TO THE SURVIVING CHILDREN OF
MRS. MARGARET BRECKINRIDGE.
BY THE
REV. SAMUEL MILLER, D. D.
PART II.
LETTERS
OF
A GRANDFATHER.
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!
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.
Know, then, dear children, and remember, that
you belong to an apostate race; that we are all,
according to the declaration of God's own word,
"born in sin," and "shapen in iniquity;" that we
are "by nature the children of wrath;" that our
native propensities are all of them corrupt; opposed
to God; impelling us to habits and practices
forbidden by his law, and unfriendly to our best
interest. Remember, too, that, so far from being
able to trust your own hearts to resist the temptations
around you, and to guide you aright, they are
all naturally inclined to that which is evil, and disposed
to take side with the vanities and corruptions
of the world. So that there is constant need of
self-denial; of imposing restraints upon all our
appetites and passions; and of submitting, especially
in early life, to the counsels of the wise and
the good, who have gone before us in the journey
of life, and have had more experience than ourselves
of its temptations and dangers.
Hence it is, that so large a part of religion is
represented in Scripture as consisting in opposing
our own corrupt inclinations; in "crucifying the
flesh with the affections and lusts;" in constant
efforts to bring down pride and vanity; to mortify
our evil propensities; "to keep under the body;"
to "rule our own spirits;" and, in general, to gain
the victory over ourselves. All these expressions
imply that the course of true wisdom is a warfare
with evil; that our most formidable enemies are
within; and that resisting our own corrupt nature
is at once the most constant, and the most serious
part of our duty as accountable creatures.
Nor is this all. Not only is our nature corrupt;
not only are we from our very birth, prone to evil
"as the sparks fly upward;" but we are also by
nature under condemnation. In the language of
that incomparable Catechism, with which you have
been familiar from lisping infancy—and every doctrine
of which, as I believe, is drawn from the
Bible—"All mankind by their fall lost communion
with God, are under his wrath and curse, and so
made liable to all the miseries of this life, to death
itself, and to the pains of hell forever."
Such is the condition of our race by nature.
Not only depraved and unworthy, but guilty, condemned,
and perishing; not only in danger of being
forever lost; but already under a sentence of
death, unless rescued from it by the power and
grace of the Saviour. All the posterity of Adam
are by nature, "dead in trespasses and sins,"
having no resources within themselves for regaining
the favour and image of God. "The carnal mind
is enmity against God; it is not in subjection to
the law of God, neither indeed can be." So that,
left to ourselves, we should infallibly go on in sin
to eternal, merited, and hopeless destruction.
Here you are, then, dear children, in a revolted,
polluted, lost world, where the vast majority of the
population is in open rebellion against God; where
the prevailing habits and maxims are selfish, carnal,
and opposed to all that is truly and spiritually
good; where, if you fall in, and continue to go
with the prevailing current, you are inevitably and
eternally lost; where your only safety consists in
renouncing the world, its idols, its master, and its
hopes; in "crucifying the flesh with its affections
and lusts; in resisting the fashions and allurements
which reign around you; and taking refuge in that
Saviour, who came to seek and to save that which
was lost." Such are the temptations and perils
with which you are constantly and every where
surrounded; and such your only refuge. And,
what greatly adds to your danger is, that if the
representation which I have given be correct, your
own hearts are naturally disposed to take the side
of the enemy, and to betray you into his toils and
his power. So that you are like persons travelling
in an enemies' country, and liable every moment
to be taken in some insidious and fatal snare,
and whose own inclinations to yield to the enemy
are among their greatest dangers. These are the
humbling facts which it behoves you constantly to
keep in view, and to regard as the great practical
index of all your plans, resolutions, and efforts, as
long as you live.
And as you can never be truly wise until you
learn the corruption of your own nature, and
how indispensably you need pardoning mercy,
sanctifying grace, and unceasing guidance and help
from on high; so you are not prepared to begin
your intercourse with a corrupt world, until you
have learned to appreciate the real character of
human nature as it appears in all the walks of
social life. The young, anterior to experience—and
indeed many, long after experience ought to have
taught them otherwise—are too ready to put confidence
in the professions and arts of men. They
are apt to believe the flattering tongue; to rely on
plausible promises; to trust heartless professions
of attachment; to repose confidence in civilities
never meant to be accepted; and to expect much
from protestations of kindness, and assurances of
friendship—all dictated by the merest selfishness,
and never intended to be fulfilled. Rely on it,
dear children, you live in a cold, selfish, heartless
world. Its civilities are hollow; its promises are
deceitful; its flatteries are insidious; its most
splendid attractions are delusive. Expect little from
the warmest professions, and be very backward
to avail yourselves of the most fervent proffers
of friendship. I am far, indeed, from recommending
a misanthropic suspicion of every body. Your
parents and grandparents ought to be the last persons
in the world to indulge or recommend such a
spirit. They have been so happy as to enjoy
friendships sincere, disinterested, active, and unwearied,
never to be forgotten. For these they
would be thankful, and enjoin it upon you never to
forget such precious friends. But remember, that
social confidence is a plant of slow growth; that
there are few cases in which it can be safely indulged;
that where it exists, great care ought to be
taken not to abuse it by laying too much upon it;
and that, while you ought to receive all expressions
of civility and respect with a suitable acknowledgment,
nothing can be more unwise and unsafe in
such a world as this, than to trust indiscriminately
to the professions and promises of men.
If such be our deplorable circumstances, as a
race, and as individuals, then we need deliverance.
We need salvation. To this great subject I would
next entreat your attention.
Dear Children:—Salvation is a word often on
your lips, and on the lips of many around you.
The truly pious look forward to it with humble,
joyful hope. And those who have no piety, and
even the profane and profligate often speak of it as
something which they desire and anticipate. But
what is SALVATION? The very expression presupposes
that we are all by nature in a state from
which we need to be delivered or saved. We
never apply this term to any but those who are in
danger of being lost. When a man is drowning,
or in the utmost peril of death in any form, and by
the interposition of some benevolent and active
friend, is rescued, we say he is saved. Now in a
similar sense is the term used in the case before
us. The salvation of man implies that he is, by
nature not only in danger, but in a lost and
perishing condition. Accordingly I told you, my
dear children, in the preceding letter, that our
whole race, and you among the rest, are, by
nature in a state of guilt, depravity, and misery;
that we are fallen creatures; under condemnation;
exposed to the wrath and curse of God; liable not
only to natural death, but also exposed to all the
terrors of eternal death, that is, of eternal separation
from the presence of the Lord, and the glory
of his power, unless delivered, or, in other words,
saved by the interposition of some mighty and
merciful deliverer. Such a great Deliverer has
appeared to save sinners of our race;—to "put
away sin by the sacrifice of himself." And now,
the word of God assures us, that there is "no
other name given under heaven among men
whereby we can be saved, but the name of Jesus
Christ."
It is my earnest desire, dear children, to open
this way of salvation to your minds, and to recommend
it to your serious and solemn attention.
Believe me, "it is not a vain thing for you, it is
even your life." Unless you are, by the grace of
God made partakers of this great salvation, it "had
been better for you that you had not been born."
By the salvation revealed in the Gospel is meant,
delivering us from all the ruins of the fall—from
the condemnation of sin and the power of sin—restoring
us to the favour and image of God—and
bringing us to the everlasting enjoyment of his
presence in heaven. This is salvation. Now I
wish to show you how this great and blessed
result is accomplished by the undertaking and
work of Jesus Christ, whom we are accustomed,
on that account, to denominate, with emphasis,
our Saviour.
Man was made upright; in full possession of all
the powers necessary to perfect moral agency, and
with all the dispositions which prompted to a
perfectly correct use of those powers. But "man
being in honour abode not." He rebelled against
God. He violated the covenant under which he
was placed, and became liable to the dreadful
penalty which it denounced against transgression.
In this fall of our first parents we are all sharers.
"In Adam," says the apostle, "all die." "By one
man's disobedience," he again declares, "many
were made sinners." We have all totally lost our
original righteousness; so that there is now, by
nature, "none righteous, no not one." In short,
we have all become guilty and polluted before
God, and incapable of regaining his image or his
favour by any merit or doings of our own. How,
then are we to be delivered from these deplorable
circumstances? How shall we escape that perdition
which is the just reward of sin? "How can
we escape the damnation of hell?" How can any
be saved? God cannot set aside his own law, or
permit his authority and majesty, as a righteous
Governor, to be trampled under foot. To "clear
the guilty;" to take impenitent rebels into the
arms of his love, would be to "deny himself."
Where, then, is our refuge? Must we sit down
in despair, and say, "There is no hope?" No, by
no means. A God of infinite wisdom, power, and
love, has devised and proclaimed a wonderful plan
by which sin was punished while the sinner is
pardoned; by which justice is completely satisfied,
while mercy is extended to the guilty and vile; by
which "grace reigns through righteousness, unto
eternal life, by Jesus Christ our Lord."
This wonderful and glorious plan of mercy
consisted in the Father giving his own Son to
obey, suffer, and die in our stead, as our substitute;
and in the Son consenting to bear the penalty
of the law for us; to put away our sin by the
sacrifice of himself; and to bring in an everlasting
righteousness for our justification. Yes, dear
children, however coldly an unbelieving world
may receive the amazing annunciation, the Lord
Jesus Christ, the eternal Son of God, condescended,
in his wonderful love, to assume our
nature; to take the place of the guilty and the
perishing; and to become the victim of Divine
justice in their stead. His language, in the eternal
counsel of peace, was, "Let me suffer instead of
the guilty. Let me die to save them. Deliver
them from going down to the pit; I will be their
ransom." This wonderful, this unparalleled offer
was accepted. The Father was well pleased for
the righteousness sake of his Son. He accepted
it as the price of our pardon; as that on account
of which all who repent and believe should be
justified. So that the Scriptures may well say
concerning the Saviour—He is the end of the law
for righteousness to every one that believeth.
He is the Lord our righteousness. He was
wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised
for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace
was upon him; and by his stripes we are healed.
He bare our sins in his own body on the tree.
He died the just for the unjust, that he might
bring us to God. He delivered us from the
curse of the law, being made a curse for us.
Here then, dear children, is the way, and the
only way of a sinner's acceptance with God. In
virtue of the covenant of redemption, the righteousness
of Christ, or what he did and suffered on our
behalf, is placed to the account of his people, as
if they had performed it in their own persons.
Though sinful and unworthy in themselves, God
is pleased to pardon and accept them as righteous
in his sight, only for the righteousness sake of his
beloved Son. I am aware, indeed, that some who
speak much of "the merits of Christ," and profess
to rely entirely on those merits, represent the
whole subject in a very different light. They
suppose that in consideration of the sufferings and
death of our blessed Saviour, the old, original law
of God, requiring perfect obedience, is repealed,
and a mitigated law now prescribed as the rule of
our obedience. So that now, under the Christian
dispensation, a perfect obedience is not even required,
but only an imperfect one, accommodated
to our fallen condition and our many infirmities.
But still, they insist, that this imperfect obedience
is the meritorious ground of our acceptance with
God; and, of course, that eternal life is the purchase
of our own obedience. In short, the doctrine
of these errorists is, that the benefit conferred
by the sufferings and death of Christ, consists, not
in providing an entire righteousness for us, but
only in abating the demands of the law; in bringing
down the divine requisitions more to a level
with our ability; and still enabling us, low as we
have fallen, to be the purchasers of salvation by our
own works.
Be assured, dear children, this view of the subject
is a grievous departure from the Scriptural
doctrine concerning the way of salvation. The
Bible represents our pardon and acceptance with
God as not founded, in any respect, or in any
degree, on our own obedience; but as wholly of
grace—as a mere unmerited gift, bestowed solely
on account of what the Redeemer has done as our
substitute and surety. It represents the holy law
of God as remaining in all its original strictness
without repeal or mitigation; and as falling with
the whole weight of its penalty on all the impenitently
guilty. But it declares that penalty to be
removed from those who repent and believe the
Gospel, not on account of any worthiness in themselves,
as the meritorious ground of the benefit;
but only on account of the perfect righteousness of
Him who came to seek and save those who were
lost. In short, a gracious God saves his people
not by overlooking their sins; but by lifting the
penalty from them, and laying it upon the divine
Redeemer, and for his sake letting them go free,
and accepting them solely on account of his merit.
This righteousness of Jehovah the Saviour is
said to be "to all, and upon all them that believe;"—that
is, it is imputed to none—set to the
account of none but those who receive Christ by
faith. Faith is that great master grace by which
we become united to the Saviour, and interested in
his atonement. This righteousness, therefore, is
called the righteousness of faith, and the righteousness
of God by faith. Hence we are said to
be justified by faith, and to be saved by faith.
