The Mother CHAPTER 9.
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More Contrasts.
Five more years of patience, forbearance, and solicitude passed, and Mrs. Hartley began to see many good results of her labor; especially when she contrasted the habits and manners of her own children, with the habits and manners of the children of some of her friends.
One of these friends, a Mrs. Fielding, had four children of naturally very good dispositions. They were affectionate to one another, and seemed to have more than usual of a home feeling about them. The mother's fireside circle might have been an earthly paradise, if she had been at all disposed to consult her children's good, instead of her own pleasure. But this she was not disposed to do. She was vain, and fond of company. When she had provided a good nurse for her children — she thought that her duty was done. It never occurred to her that her children needed a mother, such as only she could be to them — as much as they needed a nurse to provide for their bodily comfort.
This woman came in to see Mrs. Hartley one day, and found her sitting at the piano.
"What does all this mean?" asked Mrs. Fielding, in a mirthful tone. "You playing the piano! I thought you had enough else to do."
"I'm only practicing some new cotillions for the children."
"What good will your practicing them do the children, I wonder?"
"A good deal, I hope. We have a little family party among ourselves every Wednesday evening, when the children dance, and I play for them."
"And you practice for this purpose during the day."
"I practice just one hour every Wednesday for this very purpose, and no other."
"You are a strange woman. Why don't you let Marien play while the other children dance?"
"Because Marien likes to dance as well as the rest of them. And, more than that, she is the most graceful in her movements, and the most perfect in her steps, and I want the others to benefit by her superior accomplishments."
"Let their dancing-master take care of their steps. It is his business, and he will do it much better."
"The school will do little good, Mrs. Fielding, if it be not seconded by a well ordered home education. Of this I am well satisfied."
"But it is no light task to make home another school-house."
"Home need not, and should not be such a place. It should leave its younger members in more freedom than school affords. But, what is learned at school from duty — should be practiced at home from affection. Children ought to be led into the delightful exercise of the knowledge they attain, simultaneously, if possible, with its attainments. This should be their reward. As soon as they have mastered the rudiments of language, and can read — entertaining and instructive books should be provided for them; and, at every step in their progress, the means of bringing down into activity all they learn, should be supplied to the utmost extent. It is for this reason that we have musical and dancing parties among ourselves every week. I find it no task, but a real pleasure, to play for them, and, in order to keep up with the new music — to practice a few hours every week."
"But how do you find time? You, who are such a slave to your family!"
"If everything is done according to a regular system — we can easily find time for almost anything."
"I don't know. You beat me out. I do scarcely anything in my family, it seems — and yet I am always hurried to death when I do that little, so that it isn't more than half done. As to practicing on the piano, that is out of the question."
Mrs. Hartley faintly sighed. "You have four sweet children," she said, after a pause;" I never saw better dispositions, naturally, in my life. You could you pleased do anything with them."
"What you say, a mother's partiality aside, is true," replied Mrs. Fielding, with a brightening face. "They are all good children. I only wish I was a better mother — that I was like you, Mrs. Hartley. I fear I am too fond of society; but I can't help it."
"Oh, don't say that, Mrs. Fielding. Love for our children should be strong enough to make us correct anything in ourselves that stands in the way of their good. A mother's dutiesought to take precedence over everything else."
"I don't think a mother ought to be a slave to her children."
"Willing servitude is not slavery. How can you use such a word in connection with a mother? Her devotion should be from a love that never wearies — never grows cold."
"I don't know how that may be; mine wearies often enough."
"I feel discouraged sometimes," replied Mrs. Hartley. "But my love never abates. It grows stronger with every new difficulty that is presented."
"You are one in a thousand, then; that is all I can say. I know a good many mothers, and I know that they all complain bitterly about the trouble they have with their children."
"They would have less trouble — if they loved them more."
"How can you make that appear?"
"Love ever strives to benefit its object. A true love for children prompts the mother to seek with the most self-sacrificing assiduity — for the means of doing her offspring good."
"Oh dear! I'm sadly afraid that I am not a true mother then. It's no use to disguise it — I cannot give up every comfort for my children; and I don't think we are required to do it."
