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tively excellent, and wise, and good, they are startled, and confounded, at the first discovery of an inconsistency.

The humility of a little child is proverbial. They feel that they have been in the world but a little while-that they have done little-that they know but little. But, O, their anticipations! O, the glory of being men and women! The child supposes that there is something-a very vast somewhere, or something, that he shall then know all about; and he exults in the prospect, with something of the feeling of our first parents when they ate the forbidden fruit, upon the promise of being as gods, knowing good and evil. Well, now the child looks upon his parents as having entered the mighty field, and as having, in consequence, knowledge, motives, principles, designs, and pleasures, which he knows nothing about, and with all the curiosity of his first mother, he employs all his ingenuity to get a glimpse into the mysterious inclosure.

In this enterprize nothing is lost or overlooked. The words, the looks, the conduct of the parents, in all the circumstances of life; in the time of ease or pleasure as well as in the hour of sickness, of danger, of trying emergency, all are watched and remembered, every scrap is treasured up, and, at a convenient season, all are called forth, made to pass in careful review-compared, reasoned upon, and, when the rusults are made out, are dismissed, only to be recalled at another time, to pass, perhaps, a sterner ordeal. Now imagine the child, while engaged in this research, to have discovered in his mother's conduct, or instructions, some inconsistency, or contradiction. He is confounded. He had heretofore supposed that she could not do wrong. He does not now believe it. The recent occurrence is compared with all his former observations, and the result of every former analysis is recollected. He is in a state of painful incertitude. In this dilemma another discrepancy is discovered. The fact, which he dared not before suspect, is now forced upon his mind, and the novel idea of his mother's carelessness, or deception, or fraud, is entertained without a feeling of guilt. Subsequent discoveries only confirm the truth of his suspicions, until he knows and feels that his mother, whom he had supposed righteous in all her judgments, and perfect in all her ways, is capricious, or hypocritical, or passionate, like himself. Thus falls a mother's influence, and great is the fall of it; and most ruinous, for it destroys her children.

The mother is most careful to provide books for her child, and to secure him from corrupting scenes, and company; but let her remember, that her countenance is his first book, and her example his first lesson. O mother! an expression of impatience in thine eye, or an angry word from thy lip, will make an impression on the heart of thy child, which no tears of thine can ever efface. Go, mother, if thou wilt, deceive, mislead, corrupt thy neighbor, thy friend, the husband of thy youth; but O, spare, spare thy little one. Thou has given him an immortal existence. Wouldst thou make that existence for ever miserable? Better plunge thy dagger in his infant bosom, than, by thine own carelessness, caprice, or wicked indulgence, to prepare his heart for the sword of his heavenly Father's vengeance.

I would now mention some of the points where parents are in most danger of inconsistency. I speak to Christian parents, for it is they who feel most interested in this subject, and, (with humiliation be it expressed,) it is

PARENTAL CONSISTENCY.

23

their inconsistencies which are so palpable, and so ruinous to their children. It is the immense disparity between the professed principles, instructions, and prayers of the parent, and her daily conduct, her habits of feeling and expression, that perplexes the child, and is an obstacle over which he is perpetually stumbling. This incongruity is at once mysterious and painful. He watches, compares, and endeavors, but vainly, to reconcile the principles and practice of his parent, until, weary, disgusted, and distressed, he banishes the subject from his mind, pronounces his mother a hypocrite, despises her instructions, loathes her prayers, contemns her Bible, and renounces her God. Give me the child of an Arab, or a Hindoo; but O, save me from the fearful responsibility of that mother who has deafened her children with exhortations and prayers, and yet, has, as it were, forced them into the path of death, by shutting up, with her own example, the gate of life.

Children notice little things. Their feeling of right and wrong is sensitive in the extreme, and a Christian mother may murder the soul of her child, and then exclaim, with consternation and horror, " an enemy hath done this!"