Not that faith, as an act of ours, is, in any
measure, the ground of our justification; but all
these expressions imply, that there is an inseparable
connexion, in the economy of grace, between
believing in Christ, and being justified by him, or
having his righteousness imputed to us. Happy,
thrice happy they, who can thus call the Saviour
theirs, and who have thus "received the atonement!"
Though unworthy in themselves, they
are graciously pronounced righteous by their
heavenly Judge, on account of what the Mediator
has done. Their sins, though many, are, for his
sake, forgiven them. They are freely justified
from all things from which they could not be justified
by the law of Moses. They are "accepted in
the Beloved." Though polluted and undeserving in
their own character, they are "complete in Him."
There is no condemnation to them now; and in
the day of judgment they shall find, to their eternal
joy, that there is both safety and happiness in
appearing in the righteousness of Him who loved
sinners, and gave himself for them, clothed in
"robes which have been washed and made white
in the blood of the Lamb."
But we not only need to be justified by the
righteousness of Christ; we also indispensably
need to be sanctified by the Spirit of Christ.
Accordingly, the purification of our nature, as well
as the pardon of our sins, is one of the benefits
purchased by Him, and secured by covenant to all
believers. Hence the teaching and the sanctifying
power of the Holy Spirit must be regarded as an
essential part of the great salvation of which I am
speaking. We need as much to be delivered from
the love of sin as from its condemnation. And for
both, the plan of mercy held forth in the Gospel
of Christ, makes equal and effectual provision.
"Whom he justifies, them he also sanctifies; and
whom he sanctifies, them he also glorifies." By
the power of the Holy Spirit, the dominion of sin
is broken in the hearts of all who are brought
under the power of the Gospel. The reign of
corruption in the soul is destroyed; the love of it
is taken away; and though not perfectly sanctified
in the present life, yet every believer has his sanctification
begun. It is carried on, not by his own
wisdom or strength, but by the same divine power
by which it was commenced; until he is, at last,
made perfectly holy, as well as perfectly happy in
the presence of his God and Saviour.
Thus does it appear that salvation is all of grace,
sovereign, unmerited grace. The original devising
of the plan, in the eternal counsels of peace, was
prompted, not by any foresight of faith and holiness
in the fallen creature; but in mere grace.
The plan itself, in all its principles and provisions
makes our salvation perfectly gratuitous, and
wholly excludes all human merit. After the plan
was formed and executed, and the knowledge of it
imparted to us, no one would ever accept of it, did
not the same grace which formed it, incline the
sinner to lay aside his native opposition, and accept
of the offered mercy. And even after cordially
accepting it, no individual would ever cleave to his
hope, and continue to embrace it, and live under its
power, were he not "kept by the power of God
through faith unto salvation."
After the foregoing statement, the great question
is, what message does this plan of salvation bring
to YOU? The message which it brings, dear children,
is an unspeakably solemn one. It charges
you with being sinners—miserable sinners in the
sight of God—without merit—without help, and
without hope in yourselves. It offers you peace,
and pardon, and sanctification, and eternal life,
through the atoning sacrifice of the blessed Redeemer.
It entreats you to lay aside your enmity,
and to receive these benefits with humble
and adoring gratitude, as a free, unmerited gift,
"through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus."
Its language is, "Whosoever will, let him come,
and take of the water of life freely." And again,
"Whosoever cometh to me, I will in no wise cast
out." It calls upon you to renounce all confidence
in yourselves, and to receive and rest on Christ
alone for salvation as he is freely offered in the
Gospel; to receive him as the Lord your righteousness,
and the Lord your strength, and rejoice in
him as your only hope. To this end, it is indispensable
that you be convinced of sin; that you
experience a deep and cordial sense of your own
sinfulness and unworthiness; that you despair of
saving yourselves; that you fall at the footstool of
sovereign grace, feeling that you deserve to die,
and that you can have no hope but in the atoning
blood, and sanctifying Spirit of the Redeemer. It
is your duty and your privilege to go to the Saviour
at once, and cast yourselves on his mercy, without
waiting for any qualifications to render you worthy
of his favour. You are commanded to go to him
as miserable, helpless sinners, not with a price in
your hands; but to receive from him all that you
need to make you holy and happy here and hereafter.
And until you are prepared thus to go to
him, as miserable, unworthy sinners, who deserve
God's wrath and curse forever; until you sincerely
feel that you have nothing to plead but the merit
of another; until you are ready to cast yourselves
at the feet of the Saviour, and to be indebted for
pardon and eternal life as a mere gift of grace, you
have yet to learn the vital element of practical religion.
Dear children! will you hesitate a moment—will
you wait for a second invitation to accept of
such a Saviour? Will you turn away with ingratitude
from such a salvation? Listen to the entreaty
of one who loves you, and who has no stronger
desire concerning you than to see you walking in
the Spirit, and enjoying the consolation of the
Gospel: or rather listen to the voice of that blessed
Saviour himself who died for sinners; and who
says to you, and to all who hear the Gospel—"Come
unto me all ye who labour and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest. Him that cometh
unto me I will in no wise cast out."
Think not, I beseech you, of putting off this
acceptance of the Saviour's love until you are farther
advanced in life. Do you forget that "the
ways of wisdom are ways of pleasantness, and all
her paths peace," and that you cannot too soon
begin to be happy? Besides, have you any assurance
that you will live to be much more advanced
in age than you now are? Not long since, a
graduate of one of our colleges was heard to say,
"I have finished my college education. I will
now devote two years to the study of a profession;
and then I will take one year to see what there is
in that mighty thing they call RELIGION." So
calculated this careless, blooming youth. But before
his plan was half accomplished, he suddenly
fell sick; was seized with delirium; and died
without hope. But there are facts, dear children,
which ought to come nearer home. Can you forget
your beloved brother and sisters, who, in the
very threshold of their existence, were cut down,
and laid in the grave? And what security have
you that you will live to see another year? But
even if you are permitted to live until you reach
adult age, or until you are old and grey-headed,
what reason have you to hope, if you go on hardening
yourselves against the Gospel until that time,
that you will then have grace given you to "consider
your ways?" O, how many who were in
youth thoughtful and tender, have become more
and more callous to every serious impression, as
they advanced in life, and have, at length, sunk
into the grave without hope! Be entreated, then,
dear children, now, while your hearts are tender;
before the world has twined around them a thousand
entanglements; before you become hardened
by inveterate habits of sin; be entreated to make
choice of that "good hope through grace," which
will form the best treasure, and the only effectual
pledge of safety and happiness in the voyage of
life: the treasure which is emphatically "that
good part which can never be taken away from
you."
Dear Children:—If you were walking, in a
dark night, along a road full of sloughs, and pits,
and snares, and dangers of every kind, what would
you do for safety? You would naturally, if you
could obtain it, take a light in your hands. You
would also, if possible, engage a guide, strong and
faithful, well acquainted with the road, and qualified
to conduct and defend you. And, besides all
this, you would vigilantly look around you at
every step, and eagerly mark and avoid every spot
that had a suspicious or doubtful appearance.
Your situation, dear children, in the journey of
life, is precisely such as I have described; or
rather, I ought to say, "the half has not been told
you." You are just entering on a world, dark,
corrupt, and full of allurement and danger. On
every side enemies lie in wait to deceive and betray.
You are and will be exposed to a thousand
temptations and perils from which you have no
wisdom or strength to deliver yourselves. You
need direction and guidance at every step. Now
the Bible presents the only complete and perfect
map of the road which you are travelling. It was
given us to be "a light to our feet, and a lamp to
our path." It exhibits, with unerring fidelity,
every enemy, every snare, every danger which
beset your path. It gives all the information, all
the warning, all the caution, and all the encouragement
which you need. It tells you, more perfectly
than any other book, all that you have to fear, and
all that you have to hope for. There is not a form
of error, or of corruption, against which it does not
put you on your guard; nor an excellence or a
duty which it does not direct you how to cultivate
and attain. "Wherewith," asks the Psalmist,
"shall the young cleanse their way?"—"By
taking heed thereto," he replies, "according to
thy word." No one ever made this holy Book
the guide of his life, without walking wisely,
safely, and happily; without finding the truest
enjoyment in this world, and eternal blessedness
in the world to come.
Can you wonder, then, beloved children, that I
place a high value on this blessed Book; that I
earnestly recommend it to your serious attention,
to your constant study, and to your devout and
affectionate application and confidence? Can you
wonder that I should delight to see it daily in your
hands; much of its sacred contents committed to
your memory; and your hearts deeply imbued
with its spirit and its power? You, no doubt,
remember how earnestly your precious Mother,
now gone to the God who gave this Book, recommended
it to your attention; how assiduously she
put it into your hands; how often she constrained
you to commit portions of it to memory; and how
frequently, on Sabbath evenings, she gathered you
round her to recite those portions in her hearing,
and to receive her instructions and counsels in
regard to them. Can you ever forget these scenes,
and the solemn, tender lessons which you then
received? Call to mind her earnest looks, her
affectionate tones, her unceasing labour to impress
the contents of this sacred Book on your minds
and hearts. Think of these things; and if you
can recollect them without gratitude to God for
such a mother, and without tears of regret that you
have not profited more by her faithful counsels,
you have less moral feeling, and less filial sensibility
than I have been accustomed to give you
credit for.
Why is it, my dear children, that so many
young people regard the Bible with aversion, and
consider the study of its pages, and especially committing
them to memory, as a task and a burden?
When we reflect that it is sent to us from heaven;
that it contains the glad tidings of peace, and love,
and salvation to a lost world; that it is besides full
of the noblest specimens of literary beauty, and of
tender pathetic eloquence that the world ever saw;
that there is something in it adapted to touch the
finest and best cords of human sensibility—why is
it that you so often feel aversion to the study of
this volume, and would gladly be excused from
the task of perusing its chapters? Alas! dear
children, this is one of the many proofs that your
nature, as I before stated, is depraved; and that
you need the renewing and sanctifying power of
the Holy Spirit, before you can understand and
relish a book given by his inspiration. Every
feeling of reluctance to the study of this Book
which you experience, ought to fill you with
alarm, and to constrain you to cry mightily to God
that he would open your eyes and your hearts, and
give you that taste for the best of all books, without
which you cannot be prepared for the joys of his
presence. Consider, I beseech you, that, as you
have been made acquainted with this Book from
your earliest childhood, so you will have to give
an account for this knowledge. Many children
around you have never had the Bible put into their
hands; have never been taught to venerate and love
its sacred pages; but you have been informed of
its origin and value. You have enjoyed a privilege
denied to thousands. Will you not be grateful
for this privilege? Will you not manifest that
you know how to prize a gift of more value than
all the world beside? Can you deliberately consent
to meet the dreadful condemnation of those
who, from childhood, "knew the Master's will,
and did it not."
I hope I need not remind you that the Book of
God is to be read with feelings and in a manner
very different from those with which you read all
other books. When you have read books of
human composition once or twice, you have gotten
from them all they contain—you have done with
them. But with the perusal of the Bible you can
never have done. The oftener you go over it, if
you feel as you ought, the richer and more delightful
will it appear. You can never exhaust its
meaning or its interest. Like its divine Author, it
has a length and breadth and depth and height,
concerning which no human reader can ever say
that he has completely fathomed its meaning, or
measured its riches.
Other books are to be read with attention, and,
if they abound with truth and wisdom, with respect;
but the Book of God is to be read with the
deepest veneration, as containing the mind and
will of our heavenly Sovereign. In fact, every line
of it is to be considered as the voice of God speaking
to us. Woe to those, whether young or aged,
who can handle the Bible with levity, make sport
of its contents, or recite its solemn language as
matter of jest! The Lord will not hold them
guiltless who thus, practically, "take his name in
vain." The Mohammedans manifest much more
reverence for their Koran, than many Christians
for the Bible. They never allow themselves to
touch it without washing their hands. They handle
it with the most pointed respect, never holding
it lower than their girdles. Every copy of it commonly
contains an inscription or label on the cover,
in these words—"Let none touch but those who
are clean." How very differently do many, young
and old, among us, treat the Holy Scriptures!
I have often been distressed when I have seen
children toss about their Bibles, and even throw
them in the dirt, as they would the least valued of
their play-things, or rattle over some of the most
solemn language of the Bible with as little apparent
thought or respect as they would repeat the
veriest effusions of nonsense.