"True love, Mrs. Fielding, sacrifices nothing, when it is in pursuit of its objects, for it desires nothing so ardently as the attainment of that object. I am not aware that I give upevery comfort; I sometimes, it is true, deny myself a gratification, because, in seeking it, I must neglect my children, or interfere with their pleasures; but I have never done this — that I have not been more than repaid for all I thought I had lost."
"Well, that is a comfort. I only wish I could say as much."
"You would soon be able to say so, if you were to make sacrifices for your children from love to them."
"I think I do love them."
"I am sure of that, Mrs. Fielding. But, to speak plainly as one friend may venture to speak to another — perhaps you love yourself more."
"Perhaps I do. But how is that to be determined?"
"Very easily. We love those most, who occupy most of our thoughts, and for whose comfort and happiness we are most careful — whether it be ourselves or our children."
Mrs. Fielding did not reply. Mentally she applied the rule, and was forced to acknowledge that she loved herself, more than she did her children.
The oldest boy of Mrs. Fielding was about the same age of Clarence. Having completed all their preparatory studies, the two boys were sent the same year to college. At the age of sixteen, they left their homes for the first time, to be absent, except at short intervals, for three years. James Fielding left home with reluctance.
"I don't want to go, mother," he said the day before he was to start.
"Why not, James?" she asked.
"I would rather go to school here. I can learn just as much."
"Yes, but think of the honor, my son, of passing through college. It isn't every boy who has this privilege. It will make a man out of you. I hope you will do credit to yourself and your parents. You must strive for the first honors. Your father achieved them before you."
Very different was the parting counsel of Mrs. Hartley to her son. The question whether it would be best in the end to send their son to college, was long and anxiously discussed between the father and mother. Many reasons, for and against, were presented, and these were examined minutely. The strongest objection felt by them was the fact that, from the congregating together of a large number of young men at college, among whom would be many with loose principles and bad habits — there would be danger of moral contamination. For a time they inclined to the belief that it would be better not to send their son away from home; but their concern to secure for him the very best education the country afforded, at last determined their course.
Long and earnestly did Mrs. Hartley commune with her boy, on the evening before his departure.
"Never forget, my son," she said, "the end for which you should strive after knowledge. It is, that you may be better able, by your efforts as a man, to benefit society. A learnedman, can always perform higher uses than an ignorant man. And remember, that one so young and so little acquainted with the world as yourself, will be subjected to many severe temptations. But resist evil with a determined spirit. Beware of the first deviation from right. Do not allow the smallest stain to come upon your garments. Let your mother receive you back as pure as when you went forth, my son.
"You will discover, soon after you enter college, a spirit of insubordination — a disposition in many of the students to violate the laws of the institution; but do not join in with them. It is just as wrong for a student to violate the laws of college, as it is for a citizen to violate the laws of his country. They are wholesome regulations, made for the good of the whole; and he who weakens their force — does a wrong to the whole. Guard yourself here, my son, for here you will be greatly tempted. But stand firm. If you break, willfully, a college law, your honor is stained, and no subsequent obedience can efface the wrong. Guard your honor my dear boy! It is a precious and holy thing.
"I will write to you often — and you must write often to me. Talk to me, in your letters, as freely as you would talk if we were face to face. Consider me your best friend — and he who would weaken my influence over you, as your worst enemy. You cannot tell, my son, how concerned I feel about you. I know, far better than you can know, how intimately danger will surround you. But, if you will make God's holy law, as written in his Ten Commandments, the guide of your life — you will be safe. John Bunyan'sChristian, in his journey to the land of Canaan, had not a path to travel in, which is more beset with evil and danger, than will be yours — but you will be safe from all harm, if, like him, you steadily resist and fight against everything that would turn you from the straight and narrow way of truth and integrity. You go with your mother's blessing upon your head, and your mother's prayers following you."
The earnestness with which his mother spoke, affected the heart of Clarence. He did not reply, but he made a firm resolution to do nothing that would give her a moment's pain. He loved her tenderly; for she had ever been to him the best of mothers, and this love was his prompter.
"I will never pain the heart of so good a mother," he said, as he laid his head upon his pillow that night. How different might have been his feelings, if he had been raised under different maternal influences.
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