I knew a mother once-a Christian mother too, and one deeply anxious for the salvation of her children. In the morning she would call them all unto her, pray for each of them successively, and with great particularity; the Bible was read, explained, and enforced; the Amen was said, the door opened, and the children escaped as from a prison. Mention the subject of religion, and it would not excite in them, as in other children, feelings of solemnity and awe, but only loathing and contempt. And in the church, what children trifled and despised the worship of God? And in the school, what children disturbed their teacher, wronged and oppressed their fellows? It was these. And why were these means of salvation, and the Bible, a fountain of life, made, to these hapless children, a well-spring of poison and death? It was the inconsistency of the mother. Her example, instead of enforcing, with irresistible power, her instructions, and proving the sincerity of her prayers, made them all a fable, or a pretence. True, she committed no disciplinable offence. She was a good wife, and mother, and mistress, in the estimation of the world. But where was the savor of her religion? Where the unsullied exhibition of those things which are lovely and of good report? Where the feeling of her Saviour's presence, her love to his name, her zeal to do his will, which might be exhibited, and ought as plainly to be seen by her children, in each trifling event of the day, as in her morning devotions. And O, where was that deep anxiety, which she seemed to feel in the morning, for the salvation of her children? Had she left it all at the maternal altar? or, had she never felt it? O, it is because children hear so much and see so little, that they are sceptical.

1. Mother, first feel for your child; feel deeply, uniformly anxious for his salvation; for whatever your feelings are, he will know them; you cannot elude his eagle eye.

2. Beware of disclosing your feelings, or, at least, let there not be an apparent attempt to exhibit them, either to himself or to others. This would be most ruinous. Rather let him feel that there exists in your bosom a wellspring of feeling and anxiety, which others know nothing of, and which even he cannot fathom.

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3. Be consistent in your reproofs. Let your child see in your deep grief and sadness, that he has sinned against God, and that it is this which distresses you, for this is what you profess. And let him not see, in your angry countenance, that he has only vexed his mother.

4. Be consistent in your approvals. Let your child, when he has done well, as the Bible directs, see, in the calm, thankful satisfaction of your countenance, that you are pleased and thankful, because God is obeyed, for this is what you profess.

5. Beware, when your child has done well, of appearing surprized, or elated, as though he were wonderfully good, or he will soon get the idea that he is a perfect little saint, when, in fact, he will be only a perfect little Pharisee.

6. Always, before others, let your professions and prayers fall short of your real and habitual feelings, or your child will set you down, ere you are aware, for a hypocrite. Let him believe, however much you say, that the half is not told that it cannot be uttered.

7. Let your secret devotions, for the sake of your child, if not for your own welfare, be frequent, and always at stated periods. I recollect noticing, when a very little child, that my father always retired into a certain room, at certain hours of the day. The fact was, at first, very mysterious, but his object could not long remain a matter of doubt; and that single circumstance threw a fear and solemnity over my mind which nothing could efface.

My attention was then directed to my mother. I rose up early, and sat up late, and ate the bread of watchfulness. I could not discover that she prayed. The uncertainty was very painful. I began to look upon her with suspicion and fear, doubted every thing she said, or did. At last, I one day suspected, hoped, knew, that she had been praying; and I subsequently learned that her morning hour of prayer was before day-break. I shall never forget, when she came from her room, the gratitude, and confidence, and love, with which I went and laid my head in her lap. Remember that your child is a sagacious and untiring "spy upon your proceedings;" and when you come from your retirement, let him see, in the heavenly calmness of your look, and the sweet kindness of all your expressions, that you have been with Jesus.

8. You profess to love the Bible above all other books. Let your conduct say this. When weary and exhausted, let your child see, that you invariably have recourse to the Bible for relaxation. Let this once be written on his watchful mind, and ten thousand thrilling incidents, and years of guilt and thoughtlessness, will not efface or obscure it.

But it is impossible to enumerate all the ways in which parents are in danger of manifesting inconsistency. Mother, watch yourself. Your child watches you; his eye watches every motion; his ear is bent to catch every sound from your lips. In his little bosom is treasured up every careless word and motion, and no efforts of yours, can ever avail to unlock or plunder his storehouse. Mother, watch yourself; how can you expect your Saviour's blessing if you slight his most solemn and repeated injunction to watchfulness? Mother! watch yourself! Should the inquiry be made about your childrenWho slew all these? How could your bear to have all eyes turned on you, as their murderer!

P

THE AFFECTIONATE CHILD.

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LITTLE FRANK-OR THE AFFECTIONATE CHILD.

Mother, I have picked the sweetest flower I could find in all the field for you. You are always pleased with flowers, are you not, mother?

Yes, when they are plucked by my little Frank.

Mother, I want to tell you something, but I fear it will make you feel bad. What is that, my boy?

Why, mother, the boys say that father was poor, Does that make you blush, mother?

No, Frank, I am not ashamed to be called poor.

