TO BOYS

The following affecting narrative purports to have been given by a father to his son, as a warning derived from his own experience of resisting a mother’s counsel:

What agony was visible on my mother’s face when she saw that all she said and suffered failed to move me! She rose to go home, and I followed her at a distance. She spoke no more till she reached her own door. “It’s school time now,” she said. “Go, my son, and once more let me beseech you to think upon what I have said.” I sha’nt go to school,” said I. She looked astonished at my boldness, but replied firmly—” Certainly you will go, Alfred. I command you.” “I will not!” said I, in a tone of defiance. “One of two things you must do, Alfred, either go to school this morning, or I will lock you up in your room, and keep you there till you are ready to promise implicit obedience to my wishes in future.” “I dare you to do it,” said I; “you can’t get me up stairs.” “Alfred, choose now,” said my mother, who laid her hand upon my arm. She trembled violently and was deadly pale. “If you touch me I will kick you,” said I in a terrible rage. God knows I knew not what I said. “Will you go, Alfred?” “No!” I replied; but quailed beneath her eye. “Then follow me,” said she, and she grasped my arm firmly. I raised my foot—oh, my son hear me !—I raised my foot and kicked her! How my head reels as the torrent of memory rushes over me! I kicked my mother—a feeble woman—my mother! She staggered back a few steps, and leaned against the wall. She did not look at me. I saw her heart beat against her breast. “Oh! Heavenly Father,” said she, “forgive him—he knows not what he does!” The gardener just then passed the door, and seeing my mother pale, and almost unable to support herself, he stopped. She beckoned him in. “Take this boy up stairs and lock him in his room,” said she, and turned from me. Looking back as she was entering her room, she gave me a look of agony, mingled with the most intense love !—it was the last unutterable pang from a heart that was broken. In a moment I found myself a prisoner in my own room. I thought for a moment I would fling myself from the open window, and dash my brains out, but I was afraid to do it. I was not penitent. At times my heart was subdued; but my stubborn pride rose in an instant, and bade me not to yield. The pale face of my mother haunted me. I flung myself on the bed, and fell asleep. Just at twilight I heard a footstep approach the door. It was my sister. “What may I tell my mother from you?” she asked. “Nothing,” I replied. “Oh, Alfred! for my sake, say that you are sorry, she longs to forgive you.” I would not answer. I heard her footsteps slowly retiring, and again I threw myself on the bed, to pass another and fearful night. Another footstep, still slower and feebler than my sister’s disturbed me. It was my mother’s. “Alfred, my son, shall I come ?” she asked. I cannot tell what influence, operating at that moment, made me speak adverse to my feelings. The gentle voice of my mother thrilled me through, melted then the ice of my obdurate heart, and I longed to throw myself on her neck, but I did not. But the words gave the lie to my heart when I said I was not sorry. I heard her withdraw. I heard her groan. I longed to call her back, but I did not.

I was awakened from my uneasy slumber by hearing my name called loudly, and my sister stood at my bedside. “Get up and come with me. Mother is dying.” I thought I was yet dreaming, but I got up mechanically and followed my sister. On the bed, pale and cold as marble, lay mother. She had not undressed. She had thrown her self on the bed to rest; arising to go to me, she was seized with a palpitation of the heart, and was borne senseless to her room. I cannot tell you with what agony I looked upon her. My remorse was ten fold more bitter from the thought that she would never know it. I believed myself to be her murderer. I fell on tile bed beside her. I could not weep. My heart was burned in my bosom; my brain was on fire. My sister threw her arms around me and wept in silence. Suddenly we saw a slight motion of mother’s hand; her eyes unclosed. She had recovered consciousness, but not speech. She looked at me and moved her lips. I could not understand her words. “Mother, mother !“ I shrieked, “say only that you forgive me !“ She could not say it with her lips, but her hand pressed mine. She smiled upon me, and lifting her thin, white hands, she clasped my own within them, and east her eyes upward. She moved her lips in prayer, and thus she died. I remained still kneeling beside that dear form, till my sister removed me. The joys of youth had left for ever.

Boys who spurn a mother’s control, who are ashamed to own that they are wrong, who think it manly to resist her authority, or yield to her influence, beware!           Lay not up for yourselves bitter memories for future years.        

Let every child, having any pretence to heart or manliness or piety, and who is so fortunate as to have a father or mother living, consider it a sacred duty to consult at any reasonable, personal sacrifice, the known wishes of such a parent, until that parent is no more; and our word for it, the recollection of the same through the after pilgrimage of life, will sweeten every sorrow, will brighten every gladness, will sparkle every tear drop with a joy ineffable. But be selfish still, have your own way, consult your own inclinations, yield to the bent of your own desires, regardless of a parent’s commands and counsels and beseeching and tears, and as the Lord liveth your life will be a failure; because “the eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagle shall eat it.”