior represents himself as taking a similar attitude before the hearts of his children. He has presented himself at the door of your heart, and can you refuse him admission? "Behold," says he, "I stand at the door and knock." But we, with a hardness of heart which has triumphed over greater blessings, and is consequently more inexcusable than that of the daughters of King Lear, refuse to love him, and to receive him as our friend. He entreats admission. He asks to enter and be with you and you with him, that you may be happy. And there he has stood for days, and months, and years, and you receive him not. Could we see our own conduct in the light in which we behold the conduct of others, we should be confounded with the sense of our guilt.

Is there a child who reads this book, who has not at times felt the importance of loving the Savior? When you felt these serious impressions, Christ was pleading for admission to your heart. You have, perhaps, been sick, and feared that you were about to die. And, oh, how ardently did you then wish that the Savior were your friend! Perhaps you have seen a brother or a sister die: you wept over your companion, as her cheek daily grew more pale, and she drew nearer and nearer to death. And when she ceased to breathe, and her limbs were cold and lifeless, you wept as though your heart would break. And when you saw her placed in the coffin and carried to the grave, how earnestly did you desire to be prepared to die yourself! Oh, how did the world seem then to you! This was the way the Savior took to reach your heart. When on earth, he said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not." And now he endeavors, in many ways, to induce you to turn to him. Sometimes he makes you happy, that his goodness may excite your love. When he sees that in happiness you are most prone to forget him, he sends sorrow and trouble, under which your spirits sink, and this world appears gloomy, and you are led to look forward to a happier one to come. And does it not seem very ungrateful that you should resist all this kindness and care, and continue to refuse to submit yourself to him? You think the daughters of King Lear were very cruel. Indeed they were; but not so cruel as you. Their father had been kind to them, but not so kind as your Savior has been to you. He stood long at the door and knocked, but not so long as the Savior has stood at the door of your heart. It is in vain that we look to find an instance of ingratitude equal to that manifested by the sinner who rejects the Savior. And it is, indeed, melancholy to think, that any child could be so hard-hearted.

It is strange that any person can resist the love which God has manifested for us. He has sent angels with messages of mercy, and invitations to his home in heaven. He sent his Son to die that we might be saved from everlasting sorrow. He has provided a world of beauty and of glory, far surpassing any thing we can conceive, to which he invites us, and where he will make us happy for ever. And we are informed that all the angels in heaven are so much interested in our welfare, that "there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth." It is indeed wonderful that the holy and happy angels above should feel so deep an interest in our concerns. But, oh, how surpassingly strange it is, that we feel so little for ourselves!

It is kind in God that he will not let the wicked enter heaven. He loves his holy children there too well, to allow the wicked to enter and trouble them, and destroy their peace. There was a little girl once, who had a party of her companions to spend the evening with her. They were all playing very happily in the parlor, when a drunken man happened to go by. As he heard their voices, he came staggering up to the door, and tried to get in. All the girls were very much frightened, for fear the degraded wretch would get into the parlor. But the gentleman of the house told them not to be frightened. He assured them that the man should not come in, and though it was a cold winter's night, he went out and drove him away. Now, was not this gentleman kind thus to protect these children?