The Bible, farther, is to be read daily, and with
diligence, as containing that daily food from which
you are to derive spiritual aliment, and strength
continually. It is to be read with fixed attention,
seriously directing your mind to its rich and important
meaning; with humility, feeling your need of
the instruction and grace which it contains; with
prayer, imploring the guidance of the Holy Spirit,
that he may open your hearts to receive the engrafted
word which is able to save your souls;
with application—asking continually—"How does
this concern me? Does it describe my case?
Does it not contain a lesson which demands my
special regard? Do I know any thing in my own
experience of what is here taught?"
In this precious Book you will find every thing
adapted to enlarge the mind, to gratify the taste, to
elevate the affections, and to purify the heart. If
you only sought the richest entertainment, you
could not open a book more fitted to gratify you.
It is an inexhaustible mine of instruction as well as
of beauty—the deeper you dig, the richer will you
find its treasures. Its exquisite simplicity, its
pathos, its sublimity, its heavenly wisdom, its
purity, are all adapted to turn us away from the
vanities of the world; to enlarge our views beyond
these regions of disorder and darkness; to
strengthen every high and holy motive; and to
lead us upward to Him who is the source and the
sum of all good. Happy, thrice happy will those
children and young people be, who early learn to
go to the Bible for all their sentiments, principles,
and rules of action; who learn daily to go to that
precious Book to direct them in their pursuits, to
comfort them in their sorrows, to guide them in
their perplexities, and to animate them in their
labours whatever they may be! Such have the
best pledge of temporal enjoyment, and of eternal
blessedness. When, therefore, those who love
you, and would in some measure take the place of
your dear departed Mother, daily put this precious
Book of God into your hands, and urge you to
read and commit to memory a portion of its contents,
do not allow yourselves to regard it as a
task or a burden. Think from whom it comes—from
the God who made you. Think of the great
purpose for which it was given—to make you
wise and eternally happy. Think of the only
means of making it truly profitable to you—studying
it with devout attention, laying it up in your
hearts, and practising it in your lives. Think of
the solemn responsibility which the possession of
this Book lays upon you—for to whomsoever
much is given, of them shall much be required.
And may the great Author of this Book give you
grace to "seek for the heavenly wisdom which it
contains as silver, and search for it as for hid
treasures!"
Dear Children:—"Prayer is the offering up of
our desires to God, for things agreeable to his will,
in the name of Christ, with confession of our sins,
and thankful acknowledgment of his mercies."
This is the definition given in a Catechism with
which you are familiar, and a more complete and
perfect one could scarcely be conceived. It is the
offering up of our sincere desires; for unless it be
sincere, it is but solemn mockery. It is to be
addressed to God alone; for prayer addressed to
any created being, is an act of treason to our rightful
Sovereign. It is to be "for things agreeable to
the divine will;" or else it is unauthorized and
presumptuous. It is always to be presented in the
name of Christ; for there is no other name under
heaven given among men whereby we can draw
near to a holy God with acceptance, but the name
of Jesus Christ. It must be accompanied with
confession of sin; because the approach of a sinner
to God, without an humble sense and acknowledgment
of unworthiness, would be contrary to
every principle of reason, as well as to the Christian
plan of salvation. And, finally, it ought to include
a thankful acknowledgment of divine mercies; for
without a grateful sense of God's goodness, we
cannot be in a frame of mind fitted to receive farther
favours.
I trust, dear children, I need not dwell long on
either the reasonableness or the duty of prayer.
If we are entirely dependent on God for every
temporal and spiritual blessing, then it is surely
reasonable that we acknowledge our dependence,
and apply to him with humility and earnestness
for his aid. If his favour is life, and his blessing
the best riches, it is evident that we ought to
supplicate them with importunity and perseverance.
If we are sinners, unworthy of the divine favour,
we ought to humble ourselves at his footstool, and
make confession of our sins with penitence and
obedience. If he has revealed a plan of mercy
and grace to us, of which he invites and commands
us to avail ourselves, then every principle of self
interest concurs with reason, in urging us to seek
with earnestness a participation in that mercy.
And if our Maker and Redeemer has, in so many
words, commanded us "by prayer and supplication
with thanksgiving to make known our requests
to God," who can question, for a moment,
the reasonableness of a compliance with that command?
Nor is the duty of prayer less apparent than its
reasonableness. The command of our Father in
heaven is—"Pray without ceasing—pray always
with all prayer and supplication, and abound therein
with thanksgiving. I will be inquired of by my
people to do that for them which they need. Ask
and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find;
knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For if
ye, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto
your children, how much more shall your Father
in heaven give his Holy Spirit to them that ask
him? All things whatsoever ye shall ask in
prayer, believing, ye shall receive. The effectual,
fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.
When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and
when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father
which is in secret, and thy Father which seeth in
secret, shall reward thee openly. If any one lack
wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth liberally,
and it shall be given him. Is any afflicted? let
him pray. Be careful for nothing; but in every
thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving,
let your requests be made known to God.
The Lord is rich in mercy to all that call upon
him. In the day of my trouble I called upon the
Lord, and he heard me, and delivered me out of all
my distresses."
Such are some of the numerous passages of
Scripture which plainly require and encourage
prayer. Can any one who reads and believes the
Bible, doubt for a moment, that it is equally his
duty and his privilege to go daily to the throne of
grace to supplicate for all the temporal or spiritual
good which he needs? I hope, my dear children,
you will not be disposed to say, notwithstanding
such express and positive declarations of God's
word, in the language of profane objectors of old—"Wherefore
should we seek after God? Does he
need to be informed of our wants? Can we, by
importunity, alter his purposes? Where is, then,
the advantage of asking for what we need? What
profit shall we have if we pray unto him?" If you
should ever be tempted to ask such a question, I
would answer—"Much every way." God has
connected our asking for blessings with receiving
them. He has promised to hear and answer
prayer. He has condescended to say, that he will
regard with all the tenderness of a parent's heart,
the cries of his children. He has said in his word,
"Ye have not, because ye ask not." This is
enough. But it is not all that is worthy of our
attention. Prayer is not intended to inform God,
but to benefit ourselves. It tends to remind us of
our dependence and unworthiness; to impress our
hearts with a deeper sense of the divine goodness
and mercy; and to beget in our minds that humble,
grateful, tender sense of our own weakness, and of
our obligation to the Author of all good, which
constitute the best preparation for receiving the
gracious gifts of our heavenly Parent.
While your precious, lamented Mother was
alive, what a privilege did you consider it to be
allowed to go to her in all your troubles, and to
make known to her all your desires! How much
greater the privilege to be allowed every hour free
access to your Father in heaven, with all your
anxieties and distresses, to pour out all your wants
and wishes, your hopes and fears into the bosom
of an Almighty Friend, who is ever able and ready
to help!
Since, then, dear children, there are so many
reasons prompting you to prayer; since you are
always weak, always dependant, always unworthy,
and always in need, can you doubt that it is your
duty and your interest to abound in prayer? Let
me entreat you, therefore, never to suffer a day to
pass without engaging in this delightful and most
reasonable exercise. Set apart fixed times for the
purpose, that you may form such habits as will
aid your memory, and prevent your neglecting it.
Retire as soon as you can, after rising in the morning,
to return thanks for the mercies of the night,
and to implore the protection, the guidance, and
the blessing of your heavenly Father, through the
day. And in the evening, before drowsiness overtakes
you, retire again, to praise him for the mercies
of the day, and to ask for his guardianship
during the night watches. But are these the only
subjects of prayer? Far from it. They are
numerous as the moments you live, and various
as the objects which you are called to contemplate.
Pray in the morning, that God would keep you
from all evil in body or soul, through the day; that
he would create in you a clean heart, and renew
within you a right spirit; that he would guard
your speech and behaviour at all times, and in
every situation; that he would enable you to mortify
and subdue every sinful affection, and to overcome
every improper habit; that he would deliver
you from sloth, and pride, and vanity, and malice,
and envy, and every evil temper; that he would
enable you to treat all around you in a dutiful and
becoming manner; in a word, that he would enable
you to spend the day in a manner profitable to
yourselves, and to the benefit of all around you.
And in the evening pray, that he would pardon all
the deficiencies and infirmities of the preceding
day; that he would make you grateful for all the
favours of his merciful Providence; that he would
watch over you during the hours of darkness and
repose; and bring you to the light of another day
in health, in the exercise of your reason, and in
the enjoyment of his favour and love.
And while you thus pray daily for yourselves,
it is your privilege and duty to include in your
petitions all with whom you are connected in the
various relations of life. You ought to pray continually
for your beloved father, who is engaged
in such important labour for the Church, and who
loves you with an affection and solicitude which
you can never repay; for your grandparents, who
are daily praying for you, and who are falling
more and more under the infirmities of age; for
one another, that you may be guided and blessed
amidst all the temptations and dangers of youth;
for your teachers; for your school-mates; for the
poor children around you, who have none of the
advantages of instruction and restraint which you
enjoy; for your friends, and neighbours, and all
with whom you are acquainted. O, my dear
children, if you prayed as you ought every day for
all these, how much happier would you be! What
a benign influence it would have on your whole
temper and conduct! It would make you kind,
tender hearted, and forgiving toward all with whom
you conversed; and make all of them, in their
turn, love you as a friend and benefactor.
Let me make, on this subject, one more suggestion.
Most people, especially most young people,
have no idea of engaging in prayer unless at particular
times when they retire for the purpose. I
wish you all, dear children, besides your stated
seasons of prayer, morning and evening, to form
the habit of lifting up your thoughts and your
desires to God in any and every situation; when
walking by the way; when surrounded with company;
when met by any call of duty, or by any
circumstance of a doubtful aspect, or perplexing
character—be in the habit of silently but devoutly
looking up to God for wisdom and strength to perform
every duty. This kind of intercourse with
God may be carried on at all times, and in all
situations; and, I will add, was never sincerely
adopted by any one without being connected with
guidance and consolations of unspeakable value.
In this way the suggestion of the apostle in
writing to Timothy will be realized, that "every
thing be sanctified by the word of God, and
prayer."
Dear Children:—That every human being is
bound to cultivate, in the best manner, the intellectual
powers which God has given him, I hope
you will take for granted, anterior to all argument;
and, although the moral aspects of education are
the most vitally important, yet as no one can be a
moral agent without some degree of intellect; so
it may be said, that the wisest and best culture
even of our moral powers, depends more on the
discipline, the enlargement, and the furniture of the
intellect, than is commonly supposed.
The cultivation of the mind comprises two
things, and two only, viz: giving it proper habits
of exercise, and filling it with useful knowledge.
The case is precisely similar with regard to the
body. The sum total of all that we are called to
do for the benefit of the body, is to secure its
strength by constant and wholesome action or
exercise, and to furnish it with appropriate nourishment.
On the one hand, were its exercise ever so
abundant, if left without aliment, it would speedily
sink into weakness and death; and, on the other,
if its aliment be ever so plentiful and rich, yet if it
be left wholly without exercise, it will soon become
a mass of disease and corruption. Precisely so is
it in the cultivation of the mind. Exercise and
aliment are equally indispensable, and must go
together. If the mind be not taught to think, and
to feel an appetite for intellectual provision, all the
knowledge in the world, if introduced into it,
would be of little use. But, if it be taught only to
think and feel, and be furnished with none of the
appropriate aliment of knowledge, it cannot grow
either in strength, or in a capacity to act its part in
the world with dignity or usefulness.
As these principles lie at the foundation of all
intellectual culture, so they are also adapted to
instruct us with regard to the wisest and best means
of conducting that culture, with regard to the departments
of knowledge most worthy of being
studied, and the relative stress which ought to be
laid on different pursuits. If you would be trained
up merely to be splendid butterflies, to shine and
to please the superficial and the empty, for a day,
and, having done this, to die like senseless insects;
why, then, a corresponding plan of culture must
be adopted. But, if you wish to be regarded as
rational creatures; to be prepared for sober thought
and action; to "serve your generation by the will
of God;" to die in peace, and to be remembered
with love and veneration when you are gone, then
it is perfectly manifest a very different method of
training is indispensable.
I trust you will not hesitate a moment in
deciding which of these courses you ought to
choose. I trust the way of practical wisdom, of
piety, and of usefulness, will be the object of your
prompt and decisive choice. If so, the course of
mental culture which you ought to adopt, cannot
possibly be mistaken by a mind of the least reflection.