But, mother, the boys laugh at poor people. They call them mean. I do not like to have them say that my father was poor. Is it wicked to be poor,

mother?

No, my son, not if we are honest and industrious.

Mother, the boys laugh at me, at the Sabbath school. They point at my shoes and they say they are coarse and mean. Shall I go any more to the

Sabbath school?

The boys do not hurt you, do they?

No, mother, they do not hurt me, but they make me feel bad when they do not like me. I want every body to love me. I love every body, mother. It makes me happy to see you smile, and to hear my teacher say, "You are right, Frank, you are right." It almost makes me cry when I think you love me, and that my teacher loves me; but I am not sorry, mother. Frank, if your mother loves you, and your

mind what the boys say.

teacher loves you, you must not

But, mother, I think I should be happier if I had fine clothes, and some cents in my pocket, and some bright buttons on my jacket.

Frank, could you recite your lesson any better, or should I like you better, or would your teacher like you any better?

No, mother; you like me because I am your little boy, and my teacher likes me because I study to get my lessons, and I try to be quiet and attentive to what he says to us.

You see, then, my dear Frank, that it is not riches that makes you either good, or happy; and that it is not fine clothes that makes your friends love you. Sensible people think but little about fine clothes for children, if they are kept neat and clean.

Every boy's mamma does not think as you do, mother. Jack Woodhull's mamma gave him, the other day, a shilling, to buy him six rolls of gingerbread and some sugar candy, for being good; and she promised him a fine suit of clothes on his birth day, if he would not strike the baby, and if he would not pick the buds from off the lilacs, and did not tread upon the beds in the flower garden. Will you give me a new suit of clothes when I am eight years old, if I am good?

No, my son, I shall never hire you to be good, or reward my children in that way. If you should be a disobedient boy and should spoil my plants, I should not give you sweet kisses, I should not smile upon you, I should not

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THE AFFECTIONATE CHILD.

from

receive your flowers, but I should have to separate you my company. Mother, I should rather have your sweet kisses, and your pleasant smiles, than ten rolls of gingerbread. I should soon forget what I had been eating, but I should not forget it if you were angry with me. I could not be happy if you did not love me. But, mother, you are not angry with me now?

No, Frank, I shall never be displeased with you when you try to do right. Mother, you was not angry with me when I broke your large pitcher. You said it was an when Pompey ran against me, and knocked me down.

accident.

You are right, my love-I am only dipleased with my children when they are disobedient and idle; when they are careless and inattentive; when they are unkind to each other, or impolite to strangers.

Mother, I remember that Dr. S. called me a polite little boy, the other day; but I did not know what he meant; I do not understand that word.

What were you doing Frank, when Dr. S. called you a polite little boy? I found his whip for him when he could not find it. I thanked him for coming to see you, when you were sick. It was the same night, mother, that I walked on tiptoe, in your room, because you said a noise made your head ache.

Well, Frank, I understand politeness to mean, doing the same for others that I would have others do for us.

Mother, I did not understand Dr. S. because William Lacy said that I should never be polite unless I went to the dancing school, where I should be taught to hold up my head, and to make a genteel bow, and to walk gracefully. Well, my dear Frank, we will talk more about this another time. I see from the window that our neighbor, Mrs. J—-, is coming in. You must not interrupt our conversation, for that would not be polite. You may now take your book, and get your lesson.

Good morning, Mrs. Jones.

How are you, Mrs. Smith? I hope you will excuse this early call; feeling unhappy at home, I have come in for a few minutes; but I see you are engaged, as usual, in conversation with your children; for my part, I never find much to say to my children. I am always glad to get them off to school or out of the house; for they are such noisy, racketing children, that I cannot collect my scattered brain where they are: they are so wild that my house is in confusion when they are at home. But I never was fond of children. My husband and I try to do the best we can for them. We are busy night and day, trying to scrape together a pretty little property, so that we may educate our children when they get old enough to send them away from home.

But, my dear Mrs. Jones, I fear there is often a sad mistake as to the import of the word education. Many persons do not seem to be aware of the fact that some men and women are well educated, who have seldom, if ever, been sent abroad, and who have had but limited advantages, even in a common school. Is it right, Mrs. Jones, to send our children to school, expecting the teacher to give them habits of industry and application? How can this be done in the course of a few months, in opposition to all their former habits? How can parents expect teachers to form useful and agreeable habits in their children,