IT often happens that a daughter possesses greatly superioradvantages to those enjoyed, in early years, by either her father ormother. She is not compelled to labour as hard as they were obligedto labour when young; and she is blessed with the means of educationfar beyond what they had. Her associations, too, are of a differentorder, all tending to elevate her views of life, to refine hertastes, and to give her admission into a higher grade of societythan they were fitted to move in.
Unless very watchful of herself and very thoughtful of her parents,a daughter so situated will be led at times to draw comparisonsbetween her own cultivated intellect and taste and the want of suchcultivation in her parents, and to think indifferently of them, asreally inferior, because not so well educated and accomplished asshe is. A distrust of their judgment and a disrespect of theiropinions will follow, as a natural consequence, if these thoughtsand feelings be indulged. This result often takes place withthoughtless, weak-minded girls; and is followed by what is worse, adisregard to their feelings, wishes, and express commands.
A sensible daughter, who loves her parents, will hardly forget towhom she is indebted for all the superior advantages she enjoys. Shewill also readily perceive that the experience which her parentshave acquired, and their natural strength of mind, give them a realand great superiority over her, and make their judgment, in allmatters of life, far more to be depended upon than hers couldpossibly be. It may be that her mother has never learned to playupon the piano, has never been to a dancing-school, has never hadany thing beyond the merest rudiments of an education; but she hasgood sense, prudence, industry, economy; understands and practisesall the virtues of domestic life; has a clear, discriminatingjudgment; has been her husband's faithful friend and adviser forsome twenty or thirty years; and has safely guarded and guided herchildren up to mature years. These evidences of a mother's title toher respect and fullest confidence cannot long be absent from adaughter's mind, and will prevent her acting in direct opposition toher judgment.
Thoughtless indeed must be that child who can permit an emotion ofdisrespect toward her parents to dwell in her bosom for more than asingle moment!
Respect and love toward parents are absolutely necessary to theproper formation of the character upon that true basis which willbring into just order and subordination all the powers of the mind.Without this order and subordination there can be no true happiness.A child loves and respects his parents, because from them he derivedhis being, and from them receives every blessing and comfort. Tothem, and to them alone, does his mind turn as the authors of allthe good gifts he possessed. As a mere child, it is right for himthus to regard his parents as the authors of his being and theoriginators of all his blessings. But as reason gains strength, andhe sees more deeply into the nature and causes of things, which onlytakes place as the child approaches the years of maturity, it isthen seen that the parents were only the agents through which life,and all the blessings accompanying it, came from God, the greatFather of all. If the parents have been loved with a truly filiallove, then the mind has been suitably opened and prepared for lovetoward God, and an obedience to his divine laws, without which therecan be no true happiness. When this new and higher truth takespossession of the child's mind, it in no way diminishes his respectfor his earthly parents, but increases it. He no longer obeys thembecause they command obedience, but he regards the truth of theirprecepts, and in that truth hears the voice of God speaking to him.More than ever is he now careful to listen to their wise counsels,because he perceives in them the authority of reason, which is theauthority of God.
Most young ladies, on attaining the age of responsibility, willperceive a difference in the manner of their parents. Instead ofopposing them, as heretofore, with authority, they will oppose themwith reason, where opposition is deemed necessary. The mother,instead of saying, when she disapproves any thing, "No, my child,you cannot do it;" or, "No you must not go, dear;" will say, "Iwould rather not have you do so;" or, "I do not approve of yourgoing." If you ask her reasons, she will state them, and endeavourto make you comprehend their force. It is far too often the case,that the daughter's desire to do what her mother disapproves is soactive, that neither her mother's objections nor reasons are strongenough to counteract her wishes, and she follows her owninclinations instead of being guided by her mother's betterjudgment. In these instances, she almost always does wrong, andsuffers therefore either bodily or mental pain.
Obedience in childhood is that by which we are led and guided intoright actions. When we become men and women, reason takes the placeof obedience; but, like a young bird just fluttering from its nest,reason at first has not much strength of wing; and we shouldtherefore suffer the reason of those who love us, like themother-bird, to stoop under and bear us up in our earlier efforts,lest we fall bruised and wounded to the ground. To whose reasonshould a young girl look to strengthen her own, so soon as to hermother's, guided as it is by love? But it too often happens that,under the first impulses of conscious freedom, no voice is regardedbut the voice of inclination and passion. The mother may oppose, andwarn, and urge the most serious considerations, but the daughterturns a deaf ear to all. She thinks that she knows best.