If you are to feel and act as moral accountable
agents, and to consider human life as a serious,
momentous thing; then, doubtless, you will feel
that you are bound, first of all, and above all, to
exercise your minds in such a manner, and to store
them with such branches of knowledge, as will
tend most effectually to enlarge them, to strengthen
them, to inspire them with practical wisdom, and
to furnish them with the means of the most solid
and extensive usefulness.
Upon this principle, I would say, let your first
and chief attention be directed to those branches of
knowledge which lie at the foundation of all that is
enlarged, liberal, and elevated in human pursuits;
such as Grammar, Rhetoric, Geography, the Latin,
Greek, and French languages, Natural and Moral
Philosophy, the elements of Mathematical science,
Chemistry, and as many of the branches of Natural
History as may be within your reach, especially
Botany and Mineralogy. These are all proper for
both sexes; and the more you gain of all of them,
the better fitted will you be both for enjoying life,
and for fulfilling its various and momentous duties.
I grant, indeed, my dear grandson, that with regard
to what is denominated Classic literature, and
Mathematics, I wish you to go more thoroughly to
work, than would be desirable, or perhaps proper,
for your sisters. But I hope that neither of these
will be entirely neglected by them. For I have an
impression, that the careful study, to a certain
extent, of the best of the dead languages, and an
intelligent acquaintance with the elementary principles
of Mathematics, ought to be omitted by none
who can possibly attain them. In my opinion,
they are adapted to produce an effect on the mind,
and to diffuse an influence over all its other acquisitions,
more happy and more important than is
commonly recognised, even by many of the educated
themselves.
Besides the popular sciences just mentioned,
with which every human being who can afford it,
ought to seek some good acquaintance, there is an
extensive and important field of knowledge, which
is defined by the general term of literature, and,
in our case, of English Literature. There is a
large class of writers, with whose works every one
who claims to be intelligent and well informed,
must be familiar. To this department belongs the
whole subject of History, which, I trust, will
receive the serious attention of all of you; and
about which I hope you will take enlightened
advice, as a number of the most attractive and
popular writers in this department, are unfit to be
perused without much reserve and caution. To
these, of course, ought to be added, those great
writers, both in prose and poetry, which deserve
to be ranked as English Classics; and, with
which, I feel confident, you will seize the earliest
opportunity of becoming acquainted. I refer to
such writers as Milton, Shakspeare, Dryden, Addison,
Steele, Pope, Thompson, Gray, Young,
Goldsmith, Johnson, Cowper, Beattie, and a number
of others, whom I cannot pause to specify, but
with whom it would be highly discreditable not
to have some intimate knowledge. Without an
acquaintance with these writers, you cannot appreciate
the riches, the beauties, or the purity of your
vernacular tongue, or form for yourselves a good
style of writing. In these writers, too, you will
find a great store-house of fine sentiment, as well
as diction, adapted greatly to enlarge and elevate
the mind, to impart to it its highest polish, and to
prepare it for its best efforts.
There are certain accomplishments commonly
called ornamental, deemed by many desirable for
females, and by some considered as of much consequence.
Among these are dancing, music, painting,
drawing, embroidery, &c. With regard to
dancing, your beloved grandmother and myself
never thought proper to permit any of our own
children to be instructed in this art; not because
we thought the act of dancing itself criminal, but
because we considered it as inseparably and almost
necessarily connected with the whole system of
balls, dancing assemblies, midnight parties, &c.,
all of which we deemed criminal, and in a great
variety of ways, hostile to the principles and
the claims of true religion. We do, indeed, find
dancing spoken of in the Old Testament Scriptures,
as having been employed, even on occasions of religious
joy; but never on such occasions do we read
of the midnight dance, nor of promiscuous dancing,
that is, of the sexes together. And with respect to
the New Testament, we read there of only one
actual dance, and that was performed by a profligate
woman, and connected with crime of the most
atrocious and revolting character.
As to music, I am persuaded it is the duty of
every one who is able to do it, to acquire the
power of uniting in the social praise of God with
excellence and efficiency. The cultivation of
vocal music, and the attainment of such a degree
of skill in it as is essential to imparting an interest
in the exercise, are conducive to health and favourable
to moral and spiritual improvement. So far, I
am confident you ought all to go. And if my
granddaughters should have a special taste and
love for instrumental music, I am by no means
prepared to advise that they deny themselves the
pleasure. It is an elegant accomplishment, and
when wisely employed, may be connected with
innocent pleasure, and sometimes with benefit.
But I should deeply regret to find them aiming at
that exquisite skill in instrumental music, which
cannot be attained without great expense, much
loss of time, and that intense and long continued
attention which cannot fail to engross the mind and
stand in the way of more worthy objects of pursuit,
if it do not wholly exclude them. This is so
unworthy of a rational accountable creature, that
I would infinitely rather my dear grandchildren
should know nothing of music, than that they
should carry their zeal for it, and their devotion to
it, to such an injurious length. And as to my
dear grandson, while I hope always to hear him
unite in singing the praises of God in the sanctuary
with taste and skill, it would give me unspeakable
pain to hear that he was regarded as a highly
acceptable and admired singer at convivial meetings,
and that his company was courted on that account.
I concur in opinion with the old Grecian sage, who,
when a young gentleman of his acquaintance, of
respectable station and employment in society, had
performed on an instrument of music with consummate
skill and effect, said to him, "Are you not
ashamed, my young friend, to play so well?"
In conducting the intellectual culture of the
young, there is one question which I presume you
will not fail to ask, and which I wish to anticipate
and answer in this little system of affectionate
advices. The question is, whether Novels ought
to have any place in the course of reading prescribed
for young people? This is a question of
exceeding great importance. When I was a youth
it was far less interesting and momentous, as a
practical matter, than it has now become. Three
quarters of a century, and more especially a century
ago, the number of this class of writings was
so small, and their popular circulation so inconsiderable,
that their influence was scarcely worthy of
notice, compared with that which they have more
recently exerted, and which they are daily going
on to extend. Bear with me then, dear children,
while I dwell a little on this subject, and call your
attention to some thoughts which I pray God may
be deeply impressed upon your minds.
That fictitious history is not in its own nature
and necessarily criminal, will probably be acknowledged
by all. It may be so construed as to awaken
curiosity, to excite sympathy, and to impress the
understanding and the heart in a salutary manner.
Of course, to condemn every thing of the kind as
such, and however constructed or employed, would
be to pronounce an unjust judgment. Hence we
find examples of this mode of instruction in the
holy Scriptures; and on the same principle, some
of the wisest and best human teachers in all ages,
have used the vehicle of lively and interesting
fiction, known to be such at the time, for insinuating
into the mind moral and religious lessons,
which in a different form, might not so readily
have gained admittance.
But the great error of modern times is two-fold;
First, in multiplying publications of this kind,
until they bear an inordinate and injurious proportion
in the current literature of the day; and,
Secondly, in constructing them upon a plan adapted
to degrade virtue and piety, to recommend vice,
and of course to prove seductive and immoral in
their whole influence.
Even when such works are perfectly unexceptionable
in their character; when they are wholly
free from any thing improper, either in language or
sentiment, they may be productive of incalculable
mischief, if, as now, they are issued in excessive
numbers and quantity. Leaving the character of
modern novels entirely out of the question, the
enormous number which for the last half century
has been every day increasing, has become a
grievous intellectual and moral nuisance. As
long as they were few in number, and were
regarded not as the substance, but only as the
seasoning of the literary feast, they occupied but a
small share of public attention. The chief time
and attention of the reading portion of the community
were mainly devoted to works of substantial
value, fitted to strengthen, enlarge, and enrich the
mind. But, within the last twenty or thirty years,
the number of novels has increased so rapidly;
they have become so prominent and alluring a
part of the current literature of the day; and by
their stimulating and inexhaustible variety, have so
drawn away the minds of the aged as well as the
young from solid reading, that they have formed
the principal reading of a large portion of the community,
and, of course, have become a snare and
an injury to an extent not easily calculated. As
long as exhilarating gases, or other stimulating substances,
are administered sparingly, and as medicines,
they may be altogether harmless, and even
essentially useful. But, when those who have
taken them for some time in this manner, become
so enamoured with them as to be no longer satisfied
with their moderate and salutary use, but
make them their daily and principal aliment, they
become inevitably mischievous. They destroy the
tone of the stomach, and, in the end, radically
undermine the health.
So it is with the insidious excitement of novels.
Were the reader of them to take none into his
hands but those which might be safely pronounced
perfectly pure and innocent; and were he certain
that he would never be tempted to go beyond the
most moderate bounds in seeking and perusing
even such, there would, perhaps, be little danger
to be apprehended. But no one can be thus certain
of either. The general stimulus of fictitious
narrative is morbid and disorderly. It excites the
mind, but cannot fill or enrich it. The probability
is, that he who allows himself to enter on this
course, will be led on, like the miserable tippler,
from one stage of indulgence to another, until his
appetite is perverted; his power of self-denial and
restraint lost; and his ruin finally sealed; or, at
least, his mind so completely indisposed and unfitted
for the sober realities of practical wisdom, for
the pursuits of solid science and literature, as to be
consigned to the class of superficial drivellers as
long as he lives.
The truth is, novels—even the purest and best
of them—are adapted, not to instruct, but only to
amuse; not to nourish and strengthen, but only to
exhilarate. They even enervate the mind; they
generate a sickliness of fancy; and they render the
ordinary affairs and duties of life altogether uninteresting
and insipid. After wading through hundreds
of the most unexceptionable volumes belonging
to this class—what has been gained? What
has been laid up for future use? Nothing. Not a
trace of any thing useful has been left behind. The
days and nights devoted to their perusal have been
absolutely lost. What infatuation is it for a rational
creature who is sent into the world for serious and
important purposes, and who is hastening to the
judgment seat, thus to waste precious time; and,
what is worse, thus to pervert his mind, and disqualify
himself for sober employments! The celebrated
Dr. Goldsmith, in writing to his brother,
respecting the education of his son, expresses himself
in the following strong terms, which are the
more remarkable, as he himself had written a
novel:—"Above all things, never let your son
touch a romance or novel. These paint beauty in
colours more charming than nature, and describe
happiness that man never tastes. How delusive,
how destructive are those pictures of consummate
bliss! They teach the youthful mind to sigh
after beauty and happiness which never existed;
to despise the little good which fortune has mixed
in our cup, by expecting more than she ever gave;
and, in general, take the word of a man who has
seen the world, and has studied human nature
more by experience than precepts—take my word
for it, I say, that such books teach us very little of
the world."[10] He might have gone farther, and
said—They teach us little of any thing; and so
pervert the taste, as to take away all relish for
applying the mind to any thing sober or useful.
Often have I known young men and women so
bewitched by novels, that they could read nothing
else. They sought for new works of this class in
every direction; devoured them with insatiable
avidity; and became less and less disposed for
pursuing any study either prescribed by their preceptors,
or adapted to promote their ultimate enjoyment;
until their prospects for both worlds were
irrecoverably overcast with clouds and darkness.
Imagine not, dear children, that you will exercise
more resolution than others, and thus avoid
the snare of which I have spoken. You cannot
answer for yourselves in this matter, any more
than the man who is constantly exposed to the
temptation of stimulating drinks can be sure of
escaping the danger. Rely upon it, the more confident
you are of your own wisdom and firmness
in avoiding the evil in question, the greater your
peril. In this, as in many other things, the only
complete safety is to be found in wholly avoiding
the dangerous territory.
But there is another source of evil in this department
of literature, still more serious and formidable.
A very large proportion of modern novels,
are far from being innocent. They are positively
seductive and corrupting in their tendency. They
make virtue to appear contemptible, and vice
attractive, honourable, and triumphant. Folly and
crime have palliative and even commendatory names
bestowed upon them. The omnipotence of love
over all obligations and all duties, is continually
maintained; and the extravagance of sinful passion
represented as the effect of amiable sensibility.
Surely these representations can have no other
tendency than to pervert the moral sentiments, and
to corrupt the hearts of those who habitually dwell
upon them. And even though they be, at first,
contemplated with abhorrence, no one can tell how
soon the mind may be gradually and insidiously
reconciled to them, by familiarity with the infectious
influence.
For example; the novels of Sir Walter Scott
have been read with eager delight by millions of
the young and the old; and many pronounce them
at least innocent. But those who read them with
intelligence, and with a proper estimate of the
times and the characters which he undertakes to
portray, will perceive that the writer arrays himself
against the patriotism and the piety of some
of the best men that ever adorned the history of
his country; that he exhibits orthodoxy and zeal
under the guise of enthusiasm and fanaticism; that
he strives to cover with dishonour, men "of whom
the world was not worthy;" and to elevate and
canonize their persecutors. In short, that his
general influence is wholly unfriendly to religion.
These characteristics pervade the most popular
of his novels. Of course few of his readers,
especially of his youthful readers, are aware of his
misrepresentation, and, therefore, are not armed
against the mischievous influence.
But there is a poison lurking in this field, still
more virulent and fatal. A large portion of novels
may be charged with being seductive and immoral,
upon a more refined and deep laid plan. They
are systematic, and, in some instances, ingenious
and plausible apologies for the most atrocious
crimes. In many modern productions of this kind,
the intelligent reader will recognise the following
process of representation: Corrupt opinions are
put into the mouth of some favourite hero, the
splendour of whose character, in other respects, is
made to embellish the principles which he holds,
and the force of whose eloquence is employed to
recommend the most unreasonable and mischievous
dogmas. When this hero commits a crime, and
when, by this crime, according to the fixed laws
of the divine government, he is involved in serious
difficulty, if not lasting and fatal misery, the
fashionable novelist endeavours to throw the blame
on the religious and moral institutions of society,
as narrow, illiberal, and unjust. When a splendid
but corrupt woman, has forsaken the paths of
virtue, and when she suffers in her reputation and
her comfort, by such conduct, all this is ascribed
to "the wretched state of civilization"—to "the
deplorable condition of society." Every opportunity
is taken to attack some essential principle of
morality, under the tide of a "prejudice;" to
ridicule the duties of conjugal and domestic life, as
flowing from "contracted" and "slavish" views;
to stigmatize the sober pursuits of honest industry,
as "dull" and "spiritless;" and, in a word, to
frame an apology for robbery, murder, suicide, and
the indulgence of every propensity, for which a
corrupt heart can plead an inclination.
Now, my dear children, when novels of this
kind are placed on the shelves of every circulating
library, and strewed over every part of our land,
what security have youthful novel-readers that
many of this class will not fall into their hands,
and that they may not imbibe the fatal poison
before they are aware? Is it any wonder that
wise parents and guardians are painfully apprehensive
of such danger? Many amiable and well-intentioned
young people, who fancied they were
gaining amusement only, have been unwarily betrayed
into opinions, and prepared for practices
which they would once have regarded with abhorrence,
and which ultimately led them into error,
crime, and ruin. Since, then, there are so many
novels of this insidious and baneful character; and
since it is by no means easy for the young and
inexperienced to distinguish between the innocent
and the vile, you will not wonder that I advise,
nay, entreat you to avoid the reading of novels
altogether; never to allow yourselves to take a
volume of this kind into your hands at all. The
most innocent of them, as you have seen, are
worthless, and the perusal even of them, a waste
of time; and if you allow yourselves to touch any
of them, you will be in danger of being led astray
to an extent which you can hardly be made to
anticipate. I beseech you, dear children, trust
one who sincerely loves you; who understands
the subject of which he is speaking; and who
would not deprive you of a single safe or solid
pleasure—trust him when he earnestly exhorts
you, NEVER TO READ A NOVEL.
You will, perhaps, ask, what is my opinion of
what are called "religious novels," that is, of fictitious
narrative, designed to illustrate and recommend
religion? I am compelled to say, that my
deliberate judgment is unfavourable to these also.
They are neither edifying nor safe as instructors in
the great department of religion. I do not deny
that some of this class may be adapted to do good,
and may have been actually useful. But this is
not the question. The question is, whether, as a
system, it is better to instruct in religion through
the medium of fictitious narrative, and by means of
thrilling incidents, or by plain, sober, didactic, and
exhortatory address. In general, I cannot help
deciding in favour of the latter. The reason why
the large majority of mankind prefer fictitious narrative
is, that they love excitement; and most
youthful readers will be more likely to take interest
in the "story," than in the moral lessons
which it conveys. Condiments and stimulants are
useful in our food; but to make our daily food
consist wholly or mainly of condiments and stimulants,
would not, surely, be wise or salutary.
But this is not the worst. Among the novels
called religious, there are various classes. Almost
all the different religious denominations have issued
novels appropriate to their respective sectarian characters.
We not only have those which have been
put forth by the friends of truth and piety; but,
also, many by the advocates of error. Socinianism
is now strenuously inculcated through the medium
of fictitious narrative. Cold Pelagianism on the one
hand, and Antinomianism on the other, have been
presented in the same manner. Amidst these alternate
pleadings of orthodoxy and heresy, how shall
the youthful learner discriminate? Were he to
take up a didactic treatise in favour of Socinian or
Pelagian opinions, he would see the error in a
moment, and be on his guard against it. But
when he is borne away by the excitement of a
stirring narrative, and a spirited, eloquent dialogue,
he may imbibe the poison of error, before he is
aware.
You must not, dear children, consider me as
fanciful, if I express an opinion, that the present
prevailing state of mind of the religious public has
some connexion with that class of novels of which
I am now speaking. The most striking characteristic
of the present time is a love of excitement.
The old and sober mode of proceeding in any
thing has become unpopular and intolerable. Our
children can scarcely be prevailed upon to read
any thing unless it comes in the shape of a striking
story. If any one wishes a pious tract to be read,
he must construct it in the form of a thrilling fictitious
narrative. Every dish must be highly seasoned;
every draught must be a dram. Is it any
wonder that, in such a condition of the public
taste, all old methods of doing good should be despised,
and the Church as well as the world filled
with new opinions, new estimates of things, and
"new measures?"
Be assured, when your mind is brought, by any
means, whether by an insatiable love of fictitious
narrative, or by any other form of exciting composition,
to relish nothing conveyed in the old form of
solid, didactic, direct instruction, it is high time
to examine whether you are not acquiring habits
unfriendly to sober thought, to the best mental
culture, and to the acquirement of the most valuable
knowledge. How often have I met with
young people, of both sexes, who could talk fluently,
and with apparent intelligence, of the volumes
of Miss Burney, Mrs. Radcliffe, Madame
De Stael, Miss Edgeworth, and Scott, and Cooper,
and Bulwer, and even of the depraved and infamous
Byron;—but, who were struck dumb if you
spoke to them of Shakspeare; of Bacon; of Milton;
of Addison; of Thompson; of Young; of
Dryden; of Pope, and Johnson, and Robertson,
and Junius, and Cowper, and other English classics,
of whom, if they had ever heard, they seemed
to know nothing! Is this the way to cultivate the
mind? Does this speak for or against the devourer
of novels?
The sum of my counsel, then, under this head,
is, that if you wish really to cultivate your minds,
and to prepare them for healthful and useful action,
let your studies be solid, diligent, and persevering.
Let your reading be such as will fill your
minds with the knowledge of facts, principles, and
sentiments of the enriching and elevating kind.
Let your first and most intimate acquaintance be
with those authors whose works will tend to fit
you for answering the great purpose for which you
were sent into the world. Carefully avoid every
species of reading which tends to turn away your
minds from sober, practical views of life and duty.
And remember that, for every book you read, and
for every mental influence which you invite, you
have to render a solemn account.
There is one more counsel, dear children, with
which I will close this letter. It is, that whatever
subject you study—whatever book you read, you
do it faithfully and thoroughly. Leave nothing
until you understand it well;—until you have, as
far as possible, gone to the bottom of it. You
may rely upon it that no solid knowledge is to be
gained without patient, unwearied labour. Be not
in haste, then, to pass on to another subject or
lesson, until you have completely mastered that in
which you may be engaged. Be not contented
with merely enabling yourselves to recite a lesson
with plausible fluency. Be sure that you thoroughly
comprehend, not only its obvious meaning,
but also its elementary principles. Despise
the indolence of those, who, in learning languages,
are constantly using the miserable crutches of
translations, instead of walking with the use of
their own limbs; and who, whenever a difficulty
occurs in mathematics, or any other subject, instead
of delving it out themselves, ignobly ask help
from some wiser and better scholar. This is
cheating yourselves. That which is gained by
your own efforts, and with considerable labour,
will be better understood, and more firmly lodged
in the mind, than that which is imparted gratuitously
by others, without any vigorous mental
exercise on your part.
The fact is, the pursuit of knowledge may be
compared to the task of one who is called to cross
a high and craggy mountain. If he is willing to
forego his own best interests, both as to bodily
and mental health, he may employ some sturdy,
athletic assistant to take him up in his arms, and
bear him over the steep ascent, and deposit him in
safety on the other side, without the use of a muscle
of his own. But what would he be the better
for it, at the end of his journey? His limbs would
not be braced. His chest would not be expanded.
He would miss a thousand interesting objects of
attention which the use of his own feet would have
brought to his view. After a thousand such boasted
expeditions, he might live and die the same
feeble, nervous dyspeptic, that he was when he set
out. Whereas, he who resolves to climb the same
mountain by his own efforts; who addresses himself
to the task with patient persevering labour;
who takes step after step, slowly, but wisely and
firmly; may not gain the ascent quite as speedily
as his weaker contemporary; but he will gain it
much more to his own profit and comfort, and, in
the end, find every power invigorated by the
enterprise. O, if children and young people could
feel how foolish it is to procure themselves to be
borne up the mountain of knowledge by others,
instead of climbing it themselves, they would despise
all the "labour-saving machinery" to which
many of them are so fond of resorting; and would
remember that what is gained by their own intellectual
efforts, is more solid, wears better, digests
better, and is productive of richer fruit, both to
themselves and others.
It is a law impressed by our Maker on the intellectual,
as well as the physical man, that "if any
will not work, neither shall he eat." It is a real
blessing, if we did but know it, to have labour connected
with all our attainments. Thus do we best
answer the great end of our being; thus do we
invigorate every power, and become prepared most
effectually to "serve our generation by the will of
God."
Dear Children:—By the heart, I mean the moral
feelings, dispositions, and affections. And by
cultivating the heart, I mean directing much attention
to restraining, regulating, and purifying all its
exercises. This may be said to lie at the foundation
of all duty and all happiness. Were your
intellectual powers cultivated with all possible care
and success, and your moral faculties neglected,
you might be polished and elegant demons; but
would be miserable yourselves, and a curse to
society. Whether, therefore, you regard your own
present enjoyment, and everlasting welfare, or the
happiness of those around you, you cannot too
early remember the great purpose for which you
were sent into the world, and the relations which
you sustain as rational, social, and immortal creatures.
You cannot too early or too diligently learn
to restrain your passions; to deny yourselves; and
to cultivate those benevolent, meek, humble, and
amiable habits, which are indispensable to tranquillity
and peace of mind, and which alone can
prepare you to adorn and bless the social circles
with which you may be connected. I draw your
attention the more earnestly to this great subject
because I see so many young people who appear
never to think of the importance, or even utility of
this part of their education.
If you have not learned, dear children, that you
are by nature prone to be proud, vain, selfish,
envious, irascible, sensual, malignant, and, in a
word, to indulge the various appetites and passions
which tend to destroy your own peace, and to
invade the comfort of those around you; if you
have not discovered that this is the tendency of
your nature, and that resisting it will call for much
self-denial, and continual, and sometimes for agonizing
effort, you have attended less to your own
feelings, and habits, and less to the character of
your friends and associates than I am willing to
suppose.
Perhaps you will ask—Does not religion cover
all this ground? Where the power of Christian
principle reigns in the heart, will not every thing
intended to be included in this letter follow as a
matter of course? If the plan of salvation, treated
in a former letter, be received and obeyed, will not
all the objects contemplated in the present letter,
be included and secured? Whence, then, the
necessity, or even the propriety, of making it matter
of separate consideration? I answer, the religion
of Christ, in its spirit and power, does indeed
embrace all moral excellence. It does, in fact,
where it bears appropriate and entire sway, include
every moral feeling, affection, and habit, which
can adorn and elevate human nature. And yet it
is to be lamented that many who cherish the
Christian hope, are not as much aware of this fact
as they ought to be; and are not so careful to
exhibit all the loveliness, as well as the purity
of example which become them, as is desirable.
And, besides, I have always found that there is a
great advantage in pursuing rather more into detail
the various branches of the Christian temper, than
is commonly done even in the best treatises on
religious character and duty. The French have a
phrase which expresses more exactly than any
English one which I can recollect, my meaning in
the title of this letter. The phrase I refer to, is
Les petites morales; by which they appear to
understand those moral delicacies of feeling, temper,
and intercourse, which, though not always
found actually shining in every professing, or even
every real Christian, do really belong to the Christian
code of ethics, and are indispensable to a complete
and exemplary character.
The duties which grow out of our relations to
God, are generally acknowledged by all professors
of religion. However defective their obedience,
their obligations are seldom disputed. But if it be
the law of God, not only that we should "love
Him with all our heart and soul and strength and
mind," but also that we should "love our neighbours
as ourselves," then the duties growing out of
this great law are more multiplied, tender, delicate
and important than most of those who are called
religious people recognise in practice, or even in
theory.
It is true, the root of all sound morality is religion.
And it is equally true, that the deeper sense
any one has of the constraining love of Christ, and
of the holiness, majesty, omniscience, and omnipresence
of God, the more faithful he will be in
the discharge of all moral duties, both in private
and in public. Labour then, day by day, to gain
a deeper impression of the claims of your Creator
and Redeemer upon you. Meditate much on the
Divine glory. Cultivate a devout spirit. Study
to walk with God in the exercise of faith, and
love, and prayer. And endeavour to keep constantly
before your minds his all seeing eye, his
infinite holiness, his judgment seat, and those
righteous retributions which he has in store for all
his creatures, whether they be good, or whether
they be evil? This is cultivating the heart in the
most essential and radical sense. This is going to
"the root of the matter." That morality, and
that alone, which is grafted upon this sanctified
stock, will be regarded with approbation by the
Searcher of hearts, and stand the test of the great
day.
But while you labour with your hearts, that
they may be habitually laid open, with all the softness
and tenderness of spiritual sensibility, to the
claims of your Creator and Redeemer; study with
no less diligence to cherish a deep sense of all the
duties which you owe to your beloved relatives, to
your friends, to your neighbours, and to all with
whom you have intercourse. To perceive the
theory of these duties, is the province of the understanding;
to enter into them, as a practical matter,
and under a solemn sense of obligation, is an affair
of the heart; and the more deeply your hearts are
schooled both in the principles and practice of
these duties, the more they may be said to partake
of that culture which I am now recommending.
When I imagine to myself what an influence
your precious Mother might have had in cultivating
your moral feelings and habits, if it had
pleased God to spare her to you; when I think of
the happy power which her delicate, forming
hand, might, by the divine blessing, have exerted
over the heart of each of you;—the heart—as Mrs.
Hannah More expresses it—that "seat of evil
propensities—that little troublesome empire of the
passions;"—I could sit down and weep afresh
that you are never to enjoy that culture. But,
happily, there is a source of infinitely better culture.
Try to lay to heart your weakness and your
wants, and implore without ceasing the enlightening,
subduing, and sanctifying power of the Holy
Spirit, and you will find "his grace sufficient for
you."
There are special duties which you owe to your
beloved surviving Parent, and to all your domestic
relatives, of the most peculiar and tender kind;
duties which it is equally your privilege and your
honour to discharge. These are veneration, love,
gratitude, and a dutiful respect to all their feelings,
as well as their interests. Here children are extremely
apt to fail. Affection is generally found
to descend from parents to their offspring, and in
general from elder to younger relatives, in great
strength; but from children to parents, or from the
young to the old, it seldom rises with equal vigour.
Let not this be said of you. Constantly cherish
toward your beloved Father, and all your elder
relatives, not merely an outward respect, and dutifulness
of deportment, but a cordial and ardent
affection; a sincere and lively gratitude for all
those anxious cares and labours on their part for
your benefit, for which you have been indebted
ever since you were born, and for which you can
never make an adequate return. Try to please
them by the constant manifestation of love, confidence,
and grateful veneration; and let them see
that you treasure up, to your profit, all their
instruction, reproofs, and warnings. When the
heart, as well as the outward conduct, is conformed
to these sentiments, O, how endearing and
happy is the intercourse between parents and children!
What a charm is diffused over the whole
aspect of domestic society!
Let me entreat you, also, early to learn the duty
and the pleasure of living in affectionate harmony
among yourselves. I can scarcely express to you
the pain which I have sometimes felt when I
have perceived any thing like a spirit of strife and
acrimony rising between you, and leading to the
exchange of angry looks and passionate language.
Surely three motherless children ought to feel
more closely bound together than to indulge in
such a temper and conduct. If you do not love
one another, who can you expect will love you?
Be careful, then, continually to cultivate a spirit of
brotherly and sisterly affection toward each other.
Let nothing interrupt this. When any contest
arises, let the only strife be, which shall be the
first to yield, rather than contend. On no account
allow yourselves to employ harsh, much less violent
language toward each other. And if any contest
arises which you cannot settle between yourselves
without violence, let a united appeal to your
Father, if he be present, or in his absence, to your
grandparents, terminate the controversy. Seldom
does a conflict of this kind arise without there
being blame on both sides. And who so proper to
make the proper award, and to adjust every difficulty,
as those who love you all equally and
dearly, and have age and experience on their side?
Let me enjoin on you to begin, as early as possible,
to cherish a spirit of habitual benevolence—a
desire, wherever you go, to promote the happiness
of all around you. Selfishness is the great
master-sin of human nature. "All seek their
own." The young, especially, are apt to be
swallowed up in the excessive pursuit of their own
enjoyment, and that enjoyment is rarely sought or
found in ministering to the wants, and promoting
the comfort of others. But rely upon it, dear
children, this is a narrow and altogether deceptive
view of the best means of happiness. Not only is
it the divine command that we "love our neighbour
as ourselves," but it is equally certain that
obedience to this great law tends as directly to
make ourselves happy, as it does to promote the
comfort of the objects of our benevolent attention.
If you wish to be happy yourselves, study continually
to make all around you so too. The luxury
of doing good is the richest luxury of which we
are capable. It is the very spirit of Christ, who
"went about doing good;" and the more closely
we commune with him in the exercise of the same
spirit, the more we secure true and rational enjoyment.
Wherever you are, then, cultivate a spirit
of sympathy with the afflicted, and the habit of
flying spontaneously to the relief of suffering.
You cannot begin too early to feed the hungry, to
clothe the naked, to minister to the wants of the
sick and dying, to relieve distress of every kind,
and to "please every one for his good to edification:"—not
by flattery, which is too commonly
the method of pleasing adopted; but by letting
it be seen that you seek, as much as in you
lies, to make all around you truly happy. Never
promote mirth at the expense of others. Never
allow yourselves to "set others by the ears" as it
is sometimes expressed, for the sake of derision.
Carefully avoid all those "tricks," which so many
of the young delight in, and by which so much
suffering, and sometimes even ultimately the loss
of life, have been incurred. In a word, conscientiously
cherish the principle and the habit of never
giving a moment's pain to a human being, or even
to a brute beast, unless it be necessary for their
real good; and wherever you see pain, by whomsoever
inflicted, do all in your power, consistent
with other obligations, to relieve it, and to give
rational pleasure. There is nothing, be assured,
dear children, in all the splendour of fashionable
display, in all the gratifications of sense, in all the
delirious joys of giddy dissipation, once to be compared
with the hallowed pleasure of habitually
doing good to all within your reach. Yes, make
doing good your "ruling passion," and you will
be among the happiest of mortals.
Let me beseech you to watch over your temper
with studious care. Few things are more unhappy
in a young person of either sex, than an irritable,
irascible temper. It betrays into a thousand indiscretions.
It poisons social intercourse. It alienates
friends. It destroys the comfort of the individual
who indulges it; and it interferes with the
comfort of all with whom he converses. I have
known this infirmity to cast a cloud over the
whole course of many persons who were otherwise
fitted to adorn and bless society. Watch and
pray against it with the utmost diligence. "He
that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that
taketh a city." "Be swift to hear, slow to speak,
slow to wrath." Learn "by soft answers to turn
away wrath," both in yourselves and others. Be
not ready to take offence, or to consider any one
as "an offender for a word." Never regard an
honest difference of opinion from yourself as a personal
affront. Surely the indulgence of such a
spirit is as unreasonable as it is unhappy. Guard
with the utmost vigilance against a jealous, suspicious
temper. Ill nature, peevishness, and a disposition
to take every thing by an unfavourable
handle, and to indulge in satire and sarcasm, are
revolting in every human being, but especially in
the female sex. I have never known such a temper
to be indulged without diminishing both the
respectability and happiness of its possessor. Let
a mild, amiable, conciliatory spirit reign in all your
intercourse. Be ever kind, tender hearted, and
forgiving, even as you hope to obtain forgiveness
from the God of all grace. Let the spirit of
benevolence, and a desire to please, shine in your
countenances, and be manifest in your deportment
in all companies; at home and on journies; in the
public hotel, and in the parlour of a friend;
towards servants, as well as towards your equals
or superiors. In a word, in temper as well as in
conduct, "Whatsoever ye would that others should
do unto you, do ye even so to them, for this is the
law and the prophets."
In forming your moral character and habits, I
entreat you to lay great stress upon cultivating a
sacred and delicate regard to truth, in all your
social intercourse. Rely upon it, you cannot pay
too conscientious a regard to this point. A fault
here is as dishonourable as it is criminal. I do
not allow myself to fear that my beloved grandchildren,
after the training they have received, will
ever indulge in deliberate falsehood. In this there
is a meanness as well as a sin, which I hope they
will equally despise and abhor. But it is to be
lamented that there is much in social conversation,
in which many people deemed respectable are apt
to indulge themselves, and which I hope you will
make conscience of sacredly avoiding. I mean all
exaggeration in your descriptions; all high-colouring
in your statements; all indulgence in fabulous
narratives, even in jest, for the amusement of company.
Aside from the dictates of religion in this
matter, which are sacred and conclusive, there is
something in these habits adapted to lower the
character, and to diminish the influence of those
who indulge them, with all sober-minded people.
Whatever may be the consequence, let a regard to
the strictest verity, as if you were on oath, reign
in all you say and do. Avoid the meanness, as
well as the sin of the slightest departure from absolute
truth. Let all underhand deceptive contrivances,
all low cunning, all habits of carrying
your plans by disingenuous arts, be abhorred and
avoided. How gratifying would it be to those
who love you, to know that it had passed into
something like a proverb among your acquaintance—"The
statement is from a Breckinridge—and
therefore may be depended on!"
Let me farther entreat you to guard against all
indulgence of the spirit of pride, or vanity. By
pride, I mean such an inordinate and unreasonable
conceit of our own superiority in any respect, as
leads us to look down on others as beneath us, and
to treat them with haughtiness, or contempt. And
by vanity, I understand that excessive desire for
the applause of others which leads to egotism, and
such a weak anxiety to attract the notice, and gain
the approbation of those around us, as are apt to
betray into little and unworthy arts for gaining the
object. That both ought to be repudiated, as at
once folly and sin, I hope no formal argument will
be necessary to convince you. But still, they are
both besetting sins, which cleave with deplorable
obstinacy to multitudes whose judgment is against
them. Be assured, dear children, pride is as foolish
as it is criminal. Who made you to differ
from others? And what have you that you have
not received? If you have minds, or an education,
or outward circumstances more favourable than
those of many others, who conferred them upon
you? If, therefore, you have received all, why
should you glory as if you had not received them?
I know that we sometimes hear people talk of a
"laudable pride," an "honest pride," "a noble
pride," &c. But such language is a grievous
abuse of terms, and ought to be forever banished
from the vocabulary of Christians. Pride was
"the condemnation and snare of the devil," and is
in all cases a weakness and a sin. To call a proper
personal dignity and self-respect by this odious
name, is altogether incorrect and deceptive. To
speak of a disposition to avoid a mean action as
"a noble pride," is a perversion of language, as
well as of moral principle. "Be clothed with
humility; for God resisteth the proud, but giveth
grace to the humble." "Pride goeth before destruction,
and an haughty spirit before a fall; for
when pride cometh, then cometh shame, but with
the lowly is wisdom." Vanity is a passion still
more childish and degrading. It exhibits a rational
creature hanging on the smiles and the praise of
his fellow worms for his importance and happiness.
O, what infatuation for miserable sinners,
who deserve nothing at the hand of God but wrath,
and the overflowing of wrath, and who are dependant
on his bounty for every breath, to be puffed up
with high thoughts of themselves, and arrogantly
to claim the incense of praise! Fly, then, from
pride and vanity with the utmost vigilance. Study
to be "meek and lowly in heart." "Mind not
high things, but condescend to men of low estate."
"In lowliness of mind esteem others better than
yourselves." "Be not wise or great in your own
conceits." Be not greedy of praise. Despise all
the unworthy arts of seeking and fishing for it.
Rely upon it, the lower you lie in the dust of
abasement, the happier you will be. The more
you are disposed to love and honour all around
you according to their real character, the more
infallibly you will secure their love and confidence
in return. And the less anxious you are to gain
the applause of men, the more likely you will be
to attain it, if you are found humbly and diligently
performing your duty. In short, if I wished you
to gain the highest degree of esteem and honour
among men, I would say—Do not seek this object
anxiously, or even directly at all. Never inquire
what others say or think of you. Speak of yourselves,
in conversation, as little as possible. Treat
your superiors with uniform respect, but not with
fawning or flattery; and your inferiors, down to
the lowest servant or beggar, with undeviating
condescension and kindness; trying to benefit
every one, and promote the happiness of every
one; and you will have as much of the love and
respect of all as you really deserve, and probably
more. If you sincerely try to promote the happiness
of all around you, and do it with a kind and
amiable manner, I believe it is one of the cases in
which our Lord's declaration never fails to be fulfilled—"Give,
and it shall be given unto you,
good measure pressed down and running over
shall men give into your bosom."
Strive with sacred care against every feeling
approaching to the passion of envy. As you are
now at an age when you are called daily to compete
with school and play-mates, you may be
sometimes strongly tempted to indulge in this passion.
But it is a base passion. Beware of it.
How fiend-like, to sicken and repine at excellence!
How base, to be displeased and mortified when we
contemplate the superior prosperity, happiness, or
accomplishments of others! When you witness
such superior attainments or excellence, let the
only effort be to excite gratitude to God for its
existence, and a generous emulation of it in yourselves.
Guard with vigilance against a talebearing and
tattling spirit. I will not suppose you capable of
deliberate slander, or cruelly circulating reports to
the injury of others without just evidence. This
is so base and mean, that I trust you will ever
abhor and despise it. But it is the infirmity of
many, who intend thereby no injury, that they
delight in circulating news concerning their neighbours,
and have not a little of the true gossipping
spirit. This is a bad habit. It degrades the individual
who indulges it, in the view of all wise,
reflecting people; often involves in painful explanations
and difficulties; and is frequently followed
by consequences of the most perplexing and disreputable
kind. Never indulge the disposition to
repeat idle stories about neighbours. If they are
repeated in your presence, listen to them either in
silence, or with a civil remark, which cannot possibly
implicate you, or be construed into an approval
of the scandal. It was an excellent appeal
which was once made by a wise and benevolent
man whom I knew in early life—"Why can you
not talk more about things, than about persons?"
Let me farther exhort you, as a point of duty,
to cultivate habitual cheerfulness. When I say
this, you will not understand me as recommending
a spirit of levity and frivolity. This is unworthy
of rational, accountable creatures, and indicates as
much of weakness as of sin. Those who spend
their lives in gaiety and mirth, are "dead while
they live." But by cultivating habitual cheerfulness,
I mean cherishing a pleasant state of the animal
spirits; as opposed to constitutional gloom,
mental depression, and settled, clouded taciturnity,
I mean habits, not of light, but of lively and affable
conversation. Such a state of mind does good
like a medicine. It contributes to our own enjoyment.
It makes us more pleasant and useful to
those with whom we converse. It may even operate
to promote health and prolong life; and in
various ways extend our power of doing good.
Guard with conscientious care against habits of
indolence. A tendency to this sin is one of the
radical symptoms of the great moral disease of our
nature; and you cannot begin too early to labour
and pray for effecting a cure. Fly from idleness
as a habit connected with a legion of evils.
Make a point of always having something useful
to do—something to fill up every moment left
vacant between the larger and more important
tasks of life. I am aware that we all stand in need
of recreation; but this is often best attained by
a change of employment. When you have finished
a sedentary task, which required intense application
of mind, think, for a moment, whether there
be not some other object to which you may attend
for a short time, which will require no mental
effort, but by attention to which, you may promote
either your own health or comfort, or the advantage
of others. Make it your daily study to
"redeem the time." Try to turn every moment
to some valuable account. For this purpose, form,
as early as possible, a plan, a systematic order in
your daily tasks. Without such a plan, more or
less formally adopted, you will inevitably lose
much time in passing from one engagement to
another. But if you manage always to leave something
useful with which to fill up every little interval;
so as never to be idle, and never to waste
time with frivolous, or worse than frivolous employments,
you will be more happy, and live more
to your own true honour, and the benefit of your
generation.
I have only to add on the subject of this letter,
a single word on the great importance of maintaining
strict and habitual temperance in all your enjoyments.
If you wish really to enjoy life, and to
"live out all your days," you must exercise moderation
and self-denial in eating and drinking, and in
every department of indulgence. Temperance has
been defined—the moderate use of things useful, and
total abstinence from those which are pernicious.
This is an excellent definition, which I trust you
will ever keep in mind, and make your daily and
hourly rule. To be thus temperate, is a divine
command. It is eminently conducive to health.
It is highly advantageous to the activity and
strength of the powers of the mind. And it is an
admirable defence against a thousand irregularities
and mischiefs which cloud the faculties, destroy
comfort, and lead to multiplied forms of disease,
and to premature graves. If you habitually restrain
appetite, deny yourselves, and "let your moderation
be known" in all things, and to all men, you
will avoid many evils which continually beset
those who act on the system of self-indulgence.
Never drink any thing but pure water, when in
health; indulge in animal food but once in each
day, and that in smaller quantities than most people
consider as temperate. Labourers in the open air
may, not only with impunity, but perhaps with
profit, eat animal food more than once every day;
but I am persuaded few other persons can do it
without disadvantage to their health. My personal
experience and observation in regard to this
point are very decisive. Nay, I would advise you
to go one step farther. Make the experiment of
wholly abstaining from animal food at least one
day in each week, for the purpose of "giving
nature a holyday;" of clearing the body and the
mind from crudities; and taking a new start in
refined feeling and unclogged activity.
In fine, let it be the object of your unceasing
study and prayer, to "keep under the body;" to
"crucify the flesh with the affections and lusts;"
to subdue and restrain all irregular tempers; "if it
be possible, as much as lieth in you, to live peaceably
with all men;" to avoid wounding the feelings
of any one with whom you converse, unless required
to do it by a pure sense of duty; to promote
the happiness of all around you; and to be continually
seeking and improving opportunities of
doing good.
Dear Children:—I wish it were in my power
to give you a perfect and vivid representation of
the manners of your lamented Mother. There
was in them a sweetness, a gracefulness, and an
attraction truly rare. Wherever she went, they at
once gained her friends. I am sure if you had
been old enough at her decease to appreciate them;
or, if I could now depict them to the life, you
would have a deeper impression of the importance
of happy manners; of their value to their possessor;
of their benign influence on social intercourse,
than I can now hope to impart. As it is, I hope
you will be willing to take on trust my statement
of the fact concerning her, and that you will be
stimulated to seek a similar accomplishment.
If it be true, as has been often said, that a
good face is an "open letter of recommendation,"
wherever its possessor appears; we may, with
quite as much emphasis, say the same of pleasant
engaging manners. Nay, we may go farther.
The most beautiful face and form that ever existed,
if unaccompanied by agreeable manners, will soon
be contemplated with indifference, if not with disgust.
While, on the contrary, where there is an
entire absence of personal beauty, there may be,
and often are found, such manners as captivate and
win wherever they are seen, and with a power felt
by all, however remote they may be from the possession
of such manners themselves.
I shall not tax either your patience or my own,
by entering largely into the subject of manners.
On this extensive subject I refer you to a volume
on "Clerical Manners and Habits" which I published
a few years ago, and in which considerable
minuteness of detail is indulged. For although
that work was intended more particularly for the
benefit of clergymen, and especially of candidates
for the sacred office; yet a large portion of it is
equally applicable to all classes and professions,
and to both sexes. I recommend the volume
referred to, to your serious attention, and to your
careful study. And whatever may be your situation
in life, I think you will find much in it worthy
of your regard. At any rate, if it be not so, I have
failed of gaining my main object in its publication.
I will not, however, content myself with merely
referring you to the volume in question. It is my
wish, in this little system of affectionate advices,
to call your attention to a few particulars on this
subject which may be considered as more immediately
appropriate at your present tender age, and,
perhaps, on that account, more likely to dwell
upon your memory than the contents of a volume.
You will, perhaps, ask me, what I mean by
those "good manners" which I would recommend?
I answer, by such manners I mean that
mode of personal address and deportment toward
all with whom we converse which is dictated by
the meekness, benevolence, and purity of the Gospel.
In a word, "true politeness"—the most
genuine politeness—that which I would earnestly
desire those whom I love to cherish and cultivate—is
the religion of Christ acted out in the
whole temper, conversation, and deportment. The
simple, unembarrassed, gentle expression of mingled
respect and kindness toward all with whom
we converse, from the hovel to the palace, is the
perfection of manners. These are manners which
become all times, places, companies, and circumstances,
and which will carry their possessor
through the world with acceptance and comfort.
Perhaps, in your inexperience, you may be
disposed to ask, what is the great value of such
manners as are here recommended? If you have
any doubt on this subject now, I am persuaded a
little more knowledge of the world will satisfy you
that their value is unspeakably great. Few people
are adequate judges of those solid intellectual and
moral qualities which form a character of high
excellence. But of personal manners, all are
judges; at any rate, all are capable of perceiving,
and in some degree estimating, their value. Only
a small portion of those with whom you converse
are able to discern whether you are wise and well
informed; but every child can see whether you
have a sweet voice, a pleasant countenance, an
amiable, kind and respectful mode of address, or
the contrary. Can there be, then, a more obvious
dictate, both of policy and duty, than to cultivate
that which, to multitudes, is more attractive than
real merit; which secures to merit a hearing, and
an influence which it would not otherwise obtain;
and which will be likely, in many cases, to open a
door to usefulness which, without it, would, in all
probability, have continued impenetrably closed?
In repeated instances have I known persons of
weak minds, and of small information, but of
remarkably fascinating manners, carry all before
them in circles of society into which persons of far
higher qualifications, both intellectual and moral,
but defective in the attractions of manner, were
scarcely able to obtain admittance, and very inadequately
esteemed when admitted. A soft, insinuating
address has, a thousand times, rendered its
possessor every where acceptable and popular,
when, on the score of real merit, he ought by no
means to have enjoyed so much public favour.
But this is not all. Pleasant attractive manners
not only have a paramount influence with the
superficial and unthinking; but they have more
power even on the minds of the wise and the good
than is commonly imagined. To every human
being, that which is intrinsically excellent, appears
doubly attractive when presented in a pleasing
manner. Truth, even to those who know it to be
truth, finds a more cordial welcome; and duty,
even among its most sincere and enlightened
friends, commands a more ready obedience, when
they are clothed in an attractive garb, and speak in
alluring accents. That the very same words,
which, when uttered by some, are intolerably
offensive; when spoken in the mild, respectful
manner of others, are welcome, and even delightful—that
the very same action, which, performed
by some, is censured; when performed by others,
of perhaps less talent or virtue, is lauded to excess;
are among the most notorious facts in human
life; and that not in the circles of ignorance and
dissipation only, but also in those of the most estimable
portions of mankind.
To despise or undervalue the cultivation of
manners, then, argues a great want of practical
wisdom. It is a subject worthy of your constant
regard. To neglect it, is equally to oppose reason
and experience, and to set at naught some of the
most precious means of gaining access to the human
heart. And when I speak of cultivating good
manners, do not imagine that I mean the formal,
showy, pompous manners which some commend,
and seem to aim at. The truth is, the perfection
of manners—the ultimate point which is the result
of the very best culture, is to attain that ease, simplicity,
modesty, and gentleness of deportment in
every thing, which has nothing of the artificial,
nothing of display about it. But to be more particular.
The first characteristic of manners to which
I would direct your attention, as lying at the
foundation of all excellence, is benignity. Without
the law of benevolence, reigning in the heart,
and governing the temper and the life, there may
be much pomp and courtliness of manner; many
a heartless smile, and many a flattering form
of address; but there can be no genuine politeness.
The essence of this consists in the spirit
of cordial good will and kindness shining in the
countenance; expressing itself in the language and
tones of respect and benevolent regard; and flowing
through all the channels of human intercourse, and
all the minutiæ of human life. This is the vital
principle of good manners. Just in proportion as
you really desire to increase the happiness of all
around you; to consult their ease; to anticipate
their wants; and to promote their welfare—you
will spontaneously manifest these feelings in all
situations and companies. Your whole deportment
will be pleasing, attractive, and graceful,
without your having studied artificial rules. This
is the foundation and the sum of all; but it may
not be improper to trace the radical principle into
some of its minute details.
In all social intercourse, let respectful attention
mark your whole manner. To turn away your
eyes from the person who is addressing you; or
to manifest in any way that you are thinking, or
wish to be thinking, of something else, is a great
breach of good manners; cannot fail of giving pain
to those with whom you converse; and must deprive
you of a large part of the benefit of conversation.
When you look your companion gently and
respectfully, but firmly in the face, you manifest
attention; you enable yourselves to watch his
countenance, and mark the impression which you
make on his mind; to say nothing of the power
of the eye in seconding and enforcing all that is
said.
Cultivate affability of manner. By this I mean
that style of manners which is distinguished by
ease, simplicity, and courteousness; a deportment
opposed to haughtiness, reserve, coldness, or taciturnity;
in short, to every thing that is adapted
to repel, or to prevent freedom and comfort of
approach. I am aware that constitutional temperament
has much to do with this. But still, it is
equally true that affability may and ought to be
carefully cultivated; and that there are few things
better adapted to conciliate good will, to inspire
confidence, to invite freedom of communication,
and to place at ease all with whom we converse.
Study to exercise gentleness and mildness in all
your deportment and conversation. Guard against
every thing harsh, severe, rough, abrupt, or in any
way repulsive in your language, voice, or manner.
Let the meekness and gentleness of wisdom appear
in every look, tone, and expression. By a mild,
respectful address, you may at once reprove impertinence,
disarm violence, and put even brutality
to shame. Give all diligence, then, to be "gentle
toward all men." Learn the happy art of conversing
with gentleness, of giving your commands
with gentleness, of arguing with gentleness, of
contending with gentleness, and of even reproving
with gentleness. Both commands and reproofs,
as well as arguments, when dispensed in this
manner, have not only more dignity, but also more
weight than when invested with an opposite character.
Few things are more opposed to good breeding
than a loud, boisterous manner in social intercourse.
Whether this be indulged in laughter, or
in conversation, it is equally exceptionable as an
offence against both delicacy and dignity. With
regard to females, an offence against this rule, is
peculiarly revolting. It is a sure sign of vulgarity,
and ought to be carefully avoided. But, in either
sex, it is a blemish which well bred people never
fail to notice.
Closely allied to this is the habit of rude familiarity
which some affect, and to which they give
the name of social pleasantry. This is undignified,
and, to all delicate people, offensive. Mutual dignity
and respect are indispensable to the continued
existence of Christian intercourse, in its most pure,
delicate, and profitable form. If you wish to
maintain such intercourse, be free and unconstrained;
but never indulge in coarse familiarity. Those
who are worthy of your love will certainly be
repelled rather than attracted by it.
Remember, too, that all interruption of any one
with whom you are conversing, or blunt contradiction
of his statements, is an offence against
delicate manners. However erroneous he may
be, hear him out; and however certain you may
be that his representations are false, rectify his
mistake, not bluntly, but with kindness and respect.
Guard against talking too much in company.
He who is very talkative incurs disadvantages of a
very serious kind. He cheapens himself; tires his
hearers; and must, of course, diminish his usefulness.
However rich and instructive any one's
talk may be, yet, if there be too much of it, both
his dignity and his influence cannot fail of being
impaired. "A fool's voice," says Solomon, "is
known by the multitude of his words." "In the
multitude of words," says the same inspired teacher,
"there wanteth not sin; but he that refraineth
his lips is wise." And again, "He that hath
knowledge, spareth his words."
But another extreme in social intercourse, is
that of excessive reserve and taciturnity. Some
from physical temperament; others from abstraction
or absence of mind; and a third class, perhaps,
from still more exceptionable causes, wrap
themselves up in a chilling reserve in company—never
speaking but when addressed; and then
answering as briefly as possible, and relapsing into
silence again. This is surely unhappy in a social
being, and ought to be carefully avoided. While
you avoid garrulity, then, sink not down into obstinate
silence. If you find yourselves, from any
cause, prone to this, it is abundantly worth while
to take pains to counteract it, and to labour to have
something ready to say that shall be at once
acceptable and instructive.
In regard to uncleanly and vulgar personal
habits, I will not suppose you capable of them:
and, therefore, shall not dwell upon them. All
spitting on floors, lounging in your seats, putting
up your feet on chairs or stools, leaning with your
elbows on tables—these, and all similar habits, I
hope, after the training you have had, you will
avoid with instinctive repugnance. But there is
one habit which I would earnestly recommend, as
favourable not merely to good manners, but also to
health. Learn to sit erect, not only in company,
but even in your most private apartment. Reading
or writing in a half-sunken or reclining posture is
unfriendly to a graceful carriage; is apt to betray
unwarily into similar postures in company; prepares
the way for the sinking, half-bent postures
which disfigure so many of the feeble and aged;
and really tends to bring on premature decrepitude.
Do not affect wit or punning in conversation.
So many of those who try to make themselves
acceptable by such attempts, not only fail, but often
render themselves a laughing stock by it, that there
is little probability of your succeeding as wits or
punsters. But even with respect to those whose
talents in this way are ever so great, there is so
much danger of their indulging those talents unseasonably
and imprudently, so as to offend and alienate
friends, that such powers ought to be deprecated
rather than desired, and their exercise, if possessed,
subjected to the severest restriction. I never
knew more than one person of wit who was strictly
discreet and delicate in its use. But I have
known thousands who, by their miserable attempts
to display what they possessed either not at all, or
in a very small degree, succeeded only in exposing
themselves to ridicule. And I have known many
real wits, who almost every day wounded feelings,
and alienated friends by their reckless effusions.
Do not indulge the habit in conversation of talking
of yourselves. Hardly any quality is more
apt to appear in social intercourse than personal
vanity. This leads to egotism, so that the idea of
self appears to be ever present to the imagination.
Hence we perpetually find people talking of themselves;
what they have done; what they have
said; what others have said and done to their
honour; in short, bringing into view something to
their own advantage, or that of their family or
relatives. Rely upon it, if you have real worth, the
less you say about it the better; and if you have it
not, every claim of it, direct or indirect, can only
sink you lower in the estimation of those with
whom you converse.
Carefully form the habit of adverting to all the
properties of time, place and circumstances in conversation.
When you are about, in company, to
make a remark, or to introduce a new topic of
conversation, look round on the circle, and ask
yourself, whether there is any one present whose
feelings would be likely to be hurt by what you
are about to say, or who would be placed by it in
embarrassing circumstances. Be very sure for
example, when about to make, in company, an
unfavourable remark on an absent person, that no
relative or special friend of that person is among
your hearers. For, although you ought never to
make a remark on any one which the Christian
spirit cannot justify; yet in certain circumstances,
a remark perfectly proper in itself, may be unseasonable,
and peculiarly painful to some who hear it.
Guard against the possibility of such an occurrence.
This is a dictate of sound worldly policy. A departure
from it is a gross violation of true politeness.
But it may be said, still more emphatically,
to be a departure from the principles of Christian
benevolence.
Avoid the too frequent use of superlatives in conversation.
The habit of many, when they wish to
express either approbation or censure, is to employ
the very strongest terms which the English language
affords. If they think favourably of the talents or
the performance of any one, they are apt to speak
of them as "noble, admirable," as of "the first
order;" or in some terms expressive of the very
highest excellence. And, on the other hand, if
they undertake to express disapprobation, the
terms "mean," "execrable," "detestable," are
the softest that they think of employing. This is
a bad habit. It renders both the praise and censure
of those who indulge it of less value in the
estimation of all sober-minded and discriminating
judges. If you wish your judgment to pass for
any thing in the view of the wise and reflecting,
you must learn to express opinions in that guarded
and moderate manner which indicates intellectual
discrimination rather than undistinguishing emotion.
You know where it is said "Fools admire,
where men of sense approve."
Carefully avoid giving unnecessary trouble wherever
you are. The difference between different
persons in this respect is very conspicuous. Some,
when in the houses of their friends, have so many
little wants, so many errands to perform, and are
so absorbed in their own affairs, that, if permitted,
they would keep several servants and others
constantly employed in waiting upon them. You
may rely upon it you can never be, long together,
welcome visitants in families which you subject to
so much trouble. Make as few demands as possible
on the time and attention of those whose hospitality
you are enjoying. Never call upon their
servants to wait upon you when it is practicable to
avoid it. Never allow the occupations or order of
any family to be set aside or disarranged on your
account, where it is possible to prevent it. In
short, act universally on the principle of doing
every thing that you can for yourselves, and making
as few demands as possible on the time and
labour of those around you.
In calling on friends consult their convenience,
as well as your own; and in some cases in preference
to your own. Many make their calls at such
hours, and sit so inordinately long, as to throw a
whole family into disorder, and inflict very serious
pain. Never sit long in your social calls at any
time; but when you make them at times which
may, by possibility interfere with domestic meals,
let them be very short; be on the watch for every
symptom of engagement or uneasiness on the part
of those whom you visit, and on the appearance of
any thing of the kind, instantly take your leave.
Constantly maintain the habit of early rising.
Few things are more conducive to health and activity
both of body and mind. A disposition to lie
long in bed in the morning, is, at once, a symptom
and a cause of feeble digestion, of nervous debility,
and of general languor. Go early to bed. Avoid
much night study. Quit your beds by dawn of
day, and, in winter, before the dawn, and thus secure
several hours of unbroken time, for devotion,
for study, and for gentle exercise in the open air,
before breakfast, and before the interruptions of
the earliest visitors commence.
Cultivate habits of moderation in dress. You
are never likely to be able to indulge in very
inordinate expense in bodily adorning; and I will
venture to say, this inability, wherever it exists, is
a great blessing. Few things evince more weakness
of mind, and absence of Christian principle,
than extravagance and splendor in dress. In
young men it is a sad evidence of "dandyism"
and folly; and even in young females, an excessive
indulgence in fashion, in finery, and the
extreme of devotion to bodily adorning, never
fails to depress their character in the estimation of
the wise and good. Try to set an example of
sober, dignified moderation in regard to this whole
subject. Always guard against negligence of dress.
Conscientiously avoid exposing yourselves to the
charge of careless, slatternly habits. But never
make dress an idol. Reject every thing dazzling,
or what is commonly called "dashing," in outward
ornament. Be not seen aping the extreme
of fashion; and ever remember how unworthy it
is of Christians to be worshippers of external
adorning; and how peculiarly disreputable for the
children of clergymen to bear such a character.
Thus, dear children, I have endeavoured, with
brevity, to give you a few paternal counsels,
which, I would fondly hope, may, by the grace
of God, be made to promote your benefit, when
the hand which penned them shall be sleeping
in the dust. You will perceive from the order
in which I have placed my counsels, that I consider
real heart religion as the most indispensable
and precious of all attainments; that my first and
highest wish concerning you is, that you may love
your Father's and Mother's God, and make it
your daily aim to follow her to that world of bliss
and glory to which, as we trust, she has gone
before us. Next to seeing you real Christians,
my desire is to see you enlightened, polished,
benevolent, amiable, attractive members of society,
respected and beloved by all who know you.
Remember, I beseech you, that the friends of
your Parents will expect much from you. The
advantages which you have enjoyed, and are daily
enjoying, impose upon you a solemn responsibility
in the sight both of God and man. Many prayers
have ascended to heaven on your behalf. Pray
without ceasing for yourselves, that you may be
preserved from the paths of sin and folly, and led
in the ways of heavenly wisdom.
I have no doubt that the counsels I have given
you will commend themselves to your judgment,
and that you will promptly form the resolution to
make them your constant guide. But you cannot
rely upon your own wisdom or strength to do this.
Such are your own infirmities, and so multiplied
the temptations and allurements which surround
you, that you will need at every step, guidance and
help from above. Happy will it be for you if you
habitually bear this in mind, and acknowledge
God in all your ways, that he may direct your
steps.
And now, dear children, I bid you farewell.
When I look forward, and imagine to myself what
may be your course in life—when I think of the
corruptions and perils with which you are surrounded,
and what may be the result of them, I
hardly know how to express my anxieties and
fears: but when I recollect the love and faithfulness
of that God who blessed your Parents, I feel
willing to commit you into his hands, and to trust
his grace for your temporal and eternal welfare.
May he guide you by his counsel! May he
guard you amidst all the dangers of youth and of
riper years; and finally, "present you faultless before
the presence of his glory with exceeding great
joy!" O how unutterably precious the thought
of meeting you all at last—with those of our
beloved family who have already gone before us,
and those who are yet to follow—around the
throne of our covenant God, and rejoicing forever
in his presence and glory! Such will be the
prayer until his last breath, of your
Affectionate Grandfather,
SAMUEL MILLER.
Princeton, July 10, 1839.
THE END.