"You are not going to-night, Mary?" said a mother, coming into herdaughter's room, and finding her dressing for a ball. She had beenrather seriously indisposed for some days, with a cold that hadfallen upon her throat and chest, which was weak, but was nowsomething better.
"I think I will, mother, for I am much better than I was yesterday,and have improved since morning. I have promised myself so muchpleasure at this ball, that I cannot think of being disappointed."
The mother shook her head.
"Mary," she replied, "you are not well enough to go out. The air isdamp, and you will inevitably take more cold. Think how badly yourthroat has been inflamed."
"I don't think it has been so very bad, mother."
"The doctor told me it was badly inflamed, and said you would haveto be very careful of yourself, or it might prove serious."
"That was some days ago. It is a great deal better now."
"But the least exposure may cause it to return."
"I will be very careful not to expose myself. I will wrap up warmand go in a carriage. I am sure there is not the least danger,mother."
"While I am sure that there is very great danger. You cannot passfrom the door to the carriage, without the damp air striking uponyour face, and pressing into your lungs."
"But I must not always exclude myself from the air, mother. Air andexercise, you know, the doctor says, are indispensable to health."
"Dry, not damp air. This makes the difference. But you must act foryourself, Mary. You are now a woman, and must freely act in thelight of that reason which God has given you. Because I love you,and desire your welfare, I thus seek to convince you that it iswrong to expose your health to-night. Your great desire to go blindsyou to the real danger, which I can fully see."
"You are over-anxious, mother," urged Mary. "I know how I feel muchbetter than you possibly can, and I know I am well enough to go."
"I have nothing more to say, my child," returned the mother. "I wishyou to act freely, but wisely. Wisely I am sure you will not act ifyou go to-night. A temporary illness may not alone be theconsequence; your health may receive a shock from which it willnever recover."
"Mother wishes to frighten me," said Mary to herself, after hermother had left the room. "But I am not to be so easily frightened.I am sorry she makes such a serious matter about my going, for Inever like to do any thing that is not agreeable to her feelings.But I must go to this ball. William is to call for me at eight, andhe would be as much disappointed as myself if I were not to go. Asto making more cold, what of that? I would willingly pay the penaltyof a pretty severe cold rather than miss the ball."
Against all her mother's earnestly urged objections, Mary went withher lover to the ball. She came home, at one o'clock, with a sharppain through her breast, red spots on her cheeks, oppression of thechest, and considerable fever. On the next morning she was unable torise from her bed. When the doctor, who was sent for, came in, helooked grave, and asked if there had been any exposure by which afresh cold could be taken.
"She was at the ball last night," replied the mother.
"Not with your approval, madam?" he said quickly, looking with astern expression into the mother's face.
"No, doctor. I urged her not to go; but Mary thought she knew best.She did not believe there was any danger."
A strong expression rose to the doctor's lips, but he repressed it,lest he should needlessly alarm the patient. On retiring from herchamber, he declared the case to be a very critical one; and so itproved to be. Mary did not leave her room for some months; and whenshe did, it was with a constitution so impaired that she could notendure the slightest fatigue, nor bear the least exposure. Neitherchange of climate nor medicine availed any thing toward restoringher to health. In this feeble state she married, about twelve monthsafterward, the young man who had accompanied her to the ball. Oneyear from the period at which that happy event took place, she died,leaving to stranger hands a babe that needed all her tenderest care,and a husband almost broken-hearted at his loss.
This is not merely a picture from the imagination, and highlycoloured. It is from nature, and every line is drawn with the pencilof truth. Hundreds of young women yearly sink into the grave, whosefriends can trace to some similar act of imprudence, committed indirect opposition to the earnest persuasions of parents or friends,the cause of their premature decay and death. And too often other,and sometimes even worse, consequences than death, follow adisregard of the mother's voice of warning.
THE END.